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Dominicans Forgotten by History:
Palo and Dominican Identity
A Division III by:
Rene Mallia Cruz
Carl Clements, Visiting Professor of Music, Committee Chair
Roosbelinda Cárdenas, Assistant Professor of Latin American Studies, Committee Member

Acknowledgements
Conducting fieldwork of any magnitude is impossible without the help of others. In my
case, it would not be just to continue this piece without the acknowledgement of the people who
have invested much of their time and attention to me and my research. I would like to thank my
family, and my grandmother and mother in particular, for keeping me connected to my
Dominican culture as a first­generation American; for teaching me that identity is more than
where you are born, it is where you, your blood and family, come from. I would also like to
thank the brilliant professors and students that I have grown beside throughout my time at
Hampshire College, and within the Five College Consortium. More specifically, I would like to
thank professors Rebecca Nordstrom, Helen Scharber, Junko Oba, Carl Clements, and
Roosbelinda Cárdenas; my advisors, mentors, and source of emotional support during the
stresses of college due­dates. These professors have gone beyond the requirements of their
contracts to guide my development as a scholar. Brendan Linehan, William Wright, and Flannery
Weiss, my closest peers in college helped me develop my goals, aspirations, and a sense of
humor that were critical in building the relationships central to my work. Finally, I would like to
thank my collaborators in Dominican Republic; Edis Sánchez, Jesus Guillén, José Luis, Chema,
Esteban Brazobán, and Payano “Grandpa.” Without these individuals, my work would have no
academic authority. These people volunteered their time, office space, and homes to support my
research in the Dominican Republic, and I could never be more grateful.
The following Division III Advanced Independent Project is a collaborative piece;
written by me, with the contribution and guidance of the people mentioned above, as well as the
voices echoed throughout this piece.

“Perry­Castañeda Library Map Collection.” University of Texas Libraries. 2004.

Introduction
The Music in ​Our ​Blood
Since the beginning of my time as an ethnomusicologist, my questions have always led
back to cultures that I identify with, particularly that of the Dominican Republic. As a
first­generation American and college student, I wanted to understand the culture I identify with
through an academic lens. I wanted to learn how to recreate and advocate for the rhythms that
play in the background of my most important memories. However, I was quickly disappointed
with my first readings on so­called “Dominican cultural practices.” It seemed that some scholars
oversimplified, or generalized, Dominican culture: disregarding the various, complex identities
throughout the country, given its relatively small geographical and population size. Scholars who
have acknowledged the complexities of Dominican culture introduced critical parallels between
merengue, bachata, and Dominican identity. Palo, a prominent rhythm in my life memories, has
1

still however been fairly disregarded. This Division III is my introduction of palo as emblematic
of Dominican identity.
Through this paper, I reanalyze the Dominican history through a Dominican’s
perspective. I will dissect previous research on the Dominican identity, to highlight those
scholars who have developed their work through intimate relationships with the field. I will
highlight the ways in which palo, a music often ignored by scholars, speaks for the Dominicans
forgotten by history. This paper is not disregarding popular musics such as merengue and
bachata, as emblematic of Dominican identity. Instead, by highlighting the shift in palo’s
presence in the Dominican Republic, I offer a third, traditional, music the repertoire of
emblematic genres.
Chapter one focuses on previous scholarly work centered on associating Dominican
identity to music. I begin with a brief history of the Dominican Republic to highlight the
complexities of Dominican identity. Merengue and bachata are the subjects of this chapter given
their prominence in scholarly work on the Dominican Republic. Merengue and bachata have
historically been synonymous with popular music in the Dominican Republic: merengue rising
from top­down, while bachata rose from its grassroots stages. While merengue gained value
through political promotion, bachata has been critical in relating to struggles faced by the
Dominican populace. I argue, however, that these popular musics disregard certain aspects of
Dominican identity that palo honors: aspects that highlight the historical persecution of an
Afro­Dominican identity.
Chapter two focuses on the historical presence of palo in the Dominican Republic. This
chapter highlights palo’s relation to religions, the populace, and governments to explain its
2

importance in Dominican society. I discuss the ways in which practices occurring alongside palo
reflect the social and economic conditions faced by the non­elite throughout history.
Furthermore, this chapter discusses the informal healing practices that seek to compensate for the
inaccessibility of needs such as mainstream medicine. As conditions worsened and needs
increased, palo has united communities against the unjust conditions within the country. Chapter
two focuses on how palo and its associated practices reflect Dominican identity, as well as how
palo has evolved to continuously reflect the ever­changing, and extremely dynamic, Dominican
identity.
Chapter three draws extensively on my experiences in the Dominican Republic during the
fall of 2014. During this time, I traveled throughout the Dominican Republic, exploring the
various palo ceremonies throughout the country. As I will mention later, palo is performed
differently in the various regions of the Dominican Republic. Because of this, I would like to
specify that this chapter reflects palo in Villa Mella, Dominican Republic in the fall of 2014:
without this clarification my work would be a generalization that does not do justice to the
complexities and variances of palo music and culture within the Dominican Republic. This
chapter brings the historical analysis of palo into the present­day Dominican Republic. I focus on
how palo has developed since the scholarly work done before me. These developments highlight
the continued adaptability of palo, as well as its recent movement into popular culture. Chapter
three argues for palo’s importance in Dominican society today. It highlights the current struggles
faced and overcome by many Dominicans today, as well as a recently gained acceptance of palo
in Dominican society.
3

The research for this piece draws heavily on personal experiences drawing back
twenty­one years of my life. Palo, as well as merengue and bachata, play in the background of
every memory I hold. I’ve grown in this Dominican culture with equal exposure to the popular
musics, as well as ​our​ traditional Afro­Dominican genre. However, my academic experience
does not reflect this. Academic sources that I have encountered tell me that ​all​ Dominicans
praise our popular, “modern,” identity, while persecuting our traditional, African roots. The
following chapters highlight this contrast, building an argument for palo in the academic world;
echoing the voice of the unjustly persecuted throughout time. Thus, together the following
chapters develop into elements of Dominican history that are often forgotten.
4

Chapter 1:
Representations of Dominican Identity through Music
Palo’s significance in reflecting the Dominican identity can be seen by the current
perceptions of Dominican identity, as well as the promotion of other musics within the country.
Popular musics have gained most academic attention for representing the complex, syncretic
identity of the Dominican people. Ethnomusicologists have referred to merengue as a music
promoted from top­down; from the government to the people. Bachata, on the other hand, has
been referenced as the epitome of bottom­up music; a genre that has been promoted from the
lowest classes of the country, eventually giving it significance and reaching the elite. Palo,
although largely unexplored, represents a part of Dominican identity that merengue and bachata
leave out. Palo represents the persecuted, and often disregarded, historical past of the Dominican
Republic and its people. This chapter gives a brief history of the Dominican Republic to
highlight current perceptions of Dominican identity. Furthermore, I introduce discussions
surrounding merengue and bachata to explore the contrast between these popular forms of music,
often depicted as Dominican emblems, and a traditional, Afro­Dominican music, often ignored
or persecuted as unpatriotic.
Identity in the Dominican Republic
Dominican identity can be described differently by each different person in each different
region of the Dominican Republic. It is neither static, definitive, nor clear. Nevertheless, an
understanding of Dominican history clarifies certain aspects of Dominican identity that are
5

