Life

'We Need to Connect with Our Elders' – The Joys and Fears of Growing Up Black British Caribbean

It's so important to revive the traditions that have been swept away by migration and integration.
chante joseph
The author, right, as a child.

I’ve shared a lot of firsts with my dad. Like most London kids, my first experience of Notting Hill Carnival was riding on his shoulders as we weaved through the crowds – not to follow the floats or find the reggae, but to get to the drum and bass and jungle sound system by CMC Matrix on the corner of All Saints and Tavistock Road. The sound of my upbringing was an amalgamation of my mother’s love for house and UK garage and my dad’s obsession with drum and bass

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My first raving experience was with my dad; he ran a liquid drum and bass night called Fizzy, initially in Camden but eventually moving to Brixton Jamm. I ran off adrenaline and water, and danced until my feet felt like fire in my half a size too-small Air Max. With origins in jungle music and sound system culture, drum and bass is a uniquely Black British product that comes from the creative output of children of first-generation migrants.

My identity is rooted in my Jamaican and Dominican heritage, but I was born into a new and exciting Caribbean identity only just forming in the UK. 

Despite living in Britain longer than in Jamaica, my granddad had the thickest Jamaican accent. The harshness of British society never changed him, and he was Jamaican first, before anything else. He would constantly challenge me on my claim to be a Jamaican, always insisting that I was a “British gurl”, which didn’t bother me too much – he was right. Conversations between my dad and grandfather were always hilarious. They had similar mannerisms, even laughed the same; they looked like they could be brothers. But they came from different worlds, most easily clocked when they greeted each other: “Yew oorite, dad?” “Am alright, mon.” 

My grandfather was Caribbean, and my dad Black British Caribbean; it was a new type of identity that wasn’t any less valid, just different. Being Black British Caribbean means Christmas with chicken, curry goat, lamb, dumpling, rice and peas, roast potatoes and Brussel sprouts, finished off with a rum cake made from fruits that had soaked in the finest Caribbean rum for months. It’s watching Formula One qualifying at grandma’s house while she prepares Saturday soup. It sounds like adults yelling and banging dominos on the table in the dining room while the girls are making up dance routines to the Sugababes.

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Growing up, I most looked forward to spending weekends in north London at my uncle Sylvester’s house. He had dreadlocks down to his shins, and he often photoshopped himself in the sky (or with lions) in the family portraits he took. His house is where all of the family across London would flock to for barbecues. My uncle’s house was transformed into the family nightclub slash crèche; in one room upstairs, kids played Super Smash Bros on a clunky Gamecube, down the hallway the rest of us ran Beyblade tournaments like they were the Olympic finals in the massive Dutch pot we snuck out the kitchen. 

Downstairs, where adults were, the sound of reggae, zouk and bouyon shook the house and filled the street. You knew things were getting late and it was time to wind down when somebody played Kassav’s “Zouk la se sel Medikaman Nou Ni” (“Zouk, That’s the Only Medicine We Need” in Créole Français, a language specific to Guadeloupe and Martinique). Coupled with “Candy” by Cameo, this was a call to start getting ready to disperse, even as us kids begged for more time together (and sleepovers).

There’s joy and evolution in Black British Caribbean identity, but I would be lying if I didn’t say there’s also a lot of fear. The Black Caribbean demographic is an ageing one, and we’re losing our elders. There are languages that have been forgotten between generations; traditions that we no longer see ourselves reflected in. 

During Black History Month, we should be making an effort to connect with our elders to archive their stories – the ones that can’t be found online – and revive the traditions that have been swept away by migration and integration. These are people who connected us directly to the Caribbean and, without them, that link could be severed and lost forever.

@ChantayyJayy