Connecting with My African Roots

By Carmen Barclay Subryan Ph.D.

This book is not only about connection but also about discovery. As an adult, through my years or reading and research, I became aware of the theories revolving around Pangea (Pangaea), the super continent existing over 300 million years ago that included Africa and South America. The theory is that it broke apart to form the Americas, the Atlantic Ocean, as well as many islands. If one looks at a globe or a map, one would see that Africa and South America fit together like a hand in a glove, and if one believes the theory, then these countries share a common ancestry. So even though what became known as The Middle Passage separated the two continents, the people undoubtedly retain the DNA of those ancestors that creates a forever connection between what was and what is. For this reason, the picture of Pangea on my book cover is exceedingly important.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664175242

Carmen Barclay Subryan Ph.D.

As a child, Carmen Barclay Subryan lived in Retrieve, Mackenzie, where the roots of her mother’s ancestors, the Allicocks, run deep into the history of the region. She attended Christianburg Scots School, where she later taught, Mackenzie High School, and Guyana Teachers College. In 1968, she immigrated to the USA to attend Howard University in Washington, D.C. There she received a B.A magna cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, an M.A., and in 1983, a Ph.D. degree, all in English. In 1974, she began teaching at Howard University, retiring in 2015 after 41 years there. She is the mother of two daughters, two grandsons and one granddaughter. Always interested in her roots, Carmen has penned three novels, Black-Water Women, Black-Water People, and Black-Water Children, based loosely on the Allicock family history. She has also authored three books of poetry, Reprise, Rachel’s Tears, and Sketches: People-Watching in the U S of A. In 2016, she published a book of short stories entitled Realities: Stories from our Times. In addition, she has written three booklets about the Linden area: “The Story of Christianburg”, “The Story of Wismar” and “The Story of Mackenzie”. In May 2017, on her return from a six and a half month stay in Guyana, she began Stepping on Cracks: Reflections on my Homeland which she completed in 2018. After having her DNA analyzed in 2018, Dr. Subryan immediately started her book Finding my Roots and other Stories. Although she was aware of her European roots, she was so stunned by the numerous African countries that her ancestors called home that she bemoaned the fact that these roots would never be unearthed and explored. This led to an in depth examination of her connection to her “Africanness” in her latest book Connecting with my African Roots as well as the surprises and disappointment revealed. An avid reader, Carmen is focusing on developing a love of reading in children and to this end she distributed copies of her book Black-Water People to high school students in the Linden area.

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Copyright © 2021 by Carmen Barclay Subryan Ph.D.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 05/24/2021

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Preface

Acknowledgements

BOOK ONE

PART 1 THE AFRICAN IN ME

ancestral roots and DNA makeup African connections–birth; maturity and marriage; death; religion; mysticism

PART 2 THE AFRICAN IN ME 2

Perceptions about back people and physical features; tone of voice; loud grieving; music and dance; clothing connections; language; names; women’s role; commerce; ear piercing and jewelry; hair braiding; discipline; food connections; herbs and tonics

Preface 2

BOOK TWO

PART 3 UNRAVELLING TRUTHS

The world divided; Portuguese exploration and trade; African resistance to foreigners; African involvement in slavery; the blame game about slavery; African remorse over slavery; modern slavery

PART 4 THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE

Reflections; reactions to being African; reparations; call to return to Africa; my life in Guyana; my life in America

References

Addendum

Pictures and documents

About the Author

DEDICATION

To the millions of ancestors sold by their countrymen to slavers who transported them across the Middle Passage to a life of hell in the New World

NOBODY CAN TEACH ME WHO I AM. YOU CAN DESCRIBE PARTS OF ME BUT WHO I AM AND WHAT I NEED—IS SOMETHING I HAVE TO FIND OUT FOR MYSELF

