Scripts of Blackness: Race, Cultural Nationalism, and U.S. Colonialism in Puerto Rico by Isar P. Godreau (review)

Once a notion of a people gets ingrained into the collective consciousness, that is, gets written and talked about, fixed, and typecast, it more often than not sticks. As a Puerto Rican-born Egyptian, who has lived in the United States and other countries, I heard everything about Puerto Ricans from they don't wear shoes there, to spaghetti and trains haven't made it to that part of the world, from the typical Puerto Rican doesn't know the meaning of a hard day's work, to all Puerto Ricans are good for is collecting and spending welfare checks. I also heard Puerto Ricans are the happiest people on earth, so it hasn't been all bad, mainly. In regards to the pejorative remarks, it isn't a question of not bothering to waste time on negativity, but a responsibility one should assume to combat racism with a brave, calm heart and a willingness to educate. Whether or not they listen, or change their outlook, is on them to consider. But what if these prejudiced notions stem from an inclination towards self-deprecation and an inner neurosis fueled by self-hatred? For the damnedest thing about these comments, to signpost again to the less flattering remarks, is that they not only issued from non-Puerto Ricans but also from Puerto Ricans talking about other Puerto Ricans—their brothers and sisters and ultimately about themselves. What does this say about who we are in relation to the world? How is this affecting our national identity? Does such an identity—one not grounded in our US colonial status—exist? Why must we create and propagate images of ourselves based on the most noxious strains of loathing and contempt, ones that are mercilessly self-inflicted? These are subtleties and power dynamics Isar P. Godreau explores when writing about San Antón, a community of people of mostly African origin in the municipality of Ponce, on Puerto Rico's southern coast, in her study Scripts of Blackness: Race, Cultural Nationalism, and U.S. Colonialism in Puerto Rico.

Why of all places in Puerto Rico San Antón? If one were to define San Antón superficially, that is, be tempted to essentialize and neatly compartmentalize the community according to whatever standard is easiest (most convenient) to affix, one could quote Godreau and write the community off as "one of Ponce's urban low-income barrios . . . a bedrock of Puerto Rico's African heritage since important musical genres [i.e., bomba and plena, the syncretic fusion of African drumming, the ceremonial act of the Taíno areyto, and Spanish décima reciting] developed there" (1). One could continue by adding San Antón is "the birthplace of famous artists, musicians, and baseball and basketball athletes," and "as the birthplace of the plena, residents of Ponce and Puerto Rico consider the community a traditional site of Afro-Puerto Rican folklore," this despite the fact, were one to judge based on the countless interviews Godreau conducted in the community, that "many residents did not assume a 'black' identity, and [she] never heard anyone describe themselves as afrodescendiente or afro-puertorriqueño" (4). And one could further add, "like other low-income urban neighborhoods and public-housing projects or caseríos, [San Anton] is . . . profiled as a place of urban blackness, drugs, violence, and crime" (17). In other words, San Antón has come to be defined and, yes, misunderstood in many ways. Regarding what lengths San Antón is microcosmic of Puerto Rico, since it is treated as a place apart from Ponce, the municipality that contains it, one could make parallels between this relationship and the relationship the commonwealth of Puerto Rico has with the United States.

Aware of the subversives latent in the discursive histories of Puerto Rico, the United States, and other countries like Spain, Godreau does justice to the San Antón people...