Samba as the symbol of Brazil: An example of cultural restitution or adopted inter-ethnic identity?

In The Mystery of Samba: Popular Music and National identity in Brazil, Hermano Vianna explore the process through which Samba became “Brazil’s ‘national rhythm, its prime symbol of cultural nationalism” (xiii). As is the case with many other Latin music genres, Brazilians and samba scholars are preoccupied with the concept of authenticity: what is and isn’t samba, where and when did it originate, what is authentic samba instrumentation or dancing, etc. Vianna presents authenticity, national identity, cultural symbols, in this case, as they relate to Brazilian samba, as social constructions (xiii).

But how did these social and culturally based shared concepts come to be constructed? To answer this question, Vianna does not concern himself with trying to find, for example, the holy grail of the first recorded samba. Instead, he focuses on “samba’s transformation into a ‘national rhythm,’ when it was suddenly ‘discovered’ by the nation as a whole and adopted as a defining element of brasilidade or Brazilian identity” (10).

The conspicuous mention of “the nation as a whole” discovering samba, suggest the genre, or its musical predecessors, were previously part of the cultural heritage of only a portion of the nation’s population. It also suggests that Brazil is a heterogeneous society and Brazilians can act “as a whole” or they can act separately in sub-groups with individual ethnic identities. All of this qualities apply equally to the peoples of all other Latin-American countries. Furthermore, as we have seen in the case of Dominican merengue, the adoption of one sub-group’s music as “a defining element” of an entire nation’s identity is also a process that has taken place often throughout Latin America in the past.

In the case of samba, as in many other cases, the particular music/dance form in question often features African, rural, and/or lower class elements and was looked down upon by the upper/white/urban class before being taken up as the national rhythm. In Feijoada e Soul Foudd, Peter Fry asks a question of Brazilian samba that I would like to generalize to all of Latin America: Why have Latin Americans taken up national symbols and built popular culture around cultural items originally generated by dominated groups?. Fry suggests that “the conversion of ethnic symbols into national symbols masks a situation of racial domination” (as cited in Vianna 13). Thus, Latin preoccupation with and practice of syncretism (in this case with music, but why not also with religion, language, or any other cultural aspect?) is presented as a consequence of past and present oppression, perhaps as a way to avoid conflict or to restitute cultural value, and definitely as reflecting a need for a cohesive identidad mestiza or ethnically mixed identity.

Dominican Merengue and Its Bigger Pictures

In Merengue: Dominican Music and Identity, following Benedict Anderson’s concept of imagined communities and nationalism as cultural artifact, author Paul Austerlitz proposes that merengue “lies at the heart of the Dominican national imagination” (xiv). On page 129, he states, for example, that liking merengue seems to be a patriotic duty for Dominicans. The author suggests that merengue “derives its efficacy as a Dominican symbol by simultaneously encoding several often contradictory aspects of Dominican life” (xv). He recounts the history of merengue from the mid twentieth Century to 1995, focusing on the Dominican Republic’s social history; race, gender, and class issues; cultural nationalist movements in response to foreign occupation; the propagandist use of merengue by the Trujillo regime, its local variants, and its transnationalization.

Austerlitz pays particularly close attention to historical and contemporary Hispanic-centrism in the Dominican Republic, a process which often neglected or even denied the African influence in Dominican culture and the African roots of merengue rhythms. In fact, he argues that merengue, and particularly the variant from the predominantly white Cibao region, was accepted by the Dominican upper class as the canonized musical tradition of the Dominican Republic because of its relative high Hispanic musical roots in comparison to other more African-heavy musical styles, such as those involving ritual drumming.

In the history of Dominican merengue, the role of Trujillo, who ruled the country from 1930 to 1961, is a particularly interesting chapter. As Austerlitz points out, Trujillo “like the European totalitarian leaders … understood that rural expressive forms can serve as effective symbols of national identity” (52). Trujillo used merengue music as part of his campaign, had a personal band that was required to specialize in merengue and play it at events, and was well known as a skilled merengue dancer (52-73).

