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A Better Tomorrow

The African Diaspora War; residual effects of Colonialism

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BY SIMONE J. SMITH

I am not sure exactly how to state how I feel about what I am going to talk about, so I think I am just going to say it and see how it lands. I was once one of those West-Indians who was ignorant to my ancestry and had the nerve to say, “I’m Jamaican, and I’m not African!” This ignorant statement rings of trans-generational trauma; every time I uttered those words, I feel like I slapped my ancestors in their faces, completely ignoring the fact that they had been brought over to Jamaica in ships and had to suffer through so much just so that I could be here.

I didn’t realize my ignorance because this was what I heard in my home for years; how I was not African, I was a Jamaican. It was only when I began to learn more about who I was, and how my family had ended up in Jamaica did I start to actually claim to be an African woman. Being an African Descendent is such a source of pride for me; Africa is number two on ranking lists when it comes to size and population, and let’s not even talk about the fact that we are so diverse in culture, language, style, customs, and the list goes on.

What I found interesting once I started working within the African immigrant community, I found that there seems to be an undiscussed hierarchy that exists amongst Africans, Caribbeans, and African-Americans, something that has been loosely coined, “The Diaspora War.” The African Diaspora is a term used to describe the mass dispersion of peoples from Africa during the Transatlantic Slave Trades, which occurred from the 1500’s to the 1800’s. This slave trade (which was not exactly a trade) took millions of people from Western and Central Africa to different regions throughout the Americas and the Caribbean, now better known as the African Diaspora Cultures (African Diaspora Culture https://oldwayspt.org).

I must confess that when I am around certain African cultures, I am made to feel like I am not African enough. It is almost like because my ancestors were stolen, or sold to colonizers, we as descendants are tainted and not good enough. Now, I realize that this had become a very subjective experience for me, so I spoke with other West-Indians who had spent time with African immigrants, and their responses surprised me.  I think the one that stood out the most was when an esteemed colleague of mine was told that, “Caribbean’s are just the sons and daughters of slaves.” I asked the individual if this could have been taken the wrong way, but the receiver of the message was very clear with how the statement was intended.

Staying on the side of objectivity, I decided to look into the idea of a diaspora war and found an article in The Philidelphia Inquirer called, “Who is black in America? Ethnic tensions flare between black Americans and black immigrants,” and I thought, so I am not going crazy; what I felt has been felt, but in different ways by different people. The article was about the social media fury that erupted when British Nigerian actress Cynthia Erivo was picked as the lead for the Harriet Tubman biopic Harriet. There have been threats to boycott the film because African Americans feel strongly about casting an actual black American actress to play the part. Why the backlash you ask? Well apparently, an old tweet was unearthed where Erivo had mocked a “Ghetto American Accent.” It is understandable as to why certain people would get upset, but then I ask, what about when comedians mock African accents? Do they have an equal right to be upset?

I also have recalled times when I looked at Americans and thought, “These people do not have a culture; they don’t even know where they come from.” Like I said, I lived in a state of ignorance, and I am not afraid to speak about it. So the hierarchy looks like this: Africans first being pure blooded and home-grown, Caribbean’s are second because we have a better sense of our culture, and African-Americans third, and so on, and so on.

When really looking at this topic, we can see again how media and colonialism has tried to divide us. I want us to remember that we all originate from the same land. Let’s stop sweating the small stuff and realize that at the end of the day, regardless of where you originate from, we are all African, and this point cannot be argued.

We, as humans are guaranteed certain things in life: stressors, taxes, bills and death are the first thoughts that pop to mind. It is not uncommon that many people find a hard time dealing with these daily life stressors, and at times will find themselves losing control over their lives. Simone Jennifer Smith’s great passion is using the gifts that have been given to her, to help educate her clients on how to live meaningful lives. The Hear to Help Team consists of powerfully motivated individuals, who like Simone, see that there is a need in this world; a need for real connection. As the founder and Director of Hear 2 Help, Simone leads a team that goes out into the community day to day, servicing families with their educational, legal and mental health needs.Her dedication shows in her Toronto Caribbean newspaper articles, and in her role as a host on the TCN TV Network.

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A Better Tomorrow

A personal search for meaning; a perspective on pain and pain expressed

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Photo Credit: Arina Krasnikova

BY SIMONE J. SMITH

Every now and then, I segway to give my readers perspective on the reason why I have been writing this story for over two years in the Toronto Caribbean Newspaper.