consistent. Understanding the fights for freedom and independence within Dominican borders
clarifies the inconsistencies between Dominican self­identification and their ancestry: although
there is a large historical presence of Africans, and early extermination of “natives,” a large
percentage of Dominicans deny their African roots and claim an indian heritage.
Hispaniola​, or “Little Spain”, was the name Christopher Columbus used to refer to
Quisqueya, ​or “Mother of All Lands.” Before the Spanish invasion, or “discovery,” of the island
in 1492, it was inhabited by people known as ​Tainos​, a term which is currently synonymous with
indio​. Soon after Columbus’ arrival, ​Tainos​ were nearly exterminated due to disease, murder,
and suicide. In 1697, the Treaty of Ryswick divided the island in two; the Eastern hemisphere,
controlled by France, was named ​Saint Domingue​ and the Western, kept by the Spanish, was
named ​Santo Domingo​. Beginning with slave revolts in 1791 and ending with a massacre of the
French in 1804, former slaves gained control of Saint Domingue and renamed it ​Haiti​, or “Land
of High Mountains.” In December of 1821, the newly created Haiti helped slaves in Santo
Domingo gain their independence from Spain through the War of Restoration. Conflict
continued on the island, however, when Haiti annexed Santo Domingo in 1822. Over the next 22
years, the influence of the annexation began blurring the lines between Haitian and Dominican
identity; French was taught in schools and taxes were imposed on Catholic churches. The final
claim of independence, and creation of the Dominican Republic, came through the War of
1
Independence which ended February 27, 1844.
Due to this history, the Dominican Republic began as a nation with two enemies; Haiti
and Spain. Given Haiti’s proximity, there is a long history of tensions between these two
1
​Eric Paul Roorda, ​Historical Dictionary of the Dominican Republic​ (2016)
6

countries. Not long after the War of Independence, Haiti and the Dominican Republic resumed
conflict with armed clashes which lasted until 1855. Following the Dominican Republic’s newly
gained independence was a global debate surrounding the country’s recognition. The United
States, being a leader in these debates, contributed to further separating Haiti and the Dominican
Republic when U.S. Secretary of State John C. Calhoun supported the need to recognize the
2
Dominican Republic to prevent "the further spread of negro influence in the West Indies." The
impact of this need for international support is underscored by scholar Silvio Torres­Saillant,
who explains, “Dominican identity consists not only of how Dominicans see themselves but also
of how they are seen by the powerful nations with which the Dominican Republic has been
3
linked in a relationship of political and economic dependence." Leading Dominican voices,
therefore, have long attempted to separate themselves from the Haitian ​other​. This has defined a
Dominican identity that opposes the Haitian identity in every way.
Throughout history, Haitians on the other hand have expressed a pride in their African
4
roots through political and musical movements. This Haitian pride did not go unnoticed by
Dominicans who refer to them as ​negros​. Furthermore, within the Dominican Republic there are
circulating racist perceptions of Haitians that mirror white supremacist perspectives of African
descendants in the United States. Considering the inconsistencies between how Dominicans
self­identify, compared to their ancestral roots, one may begin to understand why Dominicans
are hesitant to identify as black; because ​to identify as black is to negate one's Dominicanness
and to embrace Haitian identity.
2
Silvio Torres­Saillant, ​The Tribulations of Blackness: Stages in Dominican Racial Identity ​(1998).
3
Torres­Saillant 129.
4
Scholar Gage Averill discusses these movements, such as Vodou and nouriste movements which promoted
Afro­Haitian traditionalism within government and society. Gage Averill, ​A Day for the Hunter, a Day for the Prey:
Popular Music and Power in Haiti​ (1997).
7

Merengue in the Dominican Republic
Today, merengue is widely accepted as the national symbol of Dominican identity. Its
symbolism is so powerful that many Dominicans claim that it runs in their blood. This tie
between merengue and Dominican identity has been supported through governmental, cultural,
and musical movements. Beginning with the myth of Tomas Torres, merengue’s connections to
historical importance in the independent Dominican Republic is clear. Tomas Torres was a
Dominican soldier who fled his post in the War of Independence and gained his notoriety
through the first merengue:
Toma juyó con la bandera
Toma juyó de la Talanquera:
Thomas fled with the flag,
Thomas fled from the Talanquera;
Si juera yo, yo no juyera, If it had been I, I wouldn’t have fled:
Toma juyó con la bandera.
5
Thomas fled with the flag
In connecting a music to identity, the roots of the music itself hold much weight.
Merengue’s roots are unclear, although the theories surrounding them have crucial similarities.
Researchers such as Flerida de Nolasco and Manuel Rueda have argued that merengue’s roots lie
6
in Europe. Many theories link merengue to Europe by looking at it as an “independent couple
dance” version of the contredanse. Countering this belief, researchers such as Fradique Lizardo
have highlighted the African elements present in merengue; often comparing it to a similar
7
music, also called ​merengue​, played by the Bara of Madagascar. The African influence on
merengue is most noticeable through the rhythms and percussive instruments used in the genre.
5
​Pual Austerlitz and Robert Farris Thompson, ​Merengue: Dominican Music and Dominican Identity​ (1997) 1.
6
Austerlitz, et al. 3.
7
Austerlitz, et al. 3.
8

8
Theories associating merengue with African music, however, were criticised as “unpatriotic.”
Ethnomusicologist Paul Austerlitz also discusses a middle­ground theory, pointing out that,
“European­derived musics came under African influence in the Americas, … while merengue
9
developed from European forms, it is a syncretic, Afro­Hispanic genre.” Theories surrounding
merengue’s creation, however unclear, nevertheless parallel that of the creation of the Dominican
people; a product of African and European involvement on the island. The similar hybridity seen
in the roots of merengue and the Dominican people further clarifies merengue’s role in
representing Dominican identity.
Beyond its connections to culture, merengue as a national symbol has been reinforced
through the political history of the Dominican Republic. With the beginning of Rafael Trujillo’s
campaign, merengue began playing a new role of uniting Dominicans of all regions to forge a
sense of national support behind Trujillo. Austerlitz describes Trujillo’s usage of a merengue
10
quartet to sing his praises during his travels around the country. After becoming president in
1930, Trujillo adopted and enforced merengue cibaeno as the national symbol by requiring all
dance bands to include merengue in their setlist. Further influencing merengue in the country
was the dictator’s brother, Jose “Petan” Trujillo, and his interests in music. During Trujillo’s
11
dictatorship, Petan founded the radio station La Voz del Yuna, the Dominican Recording
Company, Caracol Records, and sponsored the merengue group Super Orquesta San Jose. By
12 13
1952, La Voz del Yuna moved to Santo Domingo, was renamed ​La Voz Dominicana​,
8
Austerlitz, et al. 3.
9
Austerlitz, et al. 4.
10
Austerlitz, et al. 52.
11
The Voice of the Yuna.
12
The capital of the country.
13
The Dominican Voice.
9

broadcasted on television and radio, and “became the most important mass medium of Trujilloist
14
propaganda.” To protect his brother’s businesses, and his medium of propaganda, Trujillo
15
prohibited the importation of foreign records and rarely allowed artists to leave the country.
Through political power, Trujillo promoted merengue as ​the​ music of the Dominican Republic
by completely preventing any other music from having a chance to even compete in the formal
market. Although Trujillo forced the love of merengue on Dominicans, the music lived beyond
his death in 1961, when merengue was reclaimed by the people and pro­Trujillo merengues were
no longer performed.
Bachata in the Dominican Republic
In contrast to merengue’s swift and uncontested rise, bachata was originally loved by
few, ridiculed by most, and disregarded by others. In many ways, the importance of bachata in
defining Dominican identity came through its history of, and connection to, struggle. The term
bachata originally referred to an informal, lower­class party, and it was only in the 1970s when a
specific genre became known as bachata, by which time the term “acquired an unmistakably
16
negative cultural value implying rural backwardness and vulgarity.” This negative cultural
association was only further proliferated by the fact that bachata was commonly performed in
17
bars and brothels. Since many ​bachateros wrote of love and its consequences, they resented
18
these connotations and tried to claim the term ​canciones de amargue to distinguish their music
from the faster, raunchier variety. While this term was intended to emphasize “the feelings of
14
Austerlitz, et al. 71.
15
Austerlitz, et al. 72­74.
16
​Deborah Pacini Hernandez, ​Bachata: A Social History of a Dominican Popular Music​ (1995) 12.
17
Bachata musicians.
18
Songs of bitterness.
10

