Storytelling one of the greatest gifts passed down through our ancestors

What role does storytelling play in your advocacy or academic work?

I often muse that we, as Black people, are the BEST and most extraordinary storytellers! Growing up in my family, I saw how stories were more than just entertainment; they were lessons, sources of wisdom, joyful gatherings, and ways of passing down essential knowledge.  With this in mind, I would say that storytelling is not only central to my work but has been a quintessential aspect of growing and being within Black communities.

I also consider storytelling to be one of the greatest gifts passed down through our ancestors. Though I may not know the exact region in Africa where my ancestors came from, I continue to uncover words, phrases, and stories within Guyanese dialect that trace back to the African continent. It is one of the most sacred ways we stay connected to a past we have been stripped of, ensuring that even in displacement, we hold onto something of where we originally came from.

Storytelling is also essential because of its deep roots in oral tradition—a means of knowledge-sharing that predates written records. In my work on gender-based violence, I center women’s stories, honouring their voices in many ways. For example, I have used their words as paper titles and always ensure to include their words throughout various publications drawing inspiration from their lived experiences to shape new ways of thinking. Their narratives are not just data—they are the foundation of both my research and my advocacy.

I take great care with the stories entrusted to me because they are more than just recollections; they are acts of resistance, survival, and remembrance. Through them, I seek to amplify voices that have long been silenced and honour the power of storytelling as a transformative force.

How do you ensure that your work remains inclusive and accessible to marginalized communities?

I think this is a great question and one that I constantly reflect on. Ensuring that I keep my work inclusive and accessible to communities is an ongoing commitment. I continually question who has access to knowledge, whose voices are amplified, and who is excluded from research spaces and narratives.  I am always open to listening, learning, and then holding myself accountable to action what has been expressed – particularly if I have made a mistake or missed something along the way.

One of the ways I do this is by working in collaboration with community organizations and groups. None of my research to date has been done in isolation – rather they have all been collective efforts and either co-created or guided by what communities experiencing marginalization identify as most important to them. Secondly, I pay particular attention to how knowledge is shared—using clear, accessible language and making sure that my research is heard and understood by the communities it seeks to engage. Academic jargon and institutional barriers can alienate those most impacted by the work, so I focus on making results meaningful through community forums, public scholarship, and alternative formats beyond traditional publishing.

Equally important is ensuring that the research spaces and teams I work within are accessible. I regularly consider who is missing—not just in terms of physical or digital access but also in fostering environments where people feel valued and heard. For me, inclusivity is not a box to check—it is a continuous process of self-assessment, learning, and accountability. I am committed to asking the hard questions about power, privilege, and exclusion—both within my research and the larger systems that shape it. The work is never finished, but it is essential.

What systemic changes do you believe are necessary to create a more equitable society for Black individuals with disabilities?

I believe that creating a more equitable society for Black individuals with disabilities requires that we reimagine the systems that shape our lives. Both identities—Blackness and disability—face structural barriers, and together, they reveal a society that has long devalued and excluded them. The deep mistrust in these systems is not unfounded; it comes from a history of neglect, violence, and systemic failures in healthcare, education, employment, and housing which I have seen first-hand through the experiences of my own family members.

For me, true change is not about mere inclusion if that means navigating spaces never designed with care or justice in mind. Too often, people experiencing marginalization are placed in environments that remain inherently violent, where they must still fight to be seen and valued. That, to me, is not justice; it is adaptation to oppression.

I believe systemic change is anti-colonial. By this I mean being confident in creating systems and structures grounded in our own knowledges, rather than reforming a broken system. It requires creating spaces that reflect our values of integrity, love, and a celebration of difference as strength, not as a deficit. This shift is not just about accommodation but true belonging, where Black disabled individuals are central to shaping society, rather than as afterthoughts.

Achieving this demands dismantling ableist and anti-Black structures in policy, education, healthcare, and economics while amplifying voices long silenced. It means redistributing power and resources and ensuring that care is foundational, not optional. Change is neither easy nor simple, but it is necessary. And for me, it begins by refusing to accept the world as it is.