My First Event at the Schomburg – "Resisting Limitations: AfroLatinos and Radical Identity"

TICKETS: HERE

So, I'm doing a thing at the Schomburg Center For Research In Black Culture for Hispanic Heritage Month. But unlike the majority of the celebrations, lists of notable Latinos and mainstream media representations of people in and from Latin America, this will be a thoroughly Blackety Black affair.

Shoutout to melanin.

Here's the what/why/who/when/how:

The history of America cannot be appropriately surveyed without considering the presence, influence, hardships, victories and contributions of people of African descent. Our bodies, our lives and our genius reflect and inspire greatness, yet textbooks, media depictions and cultural celebrations routinely minimize and erase our integral role in both society and art.

To commemorate National Hispanic Heritage Month, AfroPanamanian writer and educator Alexander Hardy of TheColoredBoy.com has invited a diverse cast of AfroLatino storytellers to share stories of struggles, tragedies and progress towards/while affirming, celebrating, exploring, representing and growing to love and accept our wonderful Black and Brown selves in a world (and media environment) that studies and exploits our cultures and essence while ignoring and minimizing our presence and influence.

Resisting Limitation: AfroLatin@s and Radical Identities will showcase transformative, hilarious, tragic and insight-filled tales from powerful voices of the diaspora expressed through prose, poetry, song and art. This event aims to center and share Black and Brown narratives in a climate where such stories aren’t prominent or valued. Join us for a night of celebration, affirmation and exploration of the many iterations of AfroLatin@ identity and pride.

FEATURED STORYTELLERS:


ALEXANDER HARDY. (Host) Virginia-born food lover Alexander Hardy is the dance captain for Saint Damita Jo's Jackson's Royal Army. He is an essayist, freelance copywriter, cultural critic, chicken enthusiast, lupus survivor, mental health advocate, and educator who informs and entertains through his colorful commentary on race, sex, sexuality, food, society and pop culture. He runs The Colored Boy, a blog showcasing his written work and documenting his travels, tragedies, and triumphs, including his work teach English and dance in Panama. Among other outlets, Alexander has written for EBONY.com, Courvoisier, CNN.com, Eater, Gawker, Saint Heron and Huffington Post, as well as Very Smart Brothas and Abernathy Magazine, where he serves as Senior Writer. He is currently working on an essay compilation. His writing portfolio can be found here. Alexander does not believe in snow.

BIANCA LAUREANO, founder of LatiNegrxs Project, is a first-generation Puerto Rican sexologist who presented both locally and internationally on various topics concerning activism, Latino sexual health, feminisms, youth and hip-hop culture, Latinos and race, Caribbean cultural practices and sexuality, dating and relationships, curriculum development, reproductive justice and teaching. Laureano is a board member at the Black Girl Project and CLAGS, The LGBT Center for CUNY, doula with The Doula Project, founder of award-winning The LatiNegrxs Project, founding member of the award-winning WOCSHN (Women of Color Sexual Health Network), co-director of BLACK PERVERT a feature length documentary film. She hosts the website LatinoSexuality.com and identifies as a LatiNegra, media maker, radical woman of Color, activist, sex-positive, pro-choice femme. Read more about Bianca on her website BiancaLaureano.com. Follow her on Twitter and Tumblr.

KLEAVER CRUZ, an Uptown, NY native, is a writer and Chief Dream Director of the NYC team at The Future Project — an organization that aims to unleash young people through the pursuit of their dreams. Cruz is also one half of the poetic duo, The Delta, which has performed at The Nuyorican Poet’s Café, Bowery Poetry Club as well served as judges for the Wordat4F Poetry Slam. His work has been featured on TravelNoire.com. racebaitr.com and African Voices Magazine, among others. Cruz believes in the power of words because they allow him to write what didn’t exist when he needed it the most. He loves being Black and Latino with the understanding that for him they are two parts of a whole.

DR. SORIBEL GENAO, before her current position as a professor at Queens College, earned a master’s degree in urban affairs at Hunter College and a doctorate in public administration at Rutgers University. Throughout her career, her priority has been to identify and promote educational interventions to help low-income children succeed at school. As an assistant professor in the college’s Department of Educational & Community Programs, Genao trains future school administrators. She works with schools in inner-city communities, like the one she grew up in, and also in some of the poorest communities in the Dominican Republic, from which her mother emigrated. She has written and spoken extensively on the value of diversity among school leaders. As a member of Friends Beyond Borders, she has led groups of New York City educators on trips to the Dominican Republic, where they examined the impact of poverty and injustice on teaching. In addition, she has also been part of Rebuilding Haiti One Trip at a Time — a non-profit organization created by former educators to promote the historical and cultural aspect of the country.

JAMILA AISHA BROWN is a proud Afro-Panamanian and international advocate. An experienced digital strategist, foreign policy analyst, writer, and social entrepreneur, she is the Founder and Lead Global Strategist of HUE, a progressive consultancy that creates full-scale digital campaigns for organizations and businesses throughout the African diaspora. Specializing in domestic and international advocacy campaigns, Jamila leads the development and implementation of all online platforms and social media outreach and engagement strategies. She builds a vibrant online presence that engages existing audiences, reaches new target audiences, and builds her clients’ online profile and socio-political impact. For the past eight years, she has worked at the intersection of public policy and digital advocacy. Her efforts have spanned the globe, with a particular interest in people of African descent in Latin America and the Caribbean. Follow her on Twitter here and here.

WES and MILTON GÜITY, JR. operate a New York City-based multi-media and video production company. Milton directs, shoots and edits short film and music videos. He is currently directing I Am Garifuna, a historical and cultural documentary that chronicles his and his father’s trips to the Garifuna communities of The U.S., Central America and the Caribbean. Wes, Executive Director of I Am Garifuna, is an excited (and exhausted) new dad who documents his adventures with his wife on their blog WesandVeronica.com. View the trailer for I Am Garifuna here.

