VISION January Issue, 2020

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Photo credit: Grenada Chocolate Fest & Arthur Daniel 1

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Photo credit: Grenada Chocolate Fest & Arthur Daniel 3

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The Butler Group Mission Statement

Formed for the purpose of advancing the economic liberation of the Grenadian populace, The Butler Group, comprised of patriotic Grenadians at home and in the diaspora, deems it vital and strategic in the solemn interest of national development and security that a comprehensive home ownership programme (as outlined in the proposal: A Viable Plan for Grenada) be adopted by our national government and sustained with the use of the commonwealth of the tri-island state, as it will literally and figuratively give workers and their families a floor to stand on and a roof over their heads, in an increasingly complex and precarious global environment.

Such project stands to be our most immediate economic engine, with the capacity to create 100% employment and boost the spending power of workers/citizens in dramatic fashion. Empowered workers are the true wealth of a just society is our mantra.

To effectively and efficiently engage and thus give greater life to this plan, members are principally tasked with the mission of informing and educating the Grenadian public as to why it is vital that workers of limited means be afforded a home using the commonwealth of the tri-island state, in a global environment as it is: rife with strife; thus, only aiding the precarious socioeconomic environment in which workers and their families find themselves.

The generation and dissemination of literature utilizing various media platforms, including online and traditional formats, is crucial in the effort to sustain a protracted grassroots campaign, to ensure such conversation that we are seeking to have with our people will advance the social conscience and consciousness of the nation at large.

In engaging the Grenadian populace, the principle of non-partisanship and nonalignment will be adhered to by its leadership team when carrying out the identified aims of the group, in order to prevent and rebuff possible attempts to dilute and misrepresent the aim of the Butler Plan & Project by potential non-supporters and distractors. The backing of The Butler Plan & Project by ordinary Grenadian citizens is the initial aim of our campaign, for there is no movement (literally and figuratively) without their support, as well as its protection from potential distractors at home and abroad.

Withstanding that there are numerous angles to view national development and security as there are conceivable plans, The Butler Group conceives of workers and their ability to have a greater stake in the ownership and governance of a democratic society to be of supreme importance in the shared task of national development and security.

Our relationship is directly with the Grenadian People, and thus the general posture of a pressure/advocacy group is key when engaging in dialogues with other representative bodies and actors, namely politicians and their respective parties, trade unionists, and the national government.

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Photo credit: Tri-Island Chocolate & Ean Flander 5

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F EATURE D 07

Editor’s Note

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Gauging the Social Benefits of Grenada’s CBI Programme: A Second Take by Yao Atunwa

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Gouyave Fish Friday Festival by Raphael Paul

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When Home is the Mouth of a Shark: Why Britain failed and has continued to fail the Windrush Generation by Akima Paul Lambert

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Emancipation Day, then what? A Freedom Agenda for the Caribbean by Damion Trent

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A Recipe for Success: How Grenada’s chocolate companies are taking on big chocolate and winning

by Zoe Smith

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How valuable is your education or your labor when you can barely afford adequate housing and more precisely your own home? by Yao Atunwa

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Susan Mains: Painting her World

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Poetry by Kissandra Smith (excerpt from Acapella)

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Poetry by Yao Atunwa

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Book Review by Shawn McDonald: Amos Wilson’s Black-on-Black Violence

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Excerpt from Dunbar Campbell’s Winds of Fedon

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Great Quotes

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Como es la Vida en Mexico para Expatriada Carvita Neema Richard

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The Tower Estate

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Poetry and More from Roger Bonair-Agard

Photo credit: Grenada Chocolate Fest & Arthur Daniel

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EDITOR’S NOTE Sometimes awareness or diagnosis of a critical issue does not afford much protection when confronting such issue. The issue that I am driving at is that of our people’s overall lack of interest in giving support to initiatives that are worth supporting, such as the publication of this magazine.

When it is obviously a challenge for persons to register their appreciation by merely liking and sharing VISION on social media, it speaks volume as to where our priorities lie as individuals and as a people. It is neglect on such scale and gross manner that robs one of much-needed fuel to keep engaging in the kinds of sacrifices that are needed to keep churning out issue after issue. I can only describe it as blatant disregard on the part of our people where there should be none: It is no doubt the preverbal and proverbial slap in the face.

