My journey from hiding to being myself
By Mary Cummings
Long before Brown Girl in the Ring became a hit for the group Boney M., it was a game played in playgrounds across the Caribbean.
Brown girl in the ring
Tra la la la la
There’s a brown girl in the ring
Tra la la la la la
Brown girl in the ring
Tra la la la la
She looks like a sugar in a plum
Plum plum
My 85-year-old mum says she remembers playing it as a girl in Barbados. Decades later, our daughters played it when my husband Anthony took them to the Caribbean Island of Carriacou (one of the Grenadines) to see his mum in 2016.
The girls had stayed with their cousins one weekend, and they’d all spent the day in Sabazan Bay, one of the beaches within walking distance of their village, Mount Royal.
They walked along Big Road and down a steep hill, ‘below shop’ — the lower part of the village — to dense woods where apparently, there’s a clear path to the bay. I’ve never been able to discern one at all — the ground layered with ‘pica’ and ‘zootie’ stinging nettles, fallen branches, twigs, and leaves.
Hidden in the woods are remnants of a plantation estate, Sabazan, with its dilapidated outhouses and ammunition storage, and after a short clearing, an old dried-up well and a disused mill. Each curiosity has a local name and folklore behind it. As typical townies, our girls loved that mini adventure through ‘the wild.’
Then, at the edge of the woods, they stumbled across the dozen or so palm trees lined along the soft white sand, bending towards the ocean as if taking in the view — the still blue horizon. I bet the girls gasped, “Wow-wee.”
After splashing around in the shallows, the children chased each other around the beach until they’d dried off and were hungry enough to tuck into their packed lunch. The boys played hide-and-seek, and the girls played catch and Brown Girl in the Ring.
The game is a simple one. Girls hold hands to form a ring, each one taking a turn to be in the centre, and as the others around her sing along, she’ll dance, hence the second verse of the song, “Show me your motion, tra la la la la.”
Her motion can be anything — a slight shimmy of the hips to a full-on boogie — whatever she fancies doing, so long as she looks cute. Sweet like sugar in a plum.
On the face of it, the game is just an excuse for a bit of rhythm, fun, and laughter.
On another level, it’s the first flutter of belonging, about being seen and celebrated, a reminder that you’re part of something larger, yet for that moment, the centre of attention. A clap, a twirl, a step into the middle, warmed by everyone’s gaze.
But on a deeper level, perhaps subconsciously, there’s a lesson on how to behave to earn approval: which moves win applause or are met with a smirk, which parts of us feel welcomed or cause discomfort, how to shine without outshining, or how to take up space without taking too much.
We all learn this choreography somewhere in this game we call Life, and the metaphorical ring doesn’t always gaze kindly. We soon learn to read the room — are we the right age, body size, shape, ethnicity, skin colour, sexual orientation, ability, gender, or any of the other codes that signal acceptance?
I’ve always felt I was precariously balancing between belonging and being accepted, living in quiet dissonance between who I am and how others saw me — with me constantly adjusting the lighting so they could bear to look.
If only I had the courage to leave the damned switch alone.
“I must admit, Mary, I liked your hair as it was before.”
Our CEO’s executive assistant clumsily tried to land a subtle hint. I knew this wasn’t casual interest — I’d psyched myself up for the conversation all weekend. My new, shoulder-length African braids would stand out in an office where polished, straight hair was considered the norm.
I decided to play dumb. “That’s sweet of you to say, Joanna.”
I could almost hear cogwheels screech, catch, then stall as she tried to find a polite way to say what was on her mind.
“What I meant was, why did you change it?”
My hair was damaged — dry and brittle from using chemical relaxers to disguise its natural kinks and curls for a straighter, sleeker look. Installing braid extensions meant my hair could have a well-needed rest while it repaired itself. But none of this was Joanna’s business, and I wasn’t sure she’d understand.
I smiled, trying to keep it light. “Time for something different, I guess.”
Thin braids were swept neatly behind my ears. No noisy beads or outlandish colours that could be deemed garish, and nothing in the Employee Handbook suggested they weren’t appropriate.
