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internaljiujitsu · 4 years

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Negrito: Race In The Latino Community

I had lots of nicknames growing up. Bolita (little ball) when I was a toddler because I was round. Jun (short for Junior), because I share a name with my dad. But the monikers I heard most from my mom and extended family were Negro (black), Negrito (little black) or Negrolo (black something or other). Notice a pattern?

As the darkest person in my Puerto Rican family, that’s how my loved ones would address me. It’s a common practice in Latino cultures. Identifying someone by their color, frowned upon in politically correct, modern society, has morphed into a term of endearment among racially diverse Latinos. Or so it seems.

Despite the wide range of hues within Latino culture that would suggest an evolved view of skin color, these societies are just as racist as any dusty mid western town full of red cap wearing “Americans.”

When a black South African, Zonzibini Tunzi, beat out Ms. Puerto Rico for the ridiculous Ms. Universe crown, the supervisor for the Island’s Education Department called the winner, “La prima de Shaka Zulu.” It means Shaka Zulu’s cousin. You know, the legendary African military leader.

In case you were wondering, there is no relation.

In 1937, Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo had forty thousand Hatitian migrants massacred to “whiten” the population of the Caribbean nation. Sixty years later, every Dominican in the world hailed the dark skinned Sammy Sosa as one of their own when he chased Babe Ruth’s legendary home run record.

And now — twenty years after that — Sammy Sosa is white.

In the eighties, my friends and family referred to African American people as “Morenos” (Dark Skinned) or “Cocolos” (a term originating with a dark skin group of people in The Dominican Republic.) We were all living in the same impoverished, dilapidated neighborhood together, but never felt the same. There was always an us against them attitude. We often felt as if we needed to fight for respect within our own neighborhood while buying into media perceptions of what it meant to be black and brown. And what we saw around us everyday did little to give us faith in ourselves or our darker brethren.

But I could blend in anywhere — while feeling comfortable nowhere. I belonged to a light skinned (except for me and my dad) Puerto Rican family growing up in a black neighborhood but I found myself relating more to white culture. While the Cosby Show was number one, I watched Family Ties. While kids were listening to Chuck D or KRS 1, I was head banging to Guns and Roses. I hated baggy clothes, preferring tight jeans and t-shirts. But I didn’t feel like I was rebelling - I just liked what I liked, and got plenty of shit for it.

To me, the Cosby show was bullshit. That’s not how it was for the black and brown people I knew. It was fantasy. Family Ties I had seen play out before my own eyes at white friends’ homes with cookie cutter lives that seemed perfect (spoiler alert: they weren’t). I wanted what they had so badly — peace of mind and enthusiasm for the future — and I wasn’t finding it where I lived.

I also hated my brother at the time (who I love to death) and wanted to be the opposite of him. He was a thug who always gave my parents headaches. He set a terrible example for his little brother while constantly asserting the fact that he was six years older and wiser. Once I stopped idolizing him, I detested everything he stood for. He has long since proven me and the old neighborhood wrong.

It took me years to become as secure as I am, but even now I get shit from people in my life. I’ve embraced my heritage and have ensured that my five year old daughter does the same. But when my parents hear my daughter speak proper Spanish without a Puerto Rican accent, they make fun of us. She’s been attending a Spanish speaking school since she was two. Her mother and I have attempted to be consistent with the dialect we use with her. That means she actually rolls her r’s and doesn’t sound like she’s gonna hock a loogie when she says “carro” or “perro.” My family thinks it’s fucking hilarious.

But it’s not just family. In a recent conversion with an old friend who had just retired from the police department, he called me an “Oreo.” Black on the outside and white on the inside. This guy is in his fifties. I chuckled when he said it, but haven’t returned his calls since.

The thing is, I know he was just fucking around. He himself is of mixed race and sounds like an Irish American with a Brooklyn accent, but looks Japanese. But there is something about police perception of dark skin people, how we are supposed to sound, that bugged me about what he said.

