What Speed’s visit says about success here

The following article was submitted by Nevaeh Holder, a sixth-form student of Queen’s College.

LAST WEEK MONDAY, iShowSpeed, an American livestreamer with over 52 million subscribers on YouTube, was escorted from Foundation School to Rihanna Drive. At every stop, he was met with screams from adoring fans of school-aged children.

But like many older Bajans, my parents were confused. Who was this young man? Why was he barking? Why, they wondered, are we celebrating a man who encourages children to run from school straight to the beach?

It revealed the divide between young and old better than any Down To Brasstacks call.

Gen Xers and Boomers had a script. You met at school, church, a club or work. You dated, got married and had two-and-a-half kids. You worked an honest job and you were happy. Because what else was there to life in Barbados?

The Internet quietly dismantled that for our generation.

Why resign yourself to a nine-to-five job when popularity feels like the only currency that matters globally? Or why stay to build a life in a country where the average community is ageing? A country where every aspect of life accommodates those who are settling into middle age and there’s nothing new for the young beyond the odd fair, movie night, picnic or fete. Where are the third spaces? No, Starbucks runs don’t count.

To my generation, relevance isn’t a feature in the newspaper. It’s not enough to be recognised by locals. Popularity is a global affair – 10 000 eyes are not enough, we want one million. iShowSpeed had over three million eyes on us for four hours. It made my little island home feel like a real place on the global stage, not just a footnote in a CNN Weather Report during Florida’s hurricane season.

In a landscape of despair and death, that stream felt like proof of life. Unity and a collective promise to not mess this up.

As local personality Dunksman put it, “There was a mobbaton of young people on the road today, and not one single fight or any sort of violence occurred.”

Most of the Barbadian news is dominated by what older generations are interested in. Largely because they make up the majority of the decision-making public. Consequently, we rarely see anything global or youthoriented. To the critics asking “What does Speed do?” as he barks on a livestream, I ask you to recall that attention is the biggest currency today.

The difference is that most tourists and most Bajan influencers don’t bring two million eyes with them and a foreign audience. Barbados is too small to believe we can sustain ourselves in a vacuum. We’ve always survived on a diplomatic model of making ties with bigger countries to support our economy.

If that means subsidising the chaos of an American streamer for a day, that’s a price worth paying. It makes being from here feel a little less insignificant. It’s millions of people being forced to take a country seriously that they may have never even heard of before.

It made us feel seen in a way a “Visit Barbados” ad never could. It was the one time adults, who make up the majority of those in power, had nothing to say. Everyone was on their best behaviour.

There was a concerted effort to make ourselves look our very best. Something only we would understand and it was impossible to ignore. In a way, that’s all we want – to be seen and deemed important not just by older Barbadians but by the world.

But the influencer dream isn’t the real problem. There’s a quieter threat.

The 90 per cent we don’t talk about

I was ten years old, sitting in the waiting room of a radio station waiting to record a voiceover, when I saw it. A magazine on a coffee table. The headline: Brain Drain In Barbados. Young professionals leaving because the opportunities weren’t good enough. The pay wasn’t enough. The island wasn’t enough.

I spent my adolescence resenting the idea of a small island. Here we are Caribbean youth, being handed privileges our parents never had, but being prepared for a world that looks nothing like theirs was at our age.

Here’s what made me stop seeing Barbados as a handicap. Honestly? I had to stop seeing opportunities as “too small” for me. I had to accept that sometimes you must start small to prove you can be big.

The lesson came when students were chosen for internships and programmes I’d never heard of. Oftentimes, the people chosen were not the ones with the highest grades but instead, were the most visible. They were simply the ones who showed up when called upon repeatedly. Who weren’t afraid to put themselves out there. I learnt that the hard way.

Bajans see education as the ticket to success. So, if you’re scoring the highest grades you must be on the trajectory of a CEO or future prime minister, right?

Feeling behind while watching others get ahead made me reflect on my choices. I isolated myself to become a better artist and I did the same to become a “better student” and that still wasn’t enough. Perhaps, I needed to become visible rather than invisible. You can’t win the lottery if you never buy a ticket.

To say I am privileged to receive my entire secondary education at a premier Barbadian school is an understatement. Yet, this also meant I saw first-hand what expectations were at the highest level.

Every day, you’re told to “build your CV”. This made no sense to me. A CV? To study at UWI? It took me a while to understand whether the real goal was the United Kingdom or the United States. Get the scholarship. Win the exhibition. Make it out.

Yet, out of 100 sixth-formers, maybe ten will win those scholarships. That’s ten per cent. What happens to the other 90 per cent? We’re holding them to a 1970s standard. When we were still called Little Bristol? When USAID wasn’t gutted by an “America First” administration? When a degree abroad guaranteed you a job back home?

That world simply doesn’t exist anymore. So, what are we doing about that 90 per cent? I realised I was one of the 90 per cent. I wasn’t going to be a scholarship winner. Not right now, anyway. So, what were my options?

I could resent Barbados for being “too small”. I could wait for some future opportunity abroad that might never come. Or I could start leveraging what was already in front of me. I chose the latter.

I started saying yes to things I wasn’t sure about. The talent show. A radio opportunity. Making content on Instagram and TikTok.

None of it was guaranteed, but that’s the point. In Barbados, the stakes are low enough to experiment. I have my parents’ support, transportation and a culture I already understand. I’m not drowning in student debt or scrambling for a visa.

If I fail here, I can regroup and try again. If I succeed, I scale. But I can’t do either if I convince myself the only path forward is out.

That’s how I ended up being selected for the Diplomat For A Day

programme at 18 years old. A year ago, I would’ve dismissed it as “not for me” because I lacked the experience. It felt unsafe because it was unfamiliar. I learnt the hard way that confidence isn’t self-belief, it’s a willingness to be uncomfortable until it becomes the norm.

But I had proof now: small opportunities here built the confidence I needed to compete at higher levels.

Speed didn’t come here with a scholarship or a CV. By every measure we were taught to respect, he had nothing. No degree, and yet he was embraced by Barbadians with political power and influence. We’ve spent years earning our place quietly. Maybe it’s time we stop asking and start doing.

ISHOWSPEED

(below centre in a Barbados shirt)

during his four-hour tour in Barbados

last week Monday. (FP)