It takes a lot to demonstrate love for a people the way VISION has been positioned, and for that matter The Butler Plan & Project, in environments steep in rugged individualism. When that love, however, is problematic as far as it being reciprocated, there just is not much fuel left in the tank. And perhaps because there is not much tangible resources involved in the first place to sustain such great efforts.

On that note, the operations of VISION will be suspended until further notice. Until then, we have a great offering to share from returned contributors: artist and gallery owner Susan Mains, novelist Dunbar Campbell, poet Kissandra Smith, as well as new contributors, including poet Roger Bonair-Agard, long-time resident of Gouyave and a key member of the Gouyave Fish Friday Festival Committee Raphael Paul, social critic and educator Damion Trent, journalist and entrepreneur Zoe Smith, and lawyer and diplomat Akima Paul Lambert.

Following up from the previous issue, which celebrated black aesthetic beauty, we wish to give greater recognition in this issue to Pan-Africanism. We seek to do so with brandishing the emblematic red, black, and green given to us by the late Marcus Mosiah Garvey most prominently on the cover as well as in the Great Quotes section, where the voices of our most erudite and vocal elders/ancestors’ words conjure up an existence that worth organizing and fighting for without apologies. As expressed by researcher Berinyuy Bruno Lokong, “Pan Africanism is the awareness mentally, spiritually, physically of our identity.” And as I would have stated in the previous issue, remembering who we are encapsulates our entire mission as a people.

The Butler Plan & Project, in its campaign to push for a better existence for Grenadians, continues on thebulterplanproject.org and via social media on Facebook pages: The Butler Group, The Butler Plan & Project, and VISION. Feel free to share your sentiments and concerns via these platforms. I, personally, look forward to merging efforts with conscientious and conscious persons of like minds. There is obviously a large part to play in the national development of our homeland by civil society. Our namesake and inspiration, Tubal Uriah “Buzz” Butler, lived for promoting a just society for workers and all citizens alike of his native Grenada, his adopted homeland Trinidad & Tobago, and by extension all oppressed people in the Caribbean and throughout the globe. There is no mystery that we are an unfree people, both in the tangible and intangible sense. Freedom echoes responsibility for self and others. I think we have a long way to go, to arrive at such quality and dignity as a people.

I would like to wish everyone a productive and prosperous 2020.

Yours truly,

Yao Atunwa Editor New York City, December, 2019

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Gauging the Social Benefits of Grenada’s CBI Programme: A Second Take WRITTEN BY YAO ATUNWA PHOTOGRAPHY BY GRENADA CHOCOLATE FEST & ARTHUR DANIEL

In April, 2019, I sought to provide the Grenadian public with a case as to why 30 to 35 percent of the revenue collected from Grenada’s CBI Programme annually (as one of three proposed revenue streams) should be used by the state toward the provision of housing for workers of limited means. That is, workers with assets of less than EC $100,000 in value, of which a great majority of workers would qualify for due to the sheer fact that most workers in our tri-island state are merely subsisting in their present economic realities. I am compelled to revisit the matter once again, as there was an error in reporting on the revenue collected from the CBI Programme for the year 2017, which was the year being principally referenced for it was the latest gross figure reported. That gross figure is EC $130 million as opposed to USD $130 million.

Therefore, the conversion to EC$347.1 million, on my part, would be erroneous.

Such error, nonetheless, does not change the essential point that we can afford to utilize a portion of the revenue collected by the scheme to improve the housing stock and the lives of many of our nationals, as proposed in The Butler Plan & Project. The Butler Group, architects of The Butler Plan & Project, is proposing that EC $120 million be used per annum by our government for the construction of twenty thousand affordable homes for Grenadian citizens over an initial twenty-year period. These homes will cost EC $120,000 per unit or 2.4 billion over that period. Workers 24 years of age are eligible to apply once they meet the asset criteria of less than EC $100,000. Workers less than 24 years of age who have been working for the greater portion of seven years consistently are also eligible to apply. Childbearing adults will receive higher priority compared to the general pool of applicants, as well as applicants with available

lands for construction; thus, those applicants will be attended to more urgently in the application process.

