fangirling | C’bean Writers and New-ish Novels

This may come as a surprise but in between the bonfires, spring fairs and medical conferences that have marked my weekends for the last few months I have actually found the time to read a book or two (or five).

I was recently tapped to write a set of book reviews for Susumba.com, an opportunity I leaped at (perhaps too hastily) which is partly why I come bearing book recommendations. In no particular order, here are three books you should definitely add to your collection for this summer and beyond.

Here Comes the Sun by Nicole Dennis-Benn

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Nicole Dennis-Benn is an expat Jamaican living in Brooklyn. Her wedding ceremony at a private resort made local headlines some years ago for the triviality of their being a lesbian couple. Only in Jamaica. Awkward home country reception aside, Dennis-Benn’s first novel is a keeper. Here Comes the Sun is a multi-generational narrative that exposes and shames the tourism industry in Jamaica for its exploitation of the working class and poor at the same time as it deeply considers the damaging standards of beauty to which we subject our girls.

Excerpt from my review:

Emboldened by the objectivity of distance, Dennis-Benn unflinchingly chronicles the troubling reality of the Jamaican feminine experience. She furthers this discussion by giving glimpses of the taboo – Margot’s love affair with the out lesbian Verdene Moore. Dennis-Benn’s handling of their relationship is understandably delicate, dancing nimbly around author surrogacy and Jamaica’s homophobic climate. The result is an intimate and acutely human portrayal of an oft-ignored struggle, woven beautifully into the tapestry of the wider work.

Delores, Margot and Thandi are moulded by the tragedies of their youth in a seemingly never-ending cycle that will be unsettlingly familiar to a Jamaican audience. In light of recent events regarding the abuse of girls and women, the timing of this novel is especially crucial. Often the story of sexual abuse victims is narrow and oppressive. In her novel, Dennis-Benn attempts to expand their narrative.

Children of the Spider by Imam Baksh

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Full disclaimer, this is a YA novel. But don’t let the genre fool you – Baksh’s debut novel (which won the Burt Award for Caribbean Literature) is a fast-paced adventure that will keep you hooked until the last page, no matter what your age. Imam Baksh is a master of pace and plot and the eerie, menacing characters practically crawl off the page.

The novel centres around Mayali, a fugitive from the sulphur-and-brimstone world of Zolpash where her people are subjugated under the rule of Spiders and their Brethren. She escapes to our world (Guyana, to be precise) and enlists the reluctant help of Joseph, an Amerindian Deaf-Mute techie, to warn the Guyanese president that the evil Spiders are trying to take over the world.

I loved this story. It was so exciting to see Caribbean tropes (the bumbling policeman, the cranky taxi driver) be represented in fiction, and Baksh weaves mythology into contemporary Caribbean life the way Gaiman did with Norse mythology in American Gods (who else is excited for that premiere?!). Children of the Spider is almost definitely the adventure book of 2016.

In the Morning Yah by Sheldon Shepherd

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Known more popularly as the lead singer of the roots-reggae-dub collective No-Maddz, Sheldon Shepherd published his first collection of poetry in 2016. Including some original pieces by his father Keith Shepherd, the anthology also features the works of five visual artists who contributed pieces to complement the poems.

Shepherd’s poems are mostly observations on daily life and the hustle of making ends meet interspersed with reflections on sociopolitical issues and the occasional whimsical meditation on love. Reading dub poetry presents a Shakespearean challenge however because while Shepherd’s work is delightful and entertaining on stage the poems on page lack the energizing metre that brings them to life. Still, the book is an excellent repository for performance poems with a distinctly original voice.

Did you read any of these books? Know/love the writers? Have recommendations of your own? Feel free to share your comments below. :)


Here Comes the Sun is published by Liveright, and available at Bookophilia in Kingston as well as online.
Children of the Spider is published by Blouse and Skirt Books, available on Amazon and very likely Bookophilia.
In the Morning Yah is published by Pelican Publishers and available wherever Nomaddz is performing, I think. Also probably Amazon.

Bonfires and Other Gateway Drugs

One thing leads to another and suddenly I’m on a beach under the full moon at 9 on a weeknight, swaying around a bonfire to the sounds of Rasta youths spitting troots and the soulful melodies of Kali Grn and DReblz.

