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.   

I'm happy with my penis size and yet....

One of my recent personal deveopments since coming to UWI is that hI've begun to see themes everywhere.  Literary themes pop up in real life, in small talk and apparently random behavior.  Everything has a subtext now.  Everything has a socio-political impact.  Especially the proliferation of KFC and the lack of natural, unsweetened chocolate on store shelves.  Normally I'd say I was losing it.  I'm just reading too much into things.  But then, I've been beaten over the head with the idea that if I see it, and I can prove it, then its there.  If you perceive it, then it exists.  I have yet to figure out where that leaves room for illusion, or possibly even delusion.  For the time being, Im a little more concerned with actively addressing the things I've been seeing.

One of these themes is Manhood.  Not adulthood, mind you.  Not male homosapiens of reproductive age.  No, I've been thinking about manhood and masculinity.  Luckily there's a gender studies course on that next semester that I can take as an elective.  In the meantime though, my mind is racing.  I don't know if I can wait that long.  Take, for instance, that thing that just happened in KFC.  That was definitely a threat, right?  Definitely a chest-beating, dick measuring contest, right?  Oh, right.  You weren't there.  Let me break it down for you.

So we're in the food court by KFC.  I'd just had a horrible day of splitting my attention in two different directions and producing mediocre work for both, so as punishment I decided to get a snack-pack.  There I met Scott.  Scott's a pretty cool guy.  He's not a guy's guy by any measure.  He's long and gangly, as if he liked puberty so much he just stuck with it into adolescence.  This doesn't make him bad looking though.  I'm sure some young lady who sincerely values a man with a sense of humor would gladly take strangely angled pictures with their foreheads touching so they can both put on facebook someday.  Scott is in my Drama class, and my Intro to Prose class.  Scott's also in the Intro to Poetry class which I won't be taking until next semester.  Still, with all that reading and writing, Scott is never without a smile or a joke.  In other words, Scott's my kind of people. 

Scott tells me that he's waiting for Gabby, Chelsea, and Nick, who are all also lit majors and classmates of mine.  Since arriving here they are the only Trinis that I don't have to actually try to have fun with in order to have fun with.  Once again, these are my people.  And so, as a matter of course, I decide to wait for the others to arrive.  When they do, we start doing our strange combination of discussing academics along side what we'd call madarass back home.  Both of which I enjoy thoroughly.  Enter, then, The Fellow from North.  Of course he's wearing his traditional Fellow from North garb, a zip up hoody, even though we're in the tropics and coming toward the end of the wet season.  Of course he has the usual north baring.  All they do on north is practice that baring.  Lifting weights and practicing how to fix their jaws and look at people out of the corners of their eyes in the mirror.  No, no.  I'm already letting my personal attitude color this story.  Lets stick to the facts.

Here are the facts: Fellow from north enters.  Fellow from north sees me.  I nod hello.  He may have nodded, but I didn't see one.  Fello from north sees Scott.  Scott does not nod hello.  Scott does not know the fellow from north.  Fellow from North sees Gabby.  Gabby smiles.  Fellow from north walks around the table and sits awfully close to gabby.  Fellow from north drapes a hand over her.  Fellow from north proceeds to flirt openly.  Fellow from north tickles Gabby.  Gabby laughs.  Gabby says 'Please don't do that' and proceeds to explain why.  Mid-explanation, fellow from north tickles her again.  Gabby Laughs.  Gabby says stop.  Fellow from north Tickles Gabby again, thereby initialling a mini wrestling match between the two.  Scott looks at me as if to say 'Is this really happening?'  I look at Scott as if to say 'Yes, this is definitely happening.'  Fellow from north says 'Oh, hey fellas.'  Fella from north walks away.  We've all forgotten what we were talking about when the Fellow from North entered.

