The Battle of St. George

Mao Tse-Tsung once said something that has always stuck with me. He stated that “the cardinal responsibility of leadership is to identify the dominant contradiction at each point of the historical process and to work out a central line to resolve it”.


In Grenada’s chequered political story, punctuated with periods of power and leadership struggles and marked by commas of uncertainty, striking pause into our democractic systems, this is apt and chillingly true. Bernard Coard misjudged this responsibility when he tried to chastise the People’s Leader, between chastening the ego of dear Maurice and mapping out a new route ahead for JEWEL. The National Democratic Congress was formed in 1986 when Francis Alexis and Tillman Thomas judged this responsibility accurately and defected from Blaize’s New National Party. Keith Mitchell again judged this contradiction accurately when he promoted himself leader of the Party forcing Blaize to form The National Party.

It appears that this moment was misjudged over the last week. Having been prodded and pressed and urged and cajoled to show his leadership muscles and bare his political balls, Tillman Thomas decided to re-shuffle his Cabinet. This should be an exercise straightforward in itself- it was done only last year when Karl Hood was demoted as Minister of Health. Alas, reshuffling a Cabinet is not the same as reshuffling a pack of well worn cards in a rumshop game of rummy. Fronting his PR man to make his announcement (bad move), he allegedly did not discuss the decisions in Cabinet nor did he afford the affected persons (much loved man about town Peter David, newly elected Michael Church and the well spoken Glynis Roberts) the chance to dissent or discuss. Mao Tse Tsung would not have been happy. The by then agitated appointees decided therefore not to attend the swearing in of the new Cabinet as they were not happy with their new portfolios- Church is now a mere Minister of State (brazenly and arrogantly confirmed by Thomas), Glynis Roberts is now Minister for Labour and Peter David is now not the much envied Minister of Foreign Affairs (with all the incumbent perks) but has been relegated to Tourism.

On the surface, part of me was visibly annoyed that these elected MPs had acted rather like petulant teenagers and had shown their hand as individuals who were more interested in their political egos rather than the general development of country. However, I was not surprised. It takes a very particular type of individual to run for political office and these are not usually shrinking violets. The events of Friday 19 November were critical, not because of the anecdotal value of the “walk-outs” but because it crystallised what many predicted as the internal combustion of Congress. Several points are now salient.

First, Tillman Thomas’ leadership style is not popular and this tacit confrontation marked the first open challenge to his leadership. And a challenge it is. The demotion of Peter David (who I like) was not just a demotion per se, but was a direct anointing of the anti-Peter, a tacit announcement that it was not he who was second in command. This reshuffle was poignant in what was not said but party insiders knew that it was a moment showing that the heir apparent was Nazim Burke. Were I Peter David who worked really hard for the party, I would not like this unilateral decision one little bit. Be warned, this is not a struggle between Thomas and David- this is rather David annoyed that he has lost to Burke.

These changes allegedly were the result of party advisors who appear to have colonised and overpopulated Congress’ ranks. Special Advisor for Press, Special Advisor for Policies, Special Advisor for who knows what- have all appeared to have taken on great importance in the party, reminiscent of Bristol’s warning of a “second Cabinet”. Being a fan of the democratic process, I would not even bestow upon them the word Cabinet, not even in inverted commas: they are unelected political appointees, some with skill and some utterly inept judging by the fact that the vast majority have not thrived in the private sector. These special advisors (and their sons and daughters) appear to be the most ample beneficiaries of the fruits of Congress- serving in prized positions, now it seems even at the expense of our elected representatives. Pardon me, but Dennoth Modeste, albeit a son of the Victorian soil, did not stand for elected office, neither did Glen Noel nor Ann Antoine nor Franka Bernadine, although I have every confidence in the latter. It cannot be right that it is seen that grace and favours and the privilege of speaking in the Prime Minister’s ear falls to those who did not sacrifice career ambitions and risk the possibility to humiliation to stand for public office, to the ultimate reality audience ever- the official polls. It absolutely cannot be the case or seen to be the case that certain of these individuals occupy more favoured positions? What is it that Dennoth Modeste can do that Peter David, an educated, well-spoken man cannot be seen to do, and if there is indeed something, why wasn’t he doing it during all his years in the diplomatic service? Is Glen Noel the only reasonable choice as Minister for Housing? Why not Osborne James, who was actually elected? It is not as if one is more qualified than the other. It may be that the public dissenters have a point, albeit not particularly well handled.

Having said all that, I have always admired Thomas in that he seems to be incredibly humble but like much of what we have inherited from our colonial past, we seem to always wish for a leader who is larger than life, with equal parts of ceremony with substance. Thomas has been chastised as not being able to “speak” because his accent is Hermitagean with accents of Sauteurs. I would say there is nothing wrong with that, but maybe because we are so small we suffer from what I call the “semblance of statesmanship” complex. In my eyes, there is nothing wrong with the way he answers questions- short, to the point, honest, unpolished by cheap spin and PR, but to the vast majority of Grenadians, he does not appear like the archetypal “Prime Minister”. Added to this, the abject failure of Congress (and I say this as an omniscient narrator without any fear or favour) to capitalise on the shortcomings of the NNP under his leadership, has weakened faith in his hand. Job creation is virtually at a standstill, the effects of the recession has had a toll on economic prospects, the tourism industry is still underdeveloped, the release of Bernard Coard was handled with a lack of aplomb, there has been no significant investment in infrastructure, the youth programme has been dismantled, among other things, it is not difficult to see why Grenadians are eager to have Thomas deliver on the change he promised.

The question now seems to be, will that change be a change without him, and not without David and his cohorts as he hoped. The decision he has made to make these changes appear to have inversely, operated as a judgment on his tenure as leader. The result seems inevitable. There will be a battle. Congress can continue without Thomas or David or both. I know that Thomas Jefferson said that he who cannot obey cannot command, but what occurs when the act of obeying will betray pride and ambition?

Cocoa seeds

A few weeks ago, I went to the Tate Modern to see Ai Weiwei’s much vaunted and critically acclaimed “Sunflower Seeds”. To the untrained, unlearned eye, it would have seemed unspectacular- a sea of over one hundred million of what seemed like small pebbles placed into a giant exhibition area, much like an expanse of Brighton beach indoors. This was especially so as Weiwei’s vision that we would touch and interact with the art was nipped in the proverbial bud by Health and Safety jobsworths as the herds of Londoners stamping on the seeds created some form of dust that was apparently unsafe. Bollocks. I think that the millions of Londoners walking away with a few seeds in their pockets and backpacks was more of an issue.

I say seeds, but this is incorrect. These were really porcelain replicas of sunflower seeds. They seemed identical but they were all unique and hand-crafted by families and individuals in the porcelain crafting region of China, Jingdezhen. Each ceramic seed was individually moulded, sculpted and hand painted by persons trained in the art working in family workshops and at home. By so doing, Weiwei turned the cliché of Made In China on its head: here it was in front of us- mass production alongside traditional craftsmanship. Weiwei explains in his video that sunflower seeds were a common street snack shared with friends which carried some association with Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution during 1966-1976 where Chairman Mao was depicted as the Sun and the people as sunflowers who turned towards him. The effort was poignant to me- the dignity and the desire to work of the Jingdezhen people was striking- they wanted and actively sought out more work and took pride in creating the sunflower seeds to perfection. It raised important questions about materialism and consumerism in today’s society. What is the dividing line between individuality and our mutual commonality.
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I couldn’t help, when viewing this exhibition, to ponder on the Caribbean condition. We have traditionally prided ourselves on our attention to detail, our individuality and our uniqueness- we are too small to mass produce anything. I couldn’t help making an analogy with the seeds that would be used to represent our condition, were such an exhibition to be launched. I thought we could use cocoa seeds- cocoa representing a traditional export that was meticulously grown and harvested, resplendent in their jewel colours of red and yellow, an export that has now become secondary to the cheap fast tourist product. I recall days of traipsing fields of cocoa, shaded by overarching canopies of nutmeg, breaking the prized pods open and sucking on the opaque, almost cataract pulp of the fruit, careful not to ingest too many in case, as legend had it, we died of short breath. We picked cocoa, we carried buckets of them back home on shaky donkeys, wide banks and unsteady heads. We laid it out to dry in the sun in huge cocoa drawers, careful to save them from a torrent of rain. We danced headily, turning these prized globules with our feet. Cocoa too, could be associated with periods of one man rule in our islands. Who could forget Uncle Gairy on Grenada's cocoa plantations, speaking to the workers and consecrating himself their Saviour?

Cocoa is still prized in the islands, but our brand of Trinitario has been overtaken by the cocoa industries of Ghana. We are not able to compete on size nor on production range and we have been beaten on prices and plagued by disease. In the early 1970s most farmers switched to production of bananas as the cocoa crop was too unpredictable. The end result was that cocoa was only grown sporadically and exported in its raw form to more profitable centres for production. Now, due to the fact that it is estimated that cocoa will soon be worth its weight in gold (a true fact), there is a renewed effort by the region in its cocoa producing capabilities, and rightfully so.  The EU has funded the Caribbean Fine Flavoured Cocoa Forum with a view to capitalise on the flavoursome Caribbean bean as opposed to the ordinary, bulk, cocoa beans. The potential can be enormous. Professor Denise Thompson of the University of Trinidad and Tobago noted that we were exporting raw cocoa at $3 a kilo, which was being sold in the market at $1500 a kilo. It is my hope that this project takes off, for the benefit of our people and for the benefit of our islands.

