Growth is such a funny thing.

As I work on one of the chapters of my book, I can’t believe there was once a time where I denied my Blackness. Or rather, didn’t even know or understand that I was Black. As a Puerto Rican person, the nuance of race is almost x’d out. Or at least it was. You were simply Puerto Rican. You weren’t Black, you weren’t White, you were Puerto Rican and that’s it. “Pure Blooded”. Such a laughable thought that a mixed people could be pure blooded. But when you think of the attempts of colonial government to erase Blackness in Puerto Rico, it makes sense why I grew up with that notion of understanding.

I’m baffled by the things I’ve done, all in the name of “not being Black”, whether I realized it or not. Relaxing my hair till I had scabs on my scalp, dying it blonde and light brown until it looked like stalks of hay, laughing in Spanish (trust me, it’s cringier than you think), and the constant game of cat and mouse I played with the sun during the summer, all in the name of not getting “too dark”.

I’m shocked by the things I’ve accepted. Getting upset when people confused me as Black or Dominican and “proudly” claiming my “pure blood”. Allowing the word “nigger” around me in White spaces because I was too scared to speak out against the status quo, even though I knew it was wrong. And, if I’m being honest, because I was too scared to be the nigger in those social situations, as I have been labeled and called so many times in my life. I was escaping a domestic violent relationship at the time and really just wanted a safe space and that felt like my only option. Regardless though… it wasn’t right. As someone who has always believed you “stand for something or fall for nothing”, I can’t believe these are things I accepted. I’m disappointed in myself, truthfully.

For the longest time, I hated my Blackness (even though I didn’t realize it) because even though I grew up very Black and in Black spaces within our dominantly White city, I never truly understood MY Blackness. Never embraced it. I knew I was a nigga but I didn’t understand that I was Black. As a grown woman looking back at the mixed kid I was, I get it. The disconnect makes sense.

As an adult, I can now look back and see how laughable my childhood understandings were. But I can also see the damage it can cause to someone’s idea of identity when they aren’t properly versed on who they are, where they come from, and ALL of the parts that make them beautiful. I wish as a kid I really knew and understood that Puerto Rican’s are a mixed people. I wish I understood that I’m Black. I wish I understood that my skin color carried my DNA’s memory of the sun, that my hair hosted the familiarity of adversity AND culture in it’s coily texture and braid downs, that my forehead was the bark path laid by native ancestors, and that my sharp nose was only one defining feature of the defeat of my people’s culture by the colonizers.

I’m grateful to have learned my roots. Accepted my identity. And found peace in my soul.

Thalia, out. ✌️