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Glowing embers and DReblz in action

I think I’ve started taking deliberate steps down a path of cultural appreciation – specifically an appreciation of Rastafarianism and its associations. Rastafari is one of those aspects of our culture that we don’t really notice until we stop and look at it. But it’s all around us, like water to a fish, and it impacts so much of our daily life – from curse words to our reaction to authority to our taste in music. Rasta gave us reggae and weed and locs. In return we gave them Bad Friday and a persistent (though waning) stigma surrounding their lifestyle.

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Hol’ a vibes

I’m not sure when this journey started, maybe the day Obie and I visited the Rastafari Exhibit at the Montego Bay Cultural Centre. But it was definitely after Lyrical Eloquence Reloaded when we discovered (Columbus-style) Kali Grn that we fell down the rabbit hole. First it was the Spring Equinox Festival then a beach bonfire under the full moon then the Bad Friday commemoration at the Civic/Cultural Centre on Good Friday.

The experiences that lie along this path have been, so far, incredible. I used to think – and perhaps it used to be true – that MoBay had little to offer in the way of cultural events. Compared to Kingston where there are reggae concerts practically on a weekly basis, and a variety literary/musical/artistic gatherings we are taking our first tiny steps. But they are definitely steps in the right direction.

Big Pharma in Little Jamrock

a Third World Perspective on the Ethical Dilemma of Drug Company Gifts

Who doesn’t love presents? Santa Clause, your mom, your boy/girlfriend – doesn’t matter who it’s coming from, as along as the tag has your name on it (and you don’t have to pay). Can you imagine if you could get presents, not only from people who care about you, but from people you associate with in the professional sphere?

What, presents from work colleagues? Not quite. Gifts and privileges from medical representatives trying to push their products. What’s the harm, you might ask. I’ll take their stuff, but my prescriptions don’t have to change. Besides, so what if I prescribe Brand X instead of Brand Y. The patient still gets the same drug.

But there’s plenty of harm.

Multi-million dollar pharmaceutical companies, affectionately called Big Pharma, spend tidy sums of money each year keeping physicians loyal to their brands. This comes across as fancy dinners, paid vacations, or even just catered meetings. The medical representative proffers the olive branch of food (usually) in return for the chance to remind physicians why we need to prescribe their pills.

This, of course, can have disastrous repercussions for patient care, particularly when the ethical practices of physicians are called into question. For this reason the relationship between doctors and drug companies is heavily regulated in the United States and other countries. But in Jamaica physicians are left up to their own devices when handling drug company influences.

For the most part the attitude of Jamaican doctors appears to be politely non-partisan. We’re appreciative of the benefits meted out by medical representatives, but brand loyalty isn’t a widely supported concept*.

In medical school our lecturers went to great lengths to teach generic names instead of brands for common drugs. It’s a habit that sticks until you start working with doctors who almost exclusively use trade/brand names and then all our lecturers’ hard work is undone. And strictly prescribing generics becomes impractical when you start to consider affordability, brand vs. generic efficacy (and there is a difference) and of course patient preference. Most of our choices as doctors will be based on one or more of these factors, not just which company gave us better stuff.

Another aspect of third world presents that differs from our first world counterparts is the quality and scale of the benefits. I hear stories (from the U.S.) of travel expenses being covered and expensive electronics being gifted to conference attendees. Big Pharma has even literally paid doctors cash to recommend their products.

Now I am a still a small fry in this medical business, but I just don’t see Lil Pharma here in the Caribbean shelling out that kind of money. We get catered lunch meetings and one or two free conferences for medical education purposes, but the average ‘kickback‘ here is most often a pen or some hand sanitizer. Really, it’s like they’re not even trying (by comparison).

But this doesn’t necessarily mean we aren’t being swayed. Especially when you add in other local factors like how Jamaica is so small that chances are you’re actually friends with one or two medical representatives (and so feel compelled to prescribe their drugs). Or how Jamaica has so much corruption that even if physicians practiced unethical brand loyalty people would probably still turn a blind eye. On the other hand, Jamaica is so poor that most patients aren’t able to afford fancy brands anyway so it’s not much use pushing those medications on our market.

This is where public and private practice diverge widely. Patients in the public system are treated based on availability of medication because for the most part they cannot afford to pay full price for their medications. Pharmaceutical companies sometimes bid for spots on the National Health Fund subsidy so that their drug can reach a wider base. Yay, right? Not necessarily. These are the cheaper drugs, often generic formulations and usually older than what the rest of the world is using. Standard of care takes a back seat to any kind of care we can manage at this point.

By contrast in private practice, patients are generally seen as wealthier and more actively involved in their health. These patients usually don’t mind paying more for a brand name medicine if they feel it works better than the generic, and this is where the industry can get a toe in the door. This is where the ethical dilemma of industry gifts begins to take root. And if we are going to start any kind of regulatory or even supervisory process this is where we must investigate first.

