I Read Caribbean And So Should You
Every June, when Read Caribbean Month rolls around, I feel a familiar rush of excitement. As a woman born and raised in the Caribbean, and now a mother to a daughter who devours books with the same passion I did as a child, this month feels deeply personal. It’s a literary celebration… a reclaiming… a declaration… A chance to say loudly, proudly and collectively: OUR STORIES MATTER!
I grew up reading Enid Blyton and Nancy Drew, fun adventures, sure, but always far removed from my world. The characters lived in places where it snowed, where children said “mum” and had nannies, and where nobody spoke with a lilt like mine. I didn’t realize it then, but I was being quietly conditioned to believe that adventure, magic, and importance belonged somewhere else. It took years and authors like Jean Rhys, Kamau Brathwaite, Jamaica Kincaid, Michael Anthony and Merle Hodge, for me to discover that we, too, could be central characters.
One of the most powerful realisations I’ve had is this: our stories were colonised, too.
For centuries, others have told our stories for us, rewriting our histories, flattening our cultures, or erasing us altogether. Colonial literature rarely reflected who we truly are and even post-independence, many of our schoolbooks continued to prioritise foreign authors over regional voices. This wasn’t accidental. It was a byproduct of a system that wanted us to admire elsewhere and question the value of here.
That’s why reading Caribbean, our stories as told by us, is such a radical act. It’s a way of reclaiming our narratives, asserting our truths, and restoring dignity to our lived experiences. When we read books written by Caribbean nationals, we’re not just reading stories, we’re engaging with perspectives shaped by our landscapes, our dialects, our joys, and our scars.
As a mother, I’m intentional about what sits on my daughter’s bookshelf. Her favourite stories now include girls who love saltfish and Johnny cakes, who love in Carnival, who speak like her and dream like her. She sees herself reflected not as a side character, but as the main character, and that matters. Representation in literature is not a luxury, it’s a necessity.
When our children see themselves in books they walk taller, their love of culture, complexion, their voice and all facets of self, deepens.
Reading Caribbean also means honouring our ancestors and preserving our oral and written traditions. It helps us wrestle with complex issues like migration, identity, resistance, and resilience. It also expands the Caribbean literary canon to make room for all of us- the loud, the quiet, the queer, the curious, the island and diasporic alike.
So how do we support Caribbean authors and amplify Caribbean stories?
1. Buy the books. It’s one of the most direct ways to support.
2. Leave a review. A short comment can boost visibility for authors.
3. Share them. Recommend to friends, teachers, schools, and libraries.
4. Follow the authors. Engage with their work on social media.
5. Make it a family affair. Gift Caribbean books to children. Read them aloud. Let your homes echo with our voices.
For me, Read Caribbean Month isn’t just a campaign, it’s a quiet act of resistance. It’s about unlearning. Relearning. Celebrating and most importantly, reclaiming.
Because our stories deserve to be told, not by outsiders guessing at who we are, but by us, in our own voices, on our own terms.
So this June, I invite you to Read Caribbean. Lose yourself in our language. Embrace our layered histories, remind yourself, and your children, that the Caribbean is not just a backdrop for someone else’s story, it is the story and it’s time the world read it.
