Everybody seems to swear all Trinis are always racially mixed in certain predictable ways, even when I am blatantly telling you how I self-identify and what I am not. I can spot them too, and occasionally in public I’d see someone and randomly think to myself, he moving/looking like a West Indian fella (and I don’t even always know why exactly).There are plenty up the islands men who what they are really dying for is a quintessential, idealistic Trini girl that is not me. To most West Indian men, I am not some exceptional, exemplary black woman just because I have an accent that’s familiar like the taste of mangoes.An Indian, a reds, and men will even allude to this and show scant passing interest in you at the same damn time. I often tussle with the passed-down expectations of West Indian womanhood and sometimes I do want to deliver: “Bring out de pot, I’ll cook yuh food” to quote Nadia Batson.You can sniff out when you’re about to be a cultural filler and the backdrop against which other deep seated desires are yet to be realised. Still, with some West Indian men, when it clicks, it can be a sweet rolling wave with rocky breaks here and there. And I’ll cook it and I’ll watch you eat with me not because I name Woman, but because I want to freely give you pieces of myself, watch you devour them and ravenously ask me for more, more.
It has always attracted people from all over the globe, which is what makes this place so interesting.It’s almost like once you’ve been living with it all your life, like sunshine and warm oceans, it’s not that special — The Caribbean Man — and certainly not warranting all that list attention. I like hearing my own accent and dialect tumbling in my ear.