Black and American in Spain

On Identity, Passport Power, and Choosing to Stay

What began as a semester abroad fueled by novelty and flirtation became a seven-year education on race, migration, and the uneven weight of belonging. This is an examination of what it means to build a Black American life in a country that reads you first through your passport and your accent, then later through your skin. It is about exoticization and privilege, illegality and grace, diaspora love and cultural distance. And it is about the quiet realization that leaving one country does not free you from the politics of identity — it simply rearranges them.

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When I was nineteen years old, I took a trip with a friend and her family to Barcelona. The nights out until sunrise, the attention from European men, and the novelty of it all enveloped me. I decided then and there that I would be spending my semester abroad in Spain. Less than a year later, I packed my bags to spend another six months in Madrid. 

One late night during my time studying abroad, I met another American who told me about a program where native English-speaking graduates can live and work in Spain. That drunken conversation was all the convincing I needed to return once again. A year and a half later, I was back—though this time, I was on my own. 

Chocolatita and Miss Wig

When I first moved to Spain I received more attention than I had ever gotten in my entire life. It was mesmerizing. I felt like a movie star. I was young, impressionable, and admittedly desperate for attention. Back then, screams of “morena” or “chocolatita” from Spanish men were flattering. In retrospect, I know now that was being exoticized. I wasn’t a person, I was a fantasy. At the end of the day, I was and still am an outsider to the culture, regardless of how well I speak the language. 

Some days I feel so…conspicuous. I can’t blend in. There’s no way of me being anonymous. Spanish people like to stare, especially those from older generations. I can’t tell if they’re staring because they’re confused, curious, angry, or trying to figure out where I’m from. It doesn’t bother me as much as it did before. But, of course, I have days where I’d rather just blend in. 

In my fourth year living in Spain, I worked at a public school in a suburban and predominantly White area of the city. In a school of over one thousand students and faculty, there were only ten people of color and I was the only teacher of color. You could imagine the types of comments I would get from children who typically don’t see Black people on a daily basis. Some days, I had the energy to give the kids grace—they are only little kids, after all. That would mean explaining to a confused five year old why my skin is brown or why my hair is so curly. But there were days that I just didn’t have the strength. 

Such as the time I entered my first grade class and the children tauntingly called me “señorita peluca,” which translates to ‘Miss Wig’ as a reference to my naturally coily hair. The teacher I was assisting scolded them and promised she would talk to them, but I’m not sure that conversation ever happened.

I cried on the metro ride home that day.

American First, Black Second

I am deeply grateful for the diverse group of friends that I’ve created in my past seven years, many of whom I know are lifelong connections. But I would be lying if I said I never got homesick. And not just for my home—for a sense of belonging. 

In the US, particularly in Black communities, I can be seen, yet still blend in. There’s a deeper, unspoken understanding that you share with someone with a similar upbringing, especially in the Black American community. Certain feelings don’t need to be explained, certain jokes don’t have to be broken down to be understood. I even miss going to a bar and knowing that I’ll hear my favorite songs (and not just the ones from ten years ago). 

Even amongst other groups across the diaspora, there are still times when I feel misunderstood. My boyfriend was born in Equatorial Guinea, a former Spanish colony in West Africa, and immigrated to Spain about thirteen years ago, following members of his immediate and extended family. I feel so lucky to have a second family that understands what it’s like to be Black in a predominantly white culture. 

But I wouldn’t be honest if I said there aren’t times when I wish we had grown up in similar worlds. Every multicultural relationship requires compromise, but sometimes ours feels heavier. Communication in a long-term partnership can already be complicated; add different native languages and cultural reference points, and it can become a constant negotiation. There are moments when I wish he could understand how I feel without me having to translate it. I’m sure he feels the same about me. The difference is that his cultural community here is stronger and more established than mine.

At the same time, living in Spain has taught me to hold simultaneously two conflicting truths. Yes, I’m an outsider, but as my boyfriend has pointed out to me more than once, I benefit from a certain type of privilege that shields me from the worst of its consequences. 

In my experience, the treatment I’ve received from Spaniards can be boiled down to being “American first, and Black second.” My accent, in a way, is my shield. It softens how I’m perceived before my skin color ever enters the equation. My boyfriend, on the other hand, has lived here much longer, speaks the same language, yet faces more racism and xenophobia than I can even imagine. Even family members who were born and raised in Spain are still treated as “aliens.” The irony isn’t lost on me that had his family been white and immigrated from countries like Russia or Ukraine, we likely wouldn’t even be having this conversation. 

More Adjacent Than Inside

There were periods when I didn’t have papers because I had to wait a certain amount of time before applying for a visa. By definition, I was here irregularly—illegally, to be frank. And yet, no one questioned my presence. No one made assumptions about my intentions. More often than not, I was met with sympathy.

At the same time, I watched xenophobic rhetoric intensify toward migrants from countries without the passport power of the United States, particularly from nations previously colonized by Spain. The contrast wasn’t subtle. It forced me to confront a difficult question: had I not been born American, would I have received the same grace?

That realization deepened an unease I had already begun to feel. Despite building a life here—learning the language, absorbing the history, navigating the customs—I sometimes still feel more adjacent than inside the culture. Spain has given me opportunity and stability, but belonging remains complicated. I’ve come to understand that if I want a certain kind of community, I cannot wait for it to appear. I have to seek it out or help create it.

These reflections inevitably stretch toward the future. I don’t plan on having children anytime soon, but I think about them anyway. What kind of childhood would I want them to have? Would their memories as Black children resemble mine in any meaningful way? Would they feel American, Equatorial Guinean, Spanish—or something else entirely?

And would they one day question my decision to raise them in a country where they might always be read as foreigners, even if they are Spanish in every other sense?

This is not an argument against Black Americans moving to Spain. I’ve lived here for more than seven years, and I don’t intend to leave. What I offer instead is perspective: a reminder that migration does not erase hierarchy, and that building a life abroad—especially long term—requires confronting both the privileges and the limits that come with it.

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I remember shortly after Trump began his first presidential term, I joked to my dad “I’m moving to Spain to escape our president.” In retrospect, I ask myself, was this entirely untrue? Probably not. Nowadays, many Americans (particularly from communities of color) are considering

moving to Europe for a plethora of reasons, whether it’s to escape our current administration or to seek a better  quality of life not contingent upon the capitalist structure of the US.  What’s funny is that many of the same people who used to jokingly ask when I was moving back to the states are now asking for my advice on ways to move abroad. And I don’t blame them. I guess I was just ahead of my time. 

I arrived in Castellón in September 2018, a small city about an hour north of Valencia, where I was contracted to work as an English assistant for a year. The original plan was to stay for a year and then return to my life in the US. One year became two. Two became three. After a few years, what was obvious to everyone else finally clicked for me. I wasn’t leaving. 

Spain has given me a life I’m grateful for. It has challenged me, grounded me, and forced me to confront uncomfortable truths about belonging, privilege, and identity. Despite its faults, I have no regrets about building a life here. What I do have is clarity and the understanding that loving a place doesn’t require romanticizing it. 

You know what’s funny? My lawyer just texted me. My residency just got approved.