Chinua Achebe

NO PEOPLE CAN LIVE SUCCESSFULLY, FRUITFULLY, TRIUMPHANTLY WITHOUT STRONG MEMORY OF THEIR PAST, WITHOUT READING THE FUTURE WITHIN THE CONTEXT OF SOME REASSURING PAST, WITHOUT IMPLANTING REMINDERS OF THAT PAST IN THE PRESENT

Randall Robinson

PREFACE

This book is not only about connection but also about discovery. As an adult, through my years of reading and research, I became aware of the theories revolving around Pangea (Pangaea), the super continent existing over 300 million years ago that included Africa and South America. The theory is that it broke apart to form the Americas, the Atlantic Ocean, as well as many islands. If one looks at a globe or a map, one would see that Africa and South America fit together like a hand in a glove, and if one believes the theory, then these countries share a common ancestry. So even though what became known as The Middle Passage separated the two continents, the people undoubtedly retain the DNA of those ancestors that creates a forever connection between what was and what is. For this reason, the picture of Pangea on my book cover is exceedingly important.

As one who was skeptical of DNA testing, however, I never envisioned that I would have my DNA analyzed. However, after viewing shows where DNA testing was central to the outcome and shows chronicling how numerous personalities had discovered their roots as well as unknown family, I took the plunge, dutifully swabbing my inner cheeks, mailing the kit off, and waiting in anticipation for the results. Surely, I thought, my complicated heritage would not be revealed.

But I was wrong. Ironically, I, a black woman, was aware of my European ancestry that I had traced as far back as the 1750’s to a white Scottish ancestor who owned a plantation in Guyana, my country of birth; this he willed to a colored woman with whom he had eight children. I had also traced my maternal ancestry to a German immigrant to Guyana. And I was aware of my trace Indigenous roots. But the greatest part of me…my almost 80% African roots… was unearthed. What did I know about the nine African countries that fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle to produce my entire picture? Sadly, I realized that there was no way to research these ancestors who had been transported across The Middle Passage and stripped of their identities in the lands in which they found themselves. But I had to try and come to grips with my reality. In doing so, I not only connected with the pieces that melded together to create a unique me, but, surprisingly, I discovered the undeniable role that many African ancestors had played in the trans-Atlantic slave trade and how their actions helped to crush the soul of a people.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Sincere thanks is accorded to the people who have taken this journey with me during this difficult year dominated by the Covid19 pandemic. Specifically, I am grateful for the conscientious friends who read my entire manuscript and made corrections and suggestions. Among these are Dr. Carmen Bovell, Merlyn Crandon Enyi, and Vashti Hinds, all of whom took a special interest in this project. Thanks also to Roy Brummell and Pastor Kwesi Oginga who read parts of my manuscript. To Dr. Kimani Nehusi and Patrick Bathersfield, proud sons of the village movement in Guyana, who helped to develop my African consciousness by suggesting important articles and books, I am grateful for your input. Lastly, I owe deep gratitude to Judge Leon Kendall, my final reader, who carefully proofread my manuscript and whose comments served as a challenge for me to revisit some of my conclusions.

BOOK ONE

PART 1

THE AFRICAN IN ME

THE PAST IS NEVER DEAD. IT’S NOT EVEN PAST.

William Faulkner

I

Since the widespread use of DNA in this modern age, many individuals are acknowledging its importance, and even some diehard skeptics are now opting for the analysis. Like me, some do so out of a sense of curiosity to confirm or disprove what they may know about their roots. But my results showed that the roots I was long aware of—my European roots— comprised about 20% of my DNA. Ironically, for decades, I have celebrated these roots of my ancestors from Scotland, Ireland, and Germany, my majority African roots being lost to me, and I grew up in a place where my Scottish ancestor had owned a great deal of land in the area, and it was this history with which I was acquainted.