To return to my initial question: Was it just me or was that kind of fucked up?  There are certain things that might color my perception of it, of course.  Maybe I'm just not threatened by Scott, but am clearly threatened by The Man From North.  Maybe the Man From North didn't have to do a single thing except be present in order for me to resent him somehow.  Maybe if they did it to Chelsea I wouldn't mind, but because I've taken a bit of a shine to Gabby, I'm feeling territorial. 

From my end the message is clear.  The fellow sat down and basically said, "both of you men are not real men.  Look at what I can do.  I can force her to laugh.  She says no, but because I'm doing it she likes it.  See the way we're touching now?  See the way whatever you boys were talking about no longer matters?  Goodbye losers."  Of course I'm left with the usual question of 'Did that really just happen or am I reading too much into it?"  I'm also left with the realization that I would never do such a thing.  There lies the path of Douchebags.  And then, I think...Douchebags get laid.  So maybe I should be more of a douchebag.  Maybe my lack of douchebaggery represents a direct correlation to my limited number of sexual partners.  I tell myself that its all a matter of quality over quantity.  That if we count by number of instances rather than partners, then I'm right up there with my contemporaries; and that if we count by successful female orgasms, I'm way ahead of the crowd.  A part of me doesn't buy that though.  A part of me wants to have sex with everyone I want to have sex with.  A part of me thinks that each beautiful memorable moment is perpetually overshadowed by the ones that didn't happen.  A part of me wants to know what its like to be a douchebag, and in fact, wonders if that isn't actually the ideal.

And if that is masculinity, then what the fuck am I?

Day 3: A Poem about Prejudice

Angela Gegg -- 100% Belizean

I want to start off by saying 'Angela Gegg doesn't look like your average Belizean' but before my fingers even touch the keyboard my internal editor is asking me 'What exactly does the average Belizean look like?'  It'll take some time before I have an answer for him.  This much is true though, Ms. Gegg certainly stands out in a crowd.  But among the Belizeans, her family name as well as her own personal reputation smacks of that certain Belizean vibe.  Not only is Angela a fixture in the poetry and visual artist communities in Belize, but she's also a successful restaurateur, and sort of part-time celebrity.  She's also probably the most prolific spoken word artist in Belize.  Want proof?  Do a youtube search for 'Belizean Poet', count, and compare.

(From: www.angelagegg.com)
Angela Gegg is one of Belize’s leading artists. In the past decade she has had 6 Major Solo Art Shows been featured in over 20 Joint Art Shows and Exhibits in Belize, Texas, New York, Miami and Trinidad. She is featured in Calenders, DVD's, CD's, and Books about Belizean Artists. She is also the published author of THE LIGHT, THE DARK AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN (2006) and ARTIST CONFESSIONS (2009). She dedicates her books to anyone who has the liberty and aptitude to express themselves freely without the fear of repercussion from the masses. She is a regular stage performer of the Spoken Word at events, shows and festivals throughout the country of Belize as well as a TV Personality.

Day 1: A Poem about Childhood

Nicole Homer - False Memories

First, the disclaimer:  This isn't your average poem.  It is in its entirety a spoken word piece.  In fact, I think if I saw it written down it would appear at first glance to be prose.  (Not that there's anything wrong with that.  If it can work for Baudelaire, why can't it work for you or I, or Nicole Homer?)  Its not meant to have line breaks, I should think.  Those would only serve to as a distraction.  The second warning is connected to the first.  This poem is a bit long.

Now, to the meat of the matter:  Nicole describes a phenomena that I think most of us experience, and one that is particularly significant to me.  Not only is there the disconnect between our childhood idols and the later realization of their significantly less-than-ideal realities, but there's also the trick that our minds play when we look back on the past, and on childhood.  If I really analyze it, the only things that have changed about some of the things in my life; my parents, my family, my country, even the cities, neighborhoods, and houses that I live in, have been my varied opinions and perceptions of them. 

Originally I thought of a poem reminiscent of smiling, shirtless days in the sunlight, but this seems more significant, especially when considering poetry as a tool for self discovery.  After hearing this poem, I remember immediately realizing 'Oh, that's right.  Its impossible to have an appreciation of childhood as a child.'

