I visited Tulum during the height of the tourism surge, spurred by the pandemic, among the influx of photo-oppers, backpackers, and gentrifiers. The air felt thick and conflicted, colored by the struggle to absorb the deluge and capitalize on it, all in the same breath. Unsurprisingly, there was a traffic-stopping, hours-long protest while I was there, locals revolting against the construction of luxury high rises threatening their eviction…
Tourism is colonization. And tourists should be shamed for ravaging our patria. But, as my pride swelled with every new vignette of Benito’s half time show, I couldn’t help but thinking that we, the children of the diaspora, had our own hand in colonizing Black America. Are we not tourists in their backyards? Exporting their slang, their clothes, their very essence? Exploiting their culture, a beautiful tapestry carefully woven from centuries of genocide, torture, and lies? Enjoying all the perks of Black adjacency, and then fixing our wide lips to say, “Me no Black!”
And, how dare we? Does our hair not curl and kink when wet? Does our skin not revel under the sun? Do our hips not sway to a drum? Have they not welcomed us into their underfunded schools in their redlined neighborhoods? Are we not similarly cast out, cut off, and cancelled? Has whiteness not ruled and ruined our lives? Do we not share in their quest for freedom?
I am a child of immigrants. My people chose this land, this time.
In my home, though, we were Black. The village that raised me (Aunt Sharon, Mrs. and Mr. Hamer, Uncle Brian and Aunt Rita, Uncle Terry… I could name my play aunties and uncles for days) is comprised of descendants of foundational Black Americans. And if you asked, naive little me, she was too. The excellence that Black Americans have produced in spite of the trauma they have endured was revered, intimately woven into my upbringing. In many ways, I feel like my childhood was an homage to being Black. Weekends were filled with early Hip Hop, all the Spike Lee Joints, In Living Color reruns, shopping at the Black Expo, and conversations about the wonder of the Million Man March.
I always knew that there were people whose sacrificial soldiers I stood on: BLACK PEOPLE. Being Caribbean or Latina only strengthened the connection. After all, our ancestors were stolen, too. I understood that by the sheer happenstance of a ship’s destination, my grandparents got to make the choice to leave the land that once bound them. With that choice, they chose to inhabit a country still very much in turmoil. With that choice, they chose to live among the Black souls curating joy and bounty to spite America. With that choice, they chose to join a community, not scorn it. And ultimately, with that choice, they relinquished their tourist visas. Will you?
Nelisa's Granddaughter 