Welcome! Through my story, we’re exploring aspects of race. Today’s post is part 2. Thank you for coming along on this journey. I welcome your prayers, questions and comments. Feel free to leave a note in the comments below or use the email icon on the side to contact me privately. Part 1 can be found here.
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Growing up in my adapted West Indian-Canadian home was great. I would imagine that my childhood was similar to other children’s. I had two parents who loved me and wanted the best for me. They worked hard to provide shelter, food, clothing and love—life’s necessities. But as I grew older, I soon realized there were significant differences between myself and some of my peers.
The oldest of three children, I am a first-generation Canadian, born in the middle of Canadian prairies. My parents immigrated here, where they met and were married. My mom arrived from the delightful twin island nation of Trinidad and Tobago (pronounced toe-bay-go). My dad is from Haiti. Coming from poorer nations, my parents both had very humble beginnings. It is not uncommon for West Indian children to grow up with or be raised by other relatives. My mom, the ninth child of thirteen, lived with her uncle during her childhood. She moved in with an older sister and helping to tend to their family. My father was the oldest of two, and they remained at home. Though their families worked hard, there was very little money for extras. When they immigrated to Canada, neither parent came with large purses, inheritances or trust funds behind them. They had to scrimp and save for each precious penny. The value of a dollar and a redefined view of wealth were lessons that were taught in my home growing up.
It’s important to note that both my parents are Christians. This key detail added value to our home because it was something we lived. There are some people who identify as Christians for survey/application purposes or based on tradition/habit. In our home, it wasn’t about religion but spirituality. This affected their views on marriage, child-rearing and life in general. Though we weren’t rich by society’s standards, we were still very blessed. Employment, health, a home, safety, food, love—that barely starts the list of ‘riches’ we had. However, the focus wasn’t on having stuff, but on sharing sharing our blessings. As such, my home had an open door policy. All friends, family, visitors passing through church on a weekend were invited to our home. This hospitality was extended to all regardless of age or ethnicity. If you appeared to be alone when my mom saw you, she extended an invitation. Our family has expanded this way, because after a certain number of visits, you were counted as a relative. My parents also made sure that on major holidays (ie: Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, etc), those without a family nearby had an invitation to our home.
One of the biggest lessons taught from young was about race. My parents made sure we were aware that we are different than those around us. There were people outside our home who would intentionally mistreat us and disrespect us simply because we are Black. In fact, we may be the only blacks some people ever encounter, so our best behavior was mandatory. Think carefully and consider the repercussions of your actions because it could reflect poorly on the entire race. Having a darker skin colour automatically put us at a disadvantage, thus we would have to work harder than everyone else and give our best efforts to show that we deserved fair and equal treatment. Though many people would be unfair just by looking at me, we were encouraged to never hand them any easy excuses to be unfair. Anyone’s issue towards our being Black was their choice.
While this may sound surreal, this is my reality. How many Black people do you know well? How much of your perspective on Blacks is based on the representations of the ones you do know—good or bad?