Repost: Black Like Me, in honor of Brazil’s Black Consciousness Day (20 Nov)

I originally posted this essay in May of 2009, as I was wrapping up my fourth year in Colombia, specifically in the Caribbean port city of Barranquilla. I now live in Brazil, a country with half of its 190 million people considered to be of African descent, many of whom live in poverty. I’m eager to see how my outlook on this topic changes during my time here. More remains to be written…

Day before yesterday, I posted this as my status on Facebook:
Acabo de caminar del gimnasio. Hoy es un día brillante de sol tropical. Y bajo de ese sol iluminante, se me dió cuenta que yo era el único negro/moreno/mulato en la calle que no era obrero, vigilante, mulero, vendedor de cocadas o aguacate, o muchacho de servicio. ¿Qué vaina tan desesperante?

I just walked home from the gym. Today is bright with tropical sun. And under that illuminating sun, I noticed that I was the only black/African-descended guy in the street who wasn’t a construction worker, security guard, mule driver, coconut treat or avocado seller, or servant boy. How depressing!

An immediate response from a FB friend:
Interesante, pero qué negro? Vos no lo sos o no pareces.

Interesting, but what do you mean black? You’re not, or you don’t look it.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been plagued by the eternal question, “What are you?” I won’t lie and say that I’ve always had a solid racial identity, but for most of my 31 years, I’ve lived life as a black American male, albeit one of obvious mixed phenotype. Growing up in the American South, my identity was never questioned by whites, only by the other blacks I went to school with, often pointing to my curly ‘fro and calling to me in faux-Spanish, “catada-potodo” and all that jazz. My mother, herself the recipient of much vitriol from her darker-skinned peers during her years in segregated schools and at an HBCU in the late 50s, told me how she had often been mistaken for white during the pale winter months of her youth. But despite her recent European ancestry and light-bright-damn-near complexion, she was born in 1938, under the equalizing rule of hypodescent in the United States, with the requisite single drop which once and forever placed her on the dark side of the color line. And it was under the same culture and climate of that rule that I was born in 1977, reddish-brown, darkening in summer, with features sitting halfway between two continents.

That did not mean, however, that I was raised culturally confused à la Diff’rent Strokes. I grew up in a black neighborhood, in a black Baptist church, in a black family with members “from coal to cream.” My youth was always a little bit Cosby, a little bit Good Times, a dash of 227, and a whole lot of Amen. I was surrounded by institutions of black middle-class success, not quite Atlanta-level entrepreneurial luxury, but the fruits of striving, college-educated Southerners who marched in high-stepping bands and continued to serve the Greek letter organizations they joined back when it meant something; and always within a ten minute drive of the ‘hood and the cheap Chinese take-outs and barbecue joints. I was a member of a black Boy Scout troupe and learned about W.E.B. Du Bois and Madam C.J. Walker and Charles Drew as a part of the McKnight Achievers Honor Society. Curly hair notwithstanding (receding, actually), I grew up black. And I know what it means to be followed around in stores, to attend a high school with 50s-era library books, and to be harassed by the police.

I’ve come to reconcile my phenotype the way I reconcile my interests, that to be black—physically, culturally, emotionally, spiritually, politically—is not to be monolithic. That we are, in every range, dimension, and manifestation imaginable. It took me going through stages of emotional maturity, attending a mostly-black high school (where I was hated for being a fat Oreo nerd) and an HBCU (where it was finally cool to be smart, diverse, and culturally inquisitive), and traveling through the realms of my brothers and sisters in the Diaspora, most notably Latin America (where I initially had the naive expectation that people who looked like me also thought like me).

“Why you wanna be a black nigger?
I was asked that once by a Colombian woman who had lived for a while in the United States and couldn’t get her translation right; Spanish subtitles for American movies and TV shows give “negro” for both black and nigger. Though I’m sure she was educated in the proper derogatory terminology during her time in New York. Anyway, her question was prompted by my response to her original query of whether or not I was Latino (that catch-all term which incorporates Spanish-speaking cultures from Mexico to Argentina and truly means absolutely nothing outside of an American cultural context, and even then…), something often asked of me. My answer is always either negro americano, afro-americano, or a mix of the two. More often than not, this answer is never accepted at face value, hence her perplexity at why I would choose to identify myself as something A) seemingly unpleasant, judging by her tone and facial expression, and B) apparently untrue.

