House Negro at the Oscars: Why I liked Precious and didn't like the Blind Side

House Negroes, in the eighteenth and nineteeth centuries were privileged. Privileged in the sense that although they worked long hours, they did not have to face the unrelenting sun on the cotton and sugar plantations on a stomach half empty with meagre rations, fearful of rotation, suffering facelessness and with no home and firth. Yes, House Negroes had to answer to “Massa” but they were subsumed as part of the greater “family”, their tasks were difficult but not onerous, and they owed the “adopted” family their loyalty in exchange for a roof over their heads, food and clothing. They were portrayed as smiling and gentle, docile and non self serving, in contrast to the other specie- The Field Negro.


Upon analysis, I didn’t like The Blind Side. It’s strange because it felt good enough in the cinema. My conspiracy theory is that it insidiously reinforces stereotypes by hiding them behind a feel good, underdog story. We all love feel-good, underdog stories. Big Mike, I felt,was cast as the chosen one who was given a chance at being the House Negro: he was too docile, too submissive, too gentle to be real. I know the script is based on a true story but the film is telling by what it chose to include and what it chose to leave out.

Sure, my eyes welled up when Big Mike was cold and alone and wandering from the gym to the Laundromat with nowhere to stay and this generous woman, who did not know him from Adam offered him her home with such magnanimousness. Being the softy that I am, I melted when he went “home” and he had to hide behind a wall because there was no “home”. I cried again when he became part of Lee-Anne’s “family” and wondered- how many other people would genuinely do the same? I loved Lee-Anne. However, I found that The Blind Side’s categorisations were too trite, and its stereotyping too insidious to leave me feeling comfortable, and certainly the story was not poignant or layered enough to garner its leading lady a Best Actress Globe (although Sandra Bullock did a fine job with the material that she was given).

Would a boy who has grown up in the worst areas of the inner city and passed around in foster care be so defenceless? He was never once angry. Would a crackhead be so rational to tell her sons to close their eyes while she was shooting up? Did he really not witness things that a boy should not have witnessed? Typical for House Negroes, Big Mike was seen to have no real personality or character trait except that he had a “strong protective instinct”. He was not contaminated by the “filthy projects” so he was regarded as acceptable to live in the Great House. He did not live up to the expectations that he would steal (honest) and he would hurt himself for his adopted family (self-sacrificing). That was all we saw. Did Big Mike have a girlfriend at school? Did he fall in love? Did he ever get angry? I am sure the answers are all yes, but it would have probably pricked the sensibilities of the target audience too much to enter this humanistic realm. The portrayal of Big Mike as comfortable in his alone-ness, his only friends the children- with the subtext that only they understood his innocence- beggared belief.

Apart from the person who tried to get Mike into a good school (who ultimately threw him out of his home) there were no good black role models in the film. All the evil forces were black. His mother was a black crackhead, his peers were black drug dealing, lustful and violent men and at one time Big Mike had to encage Lee-Anne in her car to protect her from their claws. Even the “extra” roles were intriguing in their portrayal of us: the scowling uncaring woman at the Laundromat was black, the mouthy administrative officer at the foster care centre with an attitude was black, the guy who owned a store for big and tall people who didn’t really cater for big and tall people was black, the intimidating woman who mercilessly interrogated Big Mike about why he chose Ole Miss was black. Themes of saving persons from a life of savagery through assimilation evokes tales of a merciful slave master- Lee Ann’s friends did not enter this no go area, they did not help to build its schools and its organisations, could they have contributed to the oppression and neglect that led to Mike’s exclusion?

The story also reads as if it could fall straight out of a Sarah Palin campaign draft: “Republicans Love Black People Too”, a struggle in the hinterland of Obamaland to present a world that is post racial. I appreciate that football and sport in America occupy sanctified territories but I would have been more impressed if the story was about a Republican family who had taken a young boy from the projects or from the streets and helped him to become the next star doctor, engineer, or political scientist. Are there any of those who have made it? We have enough ballers and rappers already. That’s not all we can do.

This is particularly affecting when the other Academy Award winning actress was Monique for her role as an unfeeling abusive mother in Precious. Although the theme of redemption flowed through both films, I felt that the characterisation of Precious was much more textured: Precious was monosyllabic and underperforming in the same way as Big Mike was, but she was much more than an abused teenager. We were allowed to get into her head- she had her own dreams and her own plans, she was funny and resilient in the face of adversity. Precious, was, in her own way, winning. She had real peers. She was surrounded by real people. Her redemption did not come unaided but she largely had to work out her own salvation. Her story ended sadly but positively: she was going to move on with her babies, in her own space, in her own place.

There was a tremendous overload of abuse in the movie- Precious was obese and pregnant, HIV positive, with poor self esteem and a Down’s Syndrome child, pregnant by her dad, beaten by her mother, waiting on a heart attack. Some black people don’t like it because they thought it reinforced negative stereotypes. I say tough. Not all the black people in this film were like Precious. I think the film presented a wide array of characters and circumstances. It probably bothers me more that Barbara Bush led a special screening of the film: poverty porn is disgusting.

Why is it that I like Precious and not the Blind Side? Not because I believe Monique really went out of her comfort zone to play her role. I feel it is very easy to play mean. There were no vulnerable moments, I felt her acting lacked subtlety- her performance was “Cruel and Sick 101”, “Cruel and Sick 102” and “Cruel and Sick 103”, even in the dénouement at the end. I liked Precious because some black people are cruel and callous and are welfare queens who abuse their children and they need to be outed. In the same way that it outed that there are black folks who give up their lives to mentor and support inner city kids. I liked Precious because we saw both sides of Harlem. I liked Precious because it showed us that true help is self empowerment. Hollywood does not owe black people happy endings and positive portrayals. All I ask for is a fair one.

Corporate Locks

It was a long agonising decision to loc my hair. Long because I needed to grow out almost 10 inches of relaxed tresses (relaxing-by-the-way-being-a-euphemism-to-tell-you-that-potentially cancer-causing-lye-is-spread-onto-your-bare-scalp-to-make-it-lay-down-prostrate-instead-of-to naturally-and spritely-stand-up-at-attention) which took more than eighteen months of being stuck in that nowhere land of a thick and full bodied springy pelt below and thin wispy tufts on top, like pubic forestry before a wax. The ladies know what I am saying.

The decision was agonising because of the lack of support. From black people. My long-time friends from work and university were very supportive and were frankly quite curious about what my hair in its natural state was like. Apart from four of my black friends who were tuned in to where I was residing in my head at the time, the reactions from black people were mostly negative. My weaveologist- "Go an make yuhself look like a runaway slave from the bush, They (meaning the Man) done doh like us aready, why yuh want to make it hard for yuhself?" I wasn't too concerned about what she thought as this was a chick that would rock a 20 inch weave with red and baby blue accents and would think her hairstyle was conservative. I had a lot of "Why do you want to do that?" and "You are brave" , scattered with some random headshaking from a few of my other friends and colleagues.


However, even so called progressives asked me if I was crazy. Have I seen any black women on top in the corporate world with locs or natural hair for that matter? Michelle Obama wasn't rocking locs. Baroness Scotland wasn't rocking locs. Locs are threatening. Natural hair is funky and cool and erm, interesting. Not professional. Locs make people think you smoke weed. No successful lawyers have locs. Even my dear mummy, who started her loc journey a couple of years ago and who often said to me, "I wish I had started them sooner", was apprehensive. "I just don't want opportunities closed to you. Are you sure this is the right time? Leave it a couple of years. This is permanent". In an effort to encourage me, one of my close friends tried to show me a barrister in the UK who had locs. I logged onto the link to the website she sent me, he had cut them down! I tried to contact him. How did he find it wearing locs in court? Did he think they hampered his career? Why did he cut them? I had no response. Even less inspiring was what was unsaid. One of my friends from university whose locs I admired cut her locks off: "I tired with it- I wanted a change". Another friend, who I knew from primary school and who I refound on Facebook also cut her lengthy, nubian locs off to sport her fro "I needed the hair to be free" she said. I respected their decisions and admired their honesty but I was confused.

I seriously tried with the fro but we had a frictional relationship. It was kind of like a one night stand without the sex. I didn't want the accoutrements of it in my bed. I was tired of having to sleep with a doo-rag coated with cloying gel and sticky jam and quite frankly, tired of taming the mane at night so I would have a slicked back look in the morning. I found it counterintuitive. My hair did not even look like a picture perfect 1970's Michael Jackson fro- it was more like the effigy of a bonfire. It was an everyday process that required lots of patience, lots of perseverance, and lots of product. I even had the bright idea of going to New York to visit Miko at Ms Jessie's, the guru of curly hair, who made her products sound sweet and edible and promised you a bubble-gum curl finish. I coincided a business visit with a hair appointment but, as fate would have it, I missed my appointment. Was this some omen that I shouldn't embrace my natural hair? Frustrated, I started pressing my hair. However, it reminded me too much of my childhood: dragging a scorching hot comb and then an searing flat iron over my roots, feeling sizzling greasy steam fatally close to my ears, smelling my curls fry up and die.

