Yankee Bwoy

My Daily Literary Sustenance

2011-03-10T20:16:00.000-08:00

...is non-negotiable as far as I'm concerned.

But not just any old food can spark the engine that drives my imagination. What I need...in fact, what I crave, is the challenge of an intelligently crafted plot. Realistic dialogue, and engaging characters that stay with me long after I've marked the page and the closed the book (or powered down my Nook) ...not to mention the thrill of being introduced to new and exceptional authors uniquely skilled in the use and presentation of the Language Arts.

I'm definitely not talking about Fast Food consumption here. What I want is the really, REALLY good stuff. The type of discriminating, gastro-literary treat that would easily be on par with Momma's made-from-scratch Peach Cobbler and Coconut Cake. Or Copper River Salmon shipped in fresh from the Pacific Northwest, drizzled with Lemon Butter and Capers while it's still hot on the Grill.  Or how about some Artisan, hand-made chocolates; like the ones you can get from Ayza on West 31st near Madison Square, served up with a 71' Dalva Porto Colheita?

Sounds good, right?..and trust me, it all tastes good too. And when it comes to the stuff I read (and aspire to write), my number one goal is to experience and produce content that leaves me feeling satisfied, nourished and refreshed; extremely grateful for the experience, and looking forward to that next opportunity to indulge every facet of my creativity.

...and as recent luck would have it, I was thusly blessed.

After a lengthy evaluation, I made the decision to go completely electronic and picked up a Barnes & Noble Nook - a Christmas gift from me to me - and since then, I've set out on a furious pace digesting new books. Embarking on that next great read is just a few "clicks" away, and with the added exposure to Discussion Groups and other Book Shelves through my Shelfari Account, I've had some really excellent options from which to choose. If I didn't have to work or sleep, I could do more, but right now I'm on track to knock out somewhere around 50 Novels this year...compared to the 37 I completed in 2010. What follows is a list of some of the 2011 titles that have stuck with me so far - plus a few brief comments to leave you with my overall impressions. For a full scale review, Amazon, BN.com, Shelfari, or any number of Author/Publisher Web Sites can more than adequately provide the detailed 411.

In the meantime, here's a summary of my most salient thoughts:

DISCRETION
This novel was poignant and compelling. With Discretion, Elizabeth Nunez gives us a provocative take on the meaning of true freedom, and (through the protagonist's eyes) hints at a distinction between discretion and truth. She employs lyrically descriptive prose to pull the reader into the character's internal struggles over what they can and cannot have...and what they have, and think they want. I first met Ms. Nunez at a panel discussion, and later during a reading of her latest novel, Anna In-Between, at the 2009 Brooklyn Book Festival, and since that time she has remained one of my favorites. In Discretion, I've discovered another masterpiece that will stay with me for some time to come.

THE TRUE HISTORY OF PARADISE
In The True History of Paradise, Margaret Cezair-Thompson offers the reader a searing glimpse into that tumultuous period of Jamaican History, when the Island was struggling to break free of the constraints of its colonial past, and face the challenges that come with true independence and self-governance; all this, while absorbing the demands of competing internal visions for the country's future, juxtaposed against those of its West Indian neighbors and the not so subtle efforts of the super-power West, to protect what were considered to be its "vital interests". The narration is delivered on a grand scale, embracing a multi-ethnic (and generational) presentation that further clarifies the meaning of "Out of Many, One People".

BLUES DANCING
In this literary gem from Diane Mckinney-Whetstone, incredibly rich and moving characters leap from the page to take the reader on a West Philadelphia journey through the highs and lows of their dreams, foibles and untapped potential. Blues Dancing is a story of enduring love, exploring what happens when we test the boundaries of friendship, as well as the challenge of navigating the complex and unpredictable dynamic of human relationships. This was my first gift from Ms. McKinney-Whetstone, and now I'm anxious to add more of her works to my bookshelf.

