Dominicans Forgotten by History:

Palo and Dominican Identity

A Division III by: Rene Mallia Cruz

Carl Clements, Visiting Professor of Music, Committee Chair Roosbelinda Cárdenas, Assistant Professor of Latin American Studies, Committee Member

Acknowledgements

Conducting fieldwork of any magnitude is impossible without the help of others. In my case, it would not be just to continue this piece without the acknowledgement of the people who have invested much of their time and attention to me and my research. I would like to thank my family, and my grandmother and mother in particular, for keeping me connected to my Dominican culture as a first­generation American; for teaching me that identity is more than where you are born, it is where you, your blood and family, come from. I would also like to thank the brilliant professors and students that I have grown beside throughout my time at Hampshire College, and within the Five College Consortium. More specifically, I would like to thank professors Rebecca Nordstrom, Helen Scharber, Junko Oba, Carl Clements, and Roosbelinda Cárdenas; my advisors, mentors, and source of emotional support during the stresses of college due­dates. These professors have gone beyond the requirements of their contracts to guide my development as a scholar. Brendan Linehan, William Wright, and Flannery Weiss, my closest peers in college helped me develop my goals, aspirations, and a sense of humor that were critical in building the relationships central to my work. Finally, I would like to thank my collaborators in Dominican Republic; Edis Sánchez, Jesus Guillén, José Luis, Chema, Esteban Brazobán, and Payano “Grandpa.” Without these individuals, my work would have no academic authority. These people volunteered their time, office space, and homes to support my research in the Dominican Republic, and I could never be more grateful.

The following Division III Advanced Independent Project is a collaborative piece; written by me, with the contribution and guidance of the people mentioned above, as well as the voices echoed throughout this piece.

“Perry­Castañeda Library Map Collection.” University of Texas Libraries. 2004.

Introduction

The Music in Our Blood ​ ​

Since the beginning of my time as an ethnomusicologist, my questions have always led back to cultures that I identify with, particularly that of the Dominican Republic. As a first­generation American and college student, I wanted to understand the culture I identify with through an academic lens. I wanted to learn how to recreate and advocate for the rhythms that play in the background of my most important memories. However, I was quickly disappointed with my first readings on so­called “Dominican cultural practices.” It seemed that some scholars oversimplified, or generalized, Dominican culture: disregarding the various, complex identities throughout the country, given its relatively small geographical and population size. Scholars who have acknowledged the complexities of Dominican culture introduced critical parallels between merengue, bachata, and Dominican identity. Palo, a prominent rhythm in my life memories, has

1

still however been fairly disregarded. This Division III is my introduction of palo as emblematic of Dominican identity.

Through this paper, I reanalyze the Dominican history through a Dominican’s perspective. I will dissect previous research on the Dominican identity, to highlight those scholars who have developed their work through intimate relationships with the field. I will highlight the ways in which palo, a music often ignored by scholars, speaks for the Dominicans forgotten by history. This paper is not disregarding popular musics such as merengue and bachata, as emblematic of Dominican identity. Instead, by highlighting the shift in palo’s presence in the Dominican Republic, I offer a third, traditional, music the repertoire of emblematic genres.

Chapter one focuses on previous scholarly work centered on associating Dominican identity to music. I begin with a brief history of the Dominican Republic to highlight the complexities of Dominican identity. Merengue and bachata are the subjects of this chapter given their prominence in scholarly work on the Dominican Republic. Merengue and bachata have historically been synonymous with popular music in the Dominican Republic: merengue rising from top­down, while bachata rose from its grassroots stages. While merengue gained value through political promotion, bachata has been critical in relating to struggles faced by the

Dominican populace. I argue, however, that these popular musics disregard certain aspects of

Dominican identity that palo honors: aspects that highlight the historical persecution of an

Afro­Dominican identity.

Chapter two focuses on the historical presence of palo in the Dominican Republic. This chapter highlights palo’s relation to religions, the populace, and governments to explain its

2

importance in Dominican society. I discuss the ways in which practices occurring alongside palo reflect the social and economic conditions faced by the non­elite throughout history.

Furthermore, this chapter discusses the informal healing practices that seek to compensate for the inaccessibility of needs such as mainstream medicine. As conditions worsened and needs increased, palo has united communities against the unjust conditions within the country. Chapter two focuses on how palo and its associated practices reflect Dominican identity, as well as how palo has evolved to continuously reflect the ever­changing, and extremely dynamic, Dominican identity.

Chapter three draws extensively on my experiences in the Dominican Republic during the fall of 2014. During this time, I traveled throughout the Dominican Republic, exploring the various palo ceremonies throughout the country. As I will mention later, palo is performed differently in the various regions of the Dominican Republic. Because of this, I would like to specify that this chapter reflects palo in Villa Mella, Dominican Republic in the fall of 2014: without this clarification my work would be a generalization that does not do justice to the complexities and variances of palo music and culture within the Dominican Republic. This chapter brings the historical analysis of palo into the present­day Dominican Republic. I focus on how palo has developed since the scholarly work done before me. These developments highlight the continued adaptability of palo, as well as its recent movement into popular culture. Chapter three argues for palo’s importance in Dominican society today. It highlights the current struggles faced and overcome by many Dominicans today, as well as a recently gained acceptance of palo in Dominican society.

3

The research for this piece draws heavily on personal experiences drawing back twenty­one years of my life. Palo, as well as merengue and bachata, play in the background of every memory I hold. I’ve grown in this Dominican culture with equal exposure to the popular musics, as well as our traditional Afro­Dominican genre. However, my academic experience ​ ​ does not reflect this. Academic sources that I have encountered tell me that all Dominicans ​ ​ praise our popular, “modern,” identity, while persecuting our traditional, African roots. The following chapters highlight this contrast, building an argument for palo in the academic world; echoing the voice of the unjustly persecuted throughout time. Thus, together the following chapters develop into elements of Dominican history that are often forgotten.

4

Chapter 1:

Representations of Dominican Identity through Music

Palo’s significance in reflecting the Dominican identity can be seen by the current perceptions of Dominican identity, as well as the promotion of other musics within the country.

Popular musics have gained most academic attention for representing the complex, syncretic identity of the Dominican people. Ethnomusicologists have referred to merengue as a music promoted from top­down; from the government to the people. Bachata, on the other hand, has been referenced as the epitome of bottom­up music; a genre that has been promoted from the lowest classes of the country, eventually giving it significance and reaching the elite. Palo, although largely unexplored, represents a part of Dominican identity that merengue and bachata leave out. Palo represents the persecuted, and often disregarded, historical past of the Dominican

Republic and its people. This chapter gives a brief history of the Dominican Republic to highlight current perceptions of Dominican identity. Furthermore, I introduce discussions surrounding merengue and bachata to explore the contrast between these popular forms of music, often depicted as Dominican emblems, and a traditional, Afro­Dominican music, often ignored or persecuted as unpatriotic.

Identity in the Dominican Republic

Dominican identity can be described differently by each different person in each different region of the Dominican Republic. It is neither static, definitive, nor clear. Nevertheless, an understanding of Dominican history clarifies certain aspects of Dominican identity that are

5

consistent. Understanding the fights for freedom and independence within Dominican borders clarifies the inconsistencies between Dominican self­identification and their ancestry: although there is a large historical presence of Africans, and early extermination of “natives,” a large percentage of Dominicans deny their African roots and claim an indian heritage.