nostalgia and suffering that characterized their music, … the term bachata​ ​provided Dominicans
with an appealing continuity between the traditional informal family and neighborhood parties of
19
the same name and the music that grew out of them.” The term bachata and its cultural
implication began paving the way for bachata’s future cultural significance. Nevertheless,
amargue​ henceforth became a more acceptable, interchangeable term.
20
Bachata’s appeal initially relied on its ability to relate to people of ​campesino and
21
barrio roots; which was roughly 70 percent of the country in 1960. Twenty­five years of
22
migration followed the death of Trujillo. With many Dominicans moving from the ​campo to
23
Santo Domingo, the population of the capital doubled as did bachata’s target audience. Seeking
previously inaccessible work opportunities, these migrants brought their music along. For
example, in her work Julie Sellers describes domestic workers basically making it a condition to
24
have a radio for working comfortably. With bachata playing in the kitchens of these
middle­class homes, it slowly began making its mark on higher classes. Having this new
presence of bachata in Santo Domingo, ​bachateros​ began gaining access to larger and more
25
diverse audiences, first in the 1990s with provincial ​fiestas patronales​. Deborah Pacini
Hernandez recounts that, at that time, bachata also began to transcend the boundaries of the
26
shantytown, receiving some attention on major urban FM stations and upscale venues.
19
​Pacini Hernandez 14.
20
​People from the countryside.
21
High poverty­level neighborhood.
22
​The countryside, or rural areas.
23
​Pacini Hernandez 74.
24
​Julie A. Sellers, ​Bachata and Dominican Identity / La Bachata Y La Identidad Dominicana ​(2014) 51.
25
Patron saints’ festivals.
26
​Pacini Hernandez 29.
11

In addition to its movement into higher classes, researchers stress bachata’s long­lasting
importance through the community it represents, one “defined not by national citizenship but by
low social class and, for the urban poor, by shantytown residence and cultural patterns.” 27
Because bachata represented a class­community, rather than a geopolitical one, it began to relate
to, and resonate with, a larger audience as political and economic conditions changed over time.
As Pacini Hernandez explains, the disparity in quality of life and income were actually
increasing throughout the decades of Santo Domingo migrations; with gross national product
28
increasing but migrant opportunity for higher paying, stable jobs decreasing. Therefore, as
conditions worsened, more people turned to a music that reflected their struggle: bachata.
Bachata’s connection to the working class was further used to disseminate and popularize
it through mainstream media. Researchers give credit to Radhames Aracena for connecting
29
bachata to its listeners through his radio station, Radio Guarachita, established in 1965.
30
Aracena, understanding his audience and their limited access to phones, used ​servicios publicos
31
to allow migrants access to communication with distant family. Radio Guarachita further
connected its audience to the music with their ​radioteatro​, a theater surrounding the disc
32
jockey’s console. By allowing the audiences to see how music made it onto the radio, the
radioteatro​ became an opportunity for fans to connect with their favorite music. Finally, having
Radio Guarachita conveniently located between the working class shopping district and major
27
​Pacini Hernandez 101.
28
​Pacini Hernandez 107.
29
​Pacini Hernandez 87; Sellers 53.
30
​Free public­service announcements.
31
​Sellers 54.
32
​Pacini Hernandez 92.
12

33
bus stops, strategically targeted its audience and increased accessibility. Radio Guarachita, in a
sense, created a new community surrounding music, as indicated by their statement:
We are a big family. There are more than a quarter of a
million of us. We are the biggest and most powerful family.
We are Radio Guarachita family. We are a quarter of a
34
million listeners always united.
The Radio Guarachita family, therefore, created a consistent relationship between consumers and
the dominant producer of bachata in the Dominican Republic.
Radhames Aracena not only disseminated bachata through Radio Guarachita, but also
35
controlled how that music was made. Combining his radio station, record pressing factory,
36 37
record store, and the recording studio in his home, Aracena created ​Empresa Guarachita​.
Through Empresa Guarachita, Aracena was able to impact the music people heard ​and​ its
quality. Throughout the recording process, for example, Aracena would make grammatical
corrections to the lyrics and teach the singers proper pronunciation; making the music more
38
appropriate for its future, much wider, audience. Beyond radio, another important form of
dissemination of bachata was the informal market. According to Pacini Hernandez, “all bachata,
regardless of format, was sold to the public via the thousands of sidewalk record stalls
strategically located in working­class shopping districts and near bus stops in cities and towns
33
​Pacini Hernandez 92.
34
​Pacini Hernandez 93.
35
Fabrica de Discos la Guarachita
36
Discos Guarachita
37
Guarachita Enterprise
38
​Pacini Hernandez 98.
13

39
throughout the country.” Given their lower production quality, these record stalls provided a lot
more fans with a cheaper alternative for music.
National fame was the final support bachata needed to bring it into mainstream society,
and give it an accepted place in the Dominican Republic. This happened when Luis Segura
40
boosted bachata into middle­class venues with “​Pena​;​” his 1983 record “which outsold every
41
other recording in the mainstream market.” With this quick boost, bachata’s appearances
became more frequent and distinct. In the nearby town of San Cristobal, for example, a
42 43
disco­piscina began hosting ​Viernes de Amargue​. Furthermore, bachata began making a more
significant appearance on television. The intention behind these appearances, however, was
questionable. While some people saw this as a way for television to attract a wider audience,
44
others saw it as a patronizing way of adding bachateros for a comic touch. Nevertheless,
bachata’s increase in popularity was not going unnoticed by the upper classes, and mainstream
45
news outlets, which coined the term ​La Fiebre de Amargue​. ​La Fiebre​, henceforth, brought
bachata to the attention of more accepted artists and fans: ultimately making the music itself
more acceptable to upper­class and international audiences.
Conclusion
Dominican identity is neither simple nor definitive. A long history of conflict within and
outside the island has, however, created one imperative to the Dominican identity: it must ​not​ be
39
Pacini Hernandez 113.
40
​Grief.
41
​Pacini Hernandez 192.
42
Dance club with an outdoor pool.
43
Amargue Fridays. Pacini Hernandez 194
44
​Pacini Hernandez 194.
45
Amargue Fever.
14

Haitian. Any pride shown within Haitian culture has been met with persecution of its Dominican
counterpart. Scholars have analyzed the ways in which Dominican identity has been defined,
particularly through music. More accurately, scholars have devoted their attention to the most
popular musics in the country, merengue and bachata, while dismissing palo, a music associated
with persecuted practices. Merengue has proven to be strong in creating a united sense of
Dominicanness: however its path to success was paved by the dictating power within the
Dominican Republic. Bachata, on the other hand, proved to relate to struggles faced by all
Dominicans at one point or another, whether it is love, heartbreak, or poverty. However, its
history has ignored the African roots of the same society whose struggles it voices. Palo, the
most persecuted and underrepresented of Dominican musics, highlights and honors the aspects
and roots of Dominican identity that these popular musics disregard. Palo connects the dots, to
voice the untold histories of the Dominican Republic.
15