See, in Latin America, the race issue is less, pardon the pun, black and white than it is in the US. The Spaniards and Portuguese, already a mixed lot, had much less reluctance than their British counterparts in planting their seeds in foreign soil, so to speak. In fact, an entire range of interesting names developed to accompany the corresponding array of skin tones, hair textures, and facial dimensions, the most prevalent being mestizo (white/indigenous), mulato (white/black), and zambo (black/indigenous). Along with this color gradation came social value, rated according to your position: African slaves, invariably, at the bottom. Underlying this system was the exact opposite idea of hypodescent—one drop of any other blood kept you from being black (though not necessarily enslaved), and some places even allowed enterprising mixed-bloods to purchase whiteness (don’t worry, folks, I’ve included a bibliography below). Wrap all this in the typical European colonial social matrix that privileged whiteness above all else (repeated throughout the Americas, Africa, and Asia), and you can understand why no one in their right mind would actually choose to be black in Latin America if they didn’t have to. Why would anyone want to identify with a group of people who, still in 2009, maintain the lowest position on the social ladder in the countries where they are greatest in number, and whose color is a euphemism for poor, dirty, and ugly? Where a Spanish word for cute (mono) is default for blond and where one “German” or “Spanish” grandfather is enough for people who look like Denzel or Oprah to claim, “I’m not black, I’m mulatto,” as if that were a badge of honor (of course, there are no Colombian Oprahs or Denzels because maybe they don’t want to be on TV or in movies here in Colombia, right?).

It’s this same lack of identification that keeps the colonial structure in place, because there’s not enough unity or anger to incite any type of focused paradigm shift reminiscent of the American Civil Rights Movement. The segregation here is most certainly economic, but that functions as a proxy for race when the majority of the lower-class, with no access to adequate education or jobs, is indigenous or of quite obvious African-descent, and the number in the upper classes is negligible (of course, everybody always seems to know the one exception that proves the rule). And people here tend to think that their mixed-raced societies indicate the lack of racism; I’ma tell you that fucking your dusky, voluptuous maid (or paying her to deflower your 15-year-old son) is not the same as legitimate socioeconomic mobility.

100% Negro
Here in Colombia, I’ve been called racist for even talking about race, and for pointing out inequalities that had theretofore gone unnoticed. I’ve been called divisive and off-putting for being proud of my own heritage by people who think nothing of invoking their Italian or German or Norwegian ancestry. I even had a fellow professor once ask, exasperatedly, if we had to talk about race on a Friday afternoon just after I discovered a student had included “nigger” in an academic paper! (Must be nice to have the luxury of scheduling life’s inconveniences, you douche). Still, people can call me any number of things, but it doesn’t reduce the ingrained responsibility I feel for educating and raising the consciousness of my own people as well as others.

When asked why I care so much, I answer that it is because of sheer luck and cosmic grace that my ancestors’ slave ship docked in Charleston and not Cartagena, Santo Domingo, Kingston, or Salvador. Because the United States proves over and over, despite severe and deeply-ingrained problems, that it is, in my opinion, the only country in the hemisphere where people of African descent have a decent shot at unfettered success regardless of skin tone, last name, foreign parentage, or bank account balance (Canadians, correct me if I’m wrong). And like the Afro-Colombians, Dominicans, Jamaicans, and some 90 million Brazilians, to name a precious few, I am the descendant of Africans brought over to the Americas as property, speak a European language, and have been acculturated to European mores and values. The language may be different, but the history and heritage unite us. That is why I care about what becomes of a bright 12-year-old black kid who has to stop school to sell chewing gum on the side of the road in Barranquilla to help his mom pay rent. That is why I care about what becomes of the 20-somethings who should be studying law instead of selling their bodies to the highest bidder at the clubs in Rio. That is why I care about what becomes of the Caracas street pharmacist with the business acumen of a Fortune 500 executive. Because under a different set of circumstances, they all could have been me.

