As a Black Dominican American woman—someone who is frequently perceived as “racially mixed” or “racially ambiguous”—I have spent a significant portion of my adult life defending my Blackness. At the same time, I have routinely faced criticism for speaking out against anti-Haitian rhetoric within cultural and political spaces.
This ongoing tension reared its head once again when I wrote an article about now-Congresswoman Darializa Avilés Chevalier, examining the vitriol she faced from critics who accused her of not being “Dominican enough.” The backlash was swift and revealing. Some detractors took issue with her public support for solidarity between the Dominican Republic and Haiti, while others pointed to her French last name, incorrectly citing it as “evidence” that she must secretly be of Haitian descent. That wave of hostility sparked intense, necessary conversations within our community about the persistent confusion surrounding race, ethnicity, and Latinidad, as well as the powerful role that traditional Dominican nationalism continues to play in those misunderstandings.
Reflecting on those conversations, I realized that one of the most high-profile Dominican celebrities consistently engaging with these complex issues is Grammy-winning artist Cardi B. For years, she has repeatedly used her massive global platform to clarify the fundamental differences between race, ethnicity, and Latinidad—distinctions that traditional schooling, mainstream media, and even our own families and communities often fail to articulate. Cardi has continuously explained that Blackness and Latinidad are not mutually exclusive, while simultaneously challenging entrenched anti-Haitian rhetoric. As someone who has spent years navigating these exact identity-based conversations, seeing a Dominican woman with Cardi’s level of visibility articulate what I have long felt has been deeply validating.
The roots of these public educational interventions trace back several years. In 2019, following intense online speculation and questioning regarding whether she was genuinely Black, Cardi went live on Instagram to break down the distinctions between nationality, race, and ethnicity.
“A lot of people don’t know the difference between nationality, race, ethnicity, and that’s not nobody’s fault,” she told her millions of followers at the time. “That’s actually the school’s fault because schools don’t be teaching this s*** to people.”
During that broadcast, she detailed her family background, explaining that her father is Dominican and her mother is Trinidadian, while emphasizing that being Dominican is a nationality and an ethnicity—not a race. She firmly identified as Black due to her African ancestry and distinct physical features, pushing back directly against the widespread misconception that being Latine somehow excludes being Black. Furthermore, she challenged the dangerous and erroneous assumption that possessing a lighter skin tone automatically means someone cannot be Black.
That is a conversation I have had to navigate countless times in my own life. Like the ancestry of many Dominicans, my family tree reflects centuries of colonization, migration, and racial mixing. My caramel complexion, hazel eyes, looser curl pattern, and mixed-race features have frequently led outsiders to question or invalidate my identity. Yet, being multiracial does not negate my Blackness. Blackness is an intrinsic part of my racial identity, not something separate or detached from it.
Echoing this sentiment during her 2019 Instagram Live, Cardi addressed her detractors directly. “People just don’t be understanding s***. It’s like, ‘Cardi’s Latin, she’s not Black.’ And it’s like, bro, my features don’t come from white people… I have Afro features.”
During that same broadcast, she also pushed back against individuals who insisted she should represent Mexican culture simply because she is Latina. “I’m not Mexican at all. I’m West Indian, and I’m Dominican. I speak Spanish because I’m Dominican.” Her point was simple yet vital: Latines are not a monolith.
The stakes of these conversations grew even higher a year later. Following the global protests sparked by the murder of George Floyd in 2020, Cardi once again found herself educating the public—this time focusing on anti-Haitian prejudice. She posted a photograph of protesters holding Dominican and Haitian flags side by side, accompanied by the caption, “Unity is what I stand for, and it’s what I’m about.”
Rather than receiving the message as a call for harmony, hardline Dominican nationalists accused her of advocating for the political unification of the two neighboring countries sharing the island of Hispaniola.
In response to the backlash, Cardi conducted a lengthy Instagram Live broadcast primarily spoken in Spanish, forcefully pushing back against the misinterpretations.
“Yo puse esa foto porque es un símbolo de paz,” she explained, noting that the image was meant to represent peace. She followed with the assertion, “Yo me sé mi historia,” making it clear that acknowledging the deep and complicated historical context between Haiti and the Dominican Republic should never be weaponized to justify the dehumanization of Haitians today.
Cardi went on to address the human element directly, stating, “Hay que tratar a los haitianos bien, como gente también” (Haitians need to be treated well, like people too). She also pointed out that within the United States, Dominicans and Haitians are frequently racialized in remarkably similar ways. Whether due to accents, immigrant status, or shared Blackness, both communities routinely experience systemic discrimination. Her argument was never that the two nations are identical; rather, she maintained that shared experiences of racism and marginalization should foster empathy and solidarity rather than manufactured division.
Her consistency on these matters has remained unwavering. In 2021, she once again defended her identity after critics questioned whether she could truly be considered Afro-Latina. She responded by sharing vintage and contemporary photographs of her Dominican father, Trinidadian mother, grandparents, and extended family, noting that she had always been transparent about her rich multi-island roots.
More recently, during a 2025 interview with CBS News, Cardi described herself as Afro-Latina while discussing the heavy Dominican musical influences woven throughout her latest creative projects. Even years after those initial online debates and controversies, she has remained entirely consistent in how she defines herself, her heritage, and her cultural standpoint.
It is this steadfast consistency that resonates so deeply with me and countless others across the diaspora. For years, Cardi B has effectively taken on the role of cultural educator—filling the massive gaps left by institutional education systems that fail to teach the nuances of race, ethnicity, and nationality. She continues to remind the public that Blackness and Dominican identity are not contradictory, and that standing firmly against anti-Haitian discrimination is not an attack on Dominican culture. If anything, it is a profound affirmation of our shared humanity. Her belief that our shared African ancestry and immigrant experiences should serve as an opportunity to build solidarity—not only with Haitians, but across the entire African diaspora—is a vision worth fighting for.
Ultimately, this is why high-profile conversations and cultural friction, like the firestorm sparked around Darializa Avilés Chevalier, matter so much. They force our communities to confront the inherited myths surrounding race, Blackness, and Latinidad that have lingered for generations. For too long, we have treated these vital discussions as inherently divisive, when they are, in reality, essential catalysts for growth and mutual understanding.
Public figures like Cardi B have spent years reminding us that being proudly Latine and proudly Black are never competing identities. They demonstrate that as Dominicans, standing against anti-Haitian rhetoric is not a rejection of our rich heritage, but rather an embrace of our collective humanity. My hope is that the next generation of Dominicans and Afro-Latines will not have to spend precious years defending their fundamental right to claim their Blackness, nor exhaust themselves explaining that race, ethnicity, and nationality are entirely different constructs. Instead, they will grow up with the language, the historical context, and the visible representation needed to know with absolute certainty that they have belonged all along.
