Closing Out Caribbean Heritage Month

A Vacation Meditation on Caribbean Heritage Month By: Dr. Abigail Prang

Several years ago, I was lucky enough to dabble in studying Caribbean Literature. I’m not an expert on the topic by any stretch of the imagination, but I do know that while each island has its own vibe, history, and traditions, in general, many parts of the Caribbean are sites of collision and contradiction. The history is wild, turbulent, and at times tragic, but the resilience and creativity of the people is awe inspiring. In the present, juxtapositions still abound. The old is mixed with the new. The fruits of relative independence remain cloaked in colonial architecture. And especially since Hurricane Maria (2017), the freshly restored often buttress the shattered… or not. As we planned our post-vaccination vacation, I was instinctively drawn to a place where I might learn something about resilience.

The Caribbean was an obvious choice, and our trip happened to coincide with Caribbean Heritage Month. To avoid some of the Covid-19 related restrictions associated with international travel, we opted to visit the United States territory of St. Croix. Of course, our experience was not authentic to how locals experience the island, but it was insightful in certain ways. After a few weeks home and a lot of reflecting, I’ve identified some takeaways worth sharing.

One major idea has stuck with me: the importance of finding enough joy and relief in our everyday lives that we don’t feel the need to run away from life’s complexities. An island vacation may sound like an escape, but of course the challenges we face on the mainland (plus some!) are still present in St. Croix and often more pronounced. I spend a great deal of my time fighting deliberate systems of inequity (a term I recently learned from Dr. Jesslyn Anderson). In St. Croix, inequities abound; they’re inescapable. One of the most obvious examples is the infrastructure. Hurricanes Irma and Maria destroyed 90% of the buildings in the US Virgin Islands. It’s obvious which properties are owned by people who were able to afford the best insurance and had the resources to rebuild before nature reclaimed the property. While many buildings owned by locals are crumbling, shiny new ones are being built and restored by

wealthy investors catering to tourists. St. Croix is small enough that these contrasts are often side by side.

These buildings are directly across the street from each other.

And yet, the art, the music, and even island mannerisms and customs seem so alive. There’s an energy in the air of determination, resistance, community love, and even joy. Throughout the day every day, it was easy to identify locals in large part because of how they interacted with one another—honking horns to greet each other in traffic, shouting jokes and greetings across the street… There was a general awareness and consideration of others extended throughout the community. I was regularly struck by the frequency of small gestures of kindness, not just toward us but also among locals: people opening doors for each other, ushering small children about, cars stopping for pedestrians without aggravation and often when they didn’t have to. People clearly had things to do and responsibilities to fulfill, but it rarely seemed to compromise their patience with other people. And if it did, someone else would be shaking their head in mild disapproval. It’s hard to pinpoint this way of being, but the word “steady” comes to mind.

This steadiness is also apparent in the natural environment. Slowly, imperceptibly but unceasingly, the rainforest overtakes the ruins of feeble, human attempts to colonize the island. I’m sure many of us call this sense or “truth” something different, folding it into the dogmas of various belief systems and/or scientific terms. Call it what you will, but I think many would agree that there’s a general sense of perseverance about St. Croix, even if we may not know or agree on exactly what everyone is carrying on toward. there’s an inexplicable tranquility on the island—a grounded-ness at sea that discloses something “above the fray.” …A something that might teach all of us how to thrive, if only we can survive the present turmoil.

Still, there were moments when the inequities were unsettling, as I suppose they should be. It made me wonder: why do we seek out islands for reprieve? Certainly, as someone working in antiracism, the Caribbean does not present an escape from injustices, either historically or presently. Islands are still populated by people, including the problems and systems humanity creates. I’m not sure I have an answer, but I think it has something to do with boundaries. It seems that self-care is partly about taking a beat and setting boundaries. Personally, I shy away from setting and holding them. I find it hard, but also increasingly necessary. The geographic boundaries of an island make it easier to enforce other mental and emotional ones. At home, it’s harder to quell the impulse to check my email, social media, and news constantly. It’s harder to be unavailable. On an island, even one as close as St. Croix, the physical barriers from “the grind” make it easier to suspend my sense of responsibility long enough to recharge.

But then where do islanders go to escape? And how do they maintain the grace I’ve noticed them extending more often than not? The pace of life certainly seems slower, perhaps in part because of the tropical weather. Could it be that some have simply figured out how to build lives that they don’t feel the need to escape from periodically? If oppressive systems and inequities still exist, how do people accomplish that? I’m thinking the humor and inventiveness in the face of adversity that we witnessed is a clue. When I say “adversity” I’m not simply being patronizing about ways of living that differ from my own. It took over a year to restore electricity to parts of St. Croix after the hurricanes. Yet, on the side of roads we often saw makeshift signs in bright, bold colors with flowers painted on them, saying things like “Thank you linemen! We’ve got the power!” or “Rebuilding Together.”

Ultimately, this trip at this moment, was the lesson I needed. I love my work. At the same time, it’s also true that antiracism work can be hard, painful, and sometimes demoralizing. That’s not a complaint, just a reality. And I know it’s much worse for my friends who experience racism every day. What I realized in St. Croix is that deliberate systems of inequity never sleep, but I need to. We all do. Inequities transcend both geographical boundaries and time, but so too does community. We may not be able to escape the tension, especially when confronting systems of oppression. But we can learn to live balanced lives within those tensions, picking up the pieces to build beautiful mosaics—a project that requires holding space for opposing truths to exist at the same time. Perhaps reprieve and self-care aren’t about escape, but about having confidence that “we’ve got the power.”