Chapter 2: Palo Yesterday:
Palo’s Historical Presence in the Dominican Republic
Palo’s importance in representing Dominican identity has been historically overlooked in
scholarly research. An historical analysis of the music, however, would expose how palo reflects
the struggles faced by many Dominicans, voiced by the marginalized majority of the country. In
discussing palo’s presence in the Dominican Republic, I will highlight three different sectors in
relation to palo: religion, the public, and the government.
Palo and Religion
Given that palo’s origins lie within a religious structure, religion is crucial to the
discussion of the music. Palo is considered holy music, and a central aspect to many of the
religious ceremonies associated with Dominican Vodú. However, the Dominican Republic is
46
predominantly Roman Catholic, as can be seen in the Dominican flag itself, which prominently
47
displays images of a bible and cross, and the words “​Dios, Patria, Libertad​.” Pioneer scholar in
Dominican Vodú religion and culture, Martha Ellen Davis, breaks Dominican religion down into
48
two forms, formal and popular; where Catholicism is formal, and Vodú is popular. According
to Davis the difference between formal and popular religions lies in how they form and develop.
Formal religions have standardized practices independent of location, and are governed through
hierarchy; the elite determine and disseminate formal religious practices, literature, and politics.
In contrast, popular religions form through the needs of the societies that nurture them.
46
57% of Dominicans are Roman Catholic. Pew Research Center, ​Religion in Latin America ​(2014).
47
God, Homeland, Freedom.
48
Martha Ellen Davis, ​La otra ciencia: El Vodú dominicano como religión y medicina populares​ (1987) 60.
16

Therefore, popular religious practices differ depending on the history of each region where they
exist.
The Dominican popular religion, Vodú, commonly belittled and misconstrued by
mainstream media to represent possession­based cults, has been historically misunderstood by
non­practitioners. Cultural anthropologist Robert Lee Adams, Jr., intent on exploring the “many
aspects of Dominican culture [that] remain obscured and ignored as a result of the consolidation
49
of Dominican nationalism, ​Dominicanidad​,” concisely defines “Vodú” as “a web of
Afro­Dominican religious institutions – secret societies, carnival groups, Catholic brotherhoods,
50
and healing cults." This description serves as a strong base to build from. Understanding the
complexities of Vodú’s religious structure, the diversity of practices from region to region, and
the nature of popular religions, forming through the needs of their society, Adams’ base can then
be built on by revisiting Vodú in the Dominican Republic, focusing on the shifts of its presence.
Vodú can be seen as a living religion which adapts to the societies it’s placed in. This adaptable
nature of Vodú has in fact created a continuum that goes from Vodú to Catholicism: where many
51
Dominicans identify as Catholic, yet participate in Vodú practices. In summary, Vodú can only
be understood through its historical context and analyses of the ways associated religious
practices, varying throughout regions and times, reflect contemporary conflicts.
Palo is central to the holy calendar of Dominican Vodú. Many ceremonies of this
calendar include practices that reflect the conditions of the people that engage in them. The
52
central figures of this holy calendar are the ​misterios​. Originally the Orishas of western Africa,
49
Robert Lee Adams, Jr., ​History at the Crossroads: Vodú and the Modernization of the Dominican Borderland
(2006) 2.
50
Adams, Jr. 3.
51
The continuum between Catholicism and Vodú will be revisited throughout the ethnography in chapter 3.
52
Misterios refers to the deities within the pantheon of Dominican Vodú.
17

these deities were transported to the Dominican Republic through the slave trade. Although
slaves were forced to convert to Catholicism, they hid their Vodú by superimposing their deities
53
onto the similar hierarchical Catholic saint structure; keeping their religion alive. These deities
express the initial point of syncretism between Vodú and Catholicism. Davis brings attention to
this continuum, explaining that:
Asi vemos que simb​ólicamente hay una continuación del
dominio de la Iglesia Católica sobre la religiosidad
popular; porque los misterios (entidades Vodúistas) son
mensajeros y ayudantes (¿esclavos?) de los santos
54
(entidades católicas) que son patrones (¿amos?).
In ceremonies for ​misterios​, palo holds the crucial responsibility for communicating with, and
entertaining, the ​misterio​. The holy drums, also known as ​palos​ or ​atabales​, begin after prayers
to the ​misterio​, using heavy, polyrhythmic, patterns, and facing the nearest altar to invoke the
55 56
misterio​ for possession. Once someone is ​montado​, ​ usually the ​servidor ​ or another initiate,
the ​misterio​ is able to enjoy the festivities of the ceremony in human form.
Possession in Dominican Vodú is not simple, it comes only through intense dialogues
between the palo music, and the ​servidor​ of the ceremony. As palo plays the role of instrument
for possession, the ​servidor​ is the bridge for the ​misterio​. ​Servidores​ are spiritually chosen, and
have two necessary gifts: clairvoyance and a strong spiritual current within. Many ​servidores
53
For example, Saint Anne represents ​Anaisaísa ​(saint’s day on July 25), while Saint Michael represents ​Belié
Belcán​ (saint’s day on September 29).
54
There we see that symbolically there is a continuation of the domain of the Catholic Church on popular religiosity;
because the ​misterios​ (Vodú entities) are messengers and helpers (slaves?) of the saints (Catholic entities) that are
patrons (masters?). Davis 115.
55
When someone is possessed by a ​misterio​, they are considered to be “mounted”, or ​montado​.
56
Literally translates to server, as this is the server of a ​misterio​.
18

belong to socially marginalized populations, including ​campesinos​, homosexuals, the poor, and
women. In turn, the ​servidores​, the bridge between palo and the holy pantheon, reflect some of
the heaviest struggles, or risks of marginalization, faced by Dominicans.
In addition to ceremonies for ​misterios​, palo is commonly heard in ​fiestas de difuntos ​or
57
rezos​. Dominican Vodú pays a great deal of respect to the dead, as well as ancestral roots.
Fiestas de difuntos ​are meant to honor those who have passed. These ceremonies are also meant
to assure peace for the deceased, settling their fears of what a restless soul can inflict on the
living. To honor and assure their final destination, palo is performed for two special ​fiestas de
58
difuntos​: ​el cabo de año​ and ​banco de palos​. ​El cabo de año​ is held on the first anniversary of
the death of a person in order to assure their eternal peace. The ​banco de palos​ acts as the final
memorial ceremony for the deceased, held seven years after their death. The focus during these
ceremonies is clearly honoring the dead, with musicians, relatives, and friends dancing around an
altar which features a picture of the recently deceased. Palo is then able to symbolize identity
through ancestry, or the roots of Dominican Republic.
Palo and the Public
Palo’s interaction with the public is an important aspect of Dominican Vodú. Beyond the
cultural implications behind ​misterios​ and ​difuntos​, the music making process of palo, as well as
associated practices, reflect some of the previous economic conditions faced by Dominican
Republic’s lower classes. An important aspect of paying respect to ​misterios ​is animal sacrifices.
Although the animal is meant to spiritually feed their deity, practitioners do not let ​any​ part of
57
Parties of the deceased.
58
​Palo ceremonies for the deceased.
19

the animal go to waste. While the meat is used to feed the local community, the skin of sacrificed
59
animals is often used for drum heads. Furthermore, during ​fiestas de palo​, it is common to have
60
the ​servidor​ do ​trabajos ​ for people present. ​Trabajos​ vary immensely, from cleansing for good
61
health to giving lottery numbers; but are never meant to cause harm to another. This use of
spiritual healing highlights the inaccessibility of formal medicine to many Dominicans. Finally,
it is crucial to understand how palo is brought to these ceremonies. As economic conditions are
difficult, even palo musicians need to make a living, however most Vodú practitioners can barely
afford the rising costs of living. To solve this financial issue, most Vodú ceremonies have
massive audiences, with each member responsible for contributing food, alcohol, and/or money.
In this way, palo ceremonies are a means to build and develop mutual support. The creation of a
palo performance, as well as the practices surrounding it, highlight the crucial need for efficient
utilization, sharing, and unity to persevere through the struggles faced by many of the Dominican
people.
Palo and Government
Palo, like merengue, has been interwoven throughout the political history of the
Dominican Republic. But unlike merengue however, palo appears throughout history in protest
against political and economic corruption and deterioration, rather than being exploited to
support the corrupt leaders as vehicles for propaganda. Palo has historically represented the
targeted, the persecuted, the ​negro​ Dominicans, from whom the elite originally tried to distance
59
Palo ceremonies.
60
Spiritual jobs.
61
Dominican ​servidores ​only partake in ​trabajos ​that help others. They believe, however, that Haitian Vodou
practitioners conduct harmful ​trabajos​.
20