GRACE
Well, after completing Grace, my growing admiration for Elizabeth Nunez has erupted into a full blown crush, and I was impressed with how deftly she weaved such a compelling tale about one couple's attempts to confront the challenge of their divergent opinions over what constitutes stability, happiness and fulfillment in their respective careers.  The backdrop for much of their marital discord is colored by the cultural differences that have shaped their respective upbringings: she an optimistic and creative African-American mother and Kindergarten teacher; and he, a socially traditional, Ivy League PhD graduate of West Indian (Trini) descent. This holds particular resonance for me, since the majority of my blog posts (not to mention a consistent theme underpinning the dramatic thread of my first novel, Sangster Fi' Manley), are presented with this premise in mind. Ms. Nunez is ALWAYS a treat, and this sprinkling of her literary talents was no exception.

UNBURNABLE
All I can say about this one is WOW! With Unburnable, Marie-Elena John exposes the reader to a haunting and beautiful story about one woman's search to understand herself and her past - the love that was denied her, the love she squandered and the desperate actions she will undertake in a last ditch attempt to reclaim all that has nearly been lost. Unburnable's imagery is at once disturbing and compelling, and the exquisite prose and fantastic descriptions of Dominica's lush, tropical surroundings and cultural heritage left me thirsting for more.

SATISFY MY SOUL
This was my first Colin Channer novel, and I loved taking the literary return-trip to Jamaica that he offers...particularly via Portland Parish and the hillside cottages, panoramic vistas and immediate area surrounding Rafter's Rest where my wife and I exchanged our wedding vows. Lyrical and lush, the novel reads like one big poem.  Channer has a distinctive and commanding voice, with a style (in my opinion) that is somewhat reminiscent of Eric Jerome Dickey. In Satisfy my Soul, he did a good job of juggling the presentation of the psyches of several complex and troubled characters with overall believable effect, and I look forward to sampling more works from this talented author.

Just a few observations and recommendations... from this Yank's perspective.

Two Sides of the Same Coin

2010-09-19T14:52:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-04-30T19:15:00.000-07:00

Here's how you make them...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Cuba has the ball

2009-07-30T00:32:00.000-07:00

The US doesn't need the world reminding it about the misguided, punitive nature of the Cuban embargo. That sentiment is alive and well (and has been for some time), right here in the States. Whether it's the more moderate stance being taken by conservative elements within Miami's Cuban enclaves, the dogged persistence of some members of the Congressional Black Caucus or the eagerness of the country's Business community to engage with the Cuban market, a chorus of suggestions for change is now flooding the halls of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Most agree that the embargo should be lifted, and my sense is that it's a question of when, and not if. But from a purely tactical perspective, I can understand why the President is not yet willing to do so.

President Obama has been very clear in his remarks - both prior to, and during his appearance at the Summit of the Americas, cautioning that US-Cuba relations would not change overnight. Forces of resistance continue to exist on both sides - a situation that will likely get worse before it gets better (at least in this country) in the face of vocal and sustained criticism from Latin America and the Caribbean. There are those who continue to view our leader's grace and humility only through the prism of their outdated sense of entitlement - conditioned as they are to getting their way, and certainly not being told what to do. So they will push back, and seek to frame the normalization process as one of capitulation and a sign of the country's (i.e. Obama's) weakness.

So that is a political reality that will have to be managed - with delicacy and a proper amount of time. But it should not be forgotten that it takes two parties to engage in a negotiation, and the time has come for Cuba to frankly put up, or shut up. Irrespective of what has happened (or not) with previous administrations, our current President has made a good faith effort to initiate respectful channels of communication. The fiery rhetoric of the past (some of which was on display this weekend by some Latin American leaders who just couldn't help themselves) has no place in the current dialogue - any more than the foolish assertion that an American interpretation of democracy and free market capitalism will spring up inside Cuba overnight - if at all, as posited by Robert Pastor, a former advisor who worked in the Carter Administration while making remarks that compared potential relations with Cuba to those we currently enjoy with Vietnam. But some changes will surely have to take place, and the president is justified in expecting a certain degree of reciprocation from the Castro Brothers.

