Today I am reviving Fathermen after a two year hiatus. The thesis is now complete and I am encouraged to return to this conversation on Caribbean fathering and family life. However, the focus of this week's Fathermen is mothers and aunties - be they blood-related or foster carers.
Recent events prompted me to write this post. On 18th September 2017 Hurricane Maria battered the island of Dominica, killing 30 and disappearing 18. Maria destroyed homes and damaged 90% of structures on the island. She razed the agrarian island's abundant 'garden' farms to the ground. Many subsistence farmers, and those dependent on them, are without food. The island is hurting.
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| An 80-year-old man stands in front of his destroyed home in Marigot, Dominica, on 27 September. Photograph: Jose Jimenez/Getty Images |
I, like many in the diaspora, have been spending weekends since the storm frantically
filling blue shipment barrels (pictured above) with water, corned beef, tuna, pasta, oats, soap, candles, detergents and a host of other essentials to meet the needs of families in the wake of Maria. Many local stores are closed on the island (following looting), humanitarian relief is piecemeal and personal food stocks are depleting (if people were fortunate enough to have accumulated them at all). As such, personal barrels and general food aid are in high demand.
And so ubiquitous are these blue (plastic) and brown (card) barrels in the Caribbean and her diaspora, that when me and my mother were trawling the aisles of a supermarket collecting tins by the crate-load, an elder Jamaican lady who appeared to be coming from church asked with a warm smile: 'you all are fixing a barrel for you to sen for your family?'
This ubiquity made me want to explore the biographies of barrels further: to ask where they come from (like the social life of the oil drum-cum-steel pan, some are second hand from industry) and where they go (into homes, basements, yards and gardens); how they become literal containers of material necessities and symbolic holders of love and affection; and then how they morph into quotidian features of the domestic landscape (emptied of consumer goods, used for storage, holding water or germinating seedlings).
Reading up on the subject I was able to position this acute need for barreled goods in context of a hurricane alongside examples of more quotidian barrel sending to support a child, providing everyday relief, treats, technology and fashions. During such reading I encountered Lisa Harewood's Barrel Stories project, which shares the narratives of children left behind by emigrant mothers; children sometimes referred to in Caribbean sociology as 'barrel children'. Yet, as I read the article below, about Harewood's project, my thoughts were cast to Robyn Seller's fine, though lesser known article, Out of State, But Still in Mind. It reveals how barrels and other goods sent by emigrant kin bring about their extra-local presence in the lives of loved ones 'at home'. These are barrels are sent bearing love in material form - but whether the child receives them in this vein is perhaps another matter.
I would add, in Dominica at least, that this process is part of the cultural ethic of 'not forgetting' ones kin (as people put it); not allowing distance to make you fail to support elder and younger dependants 'left behind' when one migrates. This centring ethic (morally orienting emigrant imaginations towards Dominica) intends to keep the idea of home and loved ones ever present in the minds of outer-national kin.
Therefore, using this counter example we can see two sides to the same story: one an expression of love that attempts to bridge vast distance; the other, a feeling of loss where such material gestures have fallen short.
I would add, in Dominica at least, that this process is part of the cultural ethic of 'not forgetting' ones kin (as people put it); not allowing distance to make you fail to support elder and younger dependants 'left behind' when one migrates. This centring ethic (morally orienting emigrant imaginations towards Dominica) intends to keep the idea of home and loved ones ever present in the minds of outer-national kin.
Therefore, using this counter example we can see two sides to the same story: one an expression of love that attempts to bridge vast distance; the other, a feeling of loss where such material gestures have fallen short.
The article, which covers Harewood's fascinating project, appears below.
A.P.H
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Barrel Stories: history project captures the Caribbean migration experience
An empty barrel is many different things for someone living in the Caribbean. It might capture rainwater in the backyard, be cut in half to make a kitchen garden, used as a chest of drawers, and more.
The story of how it arrived at the person’s house, however, is the same.
The tan paper or blue plastic barrel is sent home from a family member who migrated overseas. The items in the barrel—everything from canned food to clothing to sweet treats—are a source of financial support, as well an attempt at an emotional connection.
“[The sender] is trying to communicate and express something. But it’s always going to fall short,” said Barrel Stories founder Lisa Harewood in an interview with ivoh. “And in keeping the barrel, you’re constantly reminding yourself of the person who’s missing. The barrel can be a really complicated, conflicting thing for people.”
Modeled off NPR’s StoryCorps, Barrel Stories is an oral history project that captures the complex experiences of those who leave and those who are left behind—specifically “barrel children,” a term coined by Jamaican sociologist Dr. Claudette Crawford-Brown in the 90s.
“It can sometimes feel like it’s a normal part of Caribbean family life to say someone’s parent lives overseas,” UK-based Harewood said. “But what does that mean for the family? What does mean for the child? What does that mean for the parent?”
