As I write this, I'm in Roatán, Honduras, surrounded by people who look like us, move like us, and share so many similarities with Black Americans. Yet, they have something that we, in the United States, often struggle with—a clear sense of identity and nationality. They know who they are, where they come from, and what their heritage is. This sense of belonging is something that we, as Black Americans, have been deprived of for far too long.

The Misconceptions of North America and the Struggle for Identity

When most people think of North America, they immediately picture the United States and Canada, often overlooking that Mexico and Central America are also part of this continent. This oversight is more than just a geographical error—it reflects a deeper cultural and political misunderstanding. Our cousins across the border, in places like Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras, have a profound connection to their roots. They can trace their lineage back through centuries of history, culture, and tradition, with a clear sense of identity tied to a country, a flag, and a language that represents their heritage.

But what about us, Black people in America? What is our nationality? What is our heritage? These are questions that many of us struggle to answer because our history has been systematically erased or distorted. We are often told that "Black" is our identity, but what does that really mean? Is it a race, a culture, or a mere label imposed upon us by those in power?

We’ve been told that our ancestors were brought here as slaves, ripped from their homelands in Africa, and that much of our history has been lost. We’ve been told that we have no true connection to “Native Americans”, that they are separate from who we are . We have even been fed an image of who the natives and indigenous people of the United States are - fair skinned silky haired peoples. The very idea that we could be indigenous to North America has, until recently, been a foreign concept. What if the native people looked like us?

While other people of color in the Americas can celebrate their heritage, speak their native languages, and pass down traditions, we have been left with a void. Our culture in the United States is often reduced to the limited portrayals we see in the media— death, hip hop, slang and slavery. But is that really who we are? Or is it just a reflection of what we've been allowed to see and be?

Our history, as it has been presented to us, feels incomplete and insufficient. The narrative of Black identity in America is often one of survival and resilience, but not necessarily of belonging. We are told that we are “Black,” a term that has served to unify us in many ways but also limits our understanding of the richness of our individual and collective histories.

Finding My Cousins

While here on the island of Roatán, Honduras, I have learned so much in the span of just four days on my nine-day journey. This island is full of people who look like the makeup of the Southeastern regions in the States back at home. They are fair to dark, a beautiful array of colors, and very diverse—just like us so-called Black folks in America. The similarities are striking, yet there's something more profound at play here.

As I write this, I’m getting my hair braided by my new adopted Honduran Auntie, Juana. The experience feels so familiar, taking me back to the days when my mom would drop me off at the African braid shop. The rhythmic tug of the braids, the casual conversations, the sense of community—it’s all the same. I feel at home in a way that I haven't felt in a long time, maybe ever. In these moments, I see the connections that transcend borders. I even met a local who immediately recognized something in me and started talking about his family’s connection and origins to the Carolinas—where my Dad’s family originates. That moment felt like a revelation. Here, thousands of miles from what I’ve always known as home, I found a thread that ties me to this place and these people.

In Honduras, I’ve found a connection that goes beyond race. The people here are just like us in Black America, but they speak Spanish and express their culture in ways that feel both familiar and refreshingly different. They have rhythm—not just in their dances but in the way they live their lives. There’s a fluidity, a grace, and a sense of peace and belonging that I’ve found here, a feeling that has been elusive in the United States. Watching the way they move through life, rooted in their heritage, makes me reflect deeply on what has been taken from us. Our identity, our sense of belonging, our roots—these were stripped away, leaving us with fragments of a history that we’ve had to piece together with whatever we could find. But here, I see what could have been, what should have been.

Meeting my Honduran cousins has opened my eyes to a broader narrative—one that includes the possibility that we, too, have a deeper, more complex connection to this land. What if the narrative of our history has been purposefully narrowed, keeping us from seeing the full picture? What if, instead of being solely descendants of African slaves, we are also connected to the Indigenous peoples of this continent? What if our identity is far richer and more intricate than we've been led to believe?

Here, surrounded by my newfound family in Honduras, I feel a sense of reclamation beginning—a reclamation of identity, of history, of pride. The journey to rediscover who we are as a people is just beginning, and it’s one that I hope will lead us all to a place where we no longer accept the labels that have been given to us, but instead create our own narrative, rooted in truth, connection, and the wisdom of our ancestors.

Beyond the Label: A Deeper Exploration

The label “Black” has served to unify us in many ways, but it has also limited our understanding of who we are. It has become a blanket term that erases the richness of our individual and collective histories, flattening our identities and disconnecting us from the possibility that we are more than just descendants of African slaves. This label has shifted and evolved over time, reflecting the ways in which our identity has been redefined, reclassified, and reshaped by forces outside of our community. Since the 1800s, with the creation of the U.S. Census, the terminology used to describe us has been in constant flux. We went from being labeled as “mulatto” to “Indian” to “Negro” to “nigga” to “Afro-American” to “African American,” and now to “Black.” Each term reflects not only the social and political climate of its time but also the ways in which our identity has been constructed by those in power. These shifts in terminology are more than just changes in language—they are deliberate reclassifications meant to control and define who we are.

When I spoke with some elders at the Highlander Center in Tennessee, where Martin Luther King Jr. and Rosa Parks trained, they shared something that resonated deeply with me. They expressed that being called “Black” during their parents’ and grandparents’ time was considered offensive—a term loaded with negativity and degradation. Yet today, it is widely accepted and even embraced as a symbol of unity and pride. This evolution of language and perception raises important questions: How have these labels shaped our identity? How have they influenced the way we see ourselves and how others see us?

The constant reclassification of our identity—whether by census takers, sociologists, or the media—reflects a deeper issue. It’s not just about what we are called, but about who gets to decide what we are called. Each time the label shifts, it comes with a new set of implications, a new way of defining us that often obscures the complexity of our true heritage. What if, instead of accepting these externally imposed labels, we took control of our own narrative? What if we refused to be defined by a single word or concept and instead embraced the full spectrum of our identity—one that acknowledges our African roots, our Indigenous connections, and our unique cultural evolution in the Americas?

As I stand here in Honduras, among people who are just like us but speak Spanish, I feel a profound sense of connection and peace. These are my cousins, people who share my skin, my rhythm, but who have a stronger connection to their heritage. It makes me wonder—what would our identity look like if we had not been stripped of our nationality, our heritage, and our roots? What if we could connect with our history in the same way that the people here in Honduras connect with theirs?

The journey to reclaim our identity is not just about finding a new label or redefining an old one—it’s about understanding the deeper currents that have shaped who we are. It’s about recognizing the ways in which our identity has been molded by external forces and reclaiming the power to define ourselves. Because in the end, "Black" is just one part of a much larger legacy—one that we need to reclaim, redefine, and pass down to future generations with pride and understanding.

The Journey to Reclaim Our Identity

This blog is the beginning of a journey—a journey to reclaim our identity and understand what it truly means to be "Black" in America. It's time to dig deeper, to ask the hard questions, and to confront the uncomfortable truths about who we are and where we come from. In upcoming content, I'll explore the concept of nationality, the impact of lost heritage, and how we can begin to rebuild what has been taken from us. We'll look at how other cultures maintain their identity and what we can learn from them. Because in the end, "Black" is just a label—it's a legacy that we need to reclaim, redefine, and pass down to future generations.

Join me on this journey of discovery. Let's explore what it means to be Black in America, challenge the narratives we've been given, and reclaim our true identity. Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below, and stay tuned for more in this series as we dig deeper into the question, "What is Black?"

#WhatIsBlack #ReclaimingOurIdentity #BlackLegacy #BIPOCAcrossTheWorld #NortthAmerica