The author, Candice Stewart, second from left , with other members of the Global Voices Caribbean team at the 2024 Summit in Kathmandu, Nepal. Photo by Jer Clarke, used with permission.
“Where are you really from?” When asked, my answer is an automatic “I’m Jamaican!” But how would you know, really? Is it the bold black, green, and gold flag I walk with? Is it my CARICOM-branded Jamaican passport? My confident stride? It’s likely the most obvious giveaway — my speech, sprinkled with the sounds of Jamaican Patwa.
My connection with my mother tongue — Jamaican Patwa/Creole — its distinct sounds and variations, and being able to speak, understand, and write it loosely really matters to me. At home, Patwa sounds different depending on the parish you're from; my influences are mostly from Kingston and St. Andrew, but towards the end of 2024, I found myself in a near identity crisis. The thing I proudly declare to define my Jamaican-ness turned out to be rather ambiguous, giving North American, or even some other Caribbean country — just not Jamaican, or at least not Jamaican enough.
This realisation dawned when I was mistaken, by both several compatriots, as well as by lovers of Jamaica living in London, for an American or Canadian. Following that, an immigration officer, undoubtedly familiar with the Jamaican accent, mistook my nationality for something else. Even at home, people sometimes struggle to place where I’m from. How is it that I, a Jamaican who has lived all my life on the island, do not sound like one? The initial sting of it slowly turned into a series of culturally and historically relevant reminders and eureka moments.
My grandparents grew up in a pre-independent Jamaica; my parents spent some of their formative years in that era as well, eventually becoming part of a post-independent country while it worked out the kinks. The vestiges of British colonial rule were still rife, even influencing socially “acceptable” ways to speak. Patwa was not encouraged or spoken at home; in fact, I would be scolded if I did not speak my best English with proper grammar and tone. It was not helpful that I attended a colonial girls’ high school in an education sector that frowned upon many things celebrating our African culture, including our mother tongue. Since then, however, I have made concerted efforts to go against the norm, and as you can imagine, it’s been difficult.
English is the official language of Jamaica; for eons, Patwa was not even acknowledged. Our entire social ecosystem was set in a manner that thinks of Patwa as primitive — the language of the uneducated — you are assumed to be “dunce” or stupid if you communicate that way. That perception holds even today, albeit to a lesser extent. Many who speak Patwa — in particular settings — are often mocked or laughed at, causing people to shy away from the language for fear of ridicule. This does more harm than good, in my opinion, stripping us of our identity. Outside of literary circles, one of the only other spaces where Patwa is celebrated (and has always been!) is the tourism sector. Our language is used to attract foreigners, but it’s generally not welcomed elsewhere.
In this context, it makes sense that my sound is ambiguous; I’ve had to bend and contort this part of my identity for most of my life. At first, this sudden awareness had me questioning my Jamaicaness, but it also allowed me to claim that identity even further. I joined the Global Voices community in Nepal for its 2024 Summit, where I was immersed in a melting pot of nationalities and languages. In one of many sessions, a subset of the larger group was tasked with translating a poem into our mother tongue. I read the original and could easily translate it in my head. However, I was unsure how to write it for reasons beyond my not being a translator. I know Patwa when I hear and speak it, but I can’t write it. Nevertheless, I completed the task and vowed to learn the official language of Jamaican Patwa.
I consider it a form of rebellion and liberation, rewiring the negative connotations of Patwa into positives. The language has already had many wins, with the establishment in 2002 of the Jamaican Language Unit (Jamiekan Langwij Yuunit, or JLU), tasked with standardising Patwa via the Cassidy-JLU system and offering support to non-English-speaking Jamaicans. Other triumphs include the translation of the Bible’s New Testament into Patwa with Di Jamiekan Nyuu Testiment and a push to make Patwa an official language of Jamaica.
A Jamaican linguist's take
Despite unlocking the issues surrounding my ambiguous Jamaican sound, I craved more context, so I spoke with Rev. Fr. Bertram Gayle, linguist, Jamaican Patwa translator, and strong proponent of the language and its nuances, and asked him how speaking Jamaican Patwa has influenced his sense of identity.
“Speaking Jamaican Creole,” he said, “is a powerful way to connect with the heart and soul of the island. It's a language that reflects the unique history and culture of Jamaica, a blend of African, European, and other influences. When you speak Creole, you're not just using words, you're tapping into a shared heritage, a sense of belonging that resonates deeply.”
He noted, though, that there was also a bittersweet element: “It's a language born from the displacement and adaptation of people from different backgrounds, and it carries within it the echoes of that history. So, while speaking Creole connects you to Jamaica, it also subtly impresses upon you that this is not the ancestral home of those who speak it.”
Gayle strongly believes that Jamaican Patwa is a key tool in helping to preserve and promote Jamaican culture by reflecting historical and cultural influences, expressing cultural identity and solidarity and promoting it in the arts and media, preserving oral tradition and folklore, and facilitating intergenerational transmission of that knowledge.
As a vibrant blend of various languages, including English, West African languages, Spanish, and even some indigenous Taino words, Patwa's linguistic fusion reflects diverse historical influences that include colonisation, slavery, and migration. Speaking it fosters a sense of belonging and connection among Jamaicans, both on the island and throughout the diaspora, serving as a symbol of shared experiences, values, and perspectives, and fostering a sense of community.
Oral tradition, meanwhile, with its wealth of proverbs, folktales, songs, and riddles, encapsulates and preserves all things Jamaican in a lively and engaging manner, offering insights into the island's history, social dynamics, and cultural practices. As a country with various popular forms of cultural expression, including music, literature, and the performing arts, Patwa helps spread Jamaican culture to a global audience. Similarly, Jamaicanwriters andpoets utilise the language to capture the nuances of local life in their works and to share stories, traditions, and values, ensuring the continuity of cultural heritage and strengthening community bonds.
“So, the Jamaican language is not merely a means of communication,” Gayle stresses, “but a vibrant embodiment of Jamaican culture. By embracing and promoting the language, Jamaicans actively contribute to the preservation and enrichment of their unique cultural heritage.”
But back to my core question: How does using Patwa (or not) affect how others perceive your identity and where you are from? Gayle agreed that the ability to speak Jamaican can “significantly impact” how others perceive us. This, of course, can be positive or negative, depending on the listener's attitude towards the language. “The decision to speak Jamaican or not,” he told me, “is a personal one with complex social implications. While speaking Jamaican can be a source of pride and cultural connection, it's important to be aware of the potential for negative perceptions and linguistic profiling. Thankfully, attitudes towards Jamaican people are evolving, and there is a growing recognition of its legitimacy as a distinct language with rich cultural significance.”
Gayle also believes that teaching a standardised spelling system for Jamaican Creole in public schools could offer several benefits: increased literacy in Jamaican, improved academic performance, and a stronger sense of cultural identity. He left me with a lot to consider.
Now, when people ask me where I am really from, the answer remains clear to me — despite my ambiguous sound. My journey through “not sounding Jamaican” has deepened my understanding of my roots and the importance of celebrating my unique linguistic heritage. As I continue to learn and embrace Patwa, I carry with me the stories, resilience, and spirit of my country.
I’m unmistakably Jamaican, in every sound and syllable.