An Ode to the West Indian Day Parade
Pride is synonymous with being West Indian. As rich and robust as our culture is, my people have a knack for expressing that essence in every thing we do. Our food. Our dialects and languages. The way we carry ourselves. We are a people that take to heart where we are from. The blood that runs through our veins is one of a mighty community.
Being a Black woman of Jamaican descent has been something I regarded in since I was a young girl. The patois that colorfully expresses our thoughts and ideas. The amazing talents we posses and have shared with the world. I wear that part of me like a shining badge of honor.
Add the fact that I’m from Brooklyn and there’s a whole other facet of memories to unveil. Labor Day weekend and the West Indian Day Parade has always and will forever be a staple among Black West Indians. My earliest memories go back to when I was 5,6 years old. My mom would take me to my aunt’s apartment on Eastern Parkway and Bedford Ave, where we would stand in front of the building as the festivities were in full swing. My cousins and I would run upstairs into her apartment and stand out on the fire escape, just to see the colorful floats and masqueraders pass by as we jumped and waved with glee.
A true New York rite of passage is attending the parade with your crew when you become of age. My best friend and I planned our outfits weeks prior for our debut on the parkway as young adults. At 17, we met up along the route, squeezed our way through the crowd and hopped the barricade to get an unofficial taste of the parade. Running down the parkway to chase floats. Jumping up in the street when our favorite soca song came on. Trailing behind the Hot 97/Jamaican float to partake in which artist was gonna mash it up. Two years later, I experienced my first J’ouvert and my first year playing mas.Â
Over the years, masquerade camps like Borrokeet, Hawks Interntational, Sesame Flyers, Ramajay and Freaks Mas to name a few have aided women and men with beautiful, vibrant costumes for us to represent, free up and get on bad in.
Into my mid to late 20s, jumping up in the parade was a bit much but the fetes kept the energy pumping for 4-5 days straight. Breakfast parties, paint/j’ouvert parties, backyard fetes, boat rides; the invigorating vibes was something to behold. Even though I wasn’t that interested in attending the parade, I made it my business to at least walk in vicinity of the route to receive that uplifting, exciting and comforting feeling again.
Unfortunately, the parade has been cancelled due to the pandemic. While the numerous vendors and parade-goers don’t have Eastern Parkway to call their home this year, the liveliness is still being perpetuated by the many West Indians that live in the surrounding neighborhoods of the parade route.
It feels weird not hearing the massive sound systems from the floats gearing to go down the road. Not seeing the beautiful Black women adorned in feathers, beads and crystals, primping and adding their last touches before meeting up with their sections. It feels weird to see cars driving down the vast street that was once filled with thousands of people who love and appreciate their culture to a depth that is inexplicable.
While we are in interesting times, it gives me a deeper appreciation for the parade and what it means to my people and Brooklyn as a whole. This day means a lot to many and we aren’t able to celebrate it in the way we’ve been used to. If you know, you’ve been able to partake in some low key events this weekend. I feel some type of contentment, knowing that we’re still keeping the spirit alive in any way possible.
