The Signifyin' Woman (Charmaine Valere)

Happy New Year!

No truly grand resolutions.  I usually abandon all good worldly intentions by January 23rd anyway--my screw-it-all attitude kicks in right around my birthday.  Maybe it's the realization that the number of my ambitions can no longer keep up with my age.  Yeah Bakannal, I'm that ancient.

Of course I do want more of the good stuff this year...more great writing to read, more fun people to meet, more time spent with my family members, more dedicated students, more love, more sex...

I wish all of you the same and much more!

[My review of Deryck Bernard's Going Home and Other Tales from Guyana is next]

Old year's night intentions, faults, and disappointment

My first real date was an old year's night some time back in Guyana.  My date was in his early twenties; I was 17.  He was handsome, employed, and brazen--the man had the the nerve to come to my home and ask the three adults living there if he could take me out.  On one hand, I was very impressed at his move.  What girl wouldn't be, right?  But, on the other hand he was letting on that he and I had been talking prior to the formal asking out business.  Big no no!  But the brother was honorable and honest and wanted me to be his official old year's night date.

Two of the three adults he had to get past were my mother and grandmother.  They were easy.  Took one look at his handsome, honest face, forgave me for talking to him without their knowledge, and offered me up to him like a slice of pie on good china.  He looked over at me and smiled sweetly.  I started to sweat.  What the innocent offer-ers didn't know was that he had plans for me that night--plans he'd told me in vivid detail several times.  Nice plans really, but I sweated nevertheless.

The third gate keeper was my father.  He puffed up his chest, screwed up his face and asked the fellow how old he was.  When he was told, he looked at my mother and said, "He's too old for her.  She's not ready for that." 

Not ready!  What?  More like over-ready!  I couldn't believe him.  My young man was a trooper though.  He stood his ground while my mother and grandmother tried to reason with my father.  But points like "But D, he came to the home to ask for permission," and "he didn't come all the way here to lie to us about his intentions" didn't seem to impress my father.

The part about "intentions" kinda jolted me a little.  It sounded serious.  And when I glanced over at the young man, it seemed as if he felt the same way about that.  He got very serious and actually looked like he wanted to bolt then.  My father was no match for the two women.  He eventually stormed off ominously declaring what ever happened would be their fault.  More chilling serious words.  At that point I wanted to bolt. 

That night my date and I were sent off with a strict curfew and a last minute warning from my grandmother not to disappoint her. 

Well, between intentions, the question of whose fault it would be, and the warning to not disappoint, the night was cold and sober.  At one point (during the taxi ride home) my date took my hand and we held on to each other's fingers for dear life.  Neither of us had the nerve to do more.

   

My Ghanaian brother-in-law on identity

[I raised the questions--in blue--when I posted Michel's observations on identity, so he did not see them prior to posting.]

A famous commentator once uttered these simple yet profound words, "It doesn't matter what anyone calls you, what matters is what you answer to."  The fact that we continue to have this recurring nightmare of a discussion about race, labels and stereotypes underscores, at least to me the highly complex and often overlooked consequences of our intertwined colonial and enslaved heritage.

c.d.valere: Our intertwined colonial and enslaved heritage?  To whom are you speaking?

One could start by saying that we need labels to enhance our sometimes limited communications skills to describe the subjects of our conversation... but that being said why do we limit these labels to a single attribute?

"Color or skin pigmentation, in my humble opinion is an extremely unimaginative attribute to use to describe a person or to create a unifying construct for an ethnic group who may be as disparate in their outlooks and beliefs as there are shades of hue. Wouldn't we rather be better served to ignore the first conditioned response and reach, maybe ponder for a moment about a more descriptive, rich and complementary adjective to use to communicate a concept instead of saying "the colored girl...." perhaps we could say what this girl was doing or saying that warranted the comment in the first place?

c.d.valere: To whom are you speaking?

Labels distract and detract from the issue at hand often coloring the interpretation and probable response unnecessarily.  Names tend to shift the focus from the real object or purpose to a single dimensional attribute:  take for instance the comment “you speak so proper"; compliment or veiled snide slur or perhaps a blatantly racist comment?

Why do we automatically conclude which of the three possible interpretations the comment’s speaker meant based on race or ethnicity?

c.d.valere: We?  See the question above.

Why is the N word unacceptable if uttered by all others but tolerated between people of color?

c.d.valere: I don’t tolerate that nonsense, nor do any of us in our circle, Michel.   

