We all know that Florida wouldn’t be what it is without Latinos. As immigrants and immigrant-descended Hispanic Americans, we have become the backbone of Florida’s economy, culture, and development. My family is one small piece of that.
I was raised in Broward County by my Dominican family who moved here from New York City. But as a third-year Florida International University Panther, I have some Miami in me too. It wasn’t always this way, but I’m proud to be Dominican-American-Floridian.
Since we arrived in Spring Hill, all the way up in Hernando County, my mother and father have done nothing but work and enrich the lives of those in their newfound community. Although she was not a fluent English speaker, my mom still found ways to build connections with our neighbors. Whether she was offering to carpool my classmates to school, volunteering every Sunday at our local church, or organizing bingo nights for her new friends, my mom has never ceased to make the most out of even the most adverse situations.
My father, who arrived here with an invalidated engineering degree, worked his way up from sleeping on his cousin’s couch in Tampa to helping construct the Fort Lauderdale Airport’s new runway. My parents have left their mark on every small town and palm tree-dotted suburb they’ve found themselves in, even when others may not have welcomed their presence. Yet, they are only a small fraction of the influence that the Latino community has had in our Sunshine State.
And so, the Latino community was my foundation and launched me to a place where I could thrive the way I have today. However, as I grew older, I found myself finding a different but irreplaceable kind of love and support in the South Florida LGBTQ+ community. It was thanks to my great friends, who have become family, I grew up feeling comfortable enough to explore myself more authentically, coming to terms with my queer and non-binary gender identity. I’ve always been queer, but I wouldn’t have felt safe enough to be that if it wasn’t for them. And just like the Latino community, the queer community has contributed so much to the history, culture, and creation of Florida. The list of people I’d like to thank is so long, so I’ll save it for another blog post.
Amidst the onslaught of attacks and infringements on our rights, both Latinos and LGBTQ+ folks, I find solidarity in spaces that embrace both of our identities. Too often are queer folks shunned in Latino spaces, and well-established predominantly white queer spaces lack invitation for Latinos. In a time when we are facing censorship and repression from a government that doesn’t look like us or represent us, we must uplift each other by showing up.
That was the main inspiration for me when I organized “Noche de Resistencia” — an event that creates space to celebrate both the Latinos and queer folks of Miami. I was intentional in picking Club Tipico Dominicano, a family business owned by a Dominican woman that has become a staple in the city. I was intentional in supporting local Latina drag queens, who serve their community weekly by representing their identities and cultures fearlessly, bringing joy to a place where so many live in uncertainty. And I was intentional in linking these worlds to the fight for Amendment 4, the fight for full bodily autonomy and equitable access to healthcare for all pregnant people in Florida.
These issues are not separate, despite how often they are portrayed to be. They are deeply intertwined in our country and our state’s history, and we all win when we join together in the face of injustice. We cannot win these fights alone, and I hope that moments like “Noche de Resistencia” remind us of that.
If you are in Miami and want to join us, you can sign up here. Together, we can celebrate our Hispanic heritage and embrace our queerness. Together we can let our joy, in the face of oppression, serve as an act of resistance.
