On Ancestors: A Contemplation from Copenhagen

Ancestor worship

I've read a lot about colonization mostly out of the interest of how it informs where and who I am today. As a brown woman whose family hails from the Caribbean, I have always been curious about where I come from and to where I'm headed. 

my maternal grandparents circa 60s

My grandmother would always get mad at me and schweups whenever I asked, over and over again, about her parents. "Oh god, Lesley! You does like old talk, nah?" But there would be a little glint in her eyes, a little crook to her smile that let me know that there was some part of her that appreciated my curiosity in who my family was and is. 

My grandmother, Francis Edualine Lopez, depicted in the first picture, above, had the same birthday as me. March 7th. It was something my grandmother, Mummy Hildred, always made sure I knew. And the way in which she told me was very much in the same spirit as she would, I think, hand me a family heirloom. 

To be honest, I think one of the worst things we, colonized people, lost in Empire is the practice of ancestor worship.  Most of us have taken on gods that do not look like us and in so doing, have no connection of where we come from.  You have to know where you come from to know where you are going goes the old adage. Or, as Sankofa says - you have to take the knowledge of the past into the future. 

my father in Trinidad in the 50s

my grandmother on the left

My great - grandmother was French creole - with creole meaning of African heritage. Creole, I have noticed, can mean many things, but the way my grandmother used it was to denote, as mentioned, African ancestry.   My great-grandmother grew up and lived on a cocao plantation, in Santa Cruz, owned I believe (and I can be wrong) by someone of the name of De Gannes, a Corsican. My great-grandmother's husband, Pa, seen in this photo was of East Indian descent. His name was Baboolal - and he too grew up on this plantation. 

a Trinidadian immigrant family circa 1970s

 My grandfather on my mother's side, Mummy Hildred's husband, was of East Indian and Portuguese ancestry, although in truth by this time the Portuguese looks more like African.  He however looked completely East Indian, and my grandmother once told me that they had written "coolie" on his birth certificate, something he was not too happy about. "Coolie" is a derogative name for East Indians in Trinidad and much of the former British Empire. My grandfather's mother was a Nunez - and she married an East Indian with the last name of Balbirsingh, which is my mother's maiden name.  My grandfather, Ewart G. Balbirsingh (the "G" is for Gladstone) was orphaned when his parents migrated to Canada and his mother, a lace maker died from "the draft". Although there is another Balbirsingh family in Trinidad, only one other than my family - there seems to be no overt connection. They are Indian, my family? Well, that's another story. I do know however, that Balbirsingh is a Siehk name and interestingly enough, the first man to be murdered after 9/11- as he was mistaken to be a Muslim, was a Siehk in Texas by this very same name. It means "Strong Lion" by the way - and Siehks are of course, from a warrior class. I have not however ever met any Siehk who would claim me.

My father Darlington Brown is from what many referred to back in the day as "behind the bridge." Some folks looked down at it, but like most "ghettoes" creativity flourished there. My father's grandmother was of East Indian ancestry, and like my great-grandmother on my mother's side, I had the pleasure of meeting her.  She had a house on stilts in the village of Sangre Grande and her hair flowed all the way to her waist.  For some reason, she had a proclivity for African men, and was married seven times, all to Black men. When I met her she was well into her 90s and had always owned her own house. This was at least the information that others deemed worthy enough to pass on to me. 

my father in Brooklyn circa 70s

There is a lot of East Indian and African in my blood. And other things as well. When I look closer into my family line there are silences and gaps that I do not understand, and now with my grandmother's Alzheimer's it has become almost impossible to hear the entire story from her. But there are clues, and I am curious. For they say that we carry the memories of our ancestors in our genes.  And there is something that haunts me. And besides, if I never find out, how will I ever know where I am going? So I dig. "Digger" my grandmother used to tease me, and so I am. An archeologist into my family's past. For if you will not tell, I will find out on my own. And for any one from my "family" or acquaintances who happen upon this blog post, the disclaimer is I am a writer and I did, after all, major in creative nonfiction. If you have any information to correct, or add, please feel free to contact me. adieu. 

The writer in Copenhagen, retracing her ancestry