Beach Apartheid In Jamaica A Polarising Force

Letter of the Day published in The Daily Gleaner, Friday December 4
THE EDITOR, Sir:
I just returned from Grenada, where I spent a wonderful week.
As I sat on their premier beach, Grande Anse, I couldn’t help but compare and contrast Grenada’s approach to beach management and what I see happening here in Jamaica.
Grande Anse Beach, Grenada
The best beaches in Jamaica are open to all – but at a price.
Doctor’s Cave, Frenchman’s Cove, and Bamboo Beach Club are some of our most beautiful beaches that allow you entry once you pay anywhere between J$600 and J$800 per person. Work that out for a family of four.
Having paid that, you are not allowed to carry your own beach chair or picnic.
On beautiful Grand Anse, you pay no admission fee. You can carry your chair. Or you can rent from people who have chairs for rent. Some carry their chair, but the chair-rental man still makes a living from those who opt not to carry their own chair.
You can carry your picnic, or you can buy food from vendors outside the beach or from the one restaurant actually located on the beach.
There is free Wi-Fi along the length of the beach.
Garbage bins were strategically placed and managed, and all locals and tourists used them. The beach was clean. Tourists and locals freely intermingled, giving visitors the authentic Grenadian experience. Note, too, that there are hotels located along the stretch of beach called Grande Anse and the visitors use the same beach that non-visitors use.
Beach police patrol the stretch. There is very little hawking of wares on the beach. There is no loud, intrusive music.
If you need to use a restroom, there are facilities run by the State that you can use once you pay a small fee to the attendant on duty.
Here in Jamaica, it feels as if we deliberately set out to create a polarised society and a context where select people get to enrich themselves at the expense of others. We can all coexist. Look at Grande Anse!
KELLY MCINTOSH

Road Trip to Paradise Neglected: Parottee, Jamaica

We both needed it. Life gets stressful. So off to Parottee, St. Elizabeth we went.

Evidence of recent rains was a welcome sight as we headed west along the south coast. Clarendon which was parched just a few weeks ago showed signs of new life in the now green bush and the barely there trickle in the river. We made our way through Porus and climbed the hill into cool, evergreen Mandeville. A quick stop for ice at the top of Spur Tree ensured that we would be in business when we arrived at our final destination. Driving through Jamaica is one of the pleasures we still enjoy.

Three and a half hours after starting out (yes..we drive slowly) we were there: Parottee. Parottee is a small fishing village just beyond Black River. It has a West End, Negril vibe: chill, organic and very laid back. It’s laid out along a straight road running along the coast. The beach is not white sand though…it brownish, silty stuff that renders the sea itself kind of cloudy, and it does take some getting used to.

Road Trip Jamaica details: Overnight Stop at Idler’s Rest

H had made arrangements for us to overnight at one of several guest houses that exist in Parotee: Idler’s Rest.  Reviews on Trip Advisor warned us, but we go where angels fear to tread! “Strength…no weakness!”

Well…first warning: the parking lot was empty save for a lone pickup with a man and someone who was obviously his apprentice. H called it: “Lord…that looks like the plumber!” I remarked that we already have plenty of practice with buckets, so let’s rock and roll. As it turned out, it was the plumber. And yes, we had water issues. But I digress…

The hotel was obviously planned and decorated by an artist…the little touches and accent pieces are evidence enough. But it has an abandoned feel to it. I swear that we were the only ones there.

 

Idlers Rest boutique hotel in Parotee Jamaica
Idlers Rest in Parotee Jamaica

 

Basic room…very basic…

When a Jamaica Road Trip Involves a Boat Ride!

H had arranged a little adventure for us. YASSS! A fishing boat, arranged through the hotel, pulled right up on the shore. A well dressed, pleasant Huggie helped us into the pretty little fishing boat, equipped with a 60HP engine (a single outboard engine…yikes!) and off we went. We were headed for the famous Floyd’s Pelican Bar…a rugged construction in the middle of the ocean where one can go to drink, eat and soak up a very special vibe.

 

Huggie and his vessel. See the colour of the sand?

Along the way….

We moved along parallel to the coast before turning right to get to our final destination which was a mile offshore.

Captain Huggie at the controls!
Abandoned hotel in Parotee being claimed by the sea.
Pelicans?
Niceness galore



Approaching final destination 20 minutes later…

Totally unexpected!

 

Almost there…
Road Trip Jamaica Pelican Bar
Pelican Bar Jamaica

 

Final destination: Pelican Bar!

We ate…

 

Jamaica keto food Lobster stew at Pelican Bar Jamaica
Lobster stew at Pelican Bar Jamaica

Lobster stew…cabbage was plentiful in St. Elizabeth and so they used it! He confirmed that he was going to add coconut milk to the final product…I had to ask…

The Jacks were running, so that’s what was served….along with the freshest bammies ever.
Idlers at rest




We met…

Beautiful face of Parottee…

 

Young Serbian come to Jamaica as a fitness instructor. He carried his chicken & rice n peas to Pelican 🙂

No question as to where we were…

 

The rain came down and we all huddled under the thatched portions, warmed by the typical Jamaican libations on offer.

H and Floyd. This is all Floyd’s vision.
After the rain…

Jamaica Road Trip: Scenes from Parottee…

Someone’s thinking green in Parottee….

 

Signs of neglect and decay and dead dreams…
Wetlands in Parottee

 

Wetlands in Paraottee…

Parottee could easily be another Treasure Beach…there’s enough to go around. Of course massive investments would be needed in order to move from neglect to prosperity. And for investments to flow, a master developmental plan is needed: think music festivals, community tourism, literary festivals, sporting events, regattas, and so on. Treasure Beach is a short drive away and there’s enough to see in the parish of St. Elizabeth to keep visitors engaged and interested: Black River tours, Lovers Leap, day excursions to Negril, immersion in the life of the locals on the fishing beach. The plan would have to include training, beautifying the community and ensuring security. All very doable. All urgently needed.

The poverty in Parottee is real and palpable. You can see the shifts in relative wealth as you transition from Black River (bustling town with shops, markets, etc.) to Parottee (struggling fishing village..small, mean residences, abandoned hotels, bush…) to Treasure Beach (quaint, rustic, organised artists haven)

We’ll be back… promise….

 

What does Independence Day Mean to You?

My thoughts published in the Jamaica Gleaner, August 6 2015
https://jamaica-gleaner.com/article/news/20150806/myreport-what-does-independence-day-mean-you

Kelly McIntosh: August 6 in the land of my birth, Jamaica, marks 53 years of Independence from Great Britain. Fifty three years ago we sang our own national anthem and raised our own flag. ‘Jamaica 53: Proud and Free’ is the theme this year. Really? Who says?
There are two Jamaicas: One where the schools are clean and quiet and teachers speak respectfully to students. And there is one where children crowd into noisy, hot classrooms and are expected to learn.
There’s one Jamaica where you get justice if you have the money to pay for it. There’s another Jamaica where you are tossed roughly from side to side inside the bowels of the justice system and hope for the best. You often don’t get it.
There’s a Jamaica that’s filled with boat rides to Lime Cay and outings to the movies, and another Jamaica where you hang out on the corner to grab a little cool air. There’s one Jamaica that moves about in high-off-the-ground air-conditioned vehicles and another Jamaica that moves around in tightly packed public buses, fighting to keep sane on your way to work and school, and where you long to get home in the evening just to do it all over again in the morning.
There’s the Jamaica where you dare not get ill on a Saturday evening or public holiday. There’s one Jamaica where we lock up tightly in gated communities or behind high walls, where security codes are a way of life and private security companies are on speed dial. Then there’s the other Jamaica where four-year-olds instinctively roll under the bed at the sound of a gun-shot — and they know the difference between gun shots and ‘clappers’.
I cannot ignore the two Jamaicas. And it is the reality of these two Jamaicas that gives me pause on our 53rd anniversary.