Greater details of The Butler Plan & Project are provided on Thebutlerplanproject.org.

The comparison between our OECS and CARICOM sister state, Dominica, which has used thus far 100 percent of its CBI Programme revenue to fund the construction of over 5000 hurricane-resilient homes and offices for its citizens over the last five years and our government’s failure to even begin to realize the impact of such an initiative for the Grenadian people’s benefit remains a valid one. Worth highlighting are two basic realities with respect to both countries: one would be their economic states at large in terms of current GDPs, and the second is the performances of their respective CBI Programme.

We share quite a lot in common with Dominica, including a growing vulnerability to increasingly devastating storms, which ought to remind us

of the need to be better prepared by constructing and enabling the construction of homes and other physical infrastructures to better withstand hurricane impacts. However, the two areas that I wish to highlight on this occasion, as I did in the previous article bearing the title Gauging the Social Benefits of Grenada’s CBI Programme (published on NowGrenada.com), are the fact that our programme has been performing much better than that of Dominica since their inceptions; and the second being the very fact that we have a larger economy to that of Dominica. The obvious question then becomes: how can they seek to use 100 percent of their CBI revenue to construct over 5000 homes over the last five years, and we seem caught in the headlight?

The most obvious response to such a question has to lie in the realm of vision for the respective country. Obviously, a country with a population of some 34,000 less than ours and an economy that is considerably smaller – half the size of Grenada’s – leaders understand the need to engage in such investment while our leaders are going at it as a VISION MAGAZINE

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secondary issue, with their reliance on China, for example, to fund the development of housing schemes. In 2017, and still the latest figures, Dominica’s economy stands at USD $560 million while Grenada’s stood at USD $1.119 Billion. That same year, Dominica raised EC $97.1 million from its CBI Programme, or 16.5 percent of its GDP, as it had fallen 22 percent from the previous year.

Whereas Grenada, by comparison, collected EC $130 million, and was reported to have done better than it did the previous year. It was reported by credible sources that 2018 was a record year for Grenada’s CBI programme. EC $147 million was reported in the fourth quarter of 2018 (which was not yet ended when the report came out), a 25.8 percent improvement.

a decrease from 82 percent in 2016. At present, it is still north of 68 percent. Dominica’s debt to GDP ratio (2017 figure) is 67 percent, the lowest in the OECS. Even with a higher ratio, Grenada is still economically better off than its sister OECS country. It has a more robust economy, with of course a greater per capita income.

On the ground, or the nominal reality for workers in Grenada, however, would be very similar to their counterparts in Dominica in terms of the subsistent living of the great majority of workers in most sectors, including civil servants. Thus, the construction of new homes for many of the families whose homes

Republic of China in the form of multiple housing scheme complexes. A positive sign, these initiatives represent. But I am afraid that time has, indeed, caught up with us as a nation in a very obvious way, and piece-meal approaches could only do so much.

Too long the poor and working class in our nation have struggled to afford themselves substantial and adequate housing facilities. And might I add that the chances to do so in a substantial manner are not improving; not when the cost of real estate is increasing with the passing years and especially with the sale of real estate to foreigners via the same CBI Programme and on the open market. The average Grenadian will experience greater difficulty in the ensuing years to even purchase house lots in most of the newly available lands in Hope, St. Andrew and the southern parts of the mainland such as Westerhall Point.

If we are not careful with the rate of development on the island, most of which is catered to or financed by foreigners, we can put practically all workers except the ones earning U.S. rate income at SGU and very senior government officers out of the real estate market in many of these prime locations, some of the most beautiful locations in the tri-island state, I might add.

There is no guarantee that our programme will continue to be favored the way it has over the years. Like tourism itself, an event such as a hurricane or some manmade event could change prospective applicants’ minds about Grenada. What I am gauging, however, is how we as a nation seek to utilize those revenues while we have the opportunity to raise the sums that we do.

