Memories of my childhood in St. Elizabeth, Jamaica, are often hazy. Yet certain details and faces from those days stand out in vivid clarity because of how they were woven into the familiar routine of my early life. At six years old, I moved away from the island, and with this move came the loss of many things I’ve only started regaining as I get older. It’s beyond just recipes; simple things like the political parties on the island, and embarrassingly enough, remembering the 14 parishes by name, became distant memories. Reconnecting with these aspects of my heritage has been a journey of rediscovery. Each discovery or rediscovery feels like a small victory, bringing me closer to the vibrant culture that shaped my early years.
I’ve been reflecting on what it means to hold onto culture and identity when you’re far from home. As a Jamaican living in the UK, I’ve come to see that the small, everyday ways we keep our heritage alive—from the meals we cook to the stories we share—are acts of cultural preservation. For me, and many other Black Britons, WhatsApp is becoming more than just that annoying app with way too many group chats; it’s a lifeline that connects us to home, helps us pass down traditions, and keeps our cultural identities alive.
The conversations I have with my mother and other family members on WhatsApp are like a thread that stitches together fragmented memories. Every now and then during a call, she’ll mention someone or something that I should remember but don’t. Our conversations often turn into a back and forth of “Yuh remember Miss so and so?” to which I usually respond with a hesitant “No.” Undeterred, she’d continue without missing a beat, reminding me who that person was and share the latest news about them. Conversations like these always make me feel like I haven’t missed a beat though I live miles away from home, learning something about someone I should remember, no matter how random the information always left me feeling grounded.
On one call she reminded me of the many mornings we spent waiting on the dewy dirt road front that led into our district, anticipating the taxi that would carry us on our way. It was here, without fail, that I would see Miss Faye. A small, dark-skinned woman with skin weathered by countless hours in the sun, marked by the relentless heat that often blanketed Jamaica in the summer.
She reminded me how I’d greet her each morning, with a polite, “Good morning, Miss Faye,” and she would reply warmly, “mawning, baby,” her face lighting up with that genuine smile adults reserve just for children. Miss Faye was always engaged in one of two things: either setting up her fruit stall at the road’s edge, where passersby could easily spot her or waiting for a taxi with her plaid market bags packed and ready for the journey to Coronation Market in Kingston.
This is oral storytelling, a tradition that runs deep in the Black diaspora. It’s how our ancestors passed down stories of resilience, survival, and cultural traditions. For me and many Black British communities, this tradition is thriving through WhatsApp and other messaging apps, which we’re using to reconnect and preserve our heritage.
Historically, Black people have always found innovative ways to preserve and protect our legacy. The way we use [our family group chat] goes beyond typical social media interactions. It’s not about curating an image; it’s about keeping our traditions alive…
For me, it’s about preserving everyday things like recipes, learning to make my patois sound less foreign by imitating my mother’s country accent, being reminded of the traditions of a Nine Night wake, and staying updated on island politics, new music, and trends. All of this happens over an unpredictably choppy Wi-Fi connection, with video calls fluctuating between crystal clear and pixelated. These calls usually end with me reminding my mother that speaking louder doesn’t help me understand her any better when the network is bad. There’s something so special about sitting on a call and getting a step-by-step walkthrough of how to make escovitch fish. Could I have googled the recipe? Yes, but to learn how it’s done by a family member trumps that entirely because of the authenticity. Google wouldn’t have told me about the differences between the fish at the grocery store, or that I should avoid one with cloudy eyes. This personal touch makes all the difference.
Growing up in Jamaica, family gatherings were part of everyday life. We’d sit together under the shade of a coconut tree or crowd into my mother’s kitchen, sharing food and laughter. When I moved away, I felt the absence of this, but WhatsApp has quickly become a substitute—a place where my family can gather in a virtual family yard of sorts, no matter the miles between us.
In these group chats, we keep each other updated on our lives, and—most importantly—share pieces of our heritage. My aunts, uncles, and cousins send videos and photos of Sunday dinners (arguably the most important dinner of the week in Jamaica), showing off plates of brown stew chicken, rice and peas, and coleslaw.
As much as WhatsApp has been a great tool for preservation and connection, it has also been a source of frustration, especially when it comes to misinformation. My family group chat, like so many others, has its share of misinformation, with forwarded messages ranging from ‘health remedies’ to exaggerated news headlines. For younger members of the family, it’s sometimes challenging to correct these misconceptions without stepping on toes.
The delicate balance of respecting elders while trying to talk about false information can be tricky. Often, it requires a tactful approach—sharing credible sources and gently explaining why certain bits of information aren’t accurate.
Even with these challenges, the family group chat remains a vital space for connection for me. It’s where we share our joys, like the birth of a new family member or a child’s graduation, and our sorrows, when a loved one passes. It’s a virtual extension of the family yard, where support and love are freely given and received, despite occasional frustrations.
Historically, Black people have always found innovative ways to preserve and protect our legacy. The way we use it goes beyond typical social media interactions. It’s not about curating an image; it’s about keeping our traditions alive, sharing them with the next generation, and building a sense of unity even when we’re miles apart.
In a country where I may sometimes feel like an outsider, WhatsApp has become a small way to filter little pieces of home into my every day. When Jamaica was rocked by Hurricane Beryl, the app was what kept many of us in touch with loved ones on the island. When important figures in music such as Buju Banton and Vybz Kartel were released from prison, WhatsApp was what helped us get a taste of the general excitement on the island. When I’m feeling low, just a glimpse of the hustle and bustle of everyday life taking place under sunny skies via a video call is a reminder of home. It’s not just about staying in touch; it’s about keeping alive the spirit of Jamaica, the essence of my ancestors, and the pride of my family. For young Black people living in the UK, that’s something worth preserving.
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