I kept getting signs. Tense about visiting Buckingham Palace with my natural hair, I put in a weave. My weavelogist was home sick, but who came to the rescue? Tami. Tami was what we would call a bongo-natty rasta, she had thick fist-like locs. She encouraged me to loc but understood why I wanted a weave. At the Palace, who sat next to me? A petite cocoa coloured Jamaican girl with small, cultivated locs. I went to a Trini band launch a few months later and just as I was leaving, I traded words with a man with regal looking locs. He turned out to be Morris Roots, owner of specialist locking salon Morris Roots UK. I went to Grenada and my best friend's locs were elegant and blossoming. My close friend was sistalocking- they were spiralling and contorting, bending and twisting in acrobatic fashion and doing what our type of hair was meant to be doing, and they looked fantastic. I then went to Trinidad for Carnival (beweaved), and who did I admire most? Girls sporting caramel locs, multicoloured locs, locs twisted up and twisted in, short locs, stout locs, miniature locs, and thin locs (okay no, NOT thin locs- do locs shrivel up and die? I like to see fat, healthy locs).


I have always loved locs. There is now a loc movement in the Caribbean, a seismic shift in appreciation of black hair in its natural state; what was once frowned upon is whole heartedly embraced. There are locked up teachers, locked up professors, locked up bank workers, locked up academics. Pun intended. When I was 16, I remember being one of the few students in my secondary school whose parent(s) insisted on unprocessed hair. The "in" thing was to have hair as straight as possible, if it wasn't straight it hadn't "took" and the solution was to spend even more time under a dryer with more lye and more gel. My hair was tough and springy at the time, and I did not always appreciate it. Now it fascinates me, that even the girls at school who led the pack with their tumbly tresses, are now sporting natural dos. I have now reached the stage in my life when I simply cannot justify chemically processing my hair to fit into a view of what I think some people and what society dictates that I should look like. Hair extensions I get, because I am a born actor and I love dress-up for a day or a week (or a month!) but essentially, I truly have come to the stage where I love my own hair: my natural hair is so beautiful and full of life. My straightened hair feels dead.

In spite of all the above bravado, though, the idea of bringing locs into my workplace terrified me. This was not Grenada, the Caribbean. This was London. This was the Square Mile, possibly the most conservative area in London; this was my office where there are not too many black people in the first place. Was I making the right decision personally but a wrong one professionally? I have worn braids and cornrows in the office before- my thinking was- they need to get used to it- but am I possibly pushing the boundaries a little bit too far?

There is not much literature surrounding afro hairstyles in the workplace in Britain. As usual, we need to rely on our American friends. Last year, it made the news when a US Glamour Magazine editor advised that "ethnic" hairstyles such as "afros, cornrows and dreadlocks" should not be worn in the workplace. She lost her job, but is that just pos- facto rationalisation and a knee jerk reaction for the appearance of tolerance- do her views really how corporate America, and by extension, corporate Britain think?

DeeDee Smith of Suite 101 explains that this might be so, but also interjects that the corporate world has differing personalities. For example, in industries such as banking, insurance, accounting and law, very traditional and conservative dress is required as opposed to entertainment, media and technology where some personal latitude is often expected or required. She also explains that demographically, there might be a difference in views- cosmopolitan cities are more used to, and are more accepting of difference than backwood (read redneck) towns. She suggests the obvious: personal grooming can make a huge difference. What matters essentially for most companies are the bottom line and their corporate image. She concluded that it may be that a personal choice to wear locs might be deemed to affect a company's corporate image adversely. Diversity Inc, another think-thank asserts that traditionally conservative industries such as banking and law still may turn you down if you don't look like what they perceive as executive material- so a decision to wear locs might ultimately make the difference in whether you get hired or whether you get promoted.

Berlinda Fontenot-Jamerson, Director of diversity for Disney ABC Cable Networks Group., long-time employee of Sempra Energy, says it depends on the industry. May Snowden, former vice president of global diversity at Starbucks Coffee Co., and a long-time diversity leader at Eastman Kodak says that as long as hair looks neat, employers shouldn't have a problem with a black person wearing his or her hair in a variety of styles, whether it's braids or cornrows or I assume, locs. She then asks the leading question: Should you hide or change your hair to "fit in"? And the answer is poignant: it depends on the company, look at how top managers, especially blacks, wear their hair.

This led me to a dead end. What if your company has no black top managers? What then?

Prejudice against locs is real. I don't want to misrepresent myself with my hair. I don't smoke weed. My hair smells nice and is washed on the regular. I am not a Rastafarian- I am proudly Christian. I am not an anti-white, angry, black militant. I know that locking once had a neutral association- in old Egypt humans wore locs- Tutankhamen's mummy had locs. They are found in the Hinduisti Veda writings, The Celts are quoted as having "hair such as queues ". The Teutons, Wikinger, Greek and Naga also sported locs. William Hickling Prescott describes Azteki priests as with "long and felted curls flowed unordered over its dark robes". However in 1940, when the Rastafarians, who belonged to a sub socioeconomic grouping adopted this hair as their own to protest against imported culture and the prevailing Eurocentric idea of beauty, negative rumours of them as religious freaks and ghetto outsiders with repulsive hairstyles spread- dissenters put the "dread" into locs.

So why choose to wear locs with so much fear, so much uncertainty, so much risk? When you know for a fact that it might be that you may not be as mobile as some of your contemporaries, when you know for a fact that you may bounce your head against some ceilings? Because, I can keep trying and trying to fit in, and because I already stand out, I never will. True diversity means not making us monolithic and same-ey. It means embracing us in spite of our differences. If people wish to find a reason to find prejudice they will- I do not live in the right area, I do not speak the right way and I did not attend their public schools. In the end, I would like to know that I lived my life for me and based on the ideals to which I aspire and what I define as important. Corporate Britain- you will just have to catch up.

My solution so far is a halfway house. Whilst my baby locks are in that creative, bouncy and yes, dishevelled stage where they need to be left alone with as little grooming as possible so that they can lock in peace, I wear my full head hair extensions until I feel it has got to a stage where I can stand firmly and proud with Nubian tresses, inspiring the next generation of "us" along. Yet I know that these extensions are contradicting my spirit and are at odds with my voyage of self discovery. I cannot wait to rid myself of them (it is going to be hard because I realise that my ideas of beauty have also been distorted) but I love a challenge.

(Pic courtesy khamitkinks.com- All their rights reserved).

Review: The Thing Around Your Neck, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

My friend Francine, who sensibly chose to read English at Cambridge, knowing my insatiable appetite for novels, asked me to taste and see that Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was good five years ago. I devoured Purple Hibiscus. Sated and ravenous, I only half heartedly digested Half of a Yellow Sun, because I felt that it did not reflect the brilliance of the first novel- maybe precisely because Purple Hibiscus could not be matched at all in the way it presented the fragrance, colour and texture of Nigeria.


I must admit that I was not a fan of short stories before this collection as I have always felt that they were perhaps a lazy man's (or woman's) way out of writer's block. Because I enjoy breathing and living and feeling characters I also dismissed them because I felt that there was no time to do so in a short story. In The Thing Around Your Neck, Adichie proved me wrong. She catapulted my prejudices towards the short story upside down, deconstructed my theories inside out, and then proved me wrong again.

Adichie in this collection is simply brilliant. Astonishingly, all of her stories are accessible and beautifully written; they are told with poise, in elegant prose, just as one would expect from a contemporary griot. I expected some "old ladies mutterings" of extravagant and unnecessary details, rather like lashings of mache and parsley over perfectly good chicken from an overenthusiastic chef, but this was pleasantly absent; this is a woman who is not wasteful with her ingredients. Her stories, all unapologetically Nigerian in background, context and flavour, are intentionally international and modern in their treatment of universal themes of displacement, grief, wonderment and struggle. Her characterisations are believable; her stories never end with the exclamation marks of implausibility, and her style is almost perfect: dutiful and unlaborious. Adichie's economy of words is deliberate and yet, she still manages to march along with a rhythmic cadence. I do not know how she does it.

The Nigeria Adichie presents is not the stereotypical Nigeria that you see in documentaries that typically depict Lagos, of lives obviously so poor and futile and desperate on the streets of an overcrowded city pregnant with corruption. It is not the Nigeria of Nollywood with Mr Ebu who deals in juju and first wives who cast spells on mistresses. Nor is it the new Nigeria that is now presented on the television programmes of the BBC and CNN- teeming with possibility (ie oil), just outside BRIC in terms of development, couched in fancy names such as "premium emerging markets". Adichie’s Nigeria is somewhere in between.

