More than Mas: A Carnival Letter to the Diaspora

Growing up, many of us thought Carnival was just feathers, flags, and soca. Glitter, wining, and a sweet escape from the everyday. We knew there was a deeper cultural meaning, but the elders often didn’t discuss the past–they’ve been deemed the silent generation for a reason. And no, there was no history lesson in school about us being—loud, defiant, and draped in colour.

While growing up as the Caribbean diaspora, no one told us Caribbean Carnivals across our many beautiful islands weren't created to entertain, but to resist. No one told us Emancipation Day wasn’t just a holiday on some calendars, but a call to remember. And no one told us how much of our cultural heritage was born out of rebellion—of refusing to be erased and quieted.

So this one’s for you—the next generation of the Caribbean diaspora. It’s time you knew what you’re really dancing for.

Table of Contents:

• Dear Diaspora: Know What You Carry

• Carnival as Protest and Proof of Survival

• What’s the Connection Between Emancipation and Carnival?

• What’s Our Role in All This?

• Ask, Learn, Teach—Repeat

• Why Should the Caribbean Diaspora Care About Learning Untaught History?

Dear Diaspora: Know What You Carry

And here’s where it starts to matter even more: What responsibility does the younger generation have to preserve, protect, and deepen Caribbean cultural narratives? A lot.

If you grew up in North America or Western Europe, it’s easy to see Carnival through Instagram lenses—costumes, stages, and vibes. But let’s ask the real question: Why is Carnival more than just a party or parade?

Because every beat, every costume, every dance is a message. A message that says, “We’re still here.” A message rooted in Caribbean history, in survival, and in joy that refused to be crushed.

The truth is, Carnival meaning has always been layered. It’s not just expression, it's strategy. It’s how our ancestors turned mourning into music. How they preserved identity under pressure.

And while many of us grew up far from the islands, our diaspora identity was shaped in neighbourhoods where culture echoed through every block party, corner store, and Saturday morning radio show. In places like London, Toronto, and New York, we built mini-Caribbeans—cultural pockets stitched together with steelpan, spice, and storytelling.

The smell of curry goat from a nearby flat, the boom of soca from a basement party, or the sound of elders playing dominoes and cussing in patois—these were not just memories. They were our culture; a way to stay connected when geography pulled us apart.

Some of us were lucky enough to “go back home” for summer or Christmas holidays—to breathe in island air, chase goats, and feel the Caribbean Sea on our skin. Others lived off secondhand memories: pen pal letters from cousins we’d never met, stories from elders returning “from foreign,” and old photos tucked behind plastic couch covers.

But even when the passport stamps were missing, the narrative tradition filled the gaps. Caribbean culture has always leaned on the power of oral history—on griots, grandmothers, calypsonians, and preachers—each adding layers to the stories we now carry. We didn’t just inherit our culture; we were told it, taught it, sung it.

From Anansi stories to Carnival chants, the rhythm of remembrance has been passed down generation after generation. And that tradition—our ability to speak memory into existence—is just as important today as it ever was.

Learn more about the importance of oral tradition in Caribbean culture in this UNESCO feature on Intangible Cultural Heritage. Explore how Caribbean communities have shaped cities like Toronto and London in this CBC piece on the Caribbean diaspora in Canada and this UK National Archives summary on the Windrush Generation.

And here’s where it starts to matter even more: What responsibility does the younger generation have to preserve, protect, and deepen Caribbean cultural narratives? A lot.

Because without intentional action, the stories get quieter. The beats get blurred. The meanings get lost. And that’s not something we can afford.

Carnival as Protest and Proof of Survival

This year in Saint Lucia, my husband and I had a moment. We weren’t stuck in traffic—we were on a boat in the harbour, taking in the Carnival procession from what some might call an advantaged view. But getting there was a mission.