Maybe in two years time, a young artist would place an exhibition in the Tate telling the history of our revitalised love affair with these seeds, representing the bounty of hard labour.

Why Katie Price is a Feminist

I always get a lot of stick when I say this, but I really like Katie Price. Maybe it is because in spite of all her gold unitard wearing shenanigans, her story resonates with me a whole fricking lot. Here is a single mum, raising the disabled child of a deadbeat dad (shame on you Dwight Yorke for not taking care of your seed) and she is also the main breadwinner of a broken family. Her husband left her when she was adamant that she did not wish to end the marriage. Did she feel sorry for herself ? No, she spent a few weeks getting drunk in Marbella and then she emerged, feisty, fighting and back in form with a new boyfriend at her side. She was not born the most stunning woman in the world, nor the most intelligent, nor the sexiest or the most privileged, yet she has managed to be completely self made and to have created a market out of herself spawning homeware, clothing, No 1 Albums, bestselling books and reality TV shows. I think Katie Price is a feminist icon because if she can do it, the rest of us have no excuse.


The feminist movement in the early 1990’s were defined by a number of key issues: women’s suffrage, gender neutrality, equal work for equal pay, free choice of women to their reproductive rights but increasingly, women are disappointed with the fruits of the spoils. Men routinely deny that there is a glass ceiling, but the miniscule numbers of senior employees in corporate UK betray the lie. We have been told to work hard and assiduously and we will have the dream husband, the dream family and the dream house in the country, only to find that we are still left with the lion’s share of the housework and childcare whilst that man that we love so much chases DDs and salivates over Botox enhanced, silicon filled blondes. We were taught to be independent, to value the fact that we could purchase our own homes, our own cars and pay our own bills: no one told us that this was a stupid strategy. As Lil Kim says in the Moulin Rouge- why spend mine when I could spend yours? Meanwhile the girls at school who happily used their best assets and gave it up to the right bankers, lawyers, and IT personnel are enjoying the very same spoils, except for free and without the hassle of bank accounts, investments, mortgages and the like.

Katie Price has turned this form of delusional thankless feminism on its head. She has is a cacophony of contradictions. She has had an abortion, had three children and is undergoing fertility treatment to have another. They will probably have three different fathers, turning the idea of the nuclear birth family upside down and on its head. She has, to some extent, reinvented herself from the rubber clad, Lolita inspired pin-up of a Page Three Girl into a viable business enterprise, merchandising herself and her children. Nothing is sancrosanct, nothing is secret. Katie Price has cleverly made herself the brand and is marketing it (even unapologetically whoring it) with passion and enthusiasm. She is strikingly honest about her capabilities, surprisingly optimistic despite all the negative press, and has a dogged determinism and sense of not caring about the opposition that we only latterly see in men. She exploits the lad’s mags with knowing prowess- a pout here, a wink there, a bat of the eyelid. She can become the sex kitten at the drop of her knickers but can also be versatile enough to sell children’s equestrian gear in pretty pink. Isn’t this even better than Germaine Greer? A woman exercising her choice in all aspects of her life, refusing to be defined by the views of others and eking out a name and a place for herself? Katie Price has worked quite hard for her cars, her house, her horseboxes and her life but crucially, has done so doing it on her own terms, at her own pace and with her own vision. There are partners who are earning millions in brown suits at multinational law firms who cannot say the same.

Some may say that her overt sexualisation is actually demeaning traditional concepts of feminism and by continuing to pose for men’s magazines and on the covers of Nuts and Zoo, she reinforces stereotypes of women as objects. I beg to differ. Katie Price has taken her sexuality by the vagina and has released herself from the claws of society’s expectations of what is a “good woman”. She is the head of her household and plays a dominant role in her relationships. And there’s the rub- Katie Price probably best epitomises the central thesis of Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch. By her failure to fit squarely into the traditional, suburban, nuclear family which is both repressive and devitalising, she has become a metaphor for our times where women resist being separated from their sexuality. Katie Price more than owns her libido and her desire; she cognitively associates herself with it, and manipulates it for her own benefit. Isn’t this the antithesis of the female eunuch?

Not everyone is born to be a suffragette. Not every individual will fight for parliamentary freedoms or be the first to go to University or to enter into the professions. And we don’t all want to be pink pony toting women in a sea of hair extensions, hobbling with six inch heels to a celebrity event. But if a woman chooses this, and makes a commercial enterprise out of it, I am surprised that this is considered counter-feminism and counter the movements that preached that we were all needed to reclaim ownership of our choices.

Ten minus One Equals Nine

The heartless, baseless and utterly stupid comments of Kamla Persad-Bissessar in response to the devastation wreaked upon other Caribbean islands by Hurricane Tomas have almost left us”small islanders” in fits of almost epileptic quantums. That a leader of an island, that a leader of a sister Caribbean island at that, who is poised to take a leading role in the integration of the region should boldly blurt out in the aftermath of an humanitarian crisis, in the fashion of a tactless undiplomatic ignoramus, that any aid delivered to the islands would be contingent on some benefit to Trinidad and Tobago, proves to me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that some individuals, whilst claiming to be educated, are actually dumb as shit. I take no prisoners- Kamla is a jackass of the higher order.

I was angry, on a deeper level, because this is Trinidad. This was the Trinidad of Eric Williams who was a beacon of Pan Africanism and regionalism, a forebearer of the Caribbean integrationist movement, the godfather of the Maurice Bishops and the petit frère of the Castros. This was the Trinidad and Tobago of the Spanish settlers who had no experience in tilling the land and where the slaves of Grenada and St. Vincent were exported to till the huge canefields of Curepe. This was the Trinidad and Tobago that many islanders migrated to in the early 1940’s around the period of war and who settled in Fyzabad and in other neighbouring districts to build Trinidad’s infrastructure. This was the Triniadad we Grenadians bestowed our greatest exports upon: Uriah Buzz Butler, the blueprint for Caribbean trade unionists and the Mighty Sparrow, Calypso King of the World. We even gave the island of Trinidad carnival. Prior to the French Grenadian settlers on the island, Trinidad had no Carnival. That is a documented fact.

On a more personal level, this was the Trinidad that I ate, drank and lived everyday. I watched Gayelle TV with Uncle Fabien in the evenings. My Ipod is filled with the latest tracks from Machel Montano, Lord Kitchener and Faye Ann Lyons. I just purchased a ticket to see Destra and Saucy Wow tomorrow. This was the Trinidad into which I pumped thousands of dollars into the local economy to jump up in the heat for two days on the road in a cheaply bedecked pair of panties and a bra. I paid for the discomfort. Trinidad was ever omniscient in the Dixee and Crix crackers on which I was weaned, the Fruta, Trinidad Orange Juice and Orchard that I begged my mum to buy me in place of the sweet Swivel oranges laden on the trees outside, and the Mackeson and Stag that I now drink in place of our own local Carib. We feature Trinidadian artists in our local carnivals, we patronise Trinidad brands, we even read Trinidadian tabloids like the Punch. The CIA Factbook shows that the Caribbean purchases hundreds of millions of products from Trinidad and Tobago. Sure, the United States , Spain and Germany are amongst its biggest trading partners, but our contributions are certainly not minimal. The net gain of our generational straddling of the twin island Republic is that the economy is thriving and its people are a colourful amalgam crossing cultures and race, so much so that its President takes this for granted.

I am not upset in the manner of a petulant naive teen oblivious to the fact that deals are made via the back door on international aid projects. However, these are often on projects which have long term ramifications, never the initial response to a cry for help. There is a reason why the world help has only four letters, it is not meant to rebound to the donor. I strongly believe that an offer of conditional help to a country on its knees in times of crisis is not actual help at all. I am also annoyed by the silence of Trinidadians on the issue, as they should know better and in their refusal to speak out on Kamla’s misdemeanour, they tacitly agree. Quelle fuckerie. It is as if they really believe in the propaganda, that the other islands are the perpetual buskers in the underground of CSME and the OECS. This is very far from the truth. Whilst we are small, the islands do not survive by the largesse of Trinidad and Tobago, nor do we consider it to be an ATM machine. St. Lucia, Barbados, Jamaica and even the smaller islands of Anguilla, St. Kitts and Antigua do exceedingly well from the tourist markets. In contrast, Trinidad has been allowed to benefit from and exploit Grenada’s maritime resources for a number of years.

Kamla’s approach smacks of someone who has only had the benefit of learning and not an education; it is not a wonder to me that she was only able to soar to the dizzy heights of Norwood Technical College in SE27, an institution that was later scrapped. It is also ironic that she herself benefited from the regionalism that she seems to deplore. After receiving her teaching certificate, she was graciously accepted by St. Andrew’s High School in Jamaica as a lecturer, and later by the Jamaica College of Insurance.

