I'm A Proud Afro-Latina!

By Scholar-Griot: Melanie Falu

My grandparents - Isabel Navedo and Francisco Alvarez wedding day 1939, Harlem, NY (El Barrio)

My journey as an Afro-Latina started early—really early—and I have my father to thank for how I first learned to see myself. From a young age, he taught me that my skin color wasn’t something to hide—it was something to celebrate. Same with my hair. There was no such thing as “good hair” or “bad hair”—it was just hair, and mine was beautiful. Thanks to him, I grew up knowing how to stand my ground and defend who I am.

What made things harder, though, was needing to defend myself—sometimes within my own family, and then in the wider community too. See, most African Americans deal with prejudice from outside their culture. But as an Afro-Latina, I had to deal with it from both sides.

Some relatives insisted I wasn’t Black, I was Puerto Rican. But anyone could look at me and see that I’m a Black woman. I don’t look like J.Lo, Rosie Perez, or Christina Milian—I’m more Nia Long, Kim Fields, unmistakably Black. And yet even my own mother would tell me, “You’re not Black, you’re Puerto Rican.” My father, on the other hand, made sure I understood the truth: that “Puerto Rico” was a name given by colonizers. The island was originally home to the Borinquen people—the Taíno, who were part of the Arawak group. So I learned early that even the label they gave me wasn’t where I truly came from.

My mother, Ana Alvarez, (age 32) in our living room in the Bronx, NY.

Still, I was surrounded by people—especially family—pushing me to claim an identity that didn’t reflect what the world saw. So when people asked me who I was, I’d say “Puerto Rican” because that’s what was drilled into me. My first experience of being Afro-Latina was basically being told not to embrace my own skin.

And then came the outside world. I’d meet other Puerto Ricans who didn’t know I was one of them—until I spoke Spanish or mentioned my heritage. That’s when the tone would shift: suddenly I was “in.” I remember one friend who told their mom, “Oh no, she’s not morena—she’s Puerto Rican!” And only then did the mom accept me. That stuck with me. If I hadn’t spoken or had someone “vouch” for me, I wouldn’t have been welcomed. That was my first taste of prejudice from my own people.

And on top of that, I still faced the same bias every Black woman in America faces—so I got hit from both sides. What’s wild is that the very things that make up our culture—the music, the flavor, the spirit of being Latina—all have African roots. But the color that represents those roots? People shy away from it. They want the spice but not the skin.

But I was built for this battle. I was taught from day one to defend my truth. I’m not just surviving—I’m thriving. I no longer call myself a Puerto Rican woman first, because when people look at me, they see a Black woman. That’s who I am. My culture is Puerto Rican. My heritage runs deep—I’ve got family born and raised there, I speak fluent Spanish, I vibe to the same rhythms. But I am Black. And I own that, proudly.

I’ll keep educating anyone who doubts that you can be both. Because we are. And it’s time that our own people stop running from the reflection they see in us. Most of us don’t look like J.Lo—we look like Celia Cruz, like Roberto Clemente. That’s us. That’s real. And it’s time we honor that. We’ve been pushed aside—internally and externally—but the fight isn’t over. Education wins. Shaming doesn’t.

This is what it means to be an Afro-Latina. It’s not easy—but it’s powerful.