But for now people are comfortable. Patients get their medications, physicians get their food, and Big Pharma gets their profits. It’s a win-win-win, until someone (likely the patient) loses.


*Not statistical. Based on my own (limited) observations.

St. James: warm, welcoming, dangerous, defensive

This parish is a bundle of contradictions. While we smile and wave at tourists on the Hip Strip, lotto scammers fleece hundreds of thousands of dollars from unsuspecting (and greedy) foreigners. Upscale communities like Mango Walk and Ironshore are book-ended by their less refined counterparts Paradise and Flankers. In and around Montego Bay we are a thriving urban cesspool but you don’t have to drive too far out of town to find coconut groves, yam grounds and the occasional babbling brook.

When I went to Flamstead for a health fair Obie told me to make sure I got some coconuts (apparently Flamstead has good coconuts?). I ended up coming home with more than just coconuts, thanks to the generosity of rural folk and the fertile farmland that the community is nestled in.

In fact the good experiences I had at the health fair were entirely due to a brand of kindness that too many Jamaicans are growing up without these days. The church members who hosted us were more than accommodating, and the clients we interacted with were so polite! A far cry from the average short-tempered clinic patient. Jamaicans generally have a problem with patience (meaning we have very little) but aside from some minor hiccups the day was very productive.

As a thank-you gift (and because we asked, shamelessly) the church pastor sent us off with yam, sugar cane and other goodies. Even though I didn’t get home until after 6 I would gladly trade any sweltering unfriendly clinic shift with another day in the field like that one.

By strong and glaring contrast my home visits in the community of Flanker were filled with sharp zinc fences, sketchy looking dirt tracks and suspicious neighbours. Going to someone’s home is totally different from going to their community; home visits are a lot more intimate, and the experience was an eye-opener.

The contradictory nature of St. James came out full force again. Though it is a stone’s throw away from the planned upscale development of Ironshore, Flanker has a lot of captured land* and it is well known for having a violent streak. But while the stereotypical cruffs* congregated at every corner shop, behind the high gated walls you can find middle aged career types, retired couples and aging invalids. Yes, there were the common twenty-something girls with artificially lightened skin and lengthened hair, but in the same place a dirt road might actually lead to a house with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beautiful bay.

I left Flamstead with gratitude. I left Flanker with grounding.

In my dispassionate survey of these alternate living situations, I recognized that there is no one way to be Jamaican, to be uptown or even to be ‘ghetto’.  Neighbourhood lines and bank accounts don’t always gel, and poverty cannot be measured solely on the basis of ones weekly income. I recognized that the struggle was so much realer that I could have imagined, because it was many struggles rolled in to one. How old you are impacts how much money you make impacts where you can afford to live impacts your access to health care. The intersections of the biological, psychological and social spheres of health were made suddenly and painfully alive.

But despite my personal revelations St. James will continue to woo visitors with visions of sandy beaches and gorgeous sunsets, while hiding their less savoury vistas behind highway rails and zinc fences. When will we improve the pathetic social infrastructure that is dragging our economy down? When will we realize that a nation’s people are its best investment?

 

**
Cruff – unemployed male, usually in his twenties, who spends his days smoking weed, drinking rum and Boom and catcalling any girls unfortunate enough to pass by

Capture(d) land – land that isn’t legally owned (yet) by the person living on it

Spring Equinox at the Rasta Village

Barefoot, bamboo pipe and box food – this was the scene at the Indigenous Rasta Village on the outskirts of Montego Bay last Sunday. It was a space for communion, reasoning and celebration.

The Rasta Village is accessible by one of two routes – you can drive through Porto Bello to the Montego River Gardens then cross a river to get to the venue. Or you can drive through Fairfield, down a narrow winding dirt track until you reach the last house at the end of the lane. Behind the house is the village.

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Welcoming is the first word that comes to mind when you step into the circular space that housed the festival. Everyone nods and smiles openly when they greet you, with an enthusiastic clasping of hands in what feels like a physical manifestation of namaste.

The full programme included yoga, drumming sessions and an open mic segment. There were performances by Mentor, Nomaddz and Rasta Village Live. Around the central camp were stalls displaying natural oils and soaps. Two huge jars of cannabis stems rested atop a table under the main gazebo. The smell of cook food and ganja perfumed the air.