Austerlitz points out that merengue became essential to national identity for Dominicans “as outside influences inundated the Republic in the late twentieth century,” but also for the large numbers of Dominicans who emigrated abroad. I believe this twofold indispensability of music for cultural identity holds true for all Latinos, be it juxtaposed to outside influences for those who live in Latinoamerica, or as a long distance umbilical cord to the motherland for those who have emigrated.

Furthermore, Austerlitz presents the development of Dominican national identity as a “hegemonic process” that invokes an identity that advances the interest of a nation’s dominant class (11). This is also applicable to the formation of national identities in many other Latinoamerican countries where, until very recently, African cultural roots were consistently downplayed and completely unappreciated in favor of “Hispanidad”.

It is also important to point out, as Austerlitz does on page 12, that nowadays Dominican merengue has transcended its national roots to become an integral part of the “soundscape of Latinos in all of the Americas” and the pan-Latino identity. This phenomenon started in the ‘50s with musicians such as Joseito Mateo, and went on through the ‘70s, due in part to the presence of Dominican musicians in New York. However, the international rise of merengue from a regional genre to a popular Latin rhythm took place in the ‘80s, mainly due to the success of musicians such as Wilfrido Vargas and Juan Luis Guerra. Decades afterward, their music is still common, if not essential, at danced parties all over Latinoamerica. The music of Juan Luis Guerra and his group 4:40 in particular, is often conceived as having elevated merengue with its jazz harmonies, funk influences, and poetic or socially conscious lyrics. Yet some Dominicans also point to the double standard through which the upper class danced to 4:40’s Bachata Rosa while censuring bachata in general as a lewd music genre of the rural and lower class.

Another aspect that Austerlitz explores about merengue, which applies to all Latin dances, is dance as courtship. Many of the contemporary popular Latin dances were at first regarded by the upper class in Latinoamerican countries as lascivious and unacceptable. There is no doubt that hip-swaying Merengue, particularly in its close embrace format, can be a rather arousing dance form – although it can also be danced by couples keeping a considerable distance between the man and the woman. Besides dancing as a courtship ritual for couples, it is also important to notice that Latin dance genres are always socially acceptable in mixed gender situations. In fact, dance skills are considered a desirable quality in a potential partner, and a source of pride for both men and women.

While we are on the subject of gender, it is also important to acknowledge, as Austerlitz does on page 115, that Latin sexuality is largely misogynistic. This is reflected in the lyrics of many merengues with lecherous references. Furthermore, merengue, like most other Latin music genres, has traditionally been mostly performed and composed by men. However, in the most recent decades, female performers and all female groups of merengue have enjoyed international success; for example, Puerto Rican singer Olga Tañón and Dominican group Las Chicas del Can. This group was well known for their sex appeal and provocative outfits, which many criticized as demeaning and instigating the voyeuristic male gaze; while others, such as Dominican anthropologist Carlos Andújar, viewed “erotic dance on the merengue bandstand as the same kind of celebration of fertility that characterizes much African influenced expression” (117).

Among the many reasons Austerlitz suggests for the huge acceptance of merengue in D.R. and abroad, I find one of them particularly interesting because it is generalizable to a formula that applies to all music in Latinoamerica: level of danceability is directly proportional to success. Merengue has been welcomed by non-Dominican Latinos too, partly because it features an upbeat inviting rhythm, and because of the simplicity of its dance steps. Compared to other Latin genres, merengue is not just enjoyable but easy to dance (128).

The success of merengue outside of D.R., and, on a larger scale, of Latin music worldwide, is a source of pride for Dominicans and all Latinos respectively. Austerlitz points this out when he quotes Arnold Perris: “musical nationalism is an effective oppositional strategy when a subjugated nation’s art gains fame on the global stages … a subtle act of resistance” (151).

Sacred Dance and Embodied Divinity

In exploring Latin music and dance, and embodied forms of knowledge, I feel the African diaspora religions (or would spiritual practices be a better word?), deserve special attention. I am referring to the ritual dance & music performances that are part of African-American (as in the continent, not the country, of course) syncretic belief and worship systems, such as Haitian Voudoun, Cuban Santeria, Brazilian Candomble.

