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.

Wouldn’t a LaTreivius by any other name sound as sweet?

The BBC ran a story a couple days ago on why black Americans don’t swim. It was a deeply embarrassing but heart wrenching story: I have long lamented the fact that lots of people I know on my island do not swim in spite of us being surrounded by water. The facts were that in that particular instance, eight teenagers died trying to save each other from water in the Red River in Shreveport that was not even that high or that deep. However, even more surprising, what struck me and my work colleague who read the stories at the time were the names of the victims- DeKendrix, JaTavious, JaMarcus, Takeitha, Litrelle, LaTevin and LaDarius. Why? I would love to say that these were the most inventive I have heard. But this is sadly untrue. I have heard of a Tanashaka,  I know a Shavasia, my friend's son is called Deqwante and I used to teach a Shalyndria.

Now, I would gladly defend my community on a few troubling issues. I would sometimes excuse a lack of foresight and financial planning- it’s hard to plan for a future where the basis point is deprivation and which conspires against you. I would excuse a certain level of posturing- our backbones have been metaphysically crushed so we find any excuse to be the “man” in various situations. I would make absolutions for the absence of structure in our family lives- it is difficult to be a man when your foreparents have only been treated as sires. I would even defend ‘ebonics” and “blackspeak” in the appropriate environments- this is our dialect and our way to appropriate our mental processes and not to capitulate to the The Man. However, on these inventive or unique or downright crazy, awful, made-up, self-harming, stumbling block names , I have to say the buck stops here and I draw the line. Black people, this onomastic vomit needs to stop. Halted. Discontinued. Brought to a goddamn halt. Okay, once again, more politely. I should be grateful if you would desist from making up stupid names and bestowing them on your children. Kind regards. Kimaspeak.

I feel strongly about this, and not because Freakonomics raised the issue of whether children with black sounding names will definitely progress less than children with white sounding or conventional sounding names. There is no reason for our children to be Emilys, Margarets or Kates. Tough. The system will have to get used to Keishas and Imanis in the workplace. I already write emails to a Tenisha and it's fine, liberating even. Besides, Freakonomics shows that the name is not the real hindrance, it is only a symptom of the malaise- the parents who call their children Demetrius and Marquis and Jeondre are often parents with low aspirations for their offspring in the first place.

I feel strongly about this because the art of naming in the African tradition is being misrepresented and shredded to a figleaf of what it actually represents. African naming traditions are important and a person’s name is perhaps the strongest indication of identity and roots. Our naming traditions are varied, but they are all based in reason. Sometimes they depend on the time of the birth and/or the day of the week of an individual’s birth. Hence, among the Akan and the Fante in Ghana, names such as Yaw, Kwadwo, Akua and Abena mean that an individual has been born on a particular day of the week. Some names often depend on the position of the individual within the family and the circumstances of the birth. For instance, the name Idowu means ‘child born after twins’. Some names are fraught with hope and thanksgiving such as Ayoke, meaning ‘one who is blessed’, others are gleeful such as Bayo “to find joy” and others are simple, yet proclamatory, such as “Nailah” which means “succeeding”.

The very act of naming can be in itself deeply symbolic. For example, it is very often that he oldest member of the family carries out the naming ceremony. Amongst Swahili speaking Kenyans, the first or birth name called ‘jina la utotoni’ is given to babies as soon as they are born. This is chosen by an elderly relative and usually refers to the child’s appearance, like ‘Biubwa’ which means ‘soft and smooth’. After up to 40 days, the parents and paternal grandparents choose the ‘jina la ukubwani’, or adult name, for the child. With the Akan Ghanaians, it is the father of the baby who chooses the name of a beloved relative in the hope that the child will grow up to be like the namesake.

In Nigeria, a name takes on a spiritual significance. Each name tells something about the child and the family. The first name is the child’s personal name and may reflect the circumstances of the family. The second name is a descriptive name that expresses the personality of the child, expresses what the child might become, or is an attribute that the child is hoped to acquire. The third name relates to the child’s kinship. It could be the name of the earliest ancestor, a famous ancestor, or the name of items that are sacred to the family.

Given the fact that most black people of African heritage and/or origin were not allowed to name themselves or their offspring and had to adopt the name of a slave-owner, we would think that the act of naming would take on an almost spiritual significance. Condemned to carry the pouch of a plantocrat’s remnant of a name as a constant reminder of who we were not, one would think that we would ensure that the name we give to ourselves and to our sires would stake our pride,  loudly proclaim our roots,  declare our allegiance to our culture and  be a solid representation of where we choose to head in the future. In the 60’s, there were already distinctive black names- Kizzy, Abileen- but they did not verge on the ridiculous- they were proud manifestations of  black resistance. Similarly, in the 70’s, Islamic names became in vogue (another blogpost) but at least, they meant something. A child is already the metaphysical joining of its parents- we don’t need names like KelShanique to evidence that a girl is the offspring of Kelly and Shanique. Neither does adding an extra apostrophe or accent carry the hallmark of sophistication- especially, I may add, when the name in question is spelt incorrectly- the name S’hawnté springs to mind and so does Tifphanee (if you can spend nine months carrying a child, maybe it might be advisable to spend at least 5 minutes to check the spelling of his/her name?).

In writing this, I battled with myself because I am a true libertarian- little Mashekonda’s name doesn’t really hurt me so why shouldn’t I just live and let live? Isn’t the creativity of the names a manifestation of our unique culture and way of doing things as a people? Should we be really applauding LaQuonsheetia’s parents? At least they did not go for staid, safe brown paper bag names like Lucy or Anne and at least they did not try to pass of their children for who they were not. No offences to any Lucys or Annes. And isn’t it just psychological profiling and a sign of mental servitude to say that names should not be necessarily created?

I have thought about it from so many angles and I say no, because a name is a proclamation, a name determines what we allow ourselves to answer to and represents us from birth as who we are to others (at least until we change it). A good creative name should not be a name that is stupid. A name should not be an object of ridicule because it means that the owner is then ridiculed. I know that our communities struggle for identity in spite of socioeconomic disadvantages. However showing one’s independence in what is often a hostile environment should not manifest itself by saddling our kids with names that make them sound illiterate and which project an image of a gum chewing, gold toothed, ex-prison father and a mom on welfare. Stereotypes are rampant and perpetuating them is not cute. A unique name can still be dignified and abound in meaning and significance. Let's fix up.