You may have heard about Puerto Ricans before, like Marc Anthony or Rita Moreno. And you’ve possibly heard about Bad Bunny, especially after he was announced as the Super Bowl halftime performer. Maybe you even know some Puerto Ricans without realizing it, with artists like Benicio del Toro. If so, then maybe you’ve heard some of us scream the phrase: “Yo soy boricua, pa’ que tu lo sepas” (I am boricua, just so you know). Have you ever wondered what a boricua is, what an entire island defines itself as, and more importantly, why?
I’d like to start this exploration with the basics. First off, where does the term Boricua come from? Boricua comes from Borinquen or Borikén, the name the indigenous Taínos gave the island of Puerto Rico hundreds of years before Spanish colonization. Of course, Spanish settlers changed the island’s name to Puerto Rico (literally meaning a rich port), and from then on, we’ve been officially known as Puerto Ricans. The term Boricua was revived in the 19th century by writers and artists as a symbol of cultural pride. Today, people think of it as a slang term, but it’s so much more than that. It’s a word that connects Puerto Ricans back to our origins, to our ancestors, and to the island itself; a connection way beyond a name that just alludes to the riches found in the 15th century.
If after reading that definition you’re confused as to why Puerto Ricans still debate over who gets to call themselves Boricua, I encourage you to keep reading, because nuance and context are everything.
Growing up in Puerto Rico, surrounded by our mountains, beaches, and the rhythm of our culture, I always thought I knew what it meant to be Boricua. But the truth is, colonization, first by Spain and then by the United States, has left our identity tangled in contradictions. We speak Spanish, but our citizenship is American. We celebrate our Taíno roots, yet so much of our history was rewritten or erased. The U.S. influence is everywhere, from our education system to the media we consume, yet we’re constantly reminded that we’re not quite American enough. And when we look at Puerto Ricans born in the States, we sometimes question if they’re Boricua “like us,” even though they carry the same pride and blood. It’s confusing, even painful, to realize that our identity has been shaped by forces beyond our control and that we’ve inherited a legacy of doubt about who belongs, who’s authentic, and who gets to claim this name that means so much to us.
I’ve often felt a quiet tension when talking about Puerto Rican identity with those born in the States. There’s this unspoken question: who really gets to call themselves Boricua? On the island, we sometimes use language fluency, accent, or how often someone visits Puerto Rico as markers of authenticity. But I’ve come to realize that those in the diaspora carry their Boricua pride in powerful ways too. They hold onto our music, cook our food, fight for our rights, and build community in places where our culture isn’t always visible. Their resilience is real, and their connection to Puerto Rico, though different from mine, is no less valid. Still, the divide lingers between lived experience and inherited culture; it makes our identity feel like something we’re constantly defending, even from each other.
Sometimes I’ll admit it feels unfair. Puerto Ricans in the diaspora get to wave the flag, sing the songs, and celebrate their Boricua pride without having to live through the daily struggles that come with being on the island. They don’t face the power outages, the crumbling infrastructure, the economic instability, or the constant reminder that we’re treated like second-class citizens by the U.S. government. And yet, I know it’s not their fault. Many of them were born into those circumstances, raised far from the island because their families had to leave in search of better opportunities. They have their own battles of discrimination, cultural erasure, and identity confusion while fighting to keep our heritage alive in places that don’t always welcome it. Still, the contrast stings. It’s hard not to feel the weight of what we endure here while watching others celebrate from a distance, untouched by the same burdens.
In today’s hyper-visible world, cultural expression has become both a source of pride and a battleground for gatekeeping. Puerto Rican celebrities, influencers, and artists often find themselves under scrutiny not just for how they represent Boricua culture, but for whether they’re “Puerto Rican enough” to do so. The tension grows when non-Puerto Ricans adopt our symbols, slang, or aesthetics, blurring the line between appreciation and appropriation. It’s empowering to see our culture celebrated globally, but it can also feel like erasure when those outside our community profit from it without understanding its roots. Yes, Karol, I’m talking to you. At the same time, those of us within the culture must ask ourselves: are we preserving our heritage, or are we excluding those who express it differently? The challenge lies in balancing pride with openness and recognizing that the Puerto Rican identity isn’t a fixed mold, but a living, evolving force.
That evolution is especially visible in younger generations, who are redefining what it means to be Boricua through activism, art, and digital storytelling. Identity is no longer just about birthplace or bloodline; it’s shaped by race, gender, sexuality, and class, all of which influence how we experience being Puerto Rican. A queer Afro-Boricua from Loíza may navigate identity differently than a straight, white Puerto Rican in New York; yet both are valid expressions of our culture. The right to self-identify is powerful, and it challenges the rigid definitions we’ve inherited from colonialism and internalized gatekeeping. Embracing multiplicity doesn’t dilute our culture — it strengthens it, allowing us to honor our roots while making space for every Boricua to belong.
So, who gets to call themselves Puerto Rican? The answer isn’t simple, but it’s also not ours to gatekeep. Being Boricua isn’t just about where you’re born, how fluent your Spanish is, or how often you visit the island; it’s about connection, heritage, and lived experience. It’s about honoring our roots while recognizing the many ways our identity has been shaped by colonization, migration, and resilience. Whether you grew up in San Juan or Chicago, whether your skin is dark or light, whether you speak Spanish or Spanglish, if you carry Puerto Rico in your heart, fight for its people, and celebrate its culture with respect and love, then you have every right to call yourself Boricua. Our identity is not a test: it’s a tapestry, and every thread matters
To close this exploration, I want to share one of my favorite recent manifestations of Puerto Rican identity. It features two artists from different generations and backgrounds — one born in New York City, known globally as the king of salsa, a genre that pulses through the heart of our culture; the other, a younger man born and raised on the island, often criticized by fellow Boricuas for embracing reggaetón, a genre some still fail to recognize as a powerful expression of our lived reality. Together, they stood side by side, singing “Preciosa,” a song that, to me, captures the soul of Puerto Rico in every lyric. In that moment, they weren’t just performing — they were declaring their love for the island, their pride in being Boricua, and their refusal to let anyone define that for them. It was a reminder that our identity is not bound by geography or genre, but by the passion we carry; and that no matter how much they’ve tried to take it from us, Seguimos Aquí! (We are still here!)