My hair isn’t long and curly. My skin isn’t the color of caramel, or almonds, or bronze. My last name doesn’t have a particular “foreign” sound. According to others, my name is “Kayla” (with an American accent). I don’t speak Spanish fluently. These were among the points brought to me as I explained my ethnicity over the years. As a child growing up in the south, the idea of multi-cultural heritage was not well understood. Being “mixed” was considered an exclusive club for which qualification was very narrow. As I began to allow the strict regulation upon culture to shape my own thinking, I began a long journey of confusion as to just who I was.
My mother was born in Panama City, Panama. Her original name is Flor, meaning flower in Spanish. When she began to live permanently in the U.S. she changed it to a name that was easier on the American tongue. Having such an experience, it would be easy to assume that she would give her daughter a common, popular name. Not exactly the case. After careful planning, I was named Kaila – spelled
“k-a-i-l-a” with purpose. In the Spanish alphabet when the letters “a” and “i” are paired together they create the sound of the word “eye” in English. I never expect to enter a new social situation without having to explain this in some way. The spelling of my name is a passing down of culture, from mother to daughter. Although I was always aware of this, I felt awkward conveying the message, as I just didn’t feel “Latina” enough.
My dad was born in New Haven, Connecticut. He is Black-American. In addition to being taught that I was Latina, I was taught that I was black. While it was not nearly as difficult to access black culture, I still felt I couldn’t relate to it at times. My parents divorced when I was young, so most of my upbringing was done by my mother. Many of my peers, subconsciously or not, appeared to believe that the more you could distance yourself from being black or having dark skin, the better. I always had immense pride in the people that came before me. I admire the experience of African Americans so much that distancing myself from that was undesirable to me. While this was true, I began to feel insecure not only about being black, but about being Latina . There were times that it did feel cool to say I was a Latina. Deep down inside I knew this was a result of internalized racism. As Black children, we are often taught that we’re not beautiful. It would be a long time before I was able to break down the idea that there was anything negative about being Black. It would take me even longer to understand that I could be both, Black and Latina.
I’m a child of the internet age. If I were to credit the sources that raised me, for better or worse the media world would be one. Growing up in a time where the word of the media is taken for law, I often had a tough time with the images I would see. Every child wants to see themselves represented in television, movies, and magazines. While I was told that who I was as an Afro Latina was real, when I looked through popular mediums to verify, I felt unfounded. I wasn’t the only one to have my point of view manipulated in this way. My friends and peers also took in these images. They were “assignments” of what humanity was. We were all classified in such a way that difference was seen as deviation. Difference was seen as false. I knew that this couldn’t be true – I was who I was, I was alive! I just couldn’t find an exact replica of myself. My shame increased. I didn’t want to share my heritage with others. I felt fear of being made fun of. All at once, a whole component of my being was something I desperately wanted to hide as well as bring out.
Perhaps the reason I felt so disconnected to my identity was that I experienced a whole culture through one person. When I heard Spanish spoken conversationally (save for holidays) it was my mom speaking to someone over the phone. The only indication I had of what was being said was in the tone of her voice. My mother’s family, also Panamanian, do not live in our community. For this reason I was unable to be immersed in what being Latino meant to them. Other than my mom, I never quite had the opportunity to experience cooking with my family and learning their recipes, hearing their slang expressions, or simply watching the way they interacted with one another. All the experiences I’ve had with my family were filtered through the lens of a child of the United States of America, and that has truly made a difference.
More recently, I started studying Spanish seriously. I decided that I would pick up where I left off in middle school, which was not from a very advanced point at all. Day and night, I spent learning words and conjugations. The process was long, hard, and sometimes tedious but always rewarding. The first time I was able to (with difficulty, but still!) have a conversation with my mother in Spanish is one of the proudest moments I’ve had in my life. Not only had I gained a new grasp on something really difficult, but I was suddenly also more “Latina” – or so I thought. I began to realize that I was studying Spanish for the wrong reasons. I wanted validity. I wanted to be able to “do” the action of being Latina even if I couldn’t “look” Latina or “live” Latina. While I would have never said this aloud, deep inside I realized I was thinking this way. Noticing errors in my ways, I was a lot more careful about them. I changed the perspective I took in learning, creating a much more enjoyable and successful experience.
Subconsciously, I knew that if I wanted to feel more secure in who I was, I had to accept myself. My mother always instilled in me that simply being who I was, was enough. While she always told me this, I was unable to comprehend the full meaning of her words. Little by little, I began to try to understand who I was – not defined by ethnicity or race. While those are of extreme importance to me, they are components of who I am, not my complete self. As I began to look at myself less harshly, I suddenly felt ready to dig deeper, from a place of curiosity as opposed to desperation. No matter what I would find as I learned about myself, I felt peace.
As I discovered through many sources, I wasn’t nearly as odd as I once believed. There was a name for people like me: Afro-Latina. Afro Latinos/as like myself exist all over the world. Taking the time to educate myself on how the Afro Latino community came into existence and continues to exist, filled gaps that I had felt within myself for years. Suddenly my hair, skin, and eyes felt just right to me. I was able to accept who I am without the limitation set forth by this American society. Even more comforting to me was the fact that there were other people who came to the appreciation of what came together to create them. These people served as a bridge for me to cross into self-understanding.
One of the most eye-opening experiences I’ve had in self-discovery occurred when I moved to New York to attend college. By chance, I was offered a job at a Panamanian restaurant that I was visiting. Already, in the short time working there, the diversity in the Latino community that I was able to witness was nothing short of amazing. Finally, all the people I heard of that were like me, were right there before my eyes – speaking, laughing, eating. I had never felt more involved in my Latin culture than I did then. I never felt more Latina than in those moments. I realized through seeing other people in my community that we are indeed multi-dimensional. It finally clicked that culture encompasses many things, with each individual having different characteristics. Looking a certain way, liking certain things, and speaking certain languages are all a part of culture. However, despite all of those things, you are who you are. Now I claim my Afro-Latin heritage with pride, simply because it is the way I was born. I am Black. I am Latina.
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