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As I sat cross-legged on a borrowed bamboo mat I drank my sip and looked around at the motley collection that had gathered. There were a lot of Rastas, certainly, but also several bald heads (I know, you don’ haffi dread fi be Rasta), more than a few mature upper middle class people, and quite a lot of people my age or a little older.

The vibe of the gathering had put me in a mood for reflection (or maybe it was the contact high) and I was intrigued by the thought that all these people from different backgrounds had come here with the same purpose: to revive, renew, replenish and reaffirm. That everyone would be affected by the experience in different ways, and would take away different things from the event that touched them uniquely, if it touched them at all.

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Nomaddz and Rasta Village Live

I leaned into the Rastafarian faith a little more that day. A lot appealed to me: the ideas of personal divinity, the belief in livity, the impressive respect for life in all its forms and yes, the ital food did taste good too.

But I also couldn’t stop my usual anxious over-thinking. I was convinced that there was a right way and a wrong way to be Jamaican and I was definitely doing it the wrong way. every “Blessings” or “Blessed love” I received in greeting I returned a nervous “Good afternoon”. I couldn’t help it – when I’m anxious my Patois stalls. I felt like a fake, because I have locs but I know very little about Rasta culture beyond what I read in school. Only the warm smiles from everyone (and I mean literally everyone) kept me from running away with my head bowed in shame.

How Agent Sasco song go, “no fashion dread nuffi come a talk bout Selassie”?

But over and over my mind kept returning to the deep seated contentment that shone from the faces of the Rastas I interacted with. They had invited us into their sanctum santorum and were so willing to share their music and ideas and food with us – a little bit of their culture free of charge. Maybe it was the weed or maybe it was the kind of peace that springs from a deep personal connection with faith, but however they achieved it I wanted some of that contentment for myself.

I left the Village feeling inspired and uplifted, on a healthier mental and physical plane. The sip and ital food had warmed my belly and the conscious lyrics of Mentor and Nomaddz had warmed my heart.

Then I promptly went and had KFC for dinner. It’s a work in progress.

on Wanderlust and its Manifestations

so, here you are
too foreign for home
too foreign for here
never enough for both
-Ijeoma Umebinyuo “Diaspora Blues”

I am restless in a number of ways. Two of them: I can never sit still (something my cat hates) and I feel uneasy when I’ve lived too long in one place. This is a direct result of my childhood which was spent moving from rental home to rental home, never quite settling down. But it is also, perhaps, the result of generations of restless women who have dumped all their unfulfilled wanderlust onto my lap.

People sometimes brag about having lived their whole lives in one place.

“Yeh, Paradise mi born and grow. Everybody know me.”

Substitute Paradise for Roehampton, Cascade, Trench Town, etc. In response I’m completely baffled by the determined way they fit like fixtures into one neighbourhood, the way they know the history of every ackee tree and eye newcomers with the collective distrust of small towns. Don’t get me wrong – I love making roots and connections and settling myself (temporarily) into the unfamiliar ebb and flow of a new place. But once the current becomes too well-known I yearn for novelty again.

It’s not my fault, entirely. My mother, one of the urban drifters, left her born-and-grow home of Donalva in Hanover for the expanding city of Montego Bay. Once there she moved again and again searching for home, eventually settling for the closest approximation.

My grandmother, born in Hope Bay, Portland then raised on the hills of Fruitful Vale, followed her errant brother to the plains of May Pen and then again to the far flung, frigid shores of England during the great West Indian migration of the mid-1900’s. Dissatisfied and homesick she turned once more to Jamaica settling west in the parish of St. James, first in rural Roehampton then the coasts of Mobay.

My great-great-great-grandfather, a Scotsman and a traveler who wound up in Portland, Jamaica (the same Portland as my grandmother) centuries before.

I could go further back to the forced melanin migration of the Transatlantic Trade, hundreds of thousands of families uprooted and displaced. The result a fractured diaspora that alternates its longing for home with a hatred of the same (or at best a distant apathy).

All of which distill down to me, who moves around so much the thought of settling down kick-starts my anxiety. There’s so much to see, so many houses to be lived in, so many countries and towns and villages to discover, to be a part of. How can I choose one place to spend the rest of my life?

Maybe restlessness is the Afro-Caribbean ethos. Maybe I’m trying to outrun some deep emotional trauma. Maybe I’m trying to pin down that nebulous feeling of Home.Maybe I’m not old enough to settle down (maybe I never will be).