And here, I think, is where the leaders of Caricom and the Union of South American Nations have a decisive role to play. As they continue to aggressively voice their support for a complete lifting of the trade embargo, it would be instructive to see them also applying pressure to Raul Castro, and the Cuban government to at least meet the United States halfway. My Mother always used to tell me, "You won't get something for nothing." Never has this been truer for the Cuban government and its people.

No longer self conscious about my accent when traveling abroad

2009-04-12T05:04:00.000-07:00

As I watched the news coverage of Obama's recent European visit, I couldn't help but feel an incredible swell of possession and pride. By no means is the man perfect (and I think he would be the first to admit so without equivocation), but damn...what a refreshing change - and what an extraordinary representative of our nation and its people. The fact that he looks like me is advantageous, but merely a side benefit to a more significant turn of events. In my humble opinion, our President embodies the best of what America has to offer - A symbol of power and change (for good), but also one of humility and cooperation. Of course, there are some on the far, unbalanced right screaming that the President was too apologetic. Frankly, I think he struck exactly the right tone - entirely consistent with how he's carried himself throughout the course of his political ascendancy. And besides, there's really no secret about the colossal mess he was left to clean up and account for.

Now, it will be interesting to see how I'm treated when traveling abroad. It's been two years since I last visited Europe - four since I walked along Jamaica's shores, and I'm really curious about the type of reception I'll get. Even during some of the darker days of #43 and the heavy prosecution of the war, Londoners were cordial and warm, and for the most part it was all good in JA , but I was on the North coast and with the exception of one day trip up into the mountains of St. Mary, and another over to Portland to get some authentic Jerk, my time was pretty much spent around the tourist enclaves of Jamaica Grande and San Souci. Been a while since I strolled through the heart of Kingston, and from what I'm told (and read in the news), things have changed a bit - so it's hard to predict how that will turn out. I was in PR recently, but that doesn't really count :) As fate would have it, I might actually be traveling to Cuba in a few months (yeah, it's a long story, but one I'll be sure to detail in a future post), and I can't begin to imagine what that's going to be like - particularly in light of recent overtures from both sides to improve relations between the two countries.

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We soon shall see...and I'll be sure to let you know!

Carolina Roots

2009-03-22T20:31:00.000-07:00

I grew up in the North, and identify comfortably with changing seasons accompanied by the occasional harsh winter and a progressive mindset rooted firmly in the Industrial centers that at one time thrived this side of the Mason Dixon Line. Yet my actual roots – the essence of the ancestral thread that defines me, lie in the Up Country dirt roads and Woodland Forests of Chesterfield County S.C. where my parents were born, and where I spent my childhood summers when my Grandmothers were still alive. Never knew my Grandfathers – Jacob died eleven days after I was born, and Huey Jr. passed when I was only One. But I knew everything there was to know about them – as conveyed by my parents and the quiet recitations of Grandmas Lula and Rebecca, respectively. Way down South…where Tobacco and Cotton Fields stretched for an eternity of Miles on either side of the road that led out of town, and where Cicadas trilled on the warm breeze of evening and the smell of Pine and Cedar filled our nostrils as we sat on Ma Beck's porch, watching darkness close a seal-tight lid on the remote, rural fields that surrounded our family’s land…terrified and transfixed, as she told only slightly embellished tales of our Elder's encounters with the Haints that inhabited those woods. During the day it was always hot – to the point that the sand would burn your feet if you dared to step out of your sandals. My cousins did it all the time, but it typically didn’t take long for me to give up my feeble attempts at conformity, as my tender feet had never quite conditioned themselves to that degree of abuse. &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
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During the week, we ate Box Lunches at Vacation Bible School; flirted with the pretty girls, and took care to avoid the retribution of the ugly ones - mad because their amorous advances were never reciprocated. On the way back to Grandma Lula’s house, we avoided the patch of ground beneath the tree where the freshly slaughtered Hog bled out before being disassembled for the parts used to make Ham, Chitterlings and Sage Sausage. Later in the afternoon, Grandma’s sing-song voice would call for us to come home, and the pack of us would arrive at her back porch, just as she was about to slice up a giant Watermelon with the shiny, Silver Machete she kept inside her back door. We would relieve ourselves in the woods while ‘on the run’, but were forced to make other arrangements when a more deliberate elimination was required. Visited only when absolutely necessary, the Out-House was just down right scary. It had been placed inside the pen where the Hogs and Chicken Coops were maintained, and once you entered the gate, you had to take care not to step on the aluminum pie pans covering the traps that were set out for coyotes and stray dogs. Securing the latch behind me, I was always afraid I’d fall down into the damn thing – horrified as I imagined what inhabited the squishy darkness below, a mere four to six feet down, beneath the rough, wooden seat on which I was perched, gasping from my playful exertions...then predictably gagging on the smell and stifling July-in-South-Carolina heat that hung heavy inside the confines of that narrow, wooden box.

