While scrolling through my Twitter feed earlier this week, I happened upon a tweet from the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History & Culture celebrating Arturo Schomburg, a black Puerto Rican whose collection became the foundation of what is now the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in New York City.
I wrote about Schomburg here on Daily Kos last February for Black History Month. The essay was titled “Celebrating the Afro-Puerto Rican 'Father of Black History' Arturo Schomburg.”
It is fitting to open this series with a towering figure of the Harlem Renaissance—to whom we all owe a debt of gratitude for having collected and preserved so much of our black heritage. I speak of Arturo Alfonso Schomburg, known as “The Father of Black History,” whose collections formed the core of what is now known as The Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, a division of the New York Public Library.
Both Puerto Rico and the USVI can lay claim to Schomburg. In “Arthur 'Afroborinqueño' Schomburg” Robert Knight wrote for The Civil Rights Journal:
Arturo Alfonso Schomburg, a self-described "Afroborinqueño" (Black Puerto Rican), was born January 24, 1874, of María Josefa and Carlos Féderico Schomburg. His mother was a freeborn Black midwife from St. Croix, and his father a mestizo merchant of German heritage. They lived in Puerto Rico, in a community now known as Santurce. Young Schomburg was educated at San Juan's Instituto Popular, where he learned commercial printing, and at St. Thomas College in the Danish-ruled Virgin Islands, where he studied Negro Literature.
While his education equipped Schomburg with tools essential to his extraordinary bibliophilia, it was also in school that he encountered the flame which burned throughout his career. By Schomburg's own account, it was in the fifth grade that a teacher glibly asserted that people of color had no history, no heroes, no notable accomplishments. Young Schomburg embarked on a lifelong quest to scientifically refute the mythology of racism in the Americas. He became a fiery debater and documentarian of the accomplishments of Afro-Latinos such as Puerto Rican artist José Campeche, Haitian liberator Toussaint L'Ouverture, and the Afro-Cuban general Antonio Maceo.
In honor of Hispanic Heritage Month, it is fitting that he be celebrated here again this year.
Sabia McCoy-Torres wrote about how Arturo Schomburg was vital to the Harlem Renaissance, but his Latino identity is often forgotten:
On a list of Latinos who made important contributions to United States history, some might find it surprising to see Arturo Schomburg’s name included. An interesting and notable aspect of Schomburg’s legacy is that the Afro-Boricua activist, scholar, historian, and archiver is rarely recognized or claimed among Latinos, but his importance is acknowledged by African-Americans. His absence from Latino history reflects the erroneous line of thinking that being Black is separate from being Latino. In the 80 years since his death, this misconception persists. Society often asks Afro-Latinos to choose between identifying as either Black or Latino because, according to this dichotomy, a person cannot truly or loyally be both. The irony of it all is that Schomburg’s work attempted to address this mistake.
Despite the fact that asking someone to choose between a racial identity and a cultural one – both of which deeply impact one’s life – is ridiculous and subliminally racist, Afro-Latinos are regularly put in this position. We see this constantly play out in the media with celebrities. Various Afro-Latinos in the spotlight today – from La La Anthony to Amara La Negra to Zoe Saldaña – have commented on what a headache it is to explain themselves, prove their Latinidad, and battle trolls who want them to choose a “side.” They have all firmly declared that they are both. Arturo Schomburg, his work, and the recognition of his legacy are caught up in this same either Black or Latino conflict.
Journalist Felipe Gomez tweeted:
Translation:
The story of Arturo Alfonso Schomburg is fascinating, and if we consider the historical circumstances, it is extraordinary. That is why his absence, or little notice, in the curricula and history books of Puerto Rico, frustrates and outrages.
Raquel Calero’s tweet linked to a Facebook post pointing out that Schomburg was only known by about 1 percent of the people on the island. He was “un puertorriqueño desconocido en Puerto Rico (a Puerto Rican unknown in Puerto Rico).”
Schomburg’s blackness, in many ways, separated him from “Latino-ness.” Thinking of Schomburg segues into a broader discussion of blackness in Latino communities.
Since the term “Hispanic” links to Spain and a history of European colonization, genocidal treatment of Indigenous nations, and enslavement of Africans, there is little wonder why Schomburg doesn’t fit.
Gabriela Herstik wrote about her take, as a Latina, on why Hispanic Heritage Month is problematic.
The term Hispanic was coined by the U.S. Census Bureau in 1970 as a way to group Spanish-speaking communities together. Before that, Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Cuban immigrants were all classified as “white,” while those with Latin American ancestry would go by their nationality and where they lived in the United States.
