Can't Say Fairer than That

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are we aggressive?

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

The Political Calypso

All those who promise free and just debate


Then blow up radicals to save the state,


Who allow, in democracy’s defence,


A parliament of spiked heads on a fence


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


This ain’t the Dark Ages

This is Trinidad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Early Years of Calypso

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The PNM Years

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

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

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

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

In his Sewerage Talk he sang:

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

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

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

The Turning Point

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

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

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

The Trinidad, a luxury liner

Is sailing the Caribbean sea

With an old captain named Eric Williams

For years sailed smooth and free

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

And someone turned the bridge over

To a captain named Chambers

Made blood crawl, things start to fall


(Chorus)

Captain, the ship is sinking

Captain, the seas are rough

Shall we abandon ship?

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

Captain you tell me what to do

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

The Modern Political Calypso

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

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

In The Stage is Mine, Sugar Aloes sings:

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

It is very plain to see that

I am the People’s Choice

And I’m going to jam them hard

Anytime they cross the line

Commonsense must tell them

The Stage is Mine”

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

Sugar Aloes later sings in “Never Again”

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

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

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


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

The Political Calypso in other islands

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

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

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

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

The Political Calypso in Britain

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo from Joseph Jones photography.

A Perpetual State of Servitude?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marche!

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

Alone,


The brute brown beast barked and whelped

In beautiful anger within its encyclopaedic white-hot cage

Enraged,

The yellows of its rumshot eyes fluoresced and smarted

as the ghost of eternal chalkdust mocked it,

Haunted,

sips of water splayed from its yelping tongue

as the corners of its black mouth drizzled.

Its nose almost flared blood at a slight misdemeanour

(We had arrived 1 minute late perhaps),

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

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

Marche Dog! Allez bête!

It knew that it liked to eat its young

And I had once watched those brown dirty grizzly paws

Try to dance across my sister’s chest.

The old dog snarled some more

Rendering naked its tray of scissoring molars

Its long salmon tongue forking and darting

As if to render me afraid.

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

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

Review: The Help

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of me, the Pope and Crisis Christians

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing's wrong with Peckham

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Willow Smith: Too Much, Too Soon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ones who are Left Behind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I don't like when you call it Saltfish!

The Caribbean is not unique in its multiplicity of names for a female’s delicate regions. While at university, I performed in Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues, and I was amazed at the number of names that this single body part could lay claim to. Muffin, monkey, nunnie, chicken, pussy, squish mitten, wolf, Vajayjay, cootch, the love park, Buffy, Kitty- I have heard them all. The company Mooncup ran a competition last year to find the most original words. Some were side splittingly hilarious.


Nothing however strikes home more than the Caribbean names we have for these nether regions-pim-pim, sand sand, fly-fly, pumpum, and coon- coon are but a few (I shudder as I write this). I note that most of them rely on some level of child like repetition- was this some attempt to make them more accessible, approachable and innocuous? Animal metaphors abound- we also use the word monkey and flying fish alongside the almost universal metaphor of the cat. Jamaicans use the word punany and it has now been adopted by the oral dictionary of Common Caribbean Usage but I must admit that the one I find most irksome, the one that has me most curious and the one that I find THE most off putting is probably the word that most Grenadians use most commonly to describe their lady parts- it is the ubiquitous saltfish.

Saltfish the ingredient is traditional salted and dried cod, originally manufactired in Norway. Salted dried cod has a storage life of many years. Dried cod and the dishes made from it are known by many different names, as it gradually became part of the cuisine of many European nations. For example, it is known as bacalao (Spanish), bakaiļao (Basque), bacallà (Catalan), morue (French), baccalà (Italian), bacalhau (Portuguese), klippfisk/clipfish (Scandinavian), saltfiskur (Icelandic) and bakalar (Croatian). In Norway, there used to be five different grades of salt cod. The best grade was called superior extra. Then came (in descending order) superior, imperial, universal and popular. These appellations are no longer extensively used, although some producers still make the superior products.