themselves ­­ at any cost necessary, especially throughout the 1900s. As the Dominican
government and elite set out to “modernize” the country, they “sought to privilege an ideal
somatic type (white/European), preferred regions (Cibao and Southeast), dominant gender
(male), and supreme status (property owner) – standards that would define the modern
62
Dominican citizen.” The Dominican government began targeting palo in the 19th century with
63 64
the ​Bando de Policía y Buen Gobiern which prohibited Vodú​ ​practices. More specifically, in
65
1878 the ​Resolución del Ejecutivo ​ prohibited palo music and dance. Davis discusses the
political voice and reason behind these prohibitions:
Se denuncia y lamenta escenas de inmoralidad que se están
efectuando en los barrios de Santa Bárbara y San Miguel,
y que se proyecta repetirlos en el pueblo de San Carlos,
tales como ‘bailes tan obscenos, tan infernales, que su
66
pluma no se atreve a explicar.’
Rafael Leonidas Trujillo went as far as to punish Vodú participation with up to one year in
67
prison, and a 500 peso fine with Law 391 of September 20, 1943. These “modern Dominican
citizen standards” excluded many Dominicans and led to a persecution of Afro­Dominicanness
that demanded a response. There were two Vodú movements that were critical to the survival of
palo in the Dominican Republic: the ​Liborismo ​and ​Palma Sola​ movements. These movements
62
​Adams, Jr. 9.
63
City ordinances.
64
Davis 35; Torres­Saillant 132.
65
Executive Resolution.
66
It denounces and regrets scenes of immorality that are taking place in the neighborhoods of Santa Barbara and San
Miguel, and projecting that the same is repeated in the village of San Carlos, such as ‘obscene dancing , so hellish ,
that His pen dare not explain.’ ​Davis 35.
67
Torres­Saillant 133.
21

were palo’s fight for survival, while simultaneously reflecting the Dominican fight against the
elite’s political projects.
Dominican ​modernity​ in the 1900s was beneficial for the elite, but not for the majority.
The sugar economy was booming, rural land became open to buy, yet new vagrancy laws took
away informally claimed or inherited land, and separated families desperate for income. Many of
the people affected by Dominican ​modernity​ were ​Sanjuaneros​, natives of a town called San
Juan, near the Haitian­Dominican border. Given San Juan’s proximity to the Haitian border, its
population has been historically heavily mixed and many of its citizens are of both Dominican
and Haitian descent. Since the goal was to create a ​purely ​Dominican identity, the intense
Haitian influence of this population posed a threat to the elite. The elite hoped that forcing
campesinos​ into urban society would assimilate them into a ​cleaner​, or less African, culture: a
culture with no space for palo. However, the proletariat envisioned a ​modernity​ that built on the
past, rather than replaced it; a ​Liborismo ​modernity​.
The term ​Liborismo​ comes from leading figure, Olivorio “Liborio” Mateo, who led a
unique life. He experienced multiple points of views surrounding the persecution of
68
Afro­Dominicanness. Beginning as a “soldier of elite modernity,” Liborio began leading the
persecuted Vodú practitioners upon returning from mysteriously disappearing. He declared
himself God’s recruit, and proclaimed his devotion to a 33 year mission. During his mission,
Liborio set out to preach and cure as many Dominicans as he could reach, regardless of race,
class, or gender; which led to his notoriety within the government, and popularity within the
public. Being a ​Sanjuanero​ himself, and witnessing what elite ​modernity​ meant, Liborio used his
68
​Adams, Jr. 10.
22

69
following to create a more accessible modernity in physical form, the mobile ​Ciudad Santa​.
The ​Ciudad Santa ​offered a sanctuary free from elite ​modernity​ and political corruption,
70
celebrating spiritual freedom and Afro­Dominican culture. ​Liboristas advocated for the
Dominican majority and social justice throughout the country. The ​Liborismo ​movement targeted
the United States government and their 1916 occupation using firearms acquired during the civil
71
war of 1912. Although these weapons were surrendered in 1917, the ​Liborismo ​movement
made its mark and became an enemy of the U.S. government. Five years of evading the
government to continue providing a more accessible ​modernity​, ended with the death of Liborio
72
in 1922, by the hands of the American­led Dominican National Guard. Although Liborio’s
goals were peaceful, the American and Dominican governments perceived him as so powerful
that they displayed his 64 year old corpse in San Juan immediately after their early morning
ambush; symbolically exhibiting their “strength.” However, instead of destroying a powerful
emblem of traditional Afro­Dominican culture as they intended, these governments created a
new one. A photo of Liborio’s corpse taken by local authorities is a popular image seen today in
altars all throughout San Juan. Today, as the palos of San Juan drum facing this photo, they drum
to the past, in honor of Liborio’s advocacy for Afro­Dominican identity.
Although Liborio was gone, Vodú persisted, as well as the elite’s ​modernity ​project.
Trujillo’s rise to power created a new threat to Afro­Dominican culture. Trujillo’s political
agenda included gaining power and keeping it; his quick way of achieving this was through the
monopolization of land. In 1937, Trujillo sought out to gain land by forcing others out, and
69
​Holy City. Adams, Jr. 11.
70
​Followers of Liborio.
71
​Roorda.
72
​Adams, Jr. 13.
23

create a “pure” Dominican identity. Trujillo’s definition of pure meant solely Dominican which,
given our ancestry, disregarded our undeniable African influence. Trujillo’s plan was to
administer a test to determine the Haitian influence of Dominicans residing near the border. The
73
test seemed simple, soldiers asked people to pronounce “​perejil​.​” ​ However, if they could not
accurately pronounce it, given their French accent or, in many cases, speech impediment, they
would be killed or exiled for not being sufficiently Dominican. Leading to up to 35,000 deaths,
both Haitian and Dominican, this project was nicknamed the “Parsley Massacre.” With many
campesino​ residents exiled or killed, Trujillo was able to acquire new land for his family, and
enforce new vagabond laws. Many ​Sanjuaneros​ felt the injustices of the Parsley Massacre,
requiring a response from the people, a new anti­hegemonic movement carrying the ​Liborismo
tradition of communicating with changing political and economic tides through an
Afro­Dominican voice: the ​Palma Sola ​movement.
74 75
The ​Palmasolistas​, led by ​“los mellizos de Palma Sola,” ​ or ​Romilio and León
Ventura Rodríguez,​ advocated for a “populist vision of the post­Trujillo future… to obtain the
76
sanctity of the campesinos, eliminate the evils of the earth, and achieve equality and unity.”
Palma Sola​ was the new ​Ciudad Santa​, only seeking peace and equality within Dominican
77
borders. Nevertheless, ​Trujillistas perceived their Afro­Dominicanness as a threat, and
responded by spreading rumors of their intention to create public disorder. These rumors, spread
throughout the elite and mass media, leading to the end of the ​Palma Sola​ movement in 1962:
73
​Parsley
74
​Followers of the ​Palma Sola ​movement.
75
​The twins of Palma Sola. In Vodú beliefs, twins are thought to have a special spiritual connection. If one dies in
the womb, the other gains their power. This was confirmed by multiple ​servidores​ while I was in the Dominican
Republic.
76
Adams, Jr. 16.
77
​Followers of Rafael Leonidas Trujillo.
24

