The Signifyin' Woman (Charmaine Valere)

The supernatural realm appears to be alive and "sprinkling" in Guyana

When I raised questions about the realm of the supernatural and its importance (or relevance) in Guyanese culture, I could not have imagined a story like the one below, taken from today's Chronicle.  Something tells me there's much more to that story, but it appears obeah is still considered a serious threat to some people in Guyana. 

So far (as far as I've read) in Edgar Mittelholzer's Shadows Move Among Them, the realm of the supernatural is treated lightly.  Although (as the title suggests) there is a heavy supernatural motif present in the novel, talk of mysterious doings generally appears to aim at provoking amusement. 

Some things need to be taken into consideration, of course.  For one, this reader is not a believer in the power of the supernatural, and is inclined to brush off such talk as nonsense.  Also, this reader's living experience in Guyana has been mostly among people who do not (did not) regard the realm of the supernatural with any seriousness.  So unlike the judge in the story below who took the "sprinkling" of things as a serious threat, I find it all rather amusing. 

But obeah aside, maybe the "sprinkling" incident received such attention because of this attack on an attorney last year. 

What do you think?  Obeah, or something more "scientifically" sinister?

Defendant charged with practising obeah at Court
ALAN Kissoon, 40, of Lot 28 Grove Public Road, has been charged with practising obeah. 

He appeared before Acting Chief Magistrate Melissa Robertson-Ogle yesterday, when it was alleged that, on January 27, at Providence Court, also on East Bank Demerara, he intimidated Magistrate Priya Sewnarine-Beharry by attempting to practise the witchcraft. 

Kissoon pleaded not guilty and said he was drinking water at a tap in the courtyard and, as he sprinkled some off to dry his hands, someone made the allegation that he was throwing something where the magistrate had to walk.

He said he had been in front of the same magistrate on a charge of receiving stolen items.

Police Sergeant Sherwin Matthews, prosecuting, said Kissoon was seen sprinkling a substance around the entrance that the magistrate uses.

Kissoon was granted $10,000 bail until February 18. (Nathalene DeFreitas)

____________

[I'll post my review of Mittelholzer's Shadows Move Among Them next week.]

Silver Dragon speaks the truth this time

I hate to admit it, but I'm guilty as charged.  My most common act of such "violence" would be my wanton destruction of mobile phones, which I usually blame on my children.  (Yeah, I know.  Shame on me.) 

The Caribbean Review of Books: Issue 18: Guyana-related clips

In brief, p.24: Charmaine Valere reviews Ruel Johnson's Fictions, Volume 1:

In the introduction to Fictions, his new book of stories, Ruel Johnson asserts: 'I see Fictions as I saw Ariadne, as part of a necessary, incidental provincialism in Caribbean literature, writing that feeds in an un-self conscious way on the experiences of the author living in this particular place, work in which lamentable exile does not somehow constitute a fuller life than that which exists here.'  With that assertion, Johnson repeats his controversial vision of a narrower paradigm for classifying Caribbean literature.  One may be inclined to then ask, what is Fictions' contribution to this vision of the Caribbean writer's place? 

Riotous assemblage, p.36: Nicholas Laughlin on The Kingdom of the Blind, by Hew Locke:

The humanoid figures in Hew Locke's gallery-size installation The Kingdom of the Blind look something like space monsters, and something like primitive totems.  Or like giant mutant Muppets, with shaggy limbs and unblinking eyes, at once comic and sinister . . . Locke is British, born in Edinburgh, but when he was seven his family moved to Guyana--his father is the Guyanese artist Donald Locke.

Freedom fighter: David de Caires, 1937-2008, p.45: Nicholas Laughlin pays tribute:

On Saturday 1 November, 2008, as news spread of the death of Stabroek News publisher and editor David de Caires, tributes poured forth in Guyana and across the Caribbean, from dozens of his friends, press colleagues, politicians, and ordinary people . . . Guyanese President Bharrat Jagdeo--whose criticism of the newspaper in recent years has been harsh and tangible--said, 'The Stabroek News came into being at a critical time in our history when we were still under undemocratic rule...'  And one tribute de Caires might have particularly appreciated came from an anonymous commenter at Living Guyana, one of Guyana's political blogs: 'The fact that Stabroek News under de Caires's stewardship was roundly condemned as biased by both sides of the political divide while in power, speaks volumes about his, and the paper's objectivity.'