It was made known by government that 40 percent of the 2017 revenue from Grenada’s CBI was used in paying down our nation’s external debts. That same year (2017) the IMF, in its report, projected a surplus of EC $149.1 million for Grenada’s economy. Grenada’s debt to GDP ratio (2017 being the latest official figure) stands at 74.8 percent, 9

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were severely damaged or totally destroyed with the last two hurricanes that visited Dominica in recent years, and even ones whose homes were not of the best quality long before those devastating events would be very grateful to have their government provide those much-needed homes.

The reason why over 90 percent of the housing stock in Grenada was gravely affected by the recent hurricanes to make landfall (as was the case in Dominica) is for the simple reason that our housing stock, too, needs major improvements; not to mention a great many of our adult citizens are in need of homes of their own, but cannot afford a mortgage. The current NNP administration would have realized the need to invest in housing, given their allocation of revenue in 2019 and 2020 of $6.4 and $6 million for housing, respectively: in conjunction with the gift from the People’s

Our ancestors have labored too much for such realities to further eclipse the plight for a more dignified life for their offspring, who continue to struggle to secure a decent existence where the shocks and fluctuation of markets, both domestic and international, are dictating their very ability to survive and thrive in their homeland. A home is a very basic necessity that should be afforded to every living human being, and not be left to the whims of speculators and forces that are not concerned with the security and tranquility of human beings. We are not getting any wiser should we continue to follow the dictates of the so-called developed world, most of which are struggling to house and feed their domestic populations in the midst of enormous wealth. There is no reason why every Grenadian family should not have the security of a home with adequate facilities and amenities, not when our leadership is busy organizing itself to sell our passports and lands to foreign nationals, with immediate and long-term consequences if we do not properly make use of those generated resources. I would argue, as I have on other occasions, that using those funds to provide homes for our nationals is the best and most practical way to utilize those monies.

It would be the best investment, for it will be the most meaningful on multiple levels.

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administrative functions of the festival.

GOUYAVE FISH FRIDAY FESTIVAL (GFFF)

According to the vision constituted at that strategic planning workshop, the weekly Friday street festival was established with the intent to promote community development in Gouyave and in the overall Parish of St. John, and market Gouyave as a “The Fishing Capital” of Grenada, along with the continued celebration of the annual Fisherman’s Birthday on June 29.

Special efforts were made, at the planning and implementation stages, to prevent and mitigate the negative social impacts that are often generated by events of this kind. Consequently, a regime of standards was established to ensure the proper governance of the festival, and conduct of the operators.

GOALS AND OBJECTIVES: The goals of the GFFF as established at the above mentioned workshop are:

WRITTEN BY RAPHAEL PAUL

1) To focus on the development and marketing of diverse fish products that adds value to local production.

2) To promote community development in Gouyave and the rest of the Parish of St. John, by promoting Gouyave as the fishing capital of our Spice Island.

3) To create a link with other sectors of the local economy, including agriculture, craft production and the cultural arts.

A GENERAL OVERVIEW BACKGROUND: The weekly Gouyave Fish Friday Festival (GFFF) had its first trial run on June 24, 2005 and has never stopped. It therefore observed its fourteenth anniversary in June of this year (2019), and has been the model for similar events throughout the country. This festival has been established and is managed by the Gouyave Fish Friday Festival Company Ltd., which is a not-for-profit Company – a community-based organization (CBO) – that was registered in 2005.

To produce this activity, a process of consultation was established with recognized vendors, business owners, fishermen, community-based organisations, and various community activists. This culminated in the hosting of - what was termed - a “Strategic Planning Workshop,” where participants from all of the above mentioned was represented. Officials of the Grenada Board of Tourism (GBT), Grenada Business and Agriculture Revitalization Project (GBAR), Grencoda, the Ministry of Health, and the Police also participated. Against this background, the resulting Board of Directors who manages the festival is made up of representatives from the various interest groups, namely; Gouyave Improvement Committee (GIC), St. John’s Social and Cultural Organisation (SJSCO), Grencoda, and other committed individuals, and also includes two persons who operate businesses at the festival. Grencoda is the anchor for the

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Photo credit: Susan Mains

4) To bring visitors to Gouyave, and market Gouyave as a place for quality entertainment and recreation for the benefit of Grenadians and visitors.

