Words: Lara Thorpe (she/her)
CW: racism
‘However far the stream goes,
It never forgets the source
YORUBA PROVERB’ (Evaristo 1997: 1)
Hiding between the lines of the relationship between myself and my parents, between my parents and their parents, many things lurk unsaid. An abyss which was not created to purposely implement distance, but simply came into being because distance does exist. My parents’ eyes have witnessed a sea of experiences that cannot be articulated. Experiences come in waves and ebbs; good and bad. This is not a surprise – it is the way of life. And yet the current of my life, compared to that of my parents, is flowing into uncharted waters. We are floating further and further apart. This is the reality of so many second and third generation immigrants. When the culture you grew up in varies so greatly from that of your parents and grandparents, the trajectory of your life will naturally be considerably different. There will be many truths that remain unspoken within these intergenerational relationships. Truths about the hardship and the sacrifice, and maybe even the regret, of crossing immense waters in the pursuit of a ‘better life’. A better life, not only for themselves, but for you and your children and their children.
Compared to that of your ancestors, it is a life of immense privilege, security, and opportunity. But in this life, there is always a price to pay. Is the price knowing that an integral part of yourself is missing? Not being able to understand your own culture, your own history? Not being able to fully understand your own parents? Your own parents not being able to fully understand you?
My grandparents were born over 90 years ago in the Caribbean. I was born 21 years ago in the North of England. I cannot tell you about my grandparents’ early life, because I simply do not know anything about it. I know some stories, however. They would tell me of Anansi the Spider and the Trickster. Folktales so ingrained into the Caribbean, so telling of the disjointed and resilient history of its people. The stories of Anansi journeyed across colossal seas, into the heart of the Caribbean, on the whispers of enslaved peoples. And so, there is a distance there that I cannot even attempt to cross, even though I long to. Even though I yearn to know the story that is written into the colour of my skin. Because it is a distance that goes beyond my parents, and their parents, and their parents. It is a distance that is crucial to our history. A distance which inevitably expands over time. A distance marked by forced migration. A distance also marked by free migration when, in 1948, Britain opened its arms to the Empire.
‘NO DOGS
NO BLACKS’
The ‘motherland’ was not as accepting as the Empire had been led to believe. The pain of this rejection is, to this day, often left untold.
My parents were born in the 1960s in the South of England. Oceans away from the land in which their parents were born. In 1966, the annual Notting Hill Carnival first took place. A protest. An explosion of colour and culture. The Caribbean peoples’ way of saying we are here, and we are beautiful, at a time when discrimination marred everyday life. This is the landscape my parents were born into. This is the culture which shaped their understanding of the world. And so, I know that there have been experiences so painful they have never been, and never will be, told.
I also know that there have been experiences filled with love. These experiences are told. The light in my parents’ eyes shines brightly when they talk of being young, of first experiencing the vivid vibrancy of Carnival. What is left unexpressed is how I will always be one step away from these experiences. The river of my life is taking me further away each day. The abyss of buried meanings, murmurs, and misunderstandings grows deeper with the passage of time. And yet history flows in the blood running through my veins. Even if oceans separate us, our bones are made of the same stuff. There is a strength that is passed down, even if the rupture expands with each new generation.