For those who don’t know, the title of my column is called, “A Better Tomorrow.” I initially started to write this as a medium of inspiration; I wanted readers to know that even in the darkest of times, there is always a way to make tomorrow better.

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the book, “Man’s Search for Meaning.” Psychiatrist and Neurologist Viktor Frankl (1905-1997) wrote about his ordeal as a concentration camp inmate during the Second World War. What he observed was that those who survived longest in concentration camps were not those who were physically strong, but those who retained a sense of control over their environment.

I bring this incredibly poignant novel up, because for many of us, the last few years also allowed us to observe the intricacies of societal behaviour. It was rough for us: families being separated, lockdowns, and businesses closing down. Of course then there were the countless deaths of loved ones, fear of sickness, mainstream media and governmental forces propagating messages of despair that kept us all in our heads, and out of our hearts.

What Panama did was prepare me for this pandemic. I know what it feels like to feel helpless, afraid, unsure of what the next day will bring. The pandemic was on a macro scale, but this experience became macro for me.

All throughout this, all I could do was hope for, “A Better Tomorrow.” I turned my pain into words, and shared these words with all of you. I also learned that all of us have ways that we share our pain with the world. It is not always an artistic beautiful expression; sometimes it comes out as anger, rage, abuse; all human beings, to some degree or another, develop ways of dealing with pain very early on. It is an innate capacity we utilize to adapt and survive this world. It is how we protect our psyche, and our emotions.

Our nature is very similar to plants; we shape ourselves and adapt to our environment. Those that adapt to their environment survive; they twist, torque, and reach in order to get the sunlight and nutrients needed. This can be difficult if you are a plant amongst weeds: there is so much more reaching that you have to do, and it is tiring. It takes something special to move you forward; something that reminds you that what you want in life is not impossible to get.

This is why I share my story. I do it to let readers into my world; have them experience my pain with me, and work with me through my recovery. We all have difficult circumstances in life, and there are those times where giving up is easy. I want you to take a second right now and think about one of your experiences that seemed impossible to overcome, but somehow you did it.

Think about how you felt once you had dealt with the rawness of the situation.

As you are thinking about your experience, I want you to think about how it is making you feel having to think about it.

It is all perspective; regardless of what has happened to you, placing it into perspective is very important. We have to find a way to navigate the noise, see past your current situation, create ways to deal with your pain.

I have learned that sharing my story has helped others open up about their experiences, speak through their trauma and come to terms with it.

I hope you take the time to answer some of the questions I presented earlier, but now, back to the story….

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A Better Tomorrow

For the first time in a long time I felt seen; The story behind M

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Photo by Pixabay - Ink_Lee0

BY SIMONE J. SMITH

I sat in the steam room and reflected on my meeting with M. “He is so damn short,” I said to myself. He was no more than 5’2, tiny, but he did have a nice body. There was no way that I would ever get involved with someone who was 5’2. I shook my head. This was not the point; I was here because he said that he wanted to work with me, not date me. I had to keep my head on straight, but the way he looked at me, spoke to me.

I snapped out of my thoughts and went to take a shower. After getting dressed I joined M outside. He was waiting by the door on his phone. When he saw me, this scintillating smile flashed on his face.

“Hey Sim! I thought you might be a little hungry after our workout. Let’s go grab something to eat up the street. We can talk about the work that I would like for you to do.”

I was hesitant, but I thought to myself, what is the harm? I was hungry, and if he was buying, I would let him.

“Sure why not! You owe me after nearly killing me out there.”

M laughed and took my bag from me. “Let’s go Sim!”

He waved at the staff and we headed out.

We found a restaurant up the street, not too far from the gym. After we had been seated, the discussions just happened. We talked about everything. Family, where he was born, children. We had a lot in common, especially our love for Detroit. He had been born and raised there, and I had lived in Windsor on and off for 10 years. Some of my fondest memories were those years in Windsor, going to Detroit, working in Detroit, learning in Detroit.

Before I knew it, we had been talking for about three hours. I was four beers in and stuffed from my fish and chips. I looked at the time.

“What are your plans for tomorrow Sim,” M asked?

“Well, I am on my grind right now. I have had a rough few months, and I am trying to get my footing back. This is why we are here; you shared that you want me to help you with your work?”