Hispaniola, or “Little Spain”, was the name Christopher Columbus used to refer to ​ Quisqueya, or “Mother of All Lands.” Before the Spanish invasion, or “discovery,” of the island ​ in 1492, it was inhabited by people known as Tainos, a term which is currently synonymous with ​ ​ indio. Soon after Columbus’ arrival, Tainos were nearly exterminated due to disease, murder, ​ ​ ​ and suicide. In 1697, the Treaty of Ryswick divided the island in two; the Eastern hemisphere, controlled by France, was named Saint Domingue and the Western, kept by the Spanish, was ​ ​ named Santo Domingo. Beginning with slave revolts in 1791 and ending with a massacre of the ​ ​ French in 1804, former slaves gained control of Saint Domingue and renamed it Haiti, or “Land ​ ​ of High Mountains.” In December of 1821, the newly created Haiti helped slaves in Santo

Domingo gain their independence from Spain through the War of Restoration. Conflict continued on the island, however, when Haiti annexed Santo Domingo in 1822. Over the next 22 years, the influence of the annexation began blurring the lines between Haitian and Dominican identity; French was taught in schools and taxes were imposed on Catholic churches. The final claim of independence, and creation of the Dominican Republic, came through the War of

Independence which ended February 27, 1844.1

Due to this history, the Dominican Republic began as a nation with two enemies; Haiti and Spain. Given Haiti’s proximity, there is a long history of tensions between these two

1 Eric Paul Roorda, Historical Dictionary of the Dominican Republic (2016) ​ ​ ​ 6

countries. Not long after the War of Independence, Haiti and the Dominican Republic resumed conflict with armed clashes which lasted until 1855. Following the Dominican Republic’s newly gained independence was a global debate surrounding the country’s recognition. The United

States, being a leader in these debates, contributed to further separating Haiti and the Dominican

Republic when U.S. Secretary of State John C. Calhoun supported the need to recognize the

Dominican Republic to prevent "the further spread of negro influence in the West Indies."2 The impact of this need for international support is underscored by scholar Silvio Torres­Saillant, who explains, “Dominican identity consists not only of how Dominicans see themselves but also of how they are seen by the powerful nations with which the Dominican Republic has been linked in a relationship of political and economic dependence."3 Leading Dominican voices, therefore, have long attempted to separate themselves from the Haitian other. This has defined a ​ ​ Dominican identity that opposes the Haitian identity in every way.

Throughout history, Haitians on the other hand have expressed a pride in their African roots through political and musical movements.4 This Haitian pride did not go unnoticed by

Dominicans who refer to them as negros. Furthermore, within the Dominican Republic there are ​ ​ circulating racist perceptions of Haitians that mirror white supremacist perspectives of African descendants in the United States. Considering the inconsistencies between how Dominicans self­identify, compared to their ancestral roots, one may begin to understand why Dominicans are hesitant to identify as black; because to identify as black is to negate one's Dominicanness ​ and to embrace Haitian identity.

2 Silvio Torres­Saillant, The Tribulations of Blackness: Stages in Dominican Racial Identity (1998). ​ ​ 3 Torres­Saillant 129. 4 Scholar Gage Averill discusses these movements, such as Vodou and nouriste movements which promoted Afro­Haitian traditionalism within government and society. Gage Averill, A Day for the Hunter, a Day for the Prey: ​ Popular Music and Power in Haiti (1997). ​ 7

Merengue in the Dominican Republic

Today, merengue is widely accepted as the national symbol of Dominican identity. Its symbolism is so powerful that many Dominicans claim that it runs in their blood. This tie between merengue and Dominican identity has been supported through governmental, cultural, and musical movements. Beginning with the myth of Tomas Torres, merengue’s connections to historical importance in the independent Dominican Republic is clear. Tomas Torres was a

Dominican soldier who fled his post in the War of Independence and gained his notoriety through the first merengue:

Toma juyó con la bandera Thomas fled with the flag, Toma juyó de la Talanquera: Thomas fled from the Talanquera; Si juera yo, yo no juyera, If it had been I, I wouldn’t have fled: Toma juyó con la bandera. Thomas fled with the flag5

In connecting a music to identity, the roots of the music itself hold much weight.

Merengue’s roots are unclear, although the theories surrounding them have crucial similarities.

Researchers such as Flerida de Nolasco and Manuel Rueda have argued that merengue’s roots lie in Europe.6 Many theories link merengue to Europe by looking at it as an “independent couple dance” version of the contredanse. Countering this belief, researchers such as Fradique Lizardo have highlighted the African elements present in merengue; often comparing it to a similar music, also called merengue, played by the Bara of Madagascar.7 The African influence on ​ ​ merengue is most noticeable through the rhythms and percussive instruments used in the genre.

5 Pual Austerlitz and Robert Farris Thompson, Merengue: Dominican Music and Dominican Identity (1997) 1. ​ ​ ​ 6 Austerlitz, et al. 3. 7 Austerlitz, et al. 3. 8

Theories associating merengue with African music, however, were criticised as “unpatriotic.”8

Ethnomusicologist Paul Austerlitz also discusses a middle­ground theory, pointing out that,

“European­derived musics came under African influence in the Americas, … while merengue developed from European forms, it is a syncretic, Afro­Hispanic genre.”9 Theories surrounding merengue’s creation, however unclear, nevertheless parallel that of the creation of the Dominican people; a product of African and European involvement on the island. The similar hybridity seen in the roots of merengue and the Dominican people further clarifies merengue’s role in representing Dominican identity.

Beyond its connections to culture, merengue as a national symbol has been reinforced through the political history of the Dominican Republic. With the beginning of Rafael Trujillo’s campaign, merengue began playing a new role of uniting Dominicans of all regions to forge a sense of national support behind Trujillo. Austerlitz describes Trujillo’s usage of a merengue quartet to sing his praises during his travels around the country.10 After becoming president in

1930, Trujillo adopted and enforced merengue cibaeno as the national symbol by requiring all dance bands to include merengue in their setlist. Further influencing merengue in the country was the dictator’s brother, Jose “Petan” Trujillo, and his interests in music. During Trujillo’s dictatorship, Petan founded the radio station La Voz del Yuna,11 the Dominican Recording

Company, Caracol Records, and sponsored the merengue group Super Orquesta San Jose. By

1952, La Voz del Yuna moved to Santo Domingo,12 was renamed La Voz Dominicana,13 ​ ​

8 Austerlitz, et al. 3. 9 Austerlitz, et al. 4. 10 Austerlitz, et al. 52. 11 The Voice of the Yuna. 12 The capital of the country. 13 The Dominican Voice. 9

broadcasted on television and radio, and “became the most important mass medium of Trujilloist propaganda.”14 To protect his brother’s businesses, and his medium of propaganda, Trujillo prohibited the importation of foreign records and rarely allowed artists to leave the country.15

Through political power, Trujillo promoted merengue as the music of the Dominican Republic ​ ​ by completely preventing any other music from having a chance to even compete in the formal market. Although Trujillo forced the love of merengue on Dominicans, the music lived beyond his death in 1961, when merengue was reclaimed by the people and pro­Trujillo merengues were no longer performed.

Bachata in the Dominican Republic

In contrast to merengue’s swift and uncontested rise, bachata was originally loved by few, ridiculed by most, and disregarded by others. In many ways, the importance of bachata in defining Dominican identity came through its history of, and connection to, struggle. The term bachata originally referred to an informal, lower­class party, and it was only in the 1970s when a specific genre became known as bachata, by which time the term “acquired an unmistakably negative cultural value implying rural backwardness and vulgarity.”16 This negative cultural association was only further proliferated by the fact that bachata was commonly performed in bars and brothels. Since many bachateros17 wrote of love and its consequences, they resented ​ these connotations and tried to claim the term canciones de amargue18 to distinguish their music ​ from the faster, raunchier variety. While this term was intended to emphasize “the feelings of

