‘I was raised in Kingston, Jamaica, in an environment that gave me a strong social conscience. My parents are Rastafarians. They taught me to always question the system and how it operated. They encouraged me to analyse discrimination, to call it out for what it was.
My first experience of discrimination happened early in life. There are aspects of Rastafari culture that are quite patriarchal: as a girl, I wasn’t allowed to wear trousers. I was outgoing, rambunctious, and wanted to run around with my brothers. In my teenage years, I wanted to test fashion, but wearing trousers was out of the question. It made me realise my position in the world. When I wore trousers for the first time – age 15 – it was a complete rebellion.
As the eldest, with four younger brothers I was second in charge when my parents weren’t around. I was given additional responsibilities from an early age, so I learnt, as part of my socialisation, to distinguish when it was time to play and when to be responsible. Later, I rebelled, and did things behind my parents’ back, as teenagers will do.
Academically, high school wasn’t an exciting experience for me. I was bright as a lamp, but unchallenged. My mother knew I needed more than what the school system offered, so she provided it at home. She made sure I had the confidence I needed, but it backfired. If you teach children about positive self-image, freedom of expression, the first place they decide to rebel is at home.
My mother worked at the University of the West Indies. She started out in urban planning and social work, and by the time she retired, she was an administrator. My father migrated to the US and became an educator in the middle school system in New Mexico. Both were avid readers. Very early, I was introduced to Black authors: Chinua Achebe, Rupert Lewis, Walter Rodney, Erna Brodber, Marcus Garvey, Frantz Fanon. My parents provided me with an alternative curriculum. As far as they were concerned, the one I received at school wasn’t Black enough, so they gave me a deeper, alternative education.
I loved literature and history. With languages, I was more interested in the etymology of the word – why do we say ‘West Indies’ instead of ‘Caribbean’? I questioned the assumption that we understand the language that we’re speaking. A lot of the time, we just learn it.
My aunt, Judith Wedderburn supported the People’s National Party in Jamaica and she is a well-known women’s rights activist and gender development specialist in the Caribbean – quite a stalwart – so it runs in the family. My cousins and I, in the late 1970s, would attend political meetings. I still remember the songs. I didn’t take it seriously at the time, I was more interested in who liked who than the political environment. But things did stick, songs like, “Forward march against imperialism”.
Because high school wasn’t exciting, my grades weren’t good. I wasn’t doing well enough to have any input in my own future. My mother sent me on a student exchange programme in Maracaibo, Venezuela, to finish high school. I was thrown into a school system, in a language I knew nothing about. She must have known, in her parenting brain, that this child needed to be challenged in order to learn – and it worked.
I did really well. I returned and went to a community college in Jamaica and did my A-levels. From there, I went to university. By most standards it was quite late, as I was 22, but I didn’t go until I was ready. By the time I went to the University of West Indies for my undergraduate degree, I was ready to learn. I passed with flying colours. It was at that point in my life that I got more involved in activism.