Sunday services were not optional, and my Father and Uncle would sit in the front row with the other Deacons – My Mother, both Grandmothers and my Aunts in the row just behind them…and our imaginations would invariably wander to the Iced Tea and Coconut Cake we knew would be served up after a dinner of Fried Chicken, Collards, Fried Corn with Buttermilk Biscuits and Pinto Beans - all while the assembled, saved souls sang passionately of Solid Rock and Sinking Sand. After the service, we would make the obligatory walk through the adjacent cemetery to pay homage to the relatives and loved ones who’d passed on before us, and I was always struck with an immediate and powerful awareness of the rows upon rows of Black/White/Grey stones that bore chiseled evidence of the surname that was my own. And it was at that precise moment of comprehension when I began to fully appreciate the fact that this was the place from whence I had come; the foundation upon which my value system and cultural identity would be defined. These simple folk...descendans of Share Croppers and Slaves - blended from a miture of West
African, Scottish and Native American blood...that lived peacefully out in that quiet country, miles from the convenience of running water and paved roads.
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These were my people...and I was their son.

Baseball in Puerto Rico

2009-03-08T07:15:00.000-07:00

This week finds me blogging from San Juan, where I've escaped for a quick getaway to de-stress and counter the effects of too much sun deprivation. It's early in the morning, but still a very comfortable 75 degrees; that, compared to a mere 50 in New York, and a ridiculous high of 20 in Minneapolis; relative heat waves for both locales, but clearly no match for the splash of Royal Blue Sky and swaying Palm fronds framed inside the sliding glass doors of my room's balcony. I flew down with some friends on Friday to catch the Pool D Bracket of the World Baseball Classic, and to catch up on some very much needed R&R. The Fresh Seafood, strong Mojitos and some interesting baseball have made it all very much worth my while. Led by Delgado, Beltran and Pudge Rodriguez, Puerto Rico made quick work out of the boys from Panama, and with the likes of big leaguers like Pedro, Big Papi and Miguel Tejada, the DR was the consensus favorite; but all that talent, nor the throngs of Dominican supporters, shouting and waving their Island's colors like Jamaicans at a Track and Field event was enough to hold off the improbable upset orchestrated by the team from the Netherlands. Relative unknowns outmatched at nearly every position, those Brothers had something else in mind. Yeah...I did say Brothers - surprised me too when the first five batters walked out to the plate, and even more so when the entire team came up out of the dugout to whoop and applaud themselves on a successful first inning. They had names like Jansen and Schoop, but after doing a little research, I later discovered that these Dutchmen were apparently of the 'ABC' and '3S' Island variety :)

What does Obama's Presidency mean to Caribbean People?