The main difference between these and other Latin music and dance traditions is that the former are considered sacred by participants, while most of the latter are firmly planted in the secular world. In these drummed and danced rituals archetypal/spiritual/divine entities, referred to as Orishas or Iwas (such as Ogun, the warrior, and Yemayá), manifest themselves through the minds and bodies of some participants. The rituals are full of encoded meaning in the shared movement and rhythmic vocabulary and dynamics, and often also in chant lyrics, colors, items, foods, drinks, and clothing. These meanings are learnt and communicated experientially.

Yvonne Daniel, the author of Dancing Wisdom: Embodied Knowledge in Hatian Voudu, Cuban Yoruba, and Bahian Candomblé, studies these practices as praise performance: sacred dancing. A number of quotes from her book will proof helpful in understanding the worldview in which they take place:

“The divinities have come to help believers become divine themselves.”

“Worshipping Africans in the Diaspora have made philosophy indelible and cosmology visible by means of the intricate and elaborate interrelatioships between sound and gesture, music and dance.”

“Worshippers dance, sing, and drum divinity in order to express divine presence within, between, and among all planes of existence.”

The danced rituals of these Diaspora religions are truly embodied spirituality, an enactment of shared spiritual experiences and knowledge, largely based on collectively raised energy through drumming and movement. Furthermore, these practices also serve a communal purpose generating and fostering cohesiveness. As embodied spiritual experiences, they are wholly alien to our worldview and experiences as Westerners, with our sacred/secular and mind/body dualities, and consequent disregard for the physical and the experiential. In these embodied traditions a feminist would quickly find diverse but equal roles for both genders (among participants and spiritual leaders, as among divine entities); traditions that survived enslavement, colonialism, oppression, and misinformed stereotypes; as well as a refreshing appreciation of human experience.

Analyzing the analyses

The texts I have been reading, have opened my eyes to the deep complexity of Latin music and dance, and the number of layers and perspectives to be considered when studying it as a collection of living traditions. Not the least important of which is the relationship of inside and outside, of the global roots of Latin rhythms, as well as the influence of Latin rhythms in dance and music traditions worldwide.

As explored in previous posts, the widespread reach of Caribbean rhythms around the world, often results in issues of (mis)representation. There is another curious phenomenon worth exploring which emerges from the fact that people the world over dance to Caribbean beats: they often appropriate them and mix them with their own rhythms. The emergence of ska and drum & bass are clear examples of global rhythms with roots in Jamaican music. But the phenomenon does not end there: these new rhythms return, like waves, to the Caribbean, and in turn influence our music and dance scene. Thus, the generation of new rhythms through constant processes of fusion and cross-fertilization is a staple characteristic of Latin music a dance. This continuous rhythmic creolization is noticeable in all our genres: from the original fusion of African, European, and Native American rhythms, instruments, music and dance traditions; to the recent phenomenons of Salsa in the '60s, with it's jazz and orchestral influence; to the reggaeton of the present times, undeniably marked by hiphop. As Susanna Sloat (editor of Caribbean Dance from Abakua to Zou: How Movement Shapes Identity) puts it, the layering of influences (from India, China, Indonesia, Africa, the Middle East, Europe, and Latin America) "have given the caribbean dance cultures a fascinating complexity".

There are other aspects of complexity to these living dance cultures worth exploring. One such aspect is time: some rhythms are abandoned over time, some others revived by folkloric troupes in codified versions for stage performance, while others continue to be embraced by the youth after many generations. Another aspect is social class. Often rhythms originally identified with lower socioeconomic status are eventually accepted by the upper class. Often times in Latin America, the change from disdain of a particular rhythm by the upper class to nationwide acceptance to the point of being identified as the national dance (as was the case with Tango), happens only after the particular rhythm becomes popular abroad. A simlar intercharge of rhythms takes places between rural and urban groups of people, as music and dance forms from the countryside originally considered rustic, rough, and unsophisticated, gradually become accepted in the cities.