The Broken Windows Theory & Policing in Jamaica: “To protect, Serve and Reassure…those who matter”

Once upon time, in a small, quiet community in West Rural St. Andrew, a homeowner came from work one evening confronted by the sight of an old white station waggon on blocks, on the sidewalk almost opposite his front gate. It was a jarring sight: this old, disabled car, an ugly blemish on the green, rustic landscape. Days passed, each day seeing another part of the car missing. One day it had only one door instead of two. The next day, the bonnet was gone. On yet another day, the dashboard had been taken. The car was being scrapped right on the sidewalk, in the middle of this small, quiet community.
The homeowner typically left for work by 7am and returned home after 7pm. He relied on his housekeeper to inform him of the activity around the (not so) abandoned car. She reported that the car’s owner had some connection to the house opposite his…he helped to build it, he claimed, and it was actually his mother’s property, now rented out. He promised that the car would be moved, that he just needed a little more time.
After six weeks of facing this almost shell of a car wreck on blocks, in front of his gate, the homeowner reported the matter to the local police. He reasoned that sufficient time had elapsed and he preferred not to get into an argument with someone who appeared to be comfortable with scrapping a car piece by piece on the sidewalk over an extended period of time. Furthermore, any opportunity to interact with the scrapper would demand a change to his own schedule, awaiting Mr. Scrapper’s attendance at the wreck. This matter of a scrapped car, perched on blocks on the sidewalk, was most certainly an issue of law and order, easily dealt with by the police, he reasoned.
He was in for a rude awakening. 
Ten weeks elapsed, and the shell of the car was still on the sidewalk opposite his gate. One morning, Mr. Homeowner’s wife was leaving for work and she saw two men “working” on the car. She stopped and attempted to pleasantly engage the men, seeking to elicit some sort of timeline and commitment for disposing of the wreck. She was greeted with hostility from one of the men who claimed ownership of the wreck. He angrily sought to justify the presence of the wreck on “his sidewalk” since the sidewalk adjoined “his mother’s house, the house weh him broad out him back fi help har build!” He went on to rant about the homeowner going to the police instead of trying to find him first, and declared “ah nuh so we fi live!”.  Mrs. Homeowner, a bit intimidated, but resolute, politely ended the discussion with: “Anyway, it really doesn’t belong here. Please seek to get it removed sooner rather than later.”
Twelve weeks elapsed, and the wreck was still on the sidewalk. By this time, it was a mere chassis. Note that at the end of 6 weeks having not heard from the police or seeing any resolution, Mr. Homeowner stepped up inquiries of the local police. He made a total of 7 visits to the police station, spoke with a superintendent of police on the matter and went on to report said issue to a senior superintendent of police. In discussions with the police, Mr. Homeowner confirmed that the property was not stolen, and the person responsible was known to the police and was being ‘given time’ to remove the item and clean the mess. Mr. Homeowner remains adamant that the presence of this shell and garbage is a public health and security risk.

In reviewing this story and how it might play out, the “Broken Windows Theory” immediately came to mind. The Broken Windows Theory, posited by Wilson and Kelling in 1982, seeks to make a link between disorder and more serious crime. The theory was born out of the following observations and reasoning: a building with a few broken windows is likely to have other windows broken by vandals eventually, said vandals going on to eventually break in and even become squatters. Consider also a clean sidewalk. Some litter accumulates. This leads to more litter. And even more litter as people conclude that this is an unpoliced situation where anything can and does go.
Wilson and Kelling maintain that disorder, while not directly linked to more serious crime, certainly leads to increased fear and withdrawal from residents, which creates a context for more serious crime to flourish. Residents will grow cynical as to the role and efficacy of the police, and fail to report violations they see or experience. Persons of mal-intent will quickly identify this context as one where they can do as they like and more than likely get away with it.
That the actions of the man scrapping this car on the sidewalk are against the law is beyond debate. His actions constitute a breach of section 45 & 46 of the National Solid Waste Management Act.
Section 45 definitively states that every person who disposes of solid waste in any area or in any manner not approved by the Authority…commits an offence and shall be liable on summary conviction before a Resident Magistrate to a fine not exceeding one million dollars or to imprisonment for a term not exceeding nine months or to both such fine and imprisonment
Section 46 continues: (1) A person commits an offence if he- (a) throws, drops or otherwise deposits and leaves any litter in any public place; or (b) erects, displays (whether by writing, marking or otherwise), deposits or affixes anything in a public place or on any building, wall, fence or structure abutting or adjoining a public place, in such circumstances as to cause, contribute to or tend to the defacement of that place, building wall, fence or structure, as the case may be, and shall be liable to a penalty under section 53.
The law continues to guide law enforcers as to their response to breeches of this act in Section 53: Where an authorized officer finds a person on any occasion and has reason to believe that on that occasion that person is committing or has committed an offence to which this section applies, he may serve that person with the prescribed notice in writing offering the discharge of any liability to conviction of that offence by payment of a fixed penalty under this section…
To provide even more clarity, here are definitions under the law that remove all doubt as to the legality of the scrapping and abandoning of the car on the sidewalk:
“authorized officer”: any member of the Jamaica Constabulary Force
“litter”: solid waste in any public place and includes any refuse, rubbish, bottles, glass, debris, dirt, rubble, ballast, stones, noxious or contained substances or waste matter or any other matter likely to deface, make untidy, obstruct or cause a nuisance in a public place
“public place”:  includes every public highway, street, road, square, court, alley, lane, bridle way, footway, parade, wharf, jetty, quay, bridge, sidewalk, verge;
After twelve weeks and numerous reports, Mr. Homeowner has reasonably concluded that the police have failed to uphold the law in this situation. The police have been unresponsive. The chassis remains on the sidewalk. Mr. Scrapper remains free. The police, by refusing to act decisively and uphold the law where this scrapped car is concerned, have now created a context that exposes this community to the possibility of even more serious crime.
Indeed, the police have spoken to the offender. This is evidenced by Mr. Scrapper’s anger when speaking to Mrs. Homeowner. One gets the feeling that the police have framed their discussion with this known offender from the point of view of the homeowner: “Mr. So and So wants you to move that car from in front of his home” rather than framing the offence from the point of view of the law! Had the police engaged him by pointing out the offence as it is framed in law, they could have prevented the tension that exists because Mr. Scrapper feels that Mr. Homeowner “a give him a fight.” There are too many examples in Jamaica of lives being lost as a result of interactions borne out of unchecked, escalating tensions between parties; disorder giving rise to so called serious crime.
If Mr. Homeowner sees suspicious activity in a nearby residence, who could blame him if he opts not to report it to the police? He can reasonably conclude after all, that the police are selective in how they go about serving, reassuring and protecting. More serious crime can potentially move in to this community now in the face of decreased levels of informal social control.
The Broken Windows Theory and policing are not without criticism. There are studies showing that zero tolerance has led to uneven prosecution in some areas, minorities being targeted and punished for very minor infractions at a higher rate than their white counterparts in the USA for example.
It would suit the police and political directorate here in Jamaica to consider this approach to crime fighting, however.  We have seen a general decline in law and order: loud music way into the night, filthy cities and communities, deliberate ignoring of zoning laws in residential neighbourhoods seeing a rise in commercial activity, savoury and otherwise (think massage parlours) increased road fatalities from reckless driving and on and on. What have we to lose from an approach that treats with such offences as prescribed by the law? The police appear to be selective in which laws they opt to enforce and how they enforce them. This surely is not their right!
After three months, the police still have an opportunity to do the right thing and re-establish a context of law and order in that West Rural St. Andrew community where a scrapped chassis remains a blemish, health risk and security risk, and an obvious affront to the laws of the land. They must immediately act as the law demands, making it clear that the offender’s actions go beyond upsetting Mr. Homeowner, that they are in clear contravention of the law. They still have an opportunity to act and in so doing, dissuade potential lawbreakers seeing a slow decline in standards in the community from adding to the disorder. They still have an opportunity prevent and possibly reverse the disenchantment and resentment that Mr. Homeowner and his family may feel, maintaining these critical allies, the citizens, without whom crime fighting can never work.
Selective enforcement of the law strips the police of legitimacy, rendering their efforts at crime fighting null and void.

