Held at the Border

***

My story isn’t just mine. Some parts are inherited, others painful. Many are not mine to tell. 

Despite and because of this, I’m often asked to explain. Who are you? 

And I wonder to myself. How do I talk about who I am without bleeding all over the floor?
27

*** 

The first day of the Diaspora of Tomorrow writer’s camp, I arrived at Hato airport from Los Angeles, California. My life is such that I would pay money I don’t have for a direct flight from Los Angeles to Willemstad. The two cornerstones of who I am—my homes. Though technically, I was born and raised in neither. I was born in a place I don’t identify with at all, and the best way I can describe where I was raised is: All over the place. 

I arrived at Hato with my service dog, Python, and the last of my belongings to complete my move back to my maternal homeland. 

My mom was relieved I was coming back. She was watching the news every day and felt like trouble was closing in on me. 

A fascist takeover. 

Wildfires.

DEI outlawed.

Pro-Palestine student protestors detained. 

It was the second time I was fleeing the United States for Curaçao. There’s not much more I can say about that, as it’s not all my story to tell. 

According to US law, as someone diagnosed with CPTSD, I have the right to travel with a service animal. Python has since become another home for me. Grounding. Reassuring. My mom was picking me up from the airport, and she had been vocal about her fear of dogs like Python. My mom is my other rock. My anchor. However, the truth is that my mom is a significant part of the many reasons why I need Python—an adorable manifestation of the more challenging aspects of my past.

I arrived with no return ticket, as I had done many times before. I felt that at home. My mom had told me many times. I don’t think I ever even signed you out of Kranshi. 

This time, I was held at immigration for two hours. 

A grumpy immigration official smirked at my confidence. “You need proof that you can afford to be here. And I don’t care how many passports you have. No return ticket, no entry. Off to the side.” She tossed my documents back at me through the glass and called a tourist behind me. 

Two immigration officials proceeded to question me for more than an hour. 

Where were you born? 

Do you have dual citizenship? 

Where is your family from? 

Do they live here now? 

Where were your parents born? 

They both relaxed when they realized I understood Papiamentu, but not enough to let me go. I watched as a dozen white, wide-eyed tourists with no clue were warmly welcomed with no issue. I had been so sure I would make Diaspora of Tomorrow’s writer’s camp on time despite arriving the same day. Suddenly, I was wondering if they were going to send me back to LA and let all of those white tourists in. 

My mom had parked her car and was waiting at the arrivals exit. She was blowing me up on WhatsApp. “Samantha, put those officers on the phone right now, let me speak to them! Lagami papia ku nan, no!” 

“Mom, how is you talking to immigration gonna help? I’m not even sure they’ll speak to you.” 

“Duna nan bo selular, Sam!” 

Python lay at my feet, calm in a way I envied. I turned to the immigration officials, slightly embarrassed. “Um… my mom wants to speak to yall…” 

After two hours, a dozen more questions, and a couple photos of my mom’s local ID proving she was born here, immigration let Python and me go. No return ticket needed.

I passed my cousin Tony on the way out, who was working security at the airport that day. He looked at me, concerned. I must have looked like what I had been through. “Samantha? Ba yega awe? Tur kos ta bon? Kiko a pasa bo?”

My mom was just on the other side, like she always is, waiting for me. Despite all of her warnings that she was afraid of Py, they formed an instant friendship. She told me later she could tell Python was sweet the moment she laid eyes on her. My mom and Python dropped me off and picked me up from Diaspora of Tomorrow every single day. It may have seemed like a simple thing, but it was a reflection of a powerful reconciliation. One I can’t say much more about. But I felt it every day. In her car. In the quiet. In the return.

Diaspora of Tomorrow was a serendipitous place to land upon return. It felt like exactly what I needed – an opportunity to reflect on who I am and where I am. There is an aspect of heritage that is earned, and this camp felt like an opportunity to do the work. 

I cherished the unique opportunity to do this heritage work in the broader context to which Curaçao belongs. It was open to anyone from the Dutch Caribbean. There were participants from St. Maarten, Aruba, and St. Eustatia. I learned so much from other participants who were generous enough to share of themselves so openly. They gave me the courage to do the same.

The focus on diaspora initially gave me a sense of relief. Diaspora. There is no question that I belong to the diaspora. 

