She was only 15 when her life took a turn beyond what she ever imagined. Meeting Arthur Garlinghouse meant she was able to provide for her mother; her sisters, and their families. It gave her respect and standing but not how she would have ever designed it. Her access to his white privilege brought her to America where the searing split between black and white caused a lasting scar in every female that followed Violeta's matrilineal line.This is the story of how racism in America ripped the female heart out of this family, leaving mothers and daughters adrift, unbraided and disconnected, creating a familial culture of denial, silence and anger.
This is also a story about the malleability of our personal identity. My mom’s identity was corrupted by the mighty forces of the blanket authority of Whiteness in America; causing a schism of denial and silence among all the mothers and daughters that followed in our family. But most of all, this is my mother’s story. The one she could not tell me. I am telling her story so that I can finally know her.
My mother, Violeta Estel Garcia Putterman, was born into poverty in the Dominican Republic to a Black woman from St. Kitts and a Chinese man. This vivacious young girl’s life took a materially positive turn when, at 15, a 40-year-old American sugar plantation engineer took an interest in her. The romantic relationship that evolved supported her entire family – mother, sisters, and their families – spawned two children, and ultimately, brought my mother to the United States; the same United States where I was born, and where the clear distinction between what it meant to be negro o café con leche, persuaded Violeta to learn the art of being White Passing.
This book is a researched reconstruction of the events of my mother’s life from the 1930s in the Dominican Republic, to New York City in the 40s until her death in 2005. Fascinating and sometimes heart wrenching conversations with living relatives have given shape to her story. My mother sent me to the DR every summer from the time I was 13 until I was 18 years old, where I had the chance to discover my Dominicana roots without her domineering hand. My memories of Santo Domingo fill this story with the sights, smells, and tastes of the Caribbean.
While the events of Violeta’s journey provided a better material life for her and those in her orbit, they hardened her soul long before this writer came to be. She gave her children the blinders of white privilege by, in part, keeping her life, the triumphs, failures, fears, and even the people she loved most, safely guarded away, even from me. Especially from me.
Through the sepia lens of yearning, the following conceptualized memoir is a recognition of the secrets the circumstances of my mother’s life generated. It is a cautionary tale about the crucial value of self-love and acceptance, as well as a love letter to a woman who sacrificed her authenticity in order to pass as not Black, and lost her Self in the process.