Were this another community, say Kingston 8, or were the sidewalk in front of the Prime Minister’s residence or in front of Mr. Captain of Industry’sor indeed in front of the Commissioner of Police’s residence, would the police response to an abandoned chassis be the same as it has been in this West Rural St. Andrew community?  On what basis does the police decide which laws to enforce and when? “To Serve, Protect and Reassure” is the stated motto of the Jamaica police. Their lack of responsiveness to an action that is in direct contravention of the law of the land suggests that their motto would more accurately read: “To serve, protect and reassure those who matter…” 

The Visit: Yes We Can Clean Up Kingston (apparently!)

President Barack Obama has inspired millions, not just in the USA but the world over. Mr. Obama symbolizes possibility, hope and change. President Obama and his family serve as the face for what family means, specifically, what Black Family means. The Obamas present an alternative to the reality of many and an inspiration for what can be.
Many of here in Jamaica watched with bated breath and crossed fingers as Americans voted for their first black president. His words during his 2009 inauguration inspired Americans, Africans and indeed citizens of the world, as he articulated a vision of a New America, one where everyone would have the same opportunities, of a world where America would co-exist with the other nations on the planet through diplomacy and a focus on mutual benefit rather than seeking to police and wield a big stick. He quoted George Washington: “Let it be told to the future world that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive, that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet it.” This was a timely and relevant message to me personally at a very low point in my own life. I kept on moving. I kept hope alive in my heart.

Jamaica welcomes him with open arms. I am so happy that we seem able to clean house and put our best foot forward to welcome this historic, inspirational figure.  I hope with all my heart that we make a significant impression on Mr. Obama. I hope that he will remember his visit to Jamaica long after he leaves the White House.
It is our own government that I take issue with. Daily we plead with our government for good roads, for garbage collection, for street lights to be repaired, for even an appearance of order. Literally overnight, our government has transformed areas of our city Kingston into oases of clean, orderly, beauty. What we have been clamouring for is apparently not impossibility! What has happened is more than mere clean up to receive and honour distinguished and worthy guests. This is a slap in the face of us tax payers who are forced to exist and live in squalor. To be very clear: it’s the absolute absence of any semblance of reasonable governance ordinarily that makes the preparation for The Visit so offensive.

Let us take pictures of “Kingston Face Lifted” as evidence of what can be done, literally overnight, if government simply makes a decision.

Independence: Nothing more than a warm and fuzzy feeling at best. Remembering Tisha.

I’m sad. In 1962 Jamaicans were hopeful as we claimed our independence from Britain. It is 2015. Here we are. It makes the news when an eternally malfunctioning elevator at the public hospital in Kington is fixed. Horror stories, almost unbelievable, about the absence of basic medical supplies in the public health system become a daily fixture on radio talk shows.  Bombarded with one political scandal after another (think Trafigura, Cuban Light Bulb, Manat-Phillips-Phelps, Finsac, Tivoli incursion to name a few) our numbness renders us impassive to constitutional breeches that could have serious repercussions down the road. If you’ve ever been the position of having to find suitable hires, then I need not regale you with how the educational system has failed. We have had rehashed anti-crime programmes thrust upon us ad naseum, with nothing but rising crime, more sophisticated in its organisation. The generation before my own has failed, and I suspect that my own children will say that we have failed them too. We haven’t fought for better. We have tolerated mediocrity, and some of us have been complicit when it suited a personal agenda.

This morning I remembered Tisha*. Tisha was a HEART trainee with the organisation. She was quiet and diligent. She was well spoken and shy. One morning she brought some documents to my office for my signature. She greeted me with her quiet voice and pleasant smile. As I scanned the documents and signed, we began talking. I am a prober by nature. I stopped signing and sat back. She had caught my attention with her thoughtful, well constructed answers to my probing. It turned out that Tisha had 10 CSEC subjects, sciences included. Yet here she was, a filing clerk in a programme that demanded no more than 4 CSEC subjects.

“I wanted to go to 6th form to do A levels and then head on to University to do medicine. But my family couldn’t afford it. My father told me that it was time for me to get a job and do my part.” 

I probed further.

“I wanted to do medicine” she explained with a sad smile.

“So what is your plan B then?” I insisted.

Tisha was stumped. The notion of a plan, much less a plan B had never occurred to her.

“Listen” I said…”Med school may be out of your reach. Let me be honest with you. But that does not mean that you have to put all professional aspirations on hold. If I told you that you could go to University, but that you couldn’t do medicine, what would you do?”

“Accounts” she offered.

“Now we can plan!” I said excitedly.

“But I have to have A levels” she said worriedly.

“No, no, no! To do A levels now would add years and cost to your journey. Here’s what you can do: get out of this HEART internship and get a real job. Then apply to UTECH. Then apply for a student’s loan.”

We had the start of a plan. Every week I’d check with Tisha re: the job hunt. In about 2 months she told me that she had a firm offer that would pay her much more than the HEART position. I guided her with respect to the timing of the resignation from HEART. I took her to the Students Load Bureau and guided her application to UTECH.

Tisha moved on. I heard that she was doing a degree in Business Admin at UTECH and I rejoiced. Tisha had been suffering a double whammy: lack of resources and lack of guidance.

I ran into Tisha about 4 years later at the public library. We embraced, and then she introduced me to her toddler daughter shyly. I cut straight to to chase: “So did you finish your degree?”