14 Austerlitz, et al. 71. 15 Austerlitz, et al. 72­74. 16 Deborah Pacini Hernandez, Bachata: A Social History of a Dominican Popular Music (1995) 12. ​ ​ ​ 17 Bachata musicians. 18 Songs of bitterness. 10

nostalgia and suffering that characterized their music, … the term bachata provided Dominicans ​ ​ with an appealing continuity between the traditional informal family and neighborhood parties of the same name and the music that grew out of them.”19 The term bachata and its cultural implication began paving the way for bachata’s future cultural significance. Nevertheless, amargue henceforth became a more acceptable, interchangeable term. ​ Bachata’s appeal initially relied on its ability to relate to people of campesino20 and ​ barrio21 roots; which was roughly 70 percent of the country in 1960. Twenty­five years of migration followed the death of Trujillo. With many Dominicans moving from the campo22 to ​ Santo Domingo, the population of the capital doubled as did bachata’s target audience.23 Seeking previously inaccessible work opportunities, these migrants brought their music along. For example, in her work Julie Sellers describes domestic workers basically making it a condition to have a radio for working comfortably.24 With bachata playing in the kitchens of these middle­class homes, it slowly began making its mark on higher classes. Having this new presence of bachata in Santo Domingo, bachateros began gaining access to larger and more ​ ​ diverse audiences, first in the 1990s with provincial fiestas patronales.25 Deborah Pacini ​ ​ Hernandez recounts that, at that time, bachata also began to transcend the boundaries of the shantytown, receiving some attention on major urban FM stations and upscale venues.26

19 Pacini Hernandez 14. ​ 20 People from the countryside. ​ 21 High poverty­level neighborhood. 22 The countryside, or rural areas. ​ 23 Pacini Hernandez 74. ​ 24 Julie A. Sellers, Bachata and Dominican Identity / La Bachata Y La Identidad Dominicana (2014) 51. ​ ​ ​ 25 Patron saints’ festivals. 26 Pacini Hernandez 29. ​ 11

In addition to its movement into higher classes, researchers stress bachata’s long­lasting importance through the community it represents, one “defined not by national citizenship but by low social class and, for the urban poor, by shantytown residence and cultural patterns.”27

Because bachata represented a class­community, rather than a geopolitical one, it began to relate to, and resonate with, a larger audience as political and economic conditions changed over time.

As Pacini Hernandez explains, the disparity in quality of life and income were actually increasing throughout the decades of Santo Domingo migrations; with gross national product increasing but migrant opportunity for higher paying, stable jobs decreasing.28 Therefore, as conditions worsened, more people turned to a music that reflected their struggle: bachata.

Bachata’s connection to the working class was further used to disseminate and popularize it through mainstream media. Researchers give credit to Radhames Aracena for connecting bachata to its listeners through his radio station, Radio Guarachita, established in 1965.29

Aracena, understanding his audience and their limited access to phones, used servicios publicos30 ​ to allow migrants access to communication with distant family.31 Radio Guarachita further connected its audience to the music with their radioteatro, a theater surrounding the disc ​ ​ jockey’s console.32 By allowing the audiences to see how music made it onto the radio, the radioteatro became an opportunity for fans to connect with their favorite music. Finally, having ​ Radio Guarachita conveniently located between the working class shopping district and major

27 Pacini Hernandez 101. ​ 28 Pacini Hernandez 107. ​ 29 Pacini Hernandez 87; Sellers 53. ​ 30 Free public­service announcements. ​ 31 Sellers 54. ​ 32 Pacini Hernandez 92. ​ 12

bus stops, strategically targeted its audience and increased accessibility.33 Radio Guarachita, in a sense, created a new community surrounding music, as indicated by their statement:

We are a big family. There are more than a quarter of a million of us. We are the biggest and most powerful family. We are Radio Guarachita family. We are a quarter of a million listeners always united.34

The Radio Guarachita family, therefore, created a consistent relationship between consumers and the dominant producer of bachata in the Dominican Republic.

Radhames Aracena not only disseminated bachata through Radio Guarachita, but also controlled how that music was made. Combining his radio station, record pressing factory,35 record store,36 and the recording studio in his home, Aracena created Empresa Guarachita.37 ​ ​ Through Empresa Guarachita, Aracena was able to impact the music people heard and its ​ ​ quality. Throughout the recording process, for example, Aracena would make grammatical corrections to the lyrics and teach the singers proper pronunciation; making the music more appropriate for its future, much wider, audience.38 Beyond radio, another important form of dissemination of bachata was the informal market. According to Pacini Hernandez, “all bachata, regardless of format, was sold to the public via the thousands of sidewalk record stalls strategically located in working­class shopping districts and near bus stops in cities and towns

33 Pacini Hernandez 92. ​ 34 Pacini Hernandez 93. ​ 35 Fabrica de Discos la Guarachita 36 Discos Guarachita 37 Guarachita Enterprise 38 Pacini Hernandez 98. ​ 13

throughout the country.”39 Given their lower production quality, these record stalls provided a lot more fans with a cheaper alternative for music.

National fame was the final support bachata needed to bring it into mainstream society, and give it an accepted place in the Dominican Republic. This happened when Luis Segura boosted bachata into middle­class venues with “Pena;”40 his 1983 record “which outsold every ​ ​ ​ other recording in the mainstream market.”41 With this quick boost, bachata’s appearances became more frequent and distinct. In the nearby town of San Cristobal, for example, a disco­piscina42 began hosting Viernes de Amargue.43 Furthermore, bachata began making a more ​ ​ significant appearance on television. The intention behind these appearances, however, was questionable. While some people saw this as a way for television to attract a wider audience, others saw it as a patronizing way of adding bachateros for a comic touch.44 Nevertheless, bachata’s increase in popularity was not going unnoticed by the upper classes, and mainstream news outlets, which coined the term La Fiebre de Amargue.45 La Fiebre, henceforth, brought ​ ​ ​ ​ bachata to the attention of more accepted artists and fans: ultimately making the music itself more acceptable to upper­class and international audiences.

Conclusion

Dominican identity is neither simple nor definitive. A long history of conflict within and outside the island has, however, created one imperative to the Dominican identity: it must not be ​ ​

39 Pacini Hernandez 113. 40 Grief. ​ 41 Pacini Hernandez 192. ​ 42 Dance club with an outdoor pool. 43 Amargue Fridays. Pacini Hernandez 194 44 Pacini Hernandez 194. ​ 45 Amargue Fever. 14

Haitian. Any pride shown within Haitian culture has been met with persecution of its Dominican

counterpart. Scholars have analyzed the ways in which Dominican identity has been defined,

particularly through music. More accurately, scholars have devoted their attention to the most

popular musics in the country, merengue and bachata, while dismissing palo, a music associated

with persecuted practices. Merengue has proven to be strong in creating a united sense of

Dominicanness: however its path to success was paved by the dictating power within the

Dominican Republic. Bachata, on the other hand, proved to relate to struggles faced by all

Dominicans at one point or another, whether it is love, heartbreak, or poverty. However, its

history has ignored the African roots of the same society whose struggles it voices. Palo, the

most persecuted and underrepresented of Dominican musics, highlights and honors the aspects

and roots of Dominican identity that these popular musics disregard. Palo connects the dots, to

voice the untold histories of the Dominican Republic.

15

Chapter 2: Palo Yesterday:

Palo’s Historical Presence in the Dominican Republic

Palo’s importance in representing Dominican identity has been historically overlooked in scholarly research. An historical analysis of the music, however, would expose how palo reflects the struggles faced by many Dominicans, voiced by the marginalized majority of the country. In discussing palo’s presence in the Dominican Republic, I will highlight three different sectors in relation to palo: religion, the public, and the government.

Palo and Religion

Given that palo’s origins lie within a religious structure, religion is crucial to the discussion of the music. Palo is considered holy music, and a central aspect to many of the religious ceremonies associated with Dominican Vodú. However, the Dominican Republic is predominantly Roman Catholic,46 as can be seen in the Dominican flag itself, which prominently displays images of a bible and cross, and the words “Dios, Patria, Libertad.”47 Pioneer scholar in ​ ​ Dominican Vodú religion and culture, Martha Ellen Davis, breaks Dominican religion down into two forms, formal and popular; where Catholicism is formal, and Vodú is popular.48 According to Davis the difference between formal and popular religions lies in how they form and develop.

Formal religions have standardized practices independent of location, and are governed through hierarchy; the elite determine and disseminate formal religious practices, literature, and politics.

In contrast, popular religions form through the needs of the societies that nurture them.

