La Dominicana: Images of the Dominican Immigrant

La Dominicana: Images of the Dominican
Immigrant in Contemporary Spanish Film
SUNY New Paltz
Spain currently ranks second in Europe with regard to immigrant population as an
unprecedented 12% ofthe country's 47 million registered residents is foreign born {ine.es).
This is an extraordinary occurrence since Spain's modern history has been characterized by
international isolation and post-civil war emigration. Nonetheless, during the transition
from Franco's dictatorship to democracy and subsequent financial growth of the early
1980s, it was immigrants hailing from economically disadvantaged countries who
began flocking to Spain. In particular, those seeking to overcome financial hardship in
the Dominican Republic were among the migrant groups rapidly forming substantial
communities in Spain. As a result of such a demographic shift, these new residents have
begun to appear as characters if not protagonists of contemporary Spanish film. The topic
to be explored here is exactly how certain characters are portrayed. Though Dominican
immigrants in today's Spain are reported to have an unusually advantageous profile, the
vast majority of Dominican immigrants have been women, and their reception has been
influenced by the perpetuation of an age-old discriminatory stereotype. The popular image
ofthe Dominican woman in the 21st century still adheres to that ofthe allegedly lascivious
and dangerous Afro-Caribbean female cast upon her during the colonial period.
The female Dominican immigrant-or ''dominicana"- has had the leading role in three
contemporary films, each with a different cinematic genre classification. Yet the essence
of her depiction, as well as that of traditional native residents, evokes the longstanding
stereotype. Flores de otro mundo (1999), I Love You Baby (2001), and Princesas (2005)
each features a different yet very similar dominicana, and while a certain excitement is
seen in the reactions of some local characters, racism and xenophobia are clearly displayed
in others. Regardless of the filmmakers' intentions, their characters echo the voices of
both the former colonizer and the colonized, ftirther internalizing these images among
Spain's increasingly diverse population. Likewise, such an image ofthe dominicana proves
beneficial to Spain's emergence as a leader among European nations in their neocolonial
domination over past dependent states in a modern, transnational capitalist system.
Certain factors in the unique situation pertaining to Dominican immigrants in Spain
today first need to be underscored. Approximately 80% of Spain's immigrants come from
economically depressed countries, most recently those of Eastern Europe, Latin America
37
and Northern Africa. Much is attributed to porous borders, miles of unprotected coasdine
and poorly enforced immigration law, or Ley de Extranjería, which has been modified
six times since 1986 (Escrivá 205). The relative ease with which certain foreign nationals
have entered Spain direcdy reflects the precarious implementation of legal restrictions,
and Dominicans clearly represent one of these groups. Dominican immigration to Spain
increased tremendously between 1988 and 1993, after which entry visas were required of
all Dominicans (Pimentel Paulino 100-103).'In 1998, Dominicans comprised 16.5% of
all Latin American immigrants living in Spain, creating a remarkable presence in a country
experiencing such a wave of foreign arrivals for the first time in its modern history (102).
Long-standing and complex ties between Spain and the Dominican Republic
undoubtedly play a part in the current panorama. Throughout the colonial project and
continuing well into the 20th century, Spanish emigrants consistently arrived in the
Dominican Republic under a series of economic and/or political premises and it wasn't
until afterTrujillos death in 1961 that the migration flow began to reverse itself.^Trujillos
ideological likeness to Franco included the extreme exaltation oï hispanidad h^scA on "la
Raza" Franco's notion of Spain as a Catholic nation-state unified by a single ethnic group,
and the issue of race is omnipresent throughout the two countries' dealings. As the only
colonists in Latin America to fall twice under Spanish control, Dominicans perceived newly
arrived troops as pro-slavery white supremacists during the 1863—65 War of Restoration
(Torres-Saillant 121). Today, the racial factor proves prominent as a tool for Spanish capital
gain both on Dominican and Spanish soil. Spain's recent investment in Latin America,
often viewed as an exploitative neo-imperialist project, included hotel properties in the
Dominican Republic; as a result, the Dominican economy is now tourism-based and the
exotic features of the island marketed to tourists have been the country's own -mostly
female- dark-skinned inhabitants.^ Poorly distributed economic gains increased poverty
levels thus reflected by the reversed migration flow: Further exploitation ofthe dominicana
now takes place on the peninsula, revealing a steady pattern of domination and supremacy.
As has been the case with other Latin American emigrants to Spain, ties to the
'motherland,' a linguistic advantage, and preferential treatment with regard to residence
and work permits were attractive to Dominicans. Entry to the continental United States
and Puerto Rico was becoming more difficult when opportunity arose on the transatlantic
horizon, and Dominican women were those who seized it. Spanish women had begun to
join the growing workforce and domestic workers were in demand, which dramatically
altered the gender ratio of Dominican immigrants to Spain. Hence the term la dominicana
became synonymous for domestic worker, previously referred to as la portuguesa, which is
a linguistic-demographic sign ofthe times (Gallardo Rivas 104). Unlike any other migrant
group, three times more women have entered Spain from the Dominican Republic than
men, and in most cases the men returned home, unable to find employment as easily as
their female compatriots (Pimentel Paulino 124).
For over two decades, the Dominican population in Spain has established itself
and studies show that Dominicans have acquired a standard of living higher than that of
other migrant groups in Spain. For example, business partnerships between Spanish and
Dominican men have given rise to a large number of Dominican restaurants and dance
clubs, money wiring and long distance telephone services, and Dominican beauty salons
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CONFLUENCIA, SPRING 2013
(Gregorio Gil, Migración 209). Many Dominican women work for these men, though
some women are proprietors of their own salons, and such accomplished joint ventures
might suggest a certain level of inclusion and acceptance within Spanish society. However,
as Carlos Giménez points out, dominicanas suffer triple discrimination: They are women
in male-dominated society, they are working class in a capitalist environment, and they are
foreigners in post-Maastricht Europe (10-11). I argue that, more specifically, these women
continue to suffer unjust consequences ofthe negative stereotype fashioned by Spaniards
during the colonial period and still working to their advantage today.