“No” she replied softly, head down. “I had one more year to do, but I had to stop.”

I encouraged her to enquire about the possibility of doing it part-time, and of the need to marshal all her resources into completing that degree.

I never kept in touch. I hope her story ended well.

Free education was never really free. As a nation we never defined how education would be paid for. The result has been a diminishing quality of product year after year after year.

Decades after so called independence, our safety nets and support structures for a marginalized population are not at all robust. Our young lack opportunities and guidance. Independence bestowed a warm and fuzzy feeling. Not a thing more.

What next then?

I suspect that we will have to an about face for better to come. The current trajectory, be it green or orange will continue the descent into poverty, inequity and hopelessness.

*name changed

My Fondest Christmas Memories: A letter to my Family

Happy Christmas Family!
As I was driving home from work earlier this week, the hosts on the radio talk show that I was tuned in to, started reminiscing on their fondest Christmas memories. That started me thinking…what are my own fondest Christmas memories?  I smiled as I recalled them and thought that it would be nice to share with the Circle of Truth and my own children. 
So I’ve just dressed the ham and popped it back into the oven. Rachael and I have done a callaloo quiche and made red velvet cupcakes, Nicholas and I cooked ackee and saltfish, Dave seasoned a roaster and jerked a chicken for Christmas Eve snacking, and I’ve cut up and seasoned some sirloin for beef and pineapples tomorrow.  So while I wait for everything to cool before I close the kitchen for the night, I figured that this would make a great time to write.
When I think of Christmas, my absolutely fondest memory is of Christmas morning service at Holy Innocents church in La Digue, Grenada. We went a few times I think…as visitors to the island at first, and later when we lived there.  Christmas mornings were damp and cool and dark. That Grenada smell, that La Digue smell…cocoa, nutmeg, wet grass, served as the back drop for this Christmas morning experience.  We got hot cocoa and off we went to this beautiful chapel with the outstanding acoustics. The chapel had a real bell that was rung. Greetings were friendly and familial, offered in hushed tones, so as not to disturb the peace of Christmas morning.  We sang traditional carols and recited the liturgy. There was something majestic yet comforting about the rituals in this Church of England, encouraging reflection and worship. I loved everything about Christmas morning at Holy Innocents in Grenada.
Right alongside my fond memories of Christmas morning in that old chapel in Grenada are my memories of the annual Jamaica Defence Force carol services. The open air carol service in Up Park Camp, Jamaica, held on the polo field, under a canopy of light bulbs strung end to end across the field marked the beginning of Christmas for us. The military band transformed those old standards into anthems and we sang along lustily. Soldiers, some nervous as hell, did the readings. We laughed at the errors they made, and squirmed anxiously awaiting the grand climax at the end: the singing of “Silent Night” when all the lights went out leaving only lit candles and the stars in the heavens as our light. It was so beautiful. It was so regal. I really felt lucky and privileged to be there. And the moment the final benediction was offered,  we children scrambled to collect programs left behind. The winner was the one who collected the most programs. Simple fun, moments that became part of the kaleidoscope of my own life’s experiences.
The best gift I’ve ever received was that Christmas when we got scooters. “We” consisted of Jaimie, Abby and me. Joe, Anna and Sam weren’t born yet.  I had no idea that we were going to get them. I remember jumping on that thing in my red and white long nightie Christmas morning, hair flying behind me as I scooted by.  What joy! I can’t remember ever receiving another gift that matched that one in my opinion (except for a Princess Leia doll that Auntie Maggie gave me…I loved that doll for many, many years.)
Christmas eatings were always a huge production. I suppose coming from such a huge family meant that this was inevitable. Recollection of the details are hazy.  We always had ham, rice and peas and a whole heap more dishes. We drank sorrel. We shelled gungu peas from Daddy’s garden until our fingers were black.  We cleaned sorrel again from Daddy’s garden, our poor little hands prickly for hours after with the fine hairs that came off the sorrel flowers. The shelling and cleaning were done in the days leading up to Christmas in a circle characterized by a whole heap of talking and joking, sometimes while watching TV.
    
Grandma baked her special fruit cakes. Fruits were soaked for weeks prior.  On baking day she solemnly took down the yabba. We children were pressed into creaming butter and sugar. If I close my eyes now I can bring to mind the smells of her baking: the fruits, the rose water, the spices… I am not a fruit cake/Christmas cake fan, but Grandma’s cake… ah boi…
And there was Sgt. Riley’s Christmas cake, which sat in all its glory on the sideboard, begging to be cut every time we walked past. This Christmas cake, encased in Riley’s special royal icing, was eaten over the course of weeks from December to January. It was the never ending cake.
I remember the crowds. Yes, crowds.  Even as a child, I found dealing with my large family stressful. Seriously. I think this is why I can’t remember Christmas dinner details. The thought of the work associated with staging this family dinner brought on instant fatigue and an overwhelming desire to just lock myself in my room until it was all over.  And you know that the guest list was never confined to just family.  Mummy and Daddy always had an extended guest list: officers under daddy’s command, the unattached and less fortunate people from the church.  Our parents set an excellent example of extending one’s self, one that, to be truthful, I haven’t really emulated. I remain firmly in my own comfort zone of small gatherings at Christmas, unwilling to take on the stress of hosting huge affaires. I’ll do better, guys…maybe J 
I took a break just before the paragraph above to sample the ham. We all did! Delicious as expected. I’m back. Tomorrow we’ll have breakfast: callaloo quiche, mushroom frittata, ham, ackee and saltfish, waffles, coffee and orange juice.  Then we’ll have dinner.  Mrs. Mac, Dianne and JJ, and my former colleague and friend Claude will round out the guest list. We’ll have ham, roasted chicken, bread and bacon stuffing, sweet n sour beef, curried shrimp, roasted veggies, salad, candied sweet potatoes, green gungu rice n peas, roasted beet and corn salad.  It will be fun.  The children will open their gifts. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get a gift too! Sometimes I feel guilty that I haven’t done such a good job at teaching my children to extend themselves at Christmas.  I hope that they have fond memories of Christmas and create traditions of their own too.
Well, it’s almost midnight. Off to lock up the kitchen and put away stuff. Happy Christmas, Guys.  I love you all. 

Kelly

Justice, Truth be Ours Forever…What does Justice look like?

Poor Governance… What are our options?


I was frustrated with the present government. I watched our Prime Minister deliver the main address at the PNP annual conference. I listened carefully. “So this is as good as it gets with the PNP? What are our options?” I was desperate for an alternative. But when I looked across to “greener” pastures, that hope dimmed. I blogged then about our need for a credible alternative, and opined that in their present state, I did not think that the JLP was much of a choice. I begged the JLP. I pleaded with them.


I was challenged, on separate, unrelated occasions by two people that I think highly of, whose opinions I respect, to think carefully about what I was saying. Their common thesis was “how can a credible alternative reside in another creature of the same system?” (my words). Think about it. How different are the JLP and the PNP really? Was I looking for mere respite or was I in search of a systemic fix?


The Tivoli Incursion and the Commission of Enquiry into it.

