The Reason I Write.

One of the main reasons I started this blog was to honour my family. Specifically the women.

I'm blessed enough that on my mum's side I have two Grandmothers; one - the biological mother of my mother, and the other my Grandmother by marriage to my biological grandfather.

Not uncommon in 1950s Jamaica, neither made it past a certain level of schooling, and lived up until their deaths without the ability to read or write. I once reflected on this with a quiet sense of judgment, sometimes accompanied by embarrassment. To think that we would never connect on Caribbean literature, poetry or browse articles together. But for what my Grandmothers did not possess in the literary department, they more than made up for in storytelling and wit.

My Grandfather was quite the casanova in the late 60s, and I say that for showmanship, because I've only known him to be with two women, (three now that I think about it, there was that White lady that he was married to briefly who lived in New York). I don't think he was a philanderer as much as he was a brown-skinned man on an island that favoured and saw higher value in anyone of a lighter hue.

My Grandad at some point in his early 30s.

I'm not exactly sure how him and my biological Grandmother met, but I know it was not long after that three children were bore of their relationship, my mother being the middle child. I think it's important to point out how beautiful my Bio-Grandmother stayed even up until her last days. Not a wrinkle on the woman would ever have signified a life of hardship, constant travelling and quite literally being pregnant back-to-back for ten years straight! A deep shade of coffee, with vibrant tones of mahogany in both high and low light. An honest smile and a soulful laugh - the kind that has seen tragedy and felt pain, but still basks in the glory of a fleeting moment of happiness. A petit woman, with a full figure, assets passed down to all six of her daughters, like the family heirloom. If she was anything in her twenty-somethings, as she was in her late sixties, it doesn't take a neurosurgeon to tell you why one plus one made three...

Grandad, Mum (far right) and her siblings.

A mother of ten in total, my Grandad was the only man that fathered three consecutive children with my Bio-Grandmother. I think that says a lot about their bond and their ability to love, care, comfort and support one-another. I think that says a lot. And whilst the timelines are blurry, I like to imagine that there was at least a year where my mum and her siblings felt like a whole and complete family. I'd like to come back to this exact section and fill in some more blanks about their relationship, but I'd love to get this post out today(the same day I started it, or else it'll probably never get out*), so I'll move on to how my Step-Grandmother comes into all this and why it's important to me that I master this literary craft.

Again, blurry timelines and told from many un-reliable and gossip mongering sources, but the lore is that of a love triangle of some sort. Many fights ensued in pursuit of my Grandfather, some resulting in physical violence. The most notorious, the one where a dog was let loose on my Step-Ma - the alleged origin of her "bad foot" and the limp that accompanied it throughout the span of her life. It's hard to tell who came first in my Grandfather's rotation. Was it unrequited love? Was it the return of the ex? Was it that the man had too many options and not a clue what to do with either one of them? All that being said, he married my Step-Ma in the year of 79, and were parted only by death.

Reluctantly visiting Florida pretty much every year, even the years when we begged our Mum to let us stay in the UK, so that for one year we could enjoy it with our friends. We packed up for six-weeks at a time and stayed with my Grandfather and his wife. Younger me didn't quite understand the science behind biological parents and step parents, but I longed to know more about my Bio-Ma more than I appreciated the special moment that would one day become special memories with my Step-Ma.

Younger me also didn't understand why my Step-Ma didn't read me bed-time stories, like all the other grandma's did in the films, unsure-and-amazed, that she never followed a recipe from a cookbook (even when baking) and why she didn't save numbers in her phone but instead ID'd calls by their last three digits. Again, I'm unsure of the exact time that we became cognisant to the fact that she couldn't read, but I was impressed at the high standard of living she had achieved despite that. A job, a house, a bank account, a passport and a booming social life. Living the Jamaican-American dream.

I guess it's also important to say that the Step-Ma was the kind of woman that wore the self- distain of her darker completion on the planes beyond her skin itself. The aura of a woman born in the early 50's that held the chastisement of her colourist nation at her core. A place and a time that taught it's women that their worth was determined by how well they could be of service to others. I often wonder if her internalised oppression affected the way that she saw, and consequently raised my mother, who is also adorned with deep tones, and often told that she is the only daughter that bears the most resemblance to her biological Mother.

My Step Grandmother.

I say all this to give you context, but let it be known that my Step-Ma's memory and image is held within my highest regard. They both are.

When reading, it's escapism- its the romance in Paris and the fantastical dreamscapes that I can't afford to travel to and that don't exist outside of the authors imagination. It's for the neuroplasticity and the possibilities that weren't considered, because they couldn't have been considered. It's the introduction of philosophical ideas, that challenge the here and the now, causing us to consider an existence outside of our own environment.

So, mastering my craft is about my legacy - exercising my free will until its buff, robust and flexible. It's the way that I will restore what I perceive as being lost in my family, and the medium in which I will carry the stories of the past and make sure they meet the inheritors of the family blood, the future. To write is to record, and to shape how the past will be remembered. I am honoured to bear a burden that few would accept: to acknowledge the chaos and even the failures of those who came before us, and still offer grace to lives shaped by impossible choices. To find beauty in the disorder, and to read deeply and critically enough between the lines to uncover the quiet strength within it, and a rightful claim to pride.

---

P.S:

As I mentioned in paragraph five, this post is three months in the making. I started this on December 15th, 2025 and posting on 16th March, 2026. (Shake my head.)

Today is also what would have been my Biological Grandmothers 82nd birthday, so I guess she is the inspiration I needed to properly summarise the reason behind why I write.

Happy Birthday Grandma.

Hope you enjoyed this read. Drop a heart or a comment if you did.

Please ask me any questions if anything is unclear!