You Got Black People In Your Family?

The first time Darren asked me that question we were students at prep school, a wealthy and predominantly white boarding school in New England. I was a year ahead of Darren, which would have made it my senior year. We were sitting in the lobby of the main building, hanging out with our friends, as we usually did on Sunday afternoons. There weren’t many students of color at our school. There were even fewer from working-class backgrounds like we were, so we tended to spend our free time together. It was as much for our emotional wellbeing as our physical survival. There I was sitting on the couch, when I felt someone snatch my ponytail, a big, bushy wad of curly hair. Someone had my hair in a death grip; I couldn’t move my head. After a few seconds Darren’s smile came into view, and he asked, “You got Black people in your family?”

It’s always comes back to the hair, doesn’t it?

Darren knew I was Puerto Rican, whatever that might mean, but he also knew Black hair when he saw it. He wanted to understand – was I Black or was I Puerto Rican? In his mind’s eye, the two were mutually exclusive. And to be honest, my family felt the same way. We weren’t Black, oh no, we weren’t. Our roots were Spanish and Taíno, not African. For my part, I was told that I was trigüeña with pelo bueno, if a bit dry and unmanageable. Whenever I tried to explore my family ancestry, specifically the possibility that we might have African roots, I was quickly shut down. Looking back, it’s funny and sad to realize the level of denial my family was in. It wasn’t until my father’s sister told me that I resembled some of our cousins in Puerto Rico that I felt vindicated. We had family in Puerto Rico with dark skin, coarse, curly hair and African features. In other words, we had family that looked more like my Dad and me than the rest of my family. We were Black, or at least I was.

I don’t remember what I said to Darren then, or ever. I probably smiled and yelled at him to let go of my hair. But it was a question he would ask repeatedly throughout our time at school and one I would struggle with all of my life. I am very clear and centered in my identity as a Puertorriqueña, as a Latina, as a woman of color, as a Brown woman. And yet, I have been much less fierce to affirm my Blackness. Is it because of my own internalized racism? Is it because I am afraid that by claiming something most of my family has so steadfastly rejected that I take yet one more step away from them? Maybe I am afraid of being judged inauthentic and accused of being an imposter. Or all of the above. Identifying myself as Puerto Rican and Black, as Latinegra, causes a huge shift in my sense of self. Perhaps, it’s just naming the way I have always moved through the world but never knew it. It will certainly force my family and friends to see me differently. And yet it feels right. To claim my Blackness is a political act, a form of resistance to the Whitening of my Puerto Rican identity. It is also an act of reconciliation with my ancestors, all of them, the Spanish, the Taínos and the Africans.

I have Darren to thank for launching me on this journey to understand my Blackness and embrace it as a crucial part of me. And if I ever see Darren again, I can finally answer, “Yeah, I got Black people in my family.”

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