In exploring cultural influences and social context, we must consider dance and music genres as living traditions. Taking into account the entire complexity of Latin music and dance requires exploring current elements and social functions as well as ongoing processes (synchronic study) as well as tracing its origins and historical development (diachronic study). Finally, an approach that also includes documenting practitioners and audiences, as well as performance processes, would provide an ethnographic basis from which to draw a sound feminist analysis. I must say, however, that most of the reading I have read thus far approaches Latin music and dance from a historic perspective. Even those writings that include descriptions of dance/music events, participant observation, and/or deal with identity issues, lack any detailed study of dancers and musicians as tradition bearers and as individuals, or of the events from a performative perspective. Thus, focusing on the dance and music genres as text and leaving almost completely out of the picture the people who practice them. This realization has struck me as nothing short of catastrophic, considering that if I have been able to reach any one conclusion thus far, it is that Latin dance and music genres are performed identity.

Creolization: Mix and Transform

A creole language is a stable language that emerges from a mixture of various languages, all at the same time, it maintains elements and vocabulary consistent with the parent languages, while containing original features and syntax unique to itself. The creolization process also applies to cultures, and, of course, to music and dance as cultural expressions. Creolized elements of culture arise from the interaction of heterogeneous elements simultaneously present at a given location. The process of creolization goes beyond simple mixture, to the actual origination of new cultures. Latinoamerican culture is a premium example of this hybridity, and our music and dance forms serve as prime illustrations.

As anybody with some knowledge of the history of the Americas knows, three major cultures were at play in the creolization process: European, Native, and African. In most of mainland Latinoamerica, European was specifically Iberian (Spanish or Portuguese); while in the Caribbean, Brittish, French, and Dutch were also primordial colonizers – not to mention the cultural influence of later Asian immigrants. The cultural groups native to the Americas and the Caribbean were very diverse before colonial times (and continue to be!) To add on top of that, Africans brought during the slave trade came from different regions with diverse cultures too. This immense number of cultural variables account in part to the complexity and variety of cultures across the Americas. Thus, when focusing exclusively in the music and dance genres of Latinoamerica we are encompassing an incredibly wide range of ways of moving and making music, all with different mixtures of European, African and/or Native roots. For example, Cuban and other Hispanic Caribbean singing styles simultaneously contain almost identical survivals of Spanish decimal, as well as the West African complex harmonies and call and response format. In the bodies of Latin dancers coexist the African in the lower body with its bent and flexible knees, low center of gravity, and moving hips, and the European in the lifted upper body (doesn’t it make you think of Spanish flamenco or French waltz?) Isn’t this seemingly contradictory juxtaposition of arrogance and earthiness stereotypical of Latino idiosyncrasy?

What does it mean for us to be all at once African, European, and Native American? How can we identify with aspects of all but at the same time claim our own unique identity? How can all f us be Latinos while being at the same time acutely aware of the differences between regions and countries and even areas? Given that different proportions of the presence and influence of two or all three of the originating cultures in different sociopolitical and environmental circumstances gave rise to a plethora of varied cultures, each with a variety of music and a dance form that fall in different points of the bi or tri-cultural continuum, what are the common thread across our music and dance? I am inclined to believe that it is precisely the process of creolization, out of the same parent cultures and under similar circumstances, what allows us to conceive of a “self” wide enough to include us all. In the case of Latin music and dance it is the commonly repeated elements with their shared roots that identify it as such. Furthermore, cultural creolization, although a process inevitably influenced by the particular relationships of power between the original cultures at play, eventually creates a new independent identity that gives us the freedom to move forward in the ability to identify as one. It’s the African drums, with the European guitars or accordions, and the Native guiros or quenas, which created a dance and music culture with specific, recognizable, shared roots, that is also uniquely our own.

A word on choice of terminology

I use Latin, Latino, and Latinoamerican interchangeably, without making a distinction between people of such origin living in the U.S. and those living in Latinoamerica, including the Caribbean.

I chose the word “Latinoamerica” even if it doesn’t really exist in English because it’s the word use in Latinoamerica to refer to Latinoamerica, that is Mexico, Central, South America and the Caribbean. I dislike Latin-America because the association with other such dashed terms (Asian-American, African-American) implies someone who is an “American” (as the term is used in the United States to identify its citizens) but who was roots somewhere else. If ethnic terminology in the U.S. followed logic, Latin-American would be used to refer to second+ generation Latinos.

On the other hand, I use American to refer to anybody from any region of the Americas (not just U.S.A.)

