So here I am...

I don't know what to say, but I feel like I should say something.  Should say it in writing.  Should say it here.  I'm not exactly where I thought I would be post-graduation; Its been a while since I've had any manic, floor-pacing drives to write anything; and I just saw a commercial for Guinness Blonde Ale.  Nothing is what it used to be, or supposed to be.  I'm not what I'm supposed to be.  I've gone astray somehow and some part of me tells me that doing this might help me get back on track.

I won't talk about family too much.  Every time I do I get the same lecture from people.  Things aren't what they used to be, or should be, with them either.  I can't shake the feeling that I'm responsible for that to some degree.  (Save it, I don't want to hear it.)  What's worse is I'm powerless to do anything about it now.  (Yeah, save that one too.)  That is my foremost concern.  Its on my mind pretty much constantly.

I met someone.  I was content to some degree.  In the end I don't think I was as into it as she was, which is why when I started getting chest pains and headaches and long walks to avoid explosion (which is a pretty good route towards implosion actually) I decided that it wasn't worth continuing.  And then I thought "This is the most horrible thing you've ever done in your life".  I thought "the least you could do is to try and make it work".  Then I changed my email password.  Because its my email password and I thought I could do that.  I got a call at seven in the morning that felt like an interrogation, like a scolding, like I had fucked up somehow with how I chose to manage my personal information.  I realized that I had probably done the right thing.  I still wish I had handled it differently.  I still wish I had said "Lets slow down" or "I don't know if I'm ready to get THAT serious".  I wish that when she'd told me not to settle, or that we shouldn't be together because she wasn't my type or I couldn't handle someone lie her or that we came from different worlds or any of the many other outs that she gave me...that I'd listened.  I wish that I wasn't so proud.  I wish I wasn't so influenced by shame now.  She was a great friend.  I wish I could be a better friend to her.  I owe her so much and I'll never be able to completely repay her.  I wish i could at least try.  I'm sorry at how that ended up.

I'm sorry.

I'm sad and I'm tired.  Tomorrow I'll try writing.  If not creating something, then reaching out to people.  If I could just get back to where i was then maybe things can be what they were supposed to be.

Life (and that other thing)

It’s funny how life (and that other thing) works out.  Just a few weeks ago I felt like I was going through a major emotional crisis.  I didn't know how I was going to survive another year without going back to Belize.  I was over my head with homesickness and with being in a situation where I had given up any minor level of control, authority, and social and financial security I had in my life to put myself in the role of the student.  I’d done all of this willingly, mind you, and put myself into exile, far from home and yet tortuously close in Trinidad.  I wanted, I suppose, to know how Dante felt, exiled from home and only having his writing as consolation.  But Dante didn't have facebook; he didn't have to watch the life he left behind go on without him; see all the things he was missing.  And what it freely amounts to is that I’m not half the man that Dante Alighieri was.  I think of myself moping then and I’m a little bit disgusted at what a little boy I was being, crying for home and its comforts but too pitiful to even actually cry.

Fast forward a few weeks later and I’m still just a little boy who doesn't know how to react to the news of his grandmother dying.  At least not outside my own head.  Inside my head there was a full scenario being played out, as there usually is.  The entire family would be present, except for me, and I would show up a year or so later, wandering a cemetery and completely unable to find her grave because I’ll simply have no clue where it might be, because I wasn't there to lower her into it.  Perhaps one of the simplest and most profound acts of respect a person can show another person: To bear the burden of their discarded body, to treat it properly and see that it is taken care of, to place it finally in a safe place, and to mark the spot and perhaps visit every now and again.  And I.  Wouldn't.  Be.  There.

Other scenarios played themselves out as well, including a visit from Mama in my dreams, just as she had done when I was smaller.  Only instead of stabbing me in the back of the neck with a hypodermic needle, she would be nice.  We would sit and chat; she in Spanish and I in English, and she would laugh and slap her thighs the way I never remember seeing her do.  But I can imagine it the same way I've always imagined the few moments before and after the image of her and her husband standing in front of the frame of what would soon be their home and the home of their eight children.  The picture that has hung on the living room wall for as long as there was a wall in the living room.  The one with the man with the same rakish mustache I have now standing next to a pretty young girl with a young girl’s unfiltered smile.

