I lived the first 14 years of my life in Jamaica. I’m Jamaican by birth (despite my odd accent) and consider myself Jamaican in my heart. However, it has been approximately 23 years since I left the land of my birth, and I don’t have any intention of returning in the near future or perhaps ever–there are many reasons for that, especially the fact that Jamaica is one of the most homophobic countries in the world. Still, this year’s US presidential election brought me back to childhood memories.
You see, as beautiful as Jamaica is, it has a truly violent history, especially politically. Violence is a part of life in Jamaica, especially if you stray from societal expectations of what it means to be male or female. Some may disagree with my point of view, some will recognize the truth in my words. Jamaica isn’t beautiful for everyone.
One particular childhood memory has preoccupied my mind over the past few weeks. It was from the time when I was boarding in a convent while attending school in Kingston. It was also an election year (1989). I remember sitting in the television room in the afternoon on election day, looking out the window at the military vehicles that were parked outside the church hall where people could go to vote.
Although I knew that the presence of the military meant that there was an expectation of violence, it didn’t scare me. The machine guns that the soldiers carried didn’t scare me. The fact that schools had to be closed didn’t scare me. News about students being attacked because their school uniforms were the colours of one of the two major parties didn’t scare me. The fact that people were being killed because of their political views didn’t scare me. The fact there would be many voices (and lives) that would be silenced because they chose Jamaica Labour Party over the People’s National Party (or the reverse) didn’t scare me.
None of it scared me.
In fact, I remember that I and other boarders used the opportunity of the soldiers being stationed within earshot of the convent to our advantage–we asked them to buy us food because we couldn’t leave the convent (and they actually did).
I was only 10 at the time, but I wasn’t afraid of election day violence. It was normal. It was to be expected that people who didn’t share political ideology could simply kill each other.
So, why do I feel fear now?
I’m not afraid of the potential for violence today. I’m afraid that violence will return to being the norm in US (as was so many decades ago). I’m afraid that we are normalizing dehumanization, intimidation, the threat of racial and religious extermination and deportation, and moving further away from the reasons why so many consider America to be great.
When exercising the right to choose means the possibility of dying, do we still have a republic? Is this what it means to be the Land of the Free?
I’ve known about this documentary for some time and have watched it a few times. It deals with the increasing practice of bleaching the skin to achieve a lighter/brighter skin tone. Why? Well, we could look back at slavery and who was designate for field work and house work, which lies at the heart of the internalized racism that is insidious and pervasive aspect of Jamaicans’ collective conscience. We could look at the active practice of colorism that shuts out people who are of a comparative darker skin tone from employment opportunities that would mean upward mobility.
If you choose to watch the video, you will hear the word pretty being used. Pretty in Jamaica is not an issue of facial or proportional aesthetics, it is an adjective that used to differentiate between those who have more evident Caucasian ancestry and those who don’t. Those who have more caucasian features, such as lighter skin, straighter hair, and eyes any other shade than dark brown, are designated as being pretty–Nevermind if the person looks like the upteenth coming of Freddy Krueger.
Either way, watch the video…it breaks my heart, especially for the women as I am a Jamaican woman. It breaks my heart that darker skinned Jamaican women and other women of African ancestry feel themselves to be less than–I won’t even begin to touch on the issue of having kinky/nappy hair.
Disclaimer:The following thoughts are simply my own. I do not and cannot speak on behalf of any particular group. These thoughts also address issues concerning weight fluctuations and its impact on self-esteem. If this type of topic causes discomfort, please do not continue reading. It took me a great deal of time to decide to address this issue…and thus, I do not do so lightly. I only hope to share some of the experiences in my life journey that have brought me to this point of whom I am, i.e. a person I love most dearly.
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Hair 101:
Since childhood I understood something quite clear about the value of hair as a woman. Perhaps it would be better to state, “as a Black woman.”
I understood that the relationship I would have with my hair would be one of constant struggle. I watched my mother, my sisters, aunts, and friends go through the battle of having to straighten their hair. Not only that, some even went to task of getting weaves, whether by sewing or glueing. All in an effort to have that ever-coveted “long, flowing, hair.” I didn’t understand it then, and it some ways I still don’t.
I only knew that,between my mother’s desire for me to grow my hair long and society’s expectation for me not to look androgynous, I could not cut my hair. Well…that was until I turned 15. 😉 What changed?
Acrylic on canvas, 9X12, 1998
Well, I began to embrace my sexuality.
