Back to my Roots

I am a Black woman. Black history is my history. But when it comes to my history, there is so much of it that you don’t know.

My mother was born and raised in Jamaica. We had a clock with Bob Marley’s face hanging on the wall of my childhood home. Her accent appeared strong and thick whenever relatives called or I did something to make her upset. And the poetry of Lousie Bennett-Coverly was a staple on the bookshelf.

While I knew that my heritage was half Jamaican, my history did not come alive for me until a family vacation to the island. in the summer of 2009. It was during this time that we spent time in the house my mother grew up in. I saw the garden that she worked to grow fruits and vegetables her family ate. I sat in the room where she learned to sew. I listened to my grandmother speak with a thick accent that needed no prompting. I examined the strong foundation of a house that mirrored the strong foundation of my family line.

It was also during this time that we visited Bob Marley’s home and saw murals created to celebrate historical figures like Marcus Garvey. I learned about the men behind the legends; where Marley liked to sit to eat his breakfast and how Garvey’s influence inspired the Rastafari and Black Power Movements in Jamaica and the United States. We visited Rose Hall Great House, a mansion in Montego Bay full of rich and fraught history between husbands and wives and European settlers and enslaved Africans. We visited Port Royal, nicknamed the Wickedest city in the World, and the inspiration for the setting of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise.

It was during this time that I learned how much my country of heritage has influenced the world in many ways. Jamaica is a beautiful island with a bustling tourism industry. But it is also a gritty backdrop for the fearless men and women that emboldened and frightened others with their refusal to play by the rules. When I roamed the halls of Rose Hall, I imagined that I could someday build my own mansion to call home. When I ran my hands over the fences of stone on Bob Marley’s property, I imagined that I could become a world renown artist with a legacy stronger than my death. When I looked over the walls of Fort Charles at the vast seascape beyond, I imagined anything was possible.

Unlike my mother, I was born and raised in the United States. My culture and world view is shaped by a history that is not quite my own. I often think of myself as Black without any conscious regard for being half-Jamaican. But last year when I lived in Spain and felt more alien and out of place in a country than I ever had before, it was not the US flag that I proudly displayed in my bedroom to remind me of home. It was the Jamaican flag that I hung on display for myself and visitors to see. When I thought of the people I identified myself with, I found that my vision stretched beyond the borders of the United States and down toward the Caribbean in a way that it never had before. I found myself able to self-identify with nuance and complexity beyond the color of my skin. How liberating it was to remember the heritage that my mother had raised me to fiercely love.

I am a Black woman. Black history is my history. And when it comes to my history, there is so much more of it that I would like you to know.