“¡Morena!”
The word echoes down the streets of the campo as I walk to the local colmado. At first, I thought it was someone calling to a friend, but soon I realized they meant me. Morena.
Through looks, I appear Dominican—brown skin, thick curly hair, and a calmness here that make me seem like I belong. That illusion, though, shatters the moment I open my mouth. My slow, careful Spanish gives me away immediately. And when they learn I am American, their eyes widen. “Gringa?” they’d ask, eyebrows raised. The label didn’t quite fit either. And then one day, someone put it together: “Morena Gringa.”
Defining Morena Gringa
For me, being a morena gringa reflects the layered identity I navigate daily.
In the Dominican Republic, moreno(a) describes people with medium brown skin. It’s distinct from negrito(a) (darker brown) or rubio(a) (lighter skin). To me, my color provides a level of comfort and familiarity with the Dominicans around me. It was one of the reasons I chose to serve here—I wanted to live among people who looked like me. Being called Morena, makes me feel like I belong.
Here, Gringa is not just a label for foreigners but specifically for Americans. Yet, I’m not the type of gringa they expect when they think of the U.S. I’m not white, and it leaves people confused about my nationality.
Together, morena and gringa create a dichotomy that’s both empowering and limiting. These identities let me blend in yet set me apart.
First Impressions Abroad
“¿Eres Dominicana?” (Are you Dominican?)
I hear this often, usually right after I open my mouth and people realize my Spanish is far from native. When I shake my head and explain I’m American, the follow-up comes almost immediately: “Oh, but your family is Dominican?” or “Really? Your face looks very Dominican.” I still don’t really know what to say to that. It’s not really a compliment, more of an observation, but I usually say, “Gracias,” nonetheless.
At first, blending in felt like a superpower. Walking down the street, I wasn’t immediately marked as an outsider or a target for theft. I wasn’t subjected to the same piropos (catcalls) or staring as my white counterparts. But this blending in, means I get to see a more unfiltered version of the DR than my white peers.
Before arriving, I’d heard glowing reports about how amazing Dominican people are. “Dominicans are the friendliest people,” I was told. But living here has shown me a more nuanced reality. While some Dominicans are warm and welcoming, I definitely wouldn’t say it’s the norm. A local once told me, “Dominicans are only nice to tourists,” and then it clicked. Many of those raving about the culture’s friendliness were likely tourists themselves, probably staying in places like Punta Cana.
For me, the lack of politeness—the absence of smiling at strangers, combined with the way people will ignore you or talk about you in front of your face—has been the biggest shock since moving here (and I’ve seen a lot of things). In Santo Domingo, cashiers sometimes do not speak to me at all. Not a greeting, a reading of the total, or a wish for me to have a good day as I leave. I’ve come to learn that people here are generally only friendly to those they know. In the campo where I live, people warm up once a relationship is established. And look, I don’t want to put Dominicans in a bad light. They are the most giving and helpful people, but politeness outside of Punta Cana does not seem to be a part of their culture.
Occasionally, when people find out I’m American, their behavior shifts. They might be more inclined to help me, engage with me, or even express romantic interest. But relying on this reaction would mean leaning into the privilege of my American identity—something I’m continually reflecting on as I navigate these cultural dynamics.
Navigating Duality
Before living in the Dominican Republic, I had never really thought about the fact that I am American. Now it’s an aspect of my identity that I’m hyper-aware of. It’s something that I’m proud of. Because of where I was born, I am afforded certain privileges and opportunities.
When people find out I’m American, their behavior sometimes changes. They seem more inclined to help me, date me, or connect with me in ways that sometimes feel strategic rather than genuine. Even so, I feel protective of my identity as an American. It bothers me when people doubt it.
My host family admitted they were surprised when they met me. They had imagined a blonde-haired, blue-eyed volunteer. At a school presentation during training, after volunteers and I had introduced ourselves as an American working with the Peace Corps, students still came up to me personally afterward, asking where I was from. A student at my permanent site once asked how I learned English. When people guess where I’m from, I get Puerto Rican, Honduran, Indian, but not American. Because I’m Black, it’s hard for them to perceive me as fully estadounidense.
But can I blame them for their limited understanding of America’s diversity? I, too, was surprised upon arriving here. I’d read that only 10% of Dominicans identified as Black, yet the majority of people I see look like what we’d consider Black in the U.S. Perhaps Black Americans are just underrepresented in the media, the same way Black Dominicans are.
Being Black adds another layer to my volunteer experience. During training, we were told to expect curiosity and constant attention as foreigners. But it seems I don´t generate the same level of excitement as my white peers. My appearance doesn’t evoke the wide-eyed wonder or fascination they often experience. I am a foreigner, but I look the same. Initially, this felt disheartening, but then I considered why being seen as American matters to me. Is it pride? A need to stand out? At times, I’ve felt challenged and underestimated based on my lack of Spanish and understanding of this new world around me. My nationality explains my puzzledness over seemingly obvious things. But over time, I’ve come to accept that it’s okay if I look like a confused duckling at times. And it’s okay if I blend in with the crowd. I don’t need to stand out to make an impact. My role is to integrate, build connections with my community, and do meaningful good work. I have goals I want to achieve as a volunteer, and being seen as one of them brings me a step closer to earning the trust needed to accomplish them.
Embracing and Owning Morena Gringa
Over time, I’ve come to terms with my dual identity and have learned to find strength in it.
Most notably, the connections I have with locals, especially the kids. They find me relatable and instantly feel comfortable around me. There’s a warmth in their acceptance, even when they’re surprised by my background. And I see them as I see my own family, and I care for them deeply.
Among my Peace Corps peers, my experiences offer a lens into the complexities of being a volunteer of color. I can add depth to conversations about race, privilege, and cultural integration.
Being a morena gringa isn’t a contradiction; it’s a bridge. It connects me to cultures, challenges stereotypes, and reshapes how I see the world. And in this duality, I’ve discovered a sense of belonging that feels uniquely mine.
Wandering Morena 
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