There’s too much chuckling that goes on. Too much nodding. A former close friend of mine, who is half Puerto Rican and married to a dark skinned Dominican woman, once complained that a guy he knew had “niggered up” his car ( because he added shiny rims, window tint and other bells and whistles). It wasn’t the first time I heard him use the word. Each time it turned my stomach. I didn’t get it — I was his friend. Both me and his wife would have been denied access to white bathrooms and water fountains. Just because we did not identify with black culture didn’t mean we wouldn’t be exposed to the same bigotry and hatred. What the fuck? It was too much for me to overlook. We haven’t spoken in years.

There was an ugly song I remember from the old neighborhood back in the day. There were two versions:

“A fight, a fight, a nigger and a white, the black don’t win, we all jump in.”

Or,

“A fight, a fight, a nigger and a white, the white don’t win, we all jump in.”

Which one you sang depended on who you were with. Which “us” against which “them?”

I remember, as a teenager, going to the Sunset Park pool in Brooklyn with a bunch of Latino boys. On the way home, there was a group of black kids walking ahead of us. The group I was with, only one of whom was my close friend, started taunting them. They hurled racial epitaphs and threats at the black kids for being in their neighborhood. I was silent and utterly confused.

As a kid, it was actually my one close white friend, Jesse, who was the least racist kid I knew. He might have been the most genuine friend I ever had. I stopped returning his calls because I didn’t trust his friendship. Not because of anything he did — My negative view of myself kept me from believing that he really wanted to be my friend. Why would he? He was from a great family that lived in a beautiful house and valued the things that mattered to me but weren’t for me.

When I hung out with Jesse’s friends, the chip on my shoulder was always ready to bash someone over the head. At a party in some kid’s basement, someone spilled a drink. The host, an Italian kid that I didn’t know, asked me to help clean it up. I told him to go fuck himself. Then he asked me, “What are you?”

The party ended when I dragged him down a staircase and started beating him down before being pulled off and barely escaping the awaiting mob. I am my brother’s brother, after all.

So even though I felt like a Martian in my own neighborhood and knew I wanted better, I didn’t think I belonged on the other side either. I was stuck in this bizarre place where the only role models I had were Roberto Clemente, Eric Estrada and Slater. I never knew anyone else successful that looked like me. At the same time it seemed everyone around me was determined to make sure I never forgot where I belonged.

When I was twelve years old, I refused to attend my zone school because it had a reputation for being the worst in the city. It wasn’t my parents that refused, it was me. I told my mom and dad I would not go to junior high unless they transferred me. What if I hadn’t done that?

As it turns out, the school I ended up going to (because my dad used a friend’s address) was in a good part of town and was the best public education I ever experienced. The work was so advanced that I went from being one of the smartest kids in class to struggling. I actually had to study — something I never had to do much of and found excruciatingly boring. At that new school, I felt like the bad boy. The outcast. The kid that didn’t quite belong and couldn’t keep up.

My grades suffered that year, and when I transferred to a another school, I wasn’t placed in the gifted program for the first time in my scholastic career. I petitioned the principal and pleaded my case, explaining the difficult circumstances of the previous year and promising that I would shine in his “7SP“ class, which got to skip the eight grade and go straight to “9SP” in the fall. Like when I refused to go to that war zone of a school, I once again stood up for my own education. I was thirteen years old.

The work that year was far easier than what I had learned at the other school. I breezed through. The kind of disparity that existed between the two public middle schools I attended is indicative of the subpar education that children of color receive within what is supposed to be one school system. Kids in bad schools aren’t exposed to the same world that their crosstown rivals are and are ill prepared for the reality that awaits — be it a college admissions exam or the job market. Those who do not take it upon themselves to find opportunities for advancement can’t rely on working parents with little time or education to advocate for them. They are left with shitty choices and no one to champion their cause.