The stereotype of the Afro-Caribbean woman has a long tradition, as Anne
McClintock describes, from her roots in Africa, the "quintessential zone of sexual
aberration and anomaly," to what McClintock denominates the "porno-tropics" (22),
the Caribbean. Ann Laura Stoler expands on its evolution: "The tropics provided a site
for European pornographic fantasies long before conquest was under way, with lurid
descriptions of sexual aberrations, and general perversion marking the Otherness of the
colonized for metropolitan consumption" (43). Stoler cites Sander L. Gilman's study of
18th-19th century scientific research that affirmed a primitive sexual appetite and bestial
lasciviousness inherent to African women, given their biological makeup and climactic
influences (Gilman 84-85). Such alleged findings would only seem fitting while Imperial
Spain continued to bring African slaves to its American colonies and, as property of her
master, the female slave was to surrender to him her time, her labor, and her body. Her
primary duties were as domestic worker and/or concubine, and since the latter often
granted privileges as great as freedom for her children, it was a coveted and even sought
after role (Bush 116). At the same time, however, this provided reinforcement of the
erotic stereotype, as did the initial perception of the African woman as prostitute in the
Caribbean colonies. As a result ofthe 17th "Century of Misery" in the colony of Santo
Domingo, in particular, slaves were sent out as jornaleros, or day workers, with a variety
of services to sell, including sex in the case of female slaves whose owners left them topless
in the streets to entice potential clients (Liriano 64). Through this series of associations,
the African woman would gain her immoral reputation while racist, sexist and classicist
domination by European rule became further entrenched in societal norms.
Stoler fittingly summarizes Gilman's observations as deeming sexuality the most
salient marker of Otherness, present in any racist ideology, and elaborates on sexuality
as a loaded metaphor for domination defining sexual control in the colonial sphere (4446). The Afro-Caribbean mulatto woman would then inherit these apparently exotic and
libidinous traits from her ancestors and, though she oflScially remained taboo for the
European male in the colonies, she was even more desirable to him since she displayed
some Caucasian features (Bush 15).^ While the African woman was sought out as slaveworker and the white European woman was sought for marriage, the mulatto woman
became the object of illicit sexual desire.^ Such desires were not left unsatisfied, and what
was also inherited was the dominant white man's perspective, which is demonstrated today
in the collective victimization experienced by Dominican women in Spanish society.
One of the fundamental factors in reinforcing the modernized stereotype has been
the vast number oí dominicanas involved in prostitution. For some who could not secure
themselves as domestic workers, it provided a quick financial solution upon arrival in
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39
Spain, yet for others it is a net from which they are unable to escape. After being promised
visas to perform as dancers abroad, many Dominican women were led far from home,
indebted far beyond their means, and forced to work as prostitutes (Gregorio Gil, Migración
141).^ Similarly, the rise of sexual tourism in the Dominican Republic has enabled even
more Dominican women to emigrate in an attempt to provide economically for their
families, only to find themselves, too, indebted, defenseless, and marked with the stigma
of the Garibbean mulatto woman. Historically, Guba has been the "quintessential pleasure
destination" for U.S. and more recently European male travelers, yet the Dominican
Republic has become one of the Garibbean's top tourist destinations, where sex-for-money
exchanges hold the promise of romance and migration for local residents. Through her
research on sex tourism in these two countries, Amalia L. Gabezas sees homogenization
of them through transnational tourism that "reactivates historical patterns of production"
since "former colonizers and new transnational classes travel to the Garibbean to consume
the scenery, beaches, and ultimately, brown bodies" (Economies 43, 53). The Dominican
female sex worker, subject to oppression on both sides of the Atlantic, has joined her
Guban counterpart in personifying Stoler's Other as perversely marked for metropolitan
consumption.
Mass media shares the responsibility for continually producing sensationalist images
that only perpetuate this image oí la dominicana. It is also guilty of associating Dominican
domestic workers with their compatriots involved in prostitution, much to the dismay of
those workers (Torres 135). This association has created a collective figure that inevitably
falls victim to discrimination, much like the Garibbean mulatto woman of centuries past.
History appears to repeat itself since many female slaves originally brought to Hispaniola
were already situated as domestic slaves in Peninsular Spain; African domestics were a status
symbol for their owners, hence they became social demand (Liriano 14, 51). Today, both
the domestic worker and the prostitute are clearly in demand as they are indispensable for
maintaining the socio-economic structure Spain has established in its age of democracy.
In The Politics of Culture in the Shadow of Capital, Lisa Lowe and David Lloyd explore
capitalism, patriarchy, and the processes of racialization that take place through colonialism
and immigration as "axes of domination" generating a convergence of struggles (21). They
refer to the "feminization and racialization of work that more and more relies on immigrant
women and women in the neocolonized world," which is precisely the situation we see in
Spain today, with particular regard to Dominican immigrants who originally Red their
country to fill the demand for these female-dominated services that cannot be exported.
Vanesa Sáiz Echezarrieta and Maria José Sánchez Leyva expand on this concept in
direct connection with the stereotype forced upon Latin American women in Spain today
by identifying the "ellas/nosotras" dynamic. The presence of Latin American women, albeit
necessary for Spain's economic well-being, constitutes a threat for Spanish women by which
the following perception is established: "[son] como parte de una realidad atrasada por lo
que su imagen nos hace considerar que s\xs problemas nosoudis ya ios hemos superado'^ (173).
This applies to both the domestic worker as well as the prostitute, and both are explored
by Sáiz Echezarrieta and Sánchez Leyva. As the modern Spanish woman allegedly evolves
within her 21st century society, she places the dark-skinned immigrants at an inferior level.