And I became that much more enlightened.

---

So...In an effort to insert as much willy-nilly into this pre-arranged undertaking, I went ahead and made this post without so much as glancing at Geoffrey Philip's Blog Spot, the place where I actually got the idea to do this from, on his 'Day 1' Entry.  Now that I have, I realize that its probably a good idea to include a brief Bio.  So here's Nicole Homer's, snagged straight off her myspace page at http://www.myspace.com/travelerpoet

Nicole Homer
is finding her voice. Since she started slamming, she has won numerous
slams at venues such as the Nuyorican Poets Café, The Bowery Poetry
Club, Brookdale College, Port Africa, Cantab Lounge and the legendary
Chicago Green Mill. She has featured at the Shore Institute for
Contemporary Arts, The Five Spot, The Brooklyn Big Art Show, Georgian
Court University and has opened for Amiri Baraka and Miquel Algarin at
the Newark Museum and for Jim Caroll at the Forum Theater. She is winner
of the Emerging Writers Audience Favorite award at Wordfest 2006. She
was an NYC Urbana finalist but went to the 2006 National Poetry Slam
with Central Jersey's own Loser Slam!!! Nicole represented Urbana at
the 2007 Individual World Poetry Slam in Vancouver where she ranked 9th
in the world. Nicole competed in the 2007 National Poetry Slam in
Austin, TX on the Urbana team, where they placed 6th in the nation.

The Real New Year

Knowing myself, I've only got a short while, so lets be quick here.  Lets make a promise, you and I, that this week will not be last week.  Look, the sun is shining!  The world is bright!  And we are alive!  While we're on top of the world, lets put some real work into staying on top, eh?  C'mon, waddayasay?  And for starters, lets do what everyone has been telling us to do.  No, I don't mean getting pushed around at work, I mean the hippy 'see it, feel it, do it, achieve it!' bullshit they've all been forcing down our throats.  For once, lets not give in to cynicism.  Lets actually act like we believe that shit!  You are an artist!  You are a creative being!  Lets be that first, and a technical button masher second.  You've got stories to finish and collections of poems to complete!  Lets make some progress!  Ooh!  Even better, lets make some submissions!  Nothing like the approval of others coupled with wider exposure!  Yeah, we'll be on top for a loooong while this time!

That's my pep talk to myself.  From myself.  You, dear reader, should try having one too.  I promised you more Eulogy and I swear its on its way.  A couple other projects I wanna try and do too.  Other than that, just saying hi.  I'm still out here.  Still pluggin' away.

Nuff Respect

Dear friend

 

Following a short meeting between representatives of BEMA and Members and officers of Hackney Council, an in principle agreement has been reached that the name of the new facility will carry the name of CLR James Library as per our campaign demand. A formal statement will follow shortly. Many thanks to the thousands who have supported our successful campaign online and in other ways.

 

Bema will be playing an ongoing role in the development of a permanent CLR James exhibition at the new library as well as the establishment of an annual event commemorating his life and work.

 

Ngoma Bishop & Andrea Enisuoh   

Campaign co-ordinators

 

 

http://www.bemanetwork.org.uk/

Easter Eggs

You cannot teach a man anything.  You can only help him discover it within himself. --Galileo