So conditioned and highly sensitized have we become due to events that originally occurred centuries ago that we react, respond and retaliate in ways which unwittingly perpetuate the syndrome which we collectively agree is destructive and would wish to end.

At the end of the day, it takes some work, a little bit of restraint and some cognitive processing to act those profound words and ignore the easy instinctive urge to answer to the labels we are uncomfortable with or react to the name calling because regardless of what is more current, fashionable or palatable, no matter if you are in G-town, Accra, New York or London, you are not your skin color and you are not defined by your ethnicity.  Last I checked the human race comprises of people of all hues and shades, ethnicities and cultures residing in countries and continents! 

So I for one do not answer to the labels and names that others for whatever positive or perverse reasons may choose to refer to me, I answer to Michel, Dad, Bro, Uncle Paakojo or plain old Bowman every other label is just that…a label.

c.d.valere: Thanks Michel.  Now, please answer my questions.  I would particularly like to know who your intended audience might be.

New reading list

Although they're not listed to be read and reviewed, at some point I will review the three children's books I mentioned previously.  The three books are John Agard's Wriggle Piggy Toes, and Laughter is an Egg, and Jan Carew's Children of the Sun.

My new extensive reading list (click on the link below the Amazon store I created, bottom left) is quite an ambitious undertaking for someone who loves to read, but hardly has the time for it.  Despite that, I solemnly promise to carefully read and review all the books I've listed.  It may most likely take me all year to do so, but I will.

As you'll see, I need your help deciding on some of the books.  I'm not sure which of Dabydeen's to list, and which of Chan's.  If you have a preference, please share with me.  If not, it's abna babna...

Also, don't call me an idiot if you don't see your favourite writer on the list.  The list is pretty haphazard.  I am affiliated with Amazon books and get most of my recommendations from them; those recommendations are categorized based on my very broad reading preferences. 

If your favourite Guyanese writer isn't listed now, he or she will be on the next list.  I promise.

All of the writers except Niqui Stanhope, Oonya Kempadoo, and Derek Walcott were born in Guyana.  All of them have had some living experience in Guyana; some continue to live there. 

Niqui Stanhope was born in Jamaica, but grew up in Guyana, and came highly recommended to me by someone who knew her at BHS. 

(By the way, that recommendation only gets her on the list to be read; it certainly doesn't guarantee my review will be favorable--although she's doing quite well and I'm sure couldn't give a rat's ass about a favorable or other review from me.)

Oonya Kempadoo was born in England, and is of Guyanese parentage.

I decided to throw in 1992 Nobel Prize Lit. winner Derek Walcott.  He's Saint Lucian, but he has been such an important influence on some of the Guyanese writers on my list, I figure a trip up his Monkey Mountain could prove quite enlightening.

The list is not in order of importance or preference, or even deep thought.  I simply added as I collected.  So here's what I ended up with.  Most of them are Guyana Prize winners, and two (McWatt and Melville) are Commonwealth Writers' Prize winners.  This year (2007), Dabydeen received the Hind Rattan (Jewel of India) Award for his outstanding contribution to literature and the intellectual life of the Indian diaspora.  Then there's Derek Walcott...

Needless to say, this is a rather heavy list I'm taking on here.

Since they have all been reviewed over and over again, I'll mention those reviews I either concur or disagree with to add a broader sense of each work's critical reception.  However, each writer on the list deserves to be read regardless of his or her work's critical reception.

I will continue to give excerpts as I read so you can read along and comment.  And where or when possible, I'll invite the writers to respond, or (more importantly) to say something about the condition of Guyanese/Caribbean literature today.

I look forward to a fun, challenging year of reading and writing.  And I hope you take the journey with me.

'Come a-long and ride on a fan-tas-tic Voyage!'

Cricket and ritual

In a story titled "Bourda" (Going Home and Other Tales from Guyana, 2002), Deryck Bernard gives an engaging account of a group of men going to a cricket match at Bourda, which celebrates the male-bonding ritual of the experience.

Read "Bourda" to see what convinced a man's cricket-going friends and admirers that he had his womenfolk under control.

Want to know why some cricket fans would end up broke and unable to afford the train (or bus) trip back home?

And what about the hours spent on queue?  Wouldn't you like to know what really initiated some of those fights? 

Then there was the sharing of food and alcohol that strengthened the bonding experience, or in some cases caused yet another fight.  (You have to see what happens when "Muddy" passes around a bottle of scotch he had brought to impress the gang.)

