At the Crossroads of Preservation and Modern Caribbean Identity

Just 2 weeks ago, I posted this TikTok, about J’ouvert and the paper I wrote on it eight years ago. I’d taken a class at Concordia University called The City After Dark where we explored how societal binaries, including gender, shape perceptions of nighttime as both dangerous and liberating, and how the influence of status, location, income, and technology impact an individual’s access to nighttime. J’ouvert seemed like the perfect addition to the discussion. If you don’t already know, J’ouvert is a celebration unique to Trinidad, that takes place overnight with the festivities rounding out as the sun comes up on Carnival Monday. I spoke about going so far to describe the it as a form of counter-culture, rooted in resistance against colonial control. Shortly after, news circulated about a Dancehall J’ouvert set to take place over Caribana weekend, backed by a Trinidadian promoter. According to their website, the idea is that there’s been a “glitch in the system,” and as a result, will play 100% dancehall music in place of rhythm sections and calypso or soca music. I figured if a Trini thinks it’s okay, who am I to enter the chat? But I also asked myself, how will the culture be protected if I don’t model the advocacy I often seek?

I saw several people asking whether dancehall even fits the spirit of J’ouvert—and musically, I get it. Dancehall doesn’t really lend itself to the same kind of full-bodied, ancestral movement that soca does. For me, it still goes a lot deeper than that. It's not just about BPM, a particular rhythm or lyrical theme. It’s about preservation.

I’ve said this before—J’ouvert is not just a party. It began as a protest. A space carved out by formerly enslaved African people who took to the streets with paint, oil, mud, and music, not just to celebrate but to subvert. They mocked colonizers with masquerade, they transformed pain into pageantry through characters like the Jab Molassie and Moko Jumbie. That’s what gave it depth and made it sacred. To me, that’s what we’re in danger of losing. Somewhere along the way, J’ouvert became a gathering of women in monokinis, men in balaclavas, and the hypersexualization of their coming together. When we strip away the history and only centre what’s hype-worthy, we lose something essential to Carnival. More importantly, we signal to others (brands, promoters, outsiders) that this culture is up for rebranding. That anything goes, as long as it sells.

That’s the part I can’t make peace with.

Pictured: A group of Moko Jumbies in 2025.

This isn’t about “Trinidad vs. Jamaica.” I love both. My heritage includes both so I understand our connections but this isn’t about who’s allowed in, it’s about what we’re all responsible for when we show up.

If we treat J’ouvert like it’s just another party, another photo-op or backdrop for brand activations, then of course it becomes easier for the deeper meaning to be flattened out. I mean, we can’t expect reverence from others if we’re not showing it ourselves. That flattening shows up in more ways than just the music choice. It’s in how women are positioned, too. These parties increasingly lean on the objectification of women to sell tickets and craft content for social media. Female bodies are framed as spectacles with their value tied to the amount of skin they show. Carnival, which was meant to free us from colonial shame and allow space for agency, now gets repackaged through the lens of hypersexuality with little to no context. To be real for a second, that’s not exactly liberation, it’s marketing and pandering to the male gaze. Like I said in the TikTok, liberation can look different from one woman to another but if J’ouvert is strictly associated with nakedness, we’re buying into the same oppression we vowed to leave behind. On top of that, there’s this creeping pressure to capture everything. To turn even our most sacred cultural moments into something instantly consumable. We film before we feel and in doing so, we risk replacing any embodiment of the J’ouvert spirit with surface-level images.

Still, this post isn’t a call to stop the parties. It’s a signal to return to their purpose. To ask ourselves what we’re really celebrating and why. The thing is that music and memory are connected and when we let one shift without questioning the other, we start to lose more than just tradition. We lose the opportunity to honour the people who built these rituals with limited tools and limitless heart.

I’m glad I chose to speak up (and write), to explore the intersection of culture, memory, and modern Caribbean identity. If our cultural practices were born from rebellion, then protecting them is also a form of resistance.