In May 2010, under a JLP government, turmoil in the community of Tivoli, itself a JLP garrison, resulted in 72 civilians being killed. Having initially resisted an extradition order for “community leader” Christopher Coke, then PM Golding eventually capitulated and ordered the security forces to enter Tivoli, where it was thought he was hiding, and extract Coke for hand over to the US authorities. Conflict arose when the security forces came smack dab against resistance from elements in Tivoli. The entire city remained on lock down for a few days. Property was destroyed. People died.  The nation and the world were appalled at what happened.

The Don Reigns Supreme

What were these barricades supposed to do? Who erected them?
Security Forces Ordered In… to do what exactly? What was their mission?

Fast forward to December 2014. The PNP is now in power and with the support of several civic groups and other agencies, has convened a Commission of Enquiry (COE) the terms of reference of which are summarised here.  It seems to me that the aims of this COE fall into two camps: discovery and recommendation. The events leading up to the incursion, the actions of the security forces and the impact on the people and community are all within the scope of the enquiry and the Commission has been tasked as follows: “The Commission… shall make a full and faithful report on and recommendations concerning the aforesaid matters, and transmit the same to His Excellency the Most Honourable Governor General, within two (2) months after concluding its enquiry.”
How Useful are Commissions of Enquiry

How many COEs have we seen in this island since Independence from Britain in 1962?
What has come out of them?
Has governance improved?
Has the standard of living of our people moved up?


The Tivoli COE: Facing what’s in the Mirror

We are now into the second week of the Tivoli COE and I am disturbed.
What I have seen and heard have caused me to confront some of my own prejudices and some ugly truths about Jamaica in 2014.

Maiden Cay
Out of Many, Two Jamaicas

Hellshire


From Day 1 of the enquiry, I have grappled with this observation:The COE is being conducted in two languages. For the most part, the people giving testimony are doing so in Patois, but the lawyers are questioning in English. The need for clarification has come up repeatedly. Conflict between the written statements of the witnesses and what they are actually saying in the enquiry come up over and over again. You see, the people speak only Patois. But their written statements are in English. Are the discrepancies evidence of lies or are they misalignments, “lost in translation” as it were ? 


I searched myself to uncover the discomfort I felt listening to the two languages operating in the same space. I think that it demonstrates that though we are “out of many” we are certainly not one Jamaica. We know this intrinsically (KPH vs Tony Thwaites, Prep school vs Primary School, Ft Clarence vs Maiden Cay, air conditioned SUV vs JUTC…) but the language divide throws this sad truth into sharp relief.  “Sad” truth because despite the passage of time…the years since 1838, the years since 1944, the years since 1962, right now, in 2014, with successive governments of our own choosing, from among us, there is a part of Jamaica that struggles to simply communicate with the seemingly more powerful, more resourced, more articulate in the universally accepted language of the World, part of Jamaica. With so much “lost in translation” will the nation get the truth? Will all stories be told and be understood? And if at the end of the day truth is not revealed, then what’s the use?  

Then there is the other question I asked myself in the face of the inability of sections of our population to converse fluently in English: are we really equipped to compete globally? Who else in the world speaks patois? This is not elitism at work. It is a simple, pragmatic question. I am not an academic seeking to publish an interesting paper on Patois speakers and their inherent expressiveness. Or on the history and structure of Patois as a language. All of that is nice, and it fills journals and makes for great presentations at international conferences. Jamaica has to compete globally. We have to communicate, express, market and sell. Think on these things.

What does Justice Look Like?

Albeit early days, most of the citizens testifying have come around to the matter of restitution. They want money. Sure some of them have declared that they want recognition as people, that they felt as if they were treated as animals. But it always comes back to money. I was again disturbed by this. How can they want justice yet they always come back to money? I was challenged when I voiced my discomfort: “So what does justice look like to you, Kelly? And what do you think justice looks like to that woman whose son was killed in Tivoli, Kelly? What does it look like to that man who was beaten, Kelly? Whose picture of justice is right?” 

My picture of justice is filtered through my middle class lens. My basic needs are taken care of: I eat, I have shelter, I am safe, I am loved and I love. I have the space, fiscal and intellectual, to contemplate more seemingly abstract concepts of universal fairness, governance systems and sustainable development, for example. What if I did not know where my next meal was coming from? What if I felt oppressed by State Agencies put in place to enforce the law of the land, but I lived in a community with its own code of conduct, where loyalty and obedience to the Don were the immediate imperative, my survival depending on how well I did this? What if this was all I knew? After all, I had never traveled or read or conceived of an alternative way of living… What would justice look like to me then?

I don’t think that the mechanism of a Commission of Enquiry will uncover truth. All sides are lawyering up in order to get/preserve their version of justice. Just as I am not naive enough to believe that just because you speak English while wearing a suit means that you are telling the truth, I am not naive enough to believe that your colourful, expressive testimony in patois with your wrapped head and humble skirt means truth. Lies are told in both Patois and English. Motivations are the same: self protection and self enrichment. So where do we go from here?
The Cause of the Problem cannot be the Solution to the Problem

Consider this: Garrisons and Dons are a construct of the Politician. It was a way of securing and mobilising large blocks of votes in order to secure power. Both the PNP and the JLP have associated garrisons and dons. 

Over time, the Don has evolved beyond the politician as his power source. He amassed wealth through his own means and wielded influence outside of the Politician.The balance of power shifted. The Politician now had to kowtow to the Don in order to keep his voting blocks secure. 

The same Politician who birthed the Don and the Garrison, is the same Politician who sent in the Security Forces in the face of pressure and embarrassment. When the people demonstrate loyalty to their new boss the Don, and people die, that same Politician convenes a Commission of Enquiry to do what? Elicit truth? Seek justice? Justice for whom? And what does that justice look like? 

Don’t seek to differentiate between JLP and PNP. The scenario that played out in May 2010 and the COE in 2014 could well have happened in another garrison, with different administrations playing alternate roles. 

The Solution cannot reside with either the PNP or the JLP

Toggling between the JLP and PNP has landed us here. Their antecedents are the same. Their mechanisms are the same. Only the individuals differ.

The move from slavery to being a freed people under Britain, to becoming an independent nation took many years. It took challenging to laws of the day and agitating for change to move us along that trajectory. It took demonstrations. It took representation at the highest levels. Perhaps we just got too unwieldy and expensive for Britain to keep us on as a colony. Once we decided what we wanted however, we had to go after it. 

Perhaps Jamaicans will have to challenge the status quo in similar fashion… how else will the systemic issues that allow successive governments to build and secure enclaves and plunder and hide and lie and reward loyalty change? 


So What does justice look like?

The Jamaican middle class, the “Articulate Minority” stretched and growled in unprecedented manner the other day. Offended at the casual dismissal by a senior government official in seeking to differentiate between veranda talkers and tweeters here in Jamaica, and the voting, political base that keeps governments in power, middle class Jamaica lifted their voices. Stepping out of their comfort zone, they made placards and stood in New Kingston to voice their indignation at being dismissed out of hand and at the latest display of poor governance. 

The Articulate Minority Dec 1 2014

Perhaps we ought to stretch ourselves just a little more out of comfort zones and consider matters of justice that impact lives and society beyond our own.  

