Two Sides of the Same Coin

Collard Greens and Calalloo, Grits and Corn Meal Porridge…

Banana Groves to Sugar Cane,

and Fields of Cotton and Tobacco…

Gunga, yes and Black Eyed Peas…. From Charleston to Kingston Harbor.

Two dimensions of a single Diaspora that have so very much in common…and yet, they’re nothing alike.  So what’s up with that?

It’s a question I ask myself all the time, and one that surfaces frequently in my writing projects. One example being a previous post in which I tackled the subject of Double Consciousness: That extra baggage many Black Americans carry around which forces us to constantly manage an awareness of our personal identities – identities that have been qualified in terms of what the ‘majority’ culture thinks it means to be Black in America. My intent was to explore the cumulative effect of Double Consciousness on the contemporary Black American experience, and how that influence might factor into our political and social discourse during the age of Obama. As a child I definitely felt it; as a young Elementary and Middle School student who was the first person of color to ever attend my school. I was a kinky-haired, Brown-skinned Island in a sea of Pink and White faces; a young Protestant unexpectedly thrown into what was for me, a strange and unfamiliar world of Incense, Holy Water and Rosary-beaded Catholicism. And yet somehow I managed to survive with my identity and self confidence mostly intact; imbued (I would like to believe) with the same instincts for survival that strengthened and sustained my parents and grandparents before me. At that point in my life, I’d never heard of Double Consciousness, and I’m not sure I would have had the capacity to understand the essence of Dubois’ original argument if I had. But all these years later, with the benefit of life’s challenges and character building experiences, I can look back on that period and comprehend beyond the shadow of a microscopic doubt, that it was my burden of Double Consciousness that made my journey into adolescence all the more difficult, and established the emotional and psychological frame of reference for my subsequent interactions with the Caucasian world.
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Since initially tackling the subject, I keep coming back to what it means, and just exactly how I feel about it. Now, having benefited from the passage of time and by adopting a more nuanced perspective, I feel compelled to revisit the topic in light of a recent (and purely accidental) revelation that came to me earlier this year. While watching a PBS/Masterpiece Theater presentation of Sandra Levy’s Small Island, I was struck by one scene in particular that for me, encapsulated the difference between how Black Americans have traditionally viewed themselves and their place in the world, verses persons of color who have emigrated from the Caribbean Islands. Small Island overtly promotes an exploration of racism and racial identity; but beyond the Black-White, Colonizer-Colonized dichotomies, I tuned in to a more subtle (and I imagine unintended) message emanating from Ms. Levy’s dialogue and plot. Gilbert - a Jamaican RAF volunteer in London during the Second World War - attempts to enter the Cinema with a British Woman (Queenie) with whom he’s recently developed a friendship (Queenie has scandalized her neighbors by renting Gilbert a room). Without hesitation, the young man approaches the main-floor entrance with the intention of purchasing his ticket. Incensed by his blatant disregard for what they view as the prevailing rules of social engagement, a group of White Soldiers voice their displeasure, strongly suggesting that the young soldier needed to move his ass over to the colored line. In the face of this challenge, the Jamaican Soldier immediately argues that (a) he isn’t a Black American; (b) They were not in America, and (c) he was free to move about as he damn well pleased etc. etc. I’m paraphrasing here because I don’t exactly remember how Gilbert formulated his response, but for the most part that was the uncompromising position he chose to stake out. I remember perking up at this point, struck by Gilbert’s choice of words, and curious about what was going to happen next. Unburdened by the albatross of Double Consciousness, and (I would argue) incapable of identifying with American standards of Jim Crow social stratification, Gilbert never even stopped to consider the possibility that access to a certain venue might be denied him.
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Of course, Gilbert’s character represents a populace undoubtedly affected in other ways by the lingering influence of colonialism that continues to shape relations between the Crown and her former Jewels; but on the specific question of American-style segregation, Gilbert the Jamaican had never become psychologically invested in the notion that his choices or movements would in any way be limited. Most interesting for me, is how Gilbert does not hesitate to differentiate himself as not American when addressing the White Soldiers, while nearby, a group of Black American GI’s (waiting in the Colored line), shift uncomfortably and began moving towards the commotion; anger and solidarity (with a brother who is being abused) evident in their postures and facial expressions; this, after the Good Ol’ Boys contemptuously hurl a couple of N-Bombs in Gilbert’s direction.
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The scene marks a critical juncture in the film, and in my opinion also serves as a metaphor for various pockets of misunderstanding that sometimes manifest across segments of the Black American and Jamaican social continuum…and it is here that I’ve purposely chosen to speak in terms of Jamaican Blackness in the larger context of how it is generally regarded in America, because therein lies the root of much unnecessary conflict that sometimes crops up between Black Americans and our Afro-Caribbean cousins. As you can imagine, this is a compelling topic for me, and something I’m eager to cover in more detail. In a future post, I’ll explore some of the cultural and historical determinants that have contributed to those ‘pockets of misunderstanding'; why American and West Indian Blacks view the world through such a different contextual lens and what those differences mean for the state of ongoing relations in America and abroad.
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An observation…from a Yank’s perspective.