I am more concerned however by what some say this aggressive and isolationist statement means for the Caribbean, for Caricom in terms of the integrationist movement in the Caribbean. The Caribbean Court of Justice is meant to be housed in Trinidad and Tobago. The very principle of neighbourliness seems to have been lost on TNT and it seems that the people there (based on the ignorant comments in the Trinidad Express) are vehement that they do not wish to be their brothers’ keepers, particularly when the islands are down and out, handicapped or crippled. It is a damning indictment of the short sightedness of the region’s leaders when even Europe the economic powerhouse that it is, is creating and strengthening alliances among its Member States, and in India and China. Instead, small Caribbean countries, which in the grand scheme of things, play  miniscule roles in the global economic landscape, have a puffed up sense of their own importance and start conditioning their measly dollars on vacuous ideas like benefit. Dollars which I may remind Trinidad and Tobago is so devalued compared to the EC dollar that they can keep it! We doh want it! What hubris! However, I am not convinced that this says anymore than  display Trinidad’s immaturity in its refusal to enter the spirit of the regional effort, and unlike Williams, I think this time we are not willing to let one spoilt petulant child spoil the family. I say let's march ahead without Trinidad. Jamaica has learnt its lesson- yes, its economy has advanced but it has ate humble pie and has realised that it needs its neighbours.

To Kamla, I have only eight words : “the consciousness of well doing is ample reward”. This was said very often by the Grenadian Principal of my school, who was sent to rescue a Trinidad Convent, no less.

Can't Say Fairer than That

The RER comes to a shuddering stop. The doors open and the mademoiselle in the clipped accent says charmingly “Bienvenue a Chatelet Les Halles” but there is not much to welcome. I can see it in my mind’s eye. The exit to Rue du Reamur Sebastopol. The swinging doors where the same blind man with the uneven legs sits soliciting funds in a grey bucket sits, permanently stationed. The queues of African men and women to Ligne 4, heading to Porte de Clignancourt and the waves of French Mesdames and students headed the opposite way to Porte d’Orleans. You stay in Les Halles and you can either go up the stairs and be confronted by the huge H&M on the right or Le Fnac on the left. You can walk a bit further on and find the Starbucks and a cinema, playing the latest American flicks in VO (version originale). The actors in this mise en scene are always there, young extravagantly dressed young men and women, wearing the latest urban styles, expensive baskets- Nike or Adidas, congregating before a jaunt to KFC. They do not meet in Chatelet by accident, they meet in Chatelet because it is where the RERs from the outer regions of Paris intersect; they bus themselves in, by the trainload, every Saturday to the epicentre, as if to stake some adverse possessary right to this arrondissement.

The latest cap on housing benefit has led to outcries that London will be soon like Paris in that the suburbs will be ghettoised and the areas in the middle of town would be reserved for the uber- rich, not even the Camerons and the Spencers of this world, but maybe, even more frighteningly for the bourgeoisie- the Baidikovas, the Assaubayevs and the Amin Al-Shareefs who are only in residence 90 days a year, lest they be asked to pay UK tax. Others say well so be it. There are millions of hard working men and women who cannot afford to live in these affluent areas, and who make do with going to work each day from less than perfect conditions, facing a long commute from Romford, Bexleyheath and even as far away as Folkestone. My first PA was one of them. She did a two hour commute each day, twice a day to get into work. It certainly seems absurd that taxpayers should be asked to pay upwards £104,000 a year, so that individuals who are supported by the State could live within a hop skip and a jump of the City’s and the West End’s amenities. Is the price of social diversity necessarily so high?

I know that we are hypocrites in London. We want equality but we are not prepared to bear the inconveniences. We admire the village character of Paris but we also believe that everyone has a right to his/her betting shops and branch of Morleys. We believe in the welfare state until the recipients of benefits live in nicer houses than we do, in nicer areas than we do.

We certainly do not wish for another Clichy-sous-Bois, where the police are afraid to enter except with bullet-proof jackets, and where young men in hoods, with sharpened faces and razor tough glints patrol the streets. We do not wish for the outskirts of London to become synonymous with severe impoverishment, segregation and gang violence all because unemployment has hit critical masses. We do not wish that in a few years, Clegg and Cameron start speaking of the “racailles” on the outskirts who infest the good town of London. Nonetheless, where I depart from Tolynbee and the rest of the Guardian leftists is that I genuinely do not believe that this is likely. Contrary to Boris Johnson’s politically ambitious insinuation that the cap on benefits would result in a Kosovo style cleansing, the statistics show that very few persons will be affected by this measure; the estimate is barely 5,000. A cap of £200 a week means that enough poorer people will still get to live in the fancy areas in wealthy boroughs, but maybe that they won’t leave in the most luxurious townhouses with Saatchi and Lawson as neighbours. And isn’t that okay?

I know that lots of us love the idea that the Sloanites and Muswellites and Hampsteadths have had to learn to live with persons of different backgrounds like anyone else because the council flats are almost superimposed onto their end of terraces, but this is only a figment of our imagination- Londoners are already strongly separated by class and by income and most of the individuals who live in these areas hardly even look at the “hoodies” down their street, much less to integrate and to live together in inner city “one-love” harmony. It is clear that out inner city experiment does not work and that it only serves to highlight the glaring gaps between rich and poor in areas like Islington and Notting Hill. There is already a sub-ghettoisation which already occurs. Lewisham, Southwark and Greenwich councils houses a substantial proportion of workers who cannot afford to live in the nicer parts of town.

Fact is that the proposed reforms will see hundreds of thousands of people facing less than a £20 decrease in housing benefit and if the odd anomalies of councils paying for seven bedroom houses in Maida Vale at £4000 a week cease to exist, I can’t say fairer than that. I simply cannot see the case for taxpayers funding housing at levels which ordinary policemen, doctors and lawyers cannot afford. In fact, many of us started off by living in shared accommodation in nicer areas, and if we wanted to live on our own, we decided to live further out of the city of London, eastwards and southwards, in Kent and Essex. It is said that these measures will only affect 692,000 persons in total living in private rented accommodation paid for councils, and if the decreases are only modest, I cannot fathom how this will result in a mass exodus. Social housing in the middle of London will continue to exist, and rightfully so.

We do, however, need to be vigilant. These cuts come at a time when hundreds of thousands of public jobs are being made redundant. There are also corresponding cuts to Job Seeker’s Allowance, and a change in the index on which benefits are being pegged. In many cases, individuals are not being able to find jobs because they do not exist. It is tempting to label job seekers as “scroungers” but when individuals are on £67 a week, out of which bills and other essentials need to be paid, it does not take a genius to work out that the cumulative effect of all these measures may just be a run on the poor.

Are we aggressive?

The BBC has not always managed to work its way past stereotypes so I believe that we were all elated when the first winner of The Apprentice was a young, black man who proved that the words diversity and merit were not mutually exclusive.


I should open by way of disclaimer by saying that I have mixed feelings about the show- how is it that a reality talent show focussing on making people better entrepreneurs has as its prize being someone else’s employee? This, in my opinion, is contradictory, counter intuitive and reductive. Surely, a better plan would be to give those individuals the backing, financial assistance and advice to put in the hard graft into their own business ideas? This is why I believe that for all the braggadocio and smarmy sales pitch of the wannabe young Sugars, none of them must be particularly bright. Unless, maybe, this is just a way to improve their marketability (I call this doing a “Kate Walsh”): the ultimate aim is not winning the job, but to use it as a stepping stone toward different opportunities.

I digress, in any event. I took particular umbrage with the show’s comments over the past couple of weeks. The women’s group were a lesson in inefficiency, but as usual, this did not reflect on their own personalities, no- it was an indictment of all women in boardrooms across Britain. These gaggling and cackling hyenas were treated as if they represented the best of womankind, something that did not even dawn on Suralan to say applied to the men at all. The males on the show fail on their own merits and for themselves. If they are dickheads they are dickheads. They do not embarrass “mankind” as a group with their hilarious, inept antics. The fact that the women are singled out in this manner, by no less than a woman, is indicting. Don’t we have enough guilt and burdens already?

I was also taken aback when Joanna Riley was called aggressive by her colleagues and by the Sugarites. Tactless, yes. Opinionated and stubborn, yes. An asshole. Possibly. Aggressive? I certainly did not see her inspiring or threatening violence in any kind, or intimidating others in such a way to inspire a fear of being confronted or attacked. After all, this is a show which values a cut-throat, go-getting attitude; is it surprising then the Type A personalities who might think of being a contestant would have more balls than a juggler?

I have an almost switchblade reaction to the word aggressive when it is used to describe a black woman. It is all too trite, too easy, too clichéd. The word aggressive is loaded it brings together all the worst parts of anger, edginess and danger, much in the fashion of a bitch marking its territory and waiting to give birth. This is the favourite word utilised in disciplinary meetings, reviews and appraisals, bandied about so much as the word of choice when there is nothing else to say or to be commented upon, hurled against that person who would dare be even slightly contrarian in a conservative meeting environment that we eventually retire into a shadow of ourselves and retreat to become less us, less overt. This is not the first time that the image of the angry black woman has played out on the Apprentice- we were all hooked on the USA version featuring the Crown Princess of Mean- Omarosa. Omarosa was painted as an aggressive go-getter, the only other side to her two dimensional character was her love of “drama”, another poignant stereotype.

