Photo by Goran Bogicevic / Alamy Stock Photo
As we move past the halfway point in March and pass another International Women’s Day (IWD), closing in on the end of the month, celebrated as International Women’s Month in some countries, I’m thrown into what has become a routine and oft practice of reflection. As spring arrives, these moments of reflection provide opportunities for growth and exploration. They allow me to reaffirm my current path or reassess whether I need to make changes or take a detour in my ongoing quest for a fulfilled life, where my vision is to become the best version of myself that I can be. Reflective periods, I find, are quiet gifts that open wide enough to see the whole you, a little window through which to view the pleasing things, the ‘so-so’ things, and uncomfortable warts.
This time, my reflections have me entertaining and juggling several thoughts about my journey to womanhood. I am a Black Jamaican-born woman, the last born into a large, dynamic family, who frequently spent summer holidays in Canada before eventually immigrating as a teenager. After all the thoughts settled, I was left holding just one: a curiosity about how all aspects of my life congeal to shape and influence my journey, growth, and how I now show up in the world. I am left with a deep desire to explore and examine the alchemy of events and experiences that combined (mix-up, mix-up) to lead me to the present, knowing that more change and emergence will unfold. Searching for answers took me back to my childhood. Here, I attempt to unpack a few early defining experiences and moments that shaped me. And I invite you to try this reflective exercise yourself. You may find the process revealing and illuminating.
Birth order and gender
Undoubtedly, birth order and placement within the family play a role. I am the 7th of seven children, a little girl after a consecutive string of four boys. By the time I appeared on the scene, my parents had gone through enough child-rearing adventures with my older siblings that they had acquired the knowledge and patience to humour my childhood shenanigans, knowing they were a phase that would eventually run its course. It's an understatement to say that my brother, the sixth child, and I enjoyed lots of leeway in growing up. And I, being the baby girl, got plenty of room to stretch, grow, explore, and indulge in a range of activities, some considered as 'not things that girls did or could do.'
Warmth, protection, and safety
I often describe my early years as growing up in a well-protected cocoon. My family was well-known in the community. My two sisters and four brothers were active in community life, engaging in dance, stage, theatre, visual art, and sports. Mama exuded warmth and generosity; our home was inviting and constantly buzzing with activity. That was to be expected given the size of our family, and not to mention the many friends of my siblings who came by to visit and hang out. I became the ‘adopted’ baby sister of their friend groups. With so many people looking out for me, I moved with an assurance that no matter where I was, I was protected by a community, with my parents and siblings firmly planted at the front of the line. No one dared to mess with me.
Girls can’t do that! Things only boys can and should do
The harbour was within walking distance of our home, and we often headed there for fun and relaxation. I never feared the water, so my Dad and brothers took it upon themselves to teach me to float and swim. I did the Salmon name justice with how quickly I developed my floating and swimming prowess. I also became an excellent soccer player out of necessity, desperation, and determination because my brother (child #6) refused to give me the ball; if I wanted it, I had to earn and take it from him. Driven by frustration, I honed my skills and got good enough to, at times, take it and keep it away from him. I was a skateboarder who could dismantle and reassemble skateboards and bicycles. I was curious to learn what Dad was fixing on his car, so I would pull up a stool as he worked away, eagerly waiting for him to call me over to look at the engine while he taught me the names of the tools he was using, showed and explained the purpose and how various parts of the engine worked. The ultimate treat was him handing me a spark plug and teaching me how to clean it.
I grew up being a ‘handy person,’ always feeling capable and able to figure out and take on any mechanical or other types of projects. Wainscotting, done it; changing faucets and other minor plumbing issues, done it; figuring out and tackling electronic projects, done it. You name it, I have possibly done it, or at the very least figured out the problem and what was required to fix it, even if someone else had to do it. Today, I revel and indulge in much guilty pleasure whenever I visit car dealerships or mechanic shops and speak with the men, where the assumption is, as a female, I don’t know much about cars. I diligently listen to some of the absurdities offered, and when they stop speaking, I smile before cutting to the chase with questions that indicate I know a lot more than they presumed I did. The delight is always sweeter when their postering is exposed as having minimal knowledge about cars.
