DOMINICAN.
Bueno señores, esta noche tenemos un playlist aqui de salsa Caribeña. Estamos estresando la importancia del contribuciones Afro Caribeños en la musica esta noche. Como New Yorker Dominicana orgullosa, lo tenia que hacer, por supuesto. Lo primerito que tenemos aqui, Celia Cruz.
My father is listening to my radio show from New York. He plays it in the bodega every morning at 5 am because he wants to hear what I’m bumping from all the way from California. He didn’t want me to leave for school so far away, but couldn’t argue with the scholarship money.
Dominican. Sometimes, I don’t know what that means. Is it our Island like mango palm trees that surfs the coasts of the air, like clean breath fresh from the Atlantic waters of the Caribbean, or is it a haven for white people to buy their summer homes? Is it the snap crackling from a sweet plantain in olive oil? Can I call myself Dominican when my Spanish is rickety, snap crackles like the food I eat to supplement my lack of.
Dominican.
Dominican. My dad is a Black Dominican. His mother is everything to me. She swings her hips like melanin feminine. She lives in the mountain town of Jarabacoa where the chickens wake me up at 5 am. She plays bachatas in her kitchen while she cooks arroz con habichuela. She proves that red lips and hoops belong on every skin shade, every hair texture. She catches me in my room eating a pop tart and says, “why are you eating that American shit in my house?” She sits me down and looks at me seriously. “Your hair is beautiful,” she says.
Dominican.
Ya oiste “Tu Amor me Hace Bien” de Marc Anthony. Aqui tenemos un playlist de salsa esta noche para los caribeños en sus bodegas. El proximo: “Arroz con Habichuela” de El Gran Combo de Puerto Rico.
Dominican. I have a New York accent to some people, not to others. But especially to my island people. Beaituful trap, Hip Hop, and Latin jams blaring from old pickup speakers in the back. 2Pac, Ozuna, AZ, Frank Reyes. I’m speaking to my cousins from the island, while they spit their slang into the air like hot fire, like crisp snaps of messages that slap me every time I don’t understand. Disconnect like long black guitar chord from a seething amp plagues me. I try really hard to roll my R’s.
Dominican. My mother is the quintessential Dominican woman. She is always fucking over it. She is supporting ideologies that helps Haitians in the Dominican Republic and is talking shit about Trump on her Facebook. She is going to the salon to get rollos in her hair. She is dancing in the car to reggaeton. She hold head up higher like mountain town, like immigrant who came with twenty dollars in her pocket, propelled off the air that pushed me forward. My Mami says to pray when I get on the plane, and gives me three crosses when I leave. The white Latina TSA lady checks my hair for weapons at security.
Dominican.
Por supesto, en Latino America los contribuciones de Los Afro Caribeños en la musica como bachata, merengue, y salsa tienen mucho importancia. Esta noche aqui tenemos musica del salsa Dominicano, Puerto Riqueño, Cubano.
Dominican. I move around the country from east to west to figure out if I could grasp the meaning of it all. If I moved to LA maybe I could figure out the hole is the pattern of events as to why I’m here, the answer. While I figure it out I paint my fingernails white, line my lips with red.
New Yorker. Rather Unique. Afro Latina. White latina. Activist. Musician. Bisexual. Jaylene Lopez . Not jayleen lopez, not jaylen lopez, Jaylene Lopez. Brown. Curly haired. Intelligent. Beautiful. Tired. Hungry. Emotional. Struggling. Lovely. Passionate. Ambitious.
Dominican.