Animalization of these women by local women places them in a sub-human category since
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they "choose" to live in such marginalized situations ( 184). Such assumptions and prej udices
made and expressed about Dominican women are best illustrated by the heated tensions of
the early 1990s in Aravaca, a wealthy suburb of Madrid where many Dominican women
were employed as live-in domestic workers. After authorities denied their request to use
the local civic center, these women would socialize on their common days off in the central
square. Neighbors protested and accusations were made not only of alleged prostitution in
the square, but of continued attempts by the women to lure the locals' husbands away ("La
colonia," "Merengue"). The media helped paint this scandalous picture of the dominicana,
publicizing such unsupported statements and offering reporters' own clichéd observations.
A writer for the national journal El Pats, for example, denounced one woman's provocative
dress as representative of all dominicanas and offered readers the name of the Dominican
bar where Spanish men were guaranteed to "get lucky" ("Navidad"). Carmen Gregorio Gil
observes a very interesting paradox in the Aravaca confiict, since the Dominican women
meet publicly as opposed to in a bar among other men, precisely with the intention of
sending news of their sexual propriety back home. The majority of Dominican immigrants
are unaccompanied women, consequently represented by an "imaginary collective" whose
motive for emigration is sex ("La movilidad" 115-116). Gregorio Gil proceeds to identify
the colonial and patriarchal model as influential in the racist, classicist and sexist treatment
of Dominican women in Spanish society at the new millennium (117).^
Spain's long tradition of ethnic purification, which includes eras of expulsion and
official policy based on race and religion, is often cited as a form of rationale for the
xenophobic reaction to the country's sudden demographic shift. It wasn't long ago that
Franco's regime of almost four decades (1939-1975) fabricated its ideology based on
"la Raza" previously mentioned here. The glorification of absolutist Catholic monarchs
Ferdinand and Isabel as model leaders should suffice for an image of both Franco's Spain as
well as what Juan Goytisolo, among others, refers to as the "darkening" of Spain (13-14).
Whereas isolation and economic depression under Franco produced massive emigration
from Spain, opportunity under democracy has attracted immigration, and the Spaniards'
general reaction to their threatened identity speaks volumes by means of a code of behavior
that echoes its imperial past.^
Published studies on late 20th century immigration to Spain, including the
Dominican phenomenon, began to appear in the late 1990s. Flores de otro mundo, L Love
You Baby, and Princesas debuted in 1999, 2001, and 2005, respectively, long after the
peak of Dominican immigration and the Aravaca conflict had subsided, and when their
communities were established to some degree within Spanish society. The films' releases
span the course of seven years and they diflFer by genre, yet the assorted characterizations
of three big-screen dominicanas are ever so similar. What they all have in common is
a female Dominican protagonist whose portrayal is achieved through clichéd physical
appearance, speech and behavior not only on the part of her main character, but also of
native characters obviously affected by her mere presence. Moreover, in each one of the
films, the depiction of this stereotype is successfully accomplished in the dominicanas very
first appearance on the screen.
The highly acclaimed comedy-drama Elores de otro mundo, directed by Icíar Bollaín,
is the story of three immigrant women who attend a bachelors' festival in the rural town
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of Santa Eulalia, which in and of itself is not a fictional event (Moyano 179). Patricia is
a Dominican mulatto woman with two children to support; Milady is an Afro-Cuban
woman brought to Spain via sex tourism; and Madrrosi is a blonde Basque woman, also
considered a foreigner in the small Castilian town. Over the past decade since the films
release, several scholars have examined the xenophobic and racist attitudes of the local
residents in the film as they weigh heavily on each woman's decision whether or not to
remain in Santa Eulalia with her respective partner.^
While the opening credits are displayed on the screen and the overture ''En mi
soledad' is heard, the boisterous, dark-skinned women in the proverbial back of the
bus clearly do not meet with the approval of the Spanish women seated in the front.
They identify them as "dominicanas" and disparagingly remark, ''Es que están en todas
partes" As Patricia descends from the bus, local men immediately begin to snicker and
the camera zooms in on another dominicanas tight yellow leggings to solidify the same
image conjured by the El Pats reporter. The viewer shares in the cameras dominant, white
male gaze before a local band performs the astutely selected "Contamíname" to infer the
cultural tainting about to take place. Martin-Márquez points out that the pop song serves
"to communicate both the attraction and the fear experienced by the town's men as they
undertake an encounter with multiple forms of otherness" (262). In reality, the songs
lyrics are a bold reference to colonial fears of sexual contamination in the tropics even if its
background position might appear to soften the delivery.'^ A close-up of Milady s clientnow-partner Carmelo and Patricia's future partner Damián, in which Carmelo smugly
asserts that darker women are easier than white women because "les gusta" emphasizes the
element of taboo these women present and completes the ambience in which the viewer is
then formally introduced to Patricia. Standing out in a brightly colored, form-fitting dress,
she is dancing with a local bachelor who gropes her, despite her resistance. When she then
sits with Damián, a wide shot of them talking suddenly cuts to a close-up of Gregoria,
his ultra-reticent mother, and her sullen expression reveals both the contrast with and her
disapproval ofthe dark-skinned Patricia. The plot has barely been exposed, but the tone is
set: The dominicana has arrived on the Spanish scene, eliciting enthusiasm from local men
and condemnation from local women.
Equally important for the outset oïFlores is Afro-Cuban Milady's initial appearance
on the screen, as her darker complexion provides a subtle contrast to the mulatto Patricia.
She is framed by Carmelo's truck window much like the women firamed by the bus windows
upon their arrival in Santa Eulalia, before she steps out dressed in skin-tight leggings with
a U.S. flag motif to suggestive chords ofthe bass guitar. Maria Cami-Vela recognizes the
"mirada fetichista y voyeurísticd' that is confirmed by the awestruck local men (185). Only
a group of elderly male observers are able to verbalize their impressions, much like a Greek
chorus: "Qué dentadura,
qué labios, qué besazos tiene que pegar, [...] quien tuviera
veinte
años" These comments evoke the pseudo-scientific reports identifying African women's
bestial sexual appetite, and this idea is then visually reinforced in the film as the sexually
adept Milady brings Carmelo to ejaculation by simply straddling him while fully clothed.
