Being an Afro-Carribbean Woman in America

Identity is slippery, a slope through which we explore, climb and traverse through, hoping to make sense of it in the most authentic way possible.

The soundtrack to my childhood was dancehall, reggae and some soca. Beres Hammond plays in the background as me and my cousins play hide and seek. Bob Marley sings softly as we play a board games. Sanchez, Garnett Silk, and Buju Banton play as we learn to move our bodies to the rhythm of the music, feeling it wrap around us, blanketing us and claiming us as its own. Music was the pulse to the heart of my family, echoing the culture, traditions, food and language present within the home.

We're gathered at my grandmothers house, listening as the food is being plated and reggae serenades us softly as laughter and patois is peppered into the symphony of sounds in the home. I hear my dad effortlessly code switch to patois as he speaks to his mother, sister and cousins. I understand some of it, but not all. It's interesting being a part of two different ethnic identities that are both part of the Caribbean. My mother is from Barbados and my father is Jamaican. Growing up, I never really thought about having an ethnic identity, even as I came to recognize the various identities of my peers around me. Being an afro-carribbean woman is not an identity that I wear and take off, I feel like it's always been something that I am, which is why I never really thought about it.

It's interesting because growing up I've had to really face my blackness and and my being a black woman in America. I think it almost makes sense why I struggled with it because being black in America comes with so many layers, even as a child of immigrants. I was conditioned to hate my blackness, but not my ethnic identity as an afro-caribbean woman. Getting rid of that conditioning has not been easy, but I'm far from the space I was in when I was a teenager and I'm still clearing away internalized anti-blackness.

I've always loved the culture I've grown up in and am a part of. It's interesting to see other afro-carribbean women in the media i.e. Rihanna and Nicki Minaj. Rihanna is Bajan and Nicki Minaj is Trinidadian. The media responses to when they do something that is representative of their culture is very interesting to say the least. There is a lack of understanding and ignorance when seeing these two women engage in something that is not "American." When Rihanna's video for "Work" came out the responses ranged from #yasssslayqueen to what is she saying to disgusting. They looked at this video from a very American point of view, which is to be expected I suppose, but it's ironic because this country is a supposed melting pot of cultures, you'd think there'd be a more openminded approach to the video. It seems over the years people forgot that Rihanna isn't American; I guess that can happen considering her career started in America. Anyways, it was exhausting to see the discourse surrounding her music video. I honestly avoided it because I was tired of seeing people who were are not a part of the culture and obviously don't understand it refer to it as disgusting and mock our language.

I am now at the point where I no longer emotionally or mentally engage with such views on my culture. I've learned that I have nothing to defend or explain, especially if such judgments display a close-minded/ethnocentric worldview. It's tiring having to explain your culture and even if you do you can't guarantee their opinion will change and honestly...who cares? I'll always be open to people who genuinely and non-appropriatively want to interact and learn about my culture, but I'm done explaining and feeling the need to pander to others my identity.