The scourge of poverty and racism is further sullied by the structural hierarchy of “shade” in communities of color. In the Autobiography of Frederick Douglass, the trailblazing abolitionist and former slave writes of the preferential treatment lighter slaves received, even among the others in bondage. Proximity to whiteness, then and now, is proximity to power and privilege.

In the late 1700’s, Spain instituted the process of gracias al sacar. Mixed race people could purchase a decree that converted them to white. One such royal decree granted to Cuban Manuel Baez in 1760 says that it erased “the defect that you suffer from birth and leave you able and capable as if you did not have it.” Ain’t that some shit.

Alice Walker coined the term “colorism” in her book, “In Search of Our Mother’s Garden”. She describes “prejudicial or preferential treatment of same-race people based solely on color.” Research has shown that skin tone affects the outcome of job interviews, court cases and elections. This is not a secret among people of color. They grow up believing that the whiter they look, the easier they’ll have it.

How does that make a kid feel who wants so badly to get ahead in life but has the mirror, the media and the world outside his window saying he doesn’t stand a chance? As if even after you do all the work and get to the finish line, the tape will be pulled back another few feet each time you stretch to get across. The life you want will be just out of reach, no matter how long or how fast you run.

There has been a delusion among some that because we’ve had a black president, hip hope rules the world and the Rock is the world’s biggest movie star, racism doesn’t exist anymore. There are people of color in positions of power and prestige, but they are few and far between. There just hasn’t been enough time for all the seeds of opportunity that were only planted a generation or two or three ago to compete with those who have seemingly inherited an eternity of racial privilege. Just because so many people fought for and finally earned some basic human rights doesn’t mean the playing field has been leveled.

The destruction of the long standing racial hierarchy is a challenging ongoing project that the world must decide to address together. The perpetuation of negative stereotypes of black and brown people is not only meant to strike fear in every suburban household, but to reinforce in the mind of the oppressed their role in society. Centuries of subjugation have purposefully convinced young men and women of color that they are born with an inherent disadvantage. Then, once their will to fight was clear, the oppressors barked that those they once lorded over should be grateful to simply be out of their chains.

It is up to people of color, whether African American, Latino, West Indian, or any other subdivision of “black” that may exist, to burn down the old models. The carefully calculated lie that “whiteness” is more attractive, desirable or indicative of ability must be deleted from our main frame. We must believe we are just as capable, because we obviously are. We must know that we have the opportunities, even if we have to work harder for them. And we cannot fight among ourselves, to the delight of those that would sooner see us dead, in jail or all together erased from the annals of history.

With dog whistles long having been discarded in favor of bull horns, the paper thin veil has been lifted from our union. In a country already in pieces, further division because of infighting is not something people of color, no matter their shade, can afford.

#race #racism #latino #self esteem #stereotypes #mindset

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laidbackmarco · 5 years

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The Day

I arrived in Matsumoto was a holiday, the misfortune continues I thought as I was out another sixty dollars for lodging. Kita-Matsumoto (North Matsumoto), while not as small as the stations I had passed, was much smaller than I had anticipated. The relatively new building kept me warm as the ominous gray sky continued to loom overhead. With no data using a screenshot like an old map was a fun challenge. Traveling blind was more fun than following breadcrumbs.

Smartphones, for all the amazing things they do, suck the fun out of life. Similar to the way open world RPGs were simplified to walking towards waypoints on a map, gone are the days of getting lost in your own adventure. Was my generation being stripped of random interactions with strangers, listening to the sounds around us, or even observing the beauty of the moment? People from my generation go about looking at replications of the real world on tiny five inch screens. Even worse we try to contain the large world inside of them. . . but neither pictures nor words will tell the entire story.

Or perhaps that just makes the random interactions we do have all the more memorable?