Her Nigeria is the Nigeria of contradictions- of academics whose wives visit them in their sleep and tickle their balls, of wives of rich Nigerian Big Men who are jealous of their husband's young lovers; of polygamous, monogamous, gay and lesbian Nigeria, of traditional and Pentecostal Nigeria, of matriarchal pride and incredible sexploitation, of the Hausa and Igbo, of ordinary men and women, cold immigrants and warm home. No topic is off bounds and through this collection we are brought along to witness the astonishing resilience and weaknesses in the cultural, racial and sexual dichotomies and to some extent, trichotomies that exist. This is second and third generation Nigeria, the Nigeria of the movers and shakers and doers and thinkers- a Nigeria which is staking its claim in the world. Adichie's protagonists' commentaries are sometimes humorous and irreverent, sometimes wise but always timely:

“There are things that are good if you don’t know”

“He spoke about a god, who had come to the world to die, and who had a son but no wife, and who was three but also one. ...Some walked away, because they had imagined that the white man was full of wisdom”

“Are you writing about your father?... NO because she had never believed in fiction as therapy. The Tanzanian told her that all fiction was therapy, some form of therapy, no matter what anyone said”

If this book had a fault, it would be that Adichie comes across as determinedly feminist. Her female protagonists are powerful, cunning, smart, and are able to form bonds that are natural, easy and strong. Womanhood and womanly love seem to feature as an unspoken undercurrent. Most of the men appear as side dishes, certainly dispensable, most times inspiring reproach: they are often impractical, predatory, fumbling and two dimensional. This is not to say that her approach is without merit, as it is possible that through her eyes, we are perhaps witnessing this malaise in male/female relationships and her challenge, therefore, of the natural hierarchy and of the status quo.

Although I am a natural sucker for an immigrant story and therefore love "Imitation", "The Thing Around Your Neck", “The American Embassy” and "The Arrangers of Marriage", my favourite story is "Jumping Monkey Hill" simply because of Adichie’s voice in it, and her method. She uses and improves the Shakespearean technique of the play within a play to construct a story within a story and then through this, manages to reveal yet more stories with grace and believability. Each of the stories resolve themselves, yet most of them stay with the reader, leaving us hungry for more.

It is perhaps telling that I have written this review before I have even finished the book. I felt compelled to share it. I am nervously on the last nibble "The Headstrong Historian". It already reminds me of Achebe’s Things Fall Apart.

The Pornification of Dancehall

I am old enough to remember dancehall when she was only a gurgling baby called dub. The younger sister of rhythmic Reggae, she was bold, confident and brash even though she was just finding her voice. She crawled from the streets of Kingston to the boomboxes of DJs and the sound systems of the entire Caribbean, and was then carried on the backs of Queen Patra and King Shabba much to the opprobrium of the reggae purists who preferred the conscious movement with its veterans- Bob Marley, Beres Hammond and Lucky Dube.

Her rhythms were new and fresh. Chaka Demus & Pliers told us the sad tale of a girl named Maxie in “Murder She Wrote”. The crossover appeal of “Pull up to My Bumper” was heralded on BET and  there was no song sweeter in 1993 than Barrington Levy’s “Living Dangerously” a cautionary tale of unfaithfulness. Bounty Killer in “Sufferer” was able, over a popular rhythm, to send a message to world leaders about poverty and inequity. The Joyride caused us to bob our heads in unison on skittle coloured minibuses as we screamed in delight, reeling off by rote “Me want ah jook off a Jacklyn but me affe draw for my rubbers, for my rubbers”. We loved Lady Saw’s “Under the sycamore tree, ah boy want me bow and me tell him fe flee”. Dancehall was not afraid to address the taboo uncomfortable topics (unprotected sex, oral sex) but she did so humorously and with some measure of sound advice.

Dancehall grew to become a moody intelligent teenager, but her overt sexualisation began slowly. “Draw for me finger” outlined in detail what a woman should do were she not satisfied by her lover. Tanya Stephens- powerful and intelligent in reggae- was sexually explicit in dancehall, telling her lover that it wasn’t the way he walked and talked she loved- it was all about the sex. Although popular, this lean towards the sexual attracted the censure of many, and dancehall momentarily withdrew from this image. Trying to access the international market, she experienced a phase of generic accessible dress-up: it began with Shaggy’s “It wasn’t me” and “Mr Boombastic” and culminated in Sean Paul’s “Gimme the Light”. She became fun to be around, dancehall was “nice” again and Elephant Man’s “Pon de River” was the precursor to the dance movement that was embarked upon- this reached its pinnacle in the dances of all dances- Tony Matterhorn’s Dutty Wine.

Dancehall has always been our cheeky little sister but it has been a shock to see her now, legs spread wide open, akimbo, prideful in her outrageous insouciance:

The lyrics to Romping Shop, probably the biggest hit of the decade, say it all:

V: “Me cocky longer than me knife, tell me whey you like

Yuh want me try or yuh want fe ride it like ah bike

S: Well you haffe ram it hard, De cocky nah fe lie

Damage it for spite, Not because me pussy tight

V: Can I put it on the left, Can you take it on de right

S: Me nipple them ah ripe, Send it up inna me tripe....

Cause me affe wine pon de cocky like dis

Cartel spin me like ah satellite dish

V: Spice I never love ah pussy like this....

S: Kill me with the cocky

V: Kill me with the tightness...

V: And when yuh ah come, whisper something like this

V& S: Ah can’t stop fucking you.

V: Cocky no play

Me will bruk yuh back

S: Me will quint it up two times

An pop u cock

When you come inna me Romping Shop

The song of the moment, Gyptian’s Hold Yuh, begins sweetly with “Girl me just want fe hold yuh put me arms right around you” but then ends in the double entendre “Girl you give me the tightest hold/hole me ah ever get in my life”. Mavado’s “Neva Believe” is also an ode to a women with tight nether regions and begins “you breast dem stiff, make me pants front lift....she get dart, in the bath, something reach up inna she heart”, presumably alluding to the length of his own nether regions, being able to figuratively and exaggeratedly touch her heart. I admit that the shock value of the lyrics are arresting and they immediately attract one’s attention but there is something uncomfortable about knowing that the versions of these songs are the equivalent of what Red Rat’s “Dwayne” were to us in the 1990s, sung in bedrooms to walkmans/ipods by teenagers and on maxibuses and the lyrics probably written on exercise books, by teenagers who wish for some measure of rebellion and who will instinctively test the inappropriate. Four year olds have been heard singing the lyrics to Romping Shop. Pardon me if I seem prudish but these songs have definitely tilted over the edge.

These songs are now referred to as containing “daggering” lyrics because when played they are now accompanied by daggering –basically a man and a woman in a party whose “dancing” consists of  lewd rapid sexual movements also known as cabin stabbing. Dozens of women, colourfully and scantily dressed (or in some instances not dressed at all), are now bending over or lying on the floors of the dancehalls of Kingston, New York and Toronto, daggering. Daggering is different to traditional Caribbean “wining” (which is sensual in its own right) in that the primary aim is not to dance, but to simulate sex. Daggering is part of the natural extension of “passa passa”- the cultural wave that swept the Caribbean that consisted of a televised outdoor party, the highlight of which were women who were literally willing to do anything, be it gyrate upside down with no underwear in a club, climb atop a tractor or a telephone pole sandwiched between two men, engaged in a primordial battle to see who could best who with the most outrageous behaviour. Passa Passa is a subversive culture, and regrettably, dancehall has seemed to have become its soundtrack.

This is particularly concerning because as L'Antoinette Stines, founder of  Jamaican L'Acadco Dance Company, related, whilst choreographing a dance with children during a rehearsal, the deejay put on a 'daggering' song briefly. "Right away the girls were on the floor and the men were on top of them," she said. This, from small school age children. Is this what we wish to teach them?

The Jamaican Digital Broadcasting Commission has responded by banning songs with daggering lyrics from national radio and television airplay and it is probably fair to say that the rest of the Caribbean will soon follow suit. The Ministers of Culture in various islands have already banned some of the artists; in some instances refusing work permits to artists whose songs containing daggering lyrics (Barbados, Grenada). Usual for the Caribbean, this is locking the room door when the teenager has already learnt she can climb out of the window: technology like YouTube ensures that there is immediate access in any event to these songs and lyrics over the internet and it is likely that a ban will merely increase the sense of subversion and so boost popularity.

For the record, every consenting adult has a right to make a choice to listen to what he or she wants in the comfort of his own home. I am sure many of us quite enjoy the raunchy dancehall within the confines of our cars and within the walls of our bedrooms. I am sure Romping Shop has been the catalyst to quite a few babymaking trysts. However, we must pause and ask ourselves- is this where we wish to relegate dancehall music? To be listened to as a mere guilty pleasure at home or as the soundtrack to a lascivious way of life? To continue along the wave of lazy song making, to see what we can get away with (as Ce’cile, one of the top dancehall artists recounts?) Or do we wish for this, one of our better exports to take its rightful place on the international airwaves, played in the best clubs and featured in international awards ceremonies and recognised at the Grammys? Producers, deejays and dancehall artistes need to realise that as long as the over explicit xrated lyrics detailing the choice features of a woman’s anatomy continue to feature in dancehall music, it will not catapult into any other charts other than the Caribbean’s rudest and slackest. Dancehall will become the equivalent of musical porn, successful in its own right but without any credibility as a legitimate genre. The onus is therefore on producers to direct dancehall and to chart its aspiration.