It wasn’t quite that simple. 

During one discussion, a participant asked everyone to go around and explain their relationship to Curaçao. The question made me feel vulnerable. Some people’s relationship requires no explanation. It falls within the boundaries of what constitutes conventional belonging in most people’s minds. Despite my relationship being clear, lived, and generations deep, I seem to always find myself in a position to defend and qualify. 

When it was my turn, I answered. “My mom is from here.” My rock. My anchor. 

The group remained silent. Watching me. “Yeah. Um…. should I say more?” What more was there to say? If you know me, and then you meet her, I make complete sense. Curaçao is my mom to me. And I am of her. 

The questions returned. 

Where’d you live more? 

Where is your mom now? 

What about your dad? 

When did you come and go? 

The questions are a permanent fixture, eroding my energy and sometimes sanity. Besides, it’s a long story. Even longer than you might think. 

I asked the group in response. “What makes someone a yu di Kòrsou? Or, how would you all define it?”

I find it simple. My mom is from here, and I am her child. Thus, I am Curaçao’s child. But I have come to understand identity can be slippery and interactive. It’s a negotiation between rowdy cultural relatives who all disagree and think they’re right. 

I continued. “Do you have to have been born here to be yu di Kòrsou?” 

The group consensus was no. No, no, no, that’s too rigid. 

I proceeded. “Okay, do you have to have been raised here, or lived here most of your life?” 

Group consensus: Not necessarily. There are many ways to be born or raised somewhere. For example, my mom is my stable parent. She led my household and dictated the terms of my upbringing. No matter where I’ve been or where I go, Curaçao raises me. 

Someone chimed in, “For me, it’s about Papiamentu, first and foremost. You have to speak it.” 

That seemed straightforward, but my own life complicated that. I understand Papiamentu. The result of listening to my mom lecture me or talk shit to her friends and family all day. I speak it well enough, though my accent often invites scrutiny. 

It’s my mom’s first language. My second. She would teach us simple phrases when we were kids. When I asked her why she didn’t teach it as a primary language, she explained that English was the language of opportunity. 

My heart sank. 

I know my mom isn’t the only one who has had to do survival calculations like this for herself and her children. It complicates the notion of language as a means of expressing belonging. Rather than my mom teaching us Papiamentu first, she forced English on herself so hard that it became another first language of hers. Later in life, when she returned to the island, she had to relearn it. 

“Well,” someone rebutted, “I wouldn’t say you have to know it. Maybe you have to be learning it.” 

Another chimed in. “You have to love Curaçao and its culture. And not just like those that come and stay to themselves or fetishize it. A real love.” 

Being multiethnic means I face questions on both sides. In Curaçao, they hear my accent or my English, and the questions come. In the US, they note the gaps in my story and my ways of being that ooze Caribbean, and the questions come. 

Being Black on both sides has always formed the core of my sense of belonging. I have always felt Black more than any nationality. Both sides of my family are descendants of trafficked and enslaved indigenous Africans who survived the Middle Passage. Where they landed, whether the US south or the Caribbean, isn’t more meaningful to me than that fundamental common thread. My struggle against anti-Blackness and its related consequences is a global one.

That clarity makes me more confident in claiming a Curaçaon identity. Malcolm X famously said, “I’m not American and I’m smart enough to know that,” and proudly identified as African. However, his more immediate roots trace to the US and Grenada. He wasn’t born or raised in Africa. Didn’t speak an African language or even have an African parent. And I agree with him. I identify as African as well. 

If we can believe a tiny island off the coast of Venezuela is Dutch, surely Malcolm X can consider himself to be African. And I can consider myself yu di Kòrsou. 

Identity is partially shaped by reception, but reception is unreliable. People perceive based on their current understanding. Their cultural background shapes their vision, the questions they ask, and the answers they find satisfying. 

In the U.S., Curaçao is not as well-known. People often have a limited understanding of the Caribbean, its geography, and cultures. When I share who I am on that side, it leads to more questions. 

Where is that? 

What do they speak? 

I’m so sorry, I didn’t know any of that. 

I’m put in a position not only to explain, but also to educate. People are often unequipped to understand the answers.  

In Curaçao, it’s almost the opposite problem. There’s an over-familiarity with the US, a sense of knowing a place well, even though gaps may still exist. 

