Urban Vine Media

The question was simple: what’s the significance of February?

In a class of almost 20 students, not a word was spoken. A few hands went up, followed by the infamous guesses:

“Miss, is it Valentine’s Month?”
“Miss, is it Love Month?”

After some prompting, one student said, “Reggae Month.” And later, the same student realized it was actually Black History Month.

Are my expectations too high for 10- to 12-year-olds? Or have we, as a society, allowed our standards of cultural pride to fall so drastically over the years?

The pledge, the anthem, the song—cultural emblems chanted daily—once sharp enough to pierce our hearts—have dulled into meaningless repetition.

And yet, Valentine’s Day seems to take precedence over Black History Month in a child’s mind.

Our children have fallen victim to commercialization—not because they were careless, but because we, the adults, have been lackadaisical about passing on our heritage.

If there is no ground in identity, the consequences are dire. Our ancestors knew this. We know this.

If we don’t stand for something, we fall for anything. To reclaim what we’ve lost, we must retrace our steps.

Here are some of the places we may have lost the preservation of culture:

• Civics is no longer compulsory in primary schools.
• Cable television cut many off from Jamaica Information Service programs—and now, with streaming and social media, the exposure is even less.
• Community clubs, youth groups, church camps—the spaces where culture was lived and shared—are disappearing.

I remember casually singing folk songs in high school—songs learned at church camp. My best friend would always joke, a little jealous, about how ‘cultured’ I was.

Today, the gravitational pull toward ‘Jamaicanness’ has been de-magnified, replaced by whatever is trending on TikTok.

When children over the age of eight cannot clearly say that February is Black History Month, it’s clear: our roots are being uprooted.

You can’t kill a tree by taking its branches or stealing its fruits. But poison the roots, and the damage is silent—and lasting.

Etana said, “The youths a hold them roots.” But I’m not so sure anymore.

Mulching, watering, fertilizing—these are no longer optional. Guarding our cultural ground is urgent. Education must reinfuse our nation’s children with the knowledge of who we are.

The roots are being uprooted. Where are the farmers? It’s time to replant.

Written by K L Williams

Kerece Lilanie Williams is a poet and educator, and the author of three poetry collections published under the name Lilanie: Kisses and Lies, Above Water, and Faith and Favour: Odes of Gratitude for Unmerited Grace. She contributes her writing to Urban Vine Media, a creative initiative that fosters intellectual conversations around arts, culture, and entertainment in Jamaica and the diaspora.

She is also the founder of Write Ah Yaad, a vibrant writing community for Caribbean poets and storytellers, and the Chief “Copy Cat” behind MeowMedia Services, a platform helping creative entrepreneurs create and build their brands—because kats roar with MeowMedia.