I do not deny that there are obvious cultural differences at play. In the Caribbean and in Africa, we often use elaborate gestures to communicate our respective positions on an issue. In a market stall or during a simple conversation exchange, voices can become raised, people can become shrill and the debate would still not be characterised as an argument. In a middle class milieu, it may be that these very same cultural traits can be interpreted very differently. Passion can sometimes be a solid indicator of competence but if this passion, however, is interpreted as confrontational, then this perception is often what matters.

Young Joanna Riley seems to have made a way in the world for herself. She is the mother of twins who found herself in a dead-end job and was inspired to start up a cleaning company in her hometown so that she would be able to provide a better life for her children. She rose above the cliché. What use is there, then, in painting her with another? She appears to be bright and personable and maybe she is slightly rough around the edges, probably because she has had to fight hard and rough to achieve most things that she has wanted out of life. She reminds me a lot of a younger me- spirited, brutally and shockingly honest, and emboldened. She said a few things I would have said- no, one should not apologise for airing one’s views or giving input, and yes, I too expected the other girls to nail the presentation- what’s aggressive about those views even though they were said with a flourish? There was no screaming, kicking, gnashing of teeth. I am disappointed that now she appears to have retreated into a wet, boring carapace for fear of being misinterpreted. How many others in boardrooms across New York, London, Atlanta and Los Angeles, have lost their fire, lost their spirit and have become muted former versions of themselves to succeed in a corporate environment? Too many, perhaps. I say a silent prayer for their (maybe our?) resurrection.

The Political Calypso

All those who promise free and just debate


Then blow up radicals to save the state,


Who allow, in democracy’s defence,


A parliament of spiked heads on a fence


All you go bawl out “Spikes things aint so bad”


This ain’t the Dark Ages

This is Trinidad.

Derek Walcott in his seminal poem- The Spoiler’s Return brilliantly and beautifully captures the role of the calypsonian in the Caribbean political climate. Spoiler returns from the dead sitting high upon a bridge in Laventille lamenting that something is rotten in the State. He traces the stench to the inept political figureheads of the day and outlines their hypocrisy and eagerness to hide the true state of affairs from their constituents. In so doing, he becomes and acts as agent for the opposition, a grassroots dissenter who is at the same time the voice of the people and his own voice.

The calypsonian as de facto parliamentarian has not always existed. The development of the calypsonian as the one of the main players in the political landscape marks the evolution of calypso from a medium of entertainment, to a social agent for political change. This is the political calypso- the calypso that transcends the realm of calypsonian as spectatator and reporter, into agitator and a veritable opposition.

In this paper, I focus first on the evolution of the political calypsonian in Trinidad & Tobago, not because the politicisation of calypso did not occur in the other islands, but because Trinidad & Tobago has witnessed a traceable leap in the development of its artform. I discuss briefly the role of the other islands, moving on to address the role of the calypsonian in the UK.

The Political Landscape in Trinidad and Tobago in the 1940’s

The political landscape in Trinidad and Tobago in 1940’s was characterised and influenced by wartime infrastructure. Various areas in Trinidad were leased to create naval bases in the area around Chaguaramas. It was also the period of the Labour riots. These riots of 1937 spearheaded by T.U.B. Butler (an immigrant from the neighbouring island of Grenada) led to the formation of the modern Trade Union movement. Butler was jailed from 1937 to 1939, but was re-arrested when the United Kingdom entered World War II and jailed for the duration of the war. After his release in 1945 Butler reorganised his political party, the British Empire Citizens' and Workers' Home Rule Party. This party won a majority in the 1950 General Elections.

It was within this climate of war and repression and the burgeoning movement for workers’ right that early calypso came to develop a political voice of its own.

The Early Years of Calypso

In the early 1940’s the calypsonian was limited by his role as entertainer. In fact, calypso was only just then emerging as a separate genre. This was the era of the chantuelles- singers who chanted alongside the stickfighters and spurred them into action and composed ditties for various masqueraders. In fact, most calypsonians were chantuelles who derived their songs from the chant of the Kalenda bands. Most chantuelles preferred, however, to sing for the upper classes and identified themselves as heroes of war. Calypsonians, on the other hand were associated with prostitution, the life of the lower class and carnival jamettes .

Calypsonians were seen by many in society, and particularly by the Roman Catholic population, as sinners and propagators of the devil’s work. The calypsos were often lewd and crude as they pandered to popular opinion.

One such calypso was sang by the Roaring Lion in the 1920’s:

“Nettie Nettie
Give me the thing that you got in yuh belly
If yuh cyan stand de digging
Give me back me shilling”

Sociologist Pete Simon recalls the “fly-by-night, wine, women and song calypsos" of the calypsonians of that era. Smut was a feature of early calypso, the lyrics depicted the art of sex and the storylines were generally obscene.

Other than smut, the topics dealt mostly with various elements of life in post-war Trinidad & Tobago and world events. Lord Beginner crooned “Nora the War is Over” and the Duke of Iron regaled with a song dedicated to Mickey Cipriani. Women still featured, however. Lord Invader sang “Fan me Saga Boy” to great acclaim and the Duke of Iron had a very catchy tune known colloquially as “Matilda”.

However, during these early years, there remained a few calypsos which broke the mould and were sang in the vein of political commentary

“ When they say calypsonians musn’t mix with politics
Ah does watch them fix
Still they want calypsonians to redden up dey finger
But that’s only for kicks
You see every period before an election
You could hear them begging for vote from calypsonian
You see me so longs’t I vote
Ah go sing on dem political cutthroats
Because in this government have another government
Undermining the real government
In that government have some other government
Only retarding improvement
All dey mean is calypsonians must sing on bacchanal
Or make roadmarch for them to go jump for carnival
But not me, ay, Ah fus ah love mi country
So ah go sing on everybody”

During the late 1940’s calypso ceased to become primarily a form of amusement. It had begun to emerge as a critical and potent genre in engaging public opinion.

The PNM Years

The 1956 General Elections saw the emergence of the People's National Movement under the leadership of Eric Williams. The PNM, opposed by Dr. Rudranath Capildeo of the Democratic Labor Party and Ashford Sinanan, who later founded the West Indian National Party (WINP) continued to dominate politics in Trinidad and Tobago until 1986. The party won every General Election between 1956 and 1981.

After the 1956 General Elections, Dr Williams was hugely protected by the calypsonians, largely because he dared to stamp on the old ideas of colonialism and to relegate old ideas of the inferiority of the black man. The PNM years were characterised by an uneasy symbiosis. Indeed, at the opening of the 1957 Tent Season, the Original Young Brigade Singers including Sparrow and Striker feted Dr Williams’ achievements. Sparrow’s William the Conqueror is probably best known:

I am no politician
But I could understand
If wasn’t for Brother Willie
And his ability
Trinidad wouldn’t neither go nor come
We used to vote for food and rum
But nowadays we eating all the Indians and dem
Now we voting PNM
Praise little Eric rejoice and be glad
We have a brighter future in Trinidad
PNM
Ain’t got nobody like them
Cause they have the best leader
William the Conqueror.

It was Sparrow again who leapt to Williams’ defence in “Leave de Doctor alone” when rumours of Williams’ secret marriage was featured in the press. Sparrow in fact played a critical role as a supporting agent in the PNM political machinery. Sparrow continued to denigrate the opposition and the trade unions of the day whenever there was any showing of non-support for Williams:

In his Sewerage Talk he sang:

No gas today
No phone tomorrow
What next I don’t know
No drain digging
No rubbish cleaning
Is only corbeaux working the island as you see
Suffering politically
Because the present government
Have some stupid opponent
Not one is intelligent

In general, the calypso fraternity, belonging to the underclass of the day, was largely sympathetic to the PNMs’ political agenda and this led to the relationship between calypsonian and politician ceasing to mature. There were a series of pro PNM propaganda calypsos such as PAYE sang by Sparrow in 1958 which began with an anti income tax agenda but ended with the message that it was going to assist in job creation.

That is not to say that calypsonians, including Sparrow, did not openly criticise some of the PNM’s policies. Later, in the early 1970’s, as Williams lost popularity, there were a series of calypsos which were critical of the party- Maestro’s “To Sir with Love” and “Dread Man” in 1977 and Relator’s “Our Children Deserve Better”, are notable examples. However, a crucial turning point occurred after the death of Eric Williams.

The Turning Point

Williams died in office in 1981. The PNM remained in power following the death of Dr. Williams, but its 30 year rule ended in 1986 when the National Alliance for Reconstruction (NAR), a multi-ethnic coalition aimed at uniting Trinidadians of Afro-Trinidadian and Indo-Trinidadian descent, won a landslide victory by capturing 33 of 36 seats.