That morning, we had a choice: brave the streets or take to the sea. With all the roadblocks, diversions, and hold-ups, we decided to pay a premium to travel south by boat—just to avoid the chaos on land. It felt like the only way to see the celebration without losing our minds in gridlock.

As we floated past the shoreline, watching the trucks inch forward in long pauses, we started asking the same questions everyone else was asking: Why is it so disorganized? Why are the streets too narrow for this kind of parade? Why are they using the same route to come down and go back up, clogging the entire system?

That’s when a local St Lucian friend—who had clearly seen this play out before—leaned in and dropped a gem that changed everything.

“Carnival is meant to disrupt,” she said. “It was never designed to be neat and convenient. It was our people taking to the streets, celebrating life and freedom on our terms—not theirs.”

And just like that, it all made sense.

How is Carnival an act of cultural resistance? Because it interrupts. Because it was never meant to comply with someone else’s standards of efficiency or order. It’s not meant to be sanitized or seamless. It’s meant to be seen. To be felt. To rattle the norm.

For generations, our people weren’t even allowed to express joy in public. Music was banned. Drumming was punished. Masquerade was criminalized. And yet—despite it all—we danced. We created. We took to the streets and claimed joy as protest.

Carnival flipped the script. It made joy political. It made music a weapon. It made movement a statement.

So when we complain about the confusion, the crowds, the blocked roads—we’re missing the point. That “chaos” is the point. That “disruption” is the tradition. Because Carnival isn’t just celebration. It’s presence. It’s protest. It’s memory.

What’s the Connection Between Emancipation and Carnival?

In a word: defiance.

When slavery was abolished throughout the British colonies in the Caribbean, Asia, Central/South America, and West Africa in 1834, Black and Indigenous people were “freed” in law but not in life. They weren’t allowed to celebrate in the same ways their former enslavers did. In the Caribbean they created something of their own—raw, loud, disruptive, and beautiful.

They brought Afro-caribbean and indigenous rhythms, costumes, and satire to the streets. They mocked their oppressors. They reclaimed their bodies, their joy, and their right to take up space. This is how Carnival history began.

So when we talk about Emancipation Day, we’re not just remembering a law—we’re honouring a people who turned stolen freedom into full expression. What do Emancipation Day and Carnival really represent? Power and freedom reclaimed.

What’s Our Role in All This?

Here’s the heart of it: diaspora responsibility.

If you’re part of the Caribbean diaspora, you don’t just inherit the culture and beauty and joy of your ancestors. You inherit the duty to keep the meaning alive.

So how can the next generation stay rooted in Caribbean culture?

Let’s start by refusing to take culture at face value because we’ve been lied to for so long.We must ask ourselves: Who created this? Why? What were they fighting for?Then: share what you learn. Correct the lazy narratives or blatant lies. Say something when people reduce us to “party people.” Nothing is wrong with partying, but know why and do so with pride.

Become a steward. A storyteller. A protector of our culture and history.That’s diaspora leadership.

And make sure you feel the joy in it too. Because once you understand it, you stop consuming culture and start living it. By honouring it, you become it. 

Ask, Learn, Teach—Repeat

Why is it important to ask questions and keep traditions alive? Because when we don’t, someone else fills in the blanks. And those blanks become dangerous. They become stereotypes, or worse weapons to oppress.

That’s how we get people thinking all we offer is dance and sun and vibes. We know better. We come from scientists, writers, warriors, and dreamers. So tell that story. Tell our story.

You don’t need to be an expert in Caribbean studies to honour your roots. You just need to care enough to learn. To ask questions. To show up curious and leave a little wiser.

Why Should the Caribbean Diaspora Care About Learning Untaught History?

Because it’s yours. And if you don’t learn it, you risk losing it.

Your identity deserves more than false or flimsy narratives. The more you know, the stronger your roots.

So the next time you’re jumping up on the road or you see the feathers, the flags, the frenzy—look deeper. You’re not just watching a parade. You’re witnessing your history of resistance come to life.