Alyssa Cwanger, Post-Gazette Portrait of Marisol Del Orbe in front of an aluminum welded sun in the New Century Careers office where she works on the South Side. Marisol in Spanish means sun and sea. The sun is symbolic in Puerto Rico as is the name of the "Taino" god. Click photo for larger image.

Growing up in San Juan, Marisol Del Orbe, with caramel-colored skin and hair just crinkly enough to reveal a heritage touched by Africa, melded into a melange of multiple cultures. Many of them were in her own family.

With a Kenyan father and a Puerto Rican mom, Mrs. Del Orbe was a mestizo, one of the mixed-raced people who make up the mainstream in Puerto Rico, the country of her birth.

Mrs. Del Orbe loved and embraced all the strands of her heritage. She was never just black -- until she came to this country. For her, and thousands of other black Latinos, coming to America can be culturally isolating as they suddenly find themselves put in rigid racial categories that don't exist in their home countries.

The new identity that's foisted upon dark-skinned Latinos "is weird," she said, "because we're black, but we're not black."

Initially categorized as black by their appearance, then as Latino by their accents, they often find discrimination from the mainstream and unease or even distrust from black Americans. They may feel separated from black people by music and social customs and by some black Americans who feel the Latinos are denying their African history. Many can't fit easily into either culture here.

Aaron Martinez, 33, was born in the Dominican Republic but lived in Puerto Rico most of his life. Two years ago he sold his home, his car and followed his American girlfriend, Megan, to Pittsburgh.

"I look black when people see me; they don't notice I'm Latino until I speak," he said.

Mr. Martinez said he had acquaintances across the racial spectrum, but that when he opened his mouth, "and blacks see that I'm Latin, they don't like it very much."

Because he doesn't enjoy rap music, can't do the elaborate handshake that some black males engage in, and enjoys the theater, he said some blacks have called him "a fake." Black women, he said, are the most difficult. "They don't talk to me."

In America, he said, it is tough. "Everybody is trying to put you in a box. There is no space to be you."

From 1990 to 2000, Allegheny County's Latino population grew from 8,700 to 11,200. In this region, common places of origin include Mexico, Puerto Rico, a number of South American countries and a variety of Central American and Caribbean countries.

Ezequiel Mobley, host of "Hola," a Spanish-language talk show on PCTV-21, thinks that undocumented immigrants actually push the Latino population in Pittsburgh to between 20,000 and 30,000.

Of that number, less than 1 percent is estimated to be black Latino.

It's a figure that parallels national trends: In the 2000 census, only 2 percent of Latinos in the United States identified themselves as black.

Despite the African blood in the family tree, becoming "black" is a different concept for many Latinos, many of whom hail from countries where mixed heritage is a norm and people are not pushed to extremes such as being black or white.

That changes in America, where the racial tradition rules that any person who looks black -- or is known to have African heritage -- is black.

Furthermore, the limited range of options on the U.S. census form forces Latinos with African heritage to choose.

"I didn't fit into just one block," said Mrs. Del Orbe, 31, who graduated from Duquesne University in 1996 with a degree in international marketing.

	Bill Wade, Post-Gazette Aaron Martinez, loan officer at 1st Vanguard Mortgage Co., in his Downtown office, is a Latino who came here from Puerto Rico but is a native of the Dominican Republic. Click photo for larger image.

"All of us suffer it," said Brent Rondon, former president of the area's Latin American Cultural Union, who is of mixed heritage but is not usually categorized as black because he looks more Latino.

"In America, we have to get used to the new labels. We were never labeled before."

Mrs. Del Orbe works with groups such as the Pittsburgh Urban League and her church, St. Benedict the Moor in the Hill District, in trying to bridge the gaps between black Americans and Latinos and concedes that the transition was less difficult for her. Her parents once lived in Baltimore; Puerto Rico is deeply influenced by American culture, so she was used to black music and food when she came here a decade ago.

It was not quite so easy for her construction worker husband, whom she married last year. Julio Del Orbe, 39, is a Dominican less familiar with U.S. culture. Standing in Oak Hill, where the couple lives, he might be mistaken for black American. But because of language difficulties, he shelters himself from hanging out with Americans. So, many of the intricacies of the culture escape him.

One issue that unites blacks in this nation, said Mr. Mobley, is the historical struggle against racism. So, when black Latinos can't identify with that, because of pride in their mixed heritage, some blacks see them as running away from the issue.

Also, he said, for economic reasons, a majority of black Americans have not had many international experiences and, "They don't understand when people who might look like them are different from them" because of other issues of poverty and social class. It can cause some tension, he said.

But in a way, said Mrs. Del Orbe, for her, being classified as black "was empowering."

For someone not used to thinking about their blackness, she said, "It forces you to think about the contributions from all of your ancestors."

That's especially important, said Mr. Mobley, the talk-show host, because once Latinos come here, if they are perceived as black Americans, they often can fall victim to racism from the larger U.S. society, and have difficulty finding jobs, housing and access to education and social services.

Mr. Martinez, a banker in Puerto Rico and a mortgage loan officer in Pittsburgh, said when people see him, they always ask if he plays basketball, football or baseball. "Because they see me as a black man, that's what they think," he said.

On occasion, the stereotypes invade Latino thoughts, too.

About 10 years ago, Mr. Rondon, now 43, from Peru, was in Harrisburg when he spotted a dark-skinned man in baggy basketball gear. "A wall went up," said Mr. Rondon. "I thought he was black American. Someone told me he was Peruvian; as soon as I learned, we started speaking Spanish; the wall came down."

Coming to terms with her African roots and building bridges to black Americans is not a weight for Mrs. Del Orbe.

"I don't view anything with race as a burden. It's who you are," she said.

Sitting with her Grandma Tata in Puerto Rico as a girl, Mrs. Del Orbe learned to cook Asopao de Pollo, a traditional rice and chicken stew.

But Bomba, the music and dance she experienced from Loiza Aldea, a black section of town, spoke to her, too.

"It was literally my African side," she said from the South Side, where she works as a marketing manager, her English nearly accent-free.

"I understood the story of the drums. I understood what the dance meant. You can't let yourself be defined by one. These are all my experiences; I'm proud of them all."

Alyssa Cwanger, Post-Gazette Marisol Del Orbe, right, teaches salsa dancing to her co-worker, Bill Kobicky, of Bellevue, left, at the Century Careers office where they work on the South Side. This occurred as a result of a conversation about what she likes to do: she teaches Folkloric Latino dance. She put on salsa music on her computer at work and started to dance with Mr. Kobicky Wednesday afternoon.