Crystal, 36"x36", oil on canvas, 2023

My name is Crystal. I was born and raised in North Hollywood, California, and I'm still here.  My mom came here from Jalisco, Mexico in the 1980s, and my father moved to California from Mississippi. He used to have a southern accent and sometimes it still comes out, but he has learned to suppress it so he can maneuver through his professional career with less discrimination. I have had a friend tell me that my father is “whitewashed” because of his speech and demeanor. And I am like, how could you say that? My father is a Black man.  

Some people say that “Afro-Latinx” means that both of those roots come from within Latin America. So I have been told that because I’m “half and half,” I should identify as biracial. But I don’t recognize anybody as half anything and half anything, because we’re not cakes. That’s not how it works, and I do identify as Afro-Latina. When people ask, and if it’s their business, I’ll tell them that I am Black and Mexican, or African American and Mexican-American, Black Chicana, or Afromexicana. But I would never say that I am “Blaxican.” That term has never really sat well with me. I think it is because it wasn’t something I chose for myself, but something I was being pressured into identifying as. I had friends in high school who would say things like “Oh, she’s not just Black, she’s Blaxican.” And I’m like, I can talk for myself. That experience just left a bad taste in my mouth. 

Growing up, people saw me as funny, smart, charismatic, and not wild. And it was as if, because of this, I couldn’t be Black. People would tell me that I didn’t “talk Black” and my friends would be like, “Oh, I forget that you’re Black because you don’t act Black.” I think back and it’s like, look at me — how could you “forget” that I am Black? They weren’t forgetting; they were just associating Blackness with their own ideas about “ghetto.” They would also say negative things about Black people and then when I would say, “Hey, that’s not cool,” they’d be like, “Well you can’t get mad, you’re only half Black.” There was a lot of that growing up. And I had to step away from these people because they were detrimental to my mental health and to my sense of identity.

On the other side, though I know my family loves me and we have come far, it was like some people would avoid me, or they would assume that I did not understand cultural references. Like, I remember being asked, “Do you know who Selena is?” Who doesn’t know who Selena is? I felt so insulted. Little comments that used “well, because she’s Black” as a form of explanation made me feel more isolated. It felt like even some of my own family relied on stereotypes and didn’t really get to know me. 

A phrase that immediately comes to mind when I think about this time in my life is “ni de aqui ni de alla” [neither from here nor there]. Growing up I always felt ni de aqui ni de alla because it was like my whole identity was questioned. Because people tried to pick me apart as opposed to just getting to know me and the qualities that I have. However, over time that has changed, and I’ve been more seen and accepted.

My cultures are a joy and a blessing. Let me start with Mexico — I love rancheras, I love mariachi, I love dancing banda. I love the fashion, and the art is beautiful. The food is even better. Yeah, I just love it all! And then when it comes to my African American identity, oh my gosh, African Americans are the basis of pop culture. We are the founders of rock, we’re the founders of R&B, we're the founders of hip hop. African Americans are also trailblazers for civil rights around the world. And then when it comes to the food, soul food has a special place in my heart. 

I really could go on and on, but one thing that I make an effort to honor from both of my cultures is Indigenous spirituality. I’m not talking about witchcraft as “the devil’s work,” like how I grew up seeing it from within Catholicism. The devil is a European concept that our ancestors did not have. No, I’m talking about herbalism, rootwork, energy, emotional wellness, meditation, and movement. These are the basis of community and they move me toward the path that my ancestors walked. 

As an Afro-Latinx person, I may never be able to know who my ancestors were. But through these practices, I connect with them. I can talk to them. I can ask them for advice and to guide me and to help me heal generational trauma. I see these practices and traditions less as something that is to be learned, but rather as something that is to be remembered. Because it's part of me and my culture, and there's nothing made up about it.