My name, Rafael Jacobs-Perez, reeks of Latinidad (at least the beginning and the end). Growing up in the United States, I felt a sense of belonging attached to my name. Am I a second-generation Puerto Rican American? Yes! Did I grow up as a No Sabo kid? Yes! Is my name Latino? Yes! It gave me something that I could hold on to that represented where I came from and who I was as a Boricua and as a Latino. No matter where I fit into those communities, I at least had my name that established my belonging. 

When I did my semester abroad during university, I lived in Uruguay and found that my name continued to help me stick out from the crowd. There were a couple hundred Europeans, one other American and a handful of Latinos. When introducing myself, people immediately asked where I really came from. They justified my rapid acquisition of the Spanish language to my roots in the Caribbean, accepting me at bars and in social settings with ease. I felt everything that I had ever believed about my name and my identity was validated. 

I graduated from university and moved once again, this time to Spain. I spent my first months living in Andalucia, Southern Spain. Specifically, I called Cordoba home. Within three days of living there, I had my world turned on its head. I went out every night with my new roommates to get to know people and the city. At every bar, I was asked if I was from Cordoba. What high school did I go to? Were my parents from a village near the city? 

I lost my shit every time.

Excuse me, but do I look Spanish? NO! Have you ever seen a Spaniard whose hips move like this? Had they never seen a Puerto Rican before? Didn’t they know what a Latino was? How could they not tell I was from the other side of the world just based on my name? 

I felt people were ignoring what was right in front of them. My cultural identity that I had always worn on the outside was being twisted and turned into something I was not. My name, the one that I had held so dearly as a badge of pride, was ripped away from me, then given back, no longer looking the same, no longer like me. After the tenth or eleventh time, my roommate finally explained that my name was quite common in Cordoba. San Rafael was the patron saint of the city. There were hundreds of other men who shared my name walking the streets. And to make matters worse, she told me that my last name, Perez, was also common in both Cordoba and all of Spain. 

The next day, I began to see it everywhere. There were corner stores, bakeries, mechanics with the name Perez on the sign out front. I met two other Rafaels in one of my roommate’s classes alone. I even passed one or two places that had my whole name written on the awning. I had attached so much of my identity to my name for so long, and I started feeling lost without it. I had grown up not speaking Spanish, and no one taught me to dance salsa as a kid. My name has always held me to my culture, to my people. 

I knew that my country had been colonised by the Spanish first. Just like the rest of Latin America, we were products of the Spanish empire. Our language, religions and cultures all had hints of the Spanish. But I had never realised how deep it went. As a kid, the Spanish always seemed so far from Latinos, not only in physical distance but beyond that. They were whiter, European, they spoke with a weird accent and had the tense “vosotros” that my dad had never even heard of. They don’t even eat rice and beans. I mean, how much further from Latino could you be? 

But the longer I lived in Spain, and the more places and people I got to know in Andalucia, the more I began to understand how much of this history has been left behind, more than just our namesakes. There were words that I had always associated with Latino culture that the people here had been saying for generations. I heard “Muchacha” and “Nene” yelled from across the street day in and day out. My friends would ask, “quieres charlar pa un ratito?” and my head would spin in place, trying to figure out if they were messing with me or if they really did talk like that. Then there was Catholicism. I have always thought that Latinos were crazy Catholics, then I met the Spanish. Semana Santa redefined what religious fanaticism meant to me. Every spring during holy week, processions filled the streets of Andalucia from the smallest villages to the biggest cities. Processions where thousands of people marched underneath the banner of Christ, not to mention the thousands more that cheered and wept, stretching out their hands as the Virgin Mary statues passed by, I had never seen anything like this in my life. It wasn’t just the procession itself with the incense and the marching bands following in its wake but the weeks of preparation that came before. Watching as the volunteers trained to carry the statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary, sweating in the sun, walking the prepared route over and over again with weights on their backs in preparation for just one day. As I began to make these connections, I also became angrier and angrier.

The Spanish colonised Latin America, and I could plainly see its legacy now that I was living there. Our culture was filled with pieces of theirs—there was no denying it. And yet, the Spanish themselves seemed to be in denial about this connection, at least when it did not serve them. As I tried to extend my tourist visa, I learned that the Spanish government had a pathway to residency for people who came from previous Spanish colonies. But, in researching, I found that it had been made for one class of people. You had to prove with birth certificates or other kinds of official documents that someone in your family tree came from the Spanish mainland. This doesn't apply to me, nor many other Latinos. It is contrary to the nature of Spanish colonialism in the Americas. The colonies were not built for Spaniards to live in and to mix with Indigenous populations; it was for the extraction and exploitation of resources, with only enough Spaniards necessary to maintain colonial control. Many of us might know that, somewhere way back, we have Spanish blood, but it cannot be proven with documents. Rather, because Grandma told stories of her Grandma, who married a Spaniard, or so they say. I met some Latinos who had gone through this path, but they were from the wealthiest class in their home country. Spain wasn’t looking to help its past colonies by giving them a path towards the opportunities offered in Europe; they were looking to help the rich and white of their past colonies come back to the “motherland”. It enraged me that there could be such obvious connections between our countries, and yet it was purposefully ignored by the Spanish. They had no shame, nor took any responsibility for what they had done in the past. While countries like Mexico had asked for a formal apology for the atrocities of colonisation, the Spanish Monarchy (yes, they still have one) and the government refused to give any until this year, when King Philip recognised the atrocities committed in the Crown’s name during colonisation, 500 years later. I couldn’t believe it. It was clear who had come out on top. After centuries of colonisation, after all the battles for independence, Spain remains victorious. 

Now, my name carries a certain weight with it, a reminder of sorts of the history that came before me; there is a connection to the culture of Latin America that I hold so dearly, but there is also a connection to an oppression that is not only historic, but present. My name began to feel like a membership card—at any table or event, I was immediately welcomed. My name represents how the connection between Spain and Latin America is still strong—but it isn’t always to the advantage of my people. Spain continues to exploit its position. There is more than just the pathway to residency that Spain has used to transfer riches from Latin America in the 21st century. Spain’s Latin music pipeline means Spanish artists are often lumped into categories that are meant for Latino artists, taking centre stage at award shows like the Latin Grammys. Not to begin to speak on the controversies surrounding the appropriation of Latin American musical genres by Spanish artists. Our biggest stars are also co-opted, for instance, Shakira, who, until recently, was a bigger representation for Barcelona than Colombia. Her marriage to the Spanish soccer player Piqué (now divorced after a very public rupture) made her an advertisement for the city her husband played for. Whether or not she wanted it, her aura was colonised and repurposed to sell the Catalan city. Latin American soccer players are also presented with massive contracts to play for Spanish teams. The players, often behind major wins in European and domestic championships, always come from Latin America. 

Spain takes the talent and culture of its past colonies and monetises them. There is no doubt that Spain continues to take the best parts of Latino culture for itself without giving anything in return. Spain is our namesake, and we are still trapped in its orbit, whether we are aware of it or not.