This victory, some say, did not occur by accident and it is was from that moment the power of calypso in the political arena became clear.

Chambers’ popularity fell to ebb when a calypsonian locally known as Gypsy sang “The Sinking Ship” in 1986.

The Trinidad, a luxury liner

Is sailing the Caribbean sea

With an old captain named Eric Williams

For years sailed smooth and free

But sadly Eric Williams passed away
The ship hit rough water that day

And someone turned the bridge over

To a captain named Chambers

Made blood crawl, things start to fall


(Chorus)

Captain, the ship is sinking

Captain, the seas are rough

Shall we abandon ship?

Or shall we stay on it
And perish slow? We don’t know
We don’t know

Captain you tell me what to do

This calypso was seminal not just in its message but in its style and in the way it was catapulted into the centre of political action. The NAR advertised its meetings with the words “ The Ship is Sinking” whilst PNM t-shirts read “This Ship is not Sinking”. To his credit, Chambers did not take personal offence to the song and invited Gypsy onto his personal platform. Gypsy said that he willed the song to bring Trinidad & Tobago out of its political apathy. Regardless of intention, this song became the pinnacle and reference point for political calypsos for the next few years. It is to be however noted that the tone of the song is respectful and the imagery of the double entendre is used to carry the message.

The Modern Political Calypso

The duality in meaning, and the dialectical culture of the political calypso means that the double entendre was prized and the most utilized medium of expression.

This is not particularly so with the modern genre of political calypso. The new political calypso uses the art of direct questioning to engage directly with the objects of its discourse, much in the form of an open parliamentary debate.

In The Stage is Mine, Sugar Aloes sings:

“ But even though they chastise me
They can’t take away this voice

It is very plain to see that

I am the People’s Choice

And I’m going to jam them hard

Anytime they cross the line

Commonsense must tell them

The Stage is Mine”

These lyrics show the calypsonian in open confrontational mode, declaring a form of verbal warfare with his opponent. He becomes at once the opposition and the free press, the leader of his own political party and a type of Ombudsman who will reign in the leaders of the day. He is trusted to lead the fight and valiantly, courageously and openly assumes battle.

Sugar Aloes later sings in “Never Again”

“Civil disobedience that’s Panday’s requests
Encouraging his people to incite social unrest
Use allyuh vehicles, block roads and pavementte
He want them to march in town and shutdown the government
He just want to get back in power, so he doh care who the hell get kill
Until we have constitutional reform, he not supporting no Bill

Panday is a demon, who come straight from the depths of hell

When he’ll face reality, well boy only time will tell”


These new kinds of political calypsos are detailed and biting and do not operate through the bias of a veil. The political calypsonian openly reveals his opposition and attacks him aggressively, without restraint. The new political calypso is now characterised as being slightly rough around the edges, and though the format is loud and often vulgar, it is only ever expected to be true, aligned with the position on parliamentary privilege.

The Political Calypso in other islands

In other Caribbean islands, the political commentary also kept pace with developments in Trinidad and Tobago.

In Grenada, for instance, social agitators for change like the Black Wizard led the way in the early 1980’s with songs like “I am the IMF” which verbally assaulted the government of the day’s policies on debt restructuring. These early calypsos followed the dialectic of the mask or the frame.

In the early 1990’s there was a critical shift in the political commentary found in the islands. Singers like Finley Jeffrey “Scholar” and Raymond Matthew “Beast” were early proponents of the new form of calypso which focused on hard-hitting politically biting songs. Scholar’s “Prefer to Go to Hell” marked the development of the political commentary as a virtual replacement of the opposition in Grenada during the 12 years of rule of the New National Party, and during the period when the opposition won no votes in the island. These calypsos were punchy and the focus was placed on “plain speech”. The calypsonian became the voice of the people in the absence of an opposition and played a crucial role in the preservation and maintenance of democracy and free speech.

This is also the same in islands like St. Vincent and Barbados, where local calypsonians continue to see their role as de facto representatives of the people.

The Political Calypso in Britain

The calypso culture in Britian has evolved over slowly over a period of time, but only significantly within the boundaries of the Notting Hill Carnival and the London Calypso Tent. Contrary to the Caribbean where calypso is the national music of choice, calypso is marginalised in the society and as a consequence, so is its role. To Caribbean migrants, who are twice diasporised, the calypso enjoys a cult status but to the rest of Britain, who are mainly onlookers, the calypso remains a genre which sits on the fringes of British society.

Composers like Lord Cloak and the Mighty Tiger in the early years, crystallized the genre as a source of entertainment and social commentary. In the early years, Londoners starved for news, also tended to focus the calypso on issues experienced at home. However, others, like Alexander the Great began very early on to sing about issues that were relevant to the UK context and actively agitated for change in this respect.

In more recent years, there has been a decisive focus on the social issues faced in Britain and calypsos on political issues have been sung by the new generation of artists such as Brown Sugar, Helena B, and Wen D. Some posit that this is because they are becoming more and more comfortable with the United Kingdom as home and stake their rights to comment on the issues and structures that affect them.

The political calypso in the UK has not, however, taken off where the contemporaries in the Caribbean have left it. The calypsos are more somber in mood and respectful in tone. G String’s “Obama” (2009) and Akima Paul’s “The Audacity of Despair” (2009) do not possess the gritty tones and hard hitting punch-lines that the political commentaries of the Caribbean.

The question is do they need to? In a country where democracy is clearly enshrined and free speech is indeed free, what becomes of the role of the calypsonian? Where is the vacuum he is trying to fill? The author would suggest that the calypsonian maybe cannot speak for the vast majority of British subjects who are already ably represented in the Westminster model, but he or she can speak for the new British subjects.

Perhaps the calypsonian perhaps can be the voice of the immigrant as his role unfurls in British society? Maybe the calypsonian can speak for the Romanians, the Poles and the Kazakhs too as we all play a part within this Diaspora? Perhaps calypso can become the voice of the unrepresented much as it is in the Caribbean, and it is possible that it will develop beyond the confines of the tent into a valuable agitator for change?

Photo from Joseph Jones photography.

A Perpetual State of Servitude?

Blank invests blank into flailing Caribbean economy. This story has become tired, ran with the sagging perpetuality of a Latin telenovela, loaded with the characteristic sub plots of suspense, intrigue and of course, the disappointing denoument. The first blank could be one of any number of foreign investors. The second blank can range from hundreds of millions to, in some cases, a negative sum, when taking into account the demands of tax breaks, reverse kickbacks and multiple concessions. The story has been the same for a number of years but greedy villageois politicians never get tired of its charm. Outsiders profess to pump millions into the Caribbean economy and in blind and empty faith, we sell our best and finite resources, our collective patrimoine, for thirty pieces of silver and promises of another Ritz Carlton or Sandals.

I do not say this to say that I have anything against foreign investment. Even London, with its healthy financial veins, prospers through the biais of the arteries of Russian and Arab influence. Foreign investment, if well targeted and managed, can be the instrumental lifeblood of any economy. What perturbs me, is the overenthusiastic proliferation of this investment:  virtually none of it is local or homegrown. It says a lot about our pysche as our people if we are content to remain perpertual grafters, unwilling to peddle, sell or grow an idea, and always uninspired to discover and build upon avenues for growth. Is the influence of the slave trade and indentured labour so great that we are unwilling to be entrepeneurs and bosses and are content to remain in a constant state of servitude to someone else's ideas?

The Caribbean, as a burgeoning economy, is awash with opportunities. The deregulation of the telecommunications industry has led to unbridled opportunities in this sector. Where are the mobile phone middlemen? Where are the Carphone Warehouses and Phones 4 U of this industry? So far we are content to let the duopoly rest with Bmobile and Digicel who thrive on the pay as you go model. There is no one, at present, pushing the contractual model with any ferocity. Similarly, I only know of one professional telephone "unlocker" in Grenada, and virtually no shops specialising in technical repair.

There are similar parallels in the hotel industry. So far in Grenada, we have been content to rest on our laurels to market the typical white sand beach experience that we believe that tourists seek. It took a couple from the UK to develop a boutique industry around Petite Anse in the North, to let us realise that our potential is not just limited to Grande Anse Beach. There are still no backpacker hostels, and throughout the Caribbean we do not have the equivalent of a lastminute.com, encouraging island hopping and promoting small hotels and industries. The fashion industry is not dissimilar. Clothing is a major item of expenditure for Caribbean youth. There are many "boutiques" specialising in mass manufactured items of clothing imported from China or India via Miami or New York, but there are virtually no individuals who have forged those links directly with the manufacturers. On an even more promising level, where are our couturiers and our seamstresses who will specialise in bespoke Caribbean fashion design? They do not exist; they are all chasing the service dream instead of the liberating proprietor model- studying to become lawyers, cooks, chefs, landscapers, architects, all  the same fricking thing.

So many of our resources go unnoticed and undeveloped. We export cocoa at less than 80 cents for one pound when the final product is made into fine chocolate which is sold for more than ten times the cost of the original raw material. This is why I salute the Grenada Chocolate Company, but then again, it took a clever New Yorker with a dream to make it happen. Where are us in this equation? There are so many opportunities for well managed micro industries, but we appear to lack the commercial nous and the enquiring and independent mindsets to manage and direct our own resources.

