Things Not My Own

I am at home again.

Back in my skin for the first time in a long time.

For many months – dare say years – I’ve been enslaved by many things not my own.

History has a name.

For me, Barbados serves as a well-spring of vibrant inspiration, mental renewal, soulful purification and familial connection. Having maternal and paternal ties to this small island in the Lesser Antilles gives me amazing superpowers that I am immediately able to tap into as soon as the aircraft touches the tarmac. It’s as though a switch of humility and immense gratitude activates and all is right again.

Each return to my motherland refreshes my vision and clarifies all doubt. The stories my aunts and grandmother share of my great-grand parents and extended family reminds me that my ancestors were risk taking, no-nonsense folk who loved, persisted and prevailed in new and foreign lands. My ancestors watered and grew community and family from a mustard seed of faith and chance.

A Vow

Browne’s Beach c 2013

I told myself that no matter what – no matter how I feel (or don’t feel) – I must commit to blogging while back in Barbados so here I am.

For those of you who don’t know – or a refresher for those who do – Barbados is and  always be home. 99.9% of my identity that has been carefully sculpted in my short twenty-eight years of life is largely owed to my Bajan (Barbadian for the proper folks) heritage, lineage & culture.

Before Rihanna and the trend of traveling to this CARICOM nation, my parents –  particularly my mother – believed it to be imperative for my brother and I to know, respect and appreciate our roots. She was so proud of her 166.0 sq mi island that she got my brother and I naturalised as Barbadian citizens (thank you mommy). Growing up, everyone knew Jamaica, some knew Trinidad and a mere 1% (I can’t prove this lol) knew of Barbados.