Trinidad and Tobago’s biggest annual festival, Carnival, calls to me in a way that nothing else in my life ever has. As an Afro-Caribbean Black woman who immigrated to America when I was just 4, visits to my homeland feed my soul and put me in touch with my Blackness and womanhood in a way nothing else ever has. I was 18 the first time I experienced Carnival. My extended family invited me down for a visit. Until that time, I had never really connected with the land of my birth. I had been there many times, but the culture still felt elusive to me, blurred by my American upbringing. Carnival completely changed that.
In many ways, for diasporic Trinbagonians, like myself, who long ago departed from their native country in search of opportunities elsewhere, Carnival (which takes place this week) is a pilgrimage. We save money all year to cover airline tickets, lodging, fetes (large parties), J’ouvert (the opening event), and Monday and Tuesday Mas. Until the plane lands at Piarco Airport, and I step foot out into the warm embrace of my homeland, my chest is always knotted with anxiety — the anxiety of struggling to merely survive; to get through 40-hour work weeks, internships, and a full-time college course load.
Carnival is my time for release. It’s a moment of true freedom, where my waistline can bounce to the rhythm of Soca and Chutney music — inspired by the African and Indian history of the twin-islands' people. Whether it’s the bass erupting from a speaker, the banging of tassa drums, or a steel pan orchestra, the music demands that your body respond. It’s infectious. It’s like I’m "Possessed," as best described by Kerwin Dubois’ song:
"Taking over me / Taking over meh soul / This the kinda feeling that I cannot control / Messing with meh body, messing with meh mind / Every time it hit me, my mind does start to wiiinnnneee."
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