I grew up thinking I was alone in the world.
I believed that being black was a curse.
Society taught me to hate my identity.
To understand that being white was civilized, pure, natural and normal.
Until I stopped believing the lies I was told.
I looked at the mirror and questioned who was I?
I was black but something felt different about me.
I had no language to describe my face.
I was not mixed or part white.
But I knew I didn’t look Haitian or typically black.
So I thought, hmm perhaps I am part Asian
I mean my mother looks blasian right?
That wasn’t the truth at all.
The truth was much deeper than a simple guess.
I did my research about the neg mawon.
The maroons.
Who were they?
I found out about how they became self-sufficient and formed communities in the mountains.
I heard about how indigenous people existed and cohabited with runaway Africans.
I learned that not every Taino was extinct.
So I dug deeper.
How did the taino look?
What features did they have?
How tall were they?
How did they survive after disease and colonization?
But then I reflected on Enriquillo.
He was the first person on Hispaniola to successfully lead a revolt against the Spanish.
He succeeded and died a freed man in his own terms and village.
What if being “part asian” was being Afro-indigenous.
What does that term mean?
It means to be merged under one person.
Not separately African or Indigenous but combined.
It means to carry the blood of the tambora and guira.
To hold cassava and yams together.
To carry the forefathers of Central Africa and the Matriarchy of Hispaniola.
I carry the pain, pride and Love of both sides.
I’m proud to be black.
There’s no denying my roots in Africa, but I won’t forget about how my blood runs deep in the Artibonite.
My ancestors lived, cried and died in the mountains.
In isolation, there was freedom and suffering.
Yet, to be free is the ultimate sacrifice.
I won’t forget the story of my Great Grandfather.
The man whose face is unknown.
Who’s height was short but presence was powerful.
After 100 years, his face still carries on through my mother, brother and I.
Being black is beautiful.
Our culture is rich.
No matter the language or skin color of the musician, Africa’s influence cannot be underestimated nor shamed.
Through the polyrhythms of Voodoo and Tipico and the drum pattern of Kompa and Bachata, Africa never left Kiskeya.
Home is Home.
No matter the borders.
Indigenous communities never left Ayiti.
They became merged into voodoo, culture and the faces who aren’t recognized.
Indigenous features may be criticized throughout Latin America but I pray and hope, those who carry a people who were almost erased are a testament of resilience and resistance.
To be yourself is the greatest act of self love.
Perhaps one day, I can be a testament of two people coming together to form a new generation.
So I say to the world, I am proud of my ancestors, the land I never saw, the faces who were erased, the ancestors who were shipped away, the individuals bought in chains, the mothers who were raped, the children who were enslaved, the fathers who lost their lives, and the daughters who became captive wives, that I will never forget their sacrifice.