A scenario that hadn't occurred to me was there suddenly, miraculously being a plane ticket with my name on it, final destination: Belize.  And yet, here I am, writing from that concretely ambiguous location of the Miami airport.  The ticket wasn't miraculous exactly.  It hadn't appeared out of thin air.  My mother and I travel frequently and she happened to have enough air miles to get me where I needed to be.  It’s the getting back that’ll be the problem.  Money for that will come out of something; a credit card payment or my yet-to-be-paid tuition.  But there’s no point in worrying about that now.  The old two-way door is swinging, better for me to concentrate on making the most of it.

Mostly, I had given up on going to Belize because my reasons for going all seemed sop self serving and ultimately superfluous.  I was seeking the pleasure of old comforts and experiences, old friends, old lovers.  I told myself that I had practical reasons; I needed to lay down the groundwork for a career once I finished with school.  This is still true, but it wasn't the foremost thought on my mind.   I’d also decided that I would be foisting myself on my family, an act which I probably shouldn't rush into until the end of my third year, when I didn't have any other choice.  Now, instead of taking advantage of my family I’ll be required to fulfill my responsibility to them.  I've absolved my guilt through terrible circumstances.  The guilt is inescapable.

Help me, Moshe Levi Ben-David. You're our only hope.

In response to: http://www.7newsbelize.com/sstory.php?nid=22147

Aw, c'mon folks.  Give the guy a break!  He's not selling drugs and he's not in the NBA, and we all know those are the only two ways a person can 'make it', right?  Right?  RIGHT?!?!?!?!

I mean, it'd be great if he could make his music right where he is but the truth is there just aren't any recording studios in Belize.  Or Mexico.  Or Guatemala.  Or Central America.  Or the Caribbean.  And there certainly aren't any producers either.  How's he supposed to shyne--I mean shine as a musician if he can't get other people to make music for him?  Wait what?  What'd you just say?  Live music?  Like with instruments and shit?  What are you, crazy?  No, no.  The only hope our cultural ambassador has is to go to the US or Britain.  If you dispute that, then obviously you're not aware of his overall massa-plan.  I mean Master-plan.  I mean...hell, you know what I mean.

It'd be cool if there were some other way though.  If we could somehow transfer his voice onto some sort of medium that could be sent over there and then played back and mixed later.  I imagine it'd be something lightweight, maybe circular.  I hear their doing amazing things with plastics these days.  Yeah, some kind of DISK that's small and COMPACT.  Ohhh, but you know what would be even cooler?  If he could transfer his voice using some kind of electronic code.  We'd keep it simple.  Maybe just a series of ones and zeros.  Hmm.  It'd have to be FREE.  Can't afford anything too expensive.  It'd have to be something LOSSLESS, meaning there'd be little to no degredation of AUDIO quality.  Oh, crap.  I'm stumped.  I don't even know what you'd call that kind of fancy, techno-magical CODEC.  Besides, we all know that its impossible to record an album in absentia.  Just look at that convicted felon who recorded part of his 2004 album while in the Clinton Correctional Facility.  What was that guy's name again?  Oh, its on the tip of my tongue.  Anyway, that thing was horrible, wasn't it?

What?  Four-hundred thousand copies sold?  Number 1 on the US Billboard charts?  Now I KNOW you're crazy!

Yep.  Its a lost cause folks.  Better to divert all our attention to crossing our fingers and toes and hoping the US embassy buys his 'I'm not black, I'm jewish' gambit.  That way he can get back to the real markets.  The only markets that matter.  I mean, they ARE the only markets that matter.  Its not like 387 million South American, 41 million Central American, and 39 million Caribbean consumers iare really gonna do anything for us.  No, no, its time to face facts.  Belizean culture in its entirety (the flag and the namedrop) doesn't have any hope without riding Shyne's coat-tails.  So lets get those coat-tails flapping in the wind again!

What's that, ghost of Andy Palacio?  You think Belizean music and culture can stand up on its own?  Well, I mean sure, if you could do it based on nothing but hard work and actual development of your artistry, then I guess it MIGHT be able to work again.  But you're talking about Belizean-Belizean culture.  We're looking out for the Belizean-American and the Belizean-Europeans.  Y'know, the ones keeping the culture going.  You don't expect us to take all those drums and kriol talk seriously, do you?