 AMANDA ALCANTARA is a writer, multimedia journalist, and community organizer currently living in the Bronx. While pursuing her MA in Communications and Latin American and Caribbean Studies, she is a manager at the McSilver Institute for Poverty Policy and Research. She co-founded La Galeria Magazine, a magazine for the Dominican Diaspora that addresses issues of identity and culture, and is the author of the blog Radical Latina. Her writing explores intersections of gender and race from a political and personal perspective. As a woman of color who grew up in the Dominican Republic, she embodies many identities, which she affirms and explores in her poetry and community theater work. Amanda is a firm believer in healing through art and fighting for liberation. A map of the world turned upside down hangs on her wall. Read more about Amanda on her website and follow her on Twitter. 

Grab your ticket to Resisting Limitations: AfroLatinos and Radical Identity HERE.

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A Box of Condoms and A Dream: How I Learned Spanish in Panama

I used dance to improve my Spanish in Panama.

I moved to Panama (actual Panama, not the bootleg Florida city) from Los Angeles, California in July of 2011 with a box of condoms and a dream. After years of studying Spanish in high school and college, it was time to fulfill my duty as the son of a Panamanian immigrant and seek out my own personal connection to the land of murderous humidity and plentiful passé American fashions. #VivaEdHardy

           

I first became interested in learning more than profanity after I grew tired of Mom and Grandma switching languages to talk shit about a mooching family friend or someone’s subpar cooking and not understanding them. I grew up speaking English. Each time I mix up my verb tenses, I still bemoan the fact that Mom never even cursed me out with her best AfroPanamanian Spanglish as a kid. Not once. In every Spanish class, I excelled, propelled by my ambitions of bilingual eavesdropping.

Like many who learned a foreign language in school, I had never really held a full conversation in Spanish with a native speaker. The practice you receive in foreign language classes usually consists of stringing vocabulary you just learned in the previous chapter into rehearsed conversations with that girl who never bought the textbook and is in the fast lane to nowhere. Plus, classroom Spanish is found nowhere on this Earth.

Guided by champagne and a taste for adventure, I bought a one-way ticket to Panama. “No use putting a time limit on my dreams,” I would say often, and eventually landed here with muchas ideas y zero solid plans. The goal was to learn to speak amazing Spanish, teach English to anyone but children, teach dance in Spanish, and dig into my family’s Panamanian and Jamaican ancestry. Previously, I had done exactly none of these things. My life in Panamaland has been one of many firsts.

When I exited the airport in Panama City and understood four percent of what the waiting taxi drivers screamed at me, I felt mighty low. And muy American. The first order of business—after the inaugural cross-cultural bustdown—was to absorb as much Panamanian Spanish in as little time as humanly possible.

           

At the time, according to the entrance exam at the University of Panama, my Spanish was teetering between the lower intermediate (B1 by CEFR standards) and upper intermediate (B2) level. In the real world, this meant I could understand clear-speaking natives with great pronunciation and slowly tell you how to clean, season, bread, and fry chicken.

Here is how I became fluent.

1. I taught dance and fitness classes in Spanish.

Teaching in Powerclub in Panama City, Panama

Before moving to Panama, I trained in hip-hop, ballet, and contemporary dance in Los Angeles and New York. I have yet to dance for Janet, so you see how that worked out for me. Days after arriving, I responded to a classified ad seeking a dancer and fitness instructor, and was hired to teach a Zumba-adjacent fitness class, in Spanish.

While designing my class, adhering to the studio owner’s request of 70% Latin rhythms and 30% other, I studied all body part names. I talked myself through every step, punch, cha-cha, kick, squat, slide and jump in my class choreography, rehearsing how to break each move down using the command forms of all necessary verbs.

Twice a week, I led 20-30 well-to-do ladies through warm-up and 12-14 vigorous routines that meshed cardio and toning with hip-hop, salsa, samba, and/or dancehall, before a relaxing cool-down and soothing stretch. In the beginning, I made at least 94 mistakes each day while instructing in Spanish. I asked that students correct me, kindly, in private. At my request, the studio owner forbade clients from speaking to me in English. It all helped.

Fielding questions and the occasional vaginal offering as the resident sweaty, dancing, foreign Black guy (who was allergic to sleeves) did wonders for my small talk skills.

The flashcards and daily terror paid off. Eventually, I worked up to seven of these CardioDance classes and two hip-hop dance classes (in two studios and a national gym chain) per week. Learning to explain grooves, nuances and the emotions and effect I was seeking from a piece of choreography was a boost to my vocabulary and descriptive skills.

Teaching a hip hop class in Panama - May 2012

2. I taught English.

Swearing off traditional employment, I dug deep and vowed to support myself using my own talents and body parts. I had never previously taught English, but as a lover of the language and a gent who appreciates a divinely crafted sentence, I knew I could excel at slinging these phrasal verbs.

I copped some books and combed the World Wide Web for teaching materials. Slapped up some flyers and classified ads. Within months, I acquired a handful of private clients for Business English classes. As I cherish my sanity, jobless humans (children) were out of the question. I specialized in helping Spanish-speaking professionals work and do business in English. I tailored the curriculums, vocabulary, and class materials to the student's field of work. I helped my students feel comfortable conducting meetings, express opinions, acing job interviews, giving business presentations, and using language relevant to their specific positions, in English, with confidence.

How did that help my Spanish? Speaking Spanish on the phone was stressful for me. When my phone rang in Panama, I never knew what type of accent I'd be greeted with, because my clients came from every corner of Latin America...and Spain. Throughout my time teaching in Panama, a good 42.6% or so of my clients came from Spain. A tanking Spanish economy sent pilots, architects, bankers, professors and such to Panama for work and, eventually, into business with me. (Yay, recession.) After a while, I could tell if you were from Andalucia or Madrid or Galicia. An unexpectedly helpful ability, that was.