While still living in Jamaica, at the age of 11, I knew that I was “different.” I write “different,” because at that time, I did not know the word “lesbian.” After all, I grew up in a highly patriarchal and homophobic society, and had beenand attending all-girls Catholic school for some years as well as living in a convent–even though that last point might make you wonder how I hadn’t learned the word. But enough kidding around. Seriously, I had no idea. I simply knew that I liked girls better than boys.
At the age of 13, I did have a pseudo-boyfriend…I suppose because it was expected of me. Still, I didn’t feel the expected spark or any type of magical feeling when I thought of or spoke with him. Of course, that would all change after I moved to America and met my first girlfriend at the age 15.
You see, when I moved to Florida, I was still struggling with my relationship with God/the Universe and my growing understanding that I was “different” (a.k.a lesbian). I spent time studying with the Jehovah Witness, the Mormons, and even the Moonies–yeah, I was that serious! ;).
I wrote letters to Catholic organizations, and even received a heartwarming pamphlet called “Pastoral Care for the Homosexual,” which basically told me that God/the Universe didn’t hate me, I just needed to remain celibate for the remainder of my life. Right.
After lots of studying, writing, many tears, I decided that these Christian religions had it all wrong. I believed, rightfully so, that God/the Universe doesn’t make any mistakes…and God/the Universe surely didn’t make one by creating me. So, I cut my hair…
Wait…I know it may seem like a leap. But you see, I was ready to claim my sexuality. I was ready to shed the heterosexual norm that had been dominating my existence up until that point.
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Homosexuality 101:
You see, I had somehow zoomed my way through Cass’ Sexual Orientation Identity Formation Model: going from identity confusion to identity pride. I cut my hair, donned some flannel (see above picture), bought Melissa Etheridge cassettes/CDs, learned Indigo Girls songs on my guitar, started pointing out every lesbian I could to my mother, cut out every article I could find about lesbians and/or lesbian life, signed up with various Youth LGBT organizations, and even began volunteering at L.U.C.H.A (an HIV/AIDS Care Centre). You get the picture.
With my decision to walk away from my Catholic/Christian faith, I no longer felt the need to pander to societal expectations. I didn’t have to concern myself with what it meant to be a “woman” or even a “Black woman” per se, because it seemed to have very little to do with me. I had simply to work on creating me, a “me” not bound by any restrictions of heterosexual society. In essence, I became a social” nomad, without a sense of belongingness.
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Weight 101:
At that young age, I hardly saw images of lesbians beyond the famous ones, singers and politicians. I didn’t see images of young lesbians like myself. If anything I understood that the lesbian community had long modeled itself on the heterosexual community, i.e. of having dominant/submissive role relationships a.k.a butch/femme. Of course, please understand, that that was in 90’s and also my exposure to the LGBQT community was very limited prior to going to university.
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So, what does any of this have to do with weight?
Well, the reality was (is) that in my household “long hair” was not the only concern, “being thin” was too.
References to how thin someone was or should be was a constant in my life growing up. Furthermore, I happened to be the tallest girl in the family as well as the thinnest (a result of both nature and nurture).
My weight was constantly observed and lauded (alongside my academic achievements). It is no wonder that there was and still is such a huge distance between my sisters and myself.
Being thin, however, had its advantages for me being a young lesbian. I wore masculine clothing with ease. I could look and was androgynous when I chose. I was more able to attract the attention of other young lesbians (whether out or not). In other words, I had chosen to externalize my sexuality in the most obvious way.
Again, this refers to that time and I am not saying that sexuality can only be externalized by dressing androgynously.
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College Years
Then something happened.
At the age of 17, I entered Stanford University. In a span of a year, I watched my hair grow by the miracle of extensions (braids), my academic abilities plummet, my weight increased by double digits, and my overall self-esteem shatter in fragments so microscopic that I was certain that I would never recover those pieces (which ended up working out okay after all…because that wasn’t actually self-esteem).
I returned home at a weight that I consider to be still below average. I was hardly overweight. The result of this gain, however, was the gift of my being signed up to take personal training sessions at a local gym. I went once or twice to appease the powers that be. Then I did the next best thing: I ran away.
Well, not really. I simply chose to spend a good portion of my summer vacation away from home. And I continued that practice all throughout college.
“Is This Your Weapon?” Acrylic on Canvas Board, 18X24, 1997
Interestingly enough, it was also at that time (after coming out to my mother on a cross-country road trip from California to Florida) that I decided to keep my extensions and try giving the heterosexual dating thing a try once again. And I did…to spectacular failure.
