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To the grandparents, the parents, the children and grandchildren we become.

I have so much nostalgia for the mustard living rooms. The pairing of Mr Sheen spray and the trusty yellow duster that just moved dust around. The cacophony of mismatched furniture and patterned wallpaper. Plants too big to be inside the house and plastic covers over settees. Salivating at the anticipation of what delicious nourishment was going to emerge out of hours of being cooked in the generations-old dutch pot. Curried goat or oxtail? The sound of dangling beads in the hallway, that jangled whenever guests would arrive for Sunday dinner, or during one of the many house parties that I was far too young to attend. All with the backdrop of unadulterated joy, belly laughing, dominos crashing on the table and what I found to be the most soothing sounds of reggae beats to ‘I’m still in love with you’ riddims.

The Windrush Generation - who migrated from across The Caribbean to Britain between 1948 and 1971 - is certainly not where our story begins or ends. But to be part of the Windrush Generation, a body of people who endured and survived the unimaginable, so that we, people like me, can be here now - means something. Something extraordinary. From the astounding courage and the civil rights legacy, to the fierce resilience required to exist, thrive and make peace with the painful tension between the lineage we’ve lost and the identities we’ve inherited.

Many of the first who travelled on HMT Empire Windrush (passenger liner and cruise ship) from 1948 were ex-servicemen from Jamaica, like my grandfather, who had fought for Britain and served in the British West Indies Regiment. Others travelling to the Isle for the first time did so in response to the call from the British government to come to 'The Motherland' to work and help rebuild Britain due to a labour shortage following the devastation of World War II. More still came of their own volition, lured by the offer of full rights to move and live freely as British citizens applicable under the 1948 British Nationality Act - which granted the rights of settlement to everyone born in a British colony.

'A body of people who endured and survived the unimaginable, so that we can be here now'

Dressed in their Sunday best, there was a calypso and party atmosphere on the ship; they were excited to be coming, or returning to Britain to work and help rebuild. Expecting the public to be happy about their presence, to receive an open-arms welcome and to arrive to streets paved with gold.

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

Instead, they arrived from sea and sand to a bomb-ridden, war damaged UK and a hostile environment orchestrated by the British government. Once here, not only were they experiencing culture shock, chilblains and separation anxiety from leaving children and loved ones behind, they encountered the ‘colour bars’ across the country. The prevention of Black people from getting jobs and equal access to housing (unless paying a premium or ‘Black tax’ as it was informally referred to, to live in squalor at three times the price white tenants were charged). Skilled workers who secured jobs were given menial roles, paid pittance and relegated to the basement, forbidden to take up consumer-facing jobs, pandering to racism from an aggrieved white British public who didn’t want Black people to touch clothes, or treat patients in hospitals.

As racial tension escalated, fire-bombs through letterboxes became so commonplace that many Caribbean families resorted to putting a bucket of water on the floor by the front door to stop their house catching alight.

After decades of discrimination, The Windrush Foundation and The Windrush Generation Legacy Association exist to make sure that the contribution of the Windrush Generation is both celebrated and recognised. Their sacrifice cannot be overstated and it is no coincidence that this formidable group of Caribbeans and its descendants have played such a prominent role in civil rights movements in Britain.

'This formidable group of Caribbeans and its descendants have played a hugely prominent role in civil rights movements in Britain'

Black feminist activist and Trinidadian-born Claudia Jones founded the first major Black newspaper, the West Indian Gazette, in 1957 and in 1959 set up what is now known as The Notting Hill Carnival. In its original inception it was a beauty pageant, created in direct response to the growing hostility towards Afro-Caribbean communities in Britain. It was founded to promote and celebrate Black beauty, and to counteract negative programming, while simultaneously raising funds to help the young Black men who had been unlawfully detained by the police.

Trinidadian-Barbadian born Dame Jocelyn Barrow - the first Black female to sit on the BBC governors board and co-founder of Campaign Against Racial Discrimination (CARD) - successfully lobbied to make race discrimination illegal in Britain, and was responsible for the 1965 Race Relations Act and its 1968 revision. The act now forms part of the 2010 Equality Act.

We are forever indebted to the life-changing work of Jamaican-born founding members of the British Black Panthers, like community leader Olive Morris and teacher and academic Beverly Bryan. These women tackled racial discrimination head-on, through community activism and by setting up Saturday schools and providing a free child-care service, to overturn the sub-standard education Black Caribbean children were receiving.

And then there were Windrush children, like Sir Geoff Palmer. He found himself among the many failed by British schooling, labelled ‘Educationally Subnormal’ by white British teachers, but despite this, went on to become the first Black Professor of Science in Scotland University Heriot Watt and the first Black scientist to win the equivalent of a Nobel Prize in Brewing.

I am proud to be a descendant of such a powerful lineage of survivors and pioneers. I am grateful for the path I am able to walk, because of the sacrifices they made.

Petrol bombs in letter boxes are thankfully for many (not all, I might add) a thing of the past. But if that is the benchmark by which we are measuring progress in the face of racism, then we need to raise our standards. You taught me that.

You taught me not to settle, to want better for myself and those around me.

You taught me how to agitate with dignity, to demand better.

You taught me how vital education is outside of a whitewashed curriculum, to broaden my knowledge base and gain a better sense of self.

I have inherited so much of your courage and your fierce ability to take risks and chances and to believe in something more.

I have been gifted a rich history of culture, food, music and rhythm, but also the thing I cherish the most - joy. The ability to hold the tough stuff, and still laugh with abandon, full of unfettered, untempered joy. Now that is quite something.

Nova Reid is a thought-leader, TED Speaker and writer. Her debut book The Good Ally published by HQ Stories is out now. www.novareid.com