As consumers we also need to be more discerning as to what we allow into our homes. We require a centralised musical and video rating organisation that will regulate the age appropriateness of music and accompanying music videos and organise a programming code that will regulate material that is fit for public airplay. Songs and videos which contain x rated lyrics should only be played at certain times after a stipulated watershed. In this way, producers will be forced into making cleaner versions of songs on popular rhythms in much the same way as they do for rnb and hiphop soundtracks. We may not be able to have control over the versions that our teenagers listen to, but at least, we will have some measure of choice and some control over what is popularised over our airwaves and what is disseminated as representative of Jamaican, and Caribbean culture as a whole.

Vybz Kartel was quite adamant in his letter of protest over the ban of his music to the Jamaican Digital Broadcasting Commission. He argued that dancehall music was not responsible for the HIV/AIDS pandemic , unemployment, endemic poverty, violence, and disenfranchisement- problems that confront the region. However, I am not sure that this is an argument for allowing dancehall to become the prepubescent stripper of the music industry- always cheap, tawdry and base. It is perhaps even more telling that the women and men who engage in daggering, or who are featured in the music videos to these songs, already belong to the socioeconomic grouping where the above mentioned symptoms are prominent.

(Photo from Vybz Kartel promotional material for Romping Shop. All rights reserved).

Open Letter to Jill Scott: "Is Beige the New Black"?

(Pic from www.babble.com. All rights reserved).

Dear Jill,

Your unique fusion of afrobeat-cum-spoken-word-cum-soulrnb on jazz on "Who is Jill Scott? Words and Sounds Volume 1?" made my heart at once leap and skip, who was this sage who made this nu-music? You inspired my foray into spoken word as I followed you on your journey with "Beautifully Human" and the "The Real Thing"; I heard the love vibrating through your guitar on "He Loves Me", written for your wedding day, your pain was my pain as you sang through your divorce (and I sang through my break-ups) and you didn't know this but we celebrated together (me, in my flat with a glass of red wine, you on the stage in Carnegie Hall) when we both found love again.

I was eager to read your piece in Essence magazine especially when I was told that you went "there". There meaning a favourite conversation piece. I call it WAWWSOM- Why Are White Women Stealing Our Men? Some people thought the article was racist in a world that is post racial, some were of the ilk that wanted to sit around a fire and sing kumbaya- "the world is a happy place, we all love each other, isn't that great?" and they attempted to dismiss your opinion as one without historical, collective, or even intellectual merit. I won't do so and although I love you and recognise your feelings as valid, I must admit that I do not feel the same way you do because I think your opinion piece generalises and stereotypes the experience of all black women and all black men who choose to date white.

Jill, my essential tenet and starting point is that human beings are free to love who they please. We are lucky to be born with choice and freedom in our parts of the world. Isn't it great that we are able to pick our life partner based on any criteria we wish? I believe in absolute freedom. Love is a beautiful thing and when we find it in unexpected places it can be amazing and make you do crazy things- like sing all those sappy cheesy Celine Dion songs about strength when weak and lifting up when we couldn't reach. I am an equal opportunities lover and would love anyone who loves me back :) To those human beings that genuinely find love between races, across cultures, straddling oceans and mountains of social, economic and racial divide; I am genuinely happy and pleased for you. I smile for you and welcome your family into our family; I welcome the mélange of your culture with our culture with open arms. Black men don't owe black women anything except respect.

I am grateful for this proposition I live, Jill, when I read about brides who have to marry men their parents chose: their choice is sometimes between an unwanted arrangement or death. They do not have the opportunity to test the waters, to know their lovers, to let their fingers linger on the small of their backs, to hold hands at the movies, to share private jokes: they are resigned to falling in love with a person that they may not like or to live unhappily ever after. I am glad that religion nor caste nor province dictates my choice. I am happy that we are no longer living in the 1960's where black men got lynched for dating white women, and white men had to date a black nanny on the side.

This feeling of openness however, is hard to square and reconcile with my feeling of obligation to community. With the feeling of example. That we need strong black families raising strong black children, Will-and-Jada families, Michelle-and-Barack-families, instead of broken black families, single parent black families, drug dealing black families, children-heading abusive black families. It was only when I started writing this article Jill, that it became clearer to me what I really believed- upon an honest, open, critical examination of my beliefs, and surprisingly my fears.

Jill, I realised that there are three types of black men who date interracially that I have found that I and other black women do not like. And although it is not for us to approve or disprove of other relationships, black women do more than wince. It is more like a twist of the lips and a cut of the eye. I do not like what I call the Crushers, the Choppers and the Blenders.

Crushers crush black women. They are the men who make a deliberate choice not to date black women because its too much “aggro”. If I lost a hair for every man I heard say that they are through with black girls because they have "attitude", like "drama" and are "weave-wearing"/"angry"/"aggressive"/"eruptive"/"paycheque-spending"/"uncultured"/"divas" (choose one), I would be as bald as Naomi Campbell and with an attitude makes me want to turn into a finger wagging Shanaynaye. Not because of the bullshit psychological rationale about past collective pain we experienced  (can we move on already?) and all these intellectual reasons that you spouted, but because we are being stereotyped and generalised by the very people who are supposed to know and understand us best. I want to say to these Crushers: Have you met every single black woman in the world? Because I have met docile black women, and assertive black women, honey coloured, caramel, blue black, matchstick thin, cuddly, museum loving, club hopping- we come in all shapes, sizes, hues and dispositions. Moreover, if the girls you are meeting are all like the negative things you describe, that says something rather peculiar about your social group.

Then there are the Choppers. These are the fetish hunters- they want to chop some "other" booty down, they are after some unfamiliar tail. You see their ads on Craig’s List and Gumtree. These Tigerwoodsian men post listings that are so generic and predictable- "black man, well hung, looking for blonde single girl for fun and good times". These men on first glance appear open and fun, but I actually think that these men are more racist and sexist that any of the other types because their interracial interaction is rooted in images of Mandingoland and they are happy to conform to the image of the black man as a centaur; man-horse and sexual aggressor. By casting themselves in this role, it is almost as if they wish to wreak some form of sick avenge for sins of the past.

Then Jill, there are the Blenders. These are the men who suffer from post colonial self negation and wish for the family and children with "fair skin" "pretty features" "nice hair" and a "straight nose". They wish to neutralise their black features until it is almost erased because their noses are not straight enough, their hair is too nappy and their skin too dark and ashy. I have been told that I should be a Blender so many times by older women in the Caribbean- "find ah nice white man and make some pretty colour children eh darling" but I do not expect it in a modern man.  Some Crushers ultimately become Blenders. I have a problem with Blenders because I really believe black is beautiful. There is nothing wrong with black. We do not need to neutralise, mix up, and dilute our features to conform to any societal standard.

So these are the black men I don't like and for the record, I don't like the women Blenders, Crushers and Choppers either. So I would probably not see eye to eye with the women who join the facebook group "I love white men" (huh? when did the colour of someone's skin matter more than the content of their character?"), the girl who says "I am through with black men, most of them sell drugs, smoke weed and don't have a job" or the Trinidadian chick who marries Indian so she can have "nice dougla children". The weird thing is that most people don't know that they are Choppers, Blenders or Crushers; these feelings lie subterraneously.

Jill, the assimilationists tell us that all this talk this is trivial and irrelevant and we should not worry about interracial-ness. However I think this should be discussed because I think our anger may be born of fear. According to the UK statistics, 80% of black men would happily marry outside of their race. Only 20% of white men would. This means that there is a loophole for little black girls- if the majority of black men love white women and the majority of white men love white women, who are dating us?

The magazines and televisions tell us that we are not at the top of the universally accepted standards of beauty and the very men who are meant to "get" that our lips are just a smidgen fuller, our textured hair tougher, our nose just a little bit wider, appear to be also rooting for the away team. We feel therefore that our pool is getting smaller and smaller and may I suggest our anger is not historical, but territorial? This is exacerbated when the 80% of these black men who wouldn't mind dating anyone appear to be the upwardly mobile, successful, god-fearing men who love their mothers. A part of us screams that if these men, whose mothers we resemble, don't prefer us, who will?

Black women are also often fearful of mixing. My boyfriend asked me to debate this question “Is assimilation a form of cultural genocide?” and I was for once, stumped. We are guardians of our homes and family lives and perhaps by extension, we see ourselves as guardians of our culture. However, we cannot lead ourselves into the realms of Nick Griffin who categorically thinks mixing is destructive of human cultures to mask fear of that which we are not familiar, hiding under the pretext of deculturisation (because culture is a way of life that is fluid and malleable).

Jill, my friends and I used to feel like you did at university. We winced because there were probably ten eligible black boys in Cambridge and they all (with the exception of one) did not date black girls. So the choice was effectively made for us. Those of us who stopped looking for the “good black man” and looked simply for a good man found love. I found a gay best friend! The experience taught me that when we are happy and comfortable in our own selves, we do not even notice the black man walking past with whatever woman of whatever colour.

Just sayin'

Les Miserables

When you look at a guidebook on Paris and France, they don't tell you that Paris can be a shithole.