Native American refers to indigenous tribes of the Americas (not just North America). I have no problem with “indigenous” (indígena) or “American Indian” either, only with “Indian” which I would only use to relate to India.

Sometimes I want to refer specifically and only to certain regions of the Americas. Thus “Hispanic Caribbean” or Hispanoamerica refer to the countries in the Caribbean for the first term, or Mexico, Central, and South America for the second term, that were colonized by Spain. The prefix Ibero- refers to both Spain and Portugal.

Just to be picky, I also often include regions of the U.S., such as California, Texas and New Mexico, in which Hispanic cultural elements about when referring to Hispanoamerican culture, in the same manner in which South Florida and New York are immensely Caribbean. After all, Salsa which has come to be the ultimate representation of Latinidad (Spanish for Latin-ness) or Caribbean music, was born and bred in New York, which doesn’t make it anyless of a Latin cultural expression.

Finally, although I recognize the cultural difference between the Hispanic Caribbean countries (Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Dominican Republic) and the rest of the Caribbean, Brittish, French, and Dutch, as well as the fact that many people of the Caribbean would not identify as Latinos, I chose to focus on the similarities for the sake of this exploration of music and dance. I often state "Latin and Caribbean," even if it is redundant according to my own definition of Latin, to emphasize this. On the other hand,when referring to the unique Caribbean culture (versus South American, or Mexican, for example), I include Belize, as well as the Caribbean coasts and island of all the mainland countries that surround the Caribbean (from the Yucatan peninsula in Mexico, to the Honduran island of Roatan, to the citiy of Barranquilla in Colombia, and the Caribbean coast of Venezuela).

Identity in Motion

"Identity in Motion" is the subtitle to Raices, the hispanic arts and culture educational program I developed and teach. However, it is also a very fit title for some of the thoughts evoked by reading Caribbean Dance from Abakua to Zouk: How Movement Shapes Identity.

Susanna Sloat's introduction is very thought provoking. She brings up the issue of how music and dance areperhaps the best known representation of Caribbean cultures - Latin cultures in general, I would add. All over the world we are immediately associated with popular rhythms, from the latest reggaeton, to the immortal conga lines. In this way our music and dance represent us, or misrepresent us, worldwide. Music and dance are the most well know Latin cultural expression in the countries that form the diaspora, where Caribbeans and Latinos have immigrated traditionally, and beyond, into countries with no considerable Latino presence. Plenty of times people's concept of our cultures are downright simplified to the characteristics our music and dance. I am also very aware of the fact that we are not only represented by our rhythms and dances, but by our attitudes towards movement, which, carefully contextualized, contain important clues to who we are. Caribbeanness is inextricably associated with joy, hip fluidity, and sensuality. In this way, "dance becomes the primary mark of identity," both personal and communal, both internal and external. Foreigners expect all self-respecting Latinos to be able to dance a Salsa, without exception. Dancing at New Year's parties and other family gatherings and social celebrations creates a communal experience and a sense of belonging, while marking insiders and outsider. Children learn in elementary school the basics to our "national" folkloric dances, and pick up popular and social ones from adults through observation and participation. Considering the colonial history of Latin America and the Caribbean, all matters of ethnic pride and national identity become primordial, music and dance are no exceptions - in fact, wonderful examples. As Sloat so beautifully puts it:
"In the Caribbean, ... where people love to dance, ... individuals become passionately attached to the dances they do, whether they are those of the majority or of a subculture, in that way asserting their identity through movement".

As I begin this journey exploring sociocultural and historical aspects of Latin music and dance from a feminist perspective, I find it important to take a look, first of all, at my initial location - where do I come from, what are my personal experiences related to the topic? What ideas and feelings related to Latin music and dance am I starting off with?

I will say that I identify as a young Latina (all at once Latin-American by birth, of Hispanic heritage, and a migrant in the U.S., so, regardless of which of the many definitions of the word you pick, it will still fit me). I am half Argentinian, half Panamanian, born in the former, raised in the latter. I like to joke that I'm Argentinian when I dance tango, and Panamanian when I dance salsa -- and it's true. The many years I have spent in the U.S. have also shaped who I am. It has already been a number of years since I started dreaming and thinking in English, and referring to Americans in the first person plural. I am proud of my ethnicity and cultural background, and once I bought a t-shirt that read "Latina is beautiful". Music and dance have always been an important part of my life, and I currently teach and perform professionally. I also identify as a feminist, one who seeks equality and resists oppression in all its forms (gender, race, sexuality, class, economic, etc).

