February is Black History Month—and every year it makes me think a little deeper about identity, legacy, and the tiny humans I might one day bring into the world.
I’m half Black and half Latina. In my family, we joke that I only get half the month to celebrate. It’s one of those jokes that’s funny because it’s true… and also because it opens the door to conversations that aren’t always comfortable, but are always necessary.
Lately, my thoughts keep drifting to the future—to the idea of having kids. If and when that happens, they’ll be mostly Hispanic. Hector is Honduran which means our kids would be, by descent, about 75% Hispanic and 25% Black.
And here’s the thing that keeps tugging at me: they will almost certainly be darker than me.
I’m very pale. My mom is light-skinned. My dad is a light Hispanic. I’ve spent my entire life being labeled “white-passing,” even though that label has never fully sat right with me.
Because being light and being white-passing are not the same thing.
White-passing, to me, is about intent. It’s about erasing your Blackness, denying it, or actively trying to move through the world as if it isn’t part of you. That was never how I was raised. My mother—a Black woman—never taught me that it mattered whether I looked Black or not. What she taught me was that learning about Black history, Black culture, and Black people was essential—not just because it was part of me, but because it is part of America.
What so many people fail to understand is this: the American identity will forever also be the Black American identity. You cannot separate the two without rewriting history, and rewriting history has never led anywhere good.
I know my future children will face things I never did. Colorism is real. Anti-Blackness is real. Being darker in this world changes how people treat you—whether they admit it or not. That reality doesn’t scare me away from motherhood, but it does make me feel deeply responsible.
In the same way my mother made it her responsibility to teach me Black history as a biracial child, I believe it will be my responsibility to make sure my kids grow up grounded in truth. Not just their truth, but our collective one.
Black history should not be confined to a single month.
There are active movements in this country devoted to whitewashing history—removing context, silencing voices, and pretending that discomfort equals harm. It doesn’t. This isn’t about promoting white guilt. It’s about honesty. It’s about raising kids who understand that the world is bigger than them, richer than them, and more interconnected than they were taught to believe.
I’ve long believed that exposure is our strongest tool against racism, hatred, and xenophobia. Exposure to different stories. Different cultures. Different people. Different lived experiences.
At the end of the day, percentages don’t really matter. Skin tone doesn’t determine worth. Labels can’t capture the fullness of a person.
We are human beings first.
And if I do get the privilege of raising children one day, my hope is that they grow up knowing who they are, where they come from, and why it matters—not just for them, but for the world they’re stepping into.
Black history is American history.
Every month.
Every year.