It is past the time to allow the Politician to hoodwink us. Do you really expect anything to come out of this COE given the roots of the issue and the authors of said issues?

It is time to press for real change…not just change of government, the same old systems remaining intact. Justice will come from systemic change that makes it difficult for corruption and inequity to prevail. 

The people of Tivoli need justice. The increasingly pressured middle class need justice. Members of the security forces operating under orders need justice. We who can, must articulate a vision of Justice. We must press for it. I am aware that significant change doesn’t often happen overnight. But still we must press. We must guard those institutions and systems that offer even a measure of protection from marauding politicians. Even while acknowledging that toggling between orange and green is not The Solution, I cannot distance myself from one of the basic mechanisms left to us to effect change. Perhaps incremental change towards new systems, enacted by the party that wants our votes the most will prevent total destruction while we crawl towards a better day. 

Clyde Williams, PNP member and lawyer, this morning posted this as his status on Facebook:

I have turned to Norman Manley’s speeches and writings to keep faith with the historical mission of the PNP, and to remind myself of some foundation ideals of this young democracy. In his address at the public session of Conference, 15 November 1964, Nettleford (1971, Selected Speeches) reports Norman Manley to have said, in talking about abuse of power, “Already men say when they hear of wrong: ‘what can I do about it?’ But for every time you allow wrong to pass unrebuked, you are breaking down the will to resist, and step by step you will find yourself left without courage to fight for what you believe in. Therefore, it is a duty to resist where resistance is right.”

The walls around our properties can only go so high. Our air-conditioned SUVs will continue to take us to select destinations until blockades and raging fires keep us prisoners in our own homes. To feel safe because you are in that section of society where a police will not drape up your son, or lock up your man for days, or where you can see your private health care provider in comfort and secure your child in private school is a to dwell in a fool’s paradise.  After all, “justice denied anywhere diminishes justice everywhere. Martin Luther King Jr.

Johnnie Walker and The Disappointers


A Love Affair with Portland…Not me!

For as long as I’ve known him, H has loved the parish of Portland in Jamaica. My dad too… as a young army officer back in the 60’s when he first came to Jamaica from Grenada, he said he used to go to Portland at any chance he got. Portland reminded him of Grenada, he said. Having lived in Grenada for a bit during my childhood, I understand where he is coming from.  Portland is green, rain-foresty, hilly, humid and has beautiful beaches. My attitude towards Portland though has always been “I can take it or leave it.” Meh. And I had a particularly bad experience when we were just married and had spent a weekend at Goblin Hill. I got the worst ever case of gastroenteritis that put me out of commission, and painfully so for a whole week! I suspect there was an unconscious coupling of Portland with gastro in my mind that didn’t create any yearning within for that parish.

Ambassabeth, Winnifred and Me

So when H announced that he wants to retire there, I pushed back with: “Enjoy! Yuh nah carry me out deh fi drop dead!”. He knew better than to push back. Think Eminem’s line: “…when a tornado meets a volcano…” But he’s also very smart. I have to believe that he hatched a plan to make me fall in love with Portland. It started with him organising a weekend at Ambasabeth cabins in the John Crow Mountains. He KNOWS  that I live for drive outs…anywhere…and that it was somewhere new, in the hills, he had to know that I’d jump at the chance to go. What I didn’t bargain for was a weekend that did more than provide an opportunity to live like a pioneer (sort of) and walk some historic trails.

A cabin at Ambassabeth

In retrospect I can see him smiling smugly and pumping his internal fist when I waxed warm for MONTHS after that weekend about how struck I was by the community that we became part of for those few days. Part Next of his plan included repeat visits to Frenchman’s Cove beach. I am an unrepentant beach baby. My soul re-centers and I feel all the cares of the world slip away, like a shirt slipping off my shoulders with each lap of the waves, each gentle gust of sea breeze… or is that the rum? Whatever! I live for the beach. And Frenchman’s Cove, with its beautiful garden setting, its pristine, blue river with white sandy bottom (not dark and pebbly like other rivers) undulating lazily into the small bay that is Frenchman’s Cove is how I imagine the Garden of Eden.

The river at Frenchman’s Cove

The last visit there was with family and friends and we reluctantly dragged ourselves back to Kingston after a perfect day,but not before I snapped this sunset.

Portand Sunset
I think this marked my turning point. He didn’t have to do much convincing to get me back there a mere 3 days later.  “Just a drive out, me and you alone…” was all he had to say. Hook. Line. Sinker. 
I don’t think even he could have planned what happened next. We ended up, not part of the script at all, at Winifred Beach…. the last piece of beach out of the control of the UDC. I was in for yet another encounter with the people of Portland that would impact me in a very powerful way.  Both the Ambassabeth and Winnifred experiences inspired this article.
Paradise aka Winnifred Beach

A change of Heart
So now I no longer scoff when he reverently and lovingly speaks of Portland. I’m falling in love with her too.  There’s something about Portlanders, be they Maroons or regular folk. They are open, pleasant, independent and friendly. They don’t hustle you, they certainly don’t beg, they don’t wait on government and they have an easy vibe and an apparent ability to self-manage. They are possessed of the traits needed in communities around this island if we are ever to make this rotten, corrupt leadership that we have at the national level redundant and truly answerable to us. I’m serious. 
At his (brilliant!) suggestion, we left the kids at home and just headed east, to Portland. We trampoosed in the hills above St. Margaret’s Bay and enjoyed the magnificent views of the Rio Grande emptying itself into the Caribbean Sea below. We descended and continued to drive east…past San San, past Boston and into Long Bay. The rough emerald sea there always calms me down. We climbed the highlands looking down into that area. How amazingly beautiful! Reluctantly we eventually headed back the way we came, but there was a not-so-short detour up into Nonsuch.  How did we end up there…hmmm… 
How we ended up in Nonsuch that #SundayinPortland

H had come across this bass guitar tutorial video by Devon Bradshaw on YouTube. He actually persuaded me to watch it with him, so taken was he with the magic that is the bass guitar in reggae music. He went on to explain to me that this video was one of about 15 short vignettes on YouTube on the Reggae in The Ruff channel. He was utterly taken by what he saw there and tried to tell me about it. What I heard was that H was impressed with a group of Rasta men up in hills and bush of Portland, in a district called Nonsuch (I had at one time heard of Nonsuch Caves…never been though) that lived off the land and created reggae music. I asked him if they were like the Jolly Boys. I had seen the Jolly Boys live before and I enjoyed them. He was at pains to describe his impression of the music coming from these men at Nonsuch: 

“It’s like mento, but with more soul.”  

In trying to drum up some interest within I said: 
“Rasta men, in the bush must mean ital food. Find out where they are and let’s go eat up some good ital food.”  Me: forever keeping it 100. Yup. Mi nuh buisness wid no box bass strumming and roots and culture chanting. Me want food. 

So on this excursion sans children, H decided to find these men… Johnnie Walker and the Disappointers was what he told me their name was. I was skeptical. I had never heard of them. Did ER even feature them? Not that I know of. But hey…I wasn’t driving, I had nothing to do but to be present on the drive and it was all good with me! So he located the turn-off to Nonsuch and proceeded up into the hills. He stopped to confirm that we were on the right track with a man working on his car on the side of the road.

