Pelo Malo:
Confessions of a Kinky-Haired Puerto Rican Sister
by Xenia Ruíz
My birth certificate contains a mistake. Where it asks for my parents' race, "White" is neatly typed. Although my father was the color of vanilla, my mother was dark caramel. Back in the early 1960's, there was no category for "Hispanic" so Puerto Ricans were recruited into the White categoryuntil someone noticed that dark-skinned folks were getting off the flights from Puerto Rico. Ironically, in Puerto Rico (where my mother claims there is no racism), on the birth certificates of children born in the '60s, parents were categorized under the negra (black) race and the blanca (white) race.
Like a lot of African-American families, my Afro-Latin-American family's skin tones range from black coffee to cafe con leche to milk sans coffee. Our hair textures range from pelo lasio (good hair) to pelo malo (bad hair), which in itself ranges from various degrees of kinky to assorted grades of nappy. For the longest time, I thought my family was the only Puerto Rican family with dark-skinned, kinky-haired members. Until I entered high school, I never met any other dark Hispanics outside of my family.
According to history, Puerto Ricans are a product of three races: Caucasian (Spaniard), Negroid (African) and Indian (Taino). In history books, posters, anything celebrating Puerto Rico, you will see these three races profiled as the ancestors of the average Puerto Rican. But the truth is, the Tainos were killed within decades after the Spanish landed in Puerto Rico during the 15th and 16th centuries. African slaves were imported to work the sugar cane fields of Puerto Rico even before they were brought to America. Consequently, few Puerto Ricans have Indian blood but to hear some of them tell it, Taino "blood" constitutes half of their biological make-up. There are some Puerto Ricans who lay claim to this ancient Indian blood before they admit to having one drop of African blood. I do not deny that some modern-day Puerto Ricans may have some native blood, but the odds are their red skin and pelo Indio are more a product of the interracial mix of black and white than anything else.
As a child, perhaps fueled by the glamorization of Hollywood Indians in TV movies, I pretended to be Indian. With my hair in two braids, I would tie a bandanna around my head and root for the Indians in Westerns. But of course, I didn't understand then that Hollywood would never let the Indians win. Other times, I would pretend to be White and secure a towel, or a brand-new mop-head, over my hair, swinging it from side to side so my "hair" could swish like the Breck girl. Or at least, like the Puerto Rican girls at school with real Spanish hair.
During my childhood, I always believed my hair was an inconvenience for my mother. It was thick and kinky, prone to easy tangling, but she refused to straighten it with the hot comb as she did her own hair because according to her, my hair grade was not as bad.
The frustration in untangling my mass was evident on my mother's face during our weekly hair-washing/untangling ritual, and whenever I'd reach up to protect an unruly knot, she'd pop my fingers with the comb. It was during these times that I believed she hated me for not inheriting my "vanilla" father's "good" hair. When she combed my hair in a hurry, she would forego the untangling and use a handful of pomada, brushing it back until the surface shone like polished leather shoes. Unfortunately, as the day wore on and my hair dried, the roots would intertwine into a tangled web. Before sending me off to bed, she would attack my tangles, my head throbbing from the tugging and the tears.
Among my kinkier-haired cousins, my hair was envied because it was slightly "better" and longer than theirs. When my aunts threatened to apply the hot comb, my mother would jump to my virgin hair's defense, warning them against straightening one kink on my head.
In school, I was an oddball of sorts. Puerto Rican girls stayed away from me because they thought I was Black; Black girls stayed away because I talked "funny." If my sister and I spoke Spanish around Hispanic girls, they'd stare like we were aliens from outer space. "Where are you from?" they'd ask in voices filled with distaste, never making any attempt to include me in their cliques. Whenever my family spoke Spanish in public, I'd shrink away, embarrassed, pretending I wasn't with them because people would give us "the look"the eyes and raised brows sweeping over the kinkiness of our collective hair and our various shades of brown skin. I began to believe that if we had been just a little lighter, our hair more lasio, our features less African, we wouldn't have attracted so much attention.