Porridge or Grits...which do You prefer?

Here's how you make them...

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GRITS

They're simple and inexpensive to prepare; nothing more than White Hominy combined with boiling water.  Then, just add a touch of Salt and a 1/4 stick of Butter...and more Butter plus a teaspoon of Sugar sprinkled on top when the Grits are served.

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PORRIDGE

This one contains Milk, Milk and more Milk!

It's Yellow Corn Meal flavored with Vanilla Extract and aromatic Nutmeg.  Constant stirring is required until the proper texture is achieved.
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The Porridge is definitely more time consuming (and tricky) because of the ease with which the Milk can burn.  Like most African Americans whose families have roots in the South, I grew up eating Grits. I remember waking up on Saturday mornings to the smell of Hominy and sizzling Fatback emanating from our kitchen - that not-quite-awake dreamscape punctuated by the sound of my Mother's footfalls causing the linoleum tiles to creak as she moved from sink to snack bar to stove...and finally the small white (fridge) that my Brother and I used to chart our growth as adolescents. I've always taken my Grits with Butter and Sugar. Preferably not runny, but on the substantially thick side - to the point where a clump of the creamy mixture will slide slowly off the spoon. Most of the adults in my family preferred theirs with Pepper or a little cheese, mixed with bits of Country Sage sausage; or as a side dish to Fried Perch or Whiting - typical for Up Country South Carolinians - from which my lineage is derived - as opposed to those Low Country folk who who like to garnish their grits with Shrimp or Crab Meat instead.

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I remember the first time I ate Porridge - can't remember if Jamaica Girl and I were in Chicago, or if it was one of the Christmas/New Years Holidays when I travelled to NYC for a visit when we were still undergrads. What I do remember is that she offered to make some and I fell in love with it instantly. Porridge is typically sweeter than the Grits, with a thicker, heavier consistency that is most likely attributed to the abundance of Whole, Condensed and Evaporated Milk it contains.

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I'll never loose my passion for Grits, but sometimes I find myself specifically craving the unique taste of Porridge. Jamaica Girl is an excellent cook, but she's never been big on Breakfast, while for me, the First Meal happens to be a very big deal - arguably my favorite of the day, and not just because of the memories I associate with my mother. As I result, I'm usually the one who takes the initiative to get up and set out an early morning spread; especially on weekends, or the rare occasion when I'm not traveling to a client site. Early on, I tried my hand at concocting the mixture - which was tricky because invariably I'd end up with too many lumps of Corn Meal and/or I'd burn the milk on the bototm of the pot. But after a lengthy period of trial and error, Jamaica Girl eventually showed me a nice little trick that allowed me to get all the Corn Meal smoothed out before adding it to the Milk and spices warming on the stove. She was coy when she came up off that little piece of information - half smiling and half frowning as if to posit wheter I was worth it...a complex message wrapped up inside all her cautious hesitation as if to say she was handing over a cherished family secret and I'd better respect it as such. "Naa problem dat", I thought (inside my head only), for while I can understand the lyrical rhythm of her Patois-based Lingua Franca, I have yet to master its authentic sound, and prefer not to come off sounding like a corny excerpt from The Mighty Quinn. Besides, I don't mind telling you I felt the same way when she asked for my Mother's Pound Cake recipe, so as far as I'm concerned, we're even.
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The three youngest members of our Tribe - consistent with the multi-cultural threads that define them, have always been equal opportunity consumers. But over the years, I've gradually detected slight preferences in their choices. Our daughter leans more towards the Grits, while the Boys will lobby for Porridge every single time. Usually, I'm in such a rush that the Grits win out more often than not; but on those occassions when I do take the time to get out all the lumps and keep the Milk from burning, the result is not half bad - even if it's not as good as Jamaica Nanna's - which is what my eldest son once told me after sampling a batch that I'd prepared. But his comment didn't offend me; in fact, I actually took it as a compliment that he would even think to make the comparison in the first place.

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Besides, when he got up from the table, there was nothing left in his bowl...