Date: Saturday, December 17, 2022
Place: Pegasus Hotel (Kingston, Jamaica)
Time: 4PM -9PM
Dress: Garden Cocktail
Serving: Island style hors d’euvres & open bar

I shared in the book cover dedication that a part of Jamoji book proceeds will go to the school my sisters and I attended while living in Jamaica, Bridgeport Primary in St. Catherine. Specifically, building a playground for the school. In addition, I will be hosting a fundraiser for this book launch (incld. book signing) on Dec 17, 2022 at Pegasus Hotel Jamaica to further meet this effort. 

And if you can’t make it to Jamaica, you won’t miss out on the fun because we have an online silent auction filled with great prizes that includes Apple iPad, Spa for 2 at Halfmoon Resort and more! 

The option to donate directly to building the playground is open here. 

You won’t want to miss out when tickets go on sale in the coming weeks. A LIMITED number of early-bird discount tickets will be available…Get them before they go!

Lastly, if you haven’t already, please remember to pick up, share, invite, and leave a review for Jamoji. (For signed copies go here.) It is your continued support that helps us grow.

See you there!

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We bar every entrance to our homes, even the skylight above the second floor bathroom isn’t spared. Double, triple check the locks on our doors. Clutch our purses and hold our children tightly as we walk through our streets. Women transport currency in their bosoms. One must remain vigilant of their surroundings because letting your guard down could lead to severe consequences. This is life during daylight, come dawn there are a new set of rules to add. There is nothing out there for you. If you must, don’t go alone, stop for no one and say your prayers. Trust is scarce and remains a challenge to our well-being. Fear consumes the most innocent and religious of them all. Rich, poor, old, young, none is free of this threat. 

Crime is not unique to Jamaica. High crime is generally the trademark of most poverty stricken developing countries. However unlawful and unforgivable, it’s a means and way of life for some. Sadly, the punishment is felt by us law-abiding citizens and seems rarely ever felt by the criminals. Jamaica wasn’t always ridden with high crime. My parents tell a tale of a hard, but carefree childhood growing up in Jamaica. A time when a padlock wasn’t required to secure the free water, captured by the night’s rainfall, stored in the outdoor tank. The punishment is the fear, which lives long after the threat of imminent danger has passed. Today my mother, who now resides in New York and has for decades, lives behind an embarrassing number of locks on her apartment door that act as her guard in exchange for a night’s rest. This is what she knows. Having, thankfully, never been a victim of a violent crime and out of the threat barriers, the trauma remains. In all that we do and the beauty we encompass, how much further could we be in our brightness light?  

This is our punishment, lifelong trauma and an impermeable shell of being. It’s the seed of impatience, lack of empathy and understanding, and the inability to give and receive love. The barriers we require to protect our physical being rob us of the right to live whole and free lives. I long for a Jamaica like the one behind the resort gates, unencumbered and protected.

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I admit, I found the film to be funny and at times heartwarming, but for us Jamaicans, the actors’ Jamaican accent makes us cringe. Jamaicans have a tremendous amount of pride in every facet of what makes us, us. (Sometimes too much) The admiration is cute, though oftentimes falls short. It took me awhile to understand that international production, appropriating our dialect wasn’t for our benefit, it was just business. Offend a few and appeal to the masses. It’s not that there aren’t Jamaican actors to play roles, the few Jamaicans in motion pictures actually mask their accents. There is character training in linguistics for the dialect, but most times it’s not prioritized in the production budget. The main reason I’m told is that film producers fear that the audience won’t follow or understand the character(s) and or the plot and closed caption is off-putting to most English-speaking viewers. A beg you pardon?! Thus, Jamaican patois is admired, marketable and funny, but watered down to be more palatable to the bigger non-Jamaican audience. Irie 

Patois is funny on your vacation and for entertainment, but costs too much to be taken seriously. Sadly, it costs us too. I can still hear the chimes of authority demanding that school-age children “speak properly.” I was teased mercilessly in grade school in The  Bronx for my strong accent. I now know that they were jealous, but in 1994 I could have really used the help. In college, I was greeted with an illusive version of “wha a gwan” (a common greeting used amongst close friends and relatives, meaning, “how is it going?”) whenever I entered my dorm room. And I get it, much of it is meant to be cool and in a weird way, welcoming, but only to the others, the non-Jamaican. Then there are the curse words, which are consciously omitted from Jamoji’s App content. Sadly, curse words are most foreigners’ introduction to patois and Jamaicans are guilty for teaching them. It’s obscene and offensive to hear others scream words in distorted sounds while not knowing its meaning. It all seems trivial until it’s at your expense. Your admiration and imitation is well intended and even welcomed, but know that there are little girls and boys who pay the price.

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Jamaica has seen its share of devastation and more specifically, devastation caused by hurricanes. The one that stands out by far as foremost in memory and also due to the loss experienced for many Jamaicans, is hurricane “Gilbert.” I overheard a Gen Z man say, “I wasn’t born at that time, but after hearing how my parents speak of it, I feel like I lived it.” Gilbert is the uncle you didn’t ask for, but it’s yours and you’re going to have to deal with it the best way you know how. Hurricane Gilbert is one of my oldest, darkest and yet most kind memories. I was five at the time and I don’t remember the days, but I remember how the time felt; dark, cold, wet and eerie. I faintly remember an odd orange glow that smothered our home (might have been the huddle of my sisters and I that we found comfort and protection in to weather the storm) as the howling winds entertained us throughout the nights. The winds were endless, so much so that we lost our kitchen roof. Who didn’t? There was weeks/months of debris everywhere. And some “temporary” makeshift zinc coverings lasted far beyond its shelf life. 

