My mother planted the love of reading in my soul. She would buy six to eight used paperbacks and drop them off in my room when I was a child. I would read a lot of novels by UK writers (which is why I spent most of my childhood wanting to be British, not understanding anything about Colonialism) such as Enid Blyton, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Roald Dahl, and C.S. Lewis. Many of these books dealt with the war (one and two), cholera, becoming an orphan, being abandoned, and sudden death; it’s probably why morbidity plays a role in most pieces I write) I didn’t read anything by a Black writer until high-school and it was ‘The Bluest Eye’ by Toni Morrison; it was a gift from my Auntie Margaret and it still sits on my shelf. When you open the book, the cover falls off because it’s been read and re-read through moves from London, Mississauga, and Toronto. The first words you see upon opening are, ‘In a land that loves its blond, blue-eyed children, who weeps for the dreams of a black girl?’ Published in 1970, a year before I was born, I still ask this question in 2020.
I’d never considered Black girls the centre of a story, the deserving protagonist of a rich, layered narrative. I certainly never knew any Black Canadian writers. I was taught Margaret Atwood, Timothy Findley, Margaret Laurence, W.O. Mitchell, Farley Mowat, and Mordecai Richler; so many stories about the prairies! Where were the Indigenous, Black, Asian stories? Forget about the LGBTQIAA voices (though I found some of those stories by accident, thankfully). Still, I wanted to be a writer, even though I couldn’t point at a brown face that looked like me who made their living with words.
I read ‘for colored girls who considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf’ in high school, when I found it in the library, and the world of Black women’s lives cracked open for me. Didn’t try to be a playwright then, though, because that was truly not an option in 1989 in London, Ontario. Instead, I wanted to be a news anchor. Once again, I had nobody Black to emulate (there was no Marci Ien back then) so I told people I wanted to be like Connie Chung. Thank goodness Oprah came along and filled the screen with her great hair, voice, confidence, and, honestly, body issues. She wasn’t a saint, she was human.
Once I experienced American Blackness taking up centre stage I read Alice Walker, James Baldwin, Malcolm X, Zora Neale Hurston, Richard Wright and listened to Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, Bessie Smith, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Thelonious Munk (my mother hated his music). This helped me form an identity around my race, but I still saw Blackness as marginalized, not the main event, a niche taste. And where was the Canadian content? I loved Liberty Silver, Maestro Fresh-Wes, and Love & Sas, and Michie Mee; (I wanted to love Dan Hill’s music, but it hurt my soul, and not in a good way).
I am not flawless. I read, but not enough Canadians. I speak up, but not as loudly as I should in tense, high-stakes circumstances. I am a shameless self-promoter and proud of it; Jamaican blood runs in my veins, after all. I have participated in the erasure of Black Canadian voices in this country by staying small for a very long time. Our stories, songs, poems, and contributions are not marginalized, pushed to the side. They are erased. They are erased until August when Caribana rolls around. I think of August as the month when everyone loves Black people, or rather, our culture. I’m not counting Black History Month because it’s just story after story of enslaved people, and we are bigger than the trauma inflicted upon us.
I became a writer because I wanted to explore the stories of Black Canadians not grounded in trauma. After being an actor for many years I decided, at the age of 38, to try playwriting. 11 years later, I’ve written 11 plays, been awarded more the $60,000 in grants from the Canada Council, Toronto Arts Council, and the Ontario Arts Council, which have helped me to produce some of my work. When I first started writing, I waited for help, then asked for advice on how to be a marketable creator, respected by established theatre institutions. The advice I received was alternately good (learn to do everything yourself) and soul-crushingly bad (‘insert-name-of-major-theatre’ will never produce your play so, no, I won’t put in a good word for you). Separating the wheat from the chaff, I became a producer, a marketer, and my own accountant. None of my productions have lost money.
Canadian audiences want to see plays by Black women about Black Canadians as evidenced by the success of the following titles: Harlem Duet, who knew grannie, Castiron, Oraltorio, Venus’ Daughter, Calpurnia, da Kink in My Hair, The Adventures of a Black Girl in Search of God, Up the Garden Path, Serving Elizabeth, Other Side of the Game, The Bridge, Coups and Calypsos, bloodclaat, The Negroes Are Congregating, How Black Mothers Say I Love You, The Adventures of the Black Girl in Her Search for God, Our Fathers, Sons, Lovers, and Little Brothers, and, my play, Controlled Damage. We are not outliers.
Playwrights do not spring onto the theatre landscape fully formed with curated, enthusiastic audiences. That needs to be developed over many years, and it is the theatre institutions across this country that has to invest in their growth. I’ve been writing since 2009, and been supported by bcurrent performing arts, and Cahoots Theatre on Controlled Damage and Better Angels: A Parable; both shows sold out their runs. Invest in Black Women playwrights because there will be a return on your investment.
I write this on the eve of Caribana weekend. There won’t be masses of people waving their flags and jumping up while sweating through their feathers in a parade of floats this year because of the pandemic. But as you turn up your Jimmy Cliff and Mighty Sparrow while drinking peanut punch, just remember that West Indians have been here for a long time and we’re just getting stronger. We Been Here.