I had to explain my services, negotiate prices and contracts and deal with managers, CEOs and human resources reps, in Spanish. Finding a few local banking and construction industry magazines helped me learn the necessary language to communicate with prospective professional clients. While building the website for Panamerican Languages, a site called linguee helped me find suitable phrases and vocabulary in context in documents and elsewhere online. I had Spanish-speaking friends revise my site text, client agreements, and email templates to make life easier.

3. I dated in Spanish.

About nine months into the journey, I found a Guatemalan boo. A fine one. My Spanish was much better than his English, so all sweet-talking happened in Español. Some expats call it getting “a two-legged dictionary.”

I have my corny inclinations when smitten, so it was important that I knew how to be saccharine enough to lay my mack down and talk underwear off, in Spanish. This is when the faux passion and flowery compliments found in telenovelas and the intros of classy Latino porn come in quite handy. Seriously. Romancing GuateBoo also made me comfortable discussing feelings, desires, strong opinions, and complicated food orders in more complex and abstract ways. Also: I insisted he correct my many, many grammatical mistakes, kindly, in private.

Bonus: Use of appropriate Bedroom Spanish is also an important skill. Imagine the stress of conjugating verbs while putting your back into it! ¡Qué horror! Refer back to those Latino porn clips.

4. I organized language exchanges.

Here in Panama, you can’t pass two palm trees without bumping into someone looking to improve their English. Since FREE is a universally attractive price, I placed flyers around my neighborhood looking for a Spanish-speaking professional who wanted to trade an hour of English conversation for an hour of Spanish conversation each week. For two months, I met with Consuela, a doctor from Venezuela, twice weekly. She helped me polish my professional Spanish and my small talk, two skills vital to my success here. If attempting an exchange, it’s important to select a partner with a good grasp on grammar in your target language. A cute partner who has never been in an office will likely not be able to help you prepare for an interview.

5. I depended on taxi drivers.

Using taxis to get around town has kept me up-to-date on new and inventive uses of slang and street Spanish. As Taxi Driver Spanish is the polar opposite of the academic stuff that has helped me professionally, learning to speak and curse like a taxi driver will ensure cheaper fares and more enjoyable commutes. If they like you, they’re less likely to overcharge you. Maybe.

And there you have it. In addition to one helpful semester at the University of Panama, this is how I progressed from head nods and mumbling to living, flirting, and doing business with the finest Panamanian Spanish.

What about you? Any nontraditional language-learning advice?

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How To Be Blackety Black in Panama: Part Two

Welcome back. The response to Part One of my Slave Descendant's Guide to Panama advice on things to know before visiting/relocating to Panama tells me that my experiences are not singular. I stress again that I feel compelled to pass on the good, bad, and ugly, specifically from the Black perspective, because these types of jewels ye shall not find in retirement guides intended for pasty Floridians with pensions.

Let's dive the hell on in, yes? Yes.

3. Patience is essential. 

Look. Nobody cares that you are in a hurry except you. Your precisely timed procrastination and your pressing appointment matter only to you. Yamila in the Farmacia Arrocha has a text conversation infinitely more important than anything you could possibly need. Expecting a delivery or installation and you've been quoted a two-hour window for anticipated arrival? Better clear your schedule for the day. Let's just say that critical thinking skills are...Let's just say that critical thinking skills are...not...well, I mean...basically there is no Panamanian equivalent of "sense of urgency." Figure out a coping method to get you through--pinching yourself, meditation and deep breaths, a touch of that Lindsay Lohan in your nose--and learn to deal with the daily injustices of life. When depending on a taxi to reach your destination, know the following: 

Panamanian Taxi Law 33

Taxis are often communal. Santiago wants to find one or two other people going in the same direction as you to make the most out of his trek, a service for which you should be bursting with gratitude. Similarly, if your destination isn't in the general direction of where he is heading, even if sans passenger, you're out of luck and expect the Taxi Driver Finger Wag of Death, which, in English, roughly translates to "Fuck You."

Panamanian Taxi Law 34

You are at the mercy of the driver. Is it raining? Is traffic heavy? Is it late at night? Are you Black, threatening, and murderous? All worth considering when planning your journeys.

Panamanian Taxi Law 35

If sharing a taxi with another passenger, which you have no say in, selfish motherfucker, don't be surprised if you're detoured elsewhere before being dropped off. You will not be asked; You will be told. Maybe.

In general, you're going to have to chill the fuck out. It took me almost 20 months to realize that. It took me retreating to New Orleans, falling into an amazing life of excess and languor, to be able to cope and not hit spinning back kicks across the checkout counter. Down here in the Platano Belt, if nothing else, you will learn to relax. Because nobody cares, broham. 

4. People will never guess that you're American.

Me, the Brazilian, Dominican, African dance and fitness instructor.

This isn't necessarily a distinction you will ever find yourself craving. When I taught CardioDance classes at Powerclub, I was Dominican, Cuban, or Brazilian, "because Black people dance there." I've been African, Jamaican, Haitan, Nigerian and everything else. American is never an option. As recently as this week, a taxi driver pegged me as a Jamaican doctor, unable to believe I was American, because a. I wasn't white and b. he thought the only Black people in America were Barack Obama and rappers. Yesterday, a friend's student assumed she was "from Africa because people in Africa have brown skin," not realizing that we come from other places. I've learned that many often associate Whiteness with America. A few have even told me that "only white people are Gringos."

I've even noticed a difference in some panhandlers and street vendors. I've been sitting on the patio of a popular restaurant and observe them skip me to approach lighter diners with the few English words they know. Not that I'm complaining, but it shows the true effectiveness of the White is Right campaigns I mentioned before.

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5. People may assume you are "blessed" or are "selling" something.

I can admit to not entirely rejecting the role of sex machine people loved to place on me in the beginning. As an athletic Black man with locs who was for a time allergic to anything but jock straps and Timbs tank tops, people I'd encounter had surprisingly developed ideas about what I was into or capable of. 