“Well before we go there,” M replied, “Tell me what has been going on lately?”

I looked down and fought back tears. I wasn’t ready to speak on my recent calamities.

“Sim, it’s okay. Trust me! I have gone through a lot the last few years, and I know what it is like to shut down. Talk to me; sometimes you just have to get it out.”

His invitation to share moved me; I looked up at him and he was sitting there, looking at me. His calmness opened me like a flower, and I started to speak. I told him everything about Panama, my relationship with D, how badly things had been going in my relationship. Once the floodgates were open I couldn’t stop talking. After another hour I finally relented. I sat there quietly, mentally kicking myself for over-sharing.

“Sim,” M said after a few moments of silence. “We are more alike than you think. You see, there is a reason why I reached out to you. You are a beautiful soul, and it is hard to find people to relate to.”

M then started to share his story with me. He also had been in prison, and charged for the same things that I had been accused of. I listened keenly as he told me the experience, soaking up the fact that someone else got me, and understood what I had been going through. The shame. The need to hate myself for what I had done, the pain I had caused my parents, finally someone innerstood me.

We talked until the restaurant closed. It had to be one of the most impactful nights for me since I had gotten out of Panama. I felt seen.

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A Better Tomorrow

Things were about to get interesting, and not in a good way; The story behind M

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Photo by LOGAN WEAVER | @LGNWVR on Unsplash

BY SIMONE J. SMITH

I will never forget the first time that I met M. He had asked me to meet him at a gym that he was training at down in the North York area. I remember being excited getting ready to go down there. I wasn’t sure why, but when I looked at the picture on LinkedIn, I was quickly made aware.

That skin…

Those lips…

Famous last words; shake my head.

When I arrived at the gym, I parked the car, and gave him a call as he had instructed.

“I’m here!”

“Amazing! I am coming out to get you. Are you dressed to work out?”

It wasn’t until right then that I realized that he had an accent. Was he American? Something about the slight twang in his voice made me nostalgic.

“I am dressed. I am coming in. Do I have to say anything to the person at the front desk?”

“Nah! I am coming out to get you.”

I turned off the car and grabbed my gym bag. Naturally, I had put on my tightest pair of tights, and one of my favourite crop tops. Not exactly a workout outfit, but I had no problem getting sweaty in this.

I made my way towards the door, opened it up, and stepped inside.

The gym was buzzing with noise; weights clanging, music playing, people chatting loudly. I looked around for M, but didn’t see him.

“Hey Simone!”

I turned around and standing in front of me was that handsome face, the beautiful skin, and those big, beautiful lips, on the shortest man I had ever seen. I tried not to make a face, but I don’t know if I held my surprise. The picture on LinkedIn must have been taken from a low angle, because he did not look short in the picture. He could not be more than 4’2. He actually was 4’2. Imagine how it looked with me standing in front of him at 5’9.

“Hey Simone!”

I realized that I had not responded.

“Hello M. Nice to meet you.” I couldn’t stop staring at the top of his head.

“You ready for a workout. I want to show you what I can do for you, and maybe you can help me. You are here to help aren’t you,” he said with a smirk?

I had to laugh. “Direct me to the change room, and I will be right out to help you help me.”

“Head to the back of the gym. The women’s locker room is on the left-hand side. I will be waiting for you.”

I made my way back smiling to myself. What was this little man going to show me? I was pretty athletic and had been working out for a few years. As I changed my clothes, I reflected on the fact that I had assumed he was tall. That was my own fault. I couldn’t blame him for his height. Plus, this was business. Nothing else. I looked in the mirror; “Alright Simone. Let’s do this.”

OMG!

The workout with M nearly killed me. He showed me a few simple things, and honestly it nearly killed me. After 45 minutes he had me sweating and on the floor.

“Wow M! That was amazing. I was here thinking that I was in shape. You definitely showed me,” I said laughing.

“Hey, don’t let my size fool you. I have made bigger men than you cry after working out with me. Go ahead and shower up. Let’s grab something to eat. Put some fuel in your body.”

“Nothing would be better.” M helped me off the floor and I headed back into the change room to get ready.

Well, that was certainly interesting. He had completely caught me off guard. That would not be the first or last time M did that.

Things were about to get interesting, and not in a good way…

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