As for Patricia, Frank Leinen identifies the "cliché de la seductora caribeña" when she
later instructs her inexperienced Spanish husband in bed (96). Here the taboo factor is
enhanced since their sexual relations take place strictly under the covers, but the match cut
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CONFLUENCIA, SPRING 2013
to a television screen on which a close-up of a woman's lacy-hosed upper thighs frame a
graphic sex scene in the background clearly links the dominicana with illicit sex before the
viewer realizes the town's men are watching a porno film in the local bar. Festival-organizer
Alfonso's asks Garmelo how Milady is adapting to Santa Eulalia and as he attempts to
answer, a woman's orgasmic moaning is heard in the background. In a similar sequence,
Patricia's Dominican friends ask her about her new husband's sexual performance while
dancing to the sexually explicit lyrics of a reggaetón song. The subliminal connection
between the Afro-Caribbean women and sex makes for a clearly perverse association.
The multi-faceted discourse of power is heard throughout Flores in the voices
of Santa Eulalia's residents, much like true members of Spanish society. Coupled with
the locals' racist and xenophobic reactions, it is important to stress the sexist factor
independendy, which Stoler points out as being much different from racism and sex {AG).
When Carmelo beats Milady after she spends a night out in Valencia, he exerts male
domination in addition to the racist power-play already in place while he kept her at home
as a virtual sex-slave. Sexual control is independently though simultaneously employed
and the viewer is invited to share in the dominant perspective as the camera focuses solely
on Milady, through her aggressor's eyes. Moreover, the old men in Flores will continue to
confuse the two Caribbean women and make sharp comments from the periphery, such
as the need for Carmelo to "tame" Milady, and, as Martin-Cabrera points out, their age is
quite significant: "the image that the men project onto Patricia and Milady corresponds to
ingrained beliefs inherited from Spain's colonial past about the supposed nymphomania
of women of colour" ("Postcolonial" 51). In turn, the younger generations display their
inheritance in the film, entering the bar and asking where the black girls are "kept" as
segue to coy comments about local prostitutes. Their question is not an isolated one since
the sequence features a provocatively dressed Milady roaming the bar and entering/exiting
through a small, raised doorway in the background, much like a zoo exhibit. The young
men later drive past Patricia and her compatriots yelling "\Chochoy' as they stand on the
side of the road, appearing lost in the midst of open, desolate countryside. While the
history of the stereotype is recalled, the contemporary image reinforces unchanged views
passed down to Spain's youth.
The barrage of stereotypical comments and situations throughout the film pigeonhole
Patricia as the classic dominicana in 1990s Spain. She is a trained beautician who was
exploited as a domestic worker in Madrid, and whose friends and family escaped their
homeland in rafts, ending up in New York. Patricia often expresses her discontent with
Spanish police and immigration law, and, as Martin-Márquez states, her characterization
truly lends a documentary-like quality to the film (266). While certain 'typical' situations
undoubtedly provoke laughter from the audience, Patricia's (and Milady's) victimization is
no laughing matter. Moreover, as Patricia and Milady incite a sexually arousing fascination
in the men of Santa Eulalia, the alleged provocation is not ignored by the women. Alfonso's
sister Aurora lashes out repeatedly against the immigrants. She is the voice ofthe threatened
female in the equation who expresses her disapproval of the newcomers, in racist terms.
According to Aurora, they are all after the same thing -money and papers- and as soon
as they get it, they're gone. Gregoria's attitude toward her new daughter-in-law and her
friends is no different, and Martin-Cabrera identifies in these women's roles neo-racism
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as it is described by Balibar, one based on incompatible cultural practices ("Postcolonial"
49). Though this is certainly ttue, it cannot be denied that their darker sldntones are what
immediately sets the Afro-Caribbean women apart. Both Aurora and Gregoria are visibly
disgusted by their intimate presence, and their complaints echo those of European women
in the colonial Caribbean who punished black and mulatto slave women for aggressively
and eroticaliy pursuing white men (Morrissey 149). It would appear that ''papeles'' are the
21st century ticket to freedom, and Bollains Patricia appears co have paved the way for
future Spanish films featuring this dominicana.
While Alfonso Albacete and David Menkes' LLove You Baby may appeal to a different
audience, it portrays an image ofthe dominicana on par with Bollain's Patricia, but within
a "chick-flick" format. In this romantic comedy, Marcos leaves his small hometown in
Alicante for the big city, where he begins to question his sexual preference after being
struck by a disco ball in a karaoke bar. From this point on, his love triangle includes
not only his ex-lover Daniel but the fiery dominicana Marisol. As the film opens and
Marcos emerges from the subway exit at ''Prosperidad!' an immediate close-up highlights
the dual interpretation suggested by the sign: Madrid holds the promise of prosperity
for small-town Marcos, just as he does for immigrant Marisol. While the viewer hears
Marisols voice off-screen talking to her young daughter in Santo Domingo, the interior
and exterior shots of the locutorio, or long distance call center, and the close-up of her
daughters photo apprise the viewer of her situation. The irony is clear when the sequence
of Marisol working as a domestic is voiced over with "todo aquí es muy bonito— Hay
muchos sitios para jugar!' The viewer has not yet been formally introduced to Marisol, but
the images are well-recognizable and her entrance into Marcos' family bar reveals familiar
attitudes from the locals.
A full length shot of Marisol accentuates her figure, considered "canónica' by Uncle
Antonio, who encourages Marcos to pursue this good-looking girl like he would do if
he was his age. He is quickly reprimanded by his wife Asunción as she physically as well
as verbally intervenes between the two: "Pero no la tienes. No le hagas caso a tu tío y ten
cuidado con esas dominicanas. Ésas van buscando cómo cazar un hombre para poder casarse y
quedarse aquí. Luego mucho bailar, mucha alegría, y a la hora de la verdad... "Her words are
distinctly reminiscent ofthose spoken by Aurora in Flores, while Antonio's comments evoke
the group of old men in Santa Eulalia. But Antonio takes it one step further by reassuring
Marcos: "Sigue mi consejo, aprovecha ahora, que eres joven. Luego terminarás con una mujer
como tu tía y no podréis volver a mirar a otra. " His fatherly advice is passed down to the
next generation and the message is clear: The young man should enjoy himself now with
the dominicana who will surely show him a good time, because, clearly, she isn't fit for
marriage. The taboo is visually recalled when Antonio gives Marcos money to take Marisol
out for a drink, cleverly filmed in the dark hallway of their home, out of Asuncion's sight.