On my first night out alone to a club in Panama City, a beautiful Colombian boy told me his name after sliding his hand in my pants to break the ice, assuming I was smuggling a table leg in my underwear. We later went home to bake cookies and shit. In Spanish. This is the slight upside to many people having limited intimate interactions with us. I've been the First Black Screw more often than expected, bestowed with some of the same hypersexualization found often in interracial porn, where the Black savage wreaks Black havoc on his victim's orifices. And for a split second good while, I reasoned, "Fuck it. I'll be that." Who am I to disappoint the curious? And besides, a worshiped dick is a happy dick, no? Assumptions about the Black man's sexual prowress are not uncommon. It does get old, but indulging people on occasion, never hurt anyone. Because I'm a nice person.

Costume Party in Casco Viejo. Me, as "El Black Person."

The night of the above photo, at a costume party at Relic Bar in Casco Viejo I was approached by a pair of intoxiKaties, not pictured. "We want a Black guy," they propositioned whitely with bubbly entitlement. I was one of three Black dudes in attendance. The others didn't exactly scream HEALTHY CHOLESTEROL LEVEL VIRILE VAGINA VANQUISHER, so I suppose I respect their discernment. No word on if they found the the two-on-one thrashing they were seeking. 

For women, though, the sensation is quite different. I know more than a handful of Black women here who have been asked, "How much?" in far more vulgar words by a thirsty fucknugget, while minding their own luscious Black business. Shocker #1: There is some fetishization toward Black women here (and everywhere). Just among my friends, I've heard of taxi drivers caressing and raving about a Black woman's skin, asking for a kiss among other things, overcome by her radiantly radiant mahogany radiance. I've heard of men being drawn, apparently uncontrollably so, to glorious, chocolatey curves, complimenting, propositioning, and gesturing, caught up in her enrapturing chocolatey rapture. 

Shocker #2: Street harassment is a thing here. These are, after all, still brown men. Dudes say some pretty vile shit to women. And don't you have the nerve to be sexy in addition to merely breasted. A rocket launcher Tough skin is mandatory. Construction workers are notoriously pathetic in this regard. For this reason, I question why spray bottles of acid middle fingers are not more of a thing here.

6. You, Black man, are a suspect. Because.

Two weeks ago, while speaking to the owner of the fitness studio (in Paitilla, a whiter nicer part of town) where I used to teach, two police approached to ask her if she was alright. How do they know she wasn't preaching to me about preparing for Jehova's return and that IIIII wasn't the one melting inside? Such is life here. Earlier this year, on a bus ride to Portobelo with friends, the bus was stopped at a checkpoint and ONLY Black men were forced off the bus to be searched and questioned. One rider even opened her Black ass mouth to say, "Sí, es para la seguridad." (Yes, it's for safety.) 

I have been placed in the back of a police truck because they questioned my status in the country and my entrance stamp inside my passport was smudged. 

Last week, a friend and fellow teacher, well-dressed and 20 steps from his office's door, was arrested and held for seven hours because police questioned whether his MacBook, purchased five years ago, was actually his, as he didn't have a receipt for it. Of course this was legal as positive Black images on reality television. 

I was once stopped and asked to exit a taxi, as the Black motherfucker inquired about my profession. 

Me: I'm a dance teacher.

Him: Oh, you teach passa-passa? 

He then insisted on calling the gym I was heading to teach to confirm my employment and that I was "okay."

And other such fuckery.

As much bullshit as I've encountered, it never stings less. That urge to Black out and hit these motherfuckers with an uppercut never subsides. I tend to become indignant when dealing with these uniformed subhuman shit-eaters. My few instances of rage here can all be attributed to the degenerates with guns. And because I, a Black man, am automatically a suspect, I stress that, even though offenses are pulled from the sky, and searches are selective and often venture into illegal territory, no Black man needs to give these ill-trained swamp donkeys any additional power over them. In short: don't give them a reason to celebrate. Don't get busted with anything you need not have. Don't let your visa expire or wander out without identification and walk up on a random "checkpoint." Don't do it. As my friend Bintu summarized recently: "Don't have what they expect you to have."

As police impunity and barbarity, along with widespread, seemingly intentional, culturally sanctioned institutional ineptitude are all realities here, know your rights. Police here hate to be outsmarted or corrected. Reminding them what is illegal or threatening to call your attorney friend (which every coloured should have) can occasionally de-escalate a situation.

Women, unless you're a sex worker, in which case you face sexual assault and deportation if an "agreement" can't be reached, are rarely bothered by police. Still, don't be brown without identification. Not worth the risk. There is virtually NO recourse for their thuggery. So just be mindful. 

Okay. That's enough for now. Check back tomorrow for the good parts of life down here in Panamaland.

Hire me, yo.

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How to Be Blackety Black in Panama, Part One.

I moved to Panamá sight unseen two years ago with a huge box of condoms and what can be described as a body bag for king-sized murder victims. Open-minded, fearless, and not getting any younger, I was ready for a change, ready for excitement, especially since it didn’t look like I was going to become famous for anything I could tell my mama about in Los Angeles any time soon. Ahem.

I figured that learning perfect Spanish in a classroom in Los Angeles, a textbook Spanish that I would encounter exactly nowhere on this earth, was not the way to master the language. So, armed with a four-point plan of action, a heap of determination, and a bottle of lube, I copped that one-way ticket to freedom and took to the sky. 

Being half Panamanian, I'd heard stories about life down here. I had seen pictures of my happy, well-dressed beautiful Black relatives from their days in the Canal Zone, seen molas and polleras. I had eaten enough empanadas and arroz con pollo to fill Yankees Stadium, but had no firsthand experience to form my own opinion. Every. Single. One of my cousins had either grown up in or visited Panama repeatedly, and I figured it was my damn turn.