They don't tell you that behind the gilded, sparkling edifice of the Eiffel Tower, the money-green Prada counters of Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, the creamy yummy ooziness of a La Durée macaroon de pistache, the self indulgent architectural expanse of the Louvre, the story book quaintness of the cobbled streets of the Marais, and the raving bacchanalia that occurs in the bars of Bastille, lie stories and lives so poor, so excluded, so caked in shit it can actually make you sick.

I arrived in Paris in 2003, literally wrapped in cotton from dewy Cambridge, eagerly grasping this once in a lifetime chance to live-Paris-and-die. My professors sold me the dream and I swallowed it whole: I was lucky to be able to do a Maitrise in the best law university that topped even the Sorbonne. I was conveniently not told that the same establishment had a rich tradition of an extreme right wing student union which only recently had organised an attack on a couple of left wing students, burning them with cigarettes. I appreciated very much going to the only university in Paris with armed security.

My home was not a grand old apartment with a view overlooking the Seine as you saw in the last episode of Sex and the City (I did have views of amazing piles of dogshit) but a miniscule room in the College Franco Britannique of the Cite Universitaire. There I was taught my first lesson in segregation- we were housed by country of origin echoing the economic world order- the American House first with an outward facing view, the British College second and as life imitates art, the levels of amenities decreased as one went further and further down the GDP scale. No one wanted to live in the Maison de Cambodge. My first few months in this great city of culture and world class gastronomy were therefore not spent munching croissants aux amandes in continental cafés: they were spent having a 3 euro meal of greying beef and spaghetti at the CROUS (the student cafeteria), served by a few ethnic Albanians, quiet Algerians and bustling Cameroonians, all of whom had spilt dreams and washed out stories in a grand old building that smelt of bleach.

No one had told me before about Chateau' d'Eau and Strasbourg- St Denis, mere minutes from the Centre Georges Pompidou- these quartiers that would make Peckham look like West Hampstead and Flatbush look like 34th Street.  Where a young girl named Aimée braids hair for less than 15 euros in a rotting building that houses six other "hair salons" and out of this sum pays for her chair, and for a tout who would congregate with the other crushing Senegalese, Ivoirian, Sierra Leonean bodies to accost and jostle and plead with you as you exit the middle passage of the metro station with shouts of "Tissages- Pas Cher (Cheap Weaves) and Ongles (Nails"). No one had had the gall to explain that a mere 10 minutes from Gare du Nord, on the way to Stade St Denis, I would find a crumbling banlieue rich only in the lies of ministers that it would all be addressed come the next election, a generation of youth whose unintelligible verlan dialect reflected their lack of assimilation and integration into mainstream French society. They don't tell you in the guidebooks that young Martiniquan boys in Clichy-sous-bois have never been to the Orsay or would never be able to point you to the Rodin museum; they hang out instead in "Chatelet", the underground monstrosity of a shopping centre in their new "baskets" (sneakers"). There, they eschew raclettes, confits de canard and fondues for buckets of greasy KFC. These boys from Douala and Pointe a Pierre live in Paris but dream of America.

Paris also has a serious case of Tourette's: it is uncomfortable and restless with itself and as a result, is frequently in an eruptive state. For starters, Paris is filled to the brim with the overeducated unemployed. Take my fellow graduate friend Thomas for instance, after having completed a Licence in law, his Maitrise, a DEA and a DESS (doctoral level studies), he struggles to find a job and is considering moving to Switzerland or to Brussels "Il n'y a rien ici" he mutters. France is perhaps the only country in the world where an education costs less than a plane ticket- 400 euros pays for a year's tuition - but perhaps the only country in the world where it is usual to work for free for 6 months at a time to obtain an elusive placement. Unemployment benefits can reach up to 60% of salary but nothing can compensate for the feeling that you have wasted your time. Those who are not unemployed strike. For just about anything. The SNCF can cripple Parisian society in one day.

Paris is also like a surly child - very suspicious of strangers. Arabs known also as "rabeurs" (Algerians, Moroccans and Tunisians) were part of the first wave immigrants to reside near Paris in suburban congregations (cités). These cités have become completely lawless. The French government is notoriously apathetic- they openly say that to defend the law in these suburbs it futile and dangerous. A friend, Malik, complains that "the system favours French citizens with French sounding names and French physiognomy": he has no job and in a city that requires him to list his address and name in every job application and to attach a photo with his CV, he has resigned himself to the fact that he may never have one. The French principle of laicité (no privilege on the grounds of any affiliation) prevents any recognition of special rights and privileges based on minority status so the government remains distant, powerless and  content to proclaim "liberté, egalité, fraternité".

Liberté, egalité, fraternité. Paris does not feel very fraternal to Claudine, whose parents (fully French, the Parisians boast) have travelled from the "perles" of France (les Antilles- the West Indies) to take low paying jobs in the Metropole. Her parents' contemporaries, who left France to settle in Martinique, are paid subsidies for the "inconvenience" of living in the Caribbean. The anger at such unequal treatment fueled the uprisings of February 2009 in Martinique and Guadeloupe. Martiniquais and Guadeloupians were furious that these “Bekes”, the descendants of the old French and the economic migrants to those islands retained a privileged status, and continued to economically exploit the indigenous minority through their monopoly over land and business. The islanders marched through the streets “Guadeloupe is ours, not theirs” they chanted. Even so, my friend from Gabon "sans papiers" (without papers), envies the Antillais. "Why are they complaining? At least they can work". Claudine slants her eyes "We are French. We are not black. We are mixed".

This méfiance of strangers is not confined to immigrants; Paris is suspicious of all foreigners who are not tourists. Tourists they can cope with- they are going back. To be fully French and resident means you can have it good- generous benefits, subsidised housing, free healthcare. An anglosaxon American is likely to face the same barriers as a South African, a Canadian, a Japanese national when trying to rent an apartment or opening a bank account- in Paris to be French is a specially reserved privilege.

Another not so well kept secret is that Paris a city of grandiose paper pushing bureaucracy. Like a decrepit old lady, it struggles to keep up with itself. Obtaining a carte de séjour, a task that should be a mere administrative formality, becomes almost like going to confession- a weekly monotonous visit to the Mairie or the Prefecture where one is reprimanded for not following the correct form. The beauty of Paris is ill reconciled with the city that can frustrate you when trying to open up a bank account, apply for a mortgage, or a credit card, in fact when you are trying to do anything remotely useful. France does leisure very well, too well. On the rare days that the banks are not closed for a two hour lunch break or there isn't a national strike, the sheer rudeness of the assistants can make you weep. This is the city where shop assistants will look in disdain at your shopping and tell you to put back the sweets because you would get fat, where a bank manager would clear your account and hand you back the cash when you request an overdraft, where you can wait up to one hour to post a single letter.

I was twenty and not feeling it. This was not the Paris where Thomas Jefferson lived with Sally Hemmings, where generations of intellectuals congregated to taste freedom -Josephine Baker, Sidney Bechet, James Baldwin, Richard Wright. This was supposed to be the Paris of the Grand Hotel on the Place de l'Opera where W.E.B. Dubois organised the first Pan African Congress in 1919 and the Paris I lived was not it.

I returned to France in 2008, nervously, for six months. I lived in that grand old apartment with a view overlooking the Seine, two metres away from the Atelier de Joel Robuchon (he trained Gordon Ramsey). I spent my evenings having crusty baguettes and St Marcellin and carafes of Beaujolais three steps from the Champs Elysees. I spent weekends in the champagne region and Saturday afternoons browsing the Louis Vuitton shop at Le Bon Marché. I called Thomas. He had found a job as an intellectual property lawyer. Malik was going back to Algeria. Claudine was doing a second Master 1. Aimée was in the same shop, still plaiting hair...


*Dedicated to the city I love to love and hate all at the same time*

Why I won't be buying Alicia Keys' New Album

Alicia Keys begins her artist description on Twitter with the tagline “Light bearing Artist”. Well, I want to know what light she was bearing (must have been candlelight) when she decided that she needed to sleep with (and steal) Mashonda Tifrere’s husband Kasseem Dean otherwise known as Swiss Beatz.

I usually do not get involved in internet rumours (let’s leave that to Mediatakeout and Bossip) and I usually remember my dear Tan Phillipa’s voice uttering while she squeezed her chaplet “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” but I felt particularly betrayed by Ms Keys (I take that back, Alicia, I am losing the Ms).

I remember being hooked on “Falling” as we all were- a canerowed, authentic down home New York chick, a husky contralto voice almost easily creeping over tuneful piano, no overworked lyrics, she told it as it was “Sometimes I feel good, sometimes I feel used, loving you darling makes me so confused”. She was a witness for the 2000's, a throwback to the days when music had soul and passion, sold to us as the real deal, very dissimilar to a market-driven, manufactured and synthesized Knowles production, she was the one we had been waiting for. When she sang Superwoman, I felt like she was singing it for me and my sisters and my mothers and my best friends and it was my anthem for a few weeks (much to the consternation of my then housemates). She reminded all the trifling-ass men of what we were capable of in A Woman’s Worth “she rolls the mile; makes you smile, all the while, being true don't take for granted the passions that she has for you”. She was Oprah’s chosen one and heiress, founding member of “Keep a Child Alive”, her voice strained, imperfect and raw at times, but ultimately real.