This is why, in one sense I welcome Richard Branson's announcement that Virgin Unite will be launching a Branson Centre of Entrepeneurship in the Caribbean. The irony is not lost on me that again, it takes someone who was born outside of the Caribbean to support entrepeneurship in the Caribbean. Nonetheless, it seems to be a positive step in the right direction- instead of training our young people to become better maitre d's and bellboys and maids as continues to be the case, 18-35 year olds will be provided with support and capital to set up their own small businesses with an emphasis on sustainable tourism. The centre will be based in Montego Bay, Jamaica but there will be satellite centres in different parts of the Caribbean. Richard Branson's latest brainchild is the follow-up of a similar centre in Johannesburg in South Africa where young people have been encouraged to build start ups in IT, fashion and the like. It remains to be seen what the uptake will be. For instance, Branson appears to require a proven entrepeneurship track record, which many who are resigned to the fate of having a "good job" will struggle to fill. Will this ultimately be a gimmick and a marketing opportunity for Virgin Holidays?

Either way, with or without Branson, it is imperative that we develop the modus operandi of self sufficiency. It is not enough to simply hope for a job and to assist in the execution of an idea. We must be willing to hold our countries fate by the balls and to play active roles in developing our economies. The rallying cry is often "E doh have work". I ask then, why not? If there are no jobs, it must be because we are not creating them, and if we are not creating them, then it is because we are not creative enough. The Caribbean must cease to  be the epicentre of service, not only because we are not really good at it (a separate blogpost) but because it creates a serious culture of dependency and "gimme" that is not ultimately healthy for our development.  I really believe that it makes a mockery of emancipation if we are content to live and to exist in a perpetual state of servitude.

Marche!

*I have been inundated at work and in the middle of producing a paper for a calypso conference. So as not to let the blog stagnate I have posted a poem this week that I wrote a couple of months ago.*

Alone,


The brute brown beast barked and whelped

In beautiful anger within its encyclopaedic white-hot cage

Enraged,

The yellows of its rumshot eyes fluoresced and smarted

as the ghost of eternal chalkdust mocked it,

Haunted,

sips of water splayed from its yelping tongue

as the corners of its black mouth drizzled.

Its nose almost flared blood at a slight misdemeanour

(We had arrived 1 minute late perhaps),

as it frightened the rest of the young pack before it.

I was a small child but I was not afraid of this old mangy speckled animal.

Marche Dog! Allez bête!

It knew that it liked to eat its young

And I had once watched those brown dirty grizzly paws

Try to dance across my sister’s chest.

The old dog snarled some more

Rendering naked its tray of scissoring molars

Its long salmon tongue forking and darting

As if to render me afraid.

But I was not afraid and I held the stand of its gaze.

Daring it to pounce, daring the old stink dog to bite.

Review: The Help

I picked up The Help in the departures lounge over the holiday season, slightly sceptical about a book written by a white woman about the lives of domestic servants in the Deep South. I mean what could she really know right? Her parents hired black domestics and I remembered watching Sarafina- my prejudice was against this book and I bought it against my better judgment. I had just spent almost half of my allocated spending money on two dresses in the sale at French Connection and a pair of shoes (not in the sale) at LK Bennett and thought that a good, interesting book would lure me away from the shops. Not really, I still managed to buy an ill fitting suit at Ted Baker (returned) and spent most of my time stroking the Mulberry Bayswater in patent leather (wish list). I digress- needless to say The Help lay unopened in the bottom of my travel bag. I finally picked it up on my commute and I was so glad that I gave it a chance.

It is easy in the whirling maelstrom of the election of Barack Obama, to remember that life was awfully different only a short time ago. It was only fifty years ago that black domestic servants were not allowed to live in the same quarters or areas as their bosses and had segregated facilities, it was less than 4 decades ago that lots of young black men were killed and their murders were never investigated, and that based on the colour of their skins black people were not allowed in the halls of any of the finest educational establishments.

The storyline of The Help is simple enough. A young white fledgling writer decides to compile an anonymous book about the lives of black maids- there is no great suspense, no grand denouement, no thick coded sub plot. Sure, there are the narrator’s dalliances with dating a politician’s son, the mystery of the lost maid (Constantine), and the characterisations of the rich southern elite women are not anything far from the expected and ordinary.

Kathryn Stockett delicately chronicles the experience of Abileen, Minny and her friends who worked in the grand houses of the landed families of the Deep South with dignity, and without the pathos of looking through the lenses of the situation after the fact. Kathryn uses Skeeter to tell these stories: she is an internal dissident and a woman on the borders of the bridge playing, ball attending, handbag toting, curler wearing Southern Society who herself is asserting and climbing her own mountains to establish herself as a writer in a male dominated environment. Confined to writing a column about cleaning- a servant’s domain, she is metaphorically the “servant” of her career, or at least treading the lower echelons and she is therefore well poised, given her sensibilities, to be the appointed narrator of the days of the lives of the maids.

There are stereotypes in this book. Abileen is the warm, gentle, bible-reading, “praying-for-neighbours”, long suffering “Mamie” who likes caring for white babies as her own, only to see them eventually become the image of their dreadful parents. Minny is the sassy black women with attitude who can’t hold down a job because she likes to talk back. Most of the white women in the book are portrayed as self- serving – their galas for the Poor Starving Children of Africa are put on to endear them to the communities of Jackson whilst their contempt for the poor starving children of Jackson is reprehensible. It might be possible to argue that the premise of the book is objectionable- the black voices need to be filtered via a white voice to be heard. Isn’t this virtually endorsing the status quo and noblesse oblige?

However the stereotypes do not permeate the ethos of the effort, and the result is a gently rollicking novel full of convincing dialogue and storylines which brings home the reality of segregation in the Deep South. The two maid characters show the struggles of the black woman against the backdrop of the precursors to the Civil Rights Movement- the marginalisation of men, children who are made to grow up too fast without educations and who follow in the footsteps of their mamas serving and waiting and sons who are constantly under threat from either being killed or blinded (metaphysically) by the establishment. The collard green diets of the working poor contrast against the cakes, sponges and sandwiches of the upper class families they served. Their grand houses are set against the cramped hovels of the maids. The devil is in the detail. Medgar Evers, a neighbour, is gunned down. Mae Mobley plays “back of the bus” pretending to be Rosa Parks. And there is coverage on the television about a Martin Luther King- Abileen is amazed that over ten thousand of the marchers were white.

Stockett’s debut book has been questioned on the basis of whether it is legitimate that a white writer should assume and appropriate the dialect of the Southern blacks, and whether she has the mandate to genuinely tell their stories. She admits that she struggled with whether she would be able to do the book justice in crossing that invisible line in narrating in the voice of a black person. Only the black women in 1962 would be able to tell whether or not it is accurate. What The Help does, however, is to relate the stories of human beings at the outer margins of society, gracefully and with compassion and from that perspective it is an astounding success.

Of me, the Pope and Crisis Christians

This week the Pope visited the UK amidst some controversy. While others ranted and raved and foamed at the teeth, and some waited for a miracle, I lined the streets of my pillows and chose to watch the ceremony from the comfort of my bed. I said Amen at the blessing. Mummy, that’s enough.

With no hesitation I will say that I lie somewhat between the accepting-of everything faithful who lined the streets with their holy innocents peering in pilgrimage to see the Holy See, and the virulently outraged who would like to see the pontiff incarcerated for his crimes against humanity. I would not say that my faith is lukewarm. If I would have to set a temperature, I would say a quiet 70 degrees, just enough to take what I like and discard what I don’t but not a roaring bubbling boiling point that would guarantee a scald or a burn. I take religion and its accessories with a healthy pinch of salt. I take God wholeheartedly.

I don’t really like pastors except maybe Joel Osteen and TD Jakes. I hate the idea of compulsory tithes. The God that I know is a God of quiet love, who makes me cry because of his goodness, and he is very much at odds with a bible banging, screaming on the pulpit, God of Anger and Wrath who is seeking to wreak vengeance and rage hell-fire on unbelievers. I like the Catholic Church. It is one of the only faiths that recognises openly that a lot of religion is ritual. I like the pomp and ceremony, the initiation rites of Holy Communion and Confirmation and the honouring of the Saints and the Blessed Virgin which balances the male bias of the rest of it all. I don’t condone in any way the abusing of children and I would clamp the testicles of those priests myself if required. I think the Church’s policies on contraception especially in the Developing World are ridiculous and to be honest, dangerous. I also know that the Church is sexist. I believe that the Church should be called to account, made to pay and openly denounce its spurious claims of infallibility but it is also the Catholic Church that gave me my education and which does some marvellous work in the Third World and I am mature enough to realise that in life, I won’t agree with everything or everybody all the time. I take what I like and I leave what I don’t like. Give me the Pope in his Honda PopeMobile any day to screaming Creflo Dollar who makes poor people tithe all their money so he can have a private jet. I call this selective tolerance.

