A Boricua Educator on Anti-Blackness

No, my name isn’t Prieta

My grandmother, Carmen, holding me in 1987. Photos courtesy of the author.

When I was young, I liked asking my grandmother about her life back in Puerto Rico. I’d ask her what it had been like to move to the mainland as a young woman.

Memory is undoubtedly fallible, and while other family members often warned me that Nani’s stories were half-remembered and sometimes fictionalized, I loved to hear them. I’ll…