The Afro-Latina Label: A Box I Can't Check

Soy Demasiado, a special issue for Juntos, celebrates Latinas who are reclaiming what it means to be "too much." Read the stories here.

I grew up adorned in the Puerto Rican flag. Boricua culture was the only religion I knew. But pride in Latinidad, particularly for Caribbean Latines, often glorifies Spanish ancestry, erasing African roots. Unluckily for me, that African blood would not just flow inside of me quietly; my melanin-rich skin would scream the secrets we wanted to keep but could not hide.

Under the guidance of Latinidad, I tried to hide and distance myself from Blackness. Whenever I was asked what I was, I'd simply say I was Puerto Rican. But as I grew into my full self, the media didn't evolve with me. Jennifer Lopez remains the standard image of Puerto Rican women, while Dominican and Puerto Rican actress Zoe Saldaña could be any color — green, blue, or Black, but never seen as Afro-Latina. The media's lack of representation gave others power over what I was allowed to claim for myself. As I grew older, so did people's fixation on my coarse curly hair, dark skin, and wide nose. These phenotypical markers would be enough to push me to include Blackness in my identity, and that journey led me to a disturbing truth: I had a lot of shame around my Blackness.

I always knew that a Black man from Georgia was my father, but since he abandoned me, I sought to abandon his ancestral lineage. I thought the only thing that mattered was what my mom was. After all, she was the one raising me. But with some time and insight, I learned that it had less to do with my father's abandonment and more to do with the fact that I was ashamed to be something that it seemed everyone thought was less than. And when I say everyone, I mean everyone — including other Afro-Latines.

Internalized anti-Blackness isn't something people like to admit to in polite company, but it exists in every community. The truth is that whenever I claimed "Hispanic" or "Latina," I was creating distance from my African roots by saying I was mixed with other things, diluted, and essentially whiter. When I was younger, I only came up against the term Hispanic, but as I entered college, a new term entered the scene, and that term did exactly the same thing for me. It offered me absolution for all that was Black inside of me. That term is Afro-Latina.

In Los Angeles, unlike Miami or New York, not many seem to be familiar with Caribbean Latines, let alone Puerto Ricans. Here, it seems the only Latines recognized are Mexicans and, in some cases, Central and South Americans with similar phenotypical features. Interestingly enough, when I was growing up, people weren't using the term Latino. They were using "Hispanic," and stereotypically, Hispanics had a specific phenotype: dark straight hair, brown to fair skin, and Indigenous or Spanish features. Since these are features I did not have, I often found myself having to prove that I could call myself "Hispanic."

In my experience, there was (and still is) a lot of division between the Hispanics, which today are referred to as Latines, and the Blacks in LA. This went beyond just thinking one was better than the other. There was gang violence that permeated the public school culture. This made the two parts of me feel like the two could not coexist, like they were at war and I had to pick a side. And so, I thought I would choose the side of me that I was more culturally attuned to. Looking back, I realize it was silly of me to think I could decide for myself who I wanted to be. I had a friend who corrected my silly mistake. I was not "Hispanic" to her; I couldn't be. She took a look at my skin and knew without a doubt that I was also Black.

Becoming Black overnight does not come without addressing the years of pain of denying that Blackness. The path to Blackness does not come without offers of distance. This is something I noticed that people who are only Black will still do. There's an offer in every corner to be exceptional, to be mixed, to be as far away from Black as you can. As I was searching for who I am, I learned that there was so much shame wrapped up in my Blackness. I was ashamed that someone would "find out" my hair was an Afro and not curly, I was afraid that any of the secrets I was taught to keep about my Blackness would be on full display for anyone to pick at. Most of all, I was afraid to own who I was because, for so long, I was taught that there was something wrong with it. It took a lot to sit within my Blackness and to love it, but once I got there, I wasn't going to go back to hating myself.

I'm not going to say that I know exactly who can and cannot identify with Afro-Latina. For my mother, the term uplifts and connects her to her African roots, but for me, it feels like a way to reject my Black roots. I once thought that this term allowed people with dark hues to be included in the conversation of Latinidad because, for so long, we had been kept out. But with the inclusion of "Afro," ironically, we are included but also separated and othered. It still remains that when required to check an identity box on any demographic survey, a person must deny African descent to claim Latine ethnicity. Afro-Latina feels like a powerful phrase to many, as well as reclamation and empowerment. But because my dad is a Black American, this term feels inaccurate to me. It still feels like a way to hide from my ancestral past. I want to include Blackness in my identity, and there is something about the term Afro-Latina that feels like it is erasing my Blackness. I'm so over people telling me who I am and who I am allowed to be.

For me, claiming Blackness and claiming Latinidad are not exclusive, and the two do not need to be blended into one. Both of my bloodlines have a rich history, but these histories are different. I want to honor both because who I am comes from these great and terrible histories. So, as someone who is half Black and half Latina, I consider myself both. Perhaps with time, a new term will evolve out of these conversations that we are having and that term will feel more fitting, but for now, I prefer to say I am Latina and Black.

Akaylah Ellison is a screenwriter whose storytelling blends the poetic and long-form narratives. Believing that empathy is a writer's greatest asset, Akaylah creates characters who voice fringe realities and encourages people from different walks of life to connect with them emotionally. Akaylah wants to create content that reflects her real world, which is a blend of people from all backgrounds who coexist without explaining who they are and who never apologize for it.