Chapter 4¡Ola, Hermano! A Black Latino Feminist Organizes Men Omar Freilla Black, Latino, and Broke I’m from the Bronx, in New York City. I grew up in a mostly Latino/a and African American neighborhood that was like an extended family. I identified myself as both Latino and Black by the time I started high school—partly because of the brown face I saw staring at me in the mirror every morning. I have always had to struggle with the way people separate Latinos/as and Blacks when dealing with racial issues. However, I also identified deeply with the legacy of antiracist struggle and grassroots activism that African Americans were known for throughout the world. During high school, the popularity of dreadlocks grew, and it seemed like every other rap artist was into connecting with “Mother Africa.” My acceptance of my own African roots grew stronger during those years. Most of my friends both in and out of school were African American. I also had a small number of older Latina and Latino mentors—such as a woman named Marta Vega who was founder of the Caribbean Cultural Center—who showed me what it meant to be an Afrocentric Latino. When I attended Morehouse, a historically Black men’s college in the South, it was mainly an African American men’s college. There were so few Latinos at the college that we were practically invisible. Most of the African American students and faculty had a difficult time conceiving the notion of Blackness as anything other than being African American. Often, when I tell African Americans who aren’t from New York that I am Latino, they usually say, “Oh, I thought you were Black.” When I say, “Yeah, I am also Black,” 73 74 Omar Freilla they look confused. In order to divide and conquer, White supremacists have constructed a rigid idea of race that most people have fully accepted. This uncritical acceptance has made it difficult to explain the diverse racial and ethnic layers that construct my identity, such that I have spent many years and a lot of time trying to explain who I am.1 Conversations about my racial and ethnic identity can be incredibly frustrating. Compounding matters, my experiences as a Black Latino have included an intimate knowledge of understanding what it also means to be broke. My mother and I never had much money, and for a while we were on welfare and had to use food stamps. She taught me how to treasure small things instead of material wealth. As a result, I have never been the type of person to spend a lot of money or be extravagant. I certainly don’t think that being poor makes you feminist, because plenty of men are broke and can be the most sexist people on the street. However, growing up poor in my neighborhood helped shape my desire for change and my interest in grassroots activism. As an activist, I learned that different people catch hell in different ways and that I cannot expect others to take my experiences of injustice seriously if I am not taking their experiences seriously. When I first entered Morehouse College, I thought the men at the college were going to teach me how to be a man. The legendary “Morehouse Man” was known throughout the region and among all historically Black universities . To my surprise, however, it was the women at the Black women’s college down the street—Spelman College—who taught me my most valuable lessons regarding manhood, and most importantly, personhood. The Importance of Women Friendships and Reevaluation Counseling My friendships with women are intricately connected to the influence of my mother and my father, who by sheer example showed me that women and men are capable of being friends. My parents were never married and dissolved their romantic relationship before I was born. However, their actions as separate individuals influenced me significantly. My mother, who emigrated from the Dominican Republic to New York alone in the early sixties, has always been staunchly independent. She is a short woman who loves visiting new places and watching the Discovery Channel. She would confront any man who tried to tell her what her place was, long before I had ever heard of feminism. My father, whom I would visit occasionally and who had also emigrated from the Dominican Republic, was very committed in his relationships with women. He recently got married, and I have known him...