46 57% of Dominicans are Roman Catholic. Pew Research Center, Religion in Latin America (2014). ​ ​ 47 God, Homeland, Freedom. 48 Martha Ellen Davis, La otra ciencia: El Vodú dominicano como religión y medicina populares (1987) 60. ​ ​ 16

Therefore, popular religious practices differ depending on the history of each region where they exist.

The Dominican popular religion, Vodú, commonly belittled and misconstrued by mainstream media to represent possession­based cults, has been historically misunderstood by non­practitioners. Cultural anthropologist Robert Lee Adams, Jr., intent on exploring the “many aspects of Dominican culture [that] remain obscured and ignored as a result of the consolidation of Dominican nationalism, Dominicanidad,”49 concisely defines “Vodú” as “a web of ​ ​ Afro­Dominican religious institutions – secret societies, carnival groups, Catholic brotherhoods, and healing cults."50 This description serves as a strong base to build from. Understanding the complexities of Vodú’s religious structure, the diversity of practices from region to region, and the nature of popular religions, forming through the needs of their society, Adams’ base can then be built on by revisiting Vodú in the Dominican Republic, focusing on the shifts of its presence.

Vodú can be seen as a living religion which adapts to the societies it’s placed in. This adaptable nature of Vodú has in fact created a continuum that goes from Vodú to Catholicism: where many

Dominicans identify as Catholic, yet participate in Vodú practices.51 In summary, Vodú can only be understood through its historical context and analyses of the ways associated religious practices, varying throughout regions and times, reflect contemporary conflicts.

Palo is central to the holy calendar of Dominican Vodú. Many ceremonies of this calendar include practices that reflect the conditions of the people that engage in them. The central figures of this holy calendar are the misterios.52 Originally the Orishas of western Africa, ​ ​

49 Robert Lee Adams, Jr., History at the Crossroads: Vodú and the Modernization of the Dominican Borderland ​ (2006) 2. 50 Adams, Jr. 3. 51 The continuum between Catholicism and Vodú will be revisited throughout the ethnography in chapter 3. 52 Misterios refers to the deities within the pantheon of Dominican Vodú. 17

these deities were transported to the Dominican Republic through the slave trade. Although slaves were forced to convert to Catholicism, they hid their Vodú by superimposing their deities onto the similar hierarchical Catholic saint structure; keeping their religion alive.53 These deities express the initial point of syncretism between Vodú and Catholicism. Davis brings attention to this continuum, explaining that:

Asi vemos que simbólicamente hay una continuación del ​ dominio de la Iglesia Católica sobre la religiosidad popular; porque los misterios (entidades Vodúistas) son mensajeros y ayudantes (¿esclavos?) de los santos (entidades católicas) que son patrones (¿amos?).54

In ceremonies for misterios, palo holds the crucial responsibility for communicating with, and ​ ​ entertaining, the misterio. The holy drums, also known as palos or atabales, begin after prayers ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ to the misterio, using heavy, polyrhythmic, patterns, and facing the nearest altar to invoke the ​ ​ misterio for possession. Once someone is montado,55 usually the servidor56 or another initiate, ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ the misterio is able to enjoy the festivities of the ceremony in human form. ​ ​ Possession in Dominican Vodú is not simple, it comes only through intense dialogues between the palo music, and the servidor of the ceremony. As palo plays the role of instrument ​ ​ for possession, the servidor is the bridge for the misterio. Servidores are spiritually chosen, and ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ have two necessary gifts: clairvoyance and a strong spiritual current within. Many servidores ​

53 For example, Saint Anne represents Anaisaísa (saint’s day on July 25), while Saint Michael represents Belié ​ ​ ​ Belcán (saint’s day on September 29). ​ 54 There we see that symbolically there is a continuation of the domain of the Catholic Church on popular religiosity; because the misterios (Vodú entities) are messengers and helpers (slaves?) of the saints (Catholic entities) that are ​ ​ patrons (masters?). Davis 115. 55 When someone is possessed by a misterio, they are considered to be “mounted”, or montado. ​ ​ ​ ​ 56 Literally translates to server, as this is the server of a misterio. ​ ​ 18

belong to socially marginalized populations, including campesinos, homosexuals, the poor, and ​ ​ women. In turn, the servidores, the bridge between palo and the holy pantheon, reflect some of ​ ​ the heaviest struggles, or risks of marginalization, faced by Dominicans.

In addition to ceremonies for misterios, palo is commonly heard in fiestas de difuntos or ​ ​ ​ ​ rezos.57 Dominican Vodú pays a great deal of respect to the dead, as well as ancestral roots. ​ Fiestas de difuntos are meant to honor those who have passed. These ceremonies are also meant ​ to assure peace for the deceased, settling their fears of what a restless soul can inflict on the living. To honor and assure their final destination, palo is performed for two special fiestas de ​ difuntos: el cabo de año and banco de palos.58 El cabo de año is held on the first anniversary of ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ the death of a person in order to assure their eternal peace. The banco de palos acts as the final ​ ​ memorial ceremony for the deceased, held seven years after their death. The focus during these ceremonies is clearly honoring the dead, with musicians, relatives, and friends dancing around an altar which features a picture of the recently deceased. Palo is then able to symbolize identity through ancestry, or the roots of Dominican Republic.

Palo and the Public

Palo’s interaction with the public is an important aspect of Dominican Vodú. Beyond the cultural implications behind misterios and difuntos, the music making process of palo, as well as ​ ​ ​ ​ associated practices, reflect some of the previous economic conditions faced by Dominican

Republic’s lower classes. An important aspect of paying respect to misterios is animal sacrifices. ​ ​ Although the animal is meant to spiritually feed their deity, practitioners do not let any part of ​ ​

57 Parties of the deceased. 58 Palo ceremonies for the deceased. ​ 19

the animal go to waste. While the meat is used to feed the local community, the skin of sacrificed animals is often used for drum heads. Furthermore, during fiestas de palo,59 it is common to have ​ ​ the servidor do trabajos60 for people present. Trabajos vary immensely, from cleansing for good ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ health to giving lottery numbers; but are never meant to cause harm to another.61 This use of spiritual healing highlights the inaccessibility of formal medicine to many Dominicans. Finally, it is crucial to understand how palo is brought to these ceremonies. As economic conditions are difficult, even palo musicians need to make a living, however most Vodú practitioners can barely afford the rising costs of living. To solve this financial issue, most Vodú ceremonies have massive audiences, with each member responsible for contributing food, alcohol, and/or money.

In this way, palo ceremonies are a means to build and develop mutual support. The creation of a palo performance, as well as the practices surrounding it, highlight the crucial need for efficient utilization, sharing, and unity to persevere through the struggles faced by many of the Dominican people.

Palo and Government

Palo, like merengue, has been interwoven throughout the political history of the

Dominican Republic. But unlike merengue however, palo appears throughout history in protest against political and economic corruption and deterioration, rather than being exploited to support the corrupt leaders as vehicles for propaganda. Palo has historically represented the targeted, the persecuted, the negro Dominicans, from whom the elite originally tried to distance ​ ​

59 Palo ceremonies. 60 Spiritual jobs. 61 Dominican servidores only partake in trabajos that help others. They believe, however, that Haitian Vodou ​ ​ ​ ​ practitioners conduct harmful trabajos. ​ ​ 20

themselves ­­ at any cost necessary, especially throughout the 1900s. As the Dominican government and elite set out to “modernize” the country, they “sought to privilege an ideal somatic type (white/European), preferred regions (Cibao and Southeast), dominant gender

(male), and supreme status (property owner) – standards that would define the modern

Dominican citizen.”62 The Dominican government began targeting palo in the 19th century with the Bando de Policía y Buen Gobiern63 which prohibited Vodú practices.64 More specifically, in ​ ​ ​ 1878 the Resolución del Ejecutivo65 prohibited palo music and dance. Davis discusses the ​ ​ political voice and reason behind these prohibitions:

Se denuncia y lamenta escenas de inmoralidad que se están efectuando en los barrios de Santa Bárbara y San Miguel, y que se proyecta repetirlos en el pueblo de San Carlos, tales como ‘bailes tan obscenos, tan infernales, que su pluma no se atreve a explicar.’66

Rafael Leonidas Trujillo went as far as to punish Vodú participation with up to one year in prison, and a 500 peso fine with Law 391 of September 20, 1943.67 These “modern Dominican citizen standards” excluded many Dominicans and led to a persecution of Afro­Dominicanness that demanded a response. There were two Vodú movements that were critical to the survival of palo in the Dominican Republic: the Liborismo and Palma Sola movements. These movements ​ ​ ​ ​

62 Adams, Jr. 9. ​ 63 City ordinances. 64 Davis 35; Torres­Saillant 132. 65 Executive Resolution. 66 It denounces and regrets scenes of immorality that are taking place in the neighborhoods of Santa Barbara and San Miguel, and projecting that the same is repeated in the village of San Carlos, such as ‘obscene dancing , so hellish , that His pen dare not explain.’ Davis 35. ​ 67 Torres­Saillant 133. 21

were palo’s fight for survival, while simultaneously reflecting the Dominican fight against the elite’s political projects.