“Yean Man. Dis a di way. Just gwaan drive straight up. Yeah man, mi know Johnnie Walker dem. But it far enuh!!” 

HUH? When country people tell you that somewhere is far, BELIEVE THEM! Their standard response is “Naw man…just roun’ di corner!”

I saw H hesitate, but before he could chicken out, the same man said “See da cyar deh ? Follow it. Dem a go straight a Nonsuch. Dem know where fi find Johnnie”  Too. Damned. late. In for a penny, in for a pound. So we drove. We drove some more. And still we drove some more. The silence in the vehicle was punctuated only two times with H declaring: “Mi ah go turn back now”.  I must confess that I found his discomfort amusing, and so I did what any supportive wife would do: I egged him on! H is a very self-contained, self-sufficient, in-control man, that hates uncertainty. So seeing him out of his comfort zone by not knowing where he was going or when he would get there was not something I was ready to see come to an end. 
“But you’ve come so far already. We can’t turn back now. Plus look how beautiful this country is. Drive on! You have gas? Good. Mek wi drive!”

Johnnie Walker and the Disappointers

Finally, the car in front stopped and a Rasta man alighted. A wah dis fadda, I asked myself. He came up to the car with a broad smile and said: “Dis ah where I turn off. But go straight up. You wi find Johnnie.” This is where it gets good. I saw H’s face transform into a smile: 
“You ah Far I?” 

The man replied smiling: “Yes I. A mi dem call Far I.” 

Well H tun Rasta pon me same time. He did that salutation where you make a fist and thump your chest, bowed his head, and with a look of pure reverence on his face said: “Is an honour, My Lord.”
Mi Mumma! Mi nearly faint. But I held it together and looked on as if this was a side of my husband that I saw every day. I shook Far I’s hand and went along with what was unfolding before me. It wasn’t hard to feign amazement. You see, I was indeed amazed. Not with Far I… I didn’t know him from Adam, but who was this man driving me and where was H? He told us where to find Johnnie and we set off up the road again. H explained to me that he was the Disappointer that did the ital cooking according to the videos that he had seen. Shucks. There went my dreams of sharing in a communal ital pot with the Rastas. There was no way he could cook in time for us to eat and return to Kingston at a reasonable hour. Cho.

We stopped every time we saw a human to confirm that we were en route to see Johnnie Walker and the other Disappointers. They all smiled. They all knew him. They all reassured us to keep going. “Johnie up deh, Man.”  By this time, H is leaning forward with a look  of expectancy on his face. Then it happened again.

We stopped to ask yet another person if we were on the right track. Yes, yes, yes. In fact, you just passed Johnnie down ah di shop. Just down deh so. There was that smile appearing on H’s face again:

“A you dem call Cultural, don’t”

And so began again, the whole greeting, chest thumping, steepling of the fingers, head bowing and respect being given and received. Seriously. It was a genuine gesture of joy and respect coming from H and it was returned by Mr. Cultural. Even I joined in. I sure did. I had to. It was the only natural thing to do in response to the respect being given and received.

We turned the vehicle around and came face to face with Johnnie himself.

“Rahtid! Johnnie lose a leg?” This was H’s exclamation as he saw an old, thin Rasta man making his way up the road on crutches, concern mixed with excitement on H’s face. In replaying in my mind what happened in Nonsuch, the only analogy that I can come up with to try to explain and describe H’s reaction to seeing Johnnie and the Disappointers in the flesh is this: He was reacting how I would react were I to come face to face with Michael Jackson. I sat up and started paying attention. H is not by nature a hero worshipper. He doesn’t gush or fawn. Ever.

He got out of the vehicle and warmly shook Johnnie’s hand. He explained to Johnnie (and by default to me too!… ’cause up until then I didn’t realise just how taken with and impressed by Johnnie and his group he really was) how he had really connected with his music: the soul of it, his lyrics, what he stood for  and represented. He went on to state how his wife wanted ital food (mi shame bad when he outed me and my wanga gut ways) and how he really wanted to meet him. 

Johnnie laughed and said: “You come in like you is one of mi fans!” 
But this was not said with a hint of arrogance. It was more a grateful acknowledgement, a happiness that his message had been heard and had connected with another soul. H wanted to buy his music and Johnnie found a copy of a CD and the transaction was done.
“You have supn you can play it on now?” 
“Yeah man!” H answered quickly. 
“Put it on…track 1 is my message. Dat a my favourite song and it explain who mi be.”
I leaned forward expectantly now. The sweetest, hard core, mixed down in a studio, authentic reggae music hit me in my chest. 
By now, I was beginning to understand H’s interest in the first place. His enthusiasm was infectious. Without knowing the entire back story, I was certain that I was in the middle of an encounter that counted. The authenticity of these men and the people of Nonsuch sucked me in. You see, it is impossible to remain neutral and to maintain mere observer status in the face of such honest human interaction. Specific words came to my mind as we listened to this recording of Johnnie Walker and the Disappointers, while standing there with them, and seeing H reveling in sheer joy and admiration:  “organic…soul…honest…talent…culture…the land…men…LIVITY.” 
I prodded H to ask if we could take pictures. I am always so conscious of not ruining a moment, interrupting a flow by picture taking. I want to record the moment, but I never want people to feel as if they are being reduced to specimens under observation. They happily consented and we took pictures in front of the car they had just purchased. As H indicated that he was going to snap the pic, they shouted “Selassie I, JAH RASTAFARI!” and punched the air laughing! 
From L-R: Cultural, Me and Johnnie Walker
Johnnie wanted to arrange a jam session right there and then. But we had to get going. We parted as friends, planning the next time we’d see each other. We drove off in silence, each of us locked in our own thoughts I suppose. I was trying to work out in my own mind why I was impacted the way I was by this encounter. Afterall, Johnnie and his group aren’t internet sensations nor are they known locally.  The most watched vignette in the series has at best a few thousand hits. A large part of my own experience that #SundayinPortland had to do with H’s own experience as I observed it.  For my part, I was impacted by the authenticity of the interactions and the genuineness of every memeberof the group that we met.  
H eventually explained to me the meaning behind the name. Johnnie insists that what we term as disappointments in life really are not. Once you have life, Johnnie opines, you have everything. This is his and his group’s underlying philosophy: eternal optimism and gratitude for each new day. They live off the land, and live at one with the land. They love music and they choose to spread their message through music.  The song that had touched H, and I when I heard the recording, I remembered H singing constantly over the past week was this:
“Climbing from the bottom, straight to the top, we ah go reach top spot.” A simple song with a very strong, clear, positive message about life and living. 
 USA based saxophonist  Henry Douglas Jr., was also deeply impacted by their music and ended up playing on some of their recordings. He too speaks about their soul, and the organic feel to their music.  They live off and with the land taking only what is needed at the particular point in time. Start here in the Reggae in the Ruff videos for the Johnnie Walker and the Disappointers back story and for more on what they do and why they do it. Visit their Facebook page. This is Jamaica at its best: unspoilt, uninfluenced and authentic. Portland continues to remind me of every single thing that is great about Jamaica, Land we Love.

