I AM BLACK — Latina Point

In New York City, a city full of Dominicanos, Bajans, Ecuatorianos, Nigerians, and African Americans I am black.

I am Black when you see my brown skin, my tight curls, and big lips. I am Black when Doña Lucia sees me, and opts to speak to me in her broken English. I am Black because I am not white, because I cannot pass as white. Because in a world of Sophia Vergaras I am a Zoe. I am Black until I am not Black enough. I am black until I can't milly rock on beat, or follow the Cupid Shuffle. I know, instructions are included. It's still difficult. I am Black until I don't know the struggle because I'm too light skinned. I am Black until La Quiero A Morir comes on and I can't control my feet, then I'm mad Dominican.

Then I'm Latina, Afro-Latina, Dominican-American. I'm the hyphen tying my family to this country. I'm the habichuelas con dulce during Semana Santa. I am those 2 minutes you take to translate a funny story in your mind, so you can share it with your parents in Spanish. I am the bridge. My feet planted firmly in both worlds.

I'm still making sense of my middle ground.

I'm neither here nor there, and that feeling is most prominent when your family says "que bien habla el español." When you're applauded for dancing bachata because "la Americana sabe bailar!" How cute am I? How well can I imitate? This is when you realize you're not quite right, no matter what side you're on.

So I ask you, what label should I wear today?