Within the first fifteen minutes of the film, the viewer is once again acquainted with
the dominicana stereotype through the dominant gaze, and reminded of both the male
fascination and the female resistance elicited by her presence.
I Love You Baby is complete with hackneyed images oí dominicanas in Madrid. As
Song observes, Marisol s friends appear as "loud, physically large, colorfully or skimpily
dressed, highlighting their foreignness with their accent, speech, and their interaction
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with each other" and she likens this visual marginalization to the opening bus scene in
Flores. (51). Marisol's roommate Kenya is an exotic dancer at a bar called Showgirls while
Kati works at the Peluquería Americana, where their group meets to have their hair done,
gossip, and dance bachata. A wide-angle shot of the corner on which the beauty salon sits
emphasizes the contrast between its bright blue façade and the ochre-colored buildings and
rooftops surrounding it. Much of the storyline takes place at El Hollo, a Dominican bar
painted a bright green, where the police harass the immigrant owners and where Marisol
puts her flirtatious charms into overdrive while introducing Marcos to the food, music and
customs of her homeland. Among these apparently beloved customs is the Dominican way
of complimenting one's partner's physical attributes -also yearned for by Patricia in Flores
and absent in her new Spanish husband- such as "Mami, qué buena estás." When Marcos
takes Marisol to the beach, the natural surroundings appear to incite a lustful impatience
within the islander. Marcos is just looking to take a swim, but Marisol's voiceover reveals
she has other ideas: "A ver si se anima y me singa de una vez." Her views and behavior are
bold and aggressive like those of the legendary mulatto woman, and her use of the verb
singar astutely places her in the Caribbean.
Endless clichés reinforce the various aspects of this stereotype in the film, and
despite the comedie and thus exaggerated approach to the film's themes, the tired images
begin to wear on the viewer. No stone is left unturned and even the issue of skin tone is
addressed in the film. Marisol is played by Mexican actress Tiaré Scanda, who does not
display African physical features, hence her supposedly Dominican roommates tease her
by calling her "la blanquita."^^ They accuse her of considering herself a Spaniard in daring
to pursue a Spanish man, but remind her she's as Dominican as they come. It is another
scenario recalling the longstanding importance of skin tone, which is also very telling
when we take into account the outcome of / Love You Baby. The final scene jumps five
years into the future and Marisol has married Marcos, brought her daughter to Madrid,
and is pregnant with their third child. While she stands out in a red blouse, a wide-angle
shot of the entire family emphasizes not only its union but its internal contrast. Varying
interpretations are up for debate as this more Caucasian-featured dominicana appears to
have succeeded in trapping the Spaniard in her lair, though the comedie appearance of Boy
George in the scene immediately dismisses the viewer's potentially critical analysis of the
film's conclusion. All humor aside, what does remain with the viewer is the clichéd image
of the dominicana as she sets out to seduce her man and the discriminatory attitudes she
must endure. Under quite a different and very un-funny premise, these images are again
reinforced in the drama Princesas.
Fernando León de Aranoa's award-winning Princesas takes a hard look at prostitution
in Madrid through the friendship that emerges between two young hookers, Spanish Caye
and Dominican Zulema. Yet, despite their mutual understanding, the women will face
hard truths that stem from their ethnic and cultural differences. The frequent takes of
Zulema calling her young son at home from the locutorio are now familiar to viewers, as are
many of the typical restaurant and brightly colored market scenes enhanced by bachata,
merengue and tamales. Much of the racist discourse in Princesas may also be familiar to
the 2005 viewer, yet the film enters new territory by exposing harsh treatment of African
and mulatto immigrant women that echoes the colonial pseudo-scientific perspective to a
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degree far beyond that of the two previous films. While the immigrant domestic workers
as portrayed in the first two films serve to maintain a certain socio-economic status for the
upper echelon of contemporary Spanish society, the immigrant prostitute alters the market
outlook by means of a different service, also in great demand but generally clandestine.
Once again, her presence in Spain is rejected but indispensable. This characterization of
Zulema gives way to much more brutal images and, in following the pattern, the severe
tone is set during the dominicanas initial appearance on the screen.
The fierce criticism of the recently arrived immigrants is displayed immediately,
before the viewer is even introduced to Zulema. The Spanish prostitutes observe the
foreign women from inside a beauty salon on the square they've worked for some time,
and racism and xenophobia ring clear in the comments made by these women, such as
Angela: ''Mírala a ella como anda, con el culo para fuera. Es que las enseñan desde pequeñas.
Les meten cosas en los zapatos para que las molesten, por eso caminan así... que lo he visto en
serio, en la BBC. Y huelen distinto por unas hormonas que tienen, que es un olor que atrae a
los tíos!' If the old men in Flores evoked the 18th-19th century pseudo-scientific studies
on African women's sexuality, these women directly echo them, and Angela goes so far as
to back up her statements claiming BBC as her source. In reference to these characters,
Martin-Cabrera links the cultural and pseudo-biological aspects of racism to the processes
of racialization and objectiRcation, which he describes as inherent to a hyper-consumer
society such as Spain's: "Por eso, los comentarios racistas que hacen las prostitutas españolas
en la peluquería [...] son perfectamente compatibles con el mercado y la televisión, origen de
muchos de estos procesos de racializacióri^ ("Antagonismos" 126). The racial commentaries
from the El País articles previously quoted here make for the BBC a plausible source for
these fictional Spanish sex workers as they perceive their income as threatened.
