Power in the Numbers: Chicanofuturism and Afrofuturism in The Umbrella Academy

Posters for The Umbrella Academy Seasons 2 & 3

Hargreeves Family

Gerard Way and Gabriel Bá’s The Umbrella Academy exploded onto screens in 2019 with its non-normative but deeply relatable take on family. The children of the Academy are introduced not by names, but by numbers—an intentional erasure of identity carried out by billionaire Sir Reginald Hargreeves, who adopted seven superpowered infants born under mysterious circumstances and molded them into a reluctant superhero squad. In naming them merely One through Seven, Hargreeves stripped them of choice and selfhood from the start.

It’s only their robot-mother, Grace, who begins to nurture their humanity, giving six of them real names: Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, Ben, and Vanya.

Diego and Allison Hargreeves

While early seasons center on more familiar genre tropes, Seasons 2 and 3 shift the spotlight, offering something rare and vital in science fiction: Black and Brown futures. Through Number Two (Diego) and Number Three (Allison), we see Chicanofuturism and Afrofuturism come vividly to life.

Scholar Catherine S. Ramírez defines Chicanofuturism as the exploration of how new and everyday technologies reshape Mexican American life and culture. Meanwhile, Afrofuturism merges speculative narratives with Black history, technology, and liberation.

Science fiction has historically erased or sidelined Latinx characters—reduced to comic relief, collateral damage, or dehumanized “aliens.” Afrofuturism, though more developed as a genre, often still struggles to break free from tokenism and trauma-driven storytelling. The Umbrella Academy, however, gives Diego and Allison fully realized arcs that intersect with real-world histories and speculative futures.

In “Moments to Movement from Latinx TV Landia,” Frederick Luis Aldama calls out the Brown-oculi-crafted speculative space that unfolds in Season 2. Sent back to the 1960s, Diego becomes obsessed with stopping JFK’s assassination. This mission is about more than heroics—it’s tied to a complex identity narrative. Latino audiences know JFK not just as a president, but as a symbol. He was the first Catholic U.S. presidential nominee, actively engaged with Latino voters through Spanish-language ads (thanks in part to Jacqueline Kennedy) and shoutouts to Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans in national debates. ¡Viva Kennedy! wasn’t just a slogan—it was political awakening.

Diego in the 1960s Timeline

As Diego tries and fails to rewrite this history, his efforts land him in an asylum. His storyline doesn’t just show trauma; it critiques systems that punish Brown resistance and idealism.

Diego and Stanley

Season 3 brings a softer evolution. Lila tricks Diego into thinking he's a father to Stanley. In a standout moment, Diego tells Stanley, "Tú eres mi sangre”—“You are my blood.” Stanley doesn’t speak Spanish, but the gesture is potent. It’s a rare, tender portrayal of Latinx masculinity: protective, vulnerable, loving. Even when Diego learns Stanley isn’t actually his son, he still risks everything to find and protect him. In a genre filled with broken paternal legacies, Diego’s arc offers something healing.

Meanwhile, Allison’s journey in Season 2 begins with racial violence: she lands in the 1960s and is immediately attacked by white men. She finds shelter in a Black-owned salon and ultimately immerses herself in the Civil Rights Movement—organizing sit-ins, confronting segregation, resisting with power and dignity. Her narrative becomes a prism for Afrofuturist storytelling—one that connects speculative possibilities with historical reality. But even with her efforts, the brutal structures remain: JFK still dies, and Black liberation remains deferred.

Allison dealing with her trauma

In Season 3, Allison’s trauma deepens. She returns to a timeline where her daughter no longer exists. Her grief turns into rage, and her pain spills out in moments of hair-cutting, memory-haunted silence, and eventual violence. Her past with Ray—her husband from the '60s—feels like a dream slipping away. Her experience reminds us that in both fiction and reality, Black women are expected to carry the weight of worlds.

A small but powerful scene cements the sibling bond between Diego and Allison. They meet at a local bar that “does not like people like us.” We don’t see the fight that ensues, but we do see the bruises. It’s a cathartic moment, a shared release of rage, trauma, and defiance. Brown and Black resistance—visceral and unapologetic.

By allowing Diego and Allison’s stories to expand across timelines and dimensions, The Umbrella Academy offers a rare thing in sci-fi: futurities for the marginalized. It refuses to erase Black and Brown bodies. Instead, it insists they belong—in history, in the present, and in the speculative worlds to come.

Sci-fi has long ignored us. But this show gets it right. Our stories are not secondary. They are central.