Roots and Wings:
Navigating Two Worlds
BY MERCEDES ALLSOP
The beach was everything.
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Even before we arrived, I could feel the excitement bubbling up inside me, the kind you can’t quite contain. My brother and I would daydream on the drive there, imagining the warmth of the water, the sand beneath our feet, and the smell of fried fish and bake—or as we called it, bake and shark—packed neatly by our parents. Alongside the food, there were always a few bottles of Carib or rum, stashed for the adults.
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The drive itself was part of the magic. The car windows rolled down—not the fancy electric kind we have today, but the kind you had to wind down by hand. The air rushed through, dancing with my fingertips as I stretched my hand out the window. I could feel the sun kissing my face, the scent of salt and heat blending in the air, promising a perfect beach day.
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When we finally arrived, the hot-hot sand greeted us, almost too much for our bare feet, while the ocean's water shimmered—sometimes warm, sometimes cool. My brother and I would burst out of the car, ready to claim the day. I can still hear the coconut trees swaying, their branches whispering to each other, the sun peeking through them like an old friend. It wasn’t just the sounds and smells that made the day—it was the feeling. The sun warm on our backs, the freedom of running toward the waves, hair wild and free, our laughter carried by the breeze.
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Back then, I wore a simple pair of brown shorts made of cotton terry cloth—no top, just wild curls and sun-kissed skin. My brother, bold in his black Speedos, was always the brave one, daring to swim out into the deep while I stayed closer to shore, still close but never quite as fearless. But we were together, in our own world.
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Our dad took turns hoisting us onto his back, swimming far into the deep. My brother? Brave, brave. He loved it and went willingly, a little thrill-seeker. But me? I held on tight, screaming like mad the whole way. But even then, I knew I was safe—clinging to my father’s neck while my mom sat on the shore, watching us, concerned but calm as ever.
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These were the days I cherished the most, not just because of the sun or the sand, but because I was with my favorite person in the whole world: my brother.
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But those carefree days in Trinidad didn’t last forever.
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I thought I was going on a vacation when my father, who had been living in the U.S. for years, invited me to spend the summer in New York. I was excited! I’ve always been curious, and the thought of exploring a whole new land was thrilling. I couldn’t wait to come back to Trinidad and tell all my friends about my adventures—about the tall buildings, the food, and the people. I packed my bags with a heart full of anticipation, eager to experience a new place and to make memories I’d carry back home.
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But as the summer came to a close, and I started packing to return home, my father dropped the bombshell. I wasn’t going back. The decision had been made long before I left Trinidad, but no one had told me. I was angry. Hurt. How could they have made such a life-changing decision without me? No chance to say goodbye to my friends, my siblings—especially my brother. The ache of missing him was instant, a knot in my stomach that refused to go away. But what could I do? The decision was final, and I had no say in the matter. So, I began to prepare for a new life without the chance to close out the old one.
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Life in the U.S. wasn’t what I expected. The excitement quickly faded, replaced by the harsh reality of feeling out of place, and the anxiety of starting over in a completely unfamiliar place. New school, new faces, new rules—it all felt overwhelming. To make matters worse, despite obtaining a perfect score on the school’s assessment test, they placed me two grades back. Two whole grades. I should have been in the 12th grade with my peers, but instead, I had to watch them move ahead while I stayed behind. It didn’t feel right, and deep down, I knew I didn’t belong there. Still, I pushed through, determined to prove them wrong. And I did—I graduated as a junior, but the sting of being held back based on the way I looked and spoke lingered.
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My first day at school was rough. I still remember the panic when I got lost trying to make my way home. I got off several stops too early on the city bus, and if you know New York, you know how the elevated train lines all look the same. One wrong stop, and you’re in a whole different neighborhood. A sense of despair crept in as I wandered, unsure of how to get home, feeling the weight of being in a foreign place where nothing felt familiar. But I kept walking and I found my way, just like I always did.
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That first year of school, I faced outright racism for the first time in my life. I still remember the first time someone called me “nigger”—a Latin student, of all people. The irony didn’t soften the sting. High school itself wasn’t difficult academically; in fact, I had already learned most of the material two years prior in Trinidad. It was just regurgitation for me. But the real challenge was navigating a system that seemed to judge me for my accent and my background. While most of my teachers wanted to see me succeed, some of the teachers didn’t expect much from me because I didn’t sound like them, so I learned to code-switch, adopting an American accent when needed just to get by.