So even though I am a black woman, the undercurrents of another race seemed to be pulling me under, so much so that I set out on a journey to discover my roots. I had long heard whispers that my family had been in Guyana since the mid 1750’s, and in 1999 when I was a part of the first reunion celebrating my Allicock roots, my maternal line, I acquired a copy of my Scottish ancestor’s will probated in 1822 by his friend and countryman John D. Paterson (Patterson) who owned Plantation Christianburg across the Demerara River from Allicock’s Plantation Noit Gedaght, later renamed Retrieve. These two families had even intermarried to produce some of my modern day relatives. I read with amazement the five pages on the first of which (labelled Fourth) were these words:

I give and bequeath unto the Free coloured Woman Ann Mansfield the whole of the Land called Noit Gedaght with the Buildings as they now stand, also all of my Household Furniture, Cattle and the following slaves vis Venture Hope, Susannah, Judy, Hannah, and her children Queen Kam, King and Christmas with all their future increase to have and to hold during the period of her natural life, and at her death to be equally divided between her Children hereafter to be named to them and their heirs for ever.

And these children, all eight of whom he named, were to be educated and given an inheritance when each attained the age of twenty-five.

Eventually, the biennial Allicock reunions, held in different locations in the United States, became a pilgrimage for me, a sapodilla brown woman who connected with Allicock descendants from far and near, people varying in color from white to black and everything in-between—a kaleidoscope of colors united by the blood of the white Scotsman Robert Frederick Allicock. Living at Mackenzie (McKenzie) in the Upper Demerara River, then the second largest city in Guyana, South America, it was among these relatives that I resided for the first twelve years of my life, these differently colored people with their secrets and angst. Even when I was a child, I longed to unravel their truths and discover how I fit in.

The first family reunion in 1999 opened my eyes and thrust me into a fascinating world that I was determined to explore. So I started on my journey, researching every lead, grasping at every miniscule bit of information. I read of the Allicocks court battle with the Demerara Bauxite Company (DEMBA), an ALCOA company run by Canadians that had acquired much of the Allicock land in 1914, (some say by trickery because George Bain Mackenzie (McKenzie), an American geologist sent to buy land in the area, claimed that he wanted land to plant oranges), opening a bauxite plant in 1916. I acquired a transcript of the last lawsuit between the Allicocks and DEMBA that was decided in the Supreme Court of British Guiana in 1960 as well as a copy of the Allicock Trace Record that a family member had painstakingly assembled when in the mid 1950’s DEMBA ordered them to vacate the 4,901 acres of Plantation Noit Gedacht (later renamed Retrieve) that Allicock had bought in 1757. DEMBA claimed the land as theirs since the company had bought it in 1914 with other parcels from about 200 residents, many of them Allicocks, but had allowed the family to remain there for a period of up to 49 years or until the company was ready to develop it. In the 1950s when the company was ready to take the bauxite process to the next level by building an alumina plant, the family was forced to relocate after losing several lawsuits against DEMBA. However, the company did compensate residents because of expediency. And through it all, I connected with numerous area residents, many of them even schoolmates, who I never knew were my relatives. (See documents in the Appendix)

II

With the advancement of DNA research, I became fascinated by the way secrets were being unlocked after numerous decades, and I became an avid viewer of forensic shows. So I finally took the challenge, dutifully swabbing my inner cheek, and mailing off the sample; then I waited in anticipation. Surely, the analysis could not unravel my complicated heritage, I thought. After all, several of my close friends were skeptical of the process, and even some who had had their DNA analyzed were so confounded by the results that they dismissed them as bogus. Surprisingly, the results confirmed my maternal grandfather’s Scottish and Irish roots and my grandmother’s German roots that I had long been aware of, and even listed my small percentage Indigenous (Amerindian) DNA. Actually, Robert Frederick Allicock had a daughter named Nancy with an Indigenous woman to whom he bequeathed land about 20 miles south of Plantation Noit Gedacht in his will. So my trace Indigenous roots may have come from this connection or another line. As a child, I remember my mother introducing me to an Indigenous woman who she said was our cousin and my godmother. I saw this woman occasionally when she paddled from Kara Kara Creek across the Demerara River to attend church, but I never stayed in touch perhaps because at that time Indigenous people were referred to as bucks and perceived as inferior and I no doubt bought into the stereotypes.

