My Afro Is My Crown
Alanis N. Cruz Soto
For a long time, I did not understand why my hair bothered me so much.
It was not just my hair. It was everything that came with it.
As a child, when I looked in the mirror, I saw a Black girl in a country where being Black often seemed to come with explanations. Explanations about how I should wear my hair, how I should look, what colors looked good on me, what kind of hair was “beautiful,” and which kind was “difficult.” No one handed me a manual for being an Afro-descendant girl in Puerto Rico, but I learned the rules anyway.
I learned them by listening.
—We have to improve the race.
That phrase appeared in family conversations as if it were ordinary advice. As if my skin were something that needed to be corrected. As if falling in love with someone lighter-skinned were a way of moving forward.
I also learned that there were different ways of being “Black.” Some seemed more acceptable than others. There was the Black girl with “good” hair, the Black girl with “delicate” features, the Black girl with “sexy curves”, etc. And then there was me, with hair that did not always want to cooperate, my features are disproportionate, and I have hip dips.
At school, during a time when I was practically the only Black student in my classroom, being called “Black” was not necessarily an insult. It was a description. I was the only one, so it was easy to point me out.
Until one day, someone decided to talk about my hair.
They compared it to a monkey’s hair.
I was too young to fully understand what that comment meant, but I understood that, according to them, there was something wrong with the way my hair grew.
And those things stay with you.
They stay even when you pretend they do not matter.
My childhood was filled with contrasts. I lived in different places throughout Puerto Rico, and each one seemed to teach me a different version of the country.
In Toa Baja, I got to know the neighborhood, the old concrete houses, the enormous trees, and the conversations that could be heard from balconies. In Cataño, I spent a great deal of time with my family. In Carolina, I encountered a completely different environment, one where money, appearance, and skin color seemed to carry a different kind of weight. Then I moved to Bayamón, where I finally felt something resembling stability.
But there was one place that always made me feel free: the beach.
Even today, when I think about who I am, I think about the sea.
I love the beaches on the western side of Puerto Rico. I like driving there, watching the landscape change, and feeling that, for a few hours, I do not have to prove anything to anyone. I like the warmth of the sun on my skin, the salt water, the wind messing up my hair, and that feeling that the body can simply exist.
Maybe that is why I have never been able to completely hate my hair.
Because there is something beautiful about letting it be.
The wind does not try to tame it.
Neither does the sea.
The sun does not look at my skin and decide that it should be lighter.
Nature does not ask me to change.
But accepting my Blackness did not happen overnight.
For years, I was surrounded by images that taught me, directly or indirectly, what I was supposed to consider beautiful. American movies. Advertisements. Social media. Characters I could not necessarily identify with. Even my education carried a distinctly Americanized and European perspective. I learned about many cultures, but not always about my own.
And that has consequences.
Because at school, we do not only learn mathematics, science, or history. We also learn which bodies matter, which cultures are placed at the center, which accents are accepted, and which physical characteristics receive praise.
I learned many things about the world before I learned enough about myself.
It was during adolescence that I began to question it.
I started reading more. Listening to reggaeton differently. Becoming more interested in Puerto Rico. Discovering Black artists, writers, and public figures I had never known about. Understanding that the history of my country also had an African history that was often glossed over, as if it were merely a footnote.
And then I arrived at the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras Campus.
IUPI allowed me to ask questions I did not even know I was allowed to ask before.
There, I encountered people with experiences different from my own, professors who spoke about race, gender, class, sexuality, and identity. I found spaces where questioning what was established was not necessarily considered disrespectful, but rather part of learning.
And little by little, I began to understand that many of the insecurities I had believed were exclusively mine had a social history behind them.
I also began to notice something I had previously overlooked.
The comments.
“Light-skinned girls drive me crazy.”
“I like your hair, but it’s not like other Black people’s hair.”
“You’re very pretty for a Black girl.”
“Black people are more resilient.”
“Black women are supposed to have curves.”
Sometimes they are said as jokes.
Sometimes as compliments.
But just because something is said as a joke does not mean it does not carry a history.
Because what does it mean to tell a Black woman that she is beautiful for a Black woman?
Who decided that those two things had to compete?
Why does my hair have to be compared to another Black person’s hair to determine whether it is “good”?
Why does a Black woman have to be voluptuous to fulfill an expectation she never chose?
Over time, I understood that it is not always about an individual comment. It is about a system of ideas that we have learned to repeat.
And unlearning is also a form of education.
One day, I came across a line by Julia de Burgos that stayed with me:
“Tú te rizas el pelo y te pintas;
yo no; a mí me riza el viento, a mí me pinta el sol.”
Which translates to:
“You curl your hair and paint your face;
I do not; the wind curls my hair, and the sun paints my skin.”
The first time I read it, I thought about my afro.
Then I thought about my dark skin.
And finally, I thought about everything I had tried to change about myself in order to feel like I belonged.
Because my hair does not need to look like another woman’s hair to be beautiful.
My skin does not need to be lighter.
My identity does not need approval.
