The Plurality of Being Caribbean, Black, Woman, and Constantly Seen as a Threat
This awkward and often ill-tempered territory surrounds the relationships of African-American x African x Afro-Caribbean women that raises more blood pressure and tantrums. There seems to be a rise in microaggressions and assumptions aimed at people of Caribbean descent. We know that Caribbean people infight on just about everything: who makes the best roti (Trinidad, sorry Guyana), whose festival is more lit, and which island’s women can bubble their waistline better than the other! Many of our favorite dishes are the same, with the only difference being what we call it, and we have similar historical tales, but we still carry on in love. We fight over everything, but what is undeniable is our camaraderie and unity AS ONE PEOPLE when it comes to fighting the prejudices and microaggressions that Caribbean migrants and people of the diaspora face regularly. These microaggressions and ill-gotten assumptions have had a place in the history of Black America longer than most want to admit to.
There is an ugly history between black Americans and foreign blacks that dates back to when W.E.B. DuBois and Jamaican Marcus Garvey almost came to blows in an argument. Since the first wave of the Caribbean in migration in the early 20th century, there exists an awkward disdain towards Caribbean migrants. For those of us who decided to travel to school on the mainland, we have had to endure endless probes about us living in huts, whether or not we take baths, and if we speak English. Then there are the countless “I heard that Caribbean women are all crazy” or “Caribbean women are submissive” or “Caribbean people aren’t really black because you didn’t have to go through American slavery.”
The list is endless, and it is rife with ignorance. I admit that the history of the black foreigner in America has been one that differs from the experience of the black American. I also admit that previous generations of black foreigners harbored the idea that it was best to use that foreign aspect to the best of their abilities to advance and survive. Were they completely wrong? No. But black Americans act as if they are exempt from their parts in waging a feud that did not need to exist.
Black Americans have questioned the legitimacy of blackness in foreign blacks since the turn of the 20th century. Those microaggressions have trickled down into descendants of black Americans more times over, and there seems to be no end in sight. There is a stigma of superiority that lies over the head of foreign blacks. While it was given during a time rampant with tensions and animosities, there is no need for it to continue in modern-day America. The fact is, there are more similarities in our histories than there are differences, and black bodies continue to be marginalized, colonized, and ostracized in America and the Caribbean.
Caribbean blacks have contributed to the struggle of black Americans and have been agitators in the cause. Marcus Garvey, Stokely Carmichael, Hubert Harrison, Richard Moore, and Claude McKay were Caribbean migrants that left an indelible mark on African-American history pre and post civil rights. Shirley Chisholm is 1st generation American born to Caribbean migrant parents from British Guiana and Barbados. Cicely Tyson is also a 1st generation American born to Caribbean migrant parents from Nevis. Caribbean women and women of Caribbean descent have been a part of the Black American experience and existence for quite some time. We are poets such as Audre Lorde and June Jordan. So why in present-day Black America is our existence perceived as a threat?
We have the task of living in a particular plurality. We are black. Woman. Caribbean. We also carry many other personifications and classifications that make our existence unique and yet similar to all other women, in this case, specifically, black women. We all suffer under a system of patriarchy and racism that pits us against each other. We all have dreams and desires that we want to see manifest before we pass on to the next ether. We all want love and be loved, and quite frankly, to be left alone without microaggressions and assumptions thrown at us like we have a bullseye on our backs.
We shoulder the brunt of the history of our ancestors in our homelands, the history of black foreigners in America, the present-day history unfolding before us, and the legacy we want to leave for our own. We also shoulder the brunt of African-American history, and this is often not by choice. You see, to be foreign black in America (and that includes being from Puerto Rico and the US Virgin Islands) means absorbing the histories of black Americans because this is home. But there is a luxury of ignorance black Americans enjoy, and that is the erasure or disregard of the existence of other blacks if it doesn’t benefit their cause. Year in and year out, people save their vacation coins to travel to exotic Caribbean islands to enjoy sun, sand, and fun yet neglect to understand that the black bodies in these places are not just there for your enjoyment and entertainment. *cue clips of Fyre Island Festival*
It’s ironic that people clamor to our shores to escape their blackness but cannot identify themselves in the blackness they have escaped to. The only thing separating our black existence is a boat stop. Caribbean women have nurtured and suckled the babes of others. We have existed under racial divides and patriarchal extremes. We have done what is necessary to provide and raise families, some of which we were not ready to start. We have chased after degrees that we were told would better our chances in the working world only to find ourselves fighting 10x harder just to see it come to pass. We have chased after our careers, blockers on with no excuses to making it happen. We have done the same things any black woman would do, but when you factor in our Caribbean heritage automatically, we are seen as a threat. #HowSway.
We are not a threat. We are not superior. I will admit we are a little arrogant and indignant, but in our defense, that happens when we have to combat the crapshoot of animosity that comes our way. We have earned, bought, and paid for our seats at the table. In some cases, we are the table, but we understand what it means to give back and make sure our tribes eat. Everyone ain’t for everything, and we know that our existence will ruffle feathers. The truth is, that’s not our cross to bear. We exist, like the vibrancy of feathers and plumes in our Carnival costumes. We embrace our varied histories represented by the various madras ensembles of each island. And we embrace the lands that we call home, native and migrant. We exist in plurality; we exist in abundance, and if that threatens you, then…
DEBATE YUH MUDDA