Going off of what my grandmother prepared me for, I spent my first week on the lookout for gangs that laid strips of nails in the street to hijack or rob buses at intersections. Thankfully, I managed to avoid getting raped and lynched and skinned and re-raped for my precious American passport. Whew.

What I actually faced was nothing like anything I had conjured up. Lush and overdeveloped and imperfect and shiny on the exterior, Panama City welcomed me openly. It represented endless opportunity for growth and exploration. So I soaked up everything, ate everything, humped everyone, and tried everything. I learned 100 things a day, developing linguistically and socially, and finding my way. However, I had no one to tell me the real deal before landing, especially as a Black man. My mother and grandmother's experiences, which ended when they packed up and moved to America in the 1970s, could never have prepared me for what to expect in Panamaland.

Because one can easily find glossy, friendly, whitewashed explanations of life here (in which mostly brown areas are labeled as RED ZONES OMG DON'T GO THERE OR YOU'LL SURELY GET KILLED IN THE FACE) in travel guides and on expat websites, I feel personally responsible for sharing my Black ass perspective with other Black ass people considering visiting or relocating here. And so, I shall offer you a few (of 100 million) things I've learned from living in Panamaland. We’ll go through this in nice, digestible chunks, yes? And while there are countless beautiful things about livng in Panama, I figured I would start with the shit you're least likely to be told elsewhere and work our way on up to the rosy stuff. Okay.

1. White is right.

If I had no Afropanamanian relatives or had no knowledge of the surprising cultural diversity of the region, and had just left the airport and rode through the city in a taxi, looking solely at billboards and advertisements, I would think that this was a country of model-like, beautiful white people who lived in pristine white deluxe white apartments in the white sky, driving white luxury cars, with perfect whiteriffically white teeth with which to smile at their blond-haired perfectly white children while being whitingly white in the (white) hood.

I understand the concept of projecting aspirational images in marketing. Since images of prosperous white people are in no short supply, that tells you a great deal about how things work here in the isthmus. Know that the smiling faces on billboards look so unlike the bulk of the people you’ll encounter daily. Not in the grocery stores or malls. Not on the news. This, of course, speaks to the Panamanian love of all things White. For this, you can thank the wildly successful White Is Right campaigns enacted relentlessly worldwide by your favorite culture-crushing melanin-free superpowers of yesteryear. You, Black person, shouldn’t expect to see many positive images of yourself in the media. Though there are in fact Black CEOs, attorneys, and people of note, they are not nearly as visible. You can, naturally, expect to see an abundance of images of yourself:

1. As an athlete
2. As a rappity rap dude
3. Getting put into the back of a police vehicle on the news, or doing something illegal and terrible

Don’t feel too bad. There is indeed a tiny upside to being scarcely represented. I’ll get to that shortly. Thanks to that aforementioned White is Right campaign, you will notice the existence of white supremacy’s understated yet pervasive stepchild, which we get to next.

2. Colorism is everywhere. 

Thanks to colonialism, capitalism, missionaries, slavery, and a fascination with all things American, my culture shock upon arrival to Panama in July 2011 wasn't too jarring. Who knew that Six Degrees of Darkness was as popular a game down here in the Platano Belt as it was back home? Here, instead of brown folks reveling in their proximity to Whiteness (or, distance from Classic, Regular old Black) with greatest hits like high yellow, redbone, and octaroon, bekinked chicos y chicas compare their skin with such fun everyday items as cinnamon, café con leche (coffee with milk), cookies (which certainly doesn't mean Oreo), sand, and my personal favorite, khaki. Yes, khaki. As in, “Yo no soy NEGRO negro. Soy más como…khaki.” Whatever. A close friend of mine has even been corrected when referring to herself as a Black woman, being told that she was instead the more preferential, safer, cleaner Morena (brown woman). It's quite the complex issue--explored in depth here--but certainly provides for colorful daily interactions.

Well done, Whiteness. Well done. 

BONUS ROUND:

Unless you decide to brave the lawless junkie derby that is also known as Driving in Panama, you will develop your own special love for taxi drivers. I’ve done the hard work for you, compiling this wonderful resource to help you in your endeavors:*

Hierarchy of preferred customers for taxi drivers in Panama:

1. White women
2. White men
3. All others who would pass a brown paper bag test, including all other breasted peoples.
4. Terribly dressed, dirty-haired backpackers and others
5. White Zombies with chainsaws
6. Black men, well-dressed or otherwise

This hierarchy is altered under three circumstances:

1. You are a Black man with a White woman
2. It is Sunday, when streets are empty and taxi drivers circle like vultures for passengers
3. The taxi driver is Black, in which case they will almost always rescue you, unless:
1. The bell pepper-nosed motherfucker doesn't consider himself Black, in which case:
1. He doesn't identify with your plight, and
2. You're better off walking.

Now. Take a deep breath and govern your rage accordingly.

*= to be printed, laminated, stored in your wallet and referred to in times of distress

Alright. I’ve got 700 things I could share, but that’s enough for today’s episode of Black in Panama: On Being Someone’s First Black Screw How to Be Chocolatey and Wonderful and Blackety Black Black in Panama. Stop by again soon for a few more more survival tips.

Now go forth and be somebody's chocolate fetish. More on that later.

Continue on to Part Two.

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(grand)father time.

Kinship. I've always thought it peculiar, that our ancestors' deed—the commendable ones—somehow become our own, attached to us. As if the triumphs of our grands and great grands are reflective of our individual capabilities while here on Earth. As if their power speaks directly to our potential. A pride assumed for the great-grandfather you never knew who supported his family with work as a tailor, a transgenerational high five for your grandmother's sister for whom a newly unearthed newspaper clipping points to a past life as an aerobic instructor and dance teacher, these things convincing you, somehow, of greatness residing within you, somewhere, likely obstructed by fear/uncertainty/stupidity.