The power of image and that of speech have everything to do with the viewer's
introduction to Zulema on screen. Caye is late meeting a customer, who in the short
interim has already been attended to by the dominicana seated next to him in a subtly
submissive but flirtatious pose. As in most frames throughout the film juxtaposing Zulema
with Spanish characters, her physical appearance is accentuated by chromatic contrast; in
this case her dark features counter her fair-skinned client while her figure is shaded and
his reflects the sunlight. When Caye lashes out at her competitor she echoes her racist
friends: ''¡Aquí hay unas normas! ¡Aquí no estás en la selva! ¡Que venís a este país a hacer lo que
os sale de los huevos!" Zulema merely struts out of the café with the customer as the camera
zooms in on the back of her t-shirt that reads ''Sty^ Girl 69." Without uttering a word,
Zulema's confiictive presence within a world revolving around the sale of sex is made clear.
Moreover, it isn't until their next meeting that her first and enormously significant line is
spoken. Following an increasingly loud tropical merengue, whose lyrics blast ''Sólita, sólita''
from the neighbor's television, the camera pans Cayes trek through a dingy apartment
until she finds the dominicana bruised, beaten and slumped against the bright blue tiles
of her own bathtub. Caye takes her to the hospital in silence, which only intensifies the
anxiety and eagerness both on and offscreen to hear the woman speak. When she does,
three simple words suffice: "No tengo papeles!' For the third time, in only the first twenty
minutes of a major cinematic production the stage has been set for a plot involving yet
46
CONFLUENCIA, SPRING 2013
another dominicana as the victim of racist, xenophobic and sexist discrimination in current
Spanish society.
Zulema is at the mercy of a customer promising her citizenship, who rapes and
beats her when she reflises free sex. The violence displayed by Carmelo in Flores is now
sadistically premeditated and life-threatening in Princesas as this customer exercises a male
domination over the illegal dominicana, and his mere appearance suggests the element of
white supremacy. He is fully aware of the fact that Zulema has no recourse, and among
his few lines in the film is the ominous statement: "No tienes otra. "The customer remains
nameless throughout the film and is listed in the cast credits as ''elfuncionario" or civil
servant. His anonymity not only reiterates Zulema's lack of judicial recourse against him,
but, more importantly, he could be any Spanish male. His personal identity is of no value
for her; only his nationality is, since it gives him the power to abuse of her dire need for
papers. His masculinity provides him with additional power and frequent close-up shots of
his hands emphasize that advantage, exercised through the forced sex and physical violence
he inflicts on Zulema. When he tricks her into meeting him at a hotel, his lies are mocked
by a match cut of a Latin American soap opera on the television in the room; the male lead
falsely reassures his unfortunate costar, "Yo sólo quiero ayudarte." Only Caye sees through
the funcionario and his lies, which will prove to be a source of tension between the two
women.
Caye's and Zulema's friendship appears to transcend racial boundaries and the
frequent and equally lit close-ups of the two young women accentuate the intimacy that
develops between them. Caye doesn't join her fellow Spanish women friends as they
attack the immigrant competition; in fact, when she appears with her hair braided, the
salon group considers her a traitor. Caye is not the norm, though there are moments
in the film where a limit to her tolerance is revealed. Her use of vosotras clearly places
Zulema in a collective immigrant imaginary, first when the dominicana initially takes off
with Caye's customer and again when Caye criticizes Zulema's willingness to follow the
funcionario^ every whim: "... oís la palabra papeles y salís perdiendo el culo. " Likewise, Caye
defends Angela's complaint "que no trabaja por vosotras." Gabrielle Carty places Caye as
the "personaje mediador" between the viewer and the Other (128), which may well be; yet
Caye must eventually face the difliculty presented by the limits within that mediation.
Caye's dysfunctional family appears instrumental in her decision to "temporarily" work
in prostitution, but the loneliness and hardship she and Zulema share as prostitutes is not
similarly rooted.
Far removed from the comedy-drama and romantic comedy of the two previous
films, the tone of Princesas is grim and the images of the dominicana follow suit. Like
BoUain, León surely did his research and, unlike Albacete and Menkes, his intention was
not to make his audience laugh. León cites Slavic, Bulgarian and Ecuadorian women in
the volunteer group Hetaira with whom he worked in Madrid ("Princesas"), yet he chose
to portray a Dominican mulatto woman as the illegal prostitute in his film. Zulema brings
to life many of the situations described in the studies cited here, such as arriving to Spain
by way of Holland and then sharing an apartment in shifts with a Dominican family to
whom she barely speaks, in case they know someone back home. This particular element is
vital to the way in which the stereotypical image of the dominicana is both deconstructed
VOLUME 28, NUMBER 2
47
and solidified at the same time.'^ The documentary-like quality brings realism to the film,
yet the cameras gaze continues to objectify the immigrant woman. As Zulema gets ready
to leave for a nights work, the family asks her to change their shared sheets, all while a
suggestive reggaetón accompanies the scene: "Dámelo suavito [...]Yo tengo lo que tú quieres!'
Like so many scenes in the film, and in the previous two, the viewer is bombarded with
subliminal messages linking the dominicana with promiscuity, taboo, and a position of
inferiority as she is exploited by Spanish society.
The colonial endeavor is never far from the viewer's mind since the camera repeatedly
catches the glimmering cross Zulema wears around her neck, recalling her Catholic
background. Furthermore, there are countless moments in the film that link Zulema to
her cinematic predecessors, thus evoking the same stereotype. She entertains Caye with the
graphic comments she uses to expedite her customers' ejaculations, which are reminiscent
of the alleged Dominican custom of complimenting ones partner's physique yearned for
by both Patricia and Marisol. But in this particular scene Zule's hair is worn naturally
curly for the first time in the film and an animal print brassiere is visible under her top.