Not counting the “bully beef,” it so happens that I’d already experienced a whole plant-based diet before today. No electricity meant, no meat or perishables for months. And when the “light” did return, it was somewhat anticlimactic. Maybe because it happened in waves; if your community didn’t have its electricity restored, the neighboring community did and we would share access until we were all back on the grid. Or, because we had all become accustomed to the oil smoke ring marks on our ceilings, the pans, screams and footsteps running towards the water delivery trucks. Life had become routine. 

Recovery doesn’t end after one bad hurricane; we’re still mentally recovering and it shows in how we build. To be an adult realizing the sheer magnitude of danger faced and sacrifice it took to survive Gilbert — a Category 5 storm with its 40 mile radius eye covering the island — fills me with pride and great strength. Much of it resembles our lives during the COVID-19 pandemic. As we build the foundations of our future, we should never forget to hug our loved ones closely each night.

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One of our very own, US California Senator and Democratic Vice President nominee Kamala Harris, made a gaffe, so great, regarding the Jamaican stereotype that her Jamaican father publicly scolded her for the remark. While I understand his grievance, because as a Jamaican, we’re tired of being your go-to marijuana punchline —  dressed in our armour, Harris should have known better than to perpetuate this false narrative, as it only continues to hurt us. However, she is a grown woman and the rebuke would have been best or more effective — an apology and a teaching moment perhaps — had the conversation taken place privately. Sadly, Jamaican parents are not the best at terminating parenting. 

This incident happened eighteen months prior to Harris being named as the presumptive US Democratic Vice President nominee and upon her selection as VP pick, it was the first thing my childhood friends repeated to me. Yes, we’re always excited to see Jamaica represented and visible on the world stage. Of course we will support her success wholeheartedly, she’s the right person for the job, but we’re allowed to feel used, hurt and disappointed too. I get it, it’s cool to be Jamaican, but while I don’t speak for all Jamaicans, it’s my belief that we want to be the ones to determine what that looks like. And if we say it’s not ganja, it’s not. Now, can we leave it alone?

It’s not that ganja is “bad,” its use in fact has great qualities that would be of much added assistance to our economy and health in many cases. We’re just not afforded the same luxuries in its use and social purposes. Thus, as Jamaicans we find ourselves in a cultural quicksand of sorts to get rid of the negative and false stereotypes in an effort to be seen as individuals and to be respected. Affirming what others have said or believe only invalidates what so many of us work tirelessly for; change, equality, dignity and hope. We’re not your punchline. 

And no, it’s not legal.

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“Browning” is also a term or phrase used to describe a (desirable) light-skinned Black person. I was eight years old when Buju Banton’s 1992 hit  “Love Me Browning” was released. The chorus:

Me love me car Me love me bike

Me love me money and ting

But most of all, Me love me browning

Love-a me car Me love me bike

Me love me money and ting

But most of all, Me love me browning

“Browning” in this context is a light-skinned woman. Her “value” and “status” being equated to high value items, money, bikes and cars. We all loved this song, it was/is a jam! Sadly, I knew and internalized that I didn’t mirror this object of desire. Heck, the artist himself didn’t mirror his own desire!. To his credit, Banton did follow up later that year with the title, “Love Black Woman,” but the damage had already been done. The words and idea of not being enough or desired was internalized not only by us, but also the generations that came before us. Thus, we took action and we bleached. Yes, at eight years old I could name at least three bleaching creams. Although I didn’t use bleaching creams at 8 years old, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. Who didn’t? It was because I didn’t have the money and the adults in the room wouldn’t buy it. Though, it was an ideal or a standard of value that was consumed by us all. I thought I had to be light-skinned to receive affection and to be loved. 

Now we have an entire nation carrying the weight of not being enough and, just as how we brown a chicken to our desire, we seek “browning” for our dark skin. It is my experience that in Jamaican culture we attempt to fix rather than address the root of the matter. It’s just easier. Is it? Recently, a ruling from the Jamaican High Court made headlines that favored a Primary School’s right to ban dreadlocks after a 5-year-old girl was barred from attending until her parents agreed to cut her hair. Echos from around the world could be heard from people asking how could this be in Jamaica. Jamaica, popularly known for dreadlocks and Rastafarianism, and a predominantly Black country, would bar a child from attending school until her hair was “fixed.” I hate to tell you, but this ruling is on brand for Jamaica. And, if I’m really honest, we do not like to be known or to be popular for dreadlocks and Rastafarianism. Thus, Bob Marley and his legacy, love. Dreadlocks not so much. The high court ruling is that of the old guard who are of the mindset that they’re protecting the only Jamaican that is deemed worthy. 

The school in question has right their wrong and has now agreed to allow the girl, now 7 to attend school as she is, but without question, now scarred by the ordeal. As for me, I’ve been going to the beach every week this summer and every opportunity I get, I bask in the sun (with sunscreen), blissfully adding layers of darkness to my beautiful Black skin. It’s my act of protest and a celebration of sorts — me celebrating being unbothered by generational burdens. Your truths not only are not mine, but they’re also wrong.

To the adults in the room, let’s address our false truths and allow young Black girls to be girls and not be forced to be someone who they’re not. Perfectly ok to still keep browning that white chicken though!

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