Why Black History is Our History
It is Black History Month and my mind is racing, filled with a million little thoughts, trying to put word to screen about this celebratory month. I am thinking about race. I am a person of color- under the umbrella of Puerto Rican ethnicity- my ancestors being what the narrative tells me are white slave-holders and Indigenous and black slaves. But they were much more than that. That narrative needs to be changed. I am compelled to write this story from that perspective. Because although I am at peace being indio, negro, y blanco, I am not at peace with anyone negating the greatness of any part of my blood.
As a Puerto Rican, I was raised on those rhythms of the three distinct heartbeats: the Indigenous Taíno, the European, and the African. These are the three roots that anchor my culture. They are the blood in my veins. You can hear it in our music, taste it in our food, and see it in the faces of our people.
But I am also keenly aware of the silence that often surrounds that first and third root. For this story, I will focus on the third.
I know that while we dance to the drums, there is often a hesitation to honor the heritage that built them. In many parts of my community, our African ancestry is treated like a shadow- acknowledged when convenient, but often smoothed over or ignored. This selective memory creates a painful, unnecessary awkwardness for our Afro-Boricua brothers and sisters, who are sometimes made to feel like strangers among their own people.
The Beautiful Faces of My Black People
We cannot talk about Puerto Rican culture without acknowledging Black greatness. Yet, too often, we consume the talent while erasing the race of the artist. We dance to the salsa legends, but we forget the struggle of Ismael Rivera, “El Sonero Mayor.” When he sang Las Caras Lindas, it wasn’t just a catchy tune; it was a radical anthem of self-love in a world that taught self-hate. He sang, “Las caras lindas de mi gente negra” (“The beautiful faces of my Black people”), reminding us that Blackness is not a burden, but a divine painting.
We marvel at the elegance of the Danza, often overlooking Juan Morel Campos. This Afro-Boricua genius didn’t just play music; he built the very foundation of our island’s classical sound. With over 550 musical works composed, his prolific brilliance is a monument to Black excellence that time cannot erode.
We praise the poetry of our music, often forgetting it was penned by Tite Curet Alonso (who composed the aforementioned Las Caras Linda), a Black man whose lyrics defined a generation but whose skin color often kept him isolated from the universal praise of genius he so rightfully deserved. He wrote over 2,000 songs, many of them having legendary status in Puerto Rican music circles.
We must look at the diversity of that experience- at how Black power manifests in unexpected places. We remember Isabel Luberza Oppenheimer, known as “Isabel La Negra.” She wasn’t a politician or a saint; she was a brothel owner in Ponce. But to dismiss her is to miss the point. In a time and place that offered Black women few paths to power, she carved her own with iron will. She operated with a poise, charity, and business acumen that demanded respect from the very society that tried to marginalize her. Her story reminds us that Black excellence isn’t just found in podiums and pulpits; it is found in the sheer, defiant refusal to be small.
And then there is Roberto Clemente. We revere him as a hero, but we must remember him as a Black man who faced the double-barrel shotgun of American Jim Crow laws and Caribbean colorism. He was a world-class baseball player, the man in right-field. He was class, he demanded dignity. He tragically passed due to a plane crash, while delivering emergency goods to victims of a giant earthquake in Nicaragua. But he died as he lived- serving others, driven by a heart that refused to be hardened by the racism he endured.
These men and women made giant contributions not just to Puerto Rico, but to generations of people who came in contact with their stories. They appeal to the inclinations of all people who want to change the world for the better. To claim them as “ours” without honoring them as Black is a dishonor to their legacy.
The Indifference Beyond the Island
And let’s be honest: that indifference isn’t limited to the island. It extends to Black people across the United States. It mirrors a reality that has existed since the first ships forced their way to these shores. There is a habit in this country of consuming Black culture while dismissing Black pain. We love the rhythm, the style, and the genius, but we turn a blind eye to the history that forged that resilience.
The Weight of History
We are a few days into Black History Month now. It is a time set aside to celebrate Black excellence, and we should. But if we only celebrate the “triumphs,” we are telling only half the story. You cannot honor the survival if you refuse to look at the threat.
Black history is not just a highlight reel of inventors and athletes. It is a chronicle of a people who have faced a relentless, centuries-long assault on their humanity and refused to break. It is the story of surviving the Middle Passage and the auction block. It is the story of enduring the terror of the KKK, the humiliation of hateful rednecks, and the systemic violence that was interchangeable from lynchings to police brutality that lives on until the present moment.
When we talk about Black history, we have to talk about the pain. We have to acknowledge that this skin has been targeted, politicized, and weaponized. To look away from that- to pretend that “we are all just one human race” without acknowledging the specific, bloody price paid by Black people to be part of that race- is an insult.
The Architects of Freedom
This is why the figures we honor this month are so important. They didn’t just “succeed”; they succeeded in spite of. They forced the world to expand. Harriet Tubman didn’t just walk to freedom; she walked back into the jaws of hell to liberate others. Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth used their voices to dismantle the lies of an entire nation that viewed them as property. Martin Luther King Jr. and James Baldwin forced a mirror in front of white America, demanding that it look at its own reflection. Muhammad Ali stood tall when the government and the media wanted him on his knees. Brilliant science fiction writer Octavia E. Butler imagined futures where Black people didn’t just survive, but led the way.
These giants, and the millions of unnamed ancestors who paved the way, do not need our approval. They have already proven their greatness by any measure of that word. They have shown us what dignity looks like when the world tries to strip it away.
A Call for Year-Round Respect
The world has yet to render the Black race its rightful due for the contributions of their excellence to our world. There is a debt of recognition that is long overdue. But that day will come.
Until then, we have work to do. And that work cannot be confined to the shortest month of the year.
We need to move beyond the performative celebration of February and into a daily practice of respect. We need to have the hard conversations about anti-Blackness in our own families and communities. We need to stop being awkward about race and start being honest about history and current reality.
Simplicity teaches us to see the people of this world as they are- their True Nature. And the reality is that greatness comes in all colors, sizes, and genders. But history has shown us that Black greatness has had to fight harder, shout louder, and bleed more just to be seen.
So, for this month, and for every month that follows: Open your eyes. Honor the past struggle and acknowledge the present one. Make light their burden. Reach out a hand in the name of fellowship. And help to make the world safer and equitable for everyone.
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