Zulema is clearly playing up her image as she does on the street, well aware of her status
and luring customers with a seductive "^Quieres algo dominicano?' to imply she's preferably
more exotic than her non-Dominican competitors. During another scene when Zulema
has a real date, she clearly initiates their sexual encounter, much uke the desirous Marisol.
The most chilling reminder is revealed at the end of the film after Zulema learns she has
tested positive for AIDS. This dominicana is, in fact, contaminated, as in the legend of her
ancestors, and the lyrics sung at the festival in Santa Eulalia, "Contamíname" now bear
an ominous threat to Zulemas abusive customer as she makes every attempt to vengefiilly
infect him with the disease. In keeping with the dramatic magnitude of Princesas, the
question of the film's finale bears a much heavier load for the viewer, as Zulema says her
last goodbye to Madrid and to her unknowing friend. In the poignant final scene, Caye
assures the airport security guards it was Zulemas choice to return home. Her words are a
defense of her friend before racist and sexist assumptions about dominicanas' stereotypical
behavior, and a response to allegations made by so many local characters on the big screen.
Each ofthe three films has succeeded in portraying the dominicana in contemporary
Spain as a 21st century version ofthe image held by the Caribbean mulatto woman's colonial
proprietors. Among the critics and scholars from both Spain and abroad denouncing
audible echoes of Spain's imperial past in the current discourse involving immigration and
ethnic clash, Rosalia Cornejo Parriego denotes the particular significance of the mulatto
woman. She claims the mulata has long occupied a prominent place within the SpanishAmerican confluence of race, gender and sexuality, while constructing an Other that
is desired and at the same time rejected by colonizers (24). 19th century slavery novels
intrigued readers with scandalous content involving female mulatto protagonists, and
since the early 20th century, the scantily clad mulatto woman has appeared on postcards
and product advertisements from exotic Caribbean destinations. Now Cornejo Parriego
addresses the contemporary Spanish glance, and her assertions are apt for any ofthe three
dominicanas and their respective circumstances as portrayed in the films discussed here.
These portrayals axe marked for consumption by the dominant culture as it continues to
exploit the image.
48
CONFLUENCIA, SPRING 2013
Estela Rodríguez emphasizes it's the stereotypical image of immigrant women that
is constantly in the forefront of the media. Not only does she remind us of the power of
the media to shape how its audience views current issues, but she also reminds us that
among the audience is the immigrant population itself (179). This facet of 21st century
mass media propagation brings us back to the origin of the stereotype and its assimilation
by both factions in the colonial project. The stereotype of the lascivious and dangerous
African woman was based on a myth, just like any ofthe mythical images attributed to and
subsequently assumed by the colonized, according to the theory of Albert Memmi. Memmi
poses the question: Constantly confronted with this image, how could the colonized help
reacting to this portrait? (87) The colonized can only recognize and internalize such a
familiar description, which then becomes the true portrait (87-88). The Caribbean
mulatto slave was not oblivious to her appeal as she sought out her master in the hope
of bearing free children. But her conduct could only enhance the myth of the sexually
primitive African woman already in existence, leading to the acceptance of a racist and
sexualized image that remains intact today. It is this image that contributes to the "ellasi
nosotras^ dynamic, which is so important for Spain's current socio-economic structure.
The projection of the stereotype as it is cinematically manifest in the contemporary
dominicana serves to maintain social expectations for both the immigrant and the resident
groups - t o include the respective Other- at status quo. Just as the construction ofthe myth
involved both the colonizer and the colonized, so does its deconstruction, a process that
easily fits within the framework of decolonization. In Black Looks, bell hooks quotes Semia
Mehrez's definition of decolonization as a complex process that involves both the colonizer
and the colonized (1). Though hooks speaks of the imperial gaze of Euro-Americans,
her words are relevant to the Spanish gaze as it molds the experience of dominicanas in
Spain. Specifically, hooks focuses on film: "more than any other media experience, [film]
determines how blackness and black people are seen and how other groups will respond
to us based on their relation to these constructed and consumed images" (5, emphasis
is mine).'^ Depiction and reception of black figures on screen are of equal importance
for hooks, as they have been treated with regard to the three films analyzed here. In
exploring the portrayal ofthe three dominicanas and the attitudes they encounter, we have
underscored the recurrent projection of a stereotyped image whose fate appears to lie in
the hands of a Spanish neocolonial construct. It is not a stretch to associate this image with
the question posed by hooks: What can the future hold if our present entertainment is the
spectacle of contemporary colonization, dehumanization, and disempowerment where the
image serves as a murder weapon? (7) The image of the dominicana is modified for 21st
century viewers but only at its most superficial level; its essence is the same.
As has been illustrated here in the films selected, each of the women is objectified
by other characters as soon as she appears on screen. The old men's confusion between
Dominican Patricia and Cuban Milady suggests an utter lack of sensitivity founded in an
imperialist attitude that robs each woman of her identity and portrays her as nothing more
than a primitive sexual object.'^ With regard to Marisol, the advice given to Marcos by his
oblivious uncle exemplifies hooks' assertion that the proximity to the exotic and primitive
pleasure of the dark Other offers the white male the opportunity for that potentially
altering encounter without his ever seeing himself as racist (24). What is ironic about the
VOLUME 28, NUMBER 2
49
initial appearances in which these fictional dominicanas are objectified is that in those same
appearances, Patricia, Marisol and Zulema all establish themselves as single mothers whose
common priority is to secure a better fiature for her family Each protagonist will emphasize
this goal in her respective film, yet her noble intention is glossed over by the stereotypical
image, much like the paradox noted by Gregorio Gil in the imaginary collective of nonfictional dominicanas in Aravaca.'^
The cultural phenomena resulting from the demographic shift in Spain's population
at the new millennium have taken Spaniards by surprise. The large and curious Dominican
sector of the population has reportedly achieved a higher standard of living in spite of-or
perhaps as a result of- a resistance on behalf of certain local residents to its presence. The
majority of Dominicans in Spain are women who have left their home in search of a better
life for their families, making a living as domestic workers, or as prostitutes caught in a
world of fast money and human trafficking. These predominantly Afro-Garibbean and
mulatto women have been received as the collective stereotype that has haunted them
since the days of the Spanish colonial empire. The dominicana is portrayed by mass media,
including film, through this 21st century version of the sultry image, while her reception is
portrayed just as negatively by a discriminatory local population. The preservation of this
image has served contemporary Spanish society as it continues to identify itself as white;
the presence of the dark-skinned immigrant woman in service positions has enabled a
continued economic advantage and sense of white supremacy in the neocolonial age.