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By the time I was a junior, I had adapted. I had an after-school job, I was independent, and I had grown used to the hustle. When it was time to leave high school, I didn’t hesitate. I ran out that door, feet eager to chase whatever was next. The military came calling, and I accepted the challenge. I’ve had opportunities I never dreamed of, but the reality was far from what I had expected. I thought life and people would be kinder, and more gracious. I had carried a false narrative with me from Trinidad, imagining that the rest of the world would be more open and welcoming. The shock of realizing otherwise hit hard. I had to learn, quickly, how to navigate this new reality and figure out where I belonged in it.
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Still, no matter where I am, cooking always brings me back home.
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There’s nothing quite like the familiar smells of Trinidadian food—seasoned to perfection, simmering in the pot. The moment those scents fill the air, I’m instantly transported back. It’s not just about the food; it’s about the connection it brings, the memories wrapped up in each bite. Sometimes, even hearing a fellow Trini’s accent in the distance makes me feel grounded as if a piece of home just walked into the room. There’s something about that “Trini twang”—a sound only we know, a bond that immediately forms when we hear it, like an unspoken language shared between brothers and sisters from the same place.
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These moments, whether through food or language, keep me rooted. They remind me of the simple life I had in Trinidad—where happiness wasn’t wrapped up in anything complicated, but in small, everyday joys. These memories have a way of refreshing my spirit, bringing me back to that space where life wasn’t easy, but pure, even when I’m living in a completely different environment now.
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For a long time, I didn’t openly tell people where I was from. It wasn’t that I was ashamed, but in some way, it gave me a certain power—people couldn’t figure out my background, and it allowed me to keep them guessing. That was my superpower: the ability to control my own narrative, to live in two separate worlds when I wanted to.
Sadly, many of our family traditions didn’t survive. Our family was never big on preserving rituals, and as our elders passed away, so did those traditions. But one thing that stayed with me was cooking. I learned how to cook when I was just 8 years old, and it has remained a part of my life ever since. It’s my way of keeping that connection alive, of holding onto something from home.
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Every time I revisit these memories, it’s like a refreshing of my soul. They take me to another place, a place where I can feel the warmth of the sun on my back, the smell of the sea in the air, and the laughter of family around me. Going back to Trinidad has become a priority for me. It gives me life. When I return, I make it a point to revisit the places where those memories were made, almost reliving them in some way. Seeing family, and walking the streets I grew up on—it’s like hitting reset. The life I’ve created in the U.S. doesn’t replace the life I had in Trinidad; it’s just another chapter. And I’m reminded of that every time I go back.
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As much as these visits rejuvenate me, they also remind me that I have a responsibility to give back. It’s important to me to share the lessons I’ve learned with the younger generation in Trinidad, to help them seize the opportunities life presents. To reveal the world's vastness beyond their borders. I strive to inspire them to dream bigger. Whether it’s through mentorship or helping them preserve our culture, I make sure I stay connected to my roots by giving back. My experiences have shaped a belief that it’s not enough just to take in what life gives me; I have to pass it on.
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My experiences in Trinidad and the U.S. have woven together to form a unique view of the world, one that allows me to live authentically between two lives. My roots in Trinidad are the foundation of how I see and treat people—with kindness, respect, and a deep sense of empathy. Those early experiences taught me that every person, like every species in a garden, deserves care and compassion. Meanwhile, my time in the U.S. has shown me how to be tough and resilient, teaching me to seize every opportunity while remaining true to myself. Together, these experiences shape how I navigate life today, balancing both worlds.
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Migration was more than just a physical journey; it shaped my identity in profound ways. It gave me a complex sense of belonging, one that ties me to both Trinidad and the U.S. Adapting to a new culture was never easy, but it forced me to grow, become more adaptable, and embrace every facet of who I am. My memories of Trinidad, with all their warmth and simplicity, help preserve my cultural heritage. They serve as a reminder of where I come from, even as I continue to carve out a life in a different world.
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Living between multiple cultures has given me a deeper understanding of the world, fostering a sense of global citizenship. I carry the values from both places in everything I do, from how I treat others to how I approach life. It’s a balancing act, but I navigate by staying connected—through regular visits to Trinidad, celebrating holidays, and reconnecting with the things that have shaped me. And just as importantly, I give back to the next generation, ensuring that the lessons I’ve learned live on.
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But perhaps the most important part of this journey is continuing to live authentically between both worlds. Just as I once clung to my father’s back as he swam into the deep waters, I now hold tight to the memories of my past, carrying them forward into my future. No matter where life takes me, I’ll continue to embrace both sides of who I am, honoring where I’ve come from while forging ahead.