Many, many awful things happened that are best left undiscussed at this point.
The result was that by the time I returned to being true to myself, the damage that I had inflicted upon my body was quite severe. Thus, in the span of three years, I had gained upwards of 60 pounds and the number kept climbing up to and beyond graduation.
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Letting Go of/Creating The Image
I wore braids until mid-October 1999. I was living in Berlin at the time and my study abroad program had travelled for the weekend to Weimar to visit the city as well as to see the Buchenwald Concentration Camp and the Bauhaus School of Art and Architecture. It was during that trip that I decided to remove my braids and let my semi-formed loc’s embrace the air and light of day. 🙂
It was the best feeling in the world, i.e. letting go of something that was not naturally a part of myself.
My hair had grown long enough for me to be able to manage it and I was excited to see what it would do and how it would grow.
After graduating, as I stated before, my weight had already taken on a life of its own. I failed to take responsibility for it, using it instead as an emotional shield to warn people away from me. I decided then that I would do whatever it took to return to a healthy physical state.
Just as in my teenage years, I felt I had the freedom then to reinvent myself. And it would not be the last time.
In 2002, with the help of my eldest sister, I started working at fitness club. First, I started just as a desk attendant, but was happy to take tips from the trainers and also to have free use of the equipment.
In time, I became a personal trainer, fitness instructor, and a spokesperson for the fitness club. I became a fitter and healthier version of my former self. I was neither the thin/fragile-looking teenager, nor was I the heavy/tired-looking college student.
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Graduate School
2004 I entered graduate school with my hair, body, sexuality, and self-esteem intact. How I would leave it…that would be another thing.
All the discipline that I had learned while working as a trainer were tossed to the wayside and replaced with the discipline of study and working full-time to make ends meet. My long-time girlfriend from Florida had moved with me to Boston and our relationship grew further apart the more I worked and studied…until it finally dissolved.
In 2006 I graduated, and was elated to find myself already employed and dating the woman who would later become my life-partner, April. My health was steadily deteriorating just as steadily as my hair was growing. Finally in 2008, I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia; and April and I married. It should have been the happiest day of my life. It wasn’t.
The night before my wedding had found me in the hospital, barely able to move, and suffering unbelievable amounts of pain. My wedding day was a medicated fog tinged with worries about the final details and dealing with family concerns. My weight too had been skyrocketing. Eventually by March 2009, I would reach my highest weight ever…193. What happened next would change my entire life…
Where to begin…where to begin. I am still listening to Vivaldi.
How is Vivaldi relevant to the topic? Well, actually, I have found that listening to instrumental music is quite helpful when managing emotions. And throughout my travels, I have most definitely had to learn how to manage my emotions (although I am not always the most successful). 😉
I have been travelling alone since 1987. My first trip was a 3-4 hour long flight from Kingston, Jamaica to Boston, Massachusetts. Strangely enough, I remember feeling neither terrified nor excited–I was busy thinking about the most appropriate way to act, in order to make the best impression on those who would encounter me. Even at the young age, I had tapped into something that has served me throughout my travels of the years. That is, neither fear nor excitement will get you anywhere, if you do not behave appropriately.
So, let’s fast-forward some years to 1996 when my mother and I decided to backpack from London to Edinburgh. Although it was a great deal of fun, it was also my first instance of having someone look at me askance. What I mean to say was that my long braided hair, bell-bottom (before they were called boot-cut) jeans, guitar slung over shoulder look along with my big blue Jamaican passport causes one of the (thankfully female) guards to do an extra check on me. It was the first time that I had someone basically put their hands on my person in such a thorough manner. And I remember recording that in the catalogue of my mind.
Apparently, I did not learn from episode 1996, because in 1999 when I travelled to Berlin to attend an overseas program, again I was stopped and thoroughly searched: shoes removed and all. Of course, I was still rocking out in my hippie-mode the long braids, guitar (I think), big blue passport, but then I had traded my jeans for cargo pants…you know, with the many pockets. The guards at Tegel weren’t having it. I wasn’t annoyed then…that came later. I figured I would allow for stereotypes to simply be. After all, even in the US, people pair Jamaica with the word marijuana, so…
Looking perplexed crossing the Charles River into Boston, photography by D. M. Blake (2011)
Everything changed when I decided to take a trip to Prague to visit a friend in November 1999. I remember clearly that it was an early morning trip, and already Berlin had become cold. Even as I journeyed to Prague, I could see the pilings of snow covering buildings and streets–At that time, snow still fascinated me. (Live in Boston for a couple of years, and you get over the fascination really fast).
