Why I stopped apologizing for speaking Patois

I spent most of my life apologizing for the way my tongue was born.

“Sorry, let me say that in English.”

“Sorry, my accent slipped.”

“Sorry—what I meant was…”

If you’re Caribbean and living in Toronto, you’ve probably done it too; code switching so fast you don’t even realize you’re doing it, shifting between tongues like survival is a full-time job. Honestly? For many of us, it was. Growing up Black, Jamaican, and working-class in Malton (right beside Rexdale) you learn early that people hear your accent long before they hear your intelligence. You learn that Patois is “unprofessional,” “broken English,” or “too much.” You learn to shrink the parts of yourself you were raised in.

I’m done with that.

Done denying a language that carried me through childhood, through immigration, through heartbreak, through recovery, through motherhood, through the very journey that brought me to university and into the woman I am today. I am bilingual: Patois and English, and I’m not apologizing for it anymore.

The real reason we code-switched in the first place

Let’s be real: most of us weren’t switching to sound fancy, we were switching to survive.

A colonized world taught us that “proper” English equals intelligence, safety, and opportunity, and if you add autism, ADHD, masking, and the pressure to hide your neurodivergence on top of that? Whew. I became a master of shifting tones, expressions, and vocabulary just so people wouldn’t misjudge me, write me off, or treat me as a threat.

Code switching became a shield, but shields get heavy, and in my healing journey through sobriety, therapy, sociology, and radical self-acceptance, I started realizing that language was one of the first places I abandoned myself. I learned theories in class about colonialism and identity, and then I saw it in my own mouth.

Imagine: the very language that shaped who we are; we’re apologizing for it.

Meanwhile… everybody and dem auntie love Patois

Here’s where the irony sweet me; Toronto love Patois. Canada love Patois. From slang to music to TikTok to dancehall parties, our language is everywhere. People who never set foot in a Caribbean home can say “Yuh dun know,” “Small up yuhself,” “Bless up,” and “Wagwan” with confidence. No shame. No apology.

So, why must we, the children of this language, dim ourselves? Why should I apologize for something other people treat like a trend?

Speaking Patois out loud became a healing practice

Healing is not only about therapy. Healing is about returning to yourself. The first time I stopped code-switching in a professional setting, something inside me settled; like my nervous system finally got permission to breathe. The first time I used Patois in an academic paper and then explained the term instead of replacing it, I felt free. The first time I spoke Patois openly among scholars without shrinking. That was liberation.

Using my language without apology became one of the most potent forms of recovery from people-pleasing, cultural shame, and masking.

It reminded me:

• My culture is not an inconvenience.
• My accent is not a mistake.
• My language is not inferior.
• It is ancestral.
• It is intelligent.
• It is mine.

Language is identity. Identity is healing

When I speak Patois, I’m honouring my lineage. I’m honouring Jamaica. I’m honouring every elder who spoke wisdom in the very cadence I once tried to silence. I’m honouring the version of me who never felt “professional enough.” I’m honouring the Caribbean community that raised me.

For my Toronto Caribbean readers, I want you to hear this clearly:

• Using your language is an act of healing.
• It is an act of resistance.
• It is an act of remembering.

We already influence the city. We already shape culture. We already impact the world. So, imagine the power of embracing the fullness of who we are, including the language that birthed us.

So, No! Mi Nah Apologize Again

• Not in classrooms.
• Not in boardrooms.
• Not in writing.
• Not in healing.
• Not in life.

If someone needs a translation, mi will give it, but mi naa hide mi tongue fi nobody, because speaking Patois is speaking truth. Speaking Patois is speaking history. Speaking Patois is speaking home.

I want every Caribbean person reading this to know:

• Your language is a sanctuary.
• Your culture is brilliant.
• Your voice (as is) is enough.

Healing is the new Black, and so is speaking Patois loudly, proudly, and without apology.