2009-03-01T17:20:00.000-08:00

This question was recently posited by POSH Publisher and Founding Editor, Janette N. Brin. About a year ago, I stumbled across her Webzine one afternoon while performing some online research for SFM, and since then I've gone back to the site from time to time - if nothing else, just to check out the latest celeb featured on the cover, and to soak up the substantial number of colorful pages filled with some really, beautiful Black people. It's a general interest magazine that includes the standard Fashion, Political and Travel categories - but presented from a perspective that focuses on the impact made on people of Caribbean descent, and the unique contributions they bring to societies table. As you can tell from my profile and the attendant nature of my posts, I have a deep interest in exploring and better understanding the various intersections that constitute the nexus between the AFAM/Caribbean experience; so when I flipped to the Mag's Conversations section and encountered Janette's question, I had to pause for a moment of reflection - and was immediately reminded of a central theme I've been coming back to...over and over again since the election was called for Barack last November.

For me, it started with two previous experiences which in my opinion, articulate a number of underlying societal and psychological forces at work. Both occurred several years ago - the first resulting from a discussion I had with Jamaica Girl after she got upset over a comment made by Ed Gordon (back in the day when he anchored the news for BET). I don't even remember the specific context of the statement, but during the program, he mentioned something about Black Panamanians. This annoyed Jamaica Girl to no end - kind of set her off actually, and she summed up her rant by claiming that Ed was projecting a destructive (and uniquely American) obsession of color consciousness onto a region and its people who very likely would prefer not to be saddled with the same racial baggage Mr. Gordon had accumulated while growing up in Detroit. Of course, I didn't understand why she was so upset, and a lengthy conversation ensued in which I tried as best I could to defend the viewpoint (from my own perspective) that might have influenced the Brother to say what he did. Jamaica Girl wasn't having it, and went on to stridently suggest that most Americans simply didn't understand (nor were we inclined to even try) the opinions and/or world view of cultures and societies that existed beyond our own. I felt she was overreacting, and told her so; but looking back on it, I'd have to say that she was right - to a point; although I believe that her reasoning for why Mr. Gordon selected that particular color-based phraseology was a bit off the mark. Let me see if I can explain why:

At no time, do I think that Ed Gordon was ever conscious of the fact that his reference to Black Panamanians might frustrate, upset or offend certain members of his audience; nor was he projecting some type of fundamental bias regarding his socio-philosophical views. I didn't quite understand it at first, but my many years of West Indian immersion has taught me a thing or two about how I'd come to perceive myself - as an adolescent, and then later as a young man and adult; and over the years just how much my environment and the dominant culture had played into that perception. Hence, another clear example of Du Bois' theory of Double Consciousness: an awareness of one's self that is juxtaposed against an equally influential and (if not more significantly) internalized sense of being perceived by the larger world around them. For anyone born and raised in the United States, the burden of Double Consciousness has been an incredible load to bear - made even more difficult for those of us who grew up beyond the cultural reach of a major urban center, where the novelty of our skin tone, broad nose and kinky hair subjected us to an even greater degree of social segmentation. Of course we understood that we were Americans, but we were Colored/Negro/Black/ or African-American first...and not necessarily because that's the way we wanted it, but because our environment (Sitcoms, Movies, Books, the Evening News, our nation's Laws and the not so subtle opinions of members of the Paler Nation (as Stephen L. Carter likes to describe them through the characters in his books) continuously reminded us that it was so. My second revelation came during my first trip to Jamaica. I was standing on Halfway Tree Road, watching Jamaica Girl and her Sisters eat Pepper Shrimp, while I nursed a Ting and worked on my Patty. The sidewalks and streets were crowded with people - on foot, browsing the various stalls, or riding bikes and in cars interwoven with crowded mini-buses packed to overflowing with harried passengers and their bags. And I was struck by an overwhelming sense of connectedness to all those Cappuccino, Mocha and Almond faces. I was in a Black Country, administered by and for the benefit of Black people... and at some point over the course of my silly musings, I mistakenly came to believe that somehow, I too fit neatly into the foundation of that tropical, Chocolate mix - until I opened my mouth, offering up self conscious, halting responses - unable (at that time) to comprehend the rapid, lilting cadence of the Patois-laced questions directed towards me, and then further confirmed their suspicions that I was not Jamaican through unintended signals conveyed by the way I looked, walked or dressed. I'm sure that to any non-American, this might sound crazy, but I'm not joking when I tell you that that moment was the FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE that I actually felt like an American! It took going away to another country, where the layer of Double Consciousness I had grown up with was stripped away... leaving nothing but the true essence of who I was and the country I represented. Those Jamaicans on Halfway Tree Road (and Hellshire Beach, Portmore, Boston Bay, Mona and New Kingston) were not seeing another Black Man (as this fact was self evident and not worthy of further consideration). Rather, who and what they saw was an American, and through that undiluted West Indian lens of Single Consciousness, I too was able to experience it - awesomely and amazingly, for the very first time in my life!