I Had Picked

the Tabi Shiro because it was a traditional style Japanese inn, but the lights were off and it didn’t look open quite yet. I rang on the doorway anyway and a man sporting framed glasses made his way to the door. “We’re not open yet” said the man, “but you can leave your stuff here” motioning towards a small room I laid my heavy backpack down. Being able to leave my heavy backpack behind lifted my spirits and I had my first Japanglish conversation in my new town. We talked about where I was from, why I had come to japan, and the things I could do around town. Handing me a custom map we laid out things I could do until the in was officially open.

The Millenial Drug

was the smartphone itself. Research had shown that social media notifications affected the same parts of the brain, I was craving that fix. What stood between me and the cravings of information consumption was a thirty minute walk. Much easier said than done as the cold outside air agitated my skin, my legs were sore but I kept on walking. The excitement of exploring and learning again rushed through my bloodstream like caffeine and sugar from a monster energy. Like being born again it was like I was experiencing having five senses again. It is possible to read about Japan and its culture in books. . . but experiencing it is the only form of true learning. Being here caused the black and white landscape of home to be colored again. When I had first arrived in Browns Point from a small quiet city called Milton the sound of the planes caused me to look up the sky and wonder. The cool crisp air coming off of the sound carried with it the taste of salt. The puget sound was a fitting name as the soft sound of waves caressing the shore ever subtly made their way up the hill. The cries of seagulls, eagles, and the bark of seals were melodies to the constant beat of the sea. Loud horns of boats echoed through the fog filled mornings, and the city lights reflected on the water merging the twinkling stars of the night sky with humanity who lived in their warm light.

Humans are made of elements that are only formed when stars explode, I was feeling like a fallen star that wanted to shine once more

Telephone

is a game that young kids play allowing you to discover the fun of having a message passed from one person to another. In reality it’s a game that we all play, yet we have forgotten the lesson that the game has taught us. Whether you’re gossiping in school, listening to the news, or trying to get a smartphone in Japan it was a game that always went on. Having a three way was supposed to be more sexy than passing a phone back and forward, but thanks to Docomo’s English speaking support I could now abuse technology to get my dopamine rush. As I began my journey back to the now open inn, a snowflake carried by the cold harsh wind struck my cheek. Not believing what I was seeing, my eyes scanned the sky for more snow, which fell at an ever increasing pace. Snow in March. . . I can only imagine what winter is like, the journey back to the inn seemed longer that ever with the already unfamiliar streets now covered in white dust.

I Was Soggy Down to My Soul

as I entered the small area designated for taking of your shoes, which was now illuminated by a warm glow as the rest of the world grew darker around us. Inside of the ryokan were people resting from their day of travels. Doing various things like reading or cooking, the atmosphere gave off a real homie vibe. The owner sat behind the bar doing various tasks, after seeing I’d returned he greeted me with a warm smile and asked if there was anything I needed. The last time I’d been to Japan, the only thing I didn’t get to cross off my list was going to an onsen(natural hot spring). “Is there an onsen around here?” “No I’m sorry to say that they’re all pretty far, but there is a sento(public bath house) about a fifteen minute walk from here” Despite despising the snow I stepped outside and began trudging through the now multiple inches that had accumulated. By the time I made it to the bath house, it was completely dark. I was glad they made you take your shoes off, I took the opportunity to take my soggy socks off, because having soggy socks was one of my least favorite things. Being confused with the way the coin locks worked I stood there staring until the person behind the counter ended up just coming over and showing me how it worked. After paying a fee for entry and towel rental I entered the side that had the big kanji for guys on it.

Nudity

is something that society, especially western society seems to hush up and sweep under the rug. The only person who was supposed to see my naked body was me. . . and it’s not like I took the time to carefully observe it either. Stripping down in order to enter the bath shouldn’t be something to be feared, but in the west we seem to be ashamed of our own bodies. I came all the way here, you’re in japan, and most importantly I already paid. . . I hate wasting money. Getting it over as fast as possible I quickly stripped off my clothes. It’s not like there were people looking at me, but it felt weird and awkward for about two seconds. . . then I was like ah I’m naked. . . it’s kind of freeing in a way. After using the showers I was free to enter the baths. The last time I had a bath was only a couple weeks ago at the training session. . . but damn did it feel good to dissolve into some hot water. It wasn’t only my body that was free. . . I let my mind wander as I tried to meditate in the relaxing atmosphere of the bath. In western society we never had time for baths. . . it’s always a quick shower to hurrying about the day. What were we in a hurry for? I contemplated the importance of not having to think about anything important for that small time in the bath. The only thing I desired was not to desire anything, but the state of a completely empty mind is impossible. . . instead to be in the present it was important to just let the mind run like a faucet.

