“Go Back to Farin…White Bwoy!”
Race is a complicated thing, and is obsessed upon in practically every culture. Jamaica is certainly not devoid of this reality, as is indicated by the fascination with the chemical bleaching of one’s skin — the practice has become ubiquitous among members of the lower socio-economic classes — perpetuated by the islands most prominent musical artists, particularly those of the dancehall genre.
The island has had a long history of “shadism”. Anecdotally speaking, people who are of a “lighter” complexion are typically treated with a higher degree of worth than those of a “darker” complexion. On the other hand, I have experienced quite a bit of animosity because of my “fair” complexion. In Jamaica, I am perceived as a “white” man, which would seem a fair assumption given my physical appearance. My race is an amalgamation of many, however, I would be remiss to negate that the European bloodline is the dominant one, based on my outward appearance. That being said, walking the streets of Montego Bay as a child, I was typically bombarded with, “white bwoy”, “Missa Chin”, “red mon”, and other such identifiers that were based solely on my complexion. This was disconcerting for me as a child: I was born and bred on the island; it was my home. I was made to feel as an outsider by these off remarks, even more so when they became more aggressive. More than once I was told to “go back to farin”, meaning I should go back to whatever country they perceived that I had come from. To them, I was a foreigner, a person who was not a country man, who was not Jamaican.
My cultural identity has always been a source of pride for me. Because of my appearance, I have always felt that I had to prove my ethnic origins, as if I were falsifying who I was, who I am. People, strangers, have argued with me about my ethnicity: declaring, “you are not from Jamaica!”. The underlying idea here, of course, is appropriation. The absurdity of this has never been lost on me, and, in fact, amuses me somewhat. Despite my general nonchalance about this presumption, it can be insulting at times. Insulting, because it is insulting for someone to assume that I would be lying about who I am.
So, the demand for me to return to a foreign place that I have little to no attachment to would be akin to sending an immigrant child back to a country he or she only knows through the stories of their parents. It is a travesty; a tragic undermining of reality by those who have their own distinct prejudices and ideas about the world. Despite these ignorant interjections, my Jamaican experience is one of nostalgic beauty that I will cherish for the rest of my life.