And hold me fast, hold me fast
Cause I’m a hopeless wanderer
I will learn, I will learn to love the skies I’m under
Mumford and Sons “Hopeless Wanderer”

But maybe one day this hopeful wanderer will hang her hat on some worthy homestead, and settle down to tell stories of a life well-traveled. For now, though, I’ll keep knocking about, readjusting and starting over. After all, it’s what I know best.

My Cup Runneth Over: Lyrical Eloquence Reloaded

The artistic scene in Montego Bay is very well-nourished, or so one would think from the sizable crowd that squeezed into Blue Beat Jazz and Martini Bar last Saturday night for the poetry-and-music affair. I am acutely aware that the coverage is also sorely lacking, as I sit here penning this write-up almost one full week later.

Lyrical Eloquence Reloaded is the sequel to Lyrical Eloquence, a night of poetry and fashion where poets, musicians and designers gathered to share their craft and mingle with like-minded creatives. This iteration, with less fashion and more music and poetry, was thematically centered on Black History – apropos of the month of February.

Like so many events in this country, Lyrical Eloquence could not escape the trap of island time, and the programme didn’t start until an hour after the scheduled 8:30pm. Nevertheless the ensuing performances were at turns delightful and thought-provoking.

MC’d by the gracious Brian Brown, whose quick pace did much to move the evening along, Lyrical Eloquence Reloaded featured performances from Montegonian talent and some further afield. For me, the surprises of the night were two as-yet-undiscovered gems: Kali Grn and D Reblz, and Jeeby Lyricist.

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Kali Grn and D Reblz

Kali Grn brought me the humbling realization that I am more than a little out of touch with the Mobay Art Scene. He and his band are much beloved on the hotel circuit and based on the responses of the audience have garnered quite the local following. Though there are clear reggae influences, their sound is authentically millennial with clear melodious harmonies, dynamic instrumentals and clever thoughtful lyrics.

But if I talk about lyrics, I have to talk about Jeeby Lyricist, who by day is a student of law in Kingston (perhaps this is why he manages such quick-witted vernacular). The back-up singer was a little vocally disappointing (especially coming after those Reblz) but Jeeby weaves superb double entendres — his last song a tongue-in-cheek nod to masculine attempts at flirtation in this modern dancehall environment.

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Jeeby Lyricist in action

There are so many honorable mentions: Jah Meikle – whom I had the pleasure of first meeting some years ago in Kingston – is an excellent drummer and poet who makes combining rhythms look much easier than I imagine it would be. The dub poets Mentor and Fyah Marley, among others. Brian Brown himself. And the ineffable, inimitable Carla Moore who closed the show.

My greatest vexation about this event is that I missed Carla Moore’ performance. For those who don’t know, Carla comes to us from UWI’s Western Campus where she lectures in the Institute of Gender and Development Studies. Before that she was in Canada, keeping touch with Jamaica through her vlog countryfromlongtime. Now she mostly Instagrams @mooretivation. I find her to be unerringly in tune with the ethos and angst of this millennial generation, and her unexpected words of inspiration have never failed to comfort me.

My quarrel, of course, is entirely with myself. My bedtime is around 10 o’clock these days and by midnight (when there were still five more performers) I was fighting sleep hard. I was overwhelmed, in a good way, by the crowd that populated Blue Beat’s modest open air terrace and that swelled with appreciation for the spoken (and sung) word. Next time I will know to wear comfy shoes, bring snacks/coffee, and stake-out a good seat at least an hour in advance.

//

All image credits to Di Foto Shoppe

 

If It Ain’t Broke? CRH is Definitely Broke

Local news headlines are reporting that the regional hospital on the western end of the island is having difficulties with the decades old ventilation system, forcing most of its services to be badly curtailed. As the only Type A hospital outside of the KSAC its services are integral to regional health stability. Not just the most critical patients but also the day to day management of stable patients depend on this hospital’s functions.

Which is perhaps why in an effort to avoid national panic, the Government (through the media) has downplayed the potentially longstanding and severe effects of the situation. Ventilation issues are the problem, they quip, and point to engineers assessing the situation, the plans in place to fix it. Never mind that every day brings the shut down or relocation of some critical department. Never mind that daily staff and patients are exposed to unknown airborne chemicals with unforeseeable effects to their physical health.

The problem as Dr. Christopher Tufton rightly pointed out is primarily one of neglect. For decades the ventilation at CRH has not been working and none of our successive governments has bothered to fix it. So when a simple problem of airborne irritants occurs there was no ventilation  system in place to redirect the fumes. And when they did turn the system on the problem only worsened. (This is a classic example of sick building syndrome).

