SS: For many of us who were born in the Caribbean, our lives and our trajectories are so often not a straight line. There are many ups and downs that we have to get used to, which seems to be the nature of living in a “developing country,” still coming out of the grip of colonialism. It would have been wonderful if I could have written a narrative that was one upward arc. But it didn’t happen that way, and for a lot of us in Jamaica it doesn’t happen that way.
This is why I wanted to begin the book with this moment of looking at the future version of myself, that possible shadow self. That ghost of a woman who’s compliant and obedient, who has no wants or dreams, who is only the wife of a Rasta bredren with her head bowed, her only purpose to have children and tend the house, to never bloom. I wanted to begin there, where I’m looking at this alternate future. And saying that I knew I had to cut her throat, I had to cut her down to go where I was going. And then eventually to show that it was through poetry that she first emerged, this woman that I was slowly becoming. Through poetry I found my voice. Through poetry I found that there was worth in my life, and value in what I had to say.
NDB: I, too, feel like through writing I found my voice, and that writing saved me. I wasn’t Rastafari, but I grew up in that same kind of situation of silence and shame. I understand that there are the ugly sides of Rastafari, but there are also the beautiful sides. In the last half of the book, when you’re in the US, you see something through your father’s eyes and realize, Oh, that’s what he meant. You show all of the complexities and layers.
SS: It was interesting. When I came to the US, as a Black woman—and I talk about this a lot—I had to think about my Blackness for the first time in a different way than we had to think about it in Jamaica, where we’re a primarily Black country. In Jamaica our town squares celebrate the runaway slaves, and we celebrate emancipation. There’s no question about what monuments we have, who our heroes are. And so, particularly coming to a place like Charlottesville, VA–where, at the time when I was there, they still had a Robert E. Lee statue up in the square–I was like, Wow! Where have I come to? A lot of the time I felt isolated or exoticized. But the thing that Rastafari gave me, and that my father instilled in me and my siblings, was this kind of Pan-African pride. That pride in my Blackness is fundamental to who I am, and it has been crucial to who I am since I could speak. That was my daily lesson—to be proud to be Black. And so when I came to America, I always walked tall. Even though others might have felt like, Oh, who does she think she is? I never once felt that I needed to cower or bow my head. I was always unapologetically proud of who I was, and of my Blackness. Fundamentally, that is the most important thing that I take away from Rastafari–this strength in my Blackness, and in who I am. Babylon, never go frighten me.
NDB: We’re in 2023 now and women are still fighting for our power, our voices, our bodily autonomy. Your book helps us open up our minds, our eyes—especially Caribbean women. These kinds of conversations are just beginning in Jamaica. What you are presenting to us is the freedom to talk about these matters openly.
SS: I wrote this book for Jamaican women, Caribbean women, Black women, and for women everywhere who might feel like their voices aren’t heard or their voices are suppressed, or their bodies are being controlled, or they live under repressive ideals. I hope they can feel seen in this book. If, in any way—through my journey of thinking through patriarchal repression, of coming to my own voice and liberation and autonomy—if anybody can feel even a little bit seen, and know that they, too, have the power to speak, and that what they have to say is important, then I’m grateful that I had the chance to share my story.
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and concision.