Stories and stereotypes play a key role in dehumanization, argues David Livingstone Smith, and Paulina Alberto's beautiful book absolutely proves it. It deconstructs the legend of an allegedly orphaned and broken character from early twentieth-century Argentina, “el negro Raúl,” and restores the biography of Raúl Grigera, a member of a rich Afroporteño community and a worthy builder of his own celebrity. That celebrity was neither easy nor free. Raúl would pay its cost in life and posthumously, his chroniclers crafting stories of his life within a racist national metanarrative in which Black people in Argentina were out of place or disappearing.The book crosses 150 years of Argentine history, a history not usually thought of and written about in a racial key. Chapters 1–2 discuss Raúl's ancestors, his childhood, and his community. Alberto builds on the pioneering work of George Reid Andrews and Lea Geler on Afroporteño newspapers, and by cross-checking parish, notarial, and property records, she reconstructs the daily life of the diaspora's heirs and their dilemma: reinforce their identity as Afroporteños or voluntarily assimilate into an unmarked Argentina. Raúl's family members made different choices. In this sense, Alberto makes a huge contribution by tracing Raúl's father, Estanislao Grigera, a religious musician who probably organized a “candombe with piano” and embraced a politics of assimilation (p. 59). Alberto fills gaps in his history with extremely well-informed assumptions supported by hundreds of endnotes. As a control, she traces people with similar trajectories, making their lives thinkable despite the silences of the archive about them.The third chapter, on Raúl's youth, begins to present a thesis that runs throughout the book: the early semantic expansion of the term negro from a racial to a popular sense (as Geler put it) or from a diasporic to a social one (as Ezequiel Adamovsky did). Alberto points out that in the first decade of the 1900s this shift began to take place, with messages to Afroporteños about the convenience of abandoning the struggle for affirmative recognition and embracing silence. They were invited to have “the courtesy of not having one's Blackness made into an object of public scorn” (p. 174). The fourth chapter addresses Raúl's years of celebrity: his insertion into show business, possibly by mobilizing his experience and family connections; the (now erased) place of Afroporteños in the development of candombe and tango; and, finally (along the lines of Monica Miller's 2009 book Slaves to Fashion: Black Dandyism and the Styling of Black Diasporic Identity), the politics of respectability deployed by Raúl as a Black dandy.The fifth chapter analyzes defamation and strong racist stereotyping suffered by Raúl between 1916 and 1930, in the midst of the resignification of Blackness and the political rise of popular sectors in Hipólito Yrigoyen's government. The first Argentine comic strip was important in this process. Dedicated to portraying, or rather imagining, “the adventures of el negro Raúl,” the comic “labored to transform Raúl's fame into infamy, his celebrity into risibility, his agency into docility” (p. 227).Chapter 6 analyzes the many false reports in the press of Raúl's death, discussed as part of the repertoire of confirming the idea of an “inevitable ‘twilight of the race’” (p. 298). Through medical records, journalistic notes, and photos, Alberto masterfully reconstructs Raúl's harsh experience in his last years (intermittent jobs, life on the street, arrests for alcoholism and disorder) until his internment in a mental health institution and, later, in the Colonia Nacional de Alienados. By then, the meanings of Blackness would be rearranged within the framework of the Peronist governments in ways that made the disappearance of Afro-Argentines seem more complete. Finally, in an epilogue, Alberto argues that even the posthumous sympathetic storytelling about Raúl (from the dictatorship to democratization) fell into dehumanization and endorsed the idea that Afro-Argentines had really disappeared. In contrast, Alberto's portrayal of an “unapologetically non-assimilationist” person seeks to contribute to the “narrative shifting” driven by Afro-Argentine activists fighting for the recognition of a racially diverse Argentina (pp. 220, 356).The sources used are varied, even overwhelming. In this sense, the book is a model of the potential of digital humanities, which allowed Alberto to dive into an immeasurable number of newspapers and find daily news about Raúl, his family and friends, and the transformations of his neighborhood and to locate every appearance of “el negro Raúl” as a character in magazines and books. Also, through FamilySearch, Alberto was able to trace Raúl's genealogy from his enslaved ancestors to his siblings, who had been erased from his previous biographies. Along with those sources, hard-to-find ones accessed in person were key too: images from the Archivo General de la Nación, the records of the mental and correctional institutions where Raúl was held, and the cadastral records of his house. In Argentine historiography, the last are not frequently used, and Alberto works the best magic with them, turning laconic pages into loquacious documents.In its thematic and epochal unfolding, the book crosses varied historiographies: of the African diaspora, the city, culture (theater, music, magazines, comics), mental and correctional institutions, the police, Peronism, and, of course, racial narratives and the construction of the Argentine nation. The central thesis highlights the role of a grand anti-Black narrative in shattering the lives of Raúl and those who defied the mandate of invisibility. Black Legend is an example of the potential in crossing social history, cultural history, and literature. Alberto has a privileged pen and an analytical acuity that have been put at the service of tracing and honoring the most denied social actors in Argentine history.