Dominican modernity in the 1900s was beneficial for the elite, but not for the majority. ​ ​ The sugar economy was booming, rural land became open to buy, yet new vagrancy laws took away informally claimed or inherited land, and separated families desperate for income. Many of the people affected by Dominican modernity were Sanjuaneros, natives of a town called San ​ ​ ​ ​ Juan, near the Haitian­Dominican border. Given San Juan’s proximity to the Haitian border, its population has been historically heavily mixed and many of its citizens are of both Dominican and Haitian descent. Since the goal was to create a purely Dominican identity, the intense ​ ​ Haitian influence of this population posed a threat to the elite. The elite hoped that forcing campesinos into urban society would assimilate them into a cleaner, or less African, culture: a ​ ​ ​ culture with no space for palo. However, the proletariat envisioned a modernity that built on the ​ ​ past, rather than replaced it; a Liborismo modernity. ​ ​ ​ ​ The term Liborismo comes from leading figure, Olivorio “Liborio” Mateo, who led a ​ ​ unique life. He experienced multiple points of views surrounding the persecution of

Afro­Dominicanness. Beginning as a “soldier of elite modernity,”68 Liborio began leading the persecuted Vodú practitioners upon returning from mysteriously disappearing. He declared himself God’s recruit, and proclaimed his devotion to a 33 year mission. During his mission,

Liborio set out to preach and cure as many Dominicans as he could reach, regardless of race, class, or gender; which led to his notoriety within the government, and popularity within the public. Being a Sanjuanero himself, and witnessing what elite modernity meant, Liborio used his ​ ​ ​ ​

68 Adams, Jr. 10. ​ 22

following to create a more accessible modernity in physical form, the mobile Ciudad Santa.69 ​ ​ The Ciudad Santa offered a sanctuary free from elite modernity and political corruption, ​ ​ ​ ​ celebrating spiritual freedom and Afro­Dominican culture. Liboristas70 advocated for the ​ Dominican majority and social justice throughout the country. The Liborismo movement targeted ​ ​ the United States government and their 1916 occupation using firearms acquired during the civil war of 1912.71 Although these weapons were surrendered in 1917, the Liborismo movement ​ ​ made its mark and became an enemy of the U.S. government. Five years of evading the government to continue providing a more accessible modernity, ended with the death of Liborio ​ ​ in 1922, by the hands of the American­led Dominican National Guard.72 Although Liborio’s goals were peaceful, the American and Dominican governments perceived him as so powerful that they displayed his 64 year old corpse in San Juan immediately after their early morning ambush; symbolically exhibiting their “strength.” However, instead of destroying a powerful emblem of traditional Afro­Dominican culture as they intended, these governments created a new one. A photo of Liborio’s corpse taken by local authorities is a popular image seen today in altars all throughout San Juan. Today, as the palos of San Juan drum facing this photo, they drum to the past, in honor of Liborio’s advocacy for Afro­Dominican identity.

Although Liborio was gone, Vodú persisted, as well as the elite’s modernity project. ​ ​ Trujillo’s rise to power created a new threat to Afro­Dominican culture. Trujillo’s political agenda included gaining power and keeping it; his quick way of achieving this was through the monopolization of land. In 1937, Trujillo sought out to gain land by forcing others out, and

69 Holy City. Adams, Jr. 11. ​ 70 Followers of Liborio. ​ 71 Roorda. ​ 72 Adams, Jr. 13. ​ 23

create a “pure” Dominican identity. Trujillo’s definition of pure meant solely Dominican which, given our ancestry, disregarded our undeniable African influence. Trujillo’s plan was to administer a test to determine the Haitian influence of Dominicans residing near the border. The test seemed simple, soldiers asked people to pronounce “perejil.”73 However, if they could not ​ ​ ​ ​ accurately pronounce it, given their French accent or, in many cases, speech impediment, they would be killed or exiled for not being sufficiently Dominican. Leading to up to 35,000 deaths, both Haitian and Dominican, this project was nicknamed the “Parsley Massacre.” With many campesino residents exiled or killed, Trujillo was able to acquire new land for his family, and ​ enforce new vagabond laws. Many Sanjuaneros felt the injustices of the Parsley Massacre, ​ ​ requiring a response from the people, a new anti­hegemonic movement carrying the Liborismo ​ tradition of communicating with changing political and economic tides through an

Afro­Dominican voice: the Palma Sola movement. ​ ​ The Palmasolistas,74 led by “los mellizos de Palma Sola,”75 or Romilio and León ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Ventura Rodríguez, advocated for a “populist vision of the post­Trujillo future… to obtain the ​ sanctity of the campesinos, eliminate the evils of the earth, and achieve equality and unity.”76

Palma Sola was the new Ciudad Santa, only seeking peace and equality within Dominican ​ ​ ​ borders. Nevertheless, Trujillistas77 perceived their Afro­Dominicanness as a threat, and ​ responded by spreading rumors of their intention to create public disorder. These rumors, spread throughout the elite and mass media, leading to the end of the Palma Sola movement in 1962: ​ ​

73 Parsley ​ 74 Followers of the Palma Sola movement. ​ ​ ​ 75 The twins of Palma Sola. In Vodú beliefs, twins are thought to have a special spiritual connection. If one dies in ​ the womb, the other gains their power. This was confirmed by multiple servidores while I was in the Dominican ​ ​ Republic. 76 Adams, Jr. 16. 77 Followers of Rafael Leonidas Trujillo. ​ 24

when the Dominican Army massacred 800 Palmasolistas, and arrested 700 more.78 Nevertheless, ​ ​ Palma Sola, similar to Liborismo, lives on through Vodú and its sounds of palo, where it is now ​ ​ ​ considered sacred land.

Conclusion

An historical analysis of palo’s presence in the Dominican Republic highlights the critical ways in which palo reflects the Dominican identity of those excluded from the elite concept of modernity. Beginning with the adaptation of the religion to survive slavery, Vodú has developed as a popular religion to respond to the ever­changing governmental and economic tides within the country. Popular practices, such as trabajos, reflect the inaccessible formal medicines and ​ ​ public services that Dominican elites hoarded. Dominican modernity has led to massacres and ​ ​ the implementation of laws targeting lower socioeconomic classes (read: the majority of the ​ Dominican Republic). Nevertheless, practitioners have continued to adapt their music and ​ religion to keep their religious freedom, when all other liberties have been stripped away.

Practitioners have created larger communities, with mutual understanding of financial hardships, to be able to continue celebrating their religion, their tradition: an Afro­Dominican tradition.

These communities have led movements, facing domestic and foreign powers, for the social justice of the larger Dominican populace. At the center of these ceremonies for misterios and ​ ​ difuntos, and social movements has been the palos, the holy drums. In these settings, palo, and its ​ associated Vodú, have become vehicles for anti­colonial, anti­hegemonic, and anti­imperial

78 Adams, Jr. 17. 25

protest. Although scholars have disregarded palo, it has historically had a significant presence in the Dominican Republic, with the Dominican people.

