West Indian. Caribbean. South American. The Islands. These are all descriptions I'm used to hearing, and have been since I came back
(I was born in Brooklyn) to the United States at age seven. Living in Brooklyn, where an overwhelming number of "islanders" lived, there was a constant undercurrent of immigrant life. The kind of life that was less about assimilation, and more about an intense desire to hold onto their culture. See, no matter where you were from, this commonality of being West Indian, Caribbean, or from "the islands" meant you belonged to this community right here. It never had or needed an exact location, no longitude or latitude, rather a sense of belonging that could never be found on a map.
For the children of immigrants, the desire to be "American" was often at the forefront of our minds and actions. Time and again that pesky, perceptible island accent would fight it's way to the forefront, no matter how American you tried to sound. Or the lunch of stewed chicken, rice and peas, and plantains your mom packed for the school field trip, when all the other kids had baloney sandwiches. Oh, the shame. Wanting a pair of the newest Jordan sneakers and Guess jeans (the ones with the embroidered question mark in the triangle patch) 'cause that's what the kids wore in school. Only to come home and find that your mom had purchased "
Hordans" and "
Buess" jeans (they had an exclamation point rather than a question mark). Later on you learned that your parents were sending money "back home", so there was little room for your pricey name brands. Sundays were dedicated to calling the family, never mind that it took all day to get through spotty land lines, blackouts and bad connections. My family still does this every Sunday.
No matter how you tried to escape it, this island culture just wouldn't let you become an American in peace. After awhile, you just accepted it. Embraced it actually. Moved back to it as an adult, and led with "I'm West Indian" when someone asked where you were from. Somehow, despite our every effort to become Americanized, this connection beats in my generation too. Any islander has long defeated the phrase "you can never go home again", in our case we may have never actually left. It's that collective feeling that makes me feel Haiti too is my home, and that collective feeling that breaks my heart to see my family suffering so deeply.
This post is a part of Bloggers Day of Action for Haiti. Please visit the other wonderful blogs below to see their posts. Today, AphroChic will be hosting a charity auction to help raise funds that will be donated to Red Cross, UNICEF, and Yele Haiti
The White House blog has updates as well as other ways to donate.
It's Oh So GrandA Life More FabulousBay Area Style FileSingle Bubble PopLindsey Lou BlogsStyletureSimplygroveMake Under My LifeDesign For MankindUrban CasitaNuvani NiceJodines CornerThe Cubicle ChickAphroChic
There's a reason people run to warm temperatures when they want to relax. There is just something about the combination of the weather, open air houses, and lush foliage that makes you feel small. Yes, small. The kind of small that just lets you melt into this temporary escape, knowing that you don't need to do anything but just. be. you. Just looking at The Kandy House in Sri Lanka makes me feel relaxed.
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