I only just started reading The Black Jacobins, devouring the foreword, introduction, prologue and first chapter over the weekend.  I'd had the book in my house for at least eight years now.  My mother's copy, a valued copy if the presence of her signature on several random pages is any indication.  She wanted to ensure that no one ever got away with stealing it, or at least pricked their conscience if they did.  I never saw the use of it.  The cover was impressive.  The dark skinned man in Victorian style refinements spoke to an underdeveloped black pride within me every time I saw it.  But my mind, up until now, was not prepared to take on the the tiresome (as I saw it) task of actually reading it.  Its a matter of maturity.  I had to wait until now.  Until I was ready.  And even so, I didn't know I was ready.  I simply couldn't find the book I'd started reading in time to pack it for the trip to Flores, and instead decided to grab it off the shelf, just to see what it was all about.  When I opened it and started reading about C.L.R. James, and about his ideas, and about Haiti, I realized that it was time.  Had I read it at any point before now, before those very same thoughts came to life in the cultivated garden of my own mind, I wouldn't have really cared about what it had to say.  I wouldn't be sitting in my office, as I am now, with the presence of the book in my messenger bag glowing like a bright beacon in the back of my mind.  I wouldn't have the appreciation and hunger for it that I have now had it been forced upon me in high school.  If I had read it at any point before now, I wouldn't give a rats ass who C.L.R. James was.

This is a universal thing.  Perhaps it might be a generational peculiarity, but I doubt it.  While my upbringing has instilled within me an unconditional respect for my elders, my own self-education efforts actually revolve around breaking down those things that were instilled in me, and not taken on by my own volition.  Also, I've come to learn that all things have conditions.  To this end I can say that previous generations were no more enlightened or prone to enlightenment than my own.  Those who came before me were no more or no less hungry for knowledge than I am.  However, perhaps they had more barriers to that knowledge and in their youth, they had just the same amount of rebellion as I do.  So while I have the information at my fingertips, acquiring it isn't as exciting as it was back then. 

It's just a theory. 

But things work a little differently now.  Now we have to present knowledge like we do Easter-eggs: Paint them conspicuously, and hide them in plain sight.  For instance, there is a street in Harlem, a boulevard actually, named Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard.  Navigating Harlem, you're main allies are the broad bordering streets named after Black heroes and famous personalities.  Malcom X Boulevard.  Frederick Douglass Blvd.  Martin Luther King Boulevard.  Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard?

"Hey man, Who's Clayton Powell?"  I asked one of the neighborhood guys that worked at the Hostel.  He was younger than I was, but just barely.  A handsome guy who was just growing his dreads and 'trying' to be vegetarian.  They were either the first, struggling signs of someone seeking some kind of enlightenment, or a complete poseur.  He admitted that he didn't know, and the pretty Puerto Rican girl who worked at the front desk made a disgusted sound and elbowed him, saying "Don't you live around here?"

"I live ten blocks that way!" he retorted, pointing in the direction of the rest of Manhattan.
"So?"  She replied.  "You're supposed to know this stuff."
"Why, cause I'm black?" He asked sardonically.
"Yeah!"  She said, sounding perplexed that he even had to ask.

The next day he brought me a pamphlet about the heroes the streets were named after, and had highlighted The Reverend Adam Clayton Powel Jr., first African American elected to congress.  It may be that he'd just missed learning about Adam Clayton Powel Jr. in class.  He might have matriculated just before it was decided to add that information to the public school curriculum.  Its also possible that former senator Powell was right there in his history books, but a congressman who, among other accomplishments, dined with a contingent of black constituents in the 'Whites Only' House restaurant and passed a record number of bills in a single session of congress, doesn't shine as brightly beside his Harlem Boulevard contemporaries.  "If the Law is wrong, change the Law" perhaps doesn't resonate in the heart as much as "By any means necessary." or the 'I have a dream.' speech.  But that Easter-egg was hidden on a street walked my thousands each day, and painted brighter than the grey of the city.  All it required, all it still requires, is for someone to point it out, and let young, hungry curiosity handle the rest.

