A LEGACY ROOTED IN RESILIENCE

The Global Story of Carlos Antonio “Ray” Raymond

Carlos Antonio “Ray” Raymond was born on July 24, 1949, at the U.S. Naval Hospital in Coco Solo, located in the Panama Canal Zone—a historic crossroads of African, Caribbean, and American cultures.

Ray grew up in Rainbow City, a vibrant community built for West Indian laborers and their families who helped build and operate the Panama Canal. His roots run deep in this proud legacy of hard work, service, and sacrifice.

Ray’s mother, Josephine Raymond Williams, was born in Silver City—another storied Canal Zone town—just outside the port city of Colón. Her mother, Ray’s grandmother, emigrated from Kingston, Jamaica, carrying with her the strength, language, and cultural pride of the British West Indies. Like many Jamaicans, she likely descended from enslaved Africans who endured the brutalities of colonialism but passed on a heritage of faith and perseverance.

On his father’s side, Moses Nathaniel Raymond, Ray traces his ancestry to Belize—then British Honduras—where his father was born. The Raymond family’s lineage reflects the broader African Diaspora, stretching across Central America and the Caribbean, shaped by the movements of colonialism and the enduring power of family.

Although Ray was born in a U.S. territory to parents who were not American by birth, his identity is deeply American. His story embodies what it means to be part of this nation—a patchwork of histories, languages, and cultures, united by shared values and a belief in opportunity.

Today, Carlos “Ray” Raymond brings this legacy of resilience, service, and cross-cultural understanding to his campaign. He is a son of the Diaspora, a veteran of the U.S. Army, and a lifelong community organizer. His immigration story is not only uniquely personal—it’s also profoundly American.

THE UNBOXED BLACK MAN: CARLOS ANTONIO RAYMOND

Carlos Antonio Raymond is a man shaped by many worlds, but claimed by none. Born in the U.S.-controlled Panama Canal Zone, with roots in Jamaica, St. Vincent, Belize, and Panama, he stands at the crossroads of U.S. colonial history, British imperial legacy, Caribbean migration, and Black diaspora displacement. Though ethnically Black, he has never fully “fit” in any single Black identity in the United States—not African American, not Afro-Caribbean, not Latino. And yet, he is all of them, and more.

Emotionally, Carlos belongs to a hybrid identity—not fragmented, but woven. He feels most at home among people who, like him, carry layered histories: Mexican Americans born in the U.S., Black migrants from across the globe, and cultural outsiders who live between borders and languages. His soul resonates with the unspoken pain of diaspora, the faith of the marginalized, and the hope of the culturally displaced.

In San Antonio—a city that is nearly 64% Hispanic/Latino, 27% White, and only 6% Black—Carlos stands out, not just for his skin, but for the story behind it. He feels kinship with the 44% of residents who are Mexican American, many of whom also navigate questions of assimilation, colorism, class, and identity. Though not Latino by language or national origin, Carlos finds cultural warmth in their family-centered traditions, religious devotion, and resistance to invisibility.

Carlos is a Diaspora Child of the Canal Zone, a Voice from the Margins of Every Black Identity, a Colonial Survivor and Cultural Witness. But more than anything, he is a bridge: between African American history and Afro-Caribbean legacy; between Central American exile and U.S. citizenship; between Black pride and Latino struggle; between rootlessness and rooted purpose.

He does not ask, “Where do I belong?” He asks, “Whom can I make feel at home?” His life is not about seeking a single flag or heritage, but about building belonging for those who, like him, have always been told they are “not enough” of something. He is not boxed in by race, language, or origin. He is the unboxed Black man—unclaimed but not unrooted, misfit by design, messenger by destiny.