The popular salted cod was transported to the Caribbean during slavery as a form of cheap protein to feed the slaves. It was rationed to the slaves and bartered in Sunday markets and after some time it was savoured as a culinary delight- in accras de morue in Martinique, saltfish and green provision in St. Lucia, with ackee on a Sunday morning in Jamaica, and as a pungent accompaniment to bake (I say its plural bakes) in Trinidad. Saltfish was known for its firm flavoured flesh and its distinctive, pungent smell. If a neighbour was cooking saltfish three or four doors down the road, one would know.

I am not sure when the association between the vagina and saltfish began: all I do know is that it is strongly cemented as part of Caribbean culture and part of the local parlance. One of the most popular calypsos sung by The Mighty Sparrow, Calypso King of the World was his Ode to Saltfish, which was a very thinly veiled double entendre. He entreated:

“Saltfish stew is what I like/So doo-doo, give me day and night

I like you food, so don't find me rude

My favorite, I sure every man in here already eat it

Saltfish
Nothing in the world sweeter than Saltfish

Saltfish

English, colloquial, Bajans

Saltfish

It's sweeter than meat

When you want to eat

All saltfish sweet


Very well, I like the taste/Though the smell, sometimes out of place

It hard to take, but make no mistake/I want you to know, it's because it extra sweet it smelling so boy it's


Saltfish/Big money does run behind it

Saltfish/man does lick down man to find it

Saltfish/It's sweeter than meat

When you want to eat

All saltfish sweet”

This alleged “Ode” although a guilty pleasure of mine, encapsulates all the reasons that I have against naming and claiming our precious regions after a fish that is hung out to dry without a head. In Italy, and in Sicily in particular, the word baccala (saltfish) is reserved for the smell associated with dried cod fish and by association, a woman’s nether regions with odours. Sparrow’s “Ode” reiterates the very same prejudice- that a woman’s private parts are smelly and dirty. When we use the word “saltfish” to describe the essence of our feminity, we verbally and implicitly agree that our private parts are inherently grimy and filthy. A vagina is not a thing of scorn, is it the birthplace and the fountainhead of humanity. Paul Lai of the University of St. Thomas has challenged this olfactory prejudice in his piece: Stinky Bodies, Mythological Futures and the Olfactory Sense in Larissa Lai’s Saltfish Girl. Allowing our bodies to be characterized and labeled in this way goes counter to the matrifocal spirit of the Caribbean, where feminist emancipation has strode along in leaps and bounds.

And besides, it is just too ordinary a word for our most prized feature. Saltfish is traditionally the dish of last resort. Admittedly, it is much loved and eaten with much relish when prepared but it is also true that when my mother could not find a vendor or a fisherman selling fresh fish, or when we had had enough of chicken or turkey, salt fish was the go-to dish that was scraped up with lashings of onion, peppers, cabbage and garnish to create a simple, ready –go-meal? Is this what we wish to associate with our lady gardens? A fall back, ordinary option that was easily available? I am told that now salt fish is now King Saltfish (at least in the Caribbean) because it is a very expensive commodity due to falling cod stocks, however it still does not change the fact that were someone to visit, it would not be the dish of choice to be served. That says a whole lot. A nickname for our private bits deserves to take first place, centre stage.

Because of this, in the meantime I graciously use the other words, and at times, even the proper noun until someone comes up with a better alternative. Any suggestions? Hint: Something along the lines of fillet steak, Aberdeen Angus or caviar might do the trick.

(Photo compliments Tastes Like Home).