I often wonder if when they say the US, if they mean the US I am from: one of resistance, ICE raids, and communities struggling to survive inside the machine. Diasporas in the US include the Mexican, Vietnamese, Palestinian, Iraqi, Ethiopian, and Caribbean. To name a few of the people trying to survive the Empire’s wreckage. Curaçao’s diaspora is also part of its story and culture. Some of us are there too. 

Most people of Curaçaon descent do not live on the island. Diaspora is the rule, not the exception. I often wonder if I would get fewer questions if my diasporic story intersected with the Netherlands. Cultural acceptance of the Netherlands as part of Curaçao’s story is widespread. If I had grown up in the Netherlands, my belonging might be questioned less, despite the colonial baggage. 

At the Diaspora of Tomorrow writers’ camp, I had the opportunity to speak with a participant who shared a parallel story to mine. My father is Black American, her father is white Dutch. She shared that she questioned her belonging, and in some way more. The closeness of white Dutch ancestry has its fraught history and tensions, even if it doesn’t elicit the same questions. 

These complex dynamics and open conversations were a gift of the camp. There were no easy answers, but there was plenty of space for the complexities. That’s the beauty of diaspora.

Diaspora of Tomorrow writer’s camp felt perfect and divine in its timing. I cherished the space to reflect with women like myself, who shared a heritage and a creative spirit, a brave heart. Some of us were born and raised here, both parents from here. Others were born and raised here, with parents not from here. Some of us had one parent from here and one from elsewhere, and we were raised abroad. Others were from neighboring islands. It reflected the rich, distinct diversity of Curaçao that I’ve come to love. Rigid definitions diminish culture. There’s no need to compete with our cultural relatives. It’s Curaçao’s complexity that gives it life. 

The camp was exactly what I needed, when I needed it. We spent ten days together, talking for hours about who we are. What we struggle with. 

And in those ten days, we organized a show. 

When it was time to craft my performance, I didn’t want to overthink it. 

I am the diaspora of tomorrow. And so is my story. Just tell it like it is. 

I made my performance interactive to reflect that negotiation process inherent to identity formation. I wanted the audience to empathize with the feeling of being questioned, put on the spot, or asked to prove or explain themselves. 

To my surprise, they loved it. 

“What language do you speak?” I asked. 

“Oh, I speak everything!” One audience member replied confidently. 

“Where have you lived the most?” I asked. 

“Brazil! Do you speak Portuguese? Let’s speak it now!” Their energy blew me away, so much so that I almost forgot why I was even up there. I had expected them to be nervous or reluctant to respond. It was the exact opposite. Their complexity mirrored my own and reminded me that I wasn’t the exception. I was the rule. 

I talked a lot about my mom in my performance. She’s both of my parents to me, and she’s a mom to her core. One participant’s tribute to her mother transformed my relationship with my own. It helped me appreciate how precious every moment with my mom on earth is.

My mom has given me Papiamentu, which I cherish, though mine is broken. But the fire and rhythm she gave me is not. Amplified and remixed, if anything. 

The end of my performance, as I had planned it, was a confident declaration: 

Kemendi si. 

Echt yu di Kòrsou mi ta. 

Definitively diasporic. 

I admit I added “definitively diasporic” to qualify and soften my claim. The Diaspora of Tomorrow had transformed me, but I remained cautious. Less so out of doubt, more so out of respect to my people and this negotiation process. 

But after I said echt yu di Kòrsou, the audience erupted in applause. At first, I planned to wait and complete the line, but it was clear the audience had decided.

The question-and-answer game is often so futile. Knowing a place is a bit like the allegory of the wise men grasping at different parts of an elephant, describing different things, all of them part of the same animal. Diaspora can feel this way. 

Diaspora of Tomorrow was a unique high and a refreshing grounding. 

The questions never stop. I may change, but the dynamics may not. In part, this is because I am the question. I resist easy categorization. 

That said, there are a few things I know for sure: My people are in the archives here. My mother is from here. She picked me up, raised me, and anchors me to this day te mañan ku dios ke.

Curaçao has caught me every time. When I have nowhere else to go, and when I do. 

***

Some of my story is not mine to tell.
I have just as many questions, and I don’t have all the answers.
And the ones I do have — I can’t always give.

If that answers your question. 

***