What Does A Puerto Rican Look Like?

A tale of micro-aggressions and a recipe for fried ripe plantain.

"You don't look Puerto Rican."

I clenched my jaw and forced a smile. "Oh? And what does a Puerto Rican look like?" I cocked my head at the producer and raised my eyebrows. We were on set, and the artificial light made everything look ethereal, saturated.

"You don't talk like a Puerto Rican, either." He continued, ignoring my question, oblivious to how ridiculous he sounded. "And I would know." He laughed. "I'm from New York. You guys are everywhere there. You guys are like California's Mexicans, except we own you."

"You OWN us?" I repeated incredulously, my eyes so wide it felt like they would roll out of their sockets. It was a Mike Tyson knockout of micro-aggressions, and we were only a half-hour into our shoot day.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. "Do not freak out on this racist asshole in the middle of a shoot. Do not do it. Do not do it. Do not do it." I chanted to myself.

He was still talking. “We paid off your debt, didn’t we? That must have felt…”

I interrupted his drivel, taking as much emotion as I could out of my voice, "If you want to talk about debt, we should also talk about reparations. And just so you know, Puerto Ricans come in every shade. Most of us are bilingual, and not all of us speak with an accent. Oh, and PS, the US colonized an island, which isn’t the same as owning a person. That makes you sound like you cut eyeholes in your pillowcases. Excuse me." I walked to the restroom.

My hands shook as I locked the door behind me. My eyes followed a trail of dusty pink wall tiles to a matching sink. I turned on the faucet and began washing my hands, wishing I could let the rage pour out of me like the steaming hot water that burned my skin.

But I couldn't. I was at work. And I wasn't going to live up to the angry Latina stereotype no matter how much I wanted to. I turned off the water and stared at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, and my neck was splotchy. My hands were just as red as my face.

When you present white and speak without an accent defending your ethnicity becomes a polished monologue. My Puerto Rican-ness has been questioned in every setting: at the grocery store, during job interviews, at the pharmacy, at the dog park, and even on a gyno's chair with a speculum inside me. “What about my cervix? Does that look Puerto Rican?” I spit out, glaring at him, even though I knew he couldn’t see my face with his head between my knees.

These moments are never in my control. They come up like mosquitoes, unexpected and unwanted. The only thing I can control is my reaction, and the older I get, the harder that is to do.

I. AM. TIRED.

I looked at myself in the mirror and smoothed my hair. "Let’s show that pendejo what a Puerto Rican looks like." I opened the bathroom door and took my place in front of the cameras.

If you don't know, Puerto Ricans are the "Everything Bagel" of ethnicity. We're primarily descended from our island's native Taino Indians, the Spaniards that came in search of gold, and the enslaved African people they brought with them. But there are many more ingredients in our melting pot: Corsican, Irish, French, Italian, Canary Islander, Lebanese, German, and Dutch. And then, in 1898, Americans invaded our island and claimed us as theirs.

So you see, Puerto Ricans don't look like any one thing. Our traits come from a conglomeration of races. We're mutts.

My father has green eyes, pale skin, and pelo lacio, or straight hair. When he speaks English, he does not have an accent. My mother has cinnamon-colored skin, dark brown eyes, and wiry hair with a mind of its own. When she speaks English, every “s” is pronounced ehsssss. She would have called that guy "Ehssstoopid."

My mother called me jincha (slang for very light-skinned) like my father. I have her dark brown eyes, and my hair is a wavy mix that can only be tamed with oils and hot tools. I started speaking English when I was six years old when we moved from San Juan to San Antonio. The only accent I have is an occasional Texas twang.

If I'm being honest, the whole "You don't look Puerto Rican" thing bothers me so much (besides its sublimely racist implications) because sometimes I don't feel very Puerto Rican.

I was born in Rio Piedras, but I've lived on the mainland longer than I've lived on the island. Though Spanish is my native tongue, and I can understand every word someone speaks to me, the only time I can string together a sentence without thinking is when I road rage. I can't dance salsa. I don't like reggaeton. I’ve never sung at the top of my lungs at a parranda. The combination of all of these things with the “You don’t look Puerto Rican” cherry on top can leave me feeling disconnected from my island, my people, and my culture.

If you're like me and sometimes feel like a Boricua LITE, I want to remind you that being Puerto Rican isn't about how well you speak Spanish. It isn't about how many times you've been to the island. And it certainly isn't about how well you can move your feet or sing Bad Bunny lyrics.

Being Puerto Rican is in your blood. It's something no one can take away from you. It's a pride that swells inside you and makes you scream, "Boricua!" when you meet someone with ties to the island. It’s what transforms strangers into family. It’s what brings a lump to your throat when you hear “En Mi Viejo San Juan.” That’s real. That’s what matters. That’s what makes you Boricua.

So what does a Puerto Rican look like? As far as I know, the only trait most Puerto Ricans have in common, be they dark-skinned, light-skinned, brown-eyed, or blue, is if you cut us, we bleed amarillos.

Amarillos are the sweethearts of the Puerto Rican plate. They are plantains that have been ripened until their once-green skins have morphed into yellow and black sheaths. They are sliced and fried and served at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Their sweet, tangy, golden flesh pairs well with eggs, a plate of rice and beans, or as a substitute for pasta in a lasagna called pastelón.

Someone with an untrained eye will look at a batch of platanos maduros surrounded by fruit flies, grimace, and think, "Those need to be thrown out." A Puerto Rican, however, will take one look, and their mouth will water. We know that though that plantain looks like it's been to hell and back and has nothing left to give, it is, in fact, a treasure. Its best is still to come. It's one of us.

Making amarillos is a fairly simple process. If you've never tried ripe plantain before (or if it's been a minute since you've had some), check out my easy recipe below the paywall. Have the plantain as is, or drizzle the slices with a little queso fresco. And please tell me your tale of micro-aggressions. It feels so good to vent. XOXO -Monti