​God, Give Me Agua de Azahar

Disclaimer

This personal reflection explores themes of identity, culture, and diaspora through humor and lived experience. It includes candid thoughts that may resonate differently depending on the reader’s background. The intention is not to offend but to spark reflection, connection, and dialogue.

This morning, I was straightening my curls in front of the mirror as I got ready for work and… noticed it was colder than usual. My Puerto Rican self can always tell when it’s under 60 in the Midwest. Plus, it’s mid-July! Just to confirm, I found myself yelling, “Alexa, what’s the weather?” She told me the temperature, then added, “I have a suggestion for you. Do you want to hear it?” I said yes, and she responded—in an English-speaker’s accent—“Agua de Azahar.”¹ Alexa can speak English and Spanish, but not Spanglish.

At that moment, I felt very tropical, very Latina, very diasporic: straightening my hair, catching the slight change in temperature, knowing that even Alexa knows I’ll always choose Agua de Azahar over chamomile tea or a Xanny.²

And that’s when I remembered: straightening my hair can never be just about getting ready for the day. Isn't that right? Somehow, it always leads to memories that provoke a socio-cultural and historical conversation with myself that really just gives "chisme" vibes.³

The truth is, I’ve always felt more like myself with my hair straight—and I know a big part of that has to do with how I relate more to my mom’s side of the family. While you can spot my African heritage in my slang, my mannerisms, and my way of existing, I look more indigenous than black or white. So sometimes, having straight hair feels right.

And yes, I understand how deeply colorism, anti-Blackness, and Eurocentric beauty standards shape social preferences. But, ironically, if I were trying to look more white, I’d leave my curls alone. After all, I inherited them from my dad, who is white. My choice to straighten my hair has more to do with denying my dad than denying my black or white background. How do I explain that? Maybe I should focus less on finding the perfect explanation and more on not letting people's assumptions bother me.

But being Puerto Rican in the diaspora is complicated. One of the first things I noticed after moving here is that Everybody Hates Puerto Ricans—including Puerto Ricans. I know absolutisms and generalizations don’t hold. But, at the moment, I am not trying to be logical—I am trying to feel seen. And maybe a little dramatic.

As I was saying: There are tensions—within the Puerto Rican community and across generations. Sometimes, Puerto Ricans distance themselves from one another based on political beliefs or because someone is seen as “not Puerto Rican enough,” "too agringolado", "too Nuyorican," or even "too scholarly."⁴

To some people, you’re not “American” enough. To others, you’re not “immigrant” enough. You’re always a little too much of something, and not quite enough of something else.

I have noticed a pattern among the people I have encountered. There are those who treat you like Mrs. Morello from Everybody Hates Chris.⁵ Remember that scene where she tells Chris: "I think it's so great you're in school, with your father not being around and all."? They mean well, I'd like to think, but say things that come off as condescending based on racial stereotypes. They give you that awkward slow nod, and the tight-lipped smile full of pity as you talk about anything but tragedy. "Do I have something in my teeth or is it the way I pronounced 'book' with a bold 'oo' and a sharp 'k'?"

There are also people who get weirdly angry by the way you pronounce the word “ancestry”. If that sounds oddly specific, it’s because it is! By the end of the call, she asked for my full name. So I gave her exactly what she asked for: a first name, a middle name, and the two surnames I inherited—following Hispanic naming customs.

“Excuse me?” she said.

I repeated myself. Clearly. Cheerfully. Like a phone agent on her fourth espresso. Then I thanked her for calling. Because I am, above all things, polite in two languages… You caught me! I am writing this with a smirk on my face. Try pronouncing that, you b—

…beautiful, graceful lady. Oh, well.

Unfortunately, at some point, you’ll run into a fellow Hispanic or Latinx person whose smile will disappear the second you answer the classic: “Where are you from?” I get it. I’ve overheard those comments too—the ones from the Puerto Rican who brags about being a U.S. citizen. It seems like they are ignoring the fact that they were violently and economically displaced from their home country, too. Oh, yeah, and drafted to war without understanding the reason or the language. And don't even get me started on what is currently going on. There is nothing to brag about, sir. Decolonize your mind. Or don't. 

"Oh, you don't look Puerto Rican." I get that often. I'm not sure what a Puerto Rican looks like?

“Yeah,” I respond at times, “I can see why you’d think I’m Indigenous from Perú/Colombia/México.”⁶

But, you know... what I truly didn’t expect was being told I’m “not Black enough.” That embracing my Black cultural heritage might be seen by some as a kind of appropriation. And at the same time, if I downplay or hide that part of myself, then I’m accused of whitewashing. It’s a no-win situation.

Two years ago, I started volunteering for an NGO founded by an African American man who created scholarships for first-generation Black college students. Coming from a marginalized Black-Indigenous community, his mission resonated with me. I worked with him for two years. But he often approached me with this subtle skepticism, like he wasn’t sure why I kept showing up—or how to place me. Is it because I straighten my hair?

The week before I moved to another state, he finally said, “You know, I never really dared to ask, but… how do you identify as a Puerto Rican?” 

I told him I identify as Afro-descendant and Taíno through my mom’s side.⁷ “Her family is from a historically marginalized Black-Indigenous municipality on the south coast of Puerto Rico. I come from people who worked the sugar cane fields. I am close to my mom and my grandma’s side of the family—that’s the culture I grew up in. Those are the stories I know.”

“I see you…” he said. It truly meant a lot. I wish he would have asked sooner.

My dad’s side has Canarian roots—poor farmers from the Canary Islands who came to Puerto Rico as part of colonial efforts to whiten the population. You know, after the Haitian Revolution.⁸

But I was never close to him, so that ancestry has always just felt more distant.

So yeah—straightening my hair can never be just about getting ready. Apparently, it’s a trigger for philosophical weather forecasts from Alexa. Next time, I’m just gonna ask her to play Bad Bunny and call in sick. I say that, but I never do. Am I living the "Puerto Rican Orbituary" life?⁹

When I was younger, my mother recommended I don't ask God for patience.

"If you ask God for patience, He will not give you patience; He will give you experiences for you to develop the virtue of patience."

So... What happens if I ask God for Agua de Azahar instead?

Notes

1. Agua de Azahar is orange blossom water, commonly used in Puerto Rico and other Latin American cultures as a calming remedy, especially for anxiety, headaches, or insomnia. It also carries emotional and nostalgic connotations, often associated with older generations or maternal care.

2. Xanny is slang for Xanax, a prescription anti-anxiety medication. The contrast between Agua de Azahar and Xanny plays with cultural differences in how people manage anxiety—natural remedies vs. pharmaceuticals.

3. Chisme means gossip in Spanish. Saying something “gives chisme vibes” is a humorous way to suggest the reflection feels like juicy storytelling—personal, dramatic, and full of insight.

4.

• Agringolado is a Puerto Rican term for someone who acts "too Americanized," usually with a U.S. mainland influence. It may imply loss of Spanish language, cultural habits, or identity.
• Nuyorican refers to Puerto Ricans living in or from New York City—a hybrid identity that some on the island see as less authentically Puerto Rican.
• Too scholarly can imply being seen as elitist or out of touch with grassroots cultural expressions.

5. Everybody Hates Chris is a sitcom based on comedian Chris Rock’s childhood. Mrs. Morello is a recurring character who often makes ignorant but well-meaning racial comments—symbolic here of passive racism masked as concern.

6. Indigenous refers to the native peoples of the Americas. The narrator is acknowledging how their appearance may resemble Indigenous people from other Latin American countries—challenging assumptions about what Puerto Ricans “should” look like.

7. The Taíno were the Indigenous people of the Caribbean, including Puerto Rico, before and during colonization. Identifying as Afro-Taíno acknowledges both African and Indigenous roots.

8. After the Haitian Revolution (1791–1804), colonial powers feared similar uprisings and attempted to "whiten" Caribbean populations by encouraging European immigration. The Canary Islanders (Canarios) were brought to Puerto Rico partly for this purpose.

9.

• Bad Bunny is a Puerto Rican music artist known for challenging norms around race, gender, and culture.
• Puerto Rican Obituary is a powerful poem by Pedro Pietri, a Nuyorican poet and activist. The poem explores themes of Puerto Rican identity, cultural marginalization, and diaspora struggles, often reflecting a sense of exhaustion and resilience in navigating these experiences.