Home is a profound word that carries deep meaning. It represents a sense of belonging and origin. Personally, I grew up in Trinidad and Tobago, a former British colony that served as a melting pot for people from various backgrounds, brought together on these two small land masses for political reasons. My upbringing revolved around the gardens of my grandmother and mother, lush spaces adorned with plants from all over the world, with the stunning backdrop of the green hills of the Northern Range.
During my childhood, I was unaware of the stories behind my ancestry. Even now, I am still in the process of learning more about my roots. What I have discovered so far is that my lineage includes individuals from diverse places such as Portugal, China, Africa (although the specific region remains uncertain), Scotland, and Ireland, which explains my last name. These stories seemed to originate from everywhere except the actual place of my birth, making it challenging to establish a firm sense of home and belonging.
There was always a suspicion within our family that my maternal grandmother had indigenous heritage. She exhibited distinct features of the dwindling population of the First Peoples of Trinidad and Tobago. However, she vehemently denied any association, dismissing it with a deep sense of shame. Even as a young child, I understood not to pry any further. At that time, I was unaware of the concept of intergenerational trauma, repression, and denial as defense mechanisms of the mind. I did not comprehend the unconscious tendency to identify with the oppressor as a way to rise above victimhood. Nevertheless, I could feel the undercurrents of these emotions within those who loved me.
Love became my grounding force. Particularly, my children anchored me to a place. Instead of focusing on my roots, my grandmother taught me about roses. She struggled to grow them in the earliest garden of my childhood, constantly battling ant nests forming at their roots. Her front garden, which she took immense pride in, consisted of neatly maintained lawns bordered by vibrant flowers such as petunias and periwinkles. There were also specimen shrubs along with bougainvillea gracefully draped over the fence. Amidst these beloved roses, chaconias, hibiscus, and poinsettias struggled, overshadowed by their more adaptable tropical counterparts. As my grandmother tended to her garden, she metaphorically watered me with her adoration for all things English, a passion that I absorbed like rain while playing in my hideaways among the ixora bushes.
My grandmother shared her knowledge of herbal remedies for common ailments, but my dismissal of these teachings stemmed from my reverence for the scientific principles I was taught to uphold. Secretly, I clung to the idea of my imagined indigenous heritage despite my grandmother’s denial. In the depths of my being, I sensed the weight of an ancestor who must have truly belonged to the place I called home. This imaginary connection consoled me when confronted with thoughts of the likely non-consensual and violent unions that occurred throughout generations, where bodies were unnaturally categorized as Black or White to justify one group’s oppression of the other. To escape these painful thoughts, I created stories about my imagined indigenous ancestor as my parents and I planted our own garden in the home they worked hard to purchase when I was a teenager. I developed a fascination with plants and eagerly accompanied my parents to nurseries, seeking out the most exotic flowers that would set our garden apart.
Together, we created our lime hedge, tamed the spreading bamboo on the steep slope above our house, and planted and molded what would eventually become a lush tropical oasis. The fragrance emanating from our garden in the evenings was truly remarkable, from the musk of the calabash tree that attracted bats, to the intoxicating scent of the poisonous datura, to the sweetness of jasmine and lime, always blooming to herald the arrival of rain.
However, the forceful pull of the remnants of the British Empire, which brought generations of my ancestors to that tiny island, compelled me to leave. Filled with ambition and brightness, I was encouraged to seek opportunities beyond what my birthplace could provide. Following in the footsteps of those who came before me, I embarked on a journey to England, our sometimes hostile motherland, in search of a better future.
Initially, I had no intention of making England my permanent home. My plan was to obtain my medical degree and then move elsewhere. However, belonging in England proved to be quite difficult on various levels. Fellow students and patients would make racist comments, assuming that as a young Black Caribbean woman, I must be a nurse rather than a doctor. And the unexpected changes in professional visa requirements posed the constant threat of deportation, a xenophobic decision by the Home Office that was fiercely challenged by the medical union.
Despite the obstacles and attempts to erase my presence, it was love that anchored me in England. My children, especially, rooted me to this land, their invisible umbilical cords connecting me to the soil they had come to inhabit. They instilled in me an urgent desire to create a home for them in a place that had shown hostility towards me. Unable to navigate this realm of human relationships, I instinctively turned to the plants surrounding me.
Despite my medical training, I realized with embarrassment that I had neglected the knowledge of the plants that provided the foundation for many medicines. I became curious about the native herbs in England, such as dandelions, plantains, cleavers, and nettles. These plants possessed significant healing properties, yet they were often considered weeds, unwanted intrusions in gardens. However, they belonged entirely to this land. I felt a kinship with their resilience, and I began to understand that I could learn from their ability to establish a home for themselves even in the harshest conditions.
Motivated by my connection to plants, my husband and I took a leap of faith and moved to the countryside in Somerset. We relocated to a house with bats in the attic and a terraced garden covered in bamboo leaves. The scent of a shrub near our front door reminded me of night-blooming jasmine. I immediately fell in love with our new surroundings, only later realizing the parallels between this garden and my parents’ cherished one.
We arrived in midwinter, just before the pandemic reached the shores of the UK. As spring arrived and flowers began to bloom, coaxed gradually from our once barren and compacted clay soil through my devoted mulching, I began to recognize the unexpected but profound similarities between our new home and the one of my childhood.
One day, while I was in the garden, a cousin who was researching our family tree messaged me with an incredible discovery. She had found our shared ancestor, my grandmother’s grandmother, who indeed belonged to the native Caribbean population. She had married a Scottish missionary, and according to her daughter’s account, their union was forged out of love. This revelation shattered the violent narrative I had constructed in my mind and brought forth the memories of love and harmony.
As the roses concealed within our hedge blossomed beautifully, I established a connection between the gardens of my past and the one in which my young children were growing. I realized that these eerie resemblances were not coincidental – all my homes were nestled within colonial gardens.
During those challenging times, we all searched for meaning. One day, in the midst of our garden, my cousin shared the news of our shared ancestor. In those moments, I found solace and a renewed understanding of my identity as I nurtured our environment. The flowers bloomed – weigela, abundant with pink and white blossoms, reminiscent of my grandmother’s vibrant bougainvillea, and clusters of Mexican hydrangeas mirroring the ixora bushes of my childhood. I planted a daphne near the front gate, learning later that my grandmother’s middle name was Daphne. With each blooming rose, the links between the gardens of my past and present grew stronger in my mind. I realized that their familiarity was not surprising – all of my homes were in colonial gardens.
My journey brought me here, to this moment of discovering the interwoven narratives of my ancestry and the healing power of the natural world. In my garden, amidst the ebb and flow of life, I have found a sense of belonging. Just as the plants adapt, thrive, and make a home for themselves, I, too, have learned to root myself, finding solace and peace within the embrace of nature.
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