I should probably say to disclose my conflict of interest that I am not one of the many women who understand the fascination or the thrill of the chase with breaking up a family and ultimately with having someone else’s man. The old clichés are often trotted out “It was meant to be’. Not it wasn’t, if it was, he wouldn’t have been already married. “They fell in love’. You choose who you want to fall in love with and contrary to Disney movies, love isn’t fairy dust and magic sparkle- it’s a passionate choice. “The marriage was already broken- you can’t break something that’s already broken”. I have spoken to people who have been married for a very long time and they often say that their marriage breaks at least 20 times during its course.  Marriage is hard work. You feel like you want to quit. You quit sometimes and start again but ultimately, marriage vows are sacrosanct. Who is to say a broken marriage cannot be pieced back together. Who are you to stamp on it further?

Maybe I just don’t get it because I was an only child. I am used to having my own things. I don’t like to share. I like being able to go to dinner and not have to sit out of view in the back of the restaurant. I like making plans openly and to walk down the street with my man’s hand held in mine without fear or secrecy. I like spending lazy Sunday evenings on the sofa with my boo and not worrying whether I am eating into someone else’s family time. I am also of that wise old age when I know that men lie. A lot. So they will say when you meet them that they don’t have a girl, that they are on the verge of moving out, that they are still with the mother of their child but they don’t love her anymore, that they are only there for the sake of their children, that the marriage exists on paper only, that they have a really good relationship with their ex (which includes sleeping over for the sake of little Junior), that they can’t leave yet because it is a bad time to sell the house. Yawn. I have heard it so many times before and yes, we all fell for it when we were eighteen and stupid but to fall for it when you are twenty nine, one of the best selling artists in the whole world, who has seen firsthand the state of black families in America, who claims to be a light bearer, who tweets “love and light” back at her followers and who claims to write lyrics that empower women, is disappointing and not what I expected. I feel that Alicia Keys is falser than a falsetto. Surely, she must have known that the man she was falling in love with had a wife who had just had a baby. Real women investigate. Real women say choose and don’t get involved until the choice is made. Call me naïve, call me not wise in the ways of the world but there is no way I can choose “spark” over “smart” and the betrayal I feel is that underneath the cheery smile, the strong lyrics is my disappointment that Alicia Keys is just a really dumb broad.

I judge her harshly because I think she deserves to be judged. Karma is a bitch. She has just announced her engagement and I wish her all the best (no I don’t) but there is no way this bastardly love child album is making it onto my Ipod. So she and her dude can keep their elements of freedom, freedom is also the ability to make sound and good choices.

Right now, I would pay to be Ms Tifrere because I would be getting paid. According to New York Alimony laws some of the factors to be taken into account in awarding alimony include the income and property of the respective parties, the future and earning capacities of both parties, the presence of children in each home, the ability of the party seeking alimony to be self supporting, the contributions of that party to being a homemaker, and the standard of living of the parties established during the marriage. Mashonda’s album was a commercial flop- she has not made a hit in years. Were I her, I would factor in that the likelihood of my obtaining a hit record was more than likely to be zero, and that the combined earning power of KeysBeatz to be in the region of $50 million a year. I would also factor in that I need a home to take care of his child. Were I Ms Tifrere, I would become a Real Housewife of New York and would request at least $1 million a month to keep myself in the manner that a spurned wife should be expected to.

Then I would hit him on child support. New York Guidelines say 17% of your gross income for each child (plus childcare, medical and educational expenses) but because his income is over $80,000 the total amount would be likely to be almost 30% of gross pay because child support is based on what the parents would have contributed if the parents still lived together. So no, you naysayers, a child does not need a $70,000 nursery but if Daddy would have bought it if he still lived at home, little Tanashaka will get it. And rightly so, why should he be balling and his children life on the regular?

And then I would move to North Carolina or another state that recognises the tort of alienation of affection, try to obtain jurisdiction and sue Alicia Keys for intentionally and maliciously interfering with a marriage. Cynthia Shackelford just successfully sued her husband’s mistress for $9 million. Now that’s a woman’s worth.

This article forms part of my Weekend Entertainment Focus

VVIP assness

"And I look in the rearview and see a man
exactly like me, and the man was weeping
for the houses, the street, that whole fucking island...
But they had started to poison my soul
with their big house, big car, big time bohbohl,
coolie, nigger, Syrian and French Creole,so I leave it for them and their carnival...
I have seen things that would make a slave sickin this Trinidad, the Limers' Republic. "

Derek Walcott, Schooner's Flight


I have always said that I could live in Trinidad. Easy easy I could I said. A small island style metropolis- a place that is like no other in the Caribbean, where village marries with town so easily, where glass and steel structures coexist with an amalgam of prideful plywood and galavanise houses, and where the doubles man sells hot curry on the side of the road near Woodbrook (home of international gourmet fare). Trinidad likes to call itself a melting pot but it's more like its national dish- the pelau, the basic ingredients still keep their character when they are mixed and the result is heavenly. Even on my first visit to Trinidad, I remember saying to my mother that I was probably a Trini in a past life- I like mas, I like kaiso, I like pan, I like carnival, I like curry and corn soup and I like pepper too bad!

In fact, a lot of Trinidad reminded me of Grenada. Too much of it. A mahogany toned Rasta selling intricate leather slippers and bags that reminded me of a mountain "jola". A crowded market stall brimming with the aroma of metal-hot pepper sauce and steaming curry. Local restaurants tucked in between a shoe store and a shopping centre with surly service (why can't Caribbean people get this right?) but they slowly and eventually win you over with dishes so vibrant and tasty and unusual (rice an pig tail cookup) that you forgive it. A stray dog liming in the road. And a baby faced youth with a straw hat asking "Fresh coconut water for you miss?" This time Trinidad reminded me of Grenada so much so that I had a sense of the invincible, of walking on my own territory and home-turf and my friend and local Trinis constantly had to remind me "Yuh in Trinidad.. hold you bag close to you... don't let nobody hear yuh mix-up Grenada English accent...doh ask nobody no question, doh let dem know yuh from foreign... doh wear that dress, it look too English". Doh do this doh do that. At times I really thought I had entered Baghdad. I went to Bethlehem last year, an occupied territory, and even there I didn't feel this sense of precaution and uneasiness.

It began again and culminated "Doh go in Brass Fete, dey go rob yuh. Doh go in Insomnia General. Doh go Soca Monarch General- yuh mad, yuh ehn know who dere. Yuh hadda go VVIP". VVIP? Explain. It was explained to me that there was an economic stratification of fetes. General- which costs about $200 EC (£20). VIP (Very Important Persons) which costs $400 (40) and the pinnacle, VVIP (Very Very Important Persons) ($600) (£65). Ah set ah assness.

Some fetes did not have this stratification but they were there by default- Beach House and Lara Fete cost $750(£75) and $1300 (£130) respectively, far out of the reach of the average Trinidad citizen. With this stratification there is an obvious social demarcation. I had not encountered anything like this before (except maybe on Bobby's Trinidad inspired summer cruise) and I don't know whether it exists in the rest of the Caribbean. Of course, I am familiar with VIP or premium tickets at international events but this was the first time there was this connotation or connection of these words with class. I was told that the people buying general tickets were naturally the less well to do Trinidadians, but not only were they deemed to be less well off, they were also assumed to be an unsafe wild crowd (as opposed to be just out to have a good time) who would take every opportunity to prey, steal and attack, a "different class ah people- Doh go there wid no bag" I was told. In other words the general patrons were regarded as corbeaux. VIP was an aspirational category. Fuckery by another name (excuse me French). Not quite as good as VVIP but you were trying, you were on the up. You wouldn't get robbed but there would be no amenities. ("Who de hell need amenities in ah fete?). So to place yourself out of the reach of the ordinary people, the girl who work she ass off in Samaroos to save up for she one ticket, the guy who come with all his padnas on his day off from his hard construction job, you need to go sit down on a bench, with a few other people whose noses are stiff from being pointed upwards for so long, and view Soca Monarch like it's a damn opera. "Was that Patrice? Oh Patrice. She is mmmmarvelllous dahling" Applause.


Professor Bridget Brereton published an article on post colonial Trinidad. It said "During the generations of emancipation, Trinidad was clearly a segmented society made or different sectors... divided primarily by national origin and race... but also by education and economic position. The segments formed a hierarchy, with one clearly dominant and the others clearly subordinate". Professor Brereton would be appalled to know that this very passage could be applied to some issues and segments of society in Trinidad today.

