Week #18: The black sheep
- Jun 21
- 2 min read
This week I attended La Fiesta de San Antonio Negro, in Yamasá, Dominican Republic. It is a one-hundred-and-twenty-two-year-old celebration where communities from all over the Island gather and carry-out cultural manifestations such as Salve, Palos, Gaga, Palo de muerto, and more.
These expressions seldom get highlighted in the Dominican mainstream. It’s too black, too African, too Taino. It was beautiful. I was moved to tears by the intensity of a ritual that refuses to vanish despite being shunned by society.
I caught up with a cousin later on, we chatted about which relatives we keep up with, and what family gatherings we attend.
“I don’t get invited to many, I’m one of the black sheep,” she mentioned in relation to a recent get-together, “I’m sure you can relate,” she told me.
I’m a pierced and tattooed, musician and writer. While most of my cousins were becoming lawyers and businessmen, bearing tangible fruit, I left the Island to go on tour.
A black sheep in my family, and in conservative Dominican society for sure.
As part of my mid-year reflection, every morning this week I journaled about where within different areas of my life I may be fooling myself: relationships, work, band, music, writing. And about how my only path to creating the life I want is by living closer to my truth.
Embracing the black sheep that lives in me.
Friday, while waiting around at a clinic, I concluded that writing my fiction and my newsletter, has been key in uncovering who I really am as a person and an artist. I wrote how it’s a practice that has been so enriching that I will continue doing it with disregard to praise or accolades.
And just then, a signal.
“Thank you for submission, we would like to hold this piece for further consideration.”
A story I wrote a year ago, that I have been submitting and getting rejected since, is now in the running for publication at a respectable magazine.
The news brought my observations from the week into perspective; much like the people I had just seen chanting hymns and dancing to rhythms from hundreds of years ago, my uniqueness is my most important offering. It’s the only gift worth sharing.
And like them, I’d rather be myself in the outskirts, than dance in someone else’s spotlight.
Here’s my week:
Writing: 9.5 hr
Music: 3 hr
Family time: 50+ hr
