Hispanic Heritage Month - Learning about Columbus in a Colony
When I was a teenager, I wrote a 32-chapter fan-fiction action-thriller about the Backstreet Boys that I wish I could share with you today, but alas! It has been lost to the 1998 internet. As certain as I am that it would have been (and could still be) an instant New York Times Bestseller, I thought I’d start a blog, instead.
For those of you who don’t know me, this is as good a place as any to officially introduce myself. My name is Dani, and I was born in Santurce, Puerto Rico to a Cuban father and American mother. I am the only granddaughter to my late paternal grandparents, whom were and are still beloved (more on them later). I currently live in New Jersey with my husband Jim and our son, James, who was born in the heart of the Pinelands and is in his own way, a little Jersey Devil. I don’t want to get too far away from the original purpose of this story, so there will also be more about us later.
It is Hispanic Heritage Month in October, and I always feel the need to reflect a bit around the anniversary of the discovery of Puerto Rico—and by extension, the Americas.
Originally, I planned for this to be a short post, but the more I thought and wrote, the more I want to say, so this might turn into a Part 2. In fact, there’s definitely going to be a part 2.
As a little girl growing up in Puerto Rico, there was a lot we learned about Cristobal Colón and his discovery of Borikén—as it was called by the Taíno people. The Taínos are the indigenous people who inhabited Borikén, Cuba, Jamaica and Hispaniola about 2000-4000 years ago. We learned about his journey across the Atlantic in La Niña, La Pinta, and La Santa María—ships we would color in with crayons. Other coloring pages we would turn into articulated Conquistadors and Taínos, hinging elbows with brass paper tacks, creating a festive garland of little Spanish and Indigenous paper dolls holding hands around the classroom. We learned our national anthem (yes, Puerto Rico has a national anthem), with verses that speak of Colón’s enchantment with the island. Thank you, Mrs. Colón, for teaching us about La Isla del Encanto.
In middle school we learned about the Taíno legacy and presence in modern culture. These are words we use today that were part of their regular vocabulary: hurricane (huracán), barbecue(barbacoa), hammock(hamaca), canoe(canoa), yuca(cassava), tobacco(tabaco), tiburón(shark), papaya—to name a few. We learned that chiefhood is passed down maternally, and the Cacicas were poets, artists, and philosophers, while the Caciques were warriors and explorers. Thank you, Ms. Álvarez for teaching us what we needed to know.
As a teenager we start deep dives into the Taíno-Spanish rebellion of 1511. Juan Ponce de León (who most of you will know) leading the Spanish conquistadores, and Agüeybana II the Cacique of Caciques after his brother’s death leading the Taíno. What occurred after was an inhumane campaign of greed, violence and genocide. The fate of Agüeybana II is unknown—he disappeared from the historical record sometime in the 1520s, but I hope he made it somewhere that looked and felt like home to him. He lost everything, but we gained everything from his sacrifice. Gracias, Mrs. Fernández y Mr. Ramírez, for teaching us what we needed to know.
Today, I observe our entire history. It is colorful, vibrant, brave and violent. It also perseveres. Caciques from all over the island who fought for their right to exist are memorialized with entire municipalities named for them. If you travel there, you can visit the Taíno cultural heritage sites that existed at the time. We’d take school trips to the Camuy caves and ceremonial grounds in Utuado, imagining what it was like before they knew the Spaniards even existed.
We still celebrate the legacy of the Taíno people, it didn’t end with colonization—it’s woven into the very fabric of our island nation. Their story was transformed. “Puerto Rico”—in English: the Port of Riches—is a gateway to America’s earliest past. The centuries that followed the colonization of 1508 turned violence and loss into a cultural evolution of language, music, and flavor. Some of the foods we now call our own began as foreign introductions, reshaped by the hands that made them with what they had available locally.
The empanada is one of those stories: a Spanish import turned cultural heirloom. It’s a small, edible archive of how we absorb, adapt, and survive. And that’s where Part 2 begins.