It has always confused me as to why Grenada merely two heartbeats from Trinidad does not face the issues of crime and cold hearted violence in quite the same way. Surely, of all the Caribbean islands, we are probably most similar in culture and identity. We eat the same food, tell the same jokes, use the same dialect and yes, half of Grenada is in Trinidad. (After this article, they might put them out!). Yes, we are a lot smaller but size is no shield to violence. I am no sociologist but I think that this racial and economic formation I noted is a big part of the answer. Apart from a very very select few (less than 1% I would say) who can be tucked away in Lance Aux Epines and True Blue, the rest of Grenada for the most part coexists - the big wall house in the Villa St Mark's started from a small board house and is aspirational to the rest of the board house dwellers, we work in the same Ministries, we ride on the same buses, we go to the same hospital, we attend the same fetes, we pay the same price .The Trinidad story therefore is a warning to us that the wealth of a nation can be a curse and that its unequal distribution can rob a country of its cohesion.

How can you expect to be left in peace when you turn your noses down and refuse to intermingle with certain sectors of your society? When the line between the haves and the have nots are drawn and displayed even in the way you party, what leavest thou for this line in areas where it really matters- education, healthcare, jobs? I am afraid to ask or even to enquire. Professor Nunez of City University New York explores this theme in her fiction- there is for instance health care for the poor, and a much higher standard or healthcare for those who can afford to pay. I am not saying that this does not exist elsewhere but I think perhaps this socio-economic line is drawn rather harshly and loudly and the people who are on the wrong side of it perhaps feel wronged.

Violence is often the exteriorisation of frustration with the status quo. Sure there are some people who are just "bad minded" but when citizens are treated like they are second class, they often respond with a boomerang reverberation and protest where it hurts. Why shouldn't they have what you have? Why shouldn't they sip wine within a gated community and earn $20,000 TT a month? Why should just you be living the high life, sending your children to the best schools and living at the upper echelons of society while their children are surviving on a diet of flour dumpling and Solo? We all know that Trinidad's wealth has not trickled down to a majority of the masses and this surge in violence and crime, may just be born of severe discontent and "fedupness" with the status quo. They smell your fear when you walk through the streets of Port of Spain, afraid to engage in dialogue, clutching your Coach handbag. They can see you through the fences in VVIP swigging your champagne and flaunting what you have. They know that you that you wouldn't choose to associate with them. They don't think it's fair that on their wages alone they can't visit their own clubs or play in the extortionate carnival bands. They resent the fact that you can. So they think its fair play to stick your wives up in the streets, threaten to rape them, to kidnap your daughters and to stab, shoot and kill, to break into your house and steal your ipods and blackberries and laptops because they have nothing more to lose and the chance to gain at least, just a little bit of your life, your privilege.


I still love Trinidad. And I could still live there. It's just a pity these issues of inclusion and separateness are not being addressed head on because I sincerely believe in Haile Selassie's prophecy that "until there are no longer first class and second class citizens of any nation... that until that day, the dream of lasting peace and universal morality will remain but a fleeting illusion to be pursued and never attained"


(Ah know de Trinis go have plenty to say but doh worry- Grenada own coming up soon!)

Bye Bye to Boom Bye Bye? The Caribbean Gay Revolution

"Boom bye bye
Inna batty bwoy head
Rude bwoy no promote no nasty man
Dem haffi dead
Boom bye bye
Inna batty bwoy head
Rude bwoy no promote no nasty man
Dem haffi dead
(Two man) Hitch up on an rub up on
An lay down inna bed
Hug up on another
Anna feel up leg
Send fi di matic (automatic gun) an
Di Uzi instead"

I remember this song, booming loudly- a cacophony of guttural sounds from red, yellow and green buses in the Caribbean, the rough authoritative voice of Reggae King Buju over a melody that was, to be honest, made for grinding in a dancehall, scarcely suited to narrating a story of two men in a bed. It certainly arrested our attention and we all knew the lyrics and we sang along to our walkmans. This song is now used as an example of typified Jamaican anti-gay lyrics inciting violence. I do not know about Jamaica other than what I have read but when played in our dancehalls it had no greater effect than to cause a group of red-eyed youth to gather in a circle, stick puny hands in the air and proclaim "Lighter". I interpreted it as no more than a virtual desire to purify and prevent a Sodom & Gomorrah experience (as we had been indoctrinated to believe) rather than a nascent and actual intention to actually kill homsexuals.

The role of the homosexual in Caribbean society has never been properly explored. We have all the names- funny, batty bwoy, nasty boy, nasty girl, buller man, chi-chi man, tanty man and interestingly, the word zami- which is an inherited African word, but these words are barriers to confronting the reality of the Caribbean sexual orientation revolution. In my very small town, there were always a few men who were known to bat for the other side- at the age of ten I knew of at least 3.

The gay Caribbean is however experiencing a sexual orientation revolution. And it is one that is not led by men, but by women. Women are key in this new movement and claiming ownership of their sexuality, one step at a time, refusing to fall within our island society's diktats and mores. A part of me would like to believe that it is linked to the widening chasm between men and women in our society, and the fact that men folk is in crisis and after women filled the gaps in the home, schools, and working environment that the feminist movement has overarched and extended its tentacle to other areas. However, a part of me knows that this is probably too intellectual and insulting an analysis and it is perhaps as simple as we are now moving from an era of conservatism to an era of liberalism and unparalleled openness and these women who are asserting a right to love other women are simply staking their claim in this society.

I am not talking about lesbianism for the gratification of men, sexual orgies, prostitution and the like. This has always existed (yes). I am talking about female relationships. Take one of my good friends- Tamara (not real name) for instance. Since she was growing up she always had an air of tomboy about her. I am not asserting in any way that all lesbians are butch but she liked carpentry and woodwork and I remember her looking at my cousin's Barbie dolls with scorn. The rumours started when she  took a job as a construction worker for a few years during which she embarked on many relationships with men, hotly denying that she was lesbian. After a failed marriage, one son later, she is now dating a girl openly for the very first time and confides in me that she has never been happier. This, in a town of less than 5,000 people. She admitted that she does not care what the people in her town think.  Another young girl I met (let's call her Sandra), a teacher, is in a loving open relationship with her girlfriend and when I commented on her open displays of affection in a well known area in town she said to me "They'll get used to it". A part of me is surprised by this boldness. And then I am annoyed that I am surprised because she is only walking in her truth. I am actually surprised at how well conservative, bible belt Grenada has embraced this. Sure, there is some of: "They are just looking for attention". "They will grow it out" (about a well known secondary school aged girl who thinks she is a lesbian). Of course there are some "They need prayers and help" but I did not feel that this was the majority opinion - people did not care enough about it to make it a talking point, and that's the way it should be.

There are also many other social indicators showing that time has indeed moved on. A local soca star, after hearing of the "scandal" involving pictures taken of two women in very compromising positions which circulated the internet, sang the song "Eating Pork". Pork in Caribbean parlance references the female genitalia (as well as some other choice words like saltfish) and the song describes and taunts that girls in the area are all "eating pork". Said soca star has now confessed that whilst he intended the song to be a social commentary that commented on this practice in non favourable terms, the lesbian community has adopted the song and has frequently asked him to sing it, and have also requested special dedications. A group of lesbian girls openly frequent a party hotspot in Grenada and have made it "their night". A student hangout is known and noted for its acceptance and tolerance of gay couples. On New Year's Eve, I was greeted by a chick in a suit who accompanied her girlfriend in a dress to the Rex and Blue Bubbles. A class mate of mine from primary school is in a long term relationship with a New York woman and has no qualms in admitting freely and openly in a hairdressers shop that she is through with men. Similarly, one of my classmates from secondary school took pride in introducing me to her "woman", although I am not sure she is kosher as she prefaced this with “I fed up with men”. I don't think this would have happened ten years ago.


What is perhaps more telling, however, is that this broad-mindedness and indulgence that has been extended to the "zami" has not been marked by a corresponding willingness to engage in a humanistic way with the other side of the coin- male homosexuality. Men like Patrick Levine pave the way probably for other gay men- he is the only open homosexual on the island. He quotes in outtraveller, "The life in Grenada is very discreet. People usually want to do their thing, but they keep it between their private selves." I have never been to his restaurant but I am told that he cooks with lots of "glamour, spice and sexy". He sounds like our own Ms Jay! Other than Patrick, the rumours abound. We all hear and probably know of the gay costume designer, the gay pageant promoter, the gay model, the gay pastor but it's all very much on the down low. . I must admit that when I usually see gay men with other gay men (why are gay man hotter than straight men?), I instinctively think “What a waste!” which is probably wrong!

More seriously, many of us (including me a few years ago) cling to the Bible for justification for discriminating against homosexuals. It’s what we have been taught. But how can we cling to a literal interpretation of a Bible that for years was used to justify slavery ( in the New Testament -"slaves, obey your earthly masters with deep respect and fear, serve them sincerely as you would serve Christ") discrimination against women and racism (the "curse of Ham" was used by some members of Abrahamic religions to justify racism and the enslavement of people of Black African ancestry, who were believed to be descendants of Ham). I must admit I am probably not fully comfortable with and do not want to know the fine details of how two men have sex but we do not accord rights to human beings based on our personal comfort levels.

I would like to think that when Martin Luther King fought and spoke about that important promissory note that "that all men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.", he did not only speak in terms of white or black, American and Non American, gay or straight but he hoped that this could be truly extended to all. I am of the live and let live persuasion. As Bertrand Russell said “ The only part of the conduct of anyone for which he is amenable to society is that which concerns others. In the part which merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign”.