Yeah.  I didn't think so.

Dame Lorraine and Jankunu

I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait for this weekend.  Not because my week was so stressful (Now that I’ve actually experienced workplace fatigue, burnout, and stress-overload, nothing can compare to the real thing) nor am I particularly looking forward to knocking back a few drinks (I tried Puncheon the other day and have decided that was enough alcohol for at least half a year).  No; it’s because this weekend marks the beginning of my time performing in Trinidad’s carnival under the department of creative and festival arts.  This Sunday the Performance I class is responsible for the Dame Lorraine portion of the DCFA’s The Old Yard.  At its surface, Dame Lorraine is a showcase of over-stated Caricatures found in Colonial European societies.  All the characters are referred to by their French Creole names.  For instance there is Misie Gwo Tette; the gentleman with the big head,  Madame Gwo Bunda; an aristocratic lady with a rather large bottom, Madame Tette Fou; a lady left at the altar and who is therefore constantly hysterical and a bit touched in the head.  I will be playing Misie Gwo Coco, a fellow blessed with the testicles of a hog (anyone who’s ever spent any time around a pig farm will know what I mean).  

  Photo by Chioma Ozuzu

The ‘Dame Lorraine has its origins in slavery, like most other things in Carnival.  Of course, during that time, the Europeans would have their own balls; magnificent, splendid events which their slaves, of course, were barely allowed to watch, and certainly not allowed to take part in.  Thus, the slaves held their own balls and parodied their masters, accentuating the blaring physical deficits in those who held themselves as their superiors, particularly if they were sort of funny.  Thus, the ‘Dame Lorraine Ball is at times vulgar and at other times quite prim and proper.  It is meant to serve as parody, a vicious, toothy, and truthful parody which still holds to this day.  Over time the Dame Lorraine has evolved into other things; political or social commentary for instance, and the core sentiment colours other types of mas that still exist.  Consider, for instance, the Sailor Mas: In which men don sailor costume and march, dance, drink, and carouse down the street, covering themselves in their white powder and occasionally, in a fit of drunken gaiety, spreading the white disease to bystanders, either by attacking straight on or by ‘givin’ a lil wine’ whether consensual or not.  In this case the parodied slave masters have been replaced with parodied American and European sailors.  Depending on how far back historically one might be thinking, the idea of exclusion may also be present.

Photo by Kevin Brooks

Exclusion as a driving force in the Dame Lorraine reminds me of the Belizean Jankunu, borne out of a similar past.  The differences in origin seem subtle but affect the end product significantly.  Slaves in Belize couldn’t simply mock their masters outright and think to get away with it.  If they were to dance the Jankunu; that is, if they were to mock the ridiculous poses and rigid, unnatural motions of their masters at their Balls, they would have to do so as anonymously as possible, lest the master, or a particularly traitorous Johnny Jumper or Straw Boss see and punish them.  Punishment, in our case, didn’t necessarily mean that you would be flogged or stretched or burned in hot oil or any of the usual tortures of slavery.  In the case of a forestocracy, where the men were away from their homes for the better part of the year, punishment meant that your family would starve while you were away.  Your children would be tortured.  Or perhaps you would leave for the forest and arrive ten months later to find your wife eight months pregnant, and eventually giving birth to a curiously light-skinned child. So, in an effort to ensure this anonymity, the Jankunu dancers are fully covered head to toe, with no space for a uniquely shaped scar or burn mark to be seen.  Their faces were sieved or cloth masks, on which rosy cheeked and red lipped European faces were painted on in static expressions.  It also follows that the dancers could not use their voices, so whereas the Dame Lorraine performers take on the persona completely, interacting with the crowd as Misie Gwo Lolo (Big Penis) and Madam Gwo Pitat (Big Vagina), the Jankunu dancers react only to the drums.  It is, in truth, a dance: A manipulation of the body in conjuction with music in order to portray an idea.   The fact that a Performance I class can portray the Dame Lorraine characters speaks to the versatility of the style and concept.  Perhaps this is why there’s been very little conscious development to the Jankunu over the years.  To be performed properly, the dance requires years of training and physical conditioning that can only be described as athletic.