5) To diversify economic opportunities and generate income opportunities for the people of St. John.

IMPACT: The essence of the GFFF came into sharp focus recently upon the death of Eyon Modeste who had been mentally challenged, and used to be one of the auxiliary workers at the GFFF; as the GFFF business operators and management had to band together to contribute towards the cost of Eyon’s burial.

The GFFF has also held two anniversary celebrations, with an awards ceremony being a major component of the second celebration. A Christmas programme which included a carol singing competition among the primary schools in the parish, and “Caroling by Candle Light” – a procession of carol singing with lit candles – have also been features of this festival. A vegetable market has also been an element of the GFFF.

CHALLENGES: Now into its fifteenth year of operation – and with the novelty having worn off – the GFFF faces various challenges. These include, but may not be limited to the following: •

A drop in the maintenance of the established standards

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Limited sponsorship

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Inconsistent entertainment

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Not enough business operators/vendors

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Drop in income as a consequence of the number of operators

Initially, there were twelve (12) business operators, each hiring two or three assistants. However, as a consequence of the overall economic situation, and other individual challenges, this number has dropped to five (4).

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Competing activities on Fridays

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Significantly depreciated tents

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Leaks in our storage area

The influx of visitors, as a consequence of the festival, has resulted in considerable spill-over for other established small businesses within the community. It has also given rise to three other business operations in the immediate vicinity of the festival. The festival also provides a guaranteed weekly market for a significant quantity of fish caught locally, along with substantial sales for local grocery stores, and a weekly source of income for the transport operatives who carry the GFFF business operators to and from the festival. The festival is also favoured by the tour operators who bring visitors from the tourist belt.

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Inadequate drainage

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An attitude of indifference from the police

The GFFF has demonstrated that well organized Community Tourism Activities can bring jobs, income and a measure of sustainability. Being the model for such activities, the GFFF has also provided assistance to the Sunset City Food Festival (SCFF), with regards the training of business operators, and establishment of the standards that govern the operations of the festival.

Seven (7) persons are also employed on a weekly basis to provide the following services: erecting and dismantling the tents; cleaning the area before and after the festival; handling of the seating and garbage facilities; taking care of the toilets; playing the music; and disposing of the garbage, while one is employed to run the bar operated by the management of the festival. An electrician has also been retained in the event of an emergency.

UPGRADES: After fourteen years (14) in operation, and given the prevailing challenges, it’s imperative that efforts be made to refresh and rebrand the festival.

Consequently, the present focus: • In recent times the toilet facilities are being refitted and painted, and the storage area refurbished.

• A new cocktail section is being created in the area from where the music is usually played.

• The festival area is now much better lit than in the recent past.

• The tent infrastructure is being upgraded.

ACTIVITIES: Cultural performances were major features of the festival, with the Vine Way Drummers being one of the main features. Steel and live band music, dancing, calypso and soca performances, comedy and other acts have also formed part of the cultural package. However, the competition for limited sponsorship, and other economic challenges, has constrained the ability to provide entertainment on a consistent basis.

• A vegetable stall and one selling frozen fish will be launched on Friday, December 6, 2019.

• Negotiations are in the advanced stages to secure more consistent cultural performances, along with Karaoke Friday, which takes place on the third week of every month.

To this end, the festival has hosted the winners from the national calypso and soca competitions after the 2006 and 2007 carnival, while many other nationally recognized cultural entities have also been featured at the Festival, including the Tivoli Drummers, and the Back-in-Time Band.

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WHEN HOME IS THE MOUTH OF A SHARK:

Why Britain failed and has continued to fail the Windrush Generation WRITTEN BY AKIMA PAUL LAMBERT

“Home is the mouth of a shark…no one leaves home unless home chased you, fire under feet, hot blood in your belly…”

- Warsan Shire Britain had and continues to have a complicated relationship with its collective memory. On Remembrance Day, soldiers who have served in Britain’s World War are garlanded and remembered with befitting solemnity. The day, as advertised, serves never to forget those who served in the wars throughout Britain and the Commonwealth.

