My nan came to England from St. Lucia when she was 19 and, by her early twenties, she was married with three kids. Whilst in England she had many jobs; she once worked at the Royal London Hospital and had a brief stint at a factory making umbrellas for Burberry. My gran and my grandad ended up buying the same house that they once could only afford to rent a room in — it’s the same house my aunt and uncle live in today. Caribbean immigrants like my nan, who arrived in the UK during the ’50s and ’60s, faced a multitude of challenges, including racism that permeated various aspects of their lives; from dealing with discriminatory practices by landlords like Peter Rachman, to racist attacks and n***** hunts initiated by the Teddy Boys and far-right fascist parties. Despite these harsh realities, many Caribbeans still managed to prosper and settle into life in the UK. Cultural events and customs like Blues Parties, the Pardner system and Notting Hill Carnival brought about a sense of joy, belonging and community.
I recently began researching a book idea exploring the experiences of the Windrush Generation, the Caribbean immigrants who were invited to the UK to help rebuild the country in the aftermath of World War 2. Today, June 22nd, marks the 75th anniversary of the HMT Empire Windrush arrival in the UK, the ship which brought the first large group of immigrants from the Caribbean to Tilbury Docks, Essex, in 1948. Researching the stories of Caribbean immigrants during this period has been fascinating, yet it has also been disheartening when considering the grave impact of the Windrush scandal in 2018. Hundreds of Commonwealth citizens had been wrongly detained, deported and denied legal rights, including Richard Stewart, who moved from Jamaica to England aged 10 in 1955. Stewart was told in 2012 that he was in the UK illegally and needed to pay £1200; he sadly passed away while waiting for his case to be resolved. His son Wesley Stewart told The Guardian that his father had become stressed and depressed during the process of attempting to sort out his paperwork and prove the government’s errors.
I expected to feel a multitude of emotions during this research process, but grief was not one of them… every personal account from Caribbean women I read became a trigger, bringing back fond memories of my nan and me.
I expected to feel a multitude of emotions during this research process, but grief was not one of them. I stumbled upon an animated mini documentary narrated by actor Micheal Ward about the legendary “Blues Parties” that emerged in London during the ’60s, as a way for West Indians to meet, dance and listen to the music of home. The short film featured images of Caribbean women, which surprisingly struck up an overwhelming feeling of sadness. Initially, I tried to brush off any emotional response it evoked within me. However, from that point onward, every personal account from Caribbean women I read became a trigger, bringing back fond memories of my nan and me.
During a writing workshop, I was advised to immerse myself in the music of a specific time period to gain inspiration. So, I decided to take a breather from my research and delve into a Calypso playlist. As I explored the playlist, I picked a song at random: “Everything I Own” by Ken Boothe. The name didn’t initially ring a bell, but the moment the song began to play, I immediately remembered hearing this song at family gatherings when my nan was still alive. What happened next was probably one of the most cathartic experiences I have ever had: I just started crying. I played the song about five times nonstop and cried. Even though it was painful, part of me felt like I needed to let it out.
I had a close relationship with both of my grandmothers, particularly my mum’s mum, as I spent most of my childhood at her house. During my younger years, whilst my mum had to work, I would spend my summer holidays at my nan’s house, where we would spend days baking cakes together, gardening and taking countless trips to Dalston and Walthamstow market. On these outings, I would plod along pulling her food trolley, reluctantly having to come to a halt every time she saw someone she knew — which was pretty much every few steps. There wasn’t a St. Lucian in London that my nan didn’t claim to know.
As my primary school was right next to my nan’s house, I would go there every day after school as my mum hadn’t finished work and understandably didn’t want me to be home alone at such a young age. I would spend my afternoons doing my homework, writing stories and watching CBBC followed by The Simpsons. My nan would make me dinner and then my mum would pick me up, and we’d go home.
As I got older, my mum cut me my first set of keys and I was allowed to stay home alone — which was great at the time, but now looking back, resulted in me spending less time with my nan. It’s unfortunate that it’s only when you lose someone that you suddenly find yourself tallying up all the moments you could’ve spent together, wishing for just one more hour with them. When I was younger, I remember telling my mum when I got married nanny would make the food. As a child, I couldn’t even fathom the idea of her not being there.
I was forced to come to terms with the fact that my nan might not be here forever.
When my nan had her stroke, I remember being upset but my nan was strong; I told myself she’d be fine. I mean, my grandad had many strokes, and he was still alive and kicking, so I was convinced one little stroke wasn’t going to have that much of an impact. But after the stroke, my nan lost her ability to communicate. Seeing a woman with so much life and vibrancy now a former shell of herself was hard. This was the same woman who used to dance to soca and calypso in our living room at family functions after a cheeky glass of rum or Baileys. The same woman who refused to stay at home when my aunt had a carnival band and, accompanied by her walking stick that turned into a stool, walked the streets of Notting Hill with us.
The most painful part during those days when she couldn’t speak was I couldn’t remember our last conversation. For the first time in my life, I was forced to come to terms with the fact that my nan might not be here forever. When I realised that she was getting worse, I decided that I should start the grieving process now, so for months, I tried to come to terms with my nan not being here, picturing what my life would be like. I thought this was a sure way of speeding up the grieving process, but this experience has taught me that there is no ‘hack’ to make the grieving process easier to deal with — it cannot be rushed or hurried along, grief demands patience, allowing it to unfold naturally.
At my nan’s funeral, there was so much going on that allowing myself to grieve was the last thing on my mind. Grief is a complex emotion, and I don’t think it’s one that you simply stop engaging with when you’ve lost someone you loved. I love my grandmother with all my heart, and as such memories of our time together will always trigger a sense of mourning and this is just something that I need to come to terms with.
My nan was a proud woman and I take great pride in knowing that if she could witness my current path, she would be showing off to her age mates about her granddaughter, “the journalist”. Because one thing about Caribbean elders, they are going to big up their grandkids every chance they get.
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