78
when the Dominican Army massacred 800 ​Palmasolistas​, and arrested 700 more. Nevertheless,
Palma Sola​, similar to ​Liborismo​, lives on through Vodú and its sounds of palo, where it is now
considered sacred land.
Conclusion
An historical analysis of palo’s presence in the Dominican Republic highlights the critical
ways in which palo reflects the Dominican identity of those excluded from the elite concept of
modernity. Beginning with the adaptation of the religion to survive slavery, Vodú has developed
as a popular religion to respond to the ever­changing governmental and economic tides within
the country. Popular practices, such as ​trabajos​, reflect the inaccessible formal medicines and
public services that Dominican elites hoarded. Dominican ​modernity​ has led to massacres and
the implementation of laws targeting lower socioeconomic classes (​read: the majority of the
Dominican Republic​). Nevertheless, practitioners have continued to adapt their music and
religion to keep their religious freedom, when all other liberties have been stripped away.
Practitioners have created larger communities, with mutual understanding of financial hardships,
to be able to continue celebrating their religion, their tradition: an Afro­Dominican tradition.
These communities have led movements, facing domestic and foreign powers, for the social
justice of the larger Dominican populace. At the center of these ceremonies for​ misterios​ and
difuntos​, and social movements has been the palos, the holy drums. In these settings, palo, and its
associated Vodú, have become vehicles for anti­colonial, anti­hegemonic, and anti­imperial
78
Adams, Jr. 17.
25

protest. Although scholars have disregarded palo, it has historically had a significant presence in
the Dominican Republic, with the Dominican people.
26

Chapter 3: Palo Today:
Palo’s Presence through Ethnographic Fieldwork
79
Before beginning to discuss my time in the “field,” studying palo in Dominican culture,
it is important to understand what led me to the field. As fieldwork is motivated by the life
experiences and identities that makeup the field researcher, understanding the field researcher
can be a way to understand their work, perspective, and reasoning. While the previous chapters
offer historical context, this chapter introduces modern palo through my ethnographic fieldwork.
I begin this chapter with my life story to explain how I arrived to the field. I continue on to
highlight, similarly to chapter two, palo’s relationship to different sectors of Dominican society:
religion and the public. I focus on the changes surrounding palo which reflect a shift in its
relation to Dominican identity: the changes in where it is performed, and how it is responded to,
reflecting a modern acceptance, leaning towards popularization.
My Story
My research on the Dominican Republic draws heavily from experiences I have had long
before my formal fieldwork began. Although I was born in New York City, my mother is from
Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic while my father is from Jánico, Dominican Republic. My
older brother and I, marking a milestone in our bloodline, were born first­generation American,
but our family assured that we maintain our Dominican culture. Within every significant memory
the sounds of bachata, merengue, and palo echo. Family celebrations were never quiet and
79
I use quotes around the term field because the field in my work is more personal than a distant place where I spent
some time conducting research. Instead, my field, the Dominican Republic, marks my ancestry. My field has
travelled with me long before my fieldwork began.
27

attendance was always high; when my family had a reason to celebrate, we ​all​ came together and
celebrated. In the most important celebrations, such as ​quinceañeras​, weddings, and holidays, we
invited musicians into our community: these musicians performed throughout the night for
money, food, alcohol, and an inclusive environment.
80
When the accordion and ​tambora begin their rapid roles into merengue tipico, my
family’s instinct is to grab a partner and dance, while ​my​ ears have always guided me towards
the musicians. When I got my first opportunity to formally learn how to reproduce these intricate
rhythms, I could not turn it down. In junior high school, I joined every musical ensemble
possible; concert band, jazz band, marching band, orchestra. However, I never heard any sound
like that which came from my family parties. Continuing my musical exploration into college, I
was finally introduced to the field of ethnomusicology; offering me the opportunity to break
Eurocentric music borders and begin understanding my culture’s music through an academic
perspective.
Ecstatic to begin my formal studies in ethnomusicology, I was soon discouraged by the
information available on Dominican music and culture. Coming from a strong Dominican
descent, I found it odd that my family and I did not identify with, or recognize, many of the
so­called “Dominican cultural practices.” In many cases, Dominican identity and culture have
been generalized by scholars, who have dismissed the cultural complexities within Dominican
borders, given the country’s small size. This generalization has often regurgitated political
propaganda and elite strategic essentialism geared towards creating a “pure” Dominican identity;
one that disregarded, and often persecuted, Afro­Dominicanness. A gap has been created within
80
​The ​tambora​ is a two­headed, barrel­shaped drum commonly used in Dominican merengue.
28

Dominican identity, leaving out socially marginalized Dominicans from the narrative, and
leaving these Dominicans forgotten by history. Understanding these current dialogues
surrounding Dominican identity led me to the field, or back home, to study how palo, a music
associated with the socially marginalized, fills in the gaps left by previous scholars; bringing
back the Dominicans forgotten by history.
Arriving in the field
Arriving in the field, or my grandmother’s home in Villa Mella, I was expecting to
quickly begin my research, similar to the experiences I have read about in other scholars’
fieldwork. To my surprise, however, the process of accessing palo events and social spheres was
very slow. My impatience as a new researcher led me to overlook the many ways in which
Dominican society not associated with palo still offered a critical perspective on palo. While my
family and childhood friends did not practice, and in some cases actively separated themselves
from, Vodú, their opinions on Vodú culture reflected the historical persecution of
81
Afro­Dominicanness.
I spent the first few weeks of September, 2014 transitioning into the field. This meant
spending time with students of the Universidad Acción Pro­Educación y Cultura (UNAPEC),
attending social gatherings, and touring prominent locations. Most of my time was spent in Villa
Mella, an urban municipality of the country’s capital, Santo Domingo. During this time, many
people were ecstatic to share their opinions on contemporary culture with me. One statement,
made by a local student, stood out and highlighted the negative perceptions on palo, perpetuated
81
Given the sensitivity of Dominican identity, the names of non­Vodú practitioners are kept anonymous in this
ethnography. However, I use the names of Vodú practitioners and ​paleros​ because of their expressed pride in their
Afro­Dominican identity, and investment in my work.
29

by dictatorial propaganda. During a casual discussion on palo and Vodú practices, a friend stated
that, “​palo es para los cultos satánicos. Me da medio. Son locos y es un insulto a la Iglesia
82
Católica. Es para los Haitianos​.” The inaccuracies of this description reflect the arguments
historically perpetuated by previous dictator Rafael Trujillo, and the elite ​modernity​ discussed
earlier. Dominicans not associated with Vodú perceive it as an extension of an Haitian identity,
an identity we have historically rejected: a non­Dominican​ ​identity. Other friends added to the
discussion, explaining how their views on Haitians and Haitian practices are justified, and ​not
racist, with the following example:
Si yo fuera un Haitiano parando a tu lado, en lo que tu
esta hablando y haciendo coro. Si estuviera sucio y
tenía un hedor encima. Tu no quieres asociar
83
conmigo, ¿verdad?
Although this statement clearly has its racist undertones, these generalizations of Haitian
“properties” are commonly believed as valid in certain areas of the country. Furthermore, this
negative perception of Haitians acts a disincentive for learning about Dominican Vodú.
The misconception that Vodú is solely Haitian lends to hesitation in Dominicans that
have negative associations to Haitian practices, contributing the continued ignorance surrounding
palo in Dominican society. From my experience, this perspective was more common in the urban
capital than the rural borders of the country. During my time traveling around Yamasá, a
municipality of the rural Monte Plata, many Dominicans expressed their knowledge of the
82
“Palo is for satanic cults. It scares me. They are crazy and it is an insult to the Catholic Church. It is for the
Haitians.” Anonymous interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella, Dominican Republic, September, 2014.
83
“If I was a Haitian standing beside you, while you are talking and hanging out. If I was dirty and smelled horrible.
You would not want to associate with me, right?” Anonymous interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella Dominican
Republic, September, 2014.
30

