Why Can’t We Celebrate Us as a Caribbean Nation?

There is something deeply disheartening about watching Caribbean people — proud, talented, vibrant — consistently bypass their own achievements for validation from foreign shores. It’s in the way we erupt in celebration when one of our artists wins a Grammy or appears on a major international platform. It’s in the way entertainers plaster “Grammy-nominated” or “MOBO winner” across their bios and media kits, yet fail to acknowledge — let alone uplift — the recognition given by their own Caribbean institutions.

Why is it that we, as a people, are so quick to praise the Oscars, the Grammys, the BET Awards, and the MOBOs, but when our own Caribbean award shows, publications, and institutions honor our creatives, the silence is deafening?

Our entertainers share every foreign article that mentions them, no matter how small the blurb. But when Caribbean media houses — often the first to recognize them, the first to interview them, and the first to support their rise — publish feature stories or award recognitions, there's rarely a repost, a thank you, or a public nod of respect. It's as if the value of our own voice isn’t enough unless it echoes through the halls of the UK or the U.S.

We label ourselves “Grammy winners,” but we hesitate to proudly proclaim “Caribbean Music Award Winner” or “Best Soca Album from the CMEA.” Why? Is it because we’ve been conditioned to believe that only foreign validation counts? Is it because colonial mentality still lingers, wrapped in glitz and gold statues?

Caribbean recognition should mean more. It comes from people who understand our music, our culture, our dialects, our struggles, and our triumphs. It comes from those who don’t see Dancehall, Soca, Zouk, or Calypso as “exotic genres”—they” see them as identity, as home.

When Bob Marley sang of redemption, when Kitchener waved the flag of Calypso, when Rihanna declared her roots from Barbados — those weren’t just musical moments, they were affirmations of pride. Yet somewhere along the line, we’ve learned to celebrate only when the world notices us, not when we notice us.

Our Caribbean awards, blogs, platforms, and media houses matter. They are not second-best. They are the foundation. They document history, shape narratives, and give the next generation something to aspire to from within. But they can only thrive if we start putting respect on their names — if our artists repost, celebrate, attend, acknowledge, and believe in them.

It’s time we stop living in the shadow of foreign validation. The Caribbean is not a supporting act on the global stage — it is the stage. Let’s start acting like it. Let’s celebrate us.

Because if we don’t, who will?