For a while I hung around other misfits: a White girl nobody else liked; a Mexican girl ostracized for her size. Eventually, Black girls accepted me into their circle. I learned to jump double-Dutch with the best of them, loved soul music more than salsa, and soon echoed their West Side tones, appending "finna" and "ay-ayn't" to my already slang-laden "Spanglish" vocabulary. Even though they still occasionally mimicked my accent, my hair and skin tone made me one of them; I became more Black than Puerto Rican. Any passerby watching me jump double-Dutch or play hopscotch would have never guessedor caredI was Puerto Rican. To them, I was just another little Black girl. But then, I would be asked to translate for a non-English speaking person in school, or in stores, and the embarrassment and shame would return. Embarrassed that my Black cover had been blown, ashamed that my Spanish wasn't good enough.
Sometimes my younger sister and I would pretend to be undercover spies, listening to other Spanish kids talk about the little negras in the playground until we'd unleash a tongue-lashing of Spanish curse words and threats and sometimes, ass-whuppin's if needed. Other times, when the Black kids made fun of us, we'd start speaking Spanish and their envious looks were all we needed to feel vindicated.
It was during my teenage years that I finally accepted that my hair and skin color would always define what I was. African-American boys and later menwere more attracted to me than Latinos. I devoured Afrocentric literature and watched with anticipation for the token Black character on TV shows. "But you're not Black," my mother would say when I told her about being called the 'n' word. But I am, Mami! I'd argue, as she tried to convince me that just because I looked Black, I really wasn't.
Later, when I got too old for braids and tired of my mother pulling my hair, I started brushing my hair back into a ponytail. With enough pomada and water, my hair would stay laid until the sun napped it up. In addition to the tail part of my ponytail kinking up, there were two rebellious clusters of hair at my temples which refused to stay down when my hair dried. One day, a Spanish boy I had a crush on, said, "Don't you ever comb your hair?" After that, I kept a brush with me to tame the rebellious tufts.
I got my first relaxer the week before my high school graduation. Not only did the beautician straighten my kinks, but she also chopped off half of my hair. I couldn't believe how light my head felt; my hair actually moved when my head did. I was the Breck girl. The comments ranged from: "Why didn't you do this earlier?" to "Why are you oppressing your hair?" To some Puerto Rican boys, I began to look more Latin, evidenced by interested looks; to others, I was just another Black girl with processed hair.
After living in the secure multi-colored world of my family and blending into the all-Black world of my neighborhood, I entered the white-collar working world with some trepidation. Old and new curiosities resurfaced: "Where are you from?" "Chicago", I'd answer, though I knew they meant my ethnicity. And when I finally came clean, their shocked expressions were usually followed with comments like, I didn't know they had Blacks in Puerto Rico.
After eighteen years of relaxers and over-processing, I made the conscious effort to stop oppressing my hair. Friends and co-workers used adjectives like interesting and different when referring to my au natural style. It has been one year since my last relaxer and my hair is thanking me by growing.
To this day, I still get "the look" from people whenever I speak Spanish. There are times when I still get embarrassed if I am asked to translate. Sometimes I still believe that had I resembled Rita Moreno or Jennifer Lopez, I would be less self-conscious. Nevertheless, I have become an expert at drifting in and out of three worlds: the Latino (family), the Black (friends), and the White (co-workers). Because my "looks" don't go with my ethnicity, I can listen in on Spanish conversations in elevators where unsuspecting lovers think they are safe because all they see is a Black woman. I can get rid of my accent on cue and slip into my Black persona with an African-American sister in a line at the bank without letting on "what" I am. I am once again that undercover spy I was as a child.
Still, my appearance is not enough to warrant instant acknowledgment by my Latin sisters; I have to speak Spanish before I get the nod, the obligatory "¿De donde eres?" With my African-American sisters, I am accepted right away based on our analogous hair and skin. They ask "How you doin'?" and only later, after we have shared stories, established a kinship, do they ask, "Where are you from?" Sometimes, they don't ask because it doesn't matter. They understand what my hair and I have been through.
