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Growing up in Jamaica, there was one thing Donna Hemans was forbidden to do: speak her own language.

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Unlike many others on the beautiful island, she was banned from speaking Patois, a distinct Creole dialect native to Jamaica, in nearly every part of her life. Her parents, like some other Caribbean parents, insisted she and her sisters only speak standard English at home. And at school, an English-only decree was strictly enforced. Students found speaking Patois were punished with a small fine of 10 Jamaican cents (a fraction of a cent in U.S. Dollars). 

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“We just grew up with this idea and sense that if you spoke Patois, you were either less educated or, if you look at it just purely from a cultural perspective, less cultured,” said Hemans, now a novelist living in Maryland. So while Hemans can fully understand her native language, she still finds it uncomfortable to speak Patois freely around others. Her accent — one of the most identifiable characteristics of Jamaican natives — is barely detectable.

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Far from home, immigrants struggle to balance living in a new culture and holding on to their native one. American-born children of immigrants find themselves sent off to language lessons, dance classes, and other cultural or religious activities within their immigrant community. These cultural touchstones bind communities and can connect children raised in America to the countries and cultures their parents left behind.

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If these cultural practices are not preserved, they face the risk of cultural death among the diaspora.

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I shared a similar experience with Hemans. I was born and raised in Guyana and from the time I could speak, I was trained to speak standard English, the country’s official language, as opposed to Guyanese Creole. The reasons were the same as Hemans expressed — to sound “smarter” and gain access to better opportunities. But speaking differently from those around me was isolating and perceived by some as belittling my national identity. It wasn’t until I moved to the U.S. that I felt a stronger acceptance from the Guyanese community here about my accent and the way I speak.  

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Working on this web series, “For the Love of Culture,” I met Agwu Agwu and Chinedum Agwu, a New York couple who emigrated from Nigeria and whose five children were all born in the U.S. Unlike Hemans and myself, their relationship with their native Igbo language is uncomplicated and they are adamant they want their children to speak it. Even so, it’s been a challenge. They were not strict about only speaking Igbo at home and consequently, their children are not fluent, something they regret.

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“I really wish I didn't speak English in the house for them. Or at least it was not the major way of communicating with them,” Chinedum Agwu, the matriarch of the household said. “Had we spoken the language from the time they were born then they would have been perfect in speaking the language. That's really my regret.”

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Family dinners and ‘flailing around’

When Kiara Ross Paige was around 4 or 5 years old, her grandmother, who is from Belize, took her to dance classes at the Jamaica Center for Arts and Learning in Queens, in New York City. She was signed up for ballet, hip-hop, tap, and Afro-Caribbean dance. Paige, whose parents were born in the U.S., said she enjoyed each lesson except the Afro-Caribbean class — the dance closest to her family’s culture. The moves simply felt too foreign, she recalled.

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“I was like, ‘What is this flailing around?’,” said Paige, whose grandfather was also a Caribbean native from Trinidad.

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She couldn’t have known it then, but those same dance moves would become her calling. Her family fostered a love for and curiosity about Caribbean culture and ultimately, it fused with her lifelong love of dance. In 2014 she founded the Caribbean dance company CarNYval Dancers. 

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Paige said it took some time to create the community she was looking to have, but eventually, Caribbean natives and those of Caribbean descent came together to preserve cultural dances from the Caribbean.

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“It’s a safe space for them to share and be rooted in their culture and reminded of their culture and to share cultures with people and see what the differences and similarities are,” Paige said.

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Through the dance company, she has been able to choreograph for New York City’s biggest parade on Labor Day and assisted with choreographing the city’s largest soca flash mob in Fort Greene Park.

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But what makes Paige the most happy is connecting people to their culture and educating others looking to learn.

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It’s that same joy of celebrating Caribbean culture that led William “RanDe” Rogers on a path to take over Sister’s Cuisine, the Caribbean restaurant first opened by his mother, who is from Guyana, and her sister and his cousin in Harlem 28 years ago.

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Rogers was born and raised in Harlem to a Guyanese immigrant and Sister’s Cuisine, has always been one of his greatest connections to a culture he has mostly learned about anecdotally. Each spice, every dish, and every Caribbean customer in the restaurant offered a glimpse into one of Guyana’s most cherished treasures – its food. 

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The experience of connection to culture through food isn’t unique to Rogers. For many, food serves as a cultural bridge connecting immigrants and successive generations to their homeland.

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“I have been back to Guyana a couple times," said Rogers. "They were all powerful and awesome experiences getting close with my cousins and things like that. But, day in and day out, week in and week out, this restaurant is really my number one touch point and my number one anchor to my Caribbean roots.” 

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For Paige, of CarNYval Dancers, Caribbean dinners with her grandparents are an indelible part of her childhood. She remembers how the kitchen smelled of spices distinct to Trinidadian and Belizian foods. But it’s not just a nostalgic memory. It’s a reminder to keep that heritage alive.

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“If we as Caribbean [people] don’t appreciate our own culture, how can anybody else appreciate it?” Paige said. “We have to make sure that we protect it and share its authenticity so that the next generation doesn’t feel so disconnected.”

 

Paige says it can be too easy to let those ties slip away as life in one’s adopted country takes over. 

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“You know, your kids grow up, go to school, and so there is that erasure there where it’s just like, ‘Don’t worry about your culture, you’re in America. This is the dream.’ But no, I want to be tapped into the culture. I want to know the language,” Paige said.

 

“I want to be able to create the food. I want to be able to pass it down to my daughter so that we know exactly what we’re connected to, where we come from, where our people come from. And I feel like if we’re not careful with that erasure and wanting to be so Americanized, then our culture disappears.”