Every poem is incomplete, p.49: Selections from the previously unpublished poetry notebooks of Martin Carter, introduced by their editor, Rupert Roopnaraine:

. . . I have chosen to call them notebooks, though except for two old diaries he entitled 'Brown Notebook One' and 'Brown Notebook Two' most of the writings on poetry exist in old ledgers, on the inside and outside covers of file folders, on sheets of unused examination stock, the backs of greeting cards, and in all available space in the margins and pages of certain of the books he read, making them unreadable for future  readers . . . Mercifully, Martin Carter belonged to a generation of children who were taught to write.  His handwriting is always legible, even when thoughts are sprinting ahead.

*****

To read the full length of each of the above pieces and much much more, order this issue of The Caribbean Review of Books (issue no. 18), or do better than that and order an entire year of issues here today.

New books

About the author: Jagdish R. Singh (Roy) was born June 29, 1953 in the town of Blenheim, on the Island of Leguan (Guyana).  In 1977, he immigrated to Canada where he studied spiritual beliefs and ancient myths.  Since then, he has been actively writing fiction and non-fiction. 

Singh's latest work of fiction, Adventures of the Homeless, describes the struggles of a Jewish man who sets out to liberate his friends and himself from poverty, and to overcome his mental illness.  Amid these undertakings, he is confronted with violence, discrimination, and problems associated with drug and alcohol abuse.  Adventures of the Homeless is the fourth in a series of books by Singh, which cover a range of multicultural issues.

_________________________

About the author: E.A. Markham was born on the Caribbean Island of Montserrat and lived in London, the South of France, Sheffield, and in his last years, Paris.  A Professor of Creative Writing, and much praised poet whose A Rough Climate was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize, his short story collections received the warmest critical praise from his literary peers. 

The Three Suitors of Fred Belair is Markham's final collection of stories.  He died in Paris in March 2008.  The book is set for release January 29, 2009.

Note: I plan on reviewing The Three Suitors of Fred Belair, and Adventures of the Homeless here at Signifyinguyana or somewhere else at a later date.

At least he didn't....

...hit her.  At least she didn't have to fear getting AIDS from the man she was married to who refused to wear a condom, but slept around with many.  At least she didn't have to run and hide with children in tow from physical abuse.  At least she didn't have to bear the shame of a black eye, or bruises, or broken limbs, or hospitalization, or a beating in front of family members and friends.  At least she didn't have to stand helplessly and watch as the man her daughter lived with chopped her to death.  At least they didn't find her naked, battered body in some trench somewhere, nothing but wedding ring intact.

I could hear all the bitter voices of women who think Varshnie Singh's accusations of abuse are minor compared with theirs, or with friends and family members of theirs.  And maybe they have legitimate reason to be apathetic to her cries, especially women who live in a society where their screams from physical abuse are still largely ignored by authorities.

The reality is--in Guyana and in other countries where domestic violence is still very much a "private matter"--many abusive partners still get away with it.  And unfortunately, I know women who will say (and are saying) many men get away with much more than President Jagdeo is accused of, and so what?

Why should women who have suffered far worse at the hands of their men, and who continue to suffer at the hands of their men care about Varshnie Singh's relatively lesser pain?

Why should you care?

Because she knows about your greater pain.  She knows about the continued threats to your life and well being . . . about the screams you still hear that keep you up at    night . . .  about the still, cold body of the sister, daughter, mother, aunt, friend you cradled and wailed over at the funeral. 

Varshnie Singh is a former First Lady who has unquestionably volunteered her services to the sick and infirm in Guyana.  She has spent time with them and their families, and she has been a part of their lives.  She has to be very knowledgeable about the lives of the disadvantaged and the abused in Guyana.

She has spoken bravely because you can't.  She has gotten people to listen because you can't.  She can get this message to a larger audience: If the President of Guyana can treat his wife with such private and then public contempt, by not seeing it fit to address her accusations of neglect and abuse in their marriage, then how can he be expected to care about abused women in Guyana? 

She has done this because she knows you can't.

It's clear to me after reading Varshnie Singh's statement, and President Jagdeo's response that her words ring truer.  And in my books, Bharrat Jadeo can now join his Health Minister Leslie Ramsammy in a permanent Hall of Shame for their public show of contempt towards people they are expected to care about, or at the very least show respect towards. 

But this is no collective male bashing post. 