My Afro does not need permission.
My Afro is my crown.
It was not just my hair. It was everything that came with it.
As a child, when I looked in the mirror, I saw a Black girl in a country where being Black often seemed to come with explanations. Explanations about how I should wear my hair, how I should look, what colors looked good on me, what kind of hair was “beautiful,” and which kind was “difficult.” No one handed me a manual for being an Afro-descendant girl in Puerto Rico, but I learned the rules anyway.
I learned them by listening.
—We have to improve the race.
That phrase appeared in family conversations as if it were ordinary advice. As if my skin were something that needed to be corrected. As if falling in love with someone lighter-skinned were a way of moving forward.
I also learned that there were different ways of being “Black.” Some seemed more acceptable than others. There was the Black girl with “good” hair, the Black girl with “delicate” features, the Black girl with “sexy curves”, etc. And then there was me, with hair that did not always want to cooperate, my features are disproportionate, and I have hip dips.
At school, during a time when I was practically the only Black student in my classroom, being called “Black” was not necessarily an insult. It was a description. I was the only one, so it was easy to point me out.
Until one day, someone decided to talk about my hair.
They compared it to a monkey’s hair.
I was too young to fully understand what that comment meant, but I understood that, according to them, there was something wrong with the way my hair grew.
And those things stay with you.
They stay even when you pretend they do not matter.
My childhood was filled with contrasts. I lived in different places throughout Puerto Rico, and each one seemed to teach me a different version of the country.
In Toa Baja, I got to know the neighborhood, the old concrete houses, the enormous trees, and the conversations that could be heard from balconies. In Cataño, I spent a great deal of time with my family. In Carolina, I encountered a completely different environment, one where money, appearance, and skin color seemed to carry a different kind of weight. Then I moved to Bayamón, where I finally felt something resembling stability.
But there was one place that always made me feel free: the beach.
Even today, when I think about who I am, I think about the sea.
I love the beaches on the western side of Puerto Rico. I like driving there, watching the landscape change, and feeling that, for a few hours, I do not have to prove anything to anyone. I like the warmth of the sun on my skin, the salt water, the wind messing up my hair, and that feeling that the body can simply exist.
Maybe that is why I have never been able to completely hate my hair.
Because there is something beautiful about letting it be.
The wind does not try to tame it.
Neither does the sea.
The sun does not look at my skin and decide that it should be lighter.
Nature does not ask me to change.
But accepting my Blackness did not happen overnight.
For years, I was surrounded by images that taught me, directly or indirectly, what I was supposed to consider beautiful. American movies. Advertisements. Social media. Characters I could not necessarily identify with. Even my education carried a distinctly Americanized and European perspective. I learned about many cultures, but not always about my own.
And that has consequences.
Because at school, we do not only learn mathematics, science, or history. We also learn which bodies matter, which cultures are placed at the center, which accents are accepted, and which physical characteristics receive praise.
I learned many things about the world before I learned enough about myself.
It was during adolescence that I began to question it.
I started reading more. Listening to reggaeton differently. Becoming more interested in Puerto Rico. Discovering Black artists, writers, and public figures I had never known about. Understanding that the history of my country also had an African history that was often glossed over, as if it were merely a footnote.
And then I arrived at the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras Campus.
IUPI allowed me to ask questions I did not even know I was allowed to ask before.
There, I encountered people with experiences different from my own, professors who spoke about race, gender, class, sexuality, and identity. I found spaces where questioning what was established was not necessarily considered disrespectful, but rather part of learning.
And little by little, I began to understand that many of the insecurities I had believed were exclusively mine had a social history behind them.
I also began to notice something I had previously overlooked.
The comments.
“Light-skinned girls drive me crazy.”
“I like your hair, but it’s not like other Black people’s hair.”
“You’re very pretty for a Black girl.”
“Black people are more resilient.”
“Black women are supposed to have curves.”
Sometimes they are said as jokes.
Sometimes as compliments.
But just because something is said as a joke does not mean it does not carry a history.
Because what does it mean to tell a Black woman that she is beautiful for a Black woman?
Who decided that those two things had to compete?
Why does my hair have to be compared to another Black person’s hair to determine whether it is “good”?
Why does a Black woman have to be voluptuous to fulfill an expectation she never chose?
Over time, I understood that it is not always about an individual comment. It is about a system of ideas that we have learned to repeat.
And unlearning is also a form of education.
One day, I came across a line by Julia de Burgos that stayed with me:
“Tú te rizas el pelo y te pintas;
yo no; a mí me riza el viento, a mí me pinta el sol.”
Which translates to:
“You curl your hair and paint your face;
I do not; the wind curls my hair, and the sun paints my skin.”
The first time I read it, I thought about my afro.
Then I thought about my dark skin.
And finally, I thought about everything I had tried to change about myself in order to feel like I belonged.
Because my hair does not need to look like another woman’s hair to be beautiful.
My skin does not need to be lighter.
My identity does not need approval.
My Afro does not need permission.
My Afro is my crown.
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