197. Being Silent – Dionne Peart
The woman looked us up and down and said, “Foreigner!” with such venom and spite, it caught us all off guard.
My brother and I were raised in Canada, but our parents always shared wonderful memories of growing up in Jamaica. When I was nine, my parents planned our first trip “back home,” and I was looking forward to experiencing the paradise my parents so strongly identified with, and to meeting both sides of our family, since we didn't have any relatives in Canada. At the last minute, a work commitment kept my dad from coming with us, but my strong and fiercely independent mom would handle everything. She was soft-spoken, but she had a sharp tongue and would sort out anyone in defense of her loved ones, even if the offender was twice her size. I knew we would be fine.
The plan was to spend two weeks in my mom’s hometown and one week with my dad’s family. Each of us brought an extra suitcase full of gifts for relatives and friends, and Mom was particularly generous with her cousin, who came by my grandmother's house every day to take us around. People seemed genuinely excited to see us, and I could tell Mom was feeling embraced and welcomed. But around our third or fourth day, on our way to visit someone, we encountered a woman on the road who Mom's cousin seemed to know well. We stopped, and Mom’s cousin said something like, “You remember Monica? She’s visiting from Canada.”
The woman looked us up and down and said, “Foreigner!” with such venom and spite, it caught us all off guard.
Mom’s cousin replied, “I’m not a foreigner.”
The woman replied, "No, but she is."
I could see the shock and hurt on my mom’s face, but she said nothing. Mom’s cousin also said nothing. I wanted to stand up for Mom, tell this woman not to talk to my mother that way. I wanted to ask Mom’s cousin, “Aren't you going to stick up for her? You know she’s still Jamaican! This is her home too!” But I was raised to never talk back or confront adults, and I didn’t want to risk physical punishment. I remained silent.
The woman stared us down and finally went on her way. Mom’s cousin started chatting again like nothing, but I could tell Mom’s mood had shifted. She felt unwelcome, a core part of her identity stripped away. We ended our stay a week early and went to see my dad’s family.
I’ve always regretted not telling that woman off—and Mom’s cousin too—like Mom would have done for me. It likely would have meant a “good backsiding” for disrespecting an adult (even a rude one), but since Mom always stood up for everyone else, someone should have stood up for her. I should have chosen her comfort over mine.
Since the trial for the murder of George Floyd, my mind often returns to the witnesses who tried to intervene that day. I reflect on what compels us to stand up for someone else, and, even more than that, the reasons we don’t.
– Dionne Peart