So, what could have happened on that trip? Well, long story short was that I, along with other people of visibly minority status, were escorted (I use that for the sake of politeness) off the train and told to return to Germany…i.e. even with my big old visa that gave me the right to enter into the Czech Republic and thus visit Prague.
Yes, that’s right. My passport was taken from me and I was kept in a holding area (feel free to read into that a little) until train heading back to Berlin had arrived. Mind you, in German I directly asked the German border patrol what the meaning of this was. He equally directly and quite civilly told me that the Czech didn’t want people like us there, and that was the reason for our removal. Wait…People like us??
Well, that was my first and last time to have an experience like that…and why? The following is not a definitive reason. However, I will say that the episode caused me to do something I never thought I would do… I decided to become an American citizen. I understood that with my Jamaican passport, I would continue to run into problems. Now, please, understand that this is merely my experience and my then-logic. I understand now that problems with travelling can occur regardless of your passport. The little blue passport, however, did help me in my travels. No longer did I get the strange delays and the weird looks (okay, so I still got the looks). 😉
(Expat in Korea celestrial81186 at YouTube. See part twohere.)
Okay, so what does this all mean? No, I am not saying every person of colour who is not American should run out there, toss their citizenship, and try to become an American citizen. I am proud to be an American citizen and equally proud to be Jamaican. What I am saying is that it is possible that the origination of your passport potentially can help or hinder your ease of travel as a person of colour. Again…these are just my thoughts. Also, there is a difference when travelling to a place for vacation, and staying in a place for a longer period time, but I will come to that next… 😉
Also, if you have specific questions about travelling, please free to ask and I will address them in my next post.
Until Next Time.
Best, D.
P.S. I was attempting to find a cute cartoon featuring Black women travelling…and so, I did as we are expected to do these days and went on Google Images…What did I find? Well, nothing could be posted. Many of the cartoons were quite derogatory towards Black women. Now, why is that?
“Travelling Home to Rome….” photography by D. M. Blake (2011)
As I mentioned in my last post, I had a long conversation with my mother that included remembrances about her childhood and my grandfather. There was something else of which spoke that made a deep impression upon me. That is, she spoke about her travels around the world.
It is a bit strange, perhaps, that my memories of my mother are of old photographs: my mother standing in snow-covered places, my mother amongst tulip fields and windmills, my mother feeding pigeons in a wide and open plaza, my mother on a ship…
My mother in places that I, as a child, never understood how she came to be there or if I would ever see such wondrous sights in my life.
I remember finding and displaying all the coins from the many foreign countries in which she had travelled. Places with strange names, strange languages, differently shaped than the money I knew as a child in Jamaica.
How could one person have travelled so far at a young age? So very far from the island country that served as a birthplace, and where she had both children and husband awaiting her?
Then again, how could she have not? She was teaching us, her children (and even our father), something very important. She was teaching us that no matter who you are and where you are, you should never limit yourself. Think big, dream even bigger, and allow life to take you where you will it.
“How to Create Dreams I” photography by Diedré M. Blake, 2011 (Rome)
There are many answers that one could give, or rather, that I could give.
The fact is, I travel because I need to understand that nothing is this life can limit me but my own self.
Not the colour of my skin. Not the kinkiness of my hair. Not the language that I speak. Not the relationships that I have built through blood or friendship.
Perhaps it is selfish. I am certain that culturally, for some, this type of attitude is selfish. For me, I see it as setting an example for the younger generation of my family, who will undoubtedly face a world that is filled with stereotypes, some of which will be aimed at them.
Trust me, travelling is not easy for people of colour, especially in parts of Europe, where the colour of one’s skin can mean a reason to be attacked (again, this is my own opinion).
Travelling, however, is one way of challenging stereotypes. It takes courage to say, “Let me leave everything behind and go somewhere far away.” And that is regardless of race/ethnicity/sexuality/religion/etc… Everyone, I believe, feels some fear when away from what is familiar, and from those who are accepting of us.
When we open our eyes and our arms to the world, we allow ourselves to see beyond stereotypes…Equally important, we allow for the world to see us as individuals. Thus, why should the world not be our oyster?
I thank my mother for passing on the wanderlust that has allowed me to have and to act upon the desire to see as much of the world as I can…I suppose she, in turn, thanks her grandfather, who was a ship engineer.
Toward the within... 