Internationally speaking, workplace hazards are problems ripe for litigation. It is the responsibility of the employer to ensure that the employee is not placed at unnecessary risk in carrying out his or her duties (the so-called ‘due diligence‘). Where unavoidable this risk should be carefully calculated.

Human lives are at stake.

Healthcare workers are put at risk in so many other ways: needle-stick injuries, violent patients, contamination with blood or other bodily fluids, the constant exposure to illness. We mitigate these risks as best as we can, accepting them as part and parcel of our call to service. But the continued pressure to work in an environment with unidentified and potentially catastrophic risk is, I think, too much to ask. What the media (and therefore the public) have yet to fully realize is that human lives are at stake: patients, medical and non-medical staff, siblings, spouses, parents, children.

I don’t envy the Health Minister’s seat right now, backed into a corner with IMF restraints and the demands of an ailing health sector. And just as you said, Dr. Tufton, there is no quick fix. But the people working and convalescing in this contaminated institution cannot be left to languish while the situation is slowly rectified. Decisive action is needed if lives are to be saved. Come Dr. Tufton, do sumn before sumn do wi.

Ode to Cat

My cat turns one year old this month, and I love her more than I ever thought I could love another living creature. I love this cat more than my mother. More than my partner. And though my mother would be a little annoyed, my partner is unfazed. Perhaps because my cat loves him more than she loves me.

Cat comes first. Her delight at dismembering roaches, frogs, lizards takes first place over my delight at having a floor devoid of tiny animal guts. Her disgust with hours old cat chow takes precedence over my sad attempts to ration her (expensive) food. Her desire to be on my lap right at this very moment even though I have to get ready for work supersedes my need to get ready for work.

Cats aren’t usually paraded as the most affectionate of pets but it is a goddamn miracle whenever she chooses to hop into one of our laps at the dinner table. The ensuing nuzzle-and-purr I am convinced are mere tools to ensnare us even further and I wish I would resist (especially when she hops off to bring a cockroach home and it inevitably runs across my bare feet) but she is just so precious dammit.

Of course I get mad at her. She destroys the furniture, bites my ear when I don’t wake up on time to feed her, scratches my feet at play, and have I mentioned bringing creepy crawlies into the house? But even in her craziest, sprint-across-the-house-at-2am-for-no-goddamn-reason moments I still manage to lose myself in her huge – eyes (the crazy eyes) and that faint meow so unique to her.

She widens my heart one feline stretch at a time, indulges my need to cuddle, teaches me about acceptance and patience and selflessness. She’s everything I ever imagined a cat would be (plus some other things I never thought of – roaches, again).

Now excuse me while I put some alcohol on my fresh claw marks.

Sankofa: Critiquing our Coverage of Culture

I have been remiss. Too often I forget that this is a space of growth, questions and a conscious quest for truth. It is too easy to descend into aggravated polemics without stopping to consider and critique. It’s the writer’s equivalent of chewing with your mouth open.

In pursuit of critical discussion I have stumbled across The Nassau Guardian, the oldest and largest newspaper in The Bahamas. More specifically, their Arts and Culture segment where thought-provoking essays by Dr. Ian Bethell-Bennett and others are fanning new flames into discussions on race and identity.

It’s a Lifestyle section with more life than style, where the arts and culture pieces actually talk about art and culture. Dr. Bethell-Bennett delves critically into post-modern theories surrounding the manufacture of the Caribbean identity. His deconstruction of post-colonialism and its impact on Afro-Caribbean societies is not new but it’s so refreshing to hear someone wax poetic on the subject in a national newspaper.

I contrast our top two national newspapers: The Gleaner and the Jamaica Observer. The lifestyle section of both newspapers is filled mainly with light and fluffy pieces that don’t provide much food for thought. The Gleaner admittedly digs a touch deeper in its Arts and Leisure section, in that they comment on culturally relevant events. But the coverage is bare bones at best and leaves so much to be desired.

Is it merely that the first-world Bahamas with a supposedly higher percentage of tertiary-educated readers can easily devote segments of its newspaper to largely academic rhetoric? What is the interplay between economics and social commentary? Is socio-cultural criticism merely a luxury that Jamaicans cannot yet afford?

I don’t have the answers to these questions. All I know is that the discussions on race, culture and identity highlighted in The Nassau Guardian are critical to the future of Caribbean development.

A people without the knowledge of their past history, culture and origins is like a tree without roots.
–Marcus Garvey