However, juxtaposed against these formal acts and tributes of remembrance is a complete failure to remember those ordinary men and women who made sacrifices as a direct result of the war efforts and who continue to make sacrifices today.

Many of those citizens arrived on June 22, 1948, from the ship MV Empire Windrush, at Tilbury Docks, Essex, bringing post-war workers from Jamaica, Trinidad, Grenada and other islands. This first ship carried 492 passengers, many of them children. Those arriving in the UK between 1948 and 1971 from Caribbean countries have conveniently been labelled the Windrush generation: But there were many more ships and many more people.

Successive governments’ immigration policies as applied to this generation have had effects on a large number of citizens, not just the Windrush migrants themselves.

On any view, it is no exaggeration to say that the government’s ongoing treatment of the Windrush debacle constitutes serious human rights violations.

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BRITAIN’S TREATMENT OF THE WINDRUSH GENERATION Most Commonwealth citizens arrived in the UK before British nationality and immigration law made any distinction between British subjects, whether born and living in the UK or elsewhere in the Empire. On that basis alone, equal treatment should be guaranteed. This began to change in the 1960s, when successive Commonwealth Immigrants Acts introduced immigration restrictions on a growing number of British subjects from outside the UK. Many of these Immigration Acts were in mounting response to objections by those who were direct beneficiaries of the war but who were (curiously) preoccupied with how the demographic of the country might change.

In spite of this, many Commonwealth citizens continued to be encouraged to come to fill jobs as bus drivers and nurses and other jobs subject to labour shortages.

Most were told very different stories of what to expect when they arrived on the shores of the euphemistic ‘Mother Country’: there was a chasm between the truth and harsh reality.

Back in the Caribbean, there existed some sentiment that England was going to be the materfamilias, a protector and carer of all its citizens. Indeed, many had already laboured to inculcate a strong sense of Britishness at home.

It was a great surprise to them that upon arrival they were not at all welcomed. Enoch Powell’s vitriolic Rivers of Blood speech delivered in 1968 stated:

The first of these changes came after January 1st, 1973: British passport-holder born overseas could only settle in the UK if he/ she firstly had a work permit and, secondly, could prove that a parent or grandparent had been born in the UK. Over the years, the government’s immigration policies vis-à-vis Windrush citizens have contracted even more. There has been very little consideration and thought given as to how these citizens’ rights are protected.

“We must be mad, literally mad, as a nation to be permitting the annual inflow of some 50,000 dependents, who are for the most part the material of the future growth of the immigrant descended population. It is like watching a nation busily engaged in heaping up its own funeral pyre” Adding insult to injury, in the performance of these jobs, the Windrush generation faced serious discrimination. Many of that generation could not access proper housing: signs stating ‘no dogs, no blacks and no Irish’ were frequently encountered. Many who left with dreams that they could access the professions, academia, or senior positions in government or in business or management were left deflated by the impossibility. Britain, therefore in the late 1960s was a deeply segregated country, probably as segregated (but for different reasons) as the United States of America.

Crucially, however, in those early days, those who came were permitted to stay without time limit. When the Immigration Act 1971 came into force on January 1st, 1973, the position of these Commonwealth citizens was preserved. Importantly, the Act preserved the right to come and go of those who had already arrived. It also recognised the right of their wives (not husbands) and children to join them.

Progressively, we have witnessed a significant erosion in rights and respect accorded to those workers who had effectively filled significant gaps in British workforce.

First, there was the Immigration Act 1988 which introduced a rule that Commonwealth citizens, like other people settled in the UK, would lose a right to remain indefinitely after two years absence. It also removed the general right of wives and children to join them.

