Dark Colors: Reflections on Being Black or African American

Black Canvas (Poem)

My best friend is Cape Verdean 

And in her culture when a loved one passes you wear dark colors for a certain amount of time 

I’m not Cape Verdean But I’ve been wearing straight black down to my underwear for the past two months 

And the only loved one that’s passed recently is myself 

I’d like to say it was depression that drove me to my death 

But if we’re being honest, insecurities convinced me to get into the car 

And anxiety forgot to fasten my seatbelt 

Again I’m not Cape Verdean, so answer this question for me 

When you die on the inside 

When life no longer lives inside of you 

How long do you wear these.. dark colors ?

About This Piece

I grew up in a small town in Connecticut, and while prejudiced thoughts of the state might evoke images of a predominantly white population, my experience was quite different. Norwich, my hometown, is incredibly diverse, with a mix of African, Caribbean, and Hispanic communities. With a population of around 40,000, Norwich is home to more than 12,900 people of color. According to the 2020 American Community Survey, there are over 1,400 Haitians, 1,500–1,800 Cape Verdeans, around 4,000 African Americans, and just over 6,000 Hispanic residents. The number 12,900 doesn’t even include Native American or Asian communities. Growing up here, I was surrounded by people of many backgrounds, especially Black and Hispanic communities.

As a Haitian myself, I felt deeply connected to Haitian culture but was also influenced by Cape Verdean and Hispanic traditions. It wasn’t until high school, though, that I truly understood the distinction between being Black and being African American. During this time is when I dove into learning the differences between the two and the cultures, identities, and ethnicities that make up Blackness. The terms “Black” and “African American”, though often used interchangeably, hold unique meanings. “African American” refers to people of African descent with deep roots in U.S. history, often connected to the legacy of slavery, the civil rights movement, and cultural contributions specific to America. In contrast, “Black” is a broader term that includes people of African descent worldwide, from diverse backgrounds and cultures, such as Haitian, Cape Verdean, African, and more. Learning this difference deepened my appreciation for the distinct experiences within the Black community, not just in my hometown, but all over the United States.

History has taught us that America wasn’t the only continent African peoples were brought to. Many landed in the Carribeans, South America, and Europe. This means African descendants were made all across the world. Haiti, America, Dominican Republic, Colombia, and Brazil are some of the countries where Black diasporas exist. For instance, a person of African descent from Brazil, Jamaica, or Nigeria may identify as Black, but may not identify as African American. The term “African American” is culturally specific to the United States. 

Although there is a difference between the two, African Americans and Black people are united in identity, experiences, and treatment in a way other races, nationalities, and ethnicities could never fully understand. Blackness speaks to a shared experience of resilience and solidarity among people of African heritage globally, despite the varied cultural and national backgrounds. Blackness, historically, is the slavery, the Haitian Revolution, the United States Emancipation, the Civil Rights Movement, the Soweto Movement, the Harlen Renaissance, the Black Power Movement, and the Black Lives Matter Movement. Despite the fact that there is a difference between the terms Black people and African Americans, both cultures have stood together in truth, the fight for freedom, and solidarity. Let history also remind us that it was the Haitian Revolution that gave moral impetus to the abolitionist movement in the United States. 

While all African Americans are Black, not all Black people are African American. Knowing the difference is knowing the specific cultural identities and the shared, yet diverse, experiences of the African diasporas worldwide. 

As I mentioned, I grew curious about the diverse ethnicities and cultures around me in Norwich. My best friend, both then and now, is Cape Verdean. As we grew closer, I became eager to learn about her country and its cultural practices. On the day of her birthday, we gathered around her dining table to light the candles and sing happy birthday. Her mom had bought her a cake, and after cutting the first slice, she handed it to me. At first, I thought it was a kind gesture because I was the guest, but as I took that piece of vanilla cake with white buttercream frosting, my best friend explained that in Cape Verdean culture, it’s tradition to give the first piece of cake to the person who means the most to you. Suddenly, that piece of cake meant so much more. What I initially saw as a thoughtful gesture was, in Cape Verdean tradition, a deeply meaningful sign of appreciation, love, and closeness. This experience gave me a lasting insight into her culture’s beautiful customs. 

A few weeks after my best friend lost her grandfather, her mother’s father, I gained a deeper understanding of Cape Verdean culture. We were sitting in my car outside her house; she was in red shorts and a graphic tee when her mom appeared in the doorway dressed entirely in black. Sensing my curiosity, my friend explained the Cape Verdean tradition surrounding death and mourning. In Cape Verdean culture, morna represents a period of grief marked by specific customs. When a parent or grandparent passes, their children and grandchildren follow guidelines to honor the loved one’s memory. For the first year, they wear only dark colors, black, gray, or brown, and are allowed to listen only to soul or blues music. Social gatherings and celebrations are avoided as well. After this year, a six-month period of wearing white follows, symbolizing the life of the one who passed away. This extended mourning period is a profound way to respect and honor the life that has been lost.

Though I’m not Cape Verdean, this tradition resonated with me deeply. When I faced personal struggles, my mind returned to this custom. Out of respect and admiration for Cape Verdean culture, I used their mourning tradition as a metaphor, a way to frame the figurative “death” of certain parts of myself. Learning about the Cape Verdean diaspora and other African diasporas has deepened my understanding of the diverse cultures that contribute to Black identity, and from that, this poem was born.