I have to add (and this isn't a casual aside; it is an important note to all this) that the link I've provided above to Varshnie Singh's entire statement is the applaudable work of a man who thought it was important enough to transcribe it in its entirety.  I'm proud to be friends with that young man . . . today, that is (I have to add that less he thinks this is a love note or some such). And if he didn't work alone, thanks to the other MCs as well.  Great work!

Invoking "Sonny's Blues" to get us beyond this troubling stretch of sky

One of the stories in The Art of The Short Story (mentioned in the previous post) is James Baldwin's "Sonny's Blues." 

Sonny is a young jazz musician, and a recovering drug addict who has been rescued by his older brother (the narrator).  The story is set in 1950s Harlem, New York where junkies, prostitutes, preachers, teachers, the struggling, the disenchanted, the hopeful all live together in one place . . . a panorama of urban black America. 

In the excerpt below, Sonny’s brother hears him play piano at a nightclub for the first time, and is drawn in by his performance.  For the first time, he recognizes his younger brother’s way of communicating.  He sees in his performance the pain, the connections between past and present, the hope, the power in achievement of one man’s ambition that signals so much for not only him, but so many like him.

 

It's as if Baldwin was signaling the presence of Barack Obama himself. 

And so with this excerpt, I give my tribute to America's next President--Barack Obama--the next leader of the free world’s most powerful, most influential nation.  Like Baldwin’s Sonny, we can see in him connections between the past and present, hope, the power in achievement of one man’s ambition that signals so much for not only him, but so many like him.  And the story's major theme of brotherly love is one I hope will guide us as we work at helping him and ourselves get beyond this troubling stretch of sky above us.

Then they all gathered around Sonny and Sonny played.  Every now and again one of them  seemed to say, amen.  Sonny’s fingers filled the air with life, his life.  But that life contained so many others. 

 

And Sonny went all the way back, he really began with the spare, flat statement of the opening phrase of the song.  Then he began to make it his.  It was very beautiful because it wasn’t hurried and it was no longer a lament.  I seemed to hear with that burning he had made it his, with what burning we had yet to make it ours, how we could cease lamenting. 

 

Freedom lurked around us and I understood, at last, that he could help us to be free if we would listen, that he would never be free until we did.  Yet, there was no battle in his face now.  I heard what he had gone through, and would continue to go through until he came to rest in earth. 

 

He had made it his: that long line, of which we knew only Mama and Daddy.  And he was giving it back, as everything must be given back, so that, passing through death, it can live forever.  I saw my mother’s face again, and felt, for the first time, how the stones of the road she had walked on must have bruised her feet.  I saw the moon-lit road where my father’s brother died.  And it brought something else back to me, and carried me past it.  I saw my little girl again and felt Isabel’s tears again, and I felt my own tears begin to rise.  And I was yet aware that this was only a moment, that the world waited outside, as hungry as a tiger, and that trouble stretched above us, longer than the sky.  

Win a copy of The Art of The Short Story

One of the gifts I received over the Holidays was a collection of the best short stories by some of the world's greatest writers.  The collection, titled, The Art of the Short Story, is considerably voluminous (over 900 pages).  It contains 63 short stories by 52 authors from approximately 20 countries, and in addition to their stories, we get each writer's take on some aspect of writing.  Also included (for the interested writer / student) are 10 essays on critical approaches to literature, a glossary of literary terms, and a description of the elements of fiction--plot, characterization, point of view, setting, theme, style.

Some of my favorite short stories and writers whose works I admire most are in the collection.  Included are Chinua Achebe ("Dead Men's Path"), Margaret Atwood ("Happy Endings"), Raymond Carver ("Cathedral"), William Faulkner ("A Rose for Emily"), Gabriel Garcia Marquez ("A very Old Man with Enormous Wings"), Nadine Gordimer ("A Company of Laughing Faces"), Herman Melville ("Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-Street"), Yukio Mishima ("Patriotism"), Alice Walker ("Everyday Use") . . . just to name a few.

Win your own copy of The Art of the Short Story!

I like the collection so much, I'd love to share it with somebody who'll appreciate it as much as I do.  So, if you'd like to win your own copy of The Art of The Short Story, then send me a short short of your own (500 words or less), or your take on the merits of a story you read.  If I think what you send is good enough to post on my blog, you'll win a copy of the collection.  And yes, I'll send it to you wherever in the world you are reachable via UPS or FedEx. 