That was a long time ago, and sometimes when I think back on it, it still shakes me to my core; to imagine the degree of influence one group of people can exert over another through the images and messages they allow to be presented - even in the face of a positive, nurturing environment where academic achievement was encouraged, and where mental and spiritual nourishment was meted out on a daily basis, such as it was in the household in which I grew up...
Which brings me back to Ed's comments, and Janette's question about the meaning of Obama's presidency to Caribbean people...

In my opinion, Ed Gordon was simply speaking through his layer of double-consciousness. I've come to recognize that many of us do this unconsciously, and in some cases, I dare say it is something we are often forced to do, given the many reason's I touched on earlier. But unlike Mr. Gordon and so many more Black Americans, Barack Obama (even though he spent a part of his childhood in the US and was no doubt reminded of how he was different) was able to master the requisite skills of introspection and self-definition that enabled him to step outside of the box that others were attempting to prescribe for him - to conceptualize his own identity and forge a relationship with his country. By following his example, and the transformative imagery of our Commander in Chief, the beautiful first lady and their two daughters as they go about their business in our nation's capital, it is my belief that over time, we Black Americans will come to define ourselves as simply Americans - and not by diluting or ignoring the unique fabric of the African heritage that defines us, but by embracing it as a factual component of who we are, and the vibrancy it brings to the composite American experience (and this point is critical) - through the clear and unvarnished lens of Single Consciousness heretofore more successfully demonstrated by our African and West Indian Brothers and Sisters; something that in the end, brings us all closer together through an enriched understanding and mutual paradigm of respect for our shared Diaspora.

Flatbush Chronicles (Dolla' Cab dem)

2009-02-08T18:34:00.000-08:00

They come in all shapes and sizes - mostly revamped Lincoln Town Cars and Mercury Marquis; outfitted in a muted rainbow of nondescript colors with mis-matched quarter panels and suspensions in need of repair. Their style is agressive; marked by bodacious K-Turns with no regard for oncoming traffic, and a predatory air as they squeeze through narrow spaces not designed for their accommodation, damn near jumping the curbs as the drivers lean heavily on their horns - ominous and threatening in their solicitation.

