Finding My Bronx Dominican Puerto Rican Identity
My Bronx Dominican Puerto Rican identity Growing up in New York City was shaped during the 1980s. As a kid navigating neurodivergence, racial tension, and cultural conflict, I carried the weight of two flags and a world that didn’t understand me. ADHD and neurodivergence weren’t on anyone’s radar back then, so I struggled silently in classrooms built for “typical” minds.
Being placed in gifted programs felt like a double-edged sword. It shielded me from the chaos of overcrowded schools but left me isolated among peers who couldn’t relate. These programs didn’t nurture kids like me they simply kept us out of the way. Organizations like CHADD later helped bring awareness to ADHD in marginalized communities, but in the Bronx of the 1990s, we were left to figure it out ourselves.
Growing up in the Bronx as a half Dominican, half-Puerto Rican kid meant learning early how identity shapes survival.
Chaos at Home
Life at home carried its own storms. My father’s constant run-ins with the law and my mother’s fight to survive domestic violence left our household fractured. My extended family, steeped in narcissism, offered no comfort just criticism and dismissal.
Accomplishments went unnoticed. Feelings were brushed aside. The message was clear: I didn’t matter. In the Bronx, this pain wasn’t unique. Poverty and neglect shaped the borough, and The Bronx Historical Society still documents those years of struggle, high dropout rates, and systemic failure that felt impossible to break.
Finding Strength in Bronx Dominican Puerto Rican Identity
The hardest battles weren’t always on the streets they were inside my own community. In the early ’90s, tension between Puerto Ricans and Dominicans ran deep. Puerto Ricans, with their U.S. citizenship, often looked down on Dominicans, seen as outsiders chasing green cards.
I carried both identities. I endured the slurs plátano, jokes about my accent, my hair, my skin tone. The racism crept into family gatherings, where my Dominican side was belittled. Torn between two flags, I felt like I belonged nowhere. My story reflects what it meant to grow up with Bronx Dominican Puerto Rican identity, caught between pride and pain.
They called me ‘plátano,’ mocked my accent, my skin, even the food I ate. But I learned real quick that the same things they clown you for are the things that make you powerful
Turning Pain into Power
Yet somehow, I rose above it. I graduated junior high, then high school defying the odds. College followed, where I earned an associate degree in computer science and networking.
For ten years, I worked as an IT manager and data analyst at a South Bronx hospital. I served a community that reflected my own struggles, making sure systems ran smoothly and data improved patient care. That wasn’t just a job it was proof of resilience and love for the Bronx that raised me.
I turned pain into power. Shame into pride. Struggle into success. That’s the Bronx way and that’s the Nuyorican way.
The Bronx Made Me
The early ’90s in New York City were rough, but they also taught grit. Hip-hop, graffiti, and activism became my survival kit reminders that beauty exists even in struggle. The Bronx Dominican Puerto Rican identity shaped how we survived, loved, and built community.
My journey wasn’t easy. Neurodivergence, trauma, and systemic barriers all tried to break me. But I learned something powerful: every scar is proof that I’m still here. I turned pain into power, shame into pride, and struggle into success.
This story connects to my upcoming docuseries Popote: Killa’s View, which dives deeper into Bronx culture and resilience. Also, learn more about my work at Johnny Rose Films.
