“Latinx for Black Lives”Is Erasure, Not Allyship
- By Susan Morel
On May 25, the video depicting the police killing George Floyd exposed once again the realities of state-sanctioned violence against Black Americans. It became the catalyst that set off a worldwide uprising against police brutality, pervasive racism, and complicit governments.
People took to the streets of Minneapolis to protest the inhumane treatment of Black people by the United States’ law enforcement. Momentum built, with many other cities joining the protests, and many self-proclaimed allies showcased their solidarity with Black people and our suffering.
Hashtags and quotes on flyers like “South Asians for Black Lives” or “Palestinians for Black Lives” multiplied on people’s social media accounts.
The one that stood out in numbers was “Latinx for Black Lives”. The slogan has been printed on t-shirts, put on flyers, shared all over social media.
In an attempt to be progressive and empathetic towards Black people, our suffering, and the BlackLivesMatter movement, Non-Black Latinx folks have taken it upon themselves to use phrases like “Latinos for Black Lives” without recognizing how this erases Black Latinx people. To say “Latinos for Black Lives” is to write Latinidad , an imagined collective Latin American identity, as separate from Blackness when in fact, these identities intersect more often than not.
When I read this as a Black Latinx person, I have to once again remind people of my existence. I have to explain just how nonsensical the phrase “Latinx for Black Lives” is.
According to Globe Afrique, 8 Latin American countries are home to some of the largest Black populations outside the continent of Africa. Latin America has the largest population of Black people in the Western hemisphere.
The phrase “Latinx for Black Lives” is not as progressive or as inclusive as Non-Black Latinx people believe, nor does it establish the allyship sought after. It is instead a tactless and violent erasure of Black Latinx people and our struggles.
To say “Latinx for Black Lives” is to not understand race, ethnicity, nationality, and history. For example, many countries used blanqueamiento policies in an attempt to establish a whiter population thus a whiter national identity. This was seen in Central America in the 19th and 20th century. The authors of Blacks and Blackness in Central America: Between Race and Place explain it well:
Yet in the development of national identities and historical consciousness, Central American nations have often countenanced widespread practices of social, political, and regional exclusion of blacks. The postcolonial development of mestizo or mixed-race ideologies of national identity have systematically downplayed African ancestry and social and political involvement in favor of Spanish and Indian heritage and contributions.”
In Central America, especially in its Spanish-speaking countries, the racial hierarchy places whiteness at the top, uses Mestizaje to uplift mixed white and Indigenous people, and places Black people at the bottom as an untouchable class.
This erasure leads us to forget how Black Central Americans have also made some of the largest cultural contributions to Latin America, including the creation of reggaeton in Panama and Punta by the Garifuna people on the Caribbean Coast.
The racial hierarchy is even seen in the world of soccer. Historian Joshua Nadel explains thoroughly in the Washington Post the antiblack racism present in Honduran soccer. Nadel makes the connection between politicians, philosophers, and psychologists and how they have historically defined Black people in Honduras as a problem that must be eradicated. This unfortunately informs the violence against Black soccer players in Honduras’ national soccer team, like that of Osman Chávez, who often talks about the racism he faced while on the national soccer team, which include racist chants from crowds and referees.
The slogan “Latinx for Black Lives” erases this Black Latinx struggle. The erasure of Black Latinx people goes hand in hand with the intentional avoidance of our existence and the violence we face. Statements and actions like these are performative activism as it does not work to address antiblackness in Latinx communities and households.
This performance and unaddressed racism are partly why I denounce allyship, as it is commonly seen, as a valid form of support. What Black people need from non-black latinx people are accomplices, not allies. Allyship is passive. Allyship is why many can say “Latinx for Black Lives” and believe that is a revolutionary action. We require accomplices to work against their own privileges and work with us to tear down racist oppressive systems. For that to happen, the blatant and subtle anti-blackness from non-black people must be addressed.
In order to do so, non-black latinx people must be introspective and honest about their beliefs, and how race possibly shapes those beliefs. A few questions to ask yourself if you are a benefactor of white privilege and/or Mestizaje; how have I perpetuated anti-blackness? How do I continue to do so? How does my family perpetuate anti-blackness? How has anti-blackness shaped what I believe, think, or feel? To ask yourself these questions is to begin the very necessary steps towards unlearning antiblackness and denouncing it.
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Susan Morel was born in New York, raised in Atlanta, GA. They are a lesbian and gender non-conforming Dominican from an immigrant working-class family with a Bachelor’s in Sociology from Georgia State University.