Once. Such is the sum total of my Dolla' Cab patronage, and I can tell you that it cost me much more than a few dollars. "Naa sufficient fare dat", my driver countered when I made the initial inquiry. "Only likkle route pon di street round here fa two dolla", he explained. As one who always carries a loaded Metrocard, I was unschooled in the ways of the Dolla' Cab fare structure, previously not having had the occasion to avail myself of their services - except this one time, when there was a disruption on the Q Line and I needed to get at least as far as Flatbush and Atlantic, where the LIRR would take me quickly out to JFK. There was a snow storm and I was running late, weighted down with a stuffed-to-capacity roller bag and far too many items in my Swiss Army backpack. Forced to wade through slush and dirty puddles of melting ice before I could reach the beat up car, it didn't even register until several blocks later that the driver had popped the latch on the trunk. I was just anxious to secure the ride and get us headed downtown, eager to escape the wet and the stinging cold. The smell of patchouli and day-old McDonald's French Fries hit me when I opened the door; that, and the sound of Gloria Gaynor asserting forcefully that on that day, she would indeed survive. Of course the driver had to stop and re-secure the flapping trunk, and by then we were stuck in the middle of Church Avenue, a Heating Oil refueling truck threatening to shear the skin off the Dolla Cab's passenger side, and a B35 Local bearing down on us from the opposite direction. The Dred at the wheel executed a wicked maneuver that caused us to lurch across Church onto East 16th Street, and in a matter of seconds, managed to incur a variety of blatant traffic violations. Ms.Gaynor's pronouncements began to wind down, at which point I picked up where she left off - praying that I too would survive.

Clearance between parked vehicles on the narrow, icy streets was tight, and we very nearly clipped a few mirrors as the driver sped further East, turning at Flatbush and then again onto Empire Boulevard along the southern flank of the Botanic Gardens. Traffic was backed up everywhere, and the cab's radio ambiance was further punctuated by a stream of intermittent shouts and blaring horns that leaked in from the outside. While I watched him like a hawk, my driver made several twisting, turning diversions that eventually pushed us North onto Washington Avenue. The tight crush of buildings gradually fell away, relenting to a more panoramic vista that brought the wide expanse of Eastern Parkway into view and after that, it wasn't long before the car rocketed across several lanes and swung sharply towards Grand Army Plaza as if suddenly released from the gravitational pull of stop and go traffic that had constrained us during the initial part of the trip.

Traffic north of Grand Army was relatively light, and before long I found myself rolling into Atlantic Terminal with plenty of time to spare. Only then, did I know for certain that I'd make my flight. The smelly, banged up Dolla' Cab had done its job!

Street Pulse (No more Hoovy Days)

2009-02-02T20:30:00.000-08:00

My Mother once told me that my Grandmother (Ma Beck as she was affectionately known) often referred to Herbert Hoover's depression era government as Dem Hoovy Days. The present day parallels to the economic turmoil of the 30's are frightening, but I'm definitely praying that eerie symmetry is short-lived. As we head into another uncertain week, corporations and individuals alike are bracing for the impact of an extended period of bloodletting, fearful and uncertain about where the proverbial 'Ax' will next cleave its sharp and expurgatory blade - OK, OK...clearly I'm going for the dramatic effect here (I haven't had much time to write creatively or work on my SFM Revisions of late), but you get my point: It's really bad out here. I'm remote this week, so I can't say firsthand whether the satellite trucks and TV Vans are currently clogging the corner of Broadway and Wall, but if history is to serve as a guidepost, my bet is that they are - or soon will be.

With the persistent wave of increasing layoffs, squabbling in DC over Obama's Stimulus Plan and recently announced limits on Bailout Funded Executive Pay, I suspect the foot traffic over to Starbucks and Mangia will be thick with reporters, camera crews and hundreds of feet worth of sheathed cable (not to mention the tourists who stand dead-still in the middle of all that mess, snapping photos of surly faced traders nurturing their nicotine habits outside the entrance to the exchange). Of all the Banks struggling out there right now, Yankee Bwoy's current client is doing relatively well - still, they sent out a recent round of pink slips that affected 4 to 10 % of their permanent staff, cutting across all departments; so it's clear that even the healthy companies are preparing for a season of pruning. Said Client's Stock price did experience a positive bounce over the past week, but still...

Let's hope our current recess doesn't slip into the type of severe, economic contraction not seen in this country since Ma Beck and her Sharecropper contemporaries bravely endured the hardships of dem Hoovy Days.