And if there was no Adam Clayton Powell jr Boulevard?  If it were forever to be called ' 7th Avenue'?  Then obviously it would be just another gilded street in an increasingly gentrified Harlem.  And with no knowledge of the true history of the neighborhood, why would anyone want to stay somewhere they're not wanted?  The argument against gentrification and the tools for combating it is another conversation all its own.  But we are talking about knowledge, access to knowledge, and the drive to educate oneself.  Again, I've only made it through the preliminary text and the first chapter, but being a long time fan of all kinds of narratives, I can tell that its these very same factors on which the plot of this story; the liberation of Saint Domingue, and the creation of Haiti; hinges.  The same factors, perhaps, presented the Easter egg of Marxism to James, and inseminated within him the idea to share history to the Caribbean and Black Communities.  The same factors that now lead me to explore, stumble upon, and learn from James, his writing, and the history of the region.  And if there were, perhaps, a library in a predominantly black neighborhood somewhere that, all of a sudden, was no longer called the CLR James Library?  Then we will be left with those still waiting to stumble over brightly coloured enlightenment hidden in plain sight, and all we'll be able to tell them is: 'It used to be there.  But now its not.'

---

Inspired by: CRB • Antilles • Transformative reading
Please sign: Save CLR James Library

On Kriol

I must be a traitor to the cause.  I recognize the need for a unified Kriol spelling and dictionary.  It is a beautiful and exciting language.  One that should be taken seriously.  One that has a place in our writing, our literature, our culture.  We should embrace it!  I still remember the ti me when my aunt told my little sister 'Don't talk like that.  It's ugly.'  My eyes almost fell out of my head.  Don't talk like that?  Here we are surrounded on all sides by such seductive forces that would devour our very Belizean-ness if you let it, and you're gonna tell a little girl who's only barely begun to develop attachments to a rewarding culture to abandon her language?

Or should I say langwij.  Which is one of the few Kriol words with which I have no problem with the spelling.  This is why I say I must be a traitor.  As much as I love the language, and the need to cement it as a part of our culture, I can't stand the chosen spelling.  For starters, I've always thought the letter 'k' to be vulgar.  I can't explain that one much further, honestly.  The letter 'k' is vulgar in the same way that the numeral '7' is intimidating and the taste of cilantro is a wide open room.  There might be some sort of repressed emotional influence from my childhood involved in it.  When I start seeing a therapist, I'll be sure to find out and let you all know, but until then anytime I see the letter 'k' in a word and its not silent, I'll krinj a little. 

I don't have the same issue with j replacing certain teeth sound combinations, obviously.  I can't, however, be asked to sit back and allow one combination to replace another.  That, to me, is asinine.  I speak creole I talk kriol, and I say 'truth' and 'tru-tru-story.'  I have never said 'chrute' or 'chru-ting'.  The sound is sharper.  Acute.  It doesn't slide like 'ch'.  Its an abrupt change of sound direction.  A nice, jarring 'tr'.

Okay, so maybe this is all just a bit ridiculous.  But keep in mind, if you're defining something you have to go by its original understanding.  Belizeans didn't invent the word Creole (We did invent Kriol, though.) it already existed in the world and had its own meaning.

Adjective

S: (adj) Creole (of or relating to a language that arises from contact between two other languages and has features of both)

I want to focus here on the phrase 'features of both'.  In this case that means that there are indeed a great plethora of African words in the Kriol language, words that don't have written spellings today and so we must give them one: Juk, nyam, ect.  But it also means that some of the words we're saying are English words.  Why should we change them?  Why should we go from saying 'Belizean Constitution' to 'Bileez Kanstitooshan'.  Why would we abandon  the etymology of a word older than us?  What part of the word 'Constitution' is too difficult for the Belizean tongue to pronounce?  To me there's something insulting about it. 

Now that I've ranted, this is the part where I admit that I have been writing quite a bit in Creole lately.  The stories that have been coming to me lately have been coming to me in Creole.  They start off in English, sure.  That's as far as setting goes.  But when it comes to relating certain aspects of the story, of the character, of the event, then there is no English substitution.  Its the beauty of the language that's required to paint a more vivid picture.  And the more that I use the language in my writing, the more I need it.  I don't write in the official Kriol spelling.  Sometimes its just a lot simpler to employ English words and Creole grammar.  Sometimes, I don't want to ruin something by throwing in a nasty 'K'.  But sometimes...sometimes I really wish I had that dictionary.  Sometimes yuh need wah lee pig tail inna yuh beans.

