Diaspora Wars Must Die

​So, I see all the chatter about Da’Vinchi’s comments on Black Americans. I don’t usually chime in on this kind of thing because, although I consider myself an academic and heavy on Black history (across the diaspora), I don’t have enough confidence to open the apps and start chatting about it. Lately, though, I’m like, lemme run with these thoughts, whether they land in my journal or a blog post. Da’Vinchi ain’t going in my journal. When my daughter finds it and reads it after I’m gone, she’ll be reading it to get to know the woman-Mommy, not the Mommy who doom-scrolled on the toilet every morning. I know my child; she don’t care about that. Blog readers… y’all gon get it though.
 
As I opened my laptop to jot these notes down, I said, lemme see how old lil baby Da’Vinchi is, because I was prepared to give him grace. He’s thirty. I gotta save that grace for twenty-nine and below. *Chuckling* I don’t know what it is with me. I always wanna give grace, but if you’re over thirty, it bothers me to do so. Of course it depends on the circumstances. For example, if he wasn’t born here, but that baby was born in Brooklyn a little over a week before my sister. Is anybody going to tell him, Haitian-American born here is just Black-American??

​I don’t do diaspora wars because I am an example of when the diaspora mixes. My mother is Black American, and my father is Antiguan. Yes, I was raised in the American household, but I was not excluded from Caribbean culture. And you know what? I feel like that’s a unique experience that doesn’t get talked about enough because people are so busy fighting to be the best version of Black culture. There is no best in the group. To be Black in any culture is to be the best. That’s it. (The leaps that could be made if we all knew that.)
 
I’m in a relationship with a Haitian man—my first. Growing up, I mostly avoided dating Black Americans with no Caribbean or African heritage because I felt misunderstood by them. They said that curry stunk and turned their noses up at pepper pot. They ridiculed Calypso and Soca music. When they heard my father’s side of the family speak, they assumed they were Jamaican, because apparently at that time, Jamaica and Trinidad were the only Caribbean countries. *eye roll*
 
Anyway, I chose boys who I felt were like me. The ones whose one or both parents were born on an island but came here in the 70s or 80s. However, in high school, Haitians were a “hell no.” I never heard this in my own household because obviously we weren’t prejudiced within the diaspora. The women in my family happily brought home Caribbean men. I don’t know if anyone brought home a Haitian, though. I went to school with what seemed like the entire Caribbean, but if anyone was Haitian, they didn’t let it be known. I’m also from The Bronx, where we don’t have a major Haitian population anyway. Still, if Haiti came into the conversation, the noses turned up, and the insults and stereotypes came tumbling out of my peers’ mouths: they stink, fish is the only thing they eat, boys don’t eat the spaghetti at your Haitian girl friend’s house—if she likes you, she’ll put her menstrual blood in it and you’ll never be able to leave her (that was a southern thing too, by the way), and of course, all their old folks were Voodoo Priests & Priestesses. So simply by peer pressure, I steered clear of Haitians.
 
Here's the dumb shit, though: in 2002 I got pregnant by a Dominican.
 
Because what the fuck is the difference between a Haitian and a Dominican?
Language and whitewashing, but that’s a conversation for another day.
 
Quick aside: My daughter’s father is one of my closest friends now, and when I told him about my “new boyfriend,” He laughed and said, “Can’t keep your ass off the island, huh?”
 
In my experience of loving and living with a Dominican and a Haitian at different times in my life, there isn’t a huge difference. In fact, there isn’t a huge difference between them and Antiguan households, and there isn’t a huge difference between them and Black American households. That’s why when it comes to the diaspora, there is no best. To be Black is to be the best. Period. (No t’s and no Poos, I am a grown woman.)

Now here I am, waist-deep in this relationship with this Haitian-American man who, at first, was nervous to tell people that my mother is American. I was a bit shocked because I am super proud of my cultural makeup. But then I had to think to myself, as a teenager, I would’ve been embarrassed to say I’d fallen for a Haitian boy. While my friends were dragging Haitians, he was growing up hearing what Da’Vinchi heard in his home—that Black Americans were lazy and mostly criminals. Then he moved to the Midwest for a while, and the first person to welcome him was a Black American in a predominantly white town, just looking for another Black face to relate to. That young man didn’t see a Haitian boy whose family practices Voodoo. He saw Brown skin, thick lips, and a wide nose that resembled people in his own family. He saw a brother. He saw kin. Today, in me, my Love sees kin, and he had to bring his family to that understanding. (Sounds like I gave him grace in his old age, and I guess I did. Perhaps because he wasn’t in public saying wild shit, he was just a little hesitant.)

Da’Vinchi opened his mouth, and ignorance came tumbling out. I wanted to give him grace, but he’s past my age limit. Instead, I’d be willing to put together reading material and documentaries for him, and I’d order him to be silent until he’s done as much learning as possible to know that he’s been used, and he’s gotta turn that around.