Maybe it is this sense of balance, that leads me to look askance when I encounter Crisis Christians. They have been washed by the blood, pleaded in Grace, brought to the paths of Righteousness but what makes them different and usually even more fanatically zealous is that their new found faith in Jesus Christ in born out a (truly) horrible crisis. They live by the crumbs of a pastor’s teachings and do not question of query the teaching itself. They cut themselves off from the “world” and from friends who are not similarly “saved” to exist in a bubble of equal yokedom. They minister to you every day. Crisis Christians convince themselves that they are “wretched” and choose to live in a cocoon of stasis as “they wait on the Lord” to heal their pain or situation. Maybe I overegg the pudding because after all, it is better to probably cling to faith than to lose one’s faith in times of crisis.

I also preface this by saying that I know that we all seek solace in Christ when times are particularly difficult. An apt Bible verse can be most welcome on a depressing grey morning and there are nothing like the Psalms to give God praise when something marvellous has happened. Touch wood that I don’t experience a crisis event and become of “them” but there is something mildly amusing, if not disingenuous about invoking Christ with ardent fervour only after a terrible break up, a divorce or a financial crisis. Most Crisis Christians become “born again” at this juncture, go to terrible lengths to attribute their suffering to a religious experience and become valiant Crusaders to convince the rest of us mortals that we will be cast in hell-fire if we are not “cleansed by the blood” by a similar religious experience. My viewpoint is that each one lives his/her own life as he/her sees it fit. I draw the line at trying to “minister” to me. Please can I work out my own salvation? Never mind that I believe in Jesus and I try to live a Christian life, that isn’t enough, they say. But forgive me that Christ isn’t only solace and refuge. The King of Love my God is. Running to God in times of distress is easy. When life is going well and the blessings of God are evident, we are tempted to think that we are in control. This is the occasion that should spur us to draw closer to God, if we are so inclined.

The God that I serve is a God of Love not a God of Fear. If one has always believed and trusted in God, why does Christian-ness need to be redefined. There are junctures in life when we are convinced that we should take our faith more seriously, but to assume that this catalyst is the essential element to faith is being presumptuous in underestimating the myriad ways in which God’s blessings can overflow. Maybe God’s love for me is evidenced via his overpouring of blessings and happiness and joy, I need not wallow in suffering and feelings of impending doom and call myself wretched to live a life satisfactory to him. He has chosen to give me his greatest gift- life, and it is with joy that I try to do all that I can to show him that I value and cherish the experiences and the opportunities he has bestowed upon me. I give him thanks everyday but personally, there is no need for me to be over zealous about it because despite all my protestations and declarations, He alone knows the ways of my heart.

Nothing's wrong with Peckham

I live in Forest Hill, South East London. I love to say that it is only 5 minutes from East Dulwich (as that is where I really want to live), but it is also only 15 minutes away from Peckham.


Black people do not like saying that they live in Peckham. We don’t get brownie points for being “brave” and can often not tag it as “up and coming”. All we know is that home insurance is higher than in SE23, Tesco and Waitrose may not deliver, and black cabs are loathe to say yes to the fare. Many try to euphemistically say Nunhead, Dulwich Borders, or even Camberwell as Camberwell is marginally a step up, but to say that one lives in Peckham is to admit, that according to the newspapers, one lives in one of the worst neighbourhoods in Britain, a neighbourhood that has defied regeneration efforts and continues to remain plagued by crime, violence and low expectations even in spite of a £290 million investment over time.

I must admit that I am not really familiar with this Peckham which makes the news. I visit Peckham quite regularly for reasons that shall not be disclosed for current purposes (okay lest I sound like a drug dealer it’s where I used to get my weave) but I have never been stabbed, injured, or assaulted. I have, however, been hit behind the neck by KFC chicken bones intended for the screen whilst watching a film at Peckham Multiplex for the princely sum of £2.99. Peckham is where my friend Eva works; she got married to an English man after he met her selling bread and egg in Ghana- her eyes are often bloodshot and red with worry over children she left at home- two with her niece and one with her cousin. I like her omo tuo and I like telling her it will be okay. Peckham is also home to known business man Asir, who sells refurbished, and second hand mobile phones (and maybe a few new ones of unknown provenance) who can always knock 15 quid off the sale price, unlike T Mobile and Carphone Warehouse. It is the home of 2wo, an Afro-Caribbean eatery whose jollof rice and chicken is lip licking good.

Despite the fact that only 19,500 people live in Peckham (that figure has to be corrected to say “documented”, not to seize on a stereotype, I am afraid) it is known for very high levels of gang violence. Peckham’s ethnic makeup is primarily of Black African origin (36%) although the figure seems to be a lot higher from a quick stroll through Peckham Rye. In fact, when I first came to the UK in 2001 and was taken to Peckham, I genuinely could not spot a single person who was not of colour for about half an hour. True, Peckham is not only Rye Lane and some parts (Peckham Rye) are suitably gentrified. However, these are not the areas which feature on Crimewatch and on BBC1 when spouting sorry figures. For all intents and purposes Peckham is a black epicentre. Some call it Little Africa.

After reading these mockumentaries and crime reports, one would think that Peckham’s blackness is the root of its evil. Landlords bemoan Club 56 - the loud hilife and Nigerian rnb that filer through its premises, they say that the rowdy patrons pee outside the club and occasionally shit outside of it too (after all, they argue, these people are not used to toilets). Some residents bemoan that nail shops and hair shops are de rigueur and that woman stand outside on the streets asking to “make your hair nice nice for small small” and that these small establishments are swollen and festering with Korean and African immigrants who work in insalubrious conditions. Some of this might be true but the problem with Peckham is its relative poverty, not its blackness. It is true that that there are a few decaying shop fronts full of brick a brac and rows of low income shops churning out the odour of shoey plastic and polyester tat, but in an age where the entire country is experiencing a recession, business and income seems always bustling and thriving, and in an environment where religious ardour is scarce, Peckham is also full of churches that are full of the always hopeful faithful.

Those who treasure gentrification wish for cute Neroised streets with identikit coffeeshops and tea houses, restaurants, pubs and a couple of bars. When Frank’s Campari Bar opened last year atop the car park, it was featured in most food review magazines and in TimeOut. Similarly, cosy cafes which bring a French or continental feel to the area are treasured as sign of up and coming-ness and estate agents emphasise the terraced houses and accompanying young professionals as a sign of progress.

However, I don’t need a six figure commission to explain why Southwark’s renewed efforts into Peckham don’t really work and will never work. It is because Peckham’s African-ness and blackness are not embraced, and are treated like a persistent rash or an unsightly mole. Instead of trying to superimpose aspects of SW into Peckham, equipping it with Norman Foster architecture and the like, how wonderful it would be if Peckham could be the literal Africatown of London, in a similar fashion to Chinatown. Fruits and vegetables and Afro Caribbean produce should be sold via open air street markets. Instead of a library that hardly any of the local youth visit, maybe it might be worthwhile having Peckham host a Museum of African and Caribbean Art. Shops should be encouraged to sell items from the continent- boutique outfits sourcing ethical bags and clothing from cooperatives from the continent should be given first dibs on retail space instead of Risky, New Look and Primark. The cinema could be encouraged to feature films from Africa and the Caribbean and restaurants featuring a wide range of food from the continent- Ethiopian, Moroccan, South African, Senegalese, Cameroonian, could be positively encouraged.

Sure, some of the yuppies might move out. But maybe some more black professionals would move in. And maybe the youth on the street with nothing else to do but loiter and who feel so marginalised and disenfranchised that they move in packs, might be motivated by seeing other young black people building successful lives for themselves. Maybe they can be mentored and taught and maybe, just maybe, by making the area a space in which they feel welcome and embraced, they will have something to be proud of. And maybe then SE15 would no longer be unfairly stigmatised.

Willow Smith: Too Much, Too Soon

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am probably the biggest fan of the Smith family. And no one loves, more than I do, seeing a black man, up on top, with the best of them. I still shudder when I read about Barack Obama and Will’s family, quite frankly, gives me incredible chills. Given half the chance, we can do twice as good.

I mean, who ever knew that goofy Will from the Prince of Bel Air would turn out to be THE WILL SMITH, rivalling his buddy Tom Cruise in terms of marketability and box office power but with a sensitive goofiness that counterbalances the hardness and toughness of his roles? I would have never thought that the other half of the silly duo featuring Jazzy Jeff would be named by Newsweek as the most powerful actor on the planet with over eight movies in a row grossing over £65 million.

I also find Jada Smith incredible- she is the epitome of the perfect wife- an actress in her own right with her own rock band and who stillsucceeded in raising two confident and well adjusted children- her own career is independent and complementary to Will’s yet sufficiently under the radar to ensure that she doesn’t get caught in the woman trap of being everything to everyone. I consider little Jaden Smith to be a natural child prodigy. He was amazing in The Pursuit of Happyness but The Karate Kid catapulted him into the ranks of one to watch, garnering him an MTV Movie Award. I realise that this family is extraordinary and I do not measure their achievements by the achievements of us regular folk, but I think the Smiths have probably gone one step too far with their youngest and probably most impressive offspring- the cute and utterly charming (yet precocious) Willow Smith.