There are varying levels of black consciousness throughout Latin America, with Cuba leading the pack and Brazil, Panama, and Venezuela at least showing up to the conversation. But there is still a huge dearth in the number of socioeconomically successful Afro-Latinos/negros/morenos/mulatos/whateverthehellyouwannacallem to serve as examples for younger generations to aspire to, or for non-blacks to see as proof of a people’s abilities. So I willingly accept it as my duty to be an example to my people in the Diaspora, regardless of language or nationality, that black does not have to mean poor and uneducated and ugly (or shoe-leather dark).

My aim is not to pit groups of people against each other; it is to instill sufficient pride in a marginalized and victimized group of people to have them demand better for themselves from themselves, their governments, and their communities. To insist on equal opportunities for quality education and employment, and to see their broad features, kinky-curly hair, and dark skin as signs of resilience and fortitude, not something deficient and needing to be “improved” with each successive generation. I’m young, gifted, and black. I’m black and beautiful. I’m black and full of flavor. I’m black and proud (and uppity to boot!). And I want them to know what it means to be black like me.


Aside from the four years I’ve spent living in and traveling through Latin America, there are a few pivotal books that have deepened my understanding of the people and their societies:

Andrews, George Reid. Afro-Latin America, 1800-2000. Cary, NC: Oxford University Press USA, 2004.

Benítez-Rojo, Antonio. The Repeating Island: The Caribbean and the Postmodern Perspective. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997.

Du Bois, W.E.B. The Souls of Black Folk. Newest printing – Wilder Publications, 2008. (Originally published, 1903).

Freyre, Gilberto. The Masters and the Slaves (Casa-Grande e Senzala): a Study in the Development of Brazilian Civilization. New York: Random House, 2000. (Originally published, 1933).

Robinson, Eugene. Coal to Cream: A Black Man’s Journey Beyond Color to an Affirmation of Race. New York: Free Press, 1999.

Whitten, Norman E. and Arlene Torres (Eds.). Blackness in Latin America & the Caribbean: Social Dynamics and Cultural Transformations. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998.

Fly Brother
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This entry was posted in Black Americans, Latin America, race, South America, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

15 Responses to Repost: Black Like Me, in honor of Brazil’s Black Consciousness Day (20 Nov)

  1. Raven says:

    Having seen pics of you on this site, it would never occur to me question “what you are”. Im from a state ( LOUISIANA) where curly hair and brown skin is not an anomaly and in fact quite common. I seriously cant imagine anyone questioning your identity lol base simply on my own experiences. I have many many relatives who have this phenotype…so the region of the US colors my perspective on “race”. Ive seen straight-haired, cream colored people who id as black …from childhood on I learned early this “race” thing was more than how you looked.

    I admire your willingness to keep the issue on the forefront when its not welcome and that you see this as your duty. So do I in the US..Im ( proudly) black, Im female and Im a new doctor–sadly Ive had kids ( and their parents….yes in 2010) be amazed but they need to see because I am sooo them…from the projects, mired in poverty. The difference is that I was convinced early on that none of those things made me less. I too see it as my job to convince and reveal

    Good writing as always

  2. Loved this essay – it feels right. Thanks for pouring out your passion on this.

  3. Tiptopcat says:

    I am so glad that I have discovered your blog. I am a proud Black Brit and and am hoping to travel to Latin America next year. It has been hard to find information that would be relevant to me. I want to know what it would be like as a black woman traveling alone to these countries as I have heard that if you are black, particularly with a shade equal to Oprah or Whoopie, then there could be potential problems with regards to being treated as a second class citizen. This is definitely not the stuff that you will find in your average travel guide book eh?

    I look forward to reading more of your blog and hope you don’t mind getting the odd question from a little lady from the other side of the world. Any advice would be gratefully appreciated.

  4. bergy says:

    Great essay! Stumbled upon this site today by chance – I am vacationing in Rio from London (via Jamaica) and boyfriend (white) wanting to know what Black Conciousness Day is all about discovered and left this page up for me to read on the laptop. I’ve looked around some of the other cities you’ve been to and it’s so refreshing to see a travel blog written from a ‘black perspective’. Bookmarked as I’ll be definitely be coming back.