A Deeper Look at Dispossessed

Dispossessed, according to the meaning ascribed to it by the Oxford Concise Dictionary, is someone or something which is physically or spiritually homeless or deprived of security. It comes from the French- de possesser- which literally means to take something off someone or something. In the strictest sense of the term, it means having nothing. I write this piece because I have always been taught that we should be careful how we define ourselves and each other- in my Caribbean tradition, speaking “on” someone or something, especially if the connotation was negative, was frowned upon- one should never willingly open one’s doors to a sense of the malaise, sometimes even if that malaise in fact exists. This is why us poor folks never swept at night- we would be sweeping all our "riches" out into the yard.

Like many other Londoners, I have been reading about the Evening Standard’s Dispossessed Fund and I too, am deeply embarrassed by the fact that this city of opportunity in which I live has allowed pockets of poverty and deprivation to exist alongside areas where flashy displays of obscene wealth is de rigueur . I have made a donation to the fund and I hope that others will too but by way of constructive criticism I have to admit that I have been reading along with a rude dose of discomfort which I will explain in this piece.

This is not because I deny that persons live in relative poverty in London, but because firstly, I am amazed that this is not already common knowledge. Secondly, I believe that the campaign has been watered down somewhat because the “real life” stories in questions do not really feature the people whom I know who are actually “dispossessed” if I use that term loosely. Thirdly, I believe that individuals who live in what I call “relative poverty” in a First World Country, with free access to health care, education and in most cases housing and relatively cheap food, are not dispossessed in the true sense of the word and should not be so labelled. I would suggest the term “disadvantaged”. Careful what we wish on ourselves.

In a lawyerly way, I will take these points in turn.

First, I am not surprised that poverty and the concept of the working poor actually exist and I am shocked that some people appear to be surprised. Maybe it is because I don’t live in the expected lawyerly up and coming areas of Hampstead or Angel. This is deliberate. The fact that I live in South London, which has no tube, is often perceived with a mixture of wry amusement and brief confusion by my colleagues. I have been told I need to be closer to work. For what? I love where I live. Apart from the fact that I need to live somewhere where I can buy plantains and yams and green bananas and locking gel when those pangs of nostalgia hit like a crazy bitch on crack, I get to see and talk to people who are struggling to get by every day- from my drycleaner whose immigration matter is under appeal, to the Cockney market sellers who sell fruit a pound a bowl on the weekends, to the woman who spends her Saturdays raising funds outside Lewisham shopping centre so her son could have a new prosthetic leg every two years. It gives me a rock solid sense of perspective. Yes, the tower blocks in Peckham and Elephant & Castle are within extremely close proximity to East Dulwich, and the depravity of Deptford lies only a stone’s throw away from Roka and Smollenskys and Carluccios in Canary Wharf. Did people really think all of London went to the theatre and plays in the evening after supper at Pizza Express? I would posit that the cause of the London poor is not new and the yuppies pretending that they have just noticed this are just as bad as commuters who fail to meet hungry buskers’ eyes just because they can’t be bothered to stop and open their purses and wallets to find a one pound coin.

The London Living Wage has always been a cause I have believed in and will unwaveringly support. If a business cannot afford to pay its employees a wage that they can live on, it should not be in business. End of. The stories of people like Sandra Sanchez should send a stiff jolt up the ass to all employees who moan about pay freezes in this economic climate. Present it how you may, a derisory £5.80 per hour in London is not by any means enough for any individual to earn an honest day’s work.

However, while I am grateful for the fact that London is finally sensitised that there are people existing solely on the minimum wage and that companies should be paying employees a living wage, I am not sure that the Evening Standard or Cohen went far enough in its search for London’s true “dispossessed”. He cites the stories of cleaner- immigrants who start work at 4:30 am in the morning, travelling in on London’s nightbuses and who return home by 10 and who sometimes do a second shift from 10 pm. Is an early shift a sign now of being dispossessed? As a student, I did many an early shift with a friend’s cleaning company to earn money. What of the “hairdressers” in Peckham who work in excess of 20 hrs (I am open as long as you come to do your hair), who have no guarantee of receiving even the minimum wage on a day to day basis because rent needs to be paid for their chairs, electricity and products? They come to work on a diet of little more than rice and eggs and stand all day, pleading with potential customers for work. 75% of their income goes towards unscrupulous bosses and sometimes, they do not make more than £100 a week.