(NB: Tony Rath, photographer extrodinaire, has a collection of photos from a Jankunu Festival that illustrate what I'm talking about.  However, he's also done the smart thing and locked down use of those photos.  You can view them here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/trphoto/sets/72157625756682414/with/5327834227/ but I'll respect his wishes and not insert the photos in this blog.)

I will admit, however, that my knowledge of the Dame Lorraine is still considerably limited.  I only know what’s happening in this class.  It could be there is a real Dame Lorraine Ball available somewhere; one with rigid choreography and considerably better costuming than we can pull together in a few weeks.  It could also be that there’s a lot more to the concept than I’ve been able to piece together.  It’s also possible that my idea of the Jankunu is completely different than the traditionally held idea of it.  They told us not to do this though; this making-excuses-for-the-things-we-write thing.  It’s what I see, and therefore it’s what I’ll be sharing.  If, however, you can offer some other insight, Dear Reader, I welcome it fully.  This is a fascinating aspect of our shared, regional culture.  Come, let’s explore some.

New Year, new new things

A new year has started.  A new month a new semester, brand new everything.  And I am in a completely new place.  Gone are the gripes of yesteryear and all those previous blog posts.  I have none of that to co,plain about anymore. Now there are brand new gripes such as: being unemployed, new and strange cultures, same old cultures, and many more.  Honestly though life is...smoother.  Which isn't to say that student life is easy.  Its a brand new set of difficulties.  And of course my own personal hang ups.  But we'll sort that all out as we go along, won't we?  And I guess that attitude, and the freedom to actually hold that attitude is what's keeping me sane lately.  I've also been doing a lot of thinking and developing my own mini philosophies.  Among a great many other things, the new me is greatly concerned with School and focus, fashion and personal style, and (of course) expanding upon the adoption of RISK!


(Did you like how I did that, by the way?  See, its still an informal blog, but with a thesis statement and subtopics.  I find it useful since I tend to meander a lot as I'm typing these things.)


My education and the focus I devote to it are really important to me right now.  It took a lot for me to come here.  A lot from myself and a lot from those supporting me.  My first semester I managed to pay off mostly on my own thanks to the generosity of my previous employers.  I suppose I also earned that generosity after suddenly growing a pair after six yeas, even though I started dying a little inside each year since about 2007.  At that point it was the longest I'd ever held a job, and I thought that staying in one place was the proper, adult thing to do.  It might have been but that wasn't the kind of adult I wanted to be.  I was basically working for the weekends when I could cut loose and be myself, and for the free stationary and print and copy services that I could use for my other projects.  My other projects being the poetry, short story, art, and cultural events and publications that I really should have been doing in the first place.  No one ever told me that a job is the thing you do on the way to building your career.  Or perhaps they had told me and I'd simply forgotten.  Regular paychecks tend to do that.  


But I did grow a pair.  Yes, it was either that or lose my mind completely; I realized that when the times I left from work and started driving down the highway considering whether I should fake my death and run away or actually make it a real death became an almost daily activity.  But that's not the point.  I'm here.  I left.  And after beating myself about it for an entire semester, still wondering whether or not I was doing the right thing, I've come to accept that the investment has been too great to squander.  I am still me.  I am still loved by those who I love.  (Long distant texts, calls, emails and care packages prove this)  I do still hold a certain level of celebrity somewhere (google me sometime).  And most importantly I am indeed doing what I'm meant to be doing.  There's no need for external evidence in this case.  I feel it.  I feel it every time I sit in a class and am overcome with exhilaration just from being there.  I feel it when I look around and everyone seems to be struggling with what feels like leisure to me.  I even feel it when I'm the only one guffawing loudly in a class because I'm the only one actually paying attention.  This doesn't mean I get to relax.  No, quite the opposite.  I have to excel in this case.  I have to be the one that the lecturers and professors remember.  I'm learning, yes.  But I'm also networking.  This is going to be my career at some point.   Somehow.  Haven't quite figured that bit out yet.


I've also become a bit concerned with my own personal style and sense of fashion.  Being here hasn't just changed the way I feel about myself, its also changed how I look.  Though you probably won't be able to tell after the Christmas break, I've lost a lot of weight.  I'm swimming in my clothes once again.  My t-shirts fit me like clothe sacks.  On windy days I feel like I'm wearing a spinnaker. (I'd like to go sailing someday).  My pants are even more ridiculous.  I don't even unzip or unbutton them anymore to get them on or off.  And if I want them to stay where I put them, I have to put them just under my ribs.  I'm also 28 years old.  A fact which makes me cringe every time I think of it.  I shouldn't be dressed like a hip-hop video reject.  I'm not a wannabe thug.  I don't think I ever have been. Not seriously at least. (GCG fo life tho!)  