Rainy Season -- Day 20 (Seventh day of sun)

Last entry until it starts raining again.  Have so much to say.  So much to write.  Also have splitting headache and bad stomach.  Want to write essay on magic and fantasy in caribbean literature.  Musn't forget so writing down the intention here.  Can hardly think of anything other than my own personal discomfort and...

Her Legs.

Those legs deserve their own line.

What's happening with Polymath

 I've been thinking a lot about stories lately.  And just to clarify, I'm not talking about fairy tales or love stories.  I'm talking about the things that happen, that go unshared, but ought not to be.  This, right here?  This thing you're reading?  This is a story.  And yes, it may not sell books or make millions of dollars in movie sales, but like all stories it deserves to be shared.  It deserves an audience.  And I REALLY want to give it that.  This story, and stories like it.  And many other stories out there.

There's a combination of things that's been inspiring this, I think.  A big part of it is the things that I've been feeding my brain with lately.  Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale is a book about books.  About stories and writing, and only partly about the people that write them.  I've been delving into the blogs and available writing of Caribbean writers.  People with stories and cultures so rich that it makes me jealous.  And I've been been listening to a lot of Selected Shorts, The New Yorker, The Moth, and This American Life on my iPod.   All the while I think 'Why don't we have this?  Why aren't we telling our stories?  When I downloaded an old podcast from Caribbean Free Radio and heard the contributors sitting around a table with a bottle of gin and simply...talking; simply telling the story of that year's Calabash Festival, I was sure that we needed something like that. 

On top of that, I still (STILL!) get asked about Poetry Night.  About Polymath and about the plans and intentions that we had.  And as much as it was stressful and difficult it was always so immeasurably rewarding.  Even the disappointments, to me, were great things.  And recently we've been having whispers and plotting sessions.  Measuring the best places for an antenna.  Judging costs of converting a certain upstairs.  The phrases 'Radio Station' and 'Our Own' have been meeting in dangerous proximity.  We even talk about it as if it already exists, and only half in joke.  "That's a good idea." We say.  "We'll put that on the programming schedule for Pirate Radio."  Pirate Radio.  A play on Belize's buccaneering days.  That's what I'd call it, at least.  I don't think Manza's quite sold on it.  Furthermore, I don't think he really knows how excited I am about the prospect.  Because i haven't rushed out to buy an antenna or arranged to procure recording equipment, he probably thinks I've brushed it under the rug or that I wasn't really taking him seriously in the first place.  That's not the case. 

I am taking him seriously.  I do listen when he starts talking about these wild ideas.  I believe in the brother, ever since he made the first one happen.  But after the first one, I stopped worrying about the physical aspect.  I stopped worrying about how we're gonna make a stage appear out of thin air.  How we're gonna get wiring and speakers.  How we're gonna get house lights and get a bunch of people crammed into a room to listen to one tiny, shy voice at a time.  Now when he says 'we're going to put on a show.' I believe him.  When he says 'Its gonna be outside' I say 'There's gonna be lights in the trees and paper lanterns and people sipping wine on ' and I don't feel stupid for thinking so big.  Likewise, when he asked that first time 'You think we can find poets?  You think people will be into it?' and I told him 'People will be into it.  They'll fucking weep!', he believed me.  And it all happened.

Its just that right now, I'm more concerned with content.  I don't want to tackle this tiger head on.  I'd rather sneak up on it.  Death from above.  By the time Brah Tiga know's what's happening, I want to already have my teeth in him.  So, with that in mind, my after-work project for the next couple days is to take one of the Hard Drives I have at home and converting my home PC into a part time recording and editing PC.  I don't have the best mic, but I have a mic.  I don't have a studio but I have a room that's quiet if I let it be.  I don't have the top of the line software, but I've got Ubuntu, and open source resources.  I don't have the stories.  Not yet.  But I've got the drive.  And I've got the imagination.

This is gonna happen.  Just watch.