  5. Ms DKC says:

    Hi Fly Brother, I love your reading your blogs. Keep doing what you’re doing. Great writing. Next time you’re in Florida (home) come by to see me.

  6. Fly Brother says:

    Raven: Thanks so much for your comment. And you’re definitely to be praised for staying in the battle and being a positive role model amongst so many negative/destructive ones. That road is certainly not the easiest one. Paz e bem!

  7. Fly Brother says:

    BTW: Definitely appreciate you reading and commenting on this piece. If only there was no need to be so passionate about the issue.

  8. Fly Brother says:

    Hi Tiptop: I’ll say that as a foreigner traveling through Latin America, you’ll definitely be treated better than you would be as a native-born black female. The classism here falls along racial lines, and depending on your dress and demeanor, you might get shade from some people, depending on where you are. Of course, I’m not a woman, but I have several female friends travel through the region on their own and have had amazing experiences. Some people will stare, others will want to touch, but nothing more than what you’d get in places like Asia, with very few instances of interaction with blacks. And even then, that’s mostly in places like parts of Mexico, Central America and the Pacific coast of South America, south of Lima. I have heard stories of black female friends being mistaken by hotel employees for prostitutes as they walked into the lobby. Still, this contentent is full of black women, and you actually might feel quite welcome. Shoot me an email at f l y b r o t h e r [a t] r o c k e t m a i l [d z a t] c o m and I’ll try and connect you with some of them.

  9. Fly Brother says:

    Hey there, many thanks (to you and your bf) for reading and commenting! How long will you be in Rio? Any plans for Sao Paulo? Hope you guys enjoy the Cidade Maravilhosa and please feel free to comment on any other article/entry. I hope I wasn’t too hard on London 😉

  10. Fly Brother says:

    Ms DKC: Where in Florida are you? Jville? Thanks for the comment and the compliment! FLA!

  11. Ms DKC says:

    Erin’s mom. LOL!

  12. Stephanie says:

    Excellent essay! I discovered this blog a few months ago. I had to “de-lurk” to let you know how much I appreciate the content. I “get lifted” while reading. 🙂 I agree with Raven’s comment. After seeing your pics, I would have never questioned “what you are”. I’m from South Louisiana. It’s interesting how growing up there has shaped my perspective on who “looks black”. I spent a few childhood years in Panama. My mother was in the Army. This essay allowed me to reflect on so many things I witnessed there.
    Great Work! Be encouraged to keep going!

  13. Aman says:

    Great post FB! Race is def a complicated thing, especially when you come from a mixed background. Even in Africa there are soo many complexities; a lot of countries in the Sahel that straddle both Arab and subsharan Africa… and my peeps have been mixing for thousands of years. Some relatives even refuse to identify as African…I quote “The middle east is part of Asia…no one calls them Asians, why should i be called an African?” Mostly the disassociation comes from what has been pegged as black…mostly seen as a negative thing by ppls from the horn & sahel, and does not include our diversity as African/Black peoples.

  14. katarzynawid says:

    A fantastic essay, and an important perspective to share. I think you phrased it well, (giant quote time)

    It’s this same lack of identification that keeps the colonial structure in place, because there’s not enough unity or anger to incite any type of focused paradigm shift reminiscent of the American Civil Rights Movement. The segregation here is most certainly economic, but that functions as a proxy for race when the majority of the lower-class, with no access to adequate education or jobs, is indigenous or of quite obvious African-descent, and the number in the upper classes is negligible (of course, everybody always seems to know the one exception that proves the rule).

    That’s exactly it. Great blog in general, I’m enjoying flicking through 🙂

  15. Kevin Gibson says:

    I know this is an old post, and I have read you off and on for many years, but this essay was so wonderfully written and it really does point out the complexity and simplicity of being Black in the world. Thanks for sharing this and for provoking me to look deeper at all things. Peace and Love and Joy in Sao Paulo. I have to come and see it one day.

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