As I was thinking about this, wandering around Manhattan this holiday, I realized that the way I dress says so much about who I am that I really aught to take a more active role in it.  I should be projecting my personal image of myself; the me I want to be.  Even if I don't believe I am that person yet, I should be taking steps in that direction.  What type of man is that, you ask?  Well, a writer and a thinker for one thing.  A carefully put together wardrobe should indicate that quite nicely, I think. Luckily I already started with the glasses.  I didn't know what I wanted at first, but I did know I didn't want any brand name markings that were readily visible.  That's one of the first points.  I am myself.  I'm not Nike or Playboy.  I refuse to be a walking billboard.  I refuse to be a swoosh.  I still like Adidas stripes though.  That'll be a struggle to overcome. The point is, no more branding that isn't my own.  I may make a few t-shirts in the future.  Make celebrities out of the people I choose to honor.  And Milner shirts are definitely in.  Even if its not shared by everyone, my opinion of what I see as the Milnerite ideal is still pretty great.  I'll get the whole collection and wear the MH proudly.  The rest is really too long to go through without a very long explanation.  I'll probably save that for another post.  Several other posts.  I'll save that for a publication of some sort.  The point is...no more spinnakers.  No more clothes that don't fit.  I'm not trying to be a gangsta.  I'm not so insecure as to try and make myself look like something I'm quite obviously not.  And definitely no hoodies.  This is the year of the button downs; the boat shoes, and on special occasions, the blazer & graphic tee.


My motto of RISK! isn't exactly a new thing, but I've been putting new thought into it.  Last year, it came to me without me even knowing what it was.  That New year celebration filled with drunken fireworks and friends and frightening displays of spontaneity (I really did think of the party at the same time that I put the ham in the oven that day) filled me with a feeling that I would carry with me for the rest of the year.  I stared at the scraps of red firecracker wrappers and shattered pieces of newsprint that replaced the topsoil in my backyard all day as I tried to put a name to the feeling.  It was my cousin Delsia who gave it to me in one of our conversations that displayed how frighteningly similar we are.  We'd been thinking the same thing at the same time, and it took us coming together to figure out what that something was.  "RISK!" she said.  "That'll be our secret word for this year."  RISK! in all caps, with the exclamation mark.  Not a noun, it wasn't just a thing.  Not an adjective to describe the things.  It was a verb.  And the explanation made it a demand.  A challenge.  No point sitting around waiting for something wonderful to happen.  RISK!  Take the chance.  Make it happen.  Of course now that I've made it happen, I don't think I ought to stop.  

There are things that scare me.  There are things that I'm afraid of.  Failure is chief among them, but there's also embarrassment.  Ostracism.  But these are all things that I learn from.  Failure is important to the learning process.  If I don't know when I'm wrong, how can I ever be right?  Embarrassment?  Well, that's just pointless.  If I'm being myself; my wonderful, corny, overly sentimental self, then there's really nothing to be embarrassed about, is there?  Somewhere out there beautiful women smile wide at my corniness.  Somewhere out there a troupe of cocksure men want to hug their brother and talk about the last movie they cried to. I'm 28 years old.  I've found my place.  It was hard to get to, but I've found that place where I belong.  I'm all out of embarrassment.  I am also away from that place, and I have been before.  I can always go back there.  Its always waiting and sometimes I carry a bit of it with me.  I am an outcast everywhere I am.  There's nothing to fear there either. But more than that, fear itself keeps me from living.  I am a writer, and inspiration comes from life; from living and observing.  I can't afford to have anything get in the way of that.

So lets see where this all takes us, shall we?  I have a feeling its going to be a good year and that at the end of it I'll be closer to who I want to be.  I'll be that unparalleled scholar, not only gaining knowledge but applying it daily.  I'll be identifiable to myself and others, and a whole lot more confident in my own clothes.  And I'll be prepared to take greater risks, and that will make life so much more...more.  Its going to be a good year, even if its going to be the last.