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Commentary: “My Own Black History”
by Laura Moore
Waves lick against the rocks, as she washes the clothes. Her eyes grow wide as the ship approaches. It was off of a shore in India that my great, great grandmother was snatched up by the slave ship. This is what they tell me…
Fast-forward to what came to be known as the “West Indies”, where my great grandmother grew up on the island they called Barbados. Our roots live within and drive us; her roots gave her strength to live on. With each move, comes a new link in the chain that has become my history. My lineage moved on to Guyana, and generations passed.
“You’ll never meet a fish named Euclin”, this is what my mother used to say. It meant that she, like her name, was unique. Strong like the women before her, yet she was one of a kind. Through personal triumphs and private defeats, she added many links to the chain, a chain I now cherish as my history.
Fast-forward to Toronto. I am the last child but the first Canadian. If you ask any West Indian, they will tell you I’m Canadian. But right here in my birthplace, they ask me where I’m from. I come from neither here nor there; I am my ancestors and my future offspring. I am pained by my past and exhilarated by the potential of my future.
As a people we have been uprooted, yet we replant and start again. My mother was strong, as were the women before her. And through their reality and their history, they have taught me to trust in a higher power, believe in myself and never stop striving. I dig my heels in deeper and add a few links to the chain.
Everyday I celebrate our history, with all its triumphs and defeats. I watch as our next generation tastes the flavours, dance the steps, speak the words and absorbs all our history. We are more then mugshots and case profiles. We are more powerful then gunfire and richer then thieves. We are a people and a culture whose achievements are too extensive to celebrate one month a year. But today, right now I share with you my pride and pray you pass it on.
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