I knew something was up when Willow metamorphosed from child wearing long regular braids with a cute little accent who complained about being brought along to “fittings” and virtually stomped into the chrysalis of a Rihanna mini-me. First it was the shaving of the head, then it was the ridiculously on trend shoe boots, leopard print leggings and mustard pony haired jacket, all effortlessly assembled together with the piece de resistance of a Givenchy bag. Then it was the leather jacket combined with Doc Martens. Then I found out that she had a stylist who defended the decision by saying that she was “very involved” with her new edgy look and who consulted with her, with the aid of fashion booklets and magazines for “creative references”. Rob Zangardi praised her “rock and roll sensibilities”.

Then came the news this weekend that Willow has just released a new track entitled “Whip My Hair Back and Forth”. The lyrics are astonishing. That a nine year old is talking about whipping her hair- which is ultra feminine-aggressive and slightly sexual- disturbs me. Willow then sings about getting her “swag on”. Since when did a nine year old have swag? I am not in any way old fashioned but shouldn’t she be playing with her dollies and shouldn’t any purported “swag” be confined to dress up games and wearing mom’s heels? She then recites “pay no attention to haters cause we whip em off”. A nine year old? With haters? After all Jada’s believe-in-yourself, develop-yourself-cause-the-world-doesnt-matter influences? Why should haters be in a 9 year old’s vocabulary? Crucially, she ends the verse by promising to “keep the party jumping”. Which party? A sleepover?

Sure, the beat is great, Willow can actually sing (in a Rihanna way) and the autotune and other sound effects make it an overall good track, but I query whether this is age- appropriate. I am all for children being allowed to express themselves and for their creative outlets to be encouraged, supported and not suppressed but there is a deep divide between allowing a child to be creative, and allowing a child to engage in creative pursuits in an adult way. There are many children who started off early in show business- Charlotte Church is an example, and this year Amy Winehouse’s niece was introduced on the X Factor but there is a huge difference between these children and Willow: none of them sound grown.

Now I get Will Smith’s game- total domination. I understand the power of mass marketing and I get that just as he analysed the market and capitalised on the doomsday genre (which is by far the highest grossing genre), he is probably trying to do the same for his children. God knows that I can’t stand Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber and would love to see a relevant talented young person who is not annoying. But I get slightly nervous when I hear young Willow, in spite of her talent, being described along the terms of a young Michael Jackson by Jay-Z who signed her to Roc-Nation yesterday. We all know what happened with Michael Jackson. And isn’t it worse these days? Aren’t Britney and Lindsay Lohan actual living warnings on the psychological traumas young artists can face when they are dissected and crushed by hungry press? Isn’t it verging on the borders of negligent to allow a young girl to enter that rough and tumble market with a song that is clearly not targeted to her contemporaries but is intended for an adult, mass market audience?

The music and fashion industries are cruel. I may eat my words when she is selling hit records but perhaps, just perhaps, it is equally as cruel to place little Willow out there, at this pre-pubescent juncture in her life and expect it all to be okay.

The Ones who are Left Behind

His hands are full, replete with brightly coloured action figures that he doesn’t know were carefully accumulated and stored for him from his mother’s wards' Happy Meals. His heart, however, is empty. It is yet another Easter, another Christmas, another birthday without the woman who gave him life. He knows her voice, he has heard it often enough- chafing, hoarse and pneumatic from the cold- but still upbeat and ringing with the slight lilt of warm Caribbean pronunciation that years pacing the streets of the Bronx can never take away. Yet, he has no idea who she is. She left too long ago, before he could remember her, before he could even remember himself. He does not know what bothers her, what or who keeps her awake at night, or even her favourite colour.

He cannot ask her because long conversations are out of the question- calls are quick and last until the Go Bananas calling card runs out. Their conversations are stilted, him asking for what he wants at her prompting, and her telling him that she misses him and explaining how that she cannot wait for the day when she will finally ‘fix up” and can come home or when he would be able to come to visit or to stay. They both know in their heart of hearts that her consolations are gaping, and this is how it will be for at least the foreseeable future, and how it has always been since the age of five when she migrated. He does not tell her that his aunt resents his presence in her home and complains that she does not send enough money and that she frequently moans, with an earnest look in his direction that the price of school books and food items are too high and the costs of an extra child in a home is burdensome. He wonders when he meets his mother, whether she will hug him and kiss him, in the way that his aunt kisses her children. He would not know this, but when they meet, eventually, 10 years later, he would be too old for kisses and hugs.

He does not know that he is labelled a “barrel child”, one of the many Caribbean children left behind by their parents, a casualty in the ladder of stepwise migration where mothers and fathers leave their children behind in the hope of seeking a better life. He is too young to know that the word better is relative. What he knows is that he needs his mother. Guardians are sometimes unable to care for their wards- grandparents are too old, too sick or too feeble and aunts and cousins vary between too demanding or too lackadaisical, leading in many cases to children who are all but in name abandoned. Their parents’ love are measured in the number or size of barrels- huge blue or cardboard containers that are overstuffed with remnants of a life far away- as if to atone for the significant life events missed and to make the recipient momentarily forget that he or she is absent. If he is lucky, he will be the first to be taken up abroad; if there are others or sisters before him, they will take his place. He feels lucky and he is certainly the envy of the town when the barrels and boxes packed with tinned goods and foodstuffs and toys and smelling of America arrive, but he tells no one that the feeling of  wistful emptiness is hard to displace.

Of the ones who are left behind, girls suffer the most and I venture to say that the effects are multigenerational in their ambit. The girls in my town who were left behind as children, who were always well dressed but who lacked guardianship have now, themselves, left their children behind to be taken care of by cousins, aunts and friends. Love again comes exported in material form of boxes and barrels filled with new clothes, name brand shoes, even Skippy peanut butter and Heinz Baked Beans. Some have started new families abroad. There are many who grow up to be well rounded individuals but others search for love, validation and approval all their lives.

The psychological effects of stepwise migration of parents have not been properly researched and considered although economic migration to the metropoles has been occurring since the early 1960s. Feelings of guilt feature strongly in the relationship from the perspective of the migrating parent. Reunification  if and when it eventually happens, is not always successful, as it is effectively the equivalent of a birthing experience. Learning to live with a fully grown adult or a difficult teenager is not easy from the perspective of either party. The children in question often do not feel that they were loved enough by the migrating parent. There is always the underlying question of what could a parent conceivably do in the circumstances and why was migration sans enfant chosen as the best alternative. There is also the elephant in the room that it was thought that by virtue of being abroad, the parent was living in the lap of luxury, although for all intents and purposes this might be far from the reality. Monies sent are likely to be monies saved after rent, bills and sou-sou. The carer substitute at home also feels cheated- after preoccupying herself and raising a child, he is yanked away at his parents’ whims.

Dr Audrey Pottinger reports that the ones who are left behind are often depressed and that there is trauma in being left with relatives that they sometimes hardly know. Many experienced chronic feelings of loneliness, anger, abandonment, and fears of rejection. Dr Pottinger reports that guardian shifting (being shunted from one guardian to the next because of sometimes very trivial problems with discipline) is quite common and substantially impedes a child’s development and schooling. Many have surrogate parenting arrangements which were inadequate or inappropriate. Some are physically and sexually abused. Pottinger believes that the impact of migratory separation appeared to be more pervasive than death or divorce within a family and that although it might benefit the economy and allow a family to become more financially independent, there are significant social ramifications. Jamaica is the only country, to my knowledge, which has developed an overseas family service specifically to cater to the needs of the children who find themselves in this situation.

In writing this, one of my childhood friends springs to mind. She, like many others, were one of those who were left behind. Despite a promising start at one of the best secondary schools in the island, she was very unhappy with the almost totalitarian regime of discipline meted out, and moved back into the family home, by herself. Her boyfriend soon moved in. She managed to finish school but with very meagre CXC passes. I am confident that her life would have been very different had she had the necessary guidance and supervision. Even on reunification there are sometimes issues to grapple with- a new step parent, adjustments to a new way of life and a new guardian, and feelings of over compensation and the expectation of gratefulness coupled with blame.

I know that it is not always bleak. Migration results more often than not in progress and many a time, entire families are allowed to taste and see the results of the sacrifice. The ones who are left behind sometimes go to universities, obtain jobs and they themselves are integral in being strong supports to the extended family structure. It is very easy to be critical and to question what causes a mother to allow herself to be separated from her own children for such a long time, but the lack of economic prospects in the Caribbean is a financial strait jacket and it is not easy to be jobless. Conditions in Miami and New York in the beginning are not great, and it is sometimes not just possible to bring children along for a rough and uneasy ride- renting a room in an apartment, trekking to New Jersey in fog and cold to a hostile employer and hustling to get to that second or third job. The sacrifices are indeed made with the children in mind. However, it is the ultimate irony that many of our jobseekers go on to be nannies and childminders to the rich- reading stories, bathing, taking their employers’ children to the park when their own children are at home, lonely and needy, left behind.