Then came the surprise of my life: almost 80% of my DNA came from Africa. Of course, I know that I am of African descent, but I never would have suspected the scope of my African roots. What did I know about the nine countries listed in my full report…Cameroon, Congo, Nigeria, Benin, Togo, Ghana, Ivory Coast, Senegal and Mali? I could only ask myself, Who am I? And checking the long list of cousins, close and far, in the report there were no real surprises because I was aware of many names from my European family trees that the Allicock and Stolls had assembled over the years. However, I did confirm a rumor that two of my sisters had married their cousins.

How could I connect with my majority roots, these people whose blood flowed through my veins? I mused. How deeply buried were my African roots? Although my maternal great (several times) grandmother was a mulatto, I am in no way acquainted with her roots. I only know that she had eight children with Robert Frederick Allicock and that she lived with him on Plantation Noit Gedacht in what is now Linden in the Upper Demerara River. It was to her that he willed his plantation. However, there are a few stories about Ann Mansfield that are a part of family lore. Was she the daughter of a white plantation owner and an enslaved woman who some claimed was an African princess, or was she herself an enslaved princess as some believed? Indeed, the two suggestions may be related because if her mother were a princess or just a woman who had been raped by a white plantation owner, her child may have been sold to R.F Allicock as was the case when some wives demanded it. Since I cannot validate any such theory about my maternal African roots, however, I will focus mainly on my paternal ancestors who relocated from Berbice to the Linden area.

But how could I invoke the ghosts of these African ancestors to come to me and occupy a space in my consciousness? Of course, being a voracious reader, I had read of their being the first humans, of their great civilizations, of the greed and treachery of the Europeans who transported them to other countries as slaves, robbed them of their culture, broke apart their families, and left them adrift in alien lands. Then I realized that even though I will never know these ancestors, they are in me; they are me, and one way to connect with them was to examine myself so as to discover the African in me.

III

In order to make a clear examination, however, I had to come to grips with prejudices rooted deep within my psyche. Growing up in what I in later years termed Allicock country, I was only marginally aware of the villages located in many parts of Guyana where residents were proud of their African roots and celebrated their triumphs after slavery was abolished in British Guiana in 1834. These facts were not in any books I studied while attending school in colonial British Guiana. But with the guidance of some of my friends who were proud of not only their village roots but also their African heritage, I commenced my education.

Imagine my astonishment when I learned of Africans who had pooled their wages, much of which was earned during Guyana’s period of apprenticeship 1934 –1938, to purchase defunct estates and set up villages for themselves. Stories of the birth of villages such as Victoria, Buxton, Friendship, Beterverwagting, Golden Grove, Queenstown, and Dartmouth mesmerized me. (When I see the names of these villages, however, I am surprised that the emancipated Africans opted for names like Queenstown, Victoria, and Dartmouth honoring their oppressors rather than for African names.) No doubt this is an example of the deep effects of slavery that did not allow them to emancipate yourself (themselves) from mental slavery as sung by Bob Marley.

How had this education escaped me? As I reflected, I realized that my family in the Upper Demerara area, descendants of a white Scottish plantation owner and a colored woman, identified with him, eschewing their African roots that no doubt came from white men mating with enslaved African women…some even denying the existence of these roots or simply ignoring them. Many were seriously conflicted, grasping at the straws of a colonial past that had stripped the country of its riches and left some residents longing for the good old days. And when some spoke of the villages, they assessed the residents who tried to embrace their African roots as backward troublemakers.