My Mind

wasn’t the only thing I let run that night, as I wanted to make it back to the ryokan and out of the snow as fast as possible. The cool hues of night were offset by the orange tinge of the Tabi Shiro. An old-fashioned fireplace stove gave off toasty heat as people were reading, chatting, or drinking at the bar. Resisting the urge to go straight to my room and spend the rest of the night alone I nervously took out my sketchbook and began sketching. The background noise was nice to have, but my nerves shook even drawing in front of others. A younger couple was now just checking in, after they made their way over to the table and struck up a conversation with me.

In nervous japanese I was able to tell them that I was from America, I came to matsumoto to teach english, and my big dream was to go to an animation school in Kyoto. Making a sketch of one of them, I showed them and they were surprised and amazed. Although I never thought anything I drew was suprising or amazing it was nice to see that they were happy about it. The owner of the inn walked over and tended to the fire placing another log onto the fire. After finishing my conversation I situated myself in one of the chairs right in front of the fire and continued my practice. The fire reminded me of home, the warm memories, and the actual gas fireplaces my family had in lieu of electronic central heating. My dad wanted fireplaces because it was cheaper than running electric heating to warm us during cold months.

A cute Girl

came over and sat in the seat right next to mine, thinking she only wanted the practical warmth of the fireplace I just continued doing me. The beating in my chest grew heavier and louder as the time passed, she was the first to speak. “Why did you come here?” (Japanese) She confidently asked “Oh I came here to become an english teacher” (Japanese) I answered in broken shaky japanese. Letting out a small laugh, I had noticed that I hadn’t looked over until now, just to find that she looked down and then peered my direction. “Why did you chose Matsumoto?” (Japanese) “I didn’t choose here. . . my company did, I said anywhere in Japan would be fine” (Japanese) “It was fate. . . “(English) I didn’t want to believe in fate, but it seemed my life was on rails. And nothing ever good came out of my life. . . everytime I tried to do something to improve my life it either didn’t end up working or blew up faster than the two ACLs I’d gone through. hating to have the conversation about me I did the thing I always do and asked a question. It was much easier to get other people to talk about themselves. . . because most people liked themselves. I was the opposite I hated talking about me or the things I did “Why did you come to Matsumoto?” (Japanese) “I’m from a small city about an hour away. . . I got into a fight with my parents about college so I got a job and moved away.” (Japanglish) That answer left me feeling stunned. . . what a brave girl. I had wanted to chase my dreams of being either a filmmaker, YouTuber, or gamer, but ended up being coerced into going to college by my parents. Although I doubt I’d get to live in Japan if any of those dreams came true, it was still amazing to see someone out there was living life as a free adventure. “What was your name. . . I’m Marco”(Japanese) when she burst out laughing at my response . . . I was perplexed “Chibi Maruko she said with a big smile. . .I’m Mana” (Japanese)

