On Generational Shame: Why Many Latinos Won't Admit They're Black, Too
I Grew Up Thinking “Black” Was Undesirable
A dark-skinned Dominican man and a fair skinned Puerto Rican woman make up my parental unit. I grew up envying my mother’s features. Although she always told me I was beautiful, I wished for her soft waves—her “good hair,” her lighter skin. On the totem pole of Latina beauty, I felt I was always at the bottom, desperately wishing for a way to inch up, especially growing up around gorgeous, light-skinned Latina friends who fit the standard of what we were “supposed to look like.”
We’ve been solely wired to believe that European beauty standards—European standards for everything—were to be praised and aimed for. (The generational trauma and shame is real, guys.) I had no concept of the nuances of race and ethnicity back then, and I never understood that my beauty was supposed to be different from theirs. And I never understood why I never saw Latinas who looked like me on TV. I felt invisible, disconnected, and perhaps like I should reject my external features all together.
And I did for a bit. When playing dolls with my friends, I’d always pick the white doll. When creating a character on any virtual game, I’d make her skin lighter than mine and her hair straighter than mine could ever be. Nothing about the characters ever matched me, and I was too young to process the meaning of this. I had fully internalized that my features were not beautiful, and I actively sought a different identity.
My Parents Did Not Have the Luxury of Self-Actualization
If you’ve ever heard of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, you’ll understand that a lot of our parents came to America under terrifying or stressful situations, and did not have the luxury to focus on anything other than building a sustainable life for themselves and their families. They were focused on survival, on building a solid foundation for us to succeed, pursue an education, and realize the dreams they never got to live out.
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
They did not have the luxury to sift deeply through their history/shame, understand where it comes from, and teach us how to navigate it. They were focused on fitting into America, learning English, securing a job to pay the bills, and making sure we were fed. They needed to successfully assimilate and wanted to make that possible for us, too. Because my parents set this foundation for me, I had the mental space to not worry about matters of survival. I could aim for actualization through education.
And education, partnered with self-awareness, makes you confront your shame.
While funneling through the broken narrative in discovering and understanding my racial and ethnic identity, I realized a few things.
1) So many Latinos are fumbling with shame over our blackness. We’ve adopted the mentality of those who colonized us, who ingrained in us that our features, our history, our ways of personal expression, and our cultures were not deemed acceptable—and taught us to both deny them and adopt a new standard. That historical trauma is heavy, and it’s gone unchecked for too long. As a result, so many dark-skinned Latinos refuse to acknowledge that they’re black and will fully believe their features have no association with Africa. I know this, I was one of them for a long time.
2) One-fourth of Latinos identify as Afro-latinos (or Black Latinos), and this is excluding the ones who are still in denial, or the ones who are yet to discover and understand their history. But seeing these numbers—where are Black Latinos in the media? Why isn’t a chunk of our population being acknowledged?
Oh wait, because when Afro-Latinos audition for Hispanic roles on TV, they’re turned down because they’re too dark, therefore not fitting the set standards of what a Latino “should look like.” This further estranges a large population of us, as we’ve not been regularly acknowledged on the big screen with the rest of our people.
3) Many Latinos, especially the ones who’ve migrated here, are most likely not even aware of their negative racial bias towards blackness. This mentality is normalized at this point. It’s why many Hispanic families, for example, will warn their kids against dating/marrying a black partner, and will celebrate them if they score a white one for the sake of “mejorar la raza” or “purifying the race,” and successfully assimilating to the standard.
4) A lot of Hispanic families actually are fully aware of their anti-blackness and further perpetuate racist rhetoric and toxic standards.
A Complex and Neglected Identity
There’s an incredibly nuanced complexity in Latin American identity. It’s multidimensional and multi-faceted. Growing up in mostly Hispanic spaces, I never had to explain myself other than to say “I’m Puerto Rican.” When I stepped into the South, into a largely white space, my race and ethnicity were suddenly questioned at every turn. This part of me had never been challenged before, and I had to learn my history and learn how to explain myself. The Hispanic community here is almost always taken aback when they realize I can fully carry a conversation in Spanish.
“When did you learn to speak Spanish?” Some of them will ask.
I’ve always known. It’s the first language I’ve learned to speak. “I’m Puerto Rican. I spoke at home.” I’ll answer.
Shock. Wow. I’m one of you! Don’t you understand?
Latinos, as research will tell you, are mixed with African, European, and indigenous peoples. We come in all shades. Each country has a different story, so I can’t blanket statement our history; it’s all different. It makes sense that many still don’t understand, though, our own people are still catching up.
