The term Afro-Latina helped me find beauty in my identity – Essence

“Tell me about yourself” is an issue most of us dread hearing on a primary date or job interview. Yet, I’ve avoided it my entire life. My identity was a confusing topic of conversation until recently. Growing up with a Puerto Rican mother and a Dominican father of Haitian descent, identity was a subject of debate. To my mother, I used to be Puerto Rican and Dominican. To my father, I used to be black—easy. Choosing learn how to discover was like selecting between my parents. A alternative no child should should make.

There was a relentless war happening in my head about who I used to be, and entering the Latino community didn’t make it any easier. By the cultural standards of the time, I wasn’t “Latina enough.” My hair was considered “bad hair”, I actually have no curves and I didn’t speak Spanish until I used to be twenty.

As a young girl growing up in the 90s, there was no representation of ladies who shared my traits in my community. I discovered this by watching soap operas with my mother. These women had the traits I so desired on the time. Curvy bodies, long straight or wavy hair, and Spanish that flowed off the tongue. Not only did I not feel “Latina” enough, I also didn’t feel pretty.

Despite my growing insecurities, I discovered solace in other women outside of my community. Hilary Banks, the character I played in , became my salvation. She was the primary and only woman I knew who embraced her natural hair. Her curl texture was just like mine. Her confidence was seductive. I watched her endlessly as she appeared as herself in her best outfits. Part of me hoped that in the future I could wear my hair down in its natural state and be as confident as she was—even when it was all an act.

My Dominican-Haitian grandmother wasn’t as inspired by Hilary’s hair alternative. “Pero, mira eso pelo! Ella es bonita, pero tiene pelo malo,” she would say. It means, “Look at her hair! She’s pretty, but she’s got bad hair.” Her comments only served to calm my identity crisis: “Hilary and I have similar features; she’s got bad hair, so I must have bad hair,” I believed. In other words, “I shouldn’t wear my natural hair because who I am isn’t accepted, so I can’t be enough.”

This repetitive narrative began to materialize physically. I relaxed my hair to cover my roots, wore push-up bras to feel more “curvy,” and deciphered my mother’s Spanish. Outwardly, this was considered “lightening up.” Inwardly? It was a cry for help.

Deadline Afro-Latino was created by political scientists Anani Dzidzienyo and Pierre Michel Fontaine in 1970. It was a term developed to discover West African slaves who were delivered to Brazil. After continued research, it was discovered that there was African ancestry in the Caribbean.

By 1800s the colonial census confirmed that Brazil, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Panama, Venezuela, and Nicaragua were mostly African American. However, I used to be not aware of the term until my late twenties. In 2020, to be precise, at the peak of the Black Lives Matter movement.

In the chaos of anti-racism, I used to be rediscovering who I used to be. Afro-Latina became a term that liberated me in more ways than one. There was finally an area in my community where my roots were accepted. This revelation made me feel protected to acknowledge my Spanish and Haitian roots. I not had to decide on. It was an internal and physical liberation that naturally blossomed into radical acceptance. Plus, seeing other celebrities—like Zoe Saldana, Tatyana Ali, La La Anthony, and Sarunas Jackson—claim their Afro-Latina identities helped me find beauty in who I’m.

Being Afro-Latina is an attractive experience. We come in all shapes, sizes, and colours. Our food and spirits are energetic, as are our textured coils, our contagious energy, and our addiction to celebrating life in all ways, all the time. There is not any mistaking after we are in the room, after we proceed to shine a light-weight on those around us—proudly shouting, “Wepa!” along the best way. And even after we are silent, one thing will all the time remain true—we’re black, Latina, beautiful, and proud. I do know that I’m. Always have been, never have been.