I grew up when reggae was finding its roots
When reggae was suspect
When Rasta meant trouble
When dreadlocks closed doors
and the music was blamed
for what the country didn’t want to face

Flashback—seventies Jamaica
Transistor radios
balanced on window sills
Needles dropping on scratched vinyl
while elders shook their heads:
“Turn down dat”
“Change de station”
“Dat a no music”

Reggae wasn’t welcomed then
It was scrutinized, watched
Dreadlocks meant no job,
no classroom
Rastas crossing the street
to avoid harassment
Church sermons thick with warning
Babylon named, not understood as
Rasta knew it—as rebellion
not revelation

Sound systems told a different story
Boxes stacked like monuments
Bass ricocheting off zinc fences
Beats thumping through yards where truth was louder than fear
Reggae carried news
The sentiments of a people in the struggle
Stories the national newspaper wouldn’t headline

It survived
on borrowed amps
on spiritualism and repetition
on voices that refused to be silent:
Toots and the Maytals helped to name the genre:
“Do the Reggay,” Toots said in 1968
The Wailers—Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Bunny Wailer—grounded reggae in social reality and Rastafarian thought
Then came Jimmy Cliff, preparing global audiences for reggae

Now look—

The same music once dismissed
is Jamaica’s loudest ambassador
The same rhythms once scorned
now open world stages
Reggae feeds families
Fuels festivals
Artists across the world
build careers on this foundation—
our basslines under their success,
our cadence shaping their sound

Some cite the source
Some remix and rename it
But the root remains—
Reggae.
Jamaica.

So Reggae Month is a pause to remember
how we once doubted our own voice
and how that voice
went on to teach the world
how to listen

Reggae—
waited.
endured.
proved itself.

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In creative solidarity, Dee