26

Chapter 3: Palo Today:

Palo’s Presence through Ethnographic Fieldwork

Before beginning to discuss my time in the “field,”79 studying palo in Dominican culture, it is important to understand what led me to the field. As fieldwork is motivated by the life experiences and identities that makeup the field researcher, understanding the field researcher can be a way to understand their work, perspective, and reasoning. While the previous chapters offer historical context, this chapter introduces modern palo through my ethnographic fieldwork.

I begin this chapter with my life story to explain how I arrived to the field. I continue on to highlight, similarly to chapter two, palo’s relationship to different sectors of Dominican society: religion and the public. I focus on the changes surrounding palo which reflect a shift in its relation to Dominican identity: the changes in where it is performed, and how it is responded to, reflecting a modern acceptance, leaning towards popularization.

My Story

My research on the Dominican Republic draws heavily from experiences I have had long before my formal fieldwork began. Although I was born in New York City, my mother is from

Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic while my father is from Jánico, Dominican Republic. My older brother and I, marking a milestone in our bloodline, were born first­generation American, but our family assured that we maintain our Dominican culture. Within every significant memory the sounds of bachata, merengue, and palo echo. Family celebrations were never quiet and

79 I use quotes around the term field because the field in my work is more personal than a distant place where I spent some time conducting research. Instead, my field, the Dominican Republic, marks my ancestry. My field has travelled with me long before my fieldwork began. 27

attendance was always high; when my family had a reason to celebrate, we all came together and ​ ​ celebrated. In the most important celebrations, such as quinceañeras, weddings, and holidays, we ​ ​ invited musicians into our community: these musicians performed throughout the night for money, food, alcohol, and an inclusive environment.

When the accordion and tambora80 begin their rapid roles into merengue tipico, my ​ family’s instinct is to grab a partner and dance, while my ears have always guided me towards ​ ​ the musicians. When I got my first opportunity to formally learn how to reproduce these intricate rhythms, I could not turn it down. In junior high school, I joined every musical ensemble possible; concert band, jazz band, marching band, orchestra. However, I never heard any sound like that which came from my family parties. Continuing my musical exploration into college, I was finally introduced to the field of ethnomusicology; offering me the opportunity to break

Eurocentric music borders and begin understanding my culture’s music through an academic perspective.

Ecstatic to begin my formal studies in ethnomusicology, I was soon discouraged by the information available on Dominican music and culture. Coming from a strong Dominican descent, I found it odd that my family and I did not identify with, or recognize, many of the so­called “Dominican cultural practices.” In many cases, Dominican identity and culture have been generalized by scholars, who have dismissed the cultural complexities within Dominican borders, given the country’s small size. This generalization has often regurgitated political propaganda and elite strategic essentialism geared towards creating a “pure” Dominican identity; one that disregarded, and often persecuted, Afro­Dominicanness. A gap has been created within

80 The tambora is a two­headed, barrel­shaped drum commonly used in Dominican merengue. ​ ​ ​ 28

Dominican identity, leaving out socially marginalized Dominicans from the narrative, and leaving these Dominicans forgotten by history. Understanding these current dialogues surrounding Dominican identity led me to the field, or back home, to study how palo, a music associated with the socially marginalized, fills in the gaps left by previous scholars; bringing back the Dominicans forgotten by history.

Arriving in the field

Arriving in the field, or my grandmother’s home in Villa Mella, I was expecting to quickly begin my research, similar to the experiences I have read about in other scholars’ fieldwork. To my surprise, however, the process of accessing palo events and social spheres was very slow. My impatience as a new researcher led me to overlook the many ways in which

Dominican society not associated with palo still offered a critical perspective on palo. While my family and childhood friends did not practice, and in some cases actively separated themselves from, Vodú, their opinions on Vodú culture reflected the historical persecution of

Afro­Dominicanness.81

I spent the first few weeks of September, 2014 transitioning into the field. This meant spending time with students of the Universidad Acción Pro­Educación y Cultura (UNAPEC), attending social gatherings, and touring prominent locations. Most of my time was spent in Villa

Mella, an urban municipality of the country’s capital, Santo Domingo. During this time, many people were ecstatic to share their opinions on contemporary culture with me. One statement, made by a local student, stood out and highlighted the negative perceptions on palo, perpetuated

81 Given the sensitivity of Dominican identity, the names of non­Vodú practitioners are kept anonymous in this ethnography. However, I use the names of Vodú practitioners and paleros because of their expressed pride in their ​ ​ Afro­Dominican identity, and investment in my work. 29

by dictatorial propaganda. During a casual discussion on palo and Vodú practices, a friend stated that, “palo es para los cultos satánicos. Me da medio. Son locos y es un insulto a la Iglesia ​ Católica. Es para los Haitianos.”82 The inaccuracies of this description reflect the arguments ​ historically perpetuated by previous dictator Rafael Trujillo, and the elite modernity discussed ​ ​ earlier. Dominicans not associated with Vodú perceive it as an extension of an Haitian identity, an identity we have historically rejected: a non­Dominican identity. Other friends added to the ​ ​ discussion, explaining how their views on Haitians and Haitian practices are justified, and not ​ racist, with the following example:

Si yo fuera un Haitiano parando a tu lado, en lo que tu esta hablando y haciendo coro. Si estuviera sucio y tenía un hedor encima. Tu no quieres asociar conmigo, ¿verdad?83

Although this statement clearly has its racist undertones, these generalizations of Haitian

“properties” are commonly believed as valid in certain areas of the country. Furthermore, this negative perception of Haitians acts a disincentive for learning about Dominican Vodú.

The misconception that Vodú is solely Haitian lends to hesitation in Dominicans that have negative associations to Haitian practices, contributing the continued ignorance surrounding palo in Dominican society. From my experience, this perspective was more common in the urban capital than the rural borders of the country. During my time traveling around Yamasá, a municipality of the rural Monte Plata, many Dominicans expressed their knowledge of the

82 “Palo is for satanic cults. It scares me. They are crazy and it is an insult to the Catholic Church. It is for the Haitians.” Anonymous interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella, Dominican Republic, September, 2014. 83 “If I was a Haitian standing beside you, while you are talking and hanging out. If I was dirty and smelled horrible. You would not want to associate with me, right?” Anonymous interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella Dominican Republic, September, 2014. 30

differences between Dominican Vodú and Haitian Vodou, usually stating that Dominican Vodú is for good, while Haitians practice black magic. While I did not spend the beginning of my fieldwork within Vodú environments, the narratives of Dominicans not associated with Vodú highlighted today’s Dominican perception on palo: the urban, where palo is Haitian and satanic, and the rural, where palo is good as long as it is Dominican.

Palo and Religion

As I began my fieldwork, already understanding the negative perception that many

Catholic Dominicans have on Vodú practitioners, my initial questions were geared towards understanding how Dominican Vodú practitioners viewed their religion and the role of palo. As servers of their pantheon, servidores that I encountered had a very intimate perspective to ​ ​ contribute to the understanding of Vodú. During my time in Yamasá, I had the pleasure of meeting Maria “Doña Mari” Sepubeda and Reeny, local servidores of Yamasá. When I visited ​ ​ these servidores, they each conducted spiritual readings before beginning our conversations. ​ ​ Doña Mari, an elderly wise woman, was entertained by my own misconceptions of Vodú. When

I first asked about her association to Vodú, she quickly exclaimed that Vodou is Haitian black magic, and she identifies as Catholic. I later learned that many Dominican Vodú practitioners claim their practices as an extension of Catholicism, while Haitian Vodou is the real “voodoo.”

Nevertheless, tension exists even between Vodú and Vodou practitioners. As Doña Mari explained, she believed that Haitian Vodou praises “bad spirits”: given the poor living conditions

31

in Haiti, she explained that their practices are to gain what they envy (i.e. money, land, or a significant other).84

The “white magic” practiced by Doña Mari and Reeny reflected the trabajos85 that have ​ ​ historically aided Dominicans as mainstream medicines have grown increasingly inaccessible.