One of two Grandfathers I grew up with. Dad's Dad.
Eating a Star Crunch with Grandpa Cephus
"This Name Came From Tiny Ass Saluda County, South Carolina" Hardy

This knowledge, I seek. Crave it. To know who up there was just like I am, who was also endlessly curious and rarely satisfied. To know of the challenges faced by those who birthed those before me, to be able to connect the dots of my family's murky past, being that masterfully, conveniently and routinely avoided gray areas outnumber plainly addressed black and white ones.

"Hello. I am your grandfather. What's your name?" were the first words he spoke to me last night. This man, Lorhland Rall, gave life to the woman who gave life to me. A fog of a man up until this point. A man whose feats and failures had until now been offered to me in infrequent spoonfuls: sparingly, reluctantly. After prodding, always. Appeasingly. Never allowing me to experience him on my own. To form my own unbiased opinion.

I've seen him once.

In Florida. On the way home from Disney World, in the very spontaneous and casual way you'd swing past 7-Eleven on the drive home from the gym after work. As if a roadside billboard reminded you that you needed eggs. The scene: otherworldly. Him, waiting and waving in the driveway in a t-shirt if Americanized or a white Guayabera if not too Americanized. I can't recall which. My sister, nieces, parents and cousin and I unloading from the rented white 12-passenger van to stand and fumble uncomfortably in the pristine and unused living room of this smiling Caribbean man only one of us had ever laid eyes on before but knew we were supposed to be excited to see. Dutifully shaking his hand, being stricken by his thick Caribbean accent, like my Grandmother's, and his white white teeth, yet feeling no connection. At the time, I still had the only maternal grandpa I'd ever needed or known, Grandpa Johnny, and saw no need for this bright-teethed man before me whose existence I was only made aware of moments prior.

"We're going to see my father," as we pulled out of the Hardee's parking lot and headed for the highway.

Silence and collective confusion.

"...We saw Grandpa Johnny a few days ago," from the backseat.

"No...not him..."

This is how revelations happen in my family.

Back standing in the just-for-show living room, the magnitude of the moment escaped me. The awkwardness did not. Mom shaking the hand of her stepmother, either in the same age group or younger, and me waving at his son, my uncle, a few years my junior. And just as quickly as we rolled in, we were back in the van heading north.

I haven't had a grandfather in 15 years. I haven't been able to rehearse the deference, adoration, and curiosity boys and girls feel for their parents' fathers since I was a teenager, when both grandfathers (Grandpa Cephus and Grandpa Johnny) died within years of each other. Haven't been able to crack open my wallet and pull out a story my grandfather told me. Or get tangled in the memory of a vignette from the 90s where I'm sitting on his unreasonably smooth bedspread, in front of a framed grayscale reminder of his younger version's military days, looking on in awe while this man performs some old man's activity like removing all of his dress shoes from their home in the closet to shine them all. I never had that with this guy. So, I'm cherishing this opportunity to create that memory, or some incarnation of it.

I look forward to getting to know this man, however he decides to let me in. As I have researched my lineage these past few years and hit dead ends resulting from lacking public records and hushed, withholding relatives, I am reminded of the importance of valuing these older souls while they're here and able to tell these important stories, before those who gave birth to those who gave birth to me are reduced to a name and a set of dates, a too common tale.

"What should I call you?"

"Call me often," he chuckled. I wonder if he still has those white white teeth. "Call me whatever. Just as long you do."

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a trip to paradise: Portobelo, Panamá

During my time in Panamá, in order to avoid suicidándome, I occasionally had to escape the hustle and fuckshit of the Capital for a quieter, browner, locale. I can admit to not exploring as much of Panamá as intended, but the place I did become familiar with was Portobelo, a gorgeous, quiet Black town on the Caribbean side of the country, in Colón province. During my 19 months in Panamá, I visited this sleepy village three times and it became my go-to escape destination. No asinine taxistas and stress-inducing customer service tragedies, just beautiful, welcoming Black people, comida caribeña, and a peace not found in Panama City. While there are white people tourists (they will build a business anywhere), I felt completely at ease there. It felt good to be able to blend in for once. As I prepare to return to Panamá in the coming days, this is one more thing that I look forward to. Here are a few of my favorite images from my time in Portobelo.

 

on panama, part one.

After much ado and an apparently increasingly negative string of Facebook postings, the first chapter of my Adventures in Panamaland has come to an end. Yes, I am back on American soil. 

My 21 months down in Panamá (which is not, mind you, "over by Mexico") were insanely transformative, necessary, mind-blowing, and eventful. Despite my many, many, many, many gripes with the country and it's unique citizens, it was a beautiful time. I did everything I set out to do. See below:

To Do in Panama:

Teach English

Learn Spanish

Teach Dance

Research Panamanian Heritage

Sample the Locals

See?

It was the first time I was able to support myself solely on my talents. No, I was not selling penis. No, I didn't get paid to eat. I did, however, build a company and employ, among others, nice, clean, white people. I was, for a moment, THE MAN (with the paychecks). I even made them wait for checks once or twice, so if I don't do anything else in this life, I at least have that to brag about. I ate good. Got wasted in public. Kissed a girl. Gained weight. Lost weight. Accidentally sent a dick pic to a client. Got robbed. Met new family members. Humped aforementioned client. Got food poisoning. Was mistaken for a rapper. And a drug dealer. And will.i.am. Employed friends. Got molested by a drunk older (yet hot) woman curious about "LA PINGA NEGRA." Overcharged people (who were more than willing to pay). Climbed a tree barefoot. Fell in love with someone who "didn't have time." Got thrown in the back of a police vehicle. Overstayed my visa. Was called Brazilian. And Jamaican. And Haitian. And Cuban. And Dominican. And "African." And French. And Nigerian. Almost drowned at the beach. And humped a cop. You get the idea.

Needless to say, it was fucking amazing overall.