Jamaican Reparations?

2009-01-25T00:05:00.000-08:00

Last week I found an interesting article in the Gleaner; seems the Jamaican government has authorized a commission to look into the matter of reparations for the descendants of persons formerly held as slaves on the Island. Hmmm. Now that's interesting, because whenever this topic surfaces in the media, it's usually focused on the experience of Blacks in the United States - I suspect because of our particularly crippling legacy here and the substantial impact the institution has had on American society in general, and race relations in particular. So I did a double-take of sorts when I first scanned the headline, because for me, the cumulative effects of Slavery, Jim Crow and Institutional Apartheid have always somehow felt more ominous than accounts of Slavery that existed on the Caribbean Islands where the practice fell away (in Jamaica's case as early as 1838) far sooner than it did over here. I suppose that's technically true, but given our propensity to sometimes limit our curiosity to events that only take place within our borders, a critical sense of perspective would be lost by holding on to that particular view.

Given my own family's history as related through stories passed down by my parents and other relatives (see factoid about my Maternal Great Grandfather included in my Profile), I obviously have some very specific feelings on the subject. The household I grew up in wasn't overly demonstrative, but we were affectionate none the less, and not shy about expressing it, which was consistent with the degree of importance we attributed to all things familial. When we hosted guests or visited with other relatives, I was the type of child who liked to listen in on the adult conversations - hanging back on the periphery of the grown people talk to decode, absorb and digest; for invariably some nugget of useful data could always be gleaned about the people and places from whence I had come. Subsequently, I've always felt this connective thread back to my ancestors and often wonder about the challenges they were forced to endure; whether it was Slavery and the Civil War, Jim Crow hostilities in a bitter, Confederate-loyal South Carolina, Dem Hoovy Days (which is how my Grandmother referred to the Depression Era government of Herbert Hoover), or the challenges of the Civil Rights movement - hence, the connective thread I mentioned earlier...right down to my own experience as the first person of color to attend the Catholic Elementary school in the small Midwestern town where I grew up.

Obviously, my particular focus has been good in many respects - chief among them, the fact that I have a clearly defined sense of who I am. But I'm just now beginning to appreciate other aspects of the Diaspora that until now, had failed to attract my notice; such as the more obvious fact that the stain of Slavery left a much larger footprint - one that extended beyond the shores of the this country and subsequently led to other, equally harmful conditions - policies and programs such as the prosecution of Britain's Sus Laws back in the 80's, Color Stratifications and the debate over racial quotas at Universities in Brazil today, or the overall lingering impact of Colonialism – vis-a-vis the Uptown vs. Garrison mindset still lingering in certain segments of Caribbean society. As for the article, it appears the idea was originally floated back in 2007 by then Opposition Minister of Transport and Works, Michael Henry. During the highly charged election cycle of that year, and subsequent return to power for the JLP, the movement stalled somewhat, but since then has recently been reintroduced by current Minister of Information, Culture, Youth and Sports, Olivia Grange. It will be interesting to see how this plays out; and especially how the United Kingdom, and I imagine to a lesser extent Spain, respond to the commission's findings. In taking his response, the Gleaner quoted MP Henry as saying:

"My position is that the United Kingdom Government paid the slave owners and they have not yet paid the slaves and therefore my position is the same amount you paid the slave owners you must now pay the slaves, compounded over the period of time".

Hmmm. Yes, I think this is going to be very interesting indeed. On some level, I concur with MP Henry's basic assertion (at least one I assume he's making) - that governments and society as a whole, share a collective, moral obligation to confront the crime of Slavery and the attendant, long term effects that have been perpetrated on vast segments of the populace. However, I'm still debating with myself as it relates to the specific form that redress should take. I'll have to continue thinking about that - especially in this new era of Obama. Perhaps I'll have to make that a topic for a future post :)