That being said, I can think of no better way to explore where I am speaking from than by examining a poem I wrote a few years ago. I will present the original Spanish version below, as well as an attempt at a noted translation. It must be kept in mind that by the very nature of the poem, many colloquial words without literal translation present concepts difficult to explain to a foreign mind. I also include the text from the original post on my personal blog, where I first published this poem, in order to further contextualize my location.

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Friday, January 20, 2006

today, i told my dad: "la vida a lo gringo es como cafe descafeinado con splenda ... la vida a lo latino es cafe tinto con azucar morena " ("life American style is like decaf coffee with splenda, life Latino style is like espresso with brown sugar")

today, someone who knows me well, said: "you are too latina for your own good"

today, a close friend decided that the worse and most offensive insult someone could say to me would be: "you dance like a gringa"

Here's a poem about women, Latin-American music and the Latin-American way of life I wrote last year:

Danza, mujer, el ritmo
tropical de los tambores
con ese tumbao caribeño de las caderas,
con esa cadencia decadente y elegante.
Es la cultura de la cintura,
la historia de son y sal,
del viento tras las palmeras
persistente y furioso como el mar.

Danza, mujer, el ritmo
latino de la guitarra,
con ese arte alegre y antiguo,
con ese aire de fiesta eterna,
Es el calor que se lleva en las venas,
la desesperada calma que se arrastra en los pies,
la resignada esperanza del desamparo,
espontáneo y medido como la música.

Danza, mujer, el ritmo mestizo de las maracas
con esa pasión de cuerpos contiguos,
con ese amor a lo mutuo y compartido.
Es el culto bailable a la fertilidad,
la conexión a la tierra y la gravedad,
la herencia de tres continentes,
milagrosa e inestable como la paz.

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Dance, woman, the tropical
rhythm of the drums
with that Caribbean tumbao (1) of the hips,
with that elegant and decadent cadence.
It's the culture of the waist,
the history of son (2) and salt,
the wind among the palm trees,
persistent and furious, just like the sea.

Dance, woman, the Latin
rhythm of the guitar,
with that ancient and joyous art,
with those airs of eternal fiesta (3).
It's the heat we carry in our blood (4),
the desperate calmness we drag in our feet,
the resigned hope of el desamparo (5),
spontaneous and measured, just like music.

Dance, woman the mestizo (6)
rhythm of the maracas (7)
with the passion of contiguous bodies,
with love for that which is mutual and shared.
It's the danceable cult to fertility,
the connection to the earth and to gravity,
the heritage of three continents,
miraculous and unstable, just like peace.

(1) tumbao is a Caribbean slang word similar to the words "strut" or "swing". It refers to moving the feet or hips with a certain grace, sensuality, rhythm, swagger, groove, or flavor, especially when dancing or walking.

(2) Son refers to a particular sound, rhythm, mood, or melody. It is also used in Latin America to refer to a song with a lively, danceable beat. It is also a Cuban rhythm.

(3) Unlike the English "party", the Spanish "fiesta" also refers to fetivals, holidays, or any kind of festive celebrations, including religious festivities.

(4) the expression "llevar en la sangre" refers to something inhereted. It is used to refer to something a whole group of people or culture share ,or a family trait.

(5) abandon, helplessness, without protection or refuge, relinquished.

(6) mestizo means of mixed race. In Latin-America there was much more intermarriage between the Europeans and the natives, as well as with the Africans that were brought later, than in the U.S. or Canada. This process is called mestizaje and is, among other reasons, probably due to the fact that in one case mostly men were arriving to conquer territories, while in the other entire families were migrating to create new settlements. As a result, terms like "biracial" are not often used in Latin-America, where most everybody is mestizo in one way or the other.

(7) the references to the drums, guitar, and maracas, allude to the African, European, and Indigenous American influences in Latin music respectively.