Since I could remember, the reply I would get when I told people where I came from, was - No you’re not. Try telling a complete stranger a fact about yourself and then they disagree.
A white Jamaican is a hard sell. A white Jamaican with an accent that sounds like my last name should be Windsor, even harder. But I stick to telling people I’m from Jamaica. A mother as a Jamaican citizen, five Jamaican schools and over 18 years of living there I feel has qualified me to hold that title. If anyone disagrees, I would invite them to find me an alternative homeland; preferably First World, I like the benefits.
I was 15 when I moved to England. UK Passport in hand and a prepared Queen’s English accent to boot I thought I would slide right in, become one with the Brits. My infiltration mostly works but I often can’t help feel out of place. Not existential-crying-in-my-bathroom-changing-my-name out of place but I am writing a blog so read into that what you will.
Which island do I pledge my allegiance to? The one I still call home, even when no one believes me? Or the one that would make more sense?
I hope as you read these posts you begin to understand that sensibility is not my strong suit. Ask my ever increasing student loans for a bachelors degree in English Literature or my exceptionally practical decision to move to London at the age of 18. Whichever the case, just know, sense isn’t my forte. And honestly, I couldn’t tell you if I was more English, Jamaican or even South African (a story for another time) but maybe we’ll figure that out along the way.
Best wishes,
Charlie