Harewood, filmmaker and founder of Gate House Media, takes her audio recorder around the Caribbean and its diaspora and talks to former barrel children in an attempt to find out. So far there’s a handful of stories up on the site, with many more she’s in the process of editing. Oscillating between heartbreak and hope, the stories run the gamut of experiences.
There’s Trinidad-born Tonni, who was was split between her mother and aunt in Trinidad and Canada while growing up, the arrangement loving and seamless. Samantha was born in London but was sent to Guyana to be with her aunties as a baby, and still grapples with a strained relationship with her mother to this day. C.H. stayed behind with various relatives in Barbados and was often neglected, sometimes left hungry, but now works with foster youth.
While some participants use their real name, many choose to remain anonymous or use pseudonyms. Caribbean migration is a sensitive topic — barrel children don’t tend to talk about much in fear of being seen as ungrateful. A parent acquiring a visa in the hopes of making a better life for the family is regarded a privilege, after all.
“We don’t look at it in terms of being psychologically traumatic. As long as the children are being cared for and your parent is able to send you money and goods, you’re not seen as being at risk in anyway,” Harewood said. “You’re considered lucky.”
But as Harewood has learned, the feelings are complicated. The project began from outreach around Harewood’s first short film, “Auntie,” about a caregiver grappling with her child’s inevitable reunion with her birth mother. After screenings people would share their own story of being a barrel child, a term they’d usually never heard of but one they’d identified with immediately. Harewood knew she had to do more to capture these multiple narratives of the migration experience.
“I really didn’t want that one fictional film to be seen as some sort of truth. It’s just one story and each person’s story is very specific,” Harewood said. “The film also doesn’t tell the story of the reunion with the parent and the aftermath of all that, the adjustment to a new country and life. ”
Harewood herself is not a barrel child, but grew up shuffling between family households in Barbados when she was younger. She wanted to facilitate Barrel Stories precisely because it wasn’t her story, but one that continues to be commonplace.
“Unfortunately the Caribbean is a place that’s chronically, perpetually challenged in its development,” she said. “If you’re a parent leaving your child behind, you’re often doing it because you want your child to have a chance at a better life.”
While countries like Jamaica have identified barrel children as a social problem, it’s hard to pin down exact statistics elsewhere and study its effects. Mainly because people are afraid of putting their immigration status at risk, or have the state intervene in their caregiver arrangement. Globally, however, there are an increasing number of female migrants. What Harewood can infer is that more mothers are leaving.
Barrel Stories has scant voices of the parents themselves, which Harewood would like to change. Of the few stories that feature a parent, however, a conversation between a mother and son has stuck with her. The mother recounts her harrowing experiences abroad after migrating, including being in an abusive relationship, working 130 hours per week, and saving up money for her children’s plane tickets only to find it was a fraudulent scheme.
“She’s an incredibly strong woman and afterwards her son and I had a conversation about this kind of toughness. I think we’re a little too bought into this image of Caribbean people as some of the most resilient and resourceful people in the world. We’re not showing our vulnerabilities,” she said. “I want to show that while we’re incredibly resilient, there is a price we pay. It takes a toll.”
Even the process of recording these stories for Harewood has been much more emotionally difficult than she anticipated. After a while, watching people break down in their houses and hearing the sadness in their voices through her headphones started to take a toll on her.
“You can’t help but feel a duty of care to people beyond taking their story,” she said. “What I can offer them is an outlet and hope that it is a start of some kind of healing. And there are also the stories that lift your spirits because they show arrangements that work where children feel loved and cared for.”
Harewood posts resources on the site — academic papers, books, art, films, etc. — for barrel children to access. Although most participants express relief after they’ve shared their story, she doesn’t generally hear from them again. A few have used their recorded story as a tool to have a conversation about the past with their families. Ultimately, Harewood wants Barrel Stories to encourage more people to speak honestly about what happened.
“I want people to feel like they have permission to say it wasn’t all great. Some of it was actually really hard,” she said. “And hopefully it encourages a parent to sit down with their child and explain what they went through or why they made the choices that they did. Quite often those choices were really limited.”
As for the future of Barrel Stories, Harewood hopes to create an interactive site where people can upload stories themselves. Further down the road, she’d love to see offshoots of the project in other regions — the Philippines and Nigeria, for example — where migration is equally as common.
For Harewood, who believes the barrel is going to be around forever, there’s never been a better moment for the project.
“It’s an issue whose time has come and I’m fortunate to have offered a tool to help people make their voices heard,” she said. “I think Barrel Stories has it’s own momentum that’s driving it. The stories need to be told.”
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See too:
Sending Love in a Barrel: The Making of Transnational Carribbean Families in Canada
Charmaine Crawford
'Send love inna barrel': Mixed-media Installation, Kingston, Jamaica
Lindo, Kelley-Ann
See too:
Sending Love in a Barrel: The Making of Transnational Carribbean Families in Canada
Charmaine Crawford
'Send love inna barrel': Mixed-media Installation, Kingston, Jamaica
Lindo, Kelley-Ann