She makes some good pts but I remember thinking as I read it that she is really obssessed with hair -
I guess people who are obssessed with something like hair kind of grate on me - my mom was that way. Hair, in the scheme of the world, is not really such a significant thing. I think her mom did a number on her - gave her a complex or something. I have known people like that - obssessed with hair.
B
Joined: 27 Nov 2004 {Posts: 46 } Location: Soon to be in Europe
Posted: Thu 12 May 2005 15:49 Post subject:
This empty-headed woman may have hit new lows in empty-headed-ness, matching such luminaries as Barry Bonds, Kobe Bryant and Randy Moss: all of whom are clueless as to the social and psychological operations of the real world. Here is a woman who is perfectly willing to drop out of her nationality and culture and go from boricua (Puerto Rican) to "sistah" because of the perceived reactions of others. Amazing.
I am overjoyed that General Gregorio Luperon was not as empty headed. A proud, brown-skinned man, General Luperon may or may not have been "eyeballed" by his U.S. opponents as "black". But that did not stop him from fighting against a U.S. takeover of the Dominican Republic in the 1860s and 1870s. Using this "kinky-haired sistah's" thinking, Luperon would have been eyeballed by U.S. "whites" as "black" (and, by default, as an "American", using the "sistah's" logic). Luperon would have then (as the "sistah" has done) happily switched cultures and nationalities, becoming a "black" American. And Dominican independence would have been lost, since it was Luperon's struggles which so impressed Charles Sumner and Carl Schurz, two U.S. senators who literally saved Dominian independence in the 1870s.
I am equally overjoyed that my mother was not as empty headed. As there were very few U.S. Army officers' wives who resembled her, in the 1950s, I am sure that my Mom was eyeballed constantly by "whites" as a cleaning woman or maid. But that did not make my Mom become a maid because of the reactions of others, and it certainly did not stop my Mom from utilizing all of the advantages an officer's wife was entitled to. And I got every last one of them. I used to feel that I was a prince with advantages that other kids (of any color) didn't have, as my parents and I globe-trotted and interacted with EVERYBODY on a equal basis.
I would suggest that the "kinky-haired sistah" (or enyone else) would be much better served by joining the "blacks" because of something positive (much like Kevin Costner's character joining the Sioux in the film DANCES WITH WOLVES) instead of with a feeling of being rejected by someone else.
Posted: Tue 07 Jun 2005 22:12 Post subject: Difficulties of acceptance
Javier,
I think Ms. Ruiz isn't saying that she abandoned her Puerto Rican identity at all. What she's saying is that she was refused acceptance of her identity as a Puerto Rican/Latino because she was too African for the racist minds of her schoolmates.
Given the racial segregation of her school, she navigated the best way she could by adapting to survive. However, no where does she say that she gave up being Puerto Rican but explains how she assimilated into the U.S. She gained a respect for her African ancestry and found acceptance within different communities by explaining who she was.
One of the things that I've noticed is there seems to be this belief that the U.S. has the worst racial "system" in the world. Some point to Latin America as if it were a racial paradise. I strongly disagree with that. Colombia and Equador have deeply engrained racist beliefs against blacks. Other Latin American countries while not having the deep racism of pre-Civil Rights Era America still equate whiteness with all that is good.
For instance, Brazil has a 40% black population but how many blacks have significant jobs in industry, government, or academia. Even worse is the treatment of aboriginal Brazillians.
In general, to be perceived as an indio in Mexico is to be ignorant and inferior. This is from a country that calls itself a mestizo nation, of course the best part of the mix is the European part and not the native.
I mention this because I think that to say that Ms. Ruiz should box herself into the nationality of her parents is to limit her artificially. Were she a white immigrant from Europe, no one would say anything about her considering herself a white American. Why is it a betrayal for Ms. Ruiz to consider herself a black American who is also a boricua? Had she grown up in Puerto Rico would she not have been considered black there and faced subtle racism because of her skin color?
What of the concept of La Raza in the Dominican Republic and goal of improving the race by marrying "white."
'
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