“Fake” Latinos and the immigrant identity
When I first arrived in the United States as an international student from the Dominican Republic, back in August 2016, all I wanted was to feel close to home. Even though I counted on the most advanced technological tools/software to stay in touch with family and friends back home (e.g., a smartphone with social media, especially WhatsApp), it was difficult for me to adapt to my life abroad.
Aside from being in contact with my loved ones on the island, I was constantly craving Dominican food, keeping up with the news back home, and listening to bachata in the shared bathrooms of my first-year dorm, in the predominantly white institution where I attended. So much so that in September 2016, when my friends and I stumbled upon a plate with tostones on a first-year hall lounge, I cried. It had only been a month since I left home, but the nostalgia and homesickness hit me hard that day.
In an effort to build community and feel closer to home, I started hanging out with other Latinx international students. I was, however, the only Dominican in the group.
Whenever I met someone new, I would proudly say that I was the only Dominican on campus. The university hung all the flags where international students came from, and I was devastated to see that mine was not there (picture above). This to me was another indication that there were no other Dominicans on campus.
However, as time went by, I started meeting so-called “Dominican-Yorks”, or Dominican-Americans. My international group of friends at the time referred to them (and all other Latinx living in the US, essentially everyone not on a visa), as “fake” Latinos. And, for a while, I was guilty of this, too.
“Fake” Latinos because in our eyes, they didn’t understand the reality of living in Latin America. Although the vast majority of international students (at least from LatAm) are incredibly privileged, to us, these “fake” Latinos had it much better than us. And in some cases, they did. But the vast majority of them did not.
A lot of them lived in rough housing and family arrangements somewhere in NYC, and some had even migrated recently to the United States. As I got to know them, I realized that these people were not any less Dominican than I was. For the most part, they spoke Spanish, listened to bachata and dembow, and liked mangú con salami, just like I did. They knew how to make empanadas/pastelitos and cook rice and beans a lot better than I did.
This is because we both grew up Dominican but in different contexts.
There is no single “Dominican” experience. Granted, our contexts might not be the same, but we all share a common language, music, food, and traditions; we were all still one people. Just because some of them lived in Dyckman (NYC), did not mean that they were any less Dominican than I, who grew up in Downtown Santo Domingo (DR).
Even further, one could argue that there are different experiences within countries and even within cities. For example, my experience growing up in central Santo Domingo is very different from that of someone who grew up in San Francisco de Macorís, bathing in rivers during the summertime and watching their Gigantes del Cibao baseball team. (All this acknowledging that to live comfortably in Santo Domingo as I did, a relatively high income is required, which my family was privileged enough to have.)
All this is to say that there is no one Dominican experience, and it would be wrong to expect everyone to have the same one. This would negate the myriad contexts and upbringings that all Dominicans have, which in turn, denies the diverse identity that makes us who we are.
And, in the end, due to my change in mindset, I ended up meeting more Dominicans than I could count. These people ended up becoming my best friends, friendships that I continue to have. With time, my relationship with the “real” (international) Latinos fizzled away, and I created stronger bonds with the people that I was so prejudiced against in the beginning.
And, to my delight, the university had the occasional sancocho during Hispanic Heritage Month (it wasn’t exactly like it was at home, but it was a good start), so I haven’t cried over tostones ever again.
We shouldn’t gatekeep culture, especially not towards children of immigrants, who already have it hard as it is.