Northwest, Flagstaff, Pavilion mean anything to you?  If not, read and find out.  If so, read and reminisce.

Were you that guy who loudly backed somebody from the opposing team?  Or, did you ever suggest (loudly) that a local cricketer should be replaced by another from Barbados, for instance?  If you were never so boldly unpatriotic, chances are you knew someone who was.  Read and reminisce.

Question:  What do you think would make avid male cricket fans (present at the game) miss the subtleties of a masterly display by Guyanese spin bowler Lance Gibbs?  Read "Bourda" and find out.

A little side note...

My mother and aunt went to cricket at Bourda sometimes.  I wonder what their and other women's experiences at Bourda were like.

Ask any Guyanese what the hell's so funny about this...

I Hear Guyana Cry, Balwant Bhagwandin (2003).

In a piece titled "APB," which is the only prose piece in I Hear Guyana Cry, Balwant Bhagwandin highlights the shortcomings of the Guyana Police Force.

He writes, "The Guyana Police Force yesterday [the piece is dated November 8, 2002] again appealed to the public for help in capturing 14 men wanted for multiple murders, kidnappings, rapes, robberies and arson."  He then lists the names and aliases provided by the police.  Apparently the police only had 6 of the 14 wanted men's real names. 

Some of the more interesting aliases were "Hi-5" (a name attributed to the suspect's HIV+ condition), "Big Batty," and "Piggy Mouth."  An S. Brown had the militant alias "Bush Soljah," and a T. Dick was "Brukout."

The Guyana Police Force's appeal to the public for help ended with the following instructions:  "Anyone with information about the whereabouts of the men is kindly asked to get in touch with the nearest Police Station or call telephone numbers. . . [Seven total.  Y'all gon have to buy the book to get the actual numbers]. If you do not get through at one number, try another until you do."

If you do not get through at one number, try another until you do!!!!!!  HAHAHAHAHAHAAAA! OHMIGOD!  Were they serious?  Imagine sighting "Big Batty" and running to the phone to call the police.  Then, say you don't get through until the seventh number an hour later, can you imagine where "Big Batty" would be by then?  And there's an even bigger problem with that scenario.  Read on.

In addition to citing some public criticism of the "baldness" of information the police had on the 14 men, Bhagwandin's piece captures one of the remarkable aspects of Guyanese people: their ability to find humour in the face of real disaster.

He tells us "...one man wondering aloud if the aliases were meant as description said that they were hopelessly inadequate and misleading; citing Big Batty as an example, [he] pointed out that 50% of the vendors at Bourda Market would comfortably fit that description.  Another, in reference to the same Big Batty speculated on whether the Police knew if Brown Dick and Piggy Mouth were his tandem partners."

Oh Lord!

Anyway back to my scenario...  Turns out, after patiently dialing until you finally got the police, you might have the wrong Big Batty.

Ooooh that resilient Guyanese humour!

My Christmas wish list

I wish all of you who read and encourage others to read my blog could feel the depth of my gratitude.  In my mind it would be like one complete day of having all your fantasies / dreams fulfilled.

……….

I wish Ruel Johnson an endless supply of notebooks and pens in every room he may find himself.

I wish Brenda DoHarris the very best of health.

I wish all Guyanese writers (established, in-between, and beginning) a productive year of writing.

I wish all readers would give themselves and others at least one Guyanese book gift for the holidays.

……….

I wish Bakannal a quick recovery from any hangover.

I wish GMC a less fretful year—that means an improved Guy Media, I suppose.

I wish all bloggers an inspired new year of observing and writing.

……….

I wish all the young women and men in desert uniforms sending greetings to their families from Iraq would be brought home NOW!

I wish intelligent, tolerant voices would drown out loud, crass, intolerant ones.

……….

I wish Chris Rock really rocks this new year’s eve so I don’t wear disgusting low-heeled shoes, and freeze my sweet ass off in the cold for nothing.

More on children's books on Guyanese culture

In response to my request for more information on children’s books on Guyanese culture, Anna tells me a good place to start is the Guyana Book Foundation.  She says the General Manager (Leila Jagdeo) can provide a list of available books for those interested. 

Anna also tells me it’s important to note that although the Guyana Book Foundation does not sell the books in their keep, interested persons can help support their efforts in improving children’s literacy by making donations to cover book costs, or by paying for a book donation to a lending library in a remote part of Guyana.