When I was about five, we moved next door to a family with two sons. The younger boy was about three years older than me, and we immediately hit it off. He remains my longest male childhood friend. He didn’t shy away from being friends with a little girl, and we became best playmates. He had an encyclopedic mind, sharp and brilliant. I learned so much from him. He knew everything about cars; he could identify the name, make, model, and year based on the design, the colour, the rims, etc.
He was generous with sharing his knowledge with me. We would sit on the concrete fence at the front of our homes, where he would teach me the names of all the cars driving by. “Okay, Nicky, what’s the name of this one approaching.” With glee, I would tell him, and he would smile. “That’s right, Nicky.” His vast collection of Matchbox and HotWheels cars inspired me to have my own collection. I never asked for dolls as presents; I just got them. I asked for cars and car sets, and I got them, too. He never forgets my birthday, and I anticipate his warm, lavish “big up” greetings, knowing the pure joy and big smile it always brings. And I never forget his birthday, March 8th.
No matter my size or age, I had a voice and permission to use it
My Mom called me her handbag because I went everywhere with her. As the baby, I was always by her side and within her sight. There are several memorable moments Mom and I shared, but this one is seminal. I don’t recall my exact age, but I believe I was between ages six and eight. Mom and I walked to the supermarket to grab a few groceries. While in the line, Mom remembered she needed another item and headed to one of the aisles near the cashier's checkout. She left me in line with the basket on the ground to hold her spot.
An older woman approached while I waited in line, decided she could, and had the right to step in front of me. Well, I wasn’t having any of that, so I pushed the basket and stepped in front of her while letting her know I was in the line. This woman then went on to berate me, throwing words about these rude little children of today. She stepped back in front of me, and I remember saying to her I was there first and that I should "box” (slap) her for stepping in front of me. That definitely set her off into a diatribe about my upbringing. I didn’t realize Mom had been observing the interaction the whole time. Questioning her child’s upbringing was a step too far. She approached me and asked the woman if she didn’t see me in the line and why she stepped before me. Then Mom went on to tell her a thing or two about her ignorance about this child’s upbringing and that she should refrain from commenting or making statements on things she knew nothing about. She told her that her little daughter had every right to defend her position in the line. Mom went in front of her, and we checked out and left. As we stepped outside, Mom, the guide and instructor, said I had every right to stand my ground, but maybe next time without the threat to ‘box’ someone.
Exploring and pursuing possibilities: education and exposure to sports, arts, and culture
Indeed, by the time I was born, the financial strain of raising a large family had started to ease because a couple of my siblings had finished high school and had secured jobs. Increased resources and scholarship opportunities for two of my brothers to pursue post-secondary education overseas also opened up more possibilities for my older brother, the one just ahead of me in birth order, and me. I got to attend one of the leading preparatory schools and, from there, headed to the same high school four of my six siblings had attended. After completing the first of two years of 6th form, I migrated to Canada for a year of high school and onto university.
Ensuring their children received an education was first and foremost for my parents. Regardless of the direction our lives would take us, an education and formal skills training were foundational. Beyond education, we all pursued other passions and interests. Whether soccer, athletics, dance, or visual and theatre arts, we had a broad pool from which to choose. My sisters and I danced with the Alma MockYen Dance Group. Two of my best friends were also dancers and attended the same prep school. One was the niece of our dance teacher, and the other was the baby sister of another dancer, a younger friend of one of my sisters.
We all had opportunities to perform on various stages. One sister (child #2) traveled overseas as a member of the dance group and often performed as a dancer in pantomime productions. Both sisters, first and second in sibling birth order, taught dance at points in their careers, and one became an adjudicator/ judge for dance competitions. On several occasions, my best friends and I performed with our sisters and other dance group members on the groundbreaking children’s television program Ring Ding, hosted by the iconic Louise Coverley-Bennett.