The Intellectual Elite

I'm an admirer of Andre Haynes' journalistic writing, and now I have the pleasure of reading his creative writing here.

For Silver Dragon: Six types of male drunks

He's back! . . . the one, the only, Silver Dragon!  And he has resumed his eye and ear-assaulting tirades against women, which seek (no secret really) to exalt the downtrodden male human.  Poor poor creatures.  With all the "pussification" of the world they live in, it's no wonder they need regular lifts from the likes of Silver Dragon.

And so to that noble end of digging the male out of the...hairs (so to speak), Silver Dragon recently wrote this about men and their over-consumption of alcohol:

Men get wasted to enjoy themselves in a euphoric daze of slurred speech, off-colour humour, interesting stories of feats of old, insightful intellectual discourse (from a different angle), off-key singing, and to have a generally good time.

Well, Mr. Silver Dragon, I don't know who you think yuh fooling, but here's a more honest picture of the way men behave when they're drunk:

The belligerent drunk:  He's the one who'll fight anyone (or anything) unfortunate enough to cross his blurry vision after having a few.  You know the type girls...Ey, mof*cker! Take your hand offa my mof*cking beer!  And I don't f*cking care if you're the mof*cking bartender.  I'll kick your ass mof*cker!  Who?  Bounce who?  Me?  Let him try and tell me I had too much to drink, I'll kick his mof*king ass too!  That's right.  I'll kick all y'alls mof*cking asses right now!  AND kick the mof*cking door down.  Yeah, that's right.  Wanna piece a me mof*cker?  (This must be the one with "interesting stories of feats of old").

The I-wanna-marry-you drunk:  Girls you know this one too.  He'll ask you, your sister, your cousin, and your mother to marry him after a few shots of Henny. But before I beat up on this sorry soul, hear nuh...the story goes that on their way back from a friend's wedding in Philly (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania), a certain amorous drunk stopped the car and asked his then girlfriend to marry him.  She said yes, and we've they've been married 8 years and counting.

The whoo-hoo-here's-my-hairy-ass drunk:  Oh yes, girls.  This one may be one of our favourites.  He's the one who'll request It's Raining Men, and proceed to climb on the table, strip off his shirt, clamber out of his pants, straddle a chair, run his shirt back and forth between his legs, and end his performance by mooning the nice couple in the corner of the bar. (This is probably the one with "off-colour humour"). 

The philosophical drunk:  This one is a real mood killa.  He'll wax on about everybody from Walter Rodney to Rihanna, and try to convince you (with his face up in yours really stinking close) that every woman can fit into one of three categories.  "Three, that's all, I swear," he'll say, as he confidently holds up five fingers.  "Three categories.  All women."  (Yep, this one's the "insightful, intellectual").

The I-gon-tek-it-right-hey drunk:  This one will sprawl out on the floor in some corner just so.  He out.  And no matter how yuh shake he, pour water on he face, nothing will wake this one til next noon.  (He's the one in a euphoric doze).

Then there's the King of all drunks!  He'll sing, dance, lecture, cuss everybody in the room, and then mercifully he'll take his drunk ass to bed just before somebody (usually my mother) calls him a jackass.  It amazes me.  He'll stand there "entertaining" everyone in the room with one eye on her, and just when she's had enough and is ready to throw something at him, he'll pack up his show and disappear. Poof!

And maybe that's a good note on which to end this post.  I'll end with an ode to my friend Silver Dragon titled, "Poof to Puff The Silver Dragon."

(clearing throat) 

Poof!  My dear Puffy Silver Dragon

take that white-washed crap

and stuff it where the sun don't shine. 

Poof!  My dear Puffy Silver Dragon

let it disappear right

up your behind.

(The End)

 [Welcome back SD] 

Baiganchoka Wednesdays: "Shut them up good and proper?"

“Could you please turn off that music.  I can’t hear the TV, and I was watching my show first.”  He said it politely enough, but something just wasn’t right with the picture.  After all, he was only 5 years old.  Who the hell was he to tell me turn off my music! 

 

In my Guyanese head I had the following tirade: What de ass!  But dis pickney know how the TV come?  He know how much de PSE&G bill was this month?  Eh Eh!  I oughta box his little ears for talking to me so!

 

But it was all in my head of course.  What I actually said (lips pressed tightly together as I turned down my music a notch) was .....More Here