As I said my goodbyes, I made a habit of telling people there that I'd be back soon. This, of course, was, you see, a lie. A well rehearsed, reflex-like lie intended to minimize sadness among friends and give a sprinkle of hope to those now faced with the impending Sexual Dark Age that shall overtake Panama City in my absence. 

They'll always have the videos memories.

Truth: I have no intentions of returning to Panama any time soon.

At any rate, I knew my time was winding down when, after returning from an east coast Sex and Debauchery Tour Christmas back home, I found myself trying to evaluate my experiences and draw conclusions, looking toward my next moves. This usually tells me that it's time to pack my shit and move on. 

I fought it for a while, oscillating between staying longer to continue expanding my growing company (Panamerican English Services), adjusting to the other worldly dance scene and fighting through my social, romantic, and creative woes and building una vida súper fabulosa y magnífica...or packing my life into two suitcases and a duffle and hitting the road (Jack). 

Obviously, those two bags and a duffle were more appealing. 

I have just started the lengthy process of wrapping my mind around the Panamaland Adventure. Unpacking it all will take some time. There are decisions to evaluate, lessons to be learned, epiphanies to seek, sex partners to rank, and so on. Shit's stressful, man.

Though I have no concrete plans for the coming months, what is certain is that leaving when I did was absolutely necessary. As was the case before disappearing from Los Angeles, new and potentially lucrative opportunities appeared before I left Panamá. I knew the tide had turned when I passed on these great things with little hesitation. Even if I did solidify that teaching contract with Copa Airlines or start teaching that team of engineers working on the Canal expansion, the same dissatisfaction would have lingered. I would still have a dozen mini-meltdowns a day, outraged by the tiniest injustices. I'd still wish violent herpes outbreaks on a dozen scumbag taxi drivers day in and day out. I would still be searching for the missing creative inspiration. Just with more money...and more reasons to put on stuffy clothes in a humid tropical climate to shake white hands and silently lament the complete absence of faces that look like mine in my corporate dealings. 

What happens now?

my transportation. she gets around.

I am currently in New Orleans, recharging, eating, and, with any luck, sampling the locals. I am building a new business, launching a new website, getting my body together, loving on my good friend's newborn, riding around town on an awesome bike, trying decadent high-calorie new foods, using wifi in coffee shops, lusting and eye-raping, learning Portuguese, teaching online, hunting for ghetto girls to befriend and dance with, smiling at and greeting everyone like a good Southerner should, journaling, and enjoying my motherfucking life. 

After this, I shall swing through Texas, hopscotch over to Atlanta before landing in Virginia's Butthole (Hampton) for a split second. Then: Washington, New York, and a one-way ticket to Brazil because why the fuck not? Before you ask: there are no timeframes for any of this. 

So much has happened that I've essentially felt uninspired to write about. Now that I'm able to actually sit down and not worry about any horrible ass business casual costumes or feces-eating doormen/security guards suspicious of a "rasta" coming to visit a precious white woman at 8 in the morning, or widespread, baffling ineptitude, or Panamanian traffic, or Panamanian taxi drivers, or the discrimination that "doesn't exist here," or the Panamanian rainy season, I can begin to make sense of it all...good, bad, regrettable, and brilliant. 

The coming posts will also serve to answer the many questions I get without having to copy and paste faux-personal e-mails and messages.

So...stay tuned and such.

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clarity, or something like it.

live from Captain Jack's hostel in Portobelo, Colón, Republica de Panamá.

It's nearly impossible to rationalize "the struggle" while you're still in it. 

As it happens, a hard time is just a hard time and we typically can't assess WHY this horrible thing is happening to us. Hardships don't make sense when you're in the thick of the bullshit. 

I couldn't have wrapped my mind around the greater purpose and lasting (positive) effects of fighting lupus while I was struggling with a walker and hating my life. Now, I see that time as transformation. I can look back and see distinct changes in character, motivations, ideals, and mentality. I refer to things as pre- and post-diagnosis. It took years to achieve this clarity. 

I couldn't have seen how my social woes and being forced to dine and socialize alone for much of my time in California would be good for my shyness and equipped me for living without the safety net of lifelong friends and family here in Panama. Living in LA, existing on the outskirts of the dance scene, I found it hard to connect on a nonsexual level with many of the people that I met. Never deemed myself cool enough to be "down" with any of the people I trained and danced with. Never deemed myself good enough to  make that transition from good dancer to great dancer. I did, however, learn that introversion was not a weakness. And I learned to appreciate, thrive in, and crave my own company. 

Now, after nineteen months in Panama, months away from another move, and two days away from the bullshit and (self-imposed) chaos in la Capital, I have been able to make a few definitive statements and obtain some clarity about my life in this country, and the journey that lies ahead. I've wavered on my next move. I seem to have lost the ability to relax and be good to myself. I've become this super serious, maniacally plotting undersexed man who doesn't smile as much as I once did. I have all but abandoned creative outlets. Dance in Panama: no. I have no creative stimulation here. I've forgotten how to pour thoughts out and sort these thoughts out. Very little intellectual stimulation. Tried romance. "Too busy." I hardly write anything other than business emails. English. Clients. Classes. Quotes. Meetings. Bills. Rent. And the littlest daily injustice infuriates me now. I now respond to the idiocy and shit customer service with the kind of laughter that comes from surprise, disbelief, and repressed rage toward these people.

And I fight the urge to spit on people daily. So there's that. 

But as I am still "in it," this life doesn't quite make sense to me. Right now, I see it all as "fucking Panamanian bullshit" caused by "fucking Panamanians" obviously bred to ruin my life. 

I can speculate how my experience in Panama thus far will play out in the long term.

I can guess and assume that this all leads to some greater purpose or bigger, overarching theme.

But to try and jump from [the bullshit] to [that conclusion] is impossible. Unfair to myself. So, I'm listening to my gut, which hasn't steered me wrong to date.