differences between Dominican Vodú and Haitian Vodou, usually stating that Dominican Vodú
is for good, while Haitians practice black magic. While I did not spend the beginning of my
fieldwork within Vodú environments, the narratives of Dominicans not associated with Vodú
highlighted today’s Dominican perception on palo: the urban, where palo is Haitian and satanic,
and the rural, where palo is good as long as it is Dominican.
Palo and Religion
As I began my fieldwork, already understanding the negative perception that many
Catholic Dominicans have on Vodú practitioners, my initial questions were geared towards
understanding how Dominican Vodú practitioners viewed their religion and the role of palo. As
servers of their pantheon, ​servidores​ that I encountered had a very intimate perspective to
contribute to the understanding of Vodú. During my time in Yamasá, I had the pleasure of
meeting Maria “Doña Mari” Sepubeda and Reeny, local ​servidores​ of Yamasá. When I visited
these ​servidores​, they each conducted spiritual readings before beginning our conversations.
Doña Mari, an elderly wise woman, was entertained by my own misconceptions of Vodú. When
I first asked about her association to Vodú, she quickly exclaimed that Vodou is Haitian black
magic, and she identifies as Catholic. I later learned that many Dominican Vodú practitioners
claim their practices as an extension of Catholicism, while Haitian Vodou is the real “voodoo.”
Nevertheless, tension exists even between Vodú and Vodou practitioners. As Doña Mari
explained, she believed that Haitian Vodou praises “bad spirits”: given the poor living conditions
31

in Haiti, she explained that their practices are to gain what they envy (i.e. money, land, or a
84
significant other).
85
The “white magic” practiced by Doña Mari and Reeny reflected the ​trabajos ​ that have
historically aided Dominicans as mainstream medicines have grown increasingly inaccessible.
Doña Mari explained that since the age of seven, her ancestrally inherited practices have
developed in preparing spiritual cleanse baths, reading fortune cards, and reading fortunes from
cups. Doña Mari highlighted her role in preparing spiritual cleanses and remedies, given her
believed shortcomings of mainstream medicine. Reeny’s practices were similar to Doña Mari,
with the similar intention of offering accessible help to others. Reeny explained that she has
never charged for her work: she only asks for the price of necessary materials and optional
86
donations. Although these ​servidores​ were in rural Yamasá, their statements were mirrored by
those made by Bendito de Jesus, a ​servidor​ that worked most of the ceremonies I attended in
Villa Mella.
Bendito de Jesus, born in the 1970s, has been aware of his relationship with the ​misterios
since an early age: he estimates six years old. Learning how to play palo around the age of 15,
Bendito de Jesus’ ​servidor​ work is very intimate with the music. Unlike Doña Mari and Reeny
whose ​trabajos​ took form in private consultations, Bendito de Jesus’ ​trabajos​ were publicly
87
conducted during ​fiestas de palo​. He explained that his work varies, from spiritual cleanses to
lottery number predictions, but are all centered around evoking ​misterios​ for ceremonial
88
possessions. His attitudes toward non­practitioners attending ​fiestas de palo​ reflected his
84
Maria “Doña Mari” Sepubeda interview by Rene Cruz, Yamasá, Dominican Republic, November 3, 2014.
85
Spiritual jobs.
86
Reeny interview by Rene Cruz, Yamasá, Dominican Republic, November 5, 2014.
87
​Palo ceremonies.
88
​Bendito de Jesus interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella, Dominican Republic, October 8, 2014.
32

89
practices, as he explained that, “​palo es la creencia Dominicana, todo son invitados​.” Bendito
de Jesus expressed the inclusive community surrounding palo, and reflected this throughout his
communal ​trabajos​ during many of the ​fiestas de palo​ I attended in Villa Mella.
Figure 1: Bendito de Jesus, dressed in the colors of ​San Miguel​, offers cake, from the altar, to guests of the ​fiesta de
palo​.
Although palo has travelled far, from the rural Haitian­Dominican border to the urban
Santo Domingo communities, it has kept its traditional religious significance through the
practices of urban Vodú practitioners, such as Bendito de Jesus. Possessions and spiritual
cleanses were regular occurrences of the ​fiestas de palo​ that I attended. Nevertheless, some
practices have been altered to fit societal standards of conduct as times have changed. For
example, although animals are still sacrificed, this practice is now conducted in private, usually
before the music begins. Palo’s shift into private events has not hindered the inclusiveness of
89
​“Palo is the Dominican belief. Everybody is invited” Bendito de Jesus interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella,
Dominican Republic, October 8, 2014.
33

palo: ​fiestas de palo​ continue to be hosted by entire neighborhoods, where everybody that
attends shares the costs. Vodú, however, has most recently influenced wealthier Dominicans,
who prefer to keep their practices private.
On November 15, I attended the most private ​fiesta de palo​ that I have experienced
during my fieldwork. This ceremony was in honor of San Miguel and was hosted by a high
90
ranking member of the ​Ejército de República Dominicana​. This ceremony contrasted
immensely from my previous experiences with palo. While many of the other ceremonies I
attended were extremely welcoming, this was a very private, invite­only event. There were only
about ten guests, compared to the almost hundred that I was accustomed to seeing. Furthermore,
while many other ​fiestas de palo​ have music performances outdoors, very accessible to the
public, this event was in a gated household. The host, at first, seemed very uncomfortable with
my presence. I only continued to record after reassuring that his name would be kept anonymous,
and I would not speak of the event around Villa Mella.
90
​The Dominican Army. I keep the rank and name of this host anonymous due to the privacy of this event.
34

Beyond the general sense of privacy, this event progressed similarly to most other
ceremonies for ​misterios​: palo was performed throughout the day with prayers to San Miguel,
possessions were less frequent, however, given the low attendance. The significance of this event
is its reflection of palo’s shift into the acceptance of people associated with the same structures
that historically persecuted it. While the ​Ejército de República Dominicana ​was previously in
charge of capturing and killing Vodú figures such as ​Liborio​ and ​los Mellizos de Palma Sola​, its
leaders are now participating and hosting their own ​fiestas de palo​. Palo’s recent shift in the
Dominican Republic is not only marked by its presence in events by governmental figures, it is
also highlighted by palo’s appearance in the Catholic Church.
November marks the anniversary of the assassination of prominent activist ​Florinda
Muñoz​ “​Mamá Tingó” Soriano, who fought for the rights of farmworkers during Trujillo’s
regime. During this month Dominicans commemorate her life’s sacrifices and contributions, and
91
on its 40th anniversary, the day I visited, the ​Santo Cerro en La Vega ​ hosts a Catholic mass and
music event in her honor. Hosted by the church, multiple groups of paleros spent the majority of
the morning drumming to a live audience of hundreds of Dominicans, and being broadcasted
throughout the country’s radio station. That morning, my trip to church was long, and similar to
many others that attended, began at around four in the morning, across the country. It was clear
that Mamá Tingó’s memory was still strong: uniting Dominicans from San Juan to Samaná in
her honor. As everyone gathered after an emotional ​Catholic ​prayer, palo’s rhythms began to
bring strangers together to dance. The Catholic Church graciously invited palo to its event of
unity and cultural memory. The significance of this event is in its reflection of the Catholic
91
​A notable church in La Vega, a municipality near Villa Mella.
35

Church’s recent acceptance of palo. While palo is considered to be satanic, according to most
Dominicans not associated with palo that I spoke with, it is now proudly displayed during salient
Church­hosted events: musically symbolizing the contemporary continuum between Catholicism
and Vodú.
Palo and the Public
Today, palo continues to play an important role outside of its religious context. Given
that Vodú has historically been practiced by socially marginalized populations, its music has
created communities that support one another in the face of marginalization. Soon after the
celebration for Mamá Tingó, a neighborhood from Yamasá went to the streets to begin
92
quemando gomas​. The reason for this protest was because of the government­sanctioned power
outage that had lasted over a week. Given worsening economic conditions, blackouts have been a
common issue in the Dominican Republic since the 1990s, with governmentally organized
92
“Burning rubber.” A form of protest where people burn tires in the street with the intention of stopping traffic and
gaining attention for the cause.
36