Simply Black and White… is it really?

This video by a white looking former beauty contestant Jamaican woman (Rosina Casserly) caused a bit of stir recently. In the video, she spoke about crime, the Chick V epidemic, and aspects of Jamaica other than balmy days sipping Appleton while waves lap around our feet… That she did this in a forum open to the world, and that she did it jokingly caused offence to many.

Anthony Bourdain’s “Part’s Unknown” CNN feature focusing on Jamaica (first aired on CNN November 16) also caused some reaction. In true Bourdain style, his story sought to capture the essence of the destination by delving into more than food and drink.  As he always does, Bourdain tried to present the viewer with more than one angle, seeking to create a context for a more rounded understanding. A Jamaica tourist board feature it was not.  Some people loved it while other declared embarrassment.

There’s a very strong sentiment that we as Jamaican’s ought not to “air dirty linen in public”. We once had a US Ambassador stationed here who dared to level an observation, ok, a criticism then, that as a country we tended to laud announcements rather than accomplishments. What an ant’s nest he stirred up with that statement! Not surprisingly to me, the discussion about the ambassador’s statement had more to do with who made the statement and where the statement was made, with almost zero thought given to the actual veracity of the statement. In Jamaica, form trumps principle every single time. We are extremely hung up on appearances and so called protocols without spending half of that attention and energy on the actual issue. People: we are too destitute and too deeply mired in the mess created over the years by our leaders to waste time on form. I insist.

But let’s come back to the video mentioned at the top of this post shall we. Kei Miller, brilliant Jamaican writer (his ability to articulate thought always leaves me satisfied and smiling…check out his blog) posted a comment critical of the video which eared him the ire of some other on-line commentators and the ire of the video star herself. Kei’s criticsm of the video was immediately slotted into the category of “he’s critical because the girl is a white girl and he’s black.” In his usual clear, thoughtful, introspective manner, Kei provided context for what ensued.  I read and reread his blog post on the matter. Kei boldy goes where many tiptoe around and pretend as if it really doesn’t exist. But lemme ask you this: had that identical monologue done by Casserly been done by Ity and Fancy Cat, would it have been assessed in the same way? Would it have evoked the same reactions? Divides based on skin colour exist in Jamaica. We make judgments in this country based on skin colour, Yes, yes, yes…we proudly declare in our national motto: “Out of many, one people”. Right.

THE LONG LINE IN THE LADIES ROOM AT SOVEREIGN PALACE CINEPLEX

At intermission, I rushed with my young charge to the ladies room. Apparently, every other female in the house was on the same mission. The line was long. I took my place at the back of the line and prayed to God that it would move quickly. Two white looking girls, about 14 years of age, sauntered in chatting merrily to themselves. They swung their long, straight hair up into ponytails as they walked in and I watched in utter amazement as they breezed past us in the long line and simply took their place at the head of the line. Now the original head of said line was a woman, black skin, about 40 years of age. By this time, I am totally focused on what is unfolding before me. I ignored my young charge as I gave full attention to this scene. Black Woman looked annoyed, rolled her eyes and shifted her weight to her other foot as she folded her arms tightly across her chest. No one said anything, not even Black Woman. In a split second I decided that I was giving her exactly 20 seconds to take action, and if she failed to do so, I was going to step in. …19, 20, time up! I commanded my charge to stay put, and I took 3 strides to the top of the line and leaned in towards the girls. In a loud, clear, voice, calm though, I declared to them: “This is a line. This is where it starts, look at where it ends, You join the line down there.”  They looked around in confusion, the confusion changed to obvious embarrassment, and they said sorry and moved to the back of the line. I went back to  my own place in the line, not daring to look  at Black Woman lest she see the disappointment I felt. In her. I had questions… Why didn’t she stand up for herself? Why did those white looking girls not see the line? I really don’t think they were malicious… they were simply behaving as they always did in their context of relative privilege.

“DRIVER: WE WANT A SEARCH”

Back in the early ’90’s, for a while, I used to take public transport between Kingston and Mandeville. I was engaged in on-farm research near Spur Tree and the project didn’t as yet have an assigned vehicle. It was not uncommon for the mini and coaster buses that I used to take to be stopped by police at random at various points along the route. All passengers had to disembark so the police could search for weapons and ganja. 9 out of 10 times that we were stopped for this search, the police would say to me: “Browning: you can stay inna di bus. Is aright. Si dung.” The special treatment afforded me started from the bus park, where the loader man or driver would signal to me: “Browning, come si dung inna di front.”

“HIM IS A NICE BROWN MAN. HIM CAN BE DI FOREMAN”

I knew someone who was summoned to jury duty years ago. She told me that she watched on in amazement at how the foreman was selected. See the selection criteria there… (sub-heading above). And no one objected. Including the person I knew. She wasn’t interested in the position and saw no point in introducing contention.

“WHITE WOMAN CAN’T MANAGE BLACK WOMAN HAIR”

The last time I combed my daughter’s hair was when she was in grade 4. She has a huge and gorgeous head of hair. Washing and combing it demanded prayer and fasting and push ups and pull ups…for the two of us. On this particular occasion, as her tresses got the better of me, I sighed and heaved and sucked my teeth. My normally quiet, reserved 9 year old angel said quietly, but clearly: “White woman can’t manage black woman hair.” I was stunned into silence. I was hurt that my baby saw a difference between us.  I was puzzled. We both struggled through what would be our last hair episode (that’s why God invented hairdressers) and a few days later, after I figured I had processed it sufficiently, we spoke. I told her that shades of blackness was an artificial construct devised to divide the African slave population.  That we as black people bought into it as we failed to recognise the glory and beauty of our black selves and instead looked at whiteness as an aspirational ideal. Mi tell har fi stop it.

Me and Rachie
Her Glorious Mane!

If you live in this country, then you have at least ten more stories that you can place right alongside only the 3 stories that I have chosen to share. I haven’t spoken bout how I was called coolie girl or white girl at my primary school. I haven’t shared how I was trying to make a point in a group discussion during high school and was laughed out of the room when I started with: “We as black people…”  My parents, especially my mother, had a very strong sense of who they were, and passed that on to all six of us.

My Darling Antecedents

I remember being puzzled when an old white man who was also attending the rose conference I was attending in Detroit politely asked me: “What are you?” My answer that I was Jamaican added to his confusion.

“But you aren’t white, are you? Are you black?” 

Yes I am. I come from the Caribbean where there was a whole lot of raping of black women by white men, and intermarriage between Indians, Chinese, Blacks and Whites”. Thus ended that convo.

We like to sing “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery” and we are taught to recite: “Out of Many One People”.   I don’t think we get it. We still draw lines and make judgments based on colour (and the colour and class relationship can be thrown into the mix too) in Jamaica.

I have never lived anywhere other than the Caribbean (Jamaica, Trinidad & Tobago and Grenada). This is merely my experience, in the skin that I was born with. Other persons, born in a different skin, have other experiences that though different from mine, illuminate the very real colour divide in Jamaica. H insists that as a nation, as a people, we still haven’t recovered from slavery. He may be right.