Prime Minister, Prime Minister... wherefore art thou Prime Minister?

The UK General Elections is in exactly 5 weeks, and to be perfectly honest the entire nation is probably more interested (judging from the Daily Mail) in whether Katie Price is going to fall pregnant to Alex Reid or whether Deity Beckham’s Achilles tendon will heal in time for the World Cup. This level of apathy is unparalleled. It is a sad state of affairs when the country that bequeathed its legacy of democracy to the United States and to the developing world seems to show less than zero interest in electing a leader. People just don’t give a damn.

I kind of get it. It’s like when the builders come to your house and ask “Do you want that shade of grey, or that shade of grey?” Part of you wants to scream “I don’t give a shit. It’s all grey. Just paint the f**ing walls!"”
In Grenada, for example, politics is deeply personal. “Haul yuh stink and corrupt NNP ass”, “Yuh deceitful NDCite- Coardite!” (Coardite being negative because it denotes the betrayal of the Grenadian Christ- Maurice Bishop).  Maybe it’s because we were liberated by the  1979 Grenada Revolution after our parents experienced the dictator years of Eric Matthew Gairy and  as a consequence we now hold democracy to our bosom. Again, when I visited Ghana, I found politics associative, tribal and instinctive- I witnessed an impromptu Fanti rally and it was so heartening to see young men and women with drums, up in arms, red t-shirts, stamping their pride and ownership on a political party.

Here, there is no excitement, no anticipation, precisely because there is nothing to get excited about. I personally am more excited about payday.The elections are like the English weather- drab, grey and boring. The English accept their lot in life stoically and I have learnt that you just accept that the choice is between Brown, Cameron and Clegg. No primaries and secondaries. No fuss. No rallies, defining speeches and mass television coverage. No speculation on what potential First Wives are wearing. We just get on with it. We do not challenge why there is no firebrand, no fresh and vibrant faces, no change. In fact, "Change is coming to the UK" just sounds wrong. Its a bad word. Change is the antithesis of good- English people don't even like switching their teabags (oh no you must get Twinings, not PG Tips!) and Sainsburys is still lagging behind Tesco with their tagline of "Try Something New Today".

To be honest there is probably nothing wrong with Gordon Brown. Except that he seems is really boring. Not the type of guy I would like to go for a beer with down the pub, were I the pub type ( I am a bar typa girl, no smelly pubs for me).  He seems like the kind who would split the bill based on what he drank ( I owe you exactly 3 pounds, 85 pence)- a mean grumpy tightwad. I don’t know why I think he is tight- I just do. He looks tight. In fact, Gordon and Sarah Brown are like those aunts that you don’t really like because they get you a really sensible jumper at M&S instead of cash. Too safe, too familiar, too ordinary. A Prime Minister needs to be just that. Prime. Like rare filet mignon, a touch of the extraordinary, a certain flair and charm and charisma and can't-put-your-finger-on-it zinginess! Electing a Prime Minister is a bit like electing Ms England, he needs to be able to own the World Stage. I can see Sarkozy owning it, I can see Obama owning it, I can even see Zuma owning it but to be honest I can’t see Brown owning anything except some mittens. He is meant to be the face of Britain and to be honest the face of Britain looks staid, dour, grey and dowdy. It needs a facelift and not one that Sarah Brown in her Erdem dresses can do on her own.

As for David Cameron, I don’t like him either. Too glib and easy to please. He seems too perfect- he says can cook proper food (pork belly and lamb), he uses Itunes, he watches romcoms with his wife and he likes Disney. It doesn't seem true- are there really men out there like that?  And besides, he’s a Tory. Out of the question. I just can't get past the Toryism. I must admit that his interviews are all very interesting but interesting interviews do not a Prime Minister make. I find him all style over substance, not liberal enough (married families tax credit just takes the biscuit!) and to be honest,  yes, too privileged. I like the idea of a Prime Minister coming from the working class just because we have enough privileged people at the helm of Britain. He also does not have that Obamesque fire in his belly. I must admit I am not keen on Samantha Cameron either. She is too skinny. I don’t trust skinny women. Everytime I see her I think of that quote in Julius Caesar "Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much.. such men are dangerous". Today I found out she's expecting, and while I am truly pleased for them (they lost a child recently) I can't help think "oh great" as I suppose now he gets the Malia-Sasha factor. (Edited to add: Okay I admit I warmed up to her a little bit more when I found out that she is the creative director of Smythson and they have the coolest handbags in pastel!)

Nick Clegg from the Lib Dems is okay. A hybrid mutant between those of us stuck between the boring dichotomy. But do we want our next leader to be just okay?The Lib Dems are probably the party with which I feel the most affinity (in terms of my views). This is supposed to be the party for those of us who are fed up with a stale way of doing things but nothing about Nick screams fresh and vibrant to me-another Englishman in a grey suit. Surprise surprise. And they want me to pay more taxes, which as a liberal socialist I should be happy about but sod it, I ain't pleased. That's my Primani budget right there.

Where is our Al Gore, our Hillary Clinton? I pass on Sarah Palin. I also pass on Mr O as he is one of a kind. Just something, somebody, fresh and non establishment. Someone cool. Someone with bright ideas, who is articulate and who has that certain je ne sais quoi,  maybe a Londoner with an Estuary accent who talks the talk and walks the walk. Or maybe a woman? What happened to Blair's Babes? Did they get into a handbag fight with Cherie? Goddamit, isn't this the country of the Iron Lady! There should be some Iron Ladettes in training by now, surely! Or maybe, to hell with all the ballots and registration, since Simon Cowell has conquered America (something the forefathers failed to do in the Boston Tea Party) he should be handed the reins of the country. At least it would make interesting viewing.

Mrs O: Not Clear Enough?

I love Michelle Obama. I loved her on the campaign trail, debunking the mystique of Knight Barack with her real wife tales of stinky socks and smelly cigarettes. I loved her when she equalised and patted the Queen’s back, deferent but not tied to centuries of outdated hierarchical protocol. I love the fact that she graced the covers of Vogue with a pull-power to rival Angelina Jolie, and yet still looked so relaxed and comfortable in her J Crew slacks, working in her kitchen garden. I love the fact that she looks mummy-easy as well as boardroom ready, all in one go. I love the bob. And the sleeveless dresses. I like the fact that she didn’t appear as a soft toy on the campaign trail- she was a strong, proud woman and if they wanted to cast her in the role of angry black woman, so be it. She remains an astereotypical first lady- one who lives outside of the box. And you how I feel about living in the box. To hell with the box!

However, as much as I like Mrs O, I like Michelle Lavaughn Robinson even more. See, Michelle Robinson grew up on the South Side of Chicago- not one of the best neighbourhoods in the United States. She attended Princeton, then Harvard Law School and then worked at a corporate law firm where she was one of only two black lawyers. I find her views in her undergraduate thesis particularly poignant and telling:

“Earlier in my college career, there was no doubt in my mind that as a member of the Black Community I was somehow obligated to this community and would utilise all my present and future resources to benefit this community first and foremost. My experiences at Princeton have made me far more aware of my “Blackness” more than ever before.”

She then states after discussing her experiences at Princeton:

“These experiences have made it apparent to me that the path I have chosen to follow by attending Princeton will likely lead to my further integration and/or assimilation into a White cultural and social structure that will only allow me to remain on the periphery of society...at the same time, however, it is possible that my four years of exposure to a predominantly White, Ivy-League university has instilled in me, certain conservative values. I find myself striving for the same goals as many of my White classmates- acceptance to a prestigious graduate or professional school or a high paying position in a successful corporation. My goals after Princeton are not as clear as before”

The Michelle who writes this is astute yet sensitive, and bold enough to engage in a cultural debate. She acknowledges that she is complicit in the uneasiness of assimilation. I find Michelle O lacking this particular quality. I do not wish to add to the ridiculous debate of whether the First Family are black enough. I am just intrigued as to whether she still feels that pull that she felt at Princeton to issues affecting the black community? Does Mrs O (and Mr O) feel that there are particular issues with which she feels a certain affinity? For instance, gun crime, violence in public schools, affordable housing –issues that affect black families more disproportionately?

I have a feeling that Michelle Robinson would have rocked up to the White House in an afro and that on inauguration day she would have worn Deola Sagoe or Patricia Mills and she would have insisted that Mr O wore some Ozwald Boateng. She would have been rocking some banging kente. Mrs O just seems much more conservative than I expected her to be and seems to be quite accepting in certain ways of her climate in her uber-sleek bob that blows Condi Rice's out of the stratosphere. Where is that fire? Where is that oomph? That muchiness that challenge the uncomfortable topics?

Or maybe I am just equating her to that little girl who grew up in a small town, who placed her international economic development dreams on hold after she went to a Russell Group University and ended up fulfilling the one of two prophecy in a corporate law firm. Don’t get me wrong, she just might end up mentoring an intern who would become the next UK Prime Minister.