93
blackouts beginning in 2001. “Governmentally organized,” however, translated to longer
lasting power outages in poorer neighborhoods, leaving them without electricity or running water
for days, or even weeks: as opposed to hour­long blackouts in other parts of the country.
On this day, my host in Yamasá, Jesus Guillen, was organizing a tour around his
communal clay workshop. As he drove to make sure traffic was running smoothly, we noticed
smoke beyond a line of stopped cars. When we finally understood what was happening, our
priorities switched from the tour, to getting this community heard. Since Jesus also worked with
some of the ​paleros​ who performed for Mamá Tingó, he knew that one of them worked for a
local news station. The ​palero​, also a resident of Yamasá, quickly responded and arrived on
scene with his cameraman. The ​same ​paleros​ that were performing for Mamá Tingó were now
organizing media coverage of this protest to gain mass attention. As Jesus explained later,
“​entendemos las luchas de cada día. Lo único que podemos hacer es ayudar a nuestra
93
​Simon Romero, ​International Business; Lights Out in the Dominican Republic​ (2004).
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comunidad.​” Jesus, as well as the local ​palero​, understood their responsibility to help their
local community against unjust struggles. ​Paleros​ continue to advocate for their communities
using their music, and have even entered pop culture scenes.
Palo’s transition into a broader cultural acceptance has been guided, in part, by its
enticing rhythms. People have begun playing this music in non­religious celebrations simply
because they enjoy it. Returning back to Villa Mella, I attended a birthday party with ​el Grupo
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de Palo de San Antonio​. Interestingly, none of the people who attended this event affiliated
with Vodú in any way. When I asked the
hosts why they insisted on having palo
performed throughout the entire event, they
explained that it is simply their favorite,
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upbeat music. Palo rhythms are easily
adaptable to fit non­religious situations:
even fitting with the lyrics of Happy
Birthday, as it did in this case. This
adaptability has given palo a larger
audience, without the fears of associating
with Vodú practices. ​El Grupo de Palo de San Antonio​ went on to perform for my going away
party a few weeks later. Again, the event was ​not​ religious, and the audience did ​not​ associate
with Vodú practices. This transition into a non­religious context has helped bridge the gap
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“​We understand everyday struggles. The only this we can do is help our community.” Jesus Guillen interview by
Rene Cruz, Yamasá, Dominican Republic, November 2, 2014
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All palo events in Villa Mella were performed by this group of paleros.
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Anonymous interview by Rene Cruz, Villa Mella, Dominican Republic, November 19, 2014.
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towards popular culture’s acceptance, marking a change in the role of palo, from religious to
entertainment.
Palo’s recent shift into Dominican entertainment can be marked most clearly by “​a Palo
Limpio​,” by Kinito Méndez, released in 2001. Kinito Méndez, a renowned Dominican merengue
musician collaborated with ​paleros​ to create this merengue­palo fusion song. The title, “​a Palo
Limpio​,” literally translates to “to clean palo.” The song begins with bells and singing to mark
the arrival of a deity. After a minute, Kinito enters as well as a guitar, which continue for the
final three minutes. When Kinito performed this song for the pop culture news show, “​De
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Extremo a Extremo​,” in 2011, the song similarly began with a minute of song and rhythms
similar to traditional palo. Afterwards, however, Kinito enters accompanied by horns, keyboard,
a drum kit, and ​tambora​, forcing the palo rhythms into the background of the music for the
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remaining 24 minutes. This performance was advertised as “merengue of palo” or, as Kinito
claims, “​a Palo Limpio​.” The implications made by the title, alongside the overwhelming
presence of merengue, can be dangerous to palo’s presence, however. A “clean palo,” that has
minimal palo rhythms present suggests that palo is in need of ​cleansing​, and that, somehow,
merengue is the ​cleaner ​music, capable of ​cleaning ​it (​read: purging out the
Afro­Dominicanness​). Nevertheless, Kinito’s use of merengue to promote palo, similarly to the
fame that promoted bachata, has shifted palo’s presence within the Dominican populace: creating
a more publicly “acceptable” image of palo.
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​From extreme to extreme.
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​Three minutes into the performance a ​palero​ plays a solo, center­stage, that was inaudible in the broadcast.
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Conclusion
From churches to birthday parties, I have explored palo’s current presence primarily in
Villa Mella, Dominican Republic. I experienced many different and complicated perspectives
surrounding palo. My time in the field reflected palo’s contemporary transition into sectors of
Dominican society that previously persecuted it. Furthermore, palo and paleros continue to
advocate against injustices within and without religious context. Palo continues to reflect the
Dominican identity of its devoted ​Sanjuaneros​ of the past, Dominicans forgotten by history, and
more recently, a popular Dominican identity that simply enjoys the music itself. As time
progresses, palo’s presence can only continue shifting through a religious continuum,
governmental structures, and popular culture.
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Palo Tomorrow:
Conclusion, Possibilities, and Consequences
Understanding Dominican identity is as complicated as with any other identity, no matter
the geographical or population size. Within each culture exists a plethora of identities that have
historically formed in dialogue with each other. As music affects identity, it is also affected by
the habits of particular identities. In this case, music can be seen as a reflection of different
aspects of identity. While merengue reflects the identity of the Dominican elite, bachata reflects
that of the lower classes. Nevertheless, scholars have historically disregarded Dominicans who
do not identify with either of these musics: Dominicans who feel connected with their African
ancestors and keep their heritage alive through the religions of Vodú and rhythms of palo.
Although history highlights the persecution of palo, a closer analysis sheds light on the
strength palo has historically possessed, and the threat that it posed to hegemonic, colonial, and
imperial structures. By bringing people together through the ​Liborismo​ and ​Palma Sola
movements, Vodú proved to be useful as a vehicle for protest against political powers, both
national and international, as shown by its historical resistance to Rafael Trujillo and United
States military occupation. Although the leaders of these movements were killed, their missions
live on, as the palos of San Juan play facing their pictures today.
My time spent in the Dominican Republic reinforces the claim that palo is emblematic of
Dominican identity and highlights its recent shift in Dominican identity. As time progresses, the
Dominican populace is growing to accept palo. Vodú practices have been incorporated by
practicing Catholics, whether it be spiritual cleanses or lottery number predictions, creating a
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continuum between Vodú and Catholicism. Palo has also continued to adapt: making its way into
Catholic Churches, being performed by non­Vodú practitioners, even fusing with merengue and
shifting into popular culture as entertainment.
Where this work leads is towards the discussion of the possibilities and implications of
palo’s shift within Dominican society. Will palo stay “authentic?” Will palo be taken away from
its diasporic religious tradition, only to be appropriated for the financial benefit of musicians
who think it needs “cleansing?” Can palo become accepted without losing its roots? While we
can only speculate, it is important to remember these questions because if music, as we
ethnomusicologists argue, is a key to cultural knowledge, it is critical to understand how, and
why, that key has shifted. If palo is solely shifting to fit into elite’s ​modernity​ standards, is it not
losing its connection to the ​Liboristas ​and ​Palmasolistas​ that died protecting it against these
same elite rulers? As I stated earlier, palo’s shift within Dominican society is inevitable.
Nevertheless, it cannot be viewed in its static form. Palo continuously reflects the various spaces
it has occupied throughout time, bringing back Dominicans forgotten by history.
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Roorda, Eric Paul. ​Historical Dictionary of the Dominican Republic​. Rowman & Littlefield. 2016.
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