Dominican People Are Black

So, I’m sitting in a tiny colmado in Santo Domingo, sweating like a sinner in church, and the owner—a guy named Miguel with a grin as wide as the Ozama River—hands me a plastic cup of warm Presidente beer. He’s got deep brown skin, tight curly hair, and eyes that have seen a few storms. I ask him, half-joking, “Miguel, you ever think of yourself as Black?” He laughs, spits out a little rum, and says, “No, hermano, yo soy indio.” Indio. Indian. Not Black. And I just sat there, beer in hand, wondering how the hell a guy who looks like a walking history book of the African diaspora got labeled something else.

That moment stuck with me, because it’s the secret handshake of Dominican identity—everyone’s in on it, but nobody talks about it straight. You see, Dominican People Are Black. Not all of them, sure—there’s a whole spectrum of Taino roots, Spanish blood, and a sprinkle of Lebanese even. But the majority of Dominicans carry African ancestry so deep it shapes the way they dance, cook, and even curse. And yet, ask a Dominican from the capital, and you’ll get a litany of excuses: “We’re mixed,” “We’re indigenous,” “We’re Dominican first.”

It’s ironic, right? The country that gave the world merengue and the mambo—both pure African beats—has a population that often runs from the word “Black” like it’s a tax collector. (Side note: I once saw a Dominican uncle dance bachata so soulfully that his bones seemed to remember the Congo, but if you called his hair “afro,” he’d get offended. The cognitive dissonance is real, my friends.) Why? Because Blackness in the Dominican Republic is tied to Haiti, and that’s a whole different kettle of plantains. Haiti is the neighbor they love to hate, the “other” that makes Dominicans say, “I’m not Black, they’re Black.”

The Hair, The Skin, The Denial

Let’s get physical for a second. Walk down any street in Santiago or La Romana, and you’ll see kinky hair, broad noses, and dark skin on more than half the faces. But look closer: the beauty standards are a straight-up war against the melanin. Women spend hours straightening their pelo malo (“bad hair”) with blow-out creams that smell like a chemistry lab explosion. Men slap on “alisa” relaxers like it’s sunscreen. (I’m not judging—I’ve seen Dominican barbers do miracles with a hot comb, but damn, it’s a whole industry built on pretending you’re not what you are.)

And the vocabulary? It’s a masterpiece of avoidance. You’ll hear “trigueño” (wheat-colored) for darker skin, “canelo” (cinnamon) for browner, and “indio” for basically anyone who isn’t white. No one says “negro” unless they’re joking or fighting. It’s like the country invented a whole new color chart just to dodge the B-word. But here’s the kicker: in a 2020 survey, 72% of Dominicans identified as “mixed,” yet genetic studies show the average Dominican has over 50% African DNA. So the math doesn’t math, folks.

The Haitian Shadow

You can’t talk about Dominican Blackness without dragging Haiti into the room—and it’s awkward. The Dominican Republic spent a century after independence building a national identity on anti-Haitian sentiment. Haitians are Black, so Dominicans decided they must be something else—Spanish, Indian, anything but that. General Trujillo literally bleached the country’s census, promoting “indio” as the official race. (Fun fact: Trujillo himself had African ancestry, but he wore makeup to look lighter. The man was a walking irony.)

This means that when a Dominican says “I’m not Black,” they’re really saying “I’m not Haitian”—because in their mind, Black equals poverty, Vodou, and the wrong side of the border. But historically, the whole island was Black before the Spanish arrived. The Tainos were Genocide’d out, the Spanish brought enslaved Africans to work the sugar fields, and generations later, here we are. You can’t erase 500 years of forced migration by calling yourself “indio.”

Why It Matters

Look, I’m not here to start a fight. Dominican culture is vibrant, proud, and complex—and that’s beautiful. But there’s a cost to pretending. When you deny Blackness, you lose the connection to the African roots that gave you bachata’s sensual sway, the güira’s hypnotic scrape, and the mangú you eat for breakfast. (Side note: Ever had mangú? Mashed plantains with pickled onions. It’s basically fufu with a Dominican passport. And fufu is West African. Just saying.)

Also, this denial hurts real people. Dominican kids grow up with a color hierarchy that tells them lighter is better. They straighten their hair, avoid the sun, and chase European features—then wonder why they feel ashamed. Meanwhile, Afro-Dominican activists are fighting for recognition, trying to get people to say “Black is beautiful” in Spanish. It’s slow, but it’s happening.

The Real Talk

So, what’s the point of this rant? Just this: Dominican people are Black—culturally, genetically, rhythmically—and that’s not an insult. It’s a fact. You can be Black and Dominican, just like you can be Black and British, Black and Brazilian, or Black and Buzzfeed reader. The Dominican Republic isn’t some unique exception to the African diaspora; it’s a loud, messy, beautiful part of it.

Next time you’re at a Dominican party and someone tells you “We’re not Black, we’re Dominican,” just smile, nod, and watch them move their hips to dembow—a beat stolen from Jamaican dancehall, which was stolen from African drums. And maybe, just maybe, buy them a Presidente and say, “Bro, listen to your own rhythm.”

Because at the end of the day, the music doesn’t lie. And neither should we.