Some of the noteworthy books to be found at the Guyana Book Foundation are Walter Rodney’s Kofi Badu Out of Africa, and Lakshmi Out of India, Jan Carew’s Children of the Sun (imaged above), and Peter Pritchard’s Cleopatra the Turtle Girl.

Children of the Sun can be purchased through Amazon.com sellers.

Thanks for the information Anna.

Two at a time

 

I just started reading the two works imaged left.  I'm taking them on together because is suh meh glutton.  Plus, the semester is over and I have more time to read.

I Hear Guyana Cry (2003) is a collection of poems by Balwant Bhagwandin.  Read about him here.  The second work is Going Home and other tales from Guyana (2002) by Deryck M. Bernard.  It's a collection of short stories that was up against Ruel Johnson's collection for the 2003 Guyana Prize.  Read more on that here.

Each work (each author) certainly deserves its (his) own space and treatment; however, I'm finding that reading them together is quite a fulfilling experience. (Girls, you might want to try reading these two men at the same time.  Fun stuff!  I promise you won't be biting off more than you can chew.)

Here's what I've been experiencing...

A few nights ago I read Bhagwandin's "When Once."  In it he laments on a city "when once/ the beauty/ of flowers and folk/ hibiscus heterogeneous flamboyant/ and so founded/ could be made no more glorious/ by praise/ or less so by curse/ was the clarion/ by which the town proclaimed/ its quaint elegance and grace..."  That city he says is now one where "rules are for fools/ and only the well armed ill-advised and insane/ stroll the streets/ and in place/ of 'Gud ma'nin!'/ the intimidating bark/ to hand over or be off to your maker/ in reply to 'wha happening deh?'/ cruel curses and shearing insults/ to hair and pigment..."   

Bhagwandin's words raise my consciousness about a period in Guyana of which I was unaware.  His poems are full of gloom, yes, but I'm soooo reveling in his passionate cry for change.

Then last night I read Bernard's "Black Water."  I laughed so hard that I woke up the man sleeping next to me.  He jumped out of his sleep and asked me what the hell was wrong with me, didn't I see it was way past midnight.

I couldn't help myself though.  And most of you won't either when you read stuff like this:

...The next night found me in a little bed in the back room of a shop.  I promised her everything.  I was going to come back for her and rescue her from the miserable old man.  I was going to carry her to America and give her a car and buy her new clothes and mind her son.  I handed her all the money I had with me, mine plus the Ministry's allowances for the trip. . .Suddenly, we were interrupted by the sounds of a heavy man crossing the plank across the trench and opening the front door of the shop.  Then came the voice of Palmer calling for Hermia.  I recalled that the farmers here always carried their shotguns.  I did not know that it was possible to get a severe headache so fast.  I lost all interest in women, love or beauty in any shape or form.  All Hermia said in her dry whisper was, "I think Mr. Palmer come back home.  You better go through the window."

I scrambled through the window, trousers and shirt in hand, dropped heavily to the ground and ran into a trench filled with mud, stinking and oozy...

I'm still laughing at that shit.

I'll give you more updates on both works as I continue to read.

New comment on "Afro-Guyanese"

[My first post on this blog was an identity piece on the term "Afro-Guyanese."  When I wrote it, I invited friends, colleagues, family members to comment and share their own thoughts on identity.  So from time to time, as they slowly (but surely) respond to my invitation, I will post what they send to me.  The following is of such.  At this point, I am extending my invitation to all those interested in sharing their views about identity.]

Afro-Guyanese:

I have travelled quite a bit, thanks to my former employer, and  have been constantly in the company of Africans.  One of the lesser offensive names that they call us Caribbean people is "sugar cane boys/girls." Trust me, they call us many other names, none hints at descendants of African slaves.

My great grand parents, with the exception of one who came from Karachi, were all born in Guyana.  That makes me at least a fourth-generation guyanese.  When did I become Afro-guyanese? People have you ever heard a Jamaican call himself or herself, anything else but Jamaican (even though he might look like he just hopped off a plane from Beijing)?  Let's take a positive page from our fellow caribbean people.

On the funny side - When a guyanese was arrested for planning to blow up JFK, the brief statement uttered by our President was to emphasize that the person was a former member of the PNC(R). Guess what?  Every news release on that incident reported him as a Guyanese.  How much further will we fragment our nationals?   Afro-guyanese, Indo-guyanese,  Dougla-guyanese, PNC(R)-guyanese, PPP(C)-guyanese, etc. etc.

WAKE UP MY FELLOW GUYANESE.