My very light skinned mother was one of these conflicted people when it came to race, she who had a jet black husband and ten children, some light skinned, some dark skinned. Yet she seemed to identify with whiteness, as did many others in Allicock country. Just like many children in that area, I was admonished to speak properly, (that translated to using the King’s English), encouraged to befriend children just like me and to stay away from loud hooligans, especially those who used broken English, the Guyanese dialect that was viewed as a mark of inferiority. Sometimes in that area there were even tea parties where girls dressed in frilly frocks, some even with gloves, emulated little English maidens! And there was May pole plaiting, as well as church socials, English country dancing and, for some, balls in the colonial tradition. In school we, who resided in a tropical country, learned of different seasons— even sang about them. I distinctly recall a song etched in my memory that our school choir sang for concerts:

In January falls the snow

In February cold winds blow

In March peeps out the early flowers

In April comes the sunny showers

In May the roses bloom so gay

In June the farmer makes his hay

In July brightly shines the sun

In August harvest has begun

September turns the green leaves brown

October winds then shake them down

November fills with bleak and drear

December comes and ends the year.

We also sang Ye Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon, Speed Bonnie Boat like a Bird on the Wing/ Onward the sailors cry/Carry the lad that’s born to be king/Over the sea to Skye, as well as When Irish Eyes are Smiling and learned about different flowers in an English country garden. And ironically we were still singing Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves!/Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

But in those days that was all we knew since we were products of an English colonial past who, totally indoctrinated, were proud of our association with the British, and the lighter we were the prouder we seemed. Once when I was in primary school a very light skinned Allicock cousin told me that if she had blue eyes she would be a white person! Ironically, my mother, whose birth certificate listed her as mixed native of British Guiana, was the granddaughter of a white forefather and a free colored woman who would no doubt be termed black in today’s society. Indeed, my mother Sybil Allicock was so light skinned that once when she came to my high school, some of my classmates who did not know my family claimed that she could not possibly be my mother; later, they teased me unmercifully, claiming that she had found me on the river bank and adopted me.

IV

Galvanized into action after receiving my DNA results, I made a conscious effort to explore my Africanness, even though I acknowledged that there was little hope of connecting with any living African relatives on the continent. So knowing that the road to my African roots wound its way partly through Berbice, I started with my father’s family who hailed from the Alness and Ulviston regions in Corentyne, Berbice, whose family I later realized consisted to two different branches. My father was Lawrence Barclay, a last name he no doubt inherited from slave owners that caused some school mates to call me Barclay’s Bank and ask me for money. It is only lately that I discovered that this family name may indeed have originated from Barclay’s Bank because in the 18th and 19th centuries brothers David and Alexander Barclay, Quakers related to the founding fathers, were major investors who benefited from the slave trade even though the bank tried to distance itself from it. (face2faceafrica.com Nii NTREH Staff writer Nov 6 2019 (History). My father had relocated to the Upper Demerara area with his mother and three siblings while his father and several children by a different mother remained in Berbice. As a child, I knew my grandmother, my uncle, two aunts, and some cousins who lived on the east bank of the Demerara River at Amelia’s Ward, a one-time area plantation, (no doubt coffee because of the many trees on the property), less than a mile from the Allicocks, my mother’s family. But we were never close.

I can recall just a few visits to their home site, and even as a child, I recognized an undercurrent of discord between my mother and these dark skinned in-laws. I remember paddling down the river with my dad and a few siblings on a few rare visits, sitting silent and unengaged in the little living room as my mind wandered to the many fruit trees on the property that I longed to plunder. Once I even managed to escape to the paradise outside with my brother, only to be aware of my grandmother, a truly black African woman, yelling from the back door, Yuh all bring yuh backside here; yuh just come to pick mih fruits! Apparently she was not too thrilled to see us, and when we saw her in church on Sundays, she wore her church face, a stern visage–protruding lips pursed together in a thin line– that discouraged intimacy. Many times we did not even greet her after church, her acerbic nature repelling us like a mosquito bite. However, my father’s brother, who worked at the Demerara Bauxite Company with him, was a popular, affable bachelor who paddled his canoe to work each day and when he met us at the market or elsewhere, he would buy us sweets and even give us money.

We rarely visited my dad’s family on his father’s side because they lived in Berbice, and transportation was a problem at that time; yet when I was a pre-teen, I recall a visit with two siblings to Alness on the Corentyne because of the numerous mosquitos that feasted on