Doña Mari explained that since the age of seven, her ancestrally inherited practices have developed in preparing spiritual cleanse baths, reading fortune cards, and reading fortunes from cups. Doña Mari highlighted her role in preparing spiritual cleanses and remedies, given her believed shortcomings of mainstream medicine. Reeny’s practices were similar to Doña Mari, with the similar intention of offering accessible help to others. Reeny explained that she has never charged for her work: she only asks for the price of necessary materials and optional donations.86 Although these servidores were in rural Yamasá, their statements were mirrored by ​ ​ those made by Bendito de Jesus, a servidor that worked most of the ceremonies I attended in ​ ​ Villa Mella.

Bendito de Jesus, born in the 1970s, has been aware of his relationship with the misterios ​ since an early age: he estimates six years old. Learning how to play palo around the age of 15,

Bendito de Jesus’ servidor work is very intimate with the music. Unlike Doña Mari and Reeny ​ ​ whose trabajos took form in private consultations, Bendito de Jesus’ trabajos were publicly ​ ​ ​ ​ conducted during fiestas de palo.87 He explained that his work varies, from spiritual cleanses to ​ ​ lottery number predictions, but are all centered around evoking misterios for ceremonial ​ ​ possessions.88 His attitudes toward non­practitioners attending fiestas de palo reflected his ​ ​

84 Maria “Doña Mari” Sepubeda interview by Rene Cruz, Yamasá, Dominican Republic, November 3, 2014. 85 Spiritual jobs. 86 Reeny interview by Rene Cruz, Yamasá, Dominican Republic, November 5, 2014. 87 Palo ceremonies. ​ 88 Bendito de Jesus interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella, Dominican Republic, October 8, 2014. ​ 32

practices, as he explained that, “palo es la creencia Dominicana, todo son invitados.”89 Bendito ​ ​ de Jesus expressed the inclusive community surrounding palo, and reflected this throughout his communal trabajos during many of the fiestas de palo I attended in Villa Mella. ​ ​ ​ ​

Figure 1: Bendito de Jesus, dressed in the colors of San Miguel, offers cake, from the altar, to guests of the fiesta de ​ ​ ​ palo. ​

Although palo has travelled far, from the rural Haitian­Dominican border to the urban

Santo Domingo communities, it has kept its traditional religious significance through the practices of urban Vodú practitioners, such as Bendito de Jesus. Possessions and spiritual cleanses were regular occurrences of the fiestas de palo that I attended. Nevertheless, some ​ ​ practices have been altered to fit societal standards of conduct as times have changed. For example, although animals are still sacrificed, this practice is now conducted in private, usually before the music begins. Palo’s shift into private events has not hindered the inclusiveness of

89 “Palo is the Dominican belief. Everybody is invited” Bendito de Jesus interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella, ​ Dominican Republic, October 8, 2014. 33

palo: fiestas de palo continue to be hosted by entire neighborhoods, where everybody that ​ ​ attends shares the costs. Vodú, however, has most recently influenced wealthier Dominicans, who prefer to keep their practices private.

On November 15, I attended the most private fiesta de palo that I have experienced ​ ​ during my fieldwork. This ceremony was in honor of San Miguel and was hosted by a high ranking member of the Ejército de República Dominicana.90 This ceremony contrasted ​ ​ immensely from my previous experiences with palo. While many of the other ceremonies I attended were extremely welcoming, this was a very private, invite­only event. There were only about ten guests, compared to the almost hundred that I was accustomed to seeing. Furthermore, while many other fiestas de palo have music performances outdoors, very accessible to the ​ ​ public, this event was in a gated household. The host, at first, seemed very uncomfortable with my presence. I only continued to record after reassuring that his name would be kept anonymous, and I would not speak of the event around Villa Mella.

90 The Dominican Army. I keep the rank and name of this host anonymous due to the privacy of this event. ​ 34

Beyond the general sense of privacy, this event progressed similarly to most other ceremonies for misterios: palo was performed throughout the day with prayers to San Miguel, ​ ​ possessions were less frequent, however, given the low attendance. The significance of this event is its reflection of palo’s shift into the acceptance of people associated with the same structures that historically persecuted it. While the Ejército de República Dominicana was previously in ​ ​ charge of capturing and killing Vodú figures such as Liborio and los Mellizos de Palma Sola, its ​ ​ ​ ​ leaders are now participating and hosting their own fiestas de palo. Palo’s recent shift in the ​ ​ Dominican Republic is not only marked by its presence in events by governmental figures, it is also highlighted by palo’s appearance in the Catholic Church.

November marks the anniversary of the assassination of prominent activist Florinda ​ Muñoz “Mamá Tingó” Soriano, who fought for the rights of farmworkers during Trujillo’s ​ ​ regime. During this month Dominicans commemorate her life’s sacrifices and contributions, and on its 40th anniversary, the day I visited, the Santo Cerro en La Vega91 hosts a Catholic mass and ​ ​ music event in her honor. Hosted by the church, multiple groups of paleros spent the majority of the morning drumming to a live audience of hundreds of Dominicans, and being broadcasted throughout the country’s radio station. That morning, my trip to church was long, and similar to many others that attended, began at around four in the morning, across the country. It was clear that Mamá Tingó’s memory was still strong: uniting Dominicans from San Juan to Samaná in her honor. As everyone gathered after an emotional Catholic prayer, palo’s rhythms began to ​ ​ bring strangers together to dance. The Catholic Church graciously invited palo to its event of unity and cultural memory. The significance of this event is in its reflection of the Catholic

91 A notable church in La Vega, a municipality near Villa Mella. ​ 35

Church’s recent acceptance of palo. While palo is considered to be satanic, according to most

Dominicans not associated with palo that I spoke with, it is now proudly displayed during salient

Church­hosted events: musically symbolizing the contemporary continuum between Catholicism and Vodú.

Palo and the Public

Today, palo continues to play an important role outside of its religious context. Given that Vodú has historically been practiced by socially marginalized populations, its music has created communities that support one another in the face of marginalization. Soon after the celebration for Mamá Tingó, a neighborhood from Yamasá went to the streets to begin quemando gomas.92 The reason for this protest was because of the government­sanctioned power ​ outage that had lasted over a week. Given worsening economic conditions, blackouts have been a common issue in the Dominican Republic since the 1990s, with governmentally organized

92 “Burning rubber.” A form of protest where people burn tires in the street with the intention of stopping traffic and gaining attention for the cause. 36

blackouts beginning in 2001.93 “Governmentally organized,” however, translated to longer lasting power outages in poorer neighborhoods, leaving them without electricity or running water for days, or even weeks: as opposed to hour­long blackouts in other parts of the country.

On this day, my host in Yamasá, Jesus Guillen, was organizing a tour around his communal clay workshop. As he drove to make sure traffic was running smoothly, we noticed smoke beyond a line of stopped cars. When we finally understood what was happening, our priorities switched from the tour, to getting this community heard. Since Jesus also worked with some of the paleros who performed for Mamá Tingó, he knew that one of them worked for a ​ ​ local news station. The palero, also a resident of Yamasá, quickly responded and arrived on ​ ​ scene with his cameraman. The same paleros that were performing for Mamá Tingó were now ​ ​ ​ ​ organizing media coverage of this protest to gain mass attention. As Jesus explained later,

“entendemos las luchas de cada día. Lo único que podemos hacer es ayudar a nuestra ​

93 Simon Romero, International Business; Lights Out in the Dominican Republic (2004). ​ ​ ​ 37

comunidad.”94 Jesus, as well as the local palero, understood their responsibility to help their ​ ​ ​ local community against unjust struggles. Paleros continue to advocate for their communities ​ ​ using their music, and have even entered pop culture scenes.