Chibi Maruko

was a small Japanese character, and although she was a girl. . . we were plenty alike. . . at least from what I gather from the couple episodes I watched. Maruko is the younger brattier sibling, who never studies, and floats through life. . . just like in real life Parents place all their love, hope, and expectations onto the older sibling and are tiered by the time you pop out of the womb. . . the lack of baby videos and pictures was proof. And while everyone believed in and wanted to be like Cristina. . .they were just happy to see you get B’s. . . Asian Fs. They didn’t care what you did as long as you didn’t end up in jail or dead. . so I did what most humans do when low expectations are placed upon them. . . I slacked and ended up living up to those low expectations. After reliving my childhood, I returned to drawing. Not knowing what else to draw I peered over in Mana’s direction and started drawing her. Did the fire get hotter. . . occasionally we’d share glances and a couple words, but I think it was nice just enjoying each other’s company. I had read somewhere that japanese people had this concept of enjoying a shared silence, but foreigners have trouble staying quiet. . . I was different in that I enjoyed it when there was no speaking. Words are clumsy things anyway you can tell from observing people when they are comfortable being around you. . . or most people can. I always found it hard to read body language and facial expressions, which made it very difficult to talk to most girls who always speak about things indirectly. One of the reasons I enjoyed anime and manga so much is because in the genre’s I watched it was easy to tell if a character was nervous, happy, or sad.

I’d been Burned before

so this time I new better. Girls that were nice to me, were also nice to everyone so there was no need to get my hopes up. Nice girls were the ones who especially couldn’t be trusted. For someone with no social adjustment, and with less real friends than fingers. When girls interacted with you for an extended period of time, you start to think oh wow this girl likes me. Only when you turn around to express how you feel, the smiles come to an end and they say let’s just be friends. . . but you both know that situation is impossible and eventually the only interaction you have is a slight glance. . . it’s not this way for all guys as many of the more socially adjusted males have plenty of girls that are just friends. But for a socially inept loner, it simply makes you more wary in the future. The hopeless romantic I couldn’t kill off made another wish for the bucket list “sit by warm fire with girlfriend”. I finished my drawing and showed it to Mana, who seemed to like it and then made my way to the bar to receive my complimentary drink.

Drinking

wasn’t an activity I actually enjoyed to do very often. Although I have a couple good memories drinking, they are overpowered by the ones where I end up doing something so embarrassing I want to disappear. When I drank it was impossible to draw or think . . . it was sort of like your thoughts were immediately made into actions. The adverse health effects of drinking often wasn’t something I desired as well. What made me not drink the most is all the inspirational/advice videos I watched on YouTube, which told you to strive for every edge that you could get. I’d spent all my time trying to be a pro gamer in college and drinking wasn’t something that made you better at the game. . . but there was a group of people that drank more often than me that were way better at said game. . . no one said life was fair. My drug of choice was illegal in Japan so I sat down and asked for hot sake. “What’s your name by the way” I asked the owner in english. Not realizing my mistake, he looked over from preparing the drink. “Name??” he said pointing to himself “Kiyo” he was shocked that I had ordered hot sake, perhaps is something only old japanese men enjoy. After the cold night in the snow something hot sounded nice and the taste of sake was crisp and sweet. The method in which the sake was heated was very interesting to me. I watched as he pulled a small metal box with some water in the bottom and placed it on top of the stove fireplace. Taking a small container of sake out as well it was placed in the box with the water and left to heat up. Another young looking guy walked over and asked for a beer, placing his ticket on the counter. Sitting in the chair next to mine, I uncharacteristically struck up a conversation. “Where are you from?” After learning he was from the U.K. he told me the stories of his travels in japan, from the east, to the north, now here(central japan), and then west the next day. He told me that it was cheap to stay at these kinds of places using the JR rail pass to get from city to city. Being a long-term resident of Japan made it impossible for me to receive one, and being as broke as I was even “cheap traveling” was expensive. Mana came over and ordered a drink which was non alcoholic due to her age, and then the young couple as well. We stayed there talking for an hour or so before people began to retire. Walking up to my room I saw the traditional futon and laid it out on the Tatami mat, it was much more comfortable than I thought it’d be and I quickly returned to the land of my dreams.

The Misfortune Continues check my latest post on my continued life in japan! A small misfortune turns into a fun adventure #japan #travel #blogging #blogger The Day I arrived in Matsumoto was a holiday, the misfortune continues I thought as I was out another sixty dollars for lodging.

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