Growing up, I navigated the complexities of identity, straddling the line between my Black and Mexican heritage. My brother, Jr., with his darker complexion and tighter curls, embodied a different kind of struggle within our family. He sought to lighten his skin and straighten his hair, yearning for what he perceived as the more accepted features, like my looser curls. I, on the other hand, fiercely embraced my blackness. I remember trying to educate my mother about racial bias in America, the dangers faced by Black men, and the need to protect Jr., only to be met with her dismissive, “Pero Jr. no es negro!” She, too, had internalized a limited view of Blackness, even while Black men were drawn to her own beauty, a fact she playfully attributed to “Los negritos me quieren” without fully recognizing her own place within that identity.
Alt text: Smiling mexican boy with dark hair and eyes, embodying warmth and approachability.
It took considerable time to shed the weight of external opinions and societal pressures surrounding identity and the concept of “purebred” cultures. Now, I recognize the incredible richness of my multicultural experience. I actively engage with Mexican traditions like Dia De Los Muertos, savor the vibrant flavors of Mexican cuisine, and celebrate every facet of myself, both visible and unseen. Words like negra, nappy, and ghetto, once loaded with negativity, became badges of honor. I embraced bold colors, like pink and yellow, that accentuated my skin tone, and freed my curls, letting them take their natural shape. I allowed my Mexican heritage to intertwine with my Black identity, proudly wearing Frida Khalo shirts while styling my curls with a Black Power fist afro pick. I was, and am, both negra and Mexican, a vibrant tapestry of cultures.
My journey of self-discovery took a beautiful turn when I fell in love at twenty-two. He was, undeniably, a true Mexican Boy. He grew up immersed in the rhythms of rural life, collecting chicken eggs each morning on his father’s farm. His grandmother, a pillar of tradition, hand-flattened tortillas and cooked pozole over an outdoor brick fire. His sisters had the long, dark hair often associated with Mexican beauty, and his grandfather nurtured a garden overflowing with squash and herbs. Meals at his family home were feasts of fresh, homegrown flavors. His grandmother even cooked with squash blossoms, and the kitchen always smelled of cilantro and fresh eggs. Yet, alongside these deep-rooted traditions, we found common ground in modern pleasures, spending evenings playing Xbox and watching Marvel shows.
Alt text: Interracial couple, a Black woman and a Mexican man, sharing a loving moment, symbolizing cross-cultural love and connection.
Despite the blossoming love between us, I was apprehensive about facing his family. Past relationships had left me scarred by familial rejection. I envisioned his uncles, imposing figures with dark mustaches and Coronas, and his aunts gathered around the kitchen table, sharing pink and yellow bread. The older women watched me with undisguised curiosity, their eyes questioning my presence until I broke the silence with a quiet, “Hola! Me llamo Yoselin. Soy la novia de Brian.” A wave of relief washed over their faces as they responded with warm smiles and a welcoming, “Mucho gusto.” My Spanish, though hesitant, was a bridge. Occasionally, one of them would remark, “Pensaba que eras negrita,” and I would proudly affirm, “Si soy!” Their initial confusion would melt into smiles and acceptance.
Over time, their acceptance deepened into genuine affection. Christmas brought a personalized gift under their tree for me, birthdays were celebrated with homemade cakes, and framed photos of Brian and me found their place on bookshelves alongside family matriarchs and patriarchs. Brian often joked that his family favored me over him. While I remained aware of our differences – no one else in the family looked like me – their embrace was undeniable. In a world that often struggled to categorize me, this acceptance was everything. Eventually, I moved in with them, becoming part of the daily rhythm of their lives. Mornings began with washing farm-fresh eggs and frying them in butter, accompanied by warm tortillas and vibrant green salsa that was always on the table. Christmas dinners shifted from traditional turkey and ham to bowls of rich, blood-red pozole with diced onions and cabbage, paired with iconic glass-bottled Cokes.
Alt text: Expectant mother, glowing with pregnancy, hand gently resting on her belly, representing the anticipation and love of motherhood.
In our third year together, a new chapter began: pregnancy. It was unplanned, and given past health concerns, somewhat unexpected.
The news of our pregnancy was met with an outpouring of joy from his family. Brian and I were overjoyed. After three years of building our relationship, and overcoming doubts about my ability to conceive, we were solidifying our love with a child. Seven weeks pregnant, a tiny embryo, the size of a cherry, became a shared source of joy. As my belly grew, so did our love. This Mexican boy, with his thick black hair, eyes as dark and deep as rubies, skin the warm tone of Mazapan, and bold eyebrows that seemed to declare, “Hey! I’m Mexican!” loved me fiercely. It was a love so pure it felt surreal. He truly understood me, embracing both halves of my identity. He became an ally, speaking out about Black Lives Matter and issues within the Black community, often more passionately than even I did. In a world that often compartmentalized me as either Black or Latina, Brian embraced the entirety of who I am.
Our unborn child would be a blend of us both, half Mexican, half Black. As I looked at grainy ultrasound images, I wondered who he would resemble. Would he inherit my features? My black friends jokingly asked if he’d be “allowed to say nigga,” a question that sparked laughter and reflection on the complexities of racial identity. Would he connect with the children’s books that celebrated Black children? What culture would he claim? What race? After years of searching for belonging, I realized even my own son might not fully understand my experience. I searched the ultrasound images, desperately seeking a glimpse of myself in this tiny, forming human.
Alt text: Parent holding a newborn baby, emphasizing the delicate and precious connection between parent and child.
On January 28th, at 11:02 p.m., Lino June entered the world. He weighed seven pounds and nine ounces. As they closed my incision, Brian accompanied him. He met our son before I did. Thirty-six weeks of pregnancy and five more hours in recovery and the NICU felt like an eternity. At 4 a.m., a kind nurse placed Lino on my chest. Still dazed from the epidural and the shock of surgery, I looked at him, unable to fully grasp that he was mine. He was swaddled in a white blanket with blue and pink stripes. I studied his face, searching for familiar features.
As the drugs wore off and we both rested, I truly met my son. He opened his eyes and gazed directly at me. His skin was as soft and warm as Mazapan, his eyes large and round like his father’s, his nose small and round like mine. He was quiet, simply observing me. I held his naked body against my chest and watched him see me for the very first time.
Bringing him home was a surreal joy. Watching him grow, I saw only perfection. His tiny fingers and toes, flawless. His hair grew thick, straight, and black, like his father’s. His expressions, his pure joy in simply being alive, filled a space in my heart I never knew existed. I would gaze at his face and weep with happiness. He was perfect. I had fallen in love with a Mexican boy for the fourth time, but this time, it was my son.
Mexican boy, I am here to raise you, to guide you through the beautiful complexities of your heritage, and to shower you with a love that transcends cultures and expectations.
-Yoselin Saucedo