Palo’s transition into a broader cultural acceptance has been guided, in part, by its enticing rhythms. People have begun playing this music in non­religious celebrations simply because they enjoy it. Returning back to Villa Mella, I attended a birthday party with el Grupo ​ de Palo de San Antonio.95 Interestingly, none of the people who attended this event affiliated ​ with Vodú in any way. When I asked the hosts why they insisted on having palo performed throughout the entire event, they explained that it is simply their favorite, upbeat music.96 Palo rhythms are easily adaptable to fit non­religious situations: even fitting with the lyrics of Happy

Birthday, as it did in this case. This adaptability has given palo a larger audience, without the fears of associating with Vodú practices. El Grupo de Palo de San Antonio went on to perform for my going away ​ ​ party a few weeks later. Again, the event was not religious, and the audience did not associate ​ ​ ​ ​ with Vodú practices. This transition into a non­religious context has helped bridge the gap

94 “We understand everyday struggles. The only this we can do is help our community.” Jesus Guillen interview by ​ Rene Cruz, Yamasá, Dominican Republic, November 2, 2014 95 All palo events in Villa Mella were performed by this group of paleros. 96 Anonymous interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella, Dominican Republic, November 19, 2014. 38

towards popular culture’s acceptance, marking a change in the role of palo, from religious to entertainment.

Palo’s recent shift into Dominican entertainment can be marked most clearly by “a Palo ​ Limpio,” by Kinito Méndez, released in 2001. Kinito Méndez, a renowned Dominican merengue ​ musician collaborated with paleros to create this merengue­palo fusion song. The title, “a Palo ​ ​ ​ Limpio,” literally translates to “to clean palo.” The song begins with bells and singing to mark ​ the arrival of a deity. After a minute, Kinito enters as well as a guitar, which continue for the final three minutes. When Kinito performed this song for the pop culture news show, “De ​ Extremo a Extremo,”97 in 2011, the song similarly began with a minute of song and rhythms ​ similar to traditional palo. Afterwards, however, Kinito enters accompanied by horns, keyboard, a drum kit, and tambora, forcing the palo rhythms into the background of the music for the ​ ​ remaining 24 minutes.98 This performance was advertised as “merengue of palo” or, as Kinito claims, “a Palo Limpio.” The implications made by the title, alongside the overwhelming ​ ​ presence of merengue, can be dangerous to palo’s presence, however. A “clean palo,” that has minimal palo rhythms present suggests that palo is in need of cleansing, and that, somehow, ​ ​ merengue is the cleaner music, capable of cleaning it (read: purging out the ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Afro­Dominicanness). Nevertheless, Kinito’s use of merengue to promote palo, similarly to the ​ fame that promoted bachata, has shifted palo’s presence within the Dominican populace: creating a more publicly “acceptable” image of palo.

97 From extreme to extreme. ​ 98 Three minutes into the performance a palero plays a solo, center­stage, that was inaudible in the broadcast. ​ ​ ​ 39

Conclusion

From churches to birthday parties, I have explored palo’s current presence primarily in

Villa Mella, Dominican Republic. I experienced many different and complicated perspectives surrounding palo. My time in the field reflected palo’s contemporary transition into sectors of

Dominican society that previously persecuted it. Furthermore, palo and paleros continue to advocate against injustices within and without religious context. Palo continues to reflect the

Dominican identity of its devoted Sanjuaneros of the past, Dominicans forgotten by history, and ​ ​ more recently, a popular Dominican identity that simply enjoys the music itself. As time progresses, palo’s presence can only continue shifting through a religious continuum, governmental structures, and popular culture.

40

Palo Tomorrow:

Conclusion, Possibilities, and Consequences

Understanding Dominican identity is as complicated as with any other identity, no matter the geographical or population size. Within each culture exists a plethora of identities that have historically formed in dialogue with each other. As music affects identity, it is also affected by the habits of particular identities. In this case, music can be seen as a reflection of different aspects of identity. While merengue reflects the identity of the Dominican elite, bachata reflects that of the lower classes. Nevertheless, scholars have historically disregarded Dominicans who do not identify with either of these musics: Dominicans who feel connected with their African ancestors and keep their heritage alive through the religions of Vodú and rhythms of palo.

Although history highlights the persecution of palo, a closer analysis sheds light on the strength palo has historically possessed, and the threat that it posed to hegemonic, colonial, and imperial structures. By bringing people together through the Liborismo and Palma Sola ​ ​ ​ movements, Vodú proved to be useful as a vehicle for protest against political powers, both national and international, as shown by its historical resistance to Rafael Trujillo and United

States military occupation. Although the leaders of these movements were killed, their missions live on, as the palos of San Juan play facing their pictures today.

My time spent in the Dominican Republic reinforces the claim that palo is emblematic of

Dominican identity and highlights its recent shift in Dominican identity. As time progresses, the

Dominican populace is growing to accept palo. Vodú practices have been incorporated by practicing Catholics, whether it be spiritual cleanses or lottery number predictions, creating a

41

continuum between Vodú and Catholicism. Palo has also continued to adapt: making its way into

Catholic Churches, being performed by non­Vodú practitioners, even fusing with merengue and shifting into popular culture as entertainment.

Where this work leads is towards the discussion of the possibilities and implications of palo’s shift within Dominican society. Will palo stay “authentic?” Will palo be taken away from its diasporic religious tradition, only to be appropriated for the financial benefit of musicians who think it needs “cleansing?” Can palo become accepted without losing its roots? While we can only speculate, it is important to remember these questions because if music, as we ethnomusicologists argue, is a key to cultural knowledge, it is critical to understand how, and why, that key has shifted. If palo is solely shifting to fit into elite’s modernity standards, is it not ​ ​ losing its connection to the Liboristas and Palmasolistas that died protecting it against these ​ ​ ​ ​ same elite rulers? As I stated earlier, palo’s shift within Dominican society is inevitable.

Nevertheless, it cannot be viewed in its static form. Palo continuously reflects the various spaces it has occupied throughout time, bringing back Dominicans forgotten by history.

42

Works Cited

Adams, Jr., Rober Lee. “History at the Crossroads: Vodú and the Modernization of the Dominican Border.” In Globalization and Race: Transformations in the Cultural Production of Blackness, ​ ​ edited by Kamari Maxine Clarke and Deborah A. Thomas, 430. Duke University Press, 2006.

Austerlitz, Paul, and Robert Farris Thompson. Merengue : Dominican Music and Dominican Identity. ​ ​ PAP/COM edition. Philadelphia, Pa: Temple University Press, 1997.

Averill, Gage. A Day for the Hunter, a Day for the Prey: Popular Music and Power in Haiti. ​ ​ University of Chicago Press, 1997.

Davis, Martha Ellen. La otra ciencia: El vodú dominicano como religión y medicina populares. ​ ​ Editora Universitaria, 1987.

Pacini Hernandez, Deborah. Bachata: A Social History of a Dominican Popular Music. Philadelphia, ​ ​ Pa: Temple University Press, 1995.

“Perry­Castañeda Library Map Collection.” University of Texas Libraries. 2004. Accessed April 24, 2016. http://www.lib.utexas.edu/maps/americas/dominican_rep_trans­2004.jpg

"Religion in Latin America." Pew Research Centers Religion Public Life Project RSS. November 12, 2014. Accessed March 17, 2016. http://www.pewforum.org/2014/11/13/religion­in­latin­america/.

Romero, Simon. “International Business; Lights Out in the Dominican Republic”. The New York ​ Times. August 14, 2004. Accessed April 24, 2016. ​ http://www.nytimes.com/2004/08/14/business/international­business­lights­out­in­the­dominican ­republic.html

43

Roorda, Eric Paul. Historical Dictionary of the Dominican Republic. Rowman & Littlefield. 2016. ​ ​

Sellers, Julie A. Bachata and Dominican Identity / La Bachata Y La Identidad Dominicana. ​ ​ English/Spanish edition. McFarland, 2014.

Torres­Saillant, Silvio. “The Tribulations of Blackness: Stages in Dominican Racial Identity.” Latin ​ American Perspectives 25, no. 3 (1998) ​

44