I spent the first ten years of my life on Bajan soil. I chased chickens and was chased by cows. I wore neatly pressed blue overalls and crisp white shirts to school every day.  My black school shoes were always polished to a high shine and the sea breeze would ruffle the blue ribbons in my hair. I ate fried fish for breakfast and coucou for dinner. I watched Sesame Street at 4 o’ clock every evening and Days of Our Lives at 6 o’ clock because we only had one channel. My granny jumped rope with me and took me to the beach to sit in shallow sea water and collect shells. I’ve had Joseph’s Coat stain my clothes and ate my fill of Shirley Biscuits, mangos and sugar cane. I am a Bajan child.

I moved to Florida when I was ten and to Canada a year later. I dropped my accent because the kids teased me. I didn’t really listen to calypso or soca music, and I learned to love lasagna way more than I ever liked coucou and flying fish. I suppose you can say I became Americanized, a “photocopy Bajan” as my boyfriend so lovingly calls me. But still, I clung to my status as a Bajan. I was as proud of the blue and yellow flag with the broken trident as anyone born on the island. Ask me if we’re better than Jamaicans and you might have a real argument on your hands. I am a Bajan child.