Decades later, from 2012 onwards, the Home Office as directed by Theresa May, sought to create what she termed a ‘hostile environment’ for people living in the UK without the right to do so. Under the guise of preventing illegal immigration, an elaborate system was implemented to set up a complicated system of immigration controls enforced by employers, landlords, hospitals, banks and others. Other changes were introduced by the Immigration Acts 2014 and 2016. These controls required documentation from Commonwealth citizens of the Windrush generation that simply did not exist or which had been destroyed. Many of the Windrush citizens had arrived decades before any changes had been introduced and the Home Office and governmental organisations had either lost, destroyed or deleted the very copies of documents that were being requested.

This led to the deeply untenable situation where citizens of Britain were having their citizenship questioned, after many years of not having to worry about their rights to live and work in the UK. The Home Office, in some instances, refused or failed to check records accurately.

Government cuts to legal aid, from April 1st, 2013, left many without proper assistance to deal with disputes or doubts about their status.

THE GOVERNMENT’S RESPONSE IS UNDERWHELMING AND DAMNING The reaction of government, once this issue emerged, is telling in and of itself. A sustained campaign by the Guardian was instrumental in giving publicity to some of the tens of thousands who had suffered and even died at the hands of the immigration authorities. These included Kenneth Williams, aged 58, who couldn’t access a job or a mortgage or his benefits, Junior Green, 61 who lived in the UK all his life but who was denied re-admission when he left to attend a funeral in 2015, and Judy Griffith, 63, who was told she was an illegal immigrant and could not leave the country to attend her mother’s own funeral.

The stories are different, but the underlying narrative is the same: an immigration system designed not to exercise discretion and to deny support to a demographic that is most in need of it.

In April 2019, the government issued a response to a consultation paper that it had issued, saying that it would announce a suite of measures to supposedly right the wrongs suffered by the Windrush generation.

Many of the announced measures have not properly been brought to bear. The supposedly careful and considered Windrush Compensation Scheme appears to be no more than a hasty attempt to drive some of the genuine claims underground, and the compensation payments are far less than adequate. The government has totally failed to introduce permanent legislation that would allow significant damages to be paid, more than 20 months after Theresa May apologised for the scandal and promised a financial settlement.

The forms themselves and the related guidance are almost impenetrable for the ordinary citizen and there is a dearth of charities and organisations with the experience and training to help. The fact that the process is so slow and protracted emphasises the low priority accorded to it. This all belies the fact that there is an urgent need for reconsideration of immigration policy.

As this experience highlights, this is all too little, too late. In the face of deliberate changes that were made that were ill-considered and which had such a significant impact on the lives of many, what has been done falls far short of what is necessary.

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Emancipation Day, then what?

A Freedom Agenda for the Caribbean WRITTEN BY DAMION TRENT

I come from the nigger yard of yesterday leaping from the oppessors’ hate and the scorn of myself I come to the world with scars upon my soul wounds on my body, fury in my hands I turn to the histories of men and the lives of peoples.

I examine the shower of sparks the wealth of the dreams.

I am pleased with the glories and sad with the sorrows rich with the riches, poor with the loss.

From the nigger yard of yesterday I come with my burden.

To the world of to-morrow I turn with my strength.

-Martin Carter

In the capital city of Georgetown, Guyana, last year, African Guyanese wearing the clothes of their Akan ancestors were beating drums as they approached the statue erected in 1976 to honor Cuffy, the leader of the 1763 Berbice Rebellion.

The video of those paying homage to Cuffy and singing in a language that could not be understood was shared on various social media outlets. A good comrade of the writer named Ta’Seti said he asked a brother from Nigeria what they were saying, and that Nigerian brother explained they were singing about freedom in Yoruba. The song was a song of honor that was passed down by our ancestors and to propitiate the great ancestor Cuffy, an Akan from Ghana, who fought to liberate our ancestors.

On August the 1st, people once again descended upon the national park to hear the music of freedom in various forms: most notably calypsos, folk, and reggae. Adorned with African clothes, jewellery and hairstyles, we sought 15

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to embrace “we ancestors dem” and revel in their achievements. We honored our people who died fighting against the over 200 years of enslavement and the 53 years of so-called flag independence.

