Thanks for reading a digital zine-! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Growing up Dominican in Southern California was like living on mute with salsa playing in the background—our culture was loud and proud, but I rarely saw it reflected in the world around me. I was the only Dominican kid at my private Christian school in Garden Grove, a mostly white and Asian suburb best known for the towering glass sanctuary of the Crystal Cathedral. I didn’t just attend the church; I was part of the spectacle. Some Sundays, our children’s choir was broadcast across the country, our voices echoing through the cathedral’s massive organ pipes and TV screens. There I was in the opening credits, with my little singing face. I was the Little Drummer Girl in the Christmas plays, banging out rhythms that felt ancient and holy. Later, for the big Easter play, I played the Virgin Mary—controversial for two reasons: it was the first time the school play was held in the main cathedral instead of the smaller, older church. And I was Black. And I spoke Spanish. Okay, that’s three. It was tough. Beautiful, too, but tough. When you don’t see yourself anywhere—in the pews, on the playground, on stage, or in the lessons being taught—you start to wonder if you belong anywhere at all. But my parents made damn sure we never forgot who we were. They’d send my younger sister and me to New York or the Dominican Republic for the summers to visit family. For cultural maintenance upkeep, back home, they’d pack us into the car and drive an hour (each way) to wherever the community was: Panamanian family friends in L.A. are throwing a house party, we are there! A Dominican softball league in Long Beach, on our way! A Cuban festival in Echo Park, dancing shoes on! My dad would hang the Dominican flag on the rearview mirror so anyone stuck next to us in traffic would know. And if the flag didn’t catch your eye, the salsa music blaring through the open windows definitely would. He was calling the community to us like a lighthouse. When my parents separated, we moved to L.A. proper. I thought I was going to be a basketball player—WNBA dreams were fresh and fierce—but by sophomore year, I knew it was time to pivot. Still, I stayed grounded. Shifting from sports to the arts, I graduated from Hollywood High with honors. It was the most glamorous public school you could imagine, with a kids’ talent management office, two theaters, and a museum filled with scripts, costumes, and posters of alumni like Laurence Fishburne, Brandy, and Carol Burnett. My first job was at the In-N-Out Burger across the street. I saved up, bought a car, and put a little Dominican flag on my mirror—just like my dad. And wouldn’t you know it—I started getting pulled over. By other Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, and folks from the East Coast. By then, more and more folks like me were migrating west. Slowly, I started building my own pocket of Caribbean community. We'd go to that one roti spot off Centinela. We’d chase down the Dominican food truck wherever it was parked that week. We’d hit up Floridita’s with our parents, just like families do in Washington Heights or back on the island. We made it work. We made it feel like home. Sometimes I wonder what it would've felt like to grow up seeing myself. To hear my accent and not feel the need to explain it. To be Mary on stage and have it mean something instead of spark whispers. But then I remember—I wasn’t invisible. I was carving space. I was banging the drum. Still am. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit emelindabaez.substack.com