Imagination, creativity, and stories galore
Mom was the family’s creative inspiration. She was a dressmaker extraordinaire. A skill that benefited our family’s expense budget and generously benefited our broader community. She had knowledge of a wide range of historical events, and with ease, she recalled and recited poetry she learned as a child. The one I remember the most, which I am sure she leveraged for children-rearing purposes, is by Horace Mann. The version below may not be verbatim to his version, but here is Mom’s version, written here to reflect the cadence in which she delivered it:
Habit is a cable,
we weave a thread of it each day,
until it becomes so strong that you cannot break it,
you can only break it,
by breaking a thread each day
Mom was a gifted and captivating storyteller. My older siblings recall waiting up to be delighted by her ‘blow-by-blow’ reenactment of a movie she had just seen. Imagine this brilliantly expressive mother using her words and body movements to transfix and capture their imagination. Her grandkids became new audiences for retelling the stories she told us. It was their turn to be mesmerized and captivated, and our (her kids) pleasure and willingness to listen to stories we had heard so many times before that we could tell them ourselves, though not with the same flare as delivered by Mom. It’s approaching eight years since she has been gone, and when she passed, we anticipated there would be a permanent void; she seemed so much larger than life itself. There remains a void because she took up space in the most remarkable ways, but her presence remains strong and continues to loom large in our lives. She is still taking up space in those permanently unoccupied places.
Challenges, yes, there were and still are some
All I have shared above may make it appear that life was fun and blissful all the time, but that certainly wasn’t the case. Our family had to navigate internal tensions and disagreements. I recall a fight between my three eldest brothers, and with my Dad not home, my Mom and one sister had to jump between them to cool tempers down. I remember arguments between my parents that sometimes made me fearful of them splitting up. Thank goodness they shared a common purpose with both determined and committed to making our family work. And that meant hanging in there and working things out. And they always did.
Dad died twenty-one years before Mom, and I remember, in the months leading up to his death, his preoccupation with making sure we would take care of Mom. Knowing his time was limited, he wanted nothing more than for us to stay close and rally together to care for each other and the family, which had now grown to include grandkids. To have him relinquish his fight not to leave us, our family minister had to tell him it was okay for him to go, assuring him that my Mom and the family would all be okay. Things I thought and felt were precious or important before he passed seemed so insignificant after some of us watched as he took a few last breaths on March 15th.
Skip to the present
Today, grief and joy are riding shotgun as permanent companions as I journey forward. Since Dad’s passing, we have lost Mom and one of my brothers, and there remains a permanent separation schism with another.
The family is much larger now, with first cousins growing up as siblings, who, with intentionality, carry on the tradition with their kids growing up with a closeness atypical of a group of second-generation cousins.
If anyone has heard me speak publicly or seen versions of my bio, you will know I always include a line that family is my anchor. What I have shared here provides only a sliver of why my identity is so closely woven into and molded by family. These experiences and many others from my past and unknown ones in my future will open me to ways to become a better, though flawed, version of myself. And I am okay with that and will continue to live with it.
Gratitude to the family as expressed in the book Collecting Courage: Joy, Pain, Freedom, Love
Note: Since publishing the book in 2020, the family has seen the addition of two girls, my great nieces. They are the additions I manifested and referenced as “others left to come.”😊
Nicole’s Gratitude
I couldn’t ask for more than what my late parents, Wesley & Jessie Salmon, poured into me my entire
life — nurtured love, fed curiosity, a cradle of safety and security and a cocoon for me to just be me without prevailing dictates of whom a little girl should be or should like to do. I live each day to honour you the way you honoured and blessed me — with confidence, caring, kindness and respect for others — always. And Mom, I am finally doing what you have always told me — “Nicky, you have so many things to offer, you need to write.” Better late than never and Mommy, I know you are laughing because you have the last word.
To my six siblings whose lives have taught me both good and painful life lessons and specifically to my sisters Bonita and Marjorie, my brothers Bosville and Mark, you have all been that constant in my life and I can’t imagine a me without you — your baby sister loves you and still looks up to you. To my sisters-in-law Dona (my legal beagle guide throughout this process) and Marcia (a.k.a Molly), you know you are really my sisters; end of.
To my nieces and nephews (and their families) who have been a constant in my life — Shana, Uhuru,
Amanda, Sarah, Bosville II, Charles, Shivonne, Jason and Jonathan — thank you for the privilege of being your Momti (somewhere between an Auntie and Mommy), a role I treasure beyond description or measure. To my niece and nephew-in-laws Andrea, Brent, Shauna and Yohannes and my honourary nieces and nephews (you all know who you are so don’t have to ASK), you are family and so appreciate being part of your lives — I love you.
And for my four great nieces and four great nephews (and others left to come), I hope you will be inspired to walk good in this life and to always do so with courage.