“But it’s not quite us, is it, Mary? For a professional office, I mean.”
Office culture spoke louder than the Employee Handbook.
For the next few days, Joanna struggled to hide her disapproval and eventually summoned me into her office “for a private word.”
We couldn’t appear too casual as clients were often on the premises. The CEO wasn’t used to this type of display. It might be best for all if I changed my hair to avoid giving the wrong impression. It was entirely up to me, of course, but this really was her best advice given the office’s image. No offence.
I’d been with the firm since 1985 and had gradually climbed my way up, eventually reaching the summit — the top floor — in 1995. To fit in over the years, I had allowed parts of me to slip quietly out of view.
Natural warmth had hardened into cold professionalism lest I seem casual or over-friendly. I reined in self-confidence to avoid coming across as arrogant or a threat. I was often caught off guard by “You’re so articulate and well dressed,” but not wanting to seem confrontational, I would simply smile, even though it never felt like a compliment. And I rarely spoke about my Caribbean heritage — I’d heard ‘no offence’ often enough to know when I was being stereotyped or pigeon-holed.
One board member ignored me entirely. It wasn’t unusual for the board to be cosseted by their assistants to the point that they rarely spoke with staff outside their inner circle, but as a board assistant myself who needed to speak with them freely, I was meant to be part of that inner circle. Only, I wasn’t. Conversation or banter would freeze as soon as I approached. His assistant would glide forward — a polite, practiced interception — with papers in hand and a fixed smile, sparing either me or him the embarrassment of an unwanted encounter. I didn’t have the nerve to call him out, so I would circumvent him as best I could.
But these were all personal trade-offs — invisible to others — my flawed attempts at trying to survive. Being told to change my hair was another matter altogether. That was an affront.
“No offence, Joanna,” I replied, “but my hair is perfectly fine. It’ll stay as it is until I’m ready for a change.”
Maya Angelou once said, “When someone shows you who they are the first time, believe them.” Joanna had shown me a kind of entitlement that I knew I wouldn’t be able to stomach. I wouldn’t be able to continue working closely with her after that.
I left a few months later that year, in September 2004, burnt out, as much from what I later learned was from the negative effects of code-switching[1] as from the demands of the job itself.
It took me decades to learn that fitting in is not the same as belonging. Fitting in demands that you self-edit. Belonging allows you to bring your whole self.
I experienced what my whole self felt like in my final employed role before becoming a freelancer. I had researched and sought out companies with a track record of creating inclusive work environments, and after finding The One, settled in immediately with my new colleagues despite — or perhaps because of — our varied backgrounds. It felt exhilarating to be part of a progressive workforce, and I contributed what was possibly the best work of my entire career because, finally, I was visible. I could express myself authentically — encouraged as an equal, not tolerated as a token.
My clients are, similarly, treated to my warmth, sincerity, natural curls, and professionalism in equal measure. But I’m fortunate I work for myself. It’s disheartening to see that people from marginalized communities still feel they can’t be themselves in the corporate world[2].
It’s normal to switch and adapt your behaviour to suit a professional or social environment, but to manage switching effectively, career advisor The Muse[3] advises:
- Notice when and why you do it. Awareness is the first step to understanding whether it serves a connection or costs you comfort.
- Aim for balance. Adjust when it feels natural, but don’t let constant adapting silence who you are.
- Treat it as a choice, not as an obligation. Use code-switching to build bridges, not to shrink yourself.
- Spend time in spaces that feel safe. Seek colleagues, mentors, or communities where you don’t have to edit your identity.
- Speak up for inclusion. If you can, encourage workplaces to value every voice and style of expression.
To borrow from Sting’s Englishman in New York:
It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile
Be yourself, no matter what they say.
Because belonging begins exactly there. In the courage to smile and stay yourself, no matter who’s watching.
This article first appeared on the Medium website .
Mary Cummings is a Non-Fiction Editor, Writing Coach and Wistful Blue Note Jazz-lover.