In Flores de otro mundo, I Love You Baby, and Princesas, the main character as well as
the secondary characters reacting to her presence are depicted in such a way that perpetuates
the stereotype of this dark, exotic and primitively sexual female Other.' Despite the strong
dose of reality and documentary-like feature of the films, the hackneyed characters and
their situations have extremely negative implications as they keep the stereotype alive. These
powerful images contribute to what Rafael Torres calls the exacerbation and socialization
of racism, the worst thing that can take hold of the world (29). The same can be said
for its first cousin xenophobia, and with regard to the dominicana, sexism and classicism
are the remaining but not less intense facets of her discrimination. The socialization of
racism is the result of mass media's projecting a certain reality and shaping its viewers'
mind-set. Torres notes Dominican domestic worker Emelinda de los Santos' fear after
watching how the media represents la dominicana: ''tiene miedo, si bien su pavor no es tanto
porque la maten como porque la violen, la ninguneen, como suelen hacerlo, con la intención
y con la mirada" (137). It is precisely for this reason that positive, mainstream images
of dominicanas as well as of other immigrant groups must be projected. As is urged by
hooks, alternative ways of looking at the black female need to be addressed and proposed
by all members of society. It is only by providing a constructive model can the process of
decolonization begin, transforming the dominicana into an empowered member of the
21st century Spanish population.
Notes
' A registered population of 2,036 in 1988 rose to 10,182 in 1993. According to the most recent statistics
recorded by Spain's Instituto Nacional de Estadística, in February of 2010 Dominican-born residents totaled
136,803 though this number now pales in comparison to chose representing other foreign nationals.
50
CONFLUENCIA, SPRING 2013
2 Gina Gallardo Rivas identifies three phases of Dominican immigration to Spain post 1961: politicaleconomic migration from 1961-73; economic migration from 1974-84; and desperation or "emigration
syndrome" from 1985-95, the year her study was published (29).
3Spain went from receptor of foreign investment in the late 1980s to the largest investor in Latin America
between 1999-2000 (Ramiro and González 229).
•* The Spanish Grown firmly opposed marriage between Spaniards and Afro-Garibbean or mulatto women
on Hispaniola, though it was common practice for married men to keep these women as mistresses. This
practice is still common in Dominican society and, as in the past, such law and practice have maintained
Afro-Dominicans at the bottom of the social hierarchy (Albert Batista 61-62).
5 Phenotypical terminology became a complex issue on Hispaniola as varying degrees of interracial
relationships began to change the face of the population (see Albert Batista). Phenotype and racial identity
continue to pose a complex question in contemporary Dominican society, the details of which would exceed
the limits of this essay (see Gandelario). The term mulatto, coined during the colonial era to describe the
offspring of Spanish creóles and African slaves, is still considered appropriate despite the wide range between
"black" and "white," particularly in the Dominican Republic where today 90% of the population is classified
as Afro-Garibbean or mulatto (Albert Batista, among others). Afro-Garibbean refers to those individuals
displaying prominent African features, and this differentiation is clearly portrayed through the Guban and
Dominican characters in Flores de otro mundo.
^During the 1990s, the Dominican Republic was fourth in exporting sex workers to Western Europe
(Gabezas, "Women's Work" 113).
^The Aravaca conflict culminated in November of 1992 with the shooting death of domestic worker
Lucrecia Pérez at the hands of radical skinheads. The masked neonazi's knew well of the tintes, or abandoned
buildings, in Madrid where large groups of Dominicans were living ("Más de un siglo"), and Lucrecia was
their victim.
* According to Spain's Ministry of Labor, the number of foreign nationals with residency in Spain increased
tenfold between 1975, the year of Franco's death, and 2003. Consequendy, accounts of racist and
xenophobic behavior increased significandy between 1999 and 2002 (Diez Nicolás 19, 29).
' See Luis Martin-Gabrera ("Postcolonial"), Susan Martin-Márquez, and H. Rosi Song
'"Both Bush and Stoler explore this facet of the colonial myth while Gilman affirms that black women have
represented the sexualized female as the source of corruption and disease since the Middle Ages (101).
"Marisol's Dominican roommates are played by Guban actresses Marilin Torres (Flores' Milady) and Laura
Ramos, indicating an absence of female Dominican actresses in the leading roles.
'2Jesús Várela-Zapata, among others, explores this process in contemporary Spanish film: "Por supuesto, la
idea general es que las películas reconstruyen estos estereotipos con el objetivo de de-construirlos, y en muchos detalles
parecen bgrarlo. [.. .j Por otra parte las películas también conservan estereotipos clásicos que parecen indicar la
continuidad de discursos neo-coloniales" (81-82).
"Song asserts the importance of film and other cultural practices relying on "scopic drive" in sustaining
structures of power within the postcolonial context (50). Likewise, with regard to studies of immigration in
Spain, Tabea Alexa Linhard notes that film has received far more critical attention than literature (400).
'"• The same lack of sensitivity can be found in these films' directors. Besides the previously mentioned
Mexican and Guban actresses portraying dominicanas. Princesas' Zulema is played by Puerto Rican actress
Micaela Nevárez.
•'As is noted by Gamila Damerau, Patricia's true first line in Fbres is spoken during the opening score and
credits, while she shows off pictures of her children on the bus approaching Santa Eulalia: "¡>4 que están muy
bonitos mis niños*." (175) This scene does not single Patricia out from the group of women, therefore it is not
considered here to be the audience's first introduction to the protagonist.
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