When I cut off my straight hair to grow it out naturally, it was a very personal proclamation of self-acceptance. I was rebelling against everything I was taught—everything I’d internalized— and wanted to embrace my own beauty. It wasn’t meant to be politically charged, and it wasn’t declaring a transition in anything else other than extending love to a part of myself I’d shamefully hidden for 20 years. Short-hair me is fundamentally the same as the former, except now I was confident enough in my ethnic identity to present myself to you fully.
However, I wasn’t necessarily prepared for all of the social changes that came with it. While this didn’t spur a difference in how I interacted with the people around me, it did change the way people interacted with me. Some felt at liberty to assign me a political affiliation or agenda, which was definitely not what I had intended or identified with.
Other reactions were more subtle. Compliments switched from “beautiful” and “gorgeous” to “edgy,” “fierce,” and “bold.” Again, these are wonderful compliments and there’s nothing inherently wrong with them. But the change only happened when I started embracing my afro-centric features instead of when trying to fit into the euro-centric ones. I wasn’t necessarily trying to be edgy with my look, and I was confused as to why afro-centric beauty could not be regularly associated with compliments like “beautiful” and “gorgeous,” as this was MY type of beauty. It came naturally to me and at my standards.
A photographer friend at the time told me they’d once wanted to shoot with me, but now that my hair was gone, I’d apparently “lost” my camera appeal. “It just framed your face so nicely,” they’d said. I had recently cut my hair at the time, and my battle with accustoming to my new look was a lot more difficult back then. This comment was a small blow to my self-esteem, and I spiraled into wondering if I’d further downgraded in beauty by societal standards.
And I won’t even get into the reactions of my Hispanic church members, because none of us got time for that.
I also noticed people started to include me in more racially sparring conversations. My boyfriend, Phillip, is passionate about racial reconciliation and inciting stimulating conversations within black culture. Suddenly, after I cut my hair, I was welcomed into those conversations and asked for my opinions by others. While I share my boyfriend’s passion to a different extent, I’ve always felt as more of an ally than a person who identifies with the struggles and can accurately speak on the experience.
Although I recognize my African ancestry and will continue to claim it proudly, I can’t say I culturally identify as a black woman, for the sole reason being that I don’t truly relate to or understand the experience in the way a black woman would, and should, as it is her story. I proudly wear the features and attribute them to our motherland, but the cultural context and story isn’t fully and truly my own. Culturally, Hispanic food, the music, the people, the slang, the telenovelas I grew up watching have been my overall way of life. Claiming the title of an Afro-Latina, however, makes a statement to the people around me exclaiming that while I’m still fully Latina, I am a Black Latina, which means I carry a significant amount of African ancestry.
It took me 20 years to navigate the shameful narrative I inherited, and while I’m finally at the point where I openly embrace my black roots, it’s still a mental battle. I have to actively check in with myself, nurture and acknowledge when the fighting is painful, and celebrate my uniqueness. It has been my most beautiful and powerful act of resistance.
Calling out Anti-Blackness In Hispanic Communities
There are many ways our generation could recreate a culture of healing and equality instead of continuing to perpetuate a toxic narrative.
As stated in an article on Medium, “calling out anti-blackness in the Latino community means acknowledging white privilege, calling out the internalized racism, prejudice, bigotry, hate and violence that we perpetrate. It means naming that our existence has been colonized, and we have consciously and subconsciously played into the colonizer’s plan to stand as far apart from blackness as possible.”
What does breaking this pattern look like? Here are some ideas:
Challenging the dominant narratives around general healthcare access, immigration and education. It means being inclusive in the rights we fight for, reflecting all aspects of our lived experiences.
Speaking out when noticing that our Afro-Latino/black counterparts are not being properly represented, whether in the media or otherwise
Educating ourselves on our history and confronting what that means in the context of our personal identity
Speaking out when immigrant justice does not extend to black immigrants, or when rights offered to white Latinos do not extend to other minorities
Holding Latino(a) officials and leaders accountable to all of their constituents and people in their circles of influence
Challenging our families to realize they’re perpetuating a toxic narrative onto their children/any impressionable family members. We must stop posturing ourselves as better than black people, “othering” our existence, and recycling the trauma passed down to us by our colonizers, who taught us to hate and deny ourselves.
As we work towards reshaping the narrative and decolonizing our mentality, we must mobilize together for our freedom. If a group of us is still struggling, we still have work to do. We aren’t free until all of us are free.
Before you go, here are some links you should check out this week!
How I Would Raise My Daughter If A Stork Dropped Her Off Tomorrow
I’ve probably watched Ari’s new music video too many times
A healthier morning routine
Modern Love: tiny love stories