I never had a chance to capture the amazing anthills we saw in Ghana, but this internet image comes close. From inside the tour bus I marveled at their height—some certainly exceeded six feet—and the intricate design made from millions of grains of Ghana’s distinctive red soil. I also wondered about the unseen world within and beneath those striking mountains that dotted the countryside. Today I’m trying to write and so I’m looking inward, reflecting on the forces that built the identity I currently inhabit. It’s complex! And always “in process,” though at 40 I can say that some aspects of my identity seem fixed. I booked my flight to Nevis last night and so pulled up The Hummingbird’s Tongue today. I don’t have much so far, just fragments of memories and the opening lines of what I hope will become paragraphs or even chapters. Here’s one example: “I have never trusted the sea.” And just now I made two lists: “How I know I’m not truly Caribbean” and “How I know I may indeed be Caribbean.” I’m being facetious, of course, but issues of authenticity are ridiculous and real. As we continue to think about the future of OWWA, one thing I feel strongly about is the addition of a “D” to represent either “diaspora” or “descent,” because I don’t identity as a woman writer of Africa. I appreciate the symbolic significance of choosing “Africa” instead of “black” a few decades ago, but in this historical moment I think we need to acknowledge the difference between African women and women of African descent. When I was in Nevis last July, my host always introduced me as a writer of Nevisian descent, and that was perfectly fine with me. I am a citizen now, but that doesn’t make me Nevisian. And when I was asked to read in a Caribbean literary festival, I hesitated—mostly because I know others will question my right to participate. A colleague recently sent me a contest for Caribbean writers, urging me to submit but the rules were very clear: they want writers based in the region and published by a Caribbean press. Which means that a white woman from the UK who has lived in Barbados for fifteen years could become the recipient of that prize, and black writers born in the Caribbean but publishing in the US could be deemed ineligible. And I think I’m ok with that. What troubles me is when the focus shifts to the content of the books, as in “A Caribbean writer must write about the Caribbean.” For this one-day festival I’m on a panel called “Off Island,” which is appropriate since I haven’t yet written a story set in the Caribbean. It’s slippery, though, and it does feel as though content is ranked, with stories set in the Caribbean at the top, followed by stories about Caribbean people living elsewhere, followed by stories that don’t deal with the Caribbean at all. If a black girl wants to write poems about a unicorn, she has that right—and she’s still a black poet. That’s something I talk about with my students when we cover the Black Arts Movement. Do black artists have to make protest art? Or is anything made by a black-identified artist “black art?” I didn’t expect to grapple with my identity as a Caribbean writer until I published The Hummingbird’s Tongue, but the book is partly about my identity so let the grappling begin…
Fledgling 
I find it troubling to engage with people who insist that the Caribbean is a geographical space rather than a community. Some people honestly believe the world is so simple, and many Caribbean-based people still buy into cultural insularity (a byproduct of the lingering colonial mindset). Emily Churilla has a good essay in the latest issue of Obsidian in which she addresses issues of coming home, diasporic subjectivity, and communities beyond borders. I’m glad you’re a part of this festival. My photo isn’t on the flyer (which reminds me…) but I’ll be on a panel at Word! as well. Hope to see you!
See you in June!
Unfortunately, some of the classifications we find ourselves locked into are not of our own choosing. Someday I think we might be able to choose, but most of the time a critic calls an author something (black or urban ) and it sticks.
I’m an African woman (born and raised) and sometimes in seeking a connection with other writers/authors of African descent, end up referring to them as African. Of course it is problematic, but I think it is more symbolic of the desire to find something in common with another person even though we recognize (and sometimes even celebrate) the differences between us.
Thanks for chiming in, ladies. I do think it’s important to define yourself FOR yourself—then, when others try to define you, their labels don’t shake your sense of self. I would love to have an African woman claim me as a fellow African, but you have an “insider status” that I lack and being claimed is different than staking a claim yourself. I generally prefer to identify as black because it’s such a big umbrella with room for lots of different kinds of people. It’s like the lowest common denominator and then when necessary, I can specify my class, sexual orientation, nationality, immigration status, gender, etc. But really, I’m more accustomed to being excluded than included—I’m not a real American b/c I’m an immigrant; I’m not a real woman b/c I don’t have a man and/or want kids; I’m not really black b/c I’m mixed race; I’m not really a scholar b/c I write books for kids, etc. What matters most is that you know who you are and surround yourself with people who respect and accept you.
I generally like to identify as human! Really. Most days I don’t feel like much else, and I’m sure many people could say the same. That sounds simple but I thinks it’s something crucial missed from a lot of these conversations.