The problem with calling people Hispanic is that it excludes everyone who doesn’t speak Spanish in the Latin American community — like those from Haiti, or Brazil, which just so happens to be South America’s largest country. And what about those who are Afro-Latinx? What about the children growing up in Latin households who don’t speak Spanish — do they just not count?
Over many decades here in the U.S and in the Caribbean, Mexico, Central, and South America, the issues of the descendants of black Africans, their histories, cultural contributions, social class positions, and racism and discrimination they face,—along with the depredations of “self-hate” fostered by societies that value whiteness above all else—have begun to garner more attention from academics and activists.
I grew up academically and politically using the term Afro-Boricua for black Puerto Ricans, and Afro-Latino as the broader category. I use Afrodescendentes for Brazil.
Many younger activists and academics these days use Latinx (singular) and Latinxs (plural).
Janel Martinez, founder of Ain’t I Latina, writes in this recent Hip Latina piece:
Centering Afro-Latinx identity and concerns in media, as well as other predominantly white (Latinx) spaces, has created some room for us to discuss the racism that exists within our community. However, at times, it can still limit the conversation and, ultimately, representation to one set space. The demand for acknowledgment has morphed into tokenizing and even separation from Latinx identity.
I’ve seen it firsthand when panels on Latinx identity hosted by Latinx organizations or conferences are held and the entire panel is white. For some, the solution is to host an all Afro-Latinx panel as if the two identities can’t be present on the same panel, discussing identity, activism, politics, art, entertainment or whatever the topic at hand is.
Trust, this isn’t a call to “pick me (us).” We’ve existed for decades without acknowledgement. Terms like Afro-Latino/a/x were birthed out of a lack of representation and a demand for acknowledgement specifically in the context of Latinidad in the U.S. We’ve formed our own safe spaces, in-person and online, out of self-care and survival.
The demand is simple: Check your anti-Blackness. Just as you enjoy the Africanness of Latinx foods, music (cues salsa, merengue, bachata, tango and reggaeton, to name a few), dance and art, recognize the people who’ve made Latinidad what it is today.
I enjoyed the sharp bite of this piece posted at The Root:
Within our community, there are Afro-Latinx who pretend black when it is convenient and then try to blend right back into anti-blackness when it is not. The colonial trauma and legacy of self-hate continues to morph into stranger things.
Thankfully, many Afro-Latinx are sharing their stories. Read this excerpt from Yesenia Montilla’s poem “The Day I Realized We Were Black,” from her collection The Pink Box:
because he was stopped by the police
because he was hit with a stick
because he was never given the right directions even though he begged
because trash was thrown at him from the police cruiser’s window as he walked
because he was never the same
because we’re black because we’re black and I never knew I was twenty-two
Before retiring from teaching, this is one of the videos I used to spark discussion in my course on Afro-Caribbean women.
My students who were white Americans had fixed ideas about what “Hispanic” was, as did my African-American students. My Latinx students were split—even some of them who were visibly African-ancestored did not see themselves as Afro-Latinx.
Some thought of themselves as “Spanish” or “Hispanic.” Others were just their nationality/ethnicity—Dominican or Puerto Rican. When “race” was brought up, most avoided it by going back to using “Hispanic.” It was, however, transformative for some, like my former student Carmen Mojica. She wrote:
I took a class called “Women in the Caribbean” that set the stage for my book, “Hija De Mi Madre”. In that class with Denise Oliver-Velez, I identified as an Afro-Latina for the first time. This was the capstone for me, as I had become a Black Studies major shortly after crossing over into my sorority as an 18 year old. My twenties had a lot to do with embracing my African heritage as well as untangling the story of how I came to be Dominican. I am still learning. Becoming a Black Studies major marked the end of two decades full of self-hatred based on my skin tone. I often consider that major my personal major; that is to say, that being a part of the Black Studies department was more of a healing and transformative choice than for my career.
My husband, who is and identifies as a black Puerto Rican, does not relate to the term “Hispanic.” His mom, who was a black Puerto Rican, considered herself “white.”
Daily Kos readers often refer to Latinos as “people of color” or as “brown people” in site comments. That is an overly facile and factually incorrect categorization. It also obscures issues of social hierarchies within Latinx societies (with “white” at the top), racism, and colorism. Who is “white” and who is no has a strong connection to the determinants of power and status.
I’m curious: What Afro-Latinx historical or contemporary figures are you aware of? Did you learn about any of them in school?