It has been 181 years since we have been “emancipated”. However, as Dr. Kimani Nehusi has noted, “up till now many of us are still mentally enslaved”. This is why when we wear African themed clothing at various events before or after Emancipation Day, we will hear some Afro-Guyanese folks say, “wha wrong wit you, ya think dis is Emancipation Day”.

This cultural insecurity, and to a lesser extent cultural shame, shows that we still have much work to do in order to see Afro-Caribbean folk reflexively embrace African culture. It is clear that we must be aggressively disseminating and recreating Afro-cultural forms to achieve the organic level of cultural buy-in necessary for this cultural dimension to be a tool to be used against the continued cultural genocide that continues to upend the progress of African

people throughout the globe.

The challenge for our community is truly “emancipating” ourselves. We need to meaningfully collect, organize, describe, and analyze data on the emancipation experience across the Caribbean, with a view to prescribe actions for Caribbean people, today in 2019, in furtherance of our genuine emancipation.

I note that the theme of emancipating ourselves from mental slavery appears in the work of many Caribbean thinkers. It is clear that for us to successfully do this we must engage this challenge on a number of levels. The late great African/Jamaican Reggae artist Bob Marley once sang in “Redemption Song” we must liberate ourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds. One can draw a line from the Redemption Song to AfroGuyanese Historian Walter Rodney’s statement from Groundings with my Brothers, “By what standard of morality can the violence used by a slave to break his chains be considered the

same as the violence of a slave master? By what standards can we equate the violence of blacks who have been oppressed, suppressed, depressed and repressed for four centuries with the violence of white fascists? Violence aimed at the recovery of human dignity and at equality cannot be judged by the same yardstick as violence aimed at maintenance of discrimination and oppression.”

As we embark on the Emancipation celebrations in Guyana and all over the Caribbean, we must keep in mind what the late John Henrik Clarke once said, that freedom is not given by our oppressors, but rather it is taken by the oppressed. The late Afro-Trinidadian scholar Tony Martin reminds us that so-called humanitarians advocating for the end of enslavement for economic reasons could not have ended the inhumane captivity. As Menes De Griot, an African Guyanese cultural artist, describes it: “without the constant rebellion of Africans in every place in the Americas our ancestors were bound to.”

Hence, when we celebrate emancipation from enslavement, captivity, i.e., the Makumbo (great annihilation) on August 1st to commemorate the British “emancipating” Africans in 1834, it is wise for us to remember the late Afro-Vincentian Maxwell Haywood, who constantly held up the hypocrisy of “emancipation” and reminded us “that at the end of the enslavement period in 1838, the British Government awarded the European slavers a £20 million compensation package for freeing the enslaved black population who worked for them for free for hundreds of years. Black people got nothing!

This compensation given to the European slavers is a historic and grave injustice, and it is at the heart of the major socio-economic challenges faced by the former enslaved black population. It has been estimated that the £20 million given to those who enslaved black people is worth approximately US $200 billion today.”

This is part of why today we still suffer in a neo-colonial existence based on the lack of reparations for the children of the enslaved war captives. The latter is how it was described

by Walter Rodney, as our esteemed elder Eusi Kwayana reminds us. Once we get to the date of August 1st, 1838, which is the more accepted date for Emancipation, the British began to bring in Indentured laborers from India, Africa, China, Portugal and the Caribbean due to the avaricious planters wanting to depress wages.

In the case of Guyana, Eusi Kwayana writes that the importation of indentured servants was actually financed by taxing African Guyanese,

but this also happened throughout the English, French, and Spanish colonized Caribbean. Haiti had to make a huge payment to France to stave off being re-enslaved by the French in 1825.

However, in the case of Guyana, the village movement began and Africans collectively bought land and started to prosper, but colonial laws informed by racism, preferential treatment of other groups and malicious sabotage would soon stymie this self-reliant movement, which saw most African Guyanese employ the African communal idea of susus in order to save enough money collectively to buy lots of land together to live and farm. This is long before the ideas of Karl Marx came into being.

Preceding Emancipation were many revolts throughout the Caribbean against enslavement

by Africans who were enraged and fought for self-emancipation in the form of African maroