While Blackness and the Black experience vary according to where you live in the world, America is one that has conditioned us to view Blackness as synonymous with “African American,” glossing over the cultures, agencies, contributions and overall experiences of people across the African diaspora.
As an Afro-Latina woman, I’ve become enamored with my roots. There’s no denying my blackness. As an adult, I’m thrilled to see more representation across industries and excited about conversations about the African diaspora that intersect with my Latinidad.
I freely embrace all parts of my cultures, and I am honored to highlight a timeless, iconic Afro-Latina, the Queen of Salsa — Celia Cruz.
Celia Cruz was born on October 21, 1945 in Havana, Cuba. She rose to fame in the 1950s as the first black lead singer for the orchestra band Sonora Matancero where she met her future husband, Pedro Knight, the band’s second trumpeter, and where she was nicknamed “La Guarachera de Cuba.” Decades later she would be known as “La Reina de la Salsa” (The Queen of Salsa).
The Cuban Revolution (Fidel Castro regime) caused the nationalization of the music industry in Cuba, and during this time Celia fled the country along with other musicians. She became a US citizen in 1961 and Castro barred her from returning to Cuba after she was actively vocal about her opposition to the Communist regime. When her mother passed away she was denied entrance into the country and she vowed never to try to return to her homeland.
When Celia came to the US she resided in New Jersey, and it was difficult to succeed in the racially segregated music industry during the 1960s and 1970s. She faced racism for being Afro-Cuban, along with sexism for being a woman all while facing the challenges of being tolerated for being a refugee and immigrant.
Despite the challenges surrounding her, Celia dismantled barriers and sang her way into the hearts of people worldwide with her unique, distinct voice and colorful, over the top style. She was deeply connected to her African roots not only through her music, but her African-inspired attire and headdresses. Her dancers even dressed in traditional African clothing.
Celia was raised believing in Santeria and incorporated the West African folkloric elements into her music with sounds, rhythms, and the Yoruba language. Through her music, she influenced young African American musicians who were exploring their diasporic lineage.
¡Azúcar!
This is simply translated to “Sugar” and allowed her to link her music to the history of the Cuban sugar economy, the violence of slavery, and the vibrant cultural diversity that was birthed from it.
600,000 enslaved Africans were brought to Cuba during the Trans-Atlantic slave trade.
While listening to her music, you wouldn’t be able to dictate the pain and darkness Celia was singing through. Her music makes you dance and smile, but it is heavily influenced by her experience of institutional racism and trauma in both her personal and professional lives. Her influence reached beyond Cuba and is evident in her extensive discography and personal relationships including Patti LaBelle and Gloria Gaynor.
Despite the pain her life, Celia Cruz was a joyful soul. Her Blackness and womanhood fractured by political exile and discord helped break barriers and connected people and communities around the world.
Celia Cruz died of brain cancer at her home in New Jersey on July 16, 2003, with her husband, Pedro Knight, by her side. Her music is still banned in Cuba today.
“If I look into the audience and see somebody dressed better than me, I feel like I have failed.” -Celia Cruz