The Evening Standard then tells us about Vincent Maduabueke who could not raise nineteen pounds for his UCAS application and who has never visisted a restaurant in his entire life. They hit closer to home here but again, the story falters. Vincent is in receipt of benefit from the State at £1560 per annum. That equates to 30 pounds a week. Surely, if he really wanted to, he could have saved 40p a week to come up with the money for his UCAS application himself? What about my friend in Catford who is not entitled to benefits, who had to drop out of his carpentry apprentice course because he couldn’t afford the fees, and who had to find work as a cleaner in a theatre in Bromley to be able to continue paying those fees the following term? Surely, Vincent, who is 17, could have done what any other lad in his situation could have done, and have attempted to find a part time job. The term “dispossessed” should not mask laziness.

Similarly, Barbara Elliott, another of Cohen’s interviewee who opened her life up to scrutiny, complained that she lives on only £7 a day per child. She is on her 11th child and has a grocery bill of £350 a week, and has Sky and hefty mobile phone bills and so many clothes they are scattered in garbage bags in her house. She lives in a house provided by the State. What about people with mental and physical difficulties who cannot get on a waiting list for council housing? What about women working 2 or 3 jobs and weekend shifts to feed and clothe one or two children? Expecting Barbara’s story to rouse sympathy is a stretch for countless women who have delayed childbirth because they simply cannot afford it, who have always been taught that our own resources should inform our choices. Barbara is not dispossessed- she is lucky that she lives in a welfare state that would assure that her children are fed and clothed. To find the real dispossessed, Cohen needed only walk through the adjoining streets of New Cross and Peckham Rye to find out who were the tenants to a few of the flats. He would find that some families, having no other option and no access to benefits, rent a single room within a flat and that mother, father, and children occupy the very same room. Had Cohen dug deeper, he would have found examples of families outside the safety net of the State.

Occasionally, he got it right. There were individuals like Nabil Ahmed who was left with the charge of taking care of his two older disabled brothers when both his parents died, and Ade, the Nigerian refugee who resigned herself to sleeping in a barber shop with her children and her 79 year old mother. These are examples of persons who do not have the sense of security that is a crying shame in our communities today. By attempting to paint all families who do not have a lot as dispossessed, we do a grave disservice to persons like Nabil and Ade, who do, in fact need our help.

I am also not a fan of the way in which we believe we can throw money at problems. At the moment, the Dispossessed Fund is just a fund. Many of the individuals targeted need more than money. 10 years of Labour should have taught us this lesson by now. These individuals need support, mentoring, and in most cases, counselling. I hate to use Cameron’s amorphous term Big Society but isn’t this the whole point? A £50 voucher a week for Ade, as provided by Kids’ Company will not assist Ade long term. What will assist her is Home Office empathy for her cause and policies that allow women who have suffered domestic violence to be entitled to assistance. The adjunct to the Fund should be a virtual “Army” of individuals who are willing to sacrifice their time and efforts into caring for the more disadvantaged individuals in our society.

I am also worried and afraid of what this Dispossessed Fund means for deprived persons outside of London and outside of the UK in general. It is common knowledge that a poor person in the UK does not live the same life as a poor person in Pakistan. Does this mean that now that we are convinced that poverty exists in London, we are now more than ever focussed on home, to the exclusion of people around the world who are probably more in need of our assistance? We have a common duty to humanity that does not depend on our nationality and/or geographical borders. We must never forget that a little girl in Karachi would literally die to be Vincent and a woman who experienced famine in Niger would give her life to be in Ade’s position. Outside the hallowed shores of the Developed World, dispossessed literally means not to have a single thing- not the right to State assistance, no food in the cupboard or pantry and no roof over one’s head. This is something we should not ever forget nor lose sight of.