It's time to go. And while I'm not geeked about reentering the States (more on this later), it has to happen, at least temporarily. I don't know when I'll land in Brazil (!!!), but I do know that for the moment, I have to leave this place.

Additionally, the fact that I am even attempting to wrap my mind around this experience tells me that, internally, I already view it as being over or coming to an end quite soon.

That lucidity has evaded me while inside Panama City means something. That despite having a great apartment, a business, clean, white employees, and a pretty penis, the one thing I am clear on is that something is missing. For someone I've known for a month to be able to conclude that I "don't smile much" and "don't seem very happy" also means something. 

So while I don't know what that means in the bigger scheme of things, I do know that I gotta get the entire fuck out of here. 

Stay tuned.

Life in Panama: "No acepto esos f*cking Martinelli's."

A few weeks ago, at the end of an English class with a young Panamanian girl, her mother emerged from the bedroom and flung her ginormous purse on the plastic-covered dining room table for payment. 

"Ya te pago," as she searched…

I waited.

"Disculpa, un momentito, mi amor…" as she pulled crumpled bill after crumpled bill from her bag, unfolding and smoothing them out with her palm. 

"…veinte…veintiuno…veintidós…" and disappeared, speed-waddling into the bedroom again.

After a few minutes, she crept out, awkwardly holding a plastic sack, wincing, apologizing with her eyes before she even began...

"Lo que pasa es que," she began with the most important phrase you can arm yourself with in Panama, "fuí de compras en el Súper99 porque necesitaba un birthday cake, y…" (essentially: What had happened was…I went shopping at the Super99 because I needed a birthday cake…"

"No se preocupe, las monedas sirven igual, mamá." (It's cool, ho. Coins work just the same.)

She then apologized profusely, including that "I know nobody likes these, but it's all I have right now."

Why the hate over the Balboa coins?

The US Dollar has been the official and only currency of Panama since Colombian (as opposed to Columbian, you goons) currency was wiped out post-Independence in 1904. Though prices are equally quoted in Dollars and Balboas, there are no Panamanian paper bills in circulation. Now that there are complaints of the overvalued Dollar affecting prices here, there's talk of getting Panama off of the Dollar and onto the Balboa. Not likely to happen, but it's a valiant damn effort nonetheless.

I do think that having their own currency would be a positive step toward carving out a stronger, more unique Panamanian identity and stepping out from under the US' all-encompasing, unavoidable Oprah-like shadow that hangs over this country. Again, would be great. Likely? Even less so than an Oscar for Beyoncé.

One reason for the hate is that, well, "they're heavy," as a student explained.

Granted, here in The Land of Reality, they actually weigh less than a quarter, but I will let her remain entrenched in that belief if it keeps her vagina warm at night.

But I can absolutely see how it's much more cumbersome to fish 'round in your white bra for $5 in sweaty coins at checkout than it is to whip out a wad of breast-moistened bills. 

Before placing $12 million of the acquired $40 million in shiny coins into circulation, the Thugministration claimed that it's as simple as coins lasting longer and being better for the environment than paper money. But some Panamanians don't believe that shit. 

In short: Imagine if George Bush printed a new currency with his likeness and cited concern for the environment as his reason. 

Black.

People.

Would.

Not.

Use.

That.

Shit.

I would sooner transact using sacks of feces than to use a bill bearing Georgie Bush's beady eyed face. 

Similar reaction here. There is a segment of the population that dislikes the coin simply because of its association with homeboy. Mind you, the coins do not bear his face, but a friend explained that "la mayoría de los panameños no tienen mente compleja y les da rabia que Martinelli sacó una moneda nueva." (the majority of Panamanians don't have a complex mind and it pisses them off that Martinelli minted a new coin.) 

Two: Panamanians aren't so fond of change. Panama recently switched its Metrobus system over to a reloadable card rather than having drivers handle money. 

Hysteria.

Confusion.

FUCKING. OUTRAGE.

WHATCHU MEAN I CAN'T JUST HAND MAURICIO MY QUARTER?

SO WHEN YOU SAY 'RELOADABLE CARD,' YOU MEAN I CAN LOAD IT AGAIN OR....?

There was a revolt over the card's $2 fee. There was confusion over where and how to reload it. There were op-eds. There were exposés on the news. People threw themselves from buildings in anger. Twas a mess.

Same with the Balboa coin. YOU MEAN, I HAVE TO CARRY ANOTHER COIN?

I've heard mixed reactions among friends. Some dismiss the disdain with "that's stupid." Other's fully support it.  

I've had taxi drivers reply, when I'd hand them 2 Balboa coins for my ride, "Ey compa, no acepto esos foking Martinellis" (or, "Look, motherfucker, I don't want that Bastard's coins, so try again, bitch."). While the solution is to instruct them to eat shit and die take the coins and deal.

Panama Tip #412: This is the Wild West. Anything goes. Anywhere. Especially in taxis. And clothing store fitting rooms.

Given that many Panamanians view President Ricardo Martinelli as dictator/Thug In Chief, carrying around a coin that is sometime known as a "Martinelli" is not always what's good in the streets. 

A friend in retail says the coins are better because paper bills stick together and make life counting bills rapidly more difficult at times. I understand this. 

Personally, I love the coins, because I find them in random places around my room, in old jeans, and ya know, finding money makes my dick feel just a wee bit bigger.

Last night, when giving change to a participant in my weekly Group Conversation Classes, I dug into my pocket and slid three Martinellis across the table.

Everything froze. 

All ColombiWaiters in the restaurant paused and turned toward us.

The bisonly man at the next table whose breathing pattern suggested he was marinating cornish hens in his nasal cavity held his breath.

My student looked at me as if I'd stirred her coffee with my dick.

...and I smoothly withdrew the coins, replaced them with paper bills, gathered my things, bid everyone farewell and disappeared into the night.

Lesson learned. Welcome to Panamá.

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