St. Vincent was my dream deferred. As a second-gen American, my relationship to the island country was limited to VHS footage from the family archives and recollections from elders. At the top of 2020, a group chat with my cousins hummed. We planned to celebrate my thirtieth birthday there, in the land of our respective grandparents, aunts, and uncles. We’d set sail on a catamaran throughout the neighboring islands of the Grenadines. Instead, I entered my thirties with friends in my quarantine bubble, sharing a rooftop Cambodian feast from a favorite pop-up chef, and lots of rosé. Not the islands, but not awful.
Leading up to my birthday this year, my therapist and I moved through inner child work with a focus on my estranged relationship with my father, Lowell. His father, Clarence Hillocks, was born in St. Vincent, and grew up in Biabou, a village that sounded like it came out of a children's book. Sessions on reparenting in therapy led me to investigate where my grandpa came from, so I could better understand where I come from. He died when I was a sophomore in high school. In therapy I realized I’d never fully processed his death, one unexpected result of my family’s “onward” philosophy. The pandemic thwarted the cousin getaway, but three years later, I still wanted more than morsels of my culture fed through third-party references, stories over weeknight dinners, and my grandma Rita’s memories. I was ready.
St. Vincent was captivating. I arrived in Bequia in early July, a few days before my thirty-third birthday. From the plane, I got a sense of what the original land of the Garifuna people might have looked like. Crashing waves shaped the rocky formations that separated us from the ocean. The water here had an aliveness that felt different from the energy in Jamaica or Bermuda. I spotted sand-colored, hair-like bunches in the water that my Auntie Haidee would later point out as Sargassum, or sea moss to us in the States. Rows of crops and budding coconut trees contrasted with black sand beaches thanks to La Soufrière, the active volcano and highest peak of the island. In St. Vincent, I quickly realized, we drive on the left lane and pull over for speedy locals eager to reach their destinations. The sharp twists and turns overlooking lush cliffs felt like a mantra: you’re on an island, girl. And you are in for a ride.
St. Vincent was the meeting spot. My only plan was to reunite with my extended family. I’d finally made it out of WhatsApp to the home of Auntie Haidee, my grandpa’s niece, and her husband, Uncle Ossie. During the pandemic, they moved back to St. Vincent from New York, eager to enjoy their grandchildren and retirement in a home they built on Ossie’s land. In his family, land was an obvious inheritance.
I sat at their kitchen island and sipped a glass of homemade sorrel, savoring the familiar flavors of clove and cinnamon that felt like Christmas in July. Haidee offered tamarind chutney and fresh pepper sauce to top the hot pieces of breadfruit I devoured as quickly as she fried them. I delighted in the tang and heat from the local peppers picked from the garden right outside. Relatives, who I had only known by name, began to file into the kitchen from the back porch: Noreen, Knox, and their youngest son; Alene and her husband, St. Claire. We exchanged warm hugs and soft stares, aiming to put recognition to work. Their closest reference to me was my dad who I hadn’t spoken to in years. After the welcoming smiles and salutations, inquiries about my dad’s whereabouts and well-being followed. I felt annoyed at the expectation that I was the keeper of this information, and embarrassed that I didn’t have it to begin with. To soften the blow only I could feel, I FaceTimed my grandma to join the reunion virtually.
“She looks like a Hillocks,” someone uttered in the distance. Another blow, because I….I took a deep breath. Why had I come here now? I’d wanted to prove I was okay— MORE THAN OKAY—despite my dad’s inconsistent parenting and Grandpa’s death. I was more than okay, but I was also angry. I wanted more. From Grandpa, I wanted more first-hand accounts of everything from life on this island, to gardening, to investing. From my dad, I wanted conversations about his passions for film and hip-hop, cooking, and Brooklyn. I wanted his stories about falling in love with my mom, and the truth. I’d come to accept the hand I was dealt, and with it, created a rich path of self-discovery.
Before dinner one night, Ossie took us on a drive. I noted the winding roads my grandma recalled from her visits as we drove northeast. Uncle pointed to a hill where the first house they owned was located, before they sold it. We passed a hardware store and a restaurant a few miles from the new airport, both his brother’s businesses. Up ahead, we saw the Seventh-Day Adventist church they attended every Sabbath. Their routine felt so familiar. I nodded as Ossie described the family rolling together as a pack, enjoying lunch after church, birthday celebrations al fresco, and dominoes to close out the weekend. It’s what we did in the nineties in Freeport and Hempstead and Uniondale, where there was always a cousin a short car ride away.
Had Grandpa dreamt of retiring back home in St. Vincent before sickness hijacked his body in Apopka? I held the importance of his birthplace with tenderness, and wondered, as he immigrated, if he ever thought the same. Suddenly, a humble sign: WELCOME TO BIABOU. I imprinted its corn-husk blue and white motif onto my memory. It felt like the path narrowed on the SUV, like the brush was closing in on me. “This is your neighborhood right here,” Ossie chimed in, as Haidee pointed out her grandparents' former residence. I wondered what their names were and tried to recite the names of my grandpa’s brothers and sisters in my head.
The house was quaint, painted in eggshell with a light green trim, and weathered by the elements. It belonged to my Uncle Hamil, who spoke with an English accent and taught me gin rummy that night. I noticed the renovated tin roof and the gate closed by a sophisticated knot. The surrounding land was untouched but not neglected. Could this family land become my neighborhood, too? A fleeting thought of dual citizenship crossed my mind but didn’t stick. It felt like no one was in the moment but me. As I witnessed Grandpa’s childhood home, in all its simplicity, I finally understood the years of his complaints about the excess of our school supply lists.
St. Vincent is my island, too. Back at the house, we joked and shared stories while sharing stewed fish, rice and peas, salad, avocado and callaloo soup around the table. Pride washed over me. I’d made a pilgrimage to a place I heard so much about, but never met. I had experienced St. Vincent before, though. The feeling of safety and warmth that comes with being surrounded by wisdom, levity, togetherness. Hours of good, clean fun over card games and across generations. I wasn’t on an island. I was home.
Edited by Osayi Endolyn
Eat, Pray, Love
In each issue, I wrap up with recommendations that make my life more delicious, grounded, and fun. Discover your next dining destination or dose of inspiration.
Stick and poke—I’m a fan of the minimal, sticker-like look, and Missy is my go-to tattoo artist here in NYC. I’ve got a banana, some line work, and the word “now,” as a reminder to remain in the present.
My new editor—New byline who this?! If you didn’t notice, The Statement has an editor, who is not only one of the sharpest, culturally competent writers I know, but a dear friend and confidant. Meet Osayi Endolyn. And yes, she’s open for business.
Wanna play a game?—If your answer is yes, then you’ve got to add Phase 10 at your next game night. It’s one deck of cards with 10 phases, and it balances friendly competition, strategy, and fun. I played this with my family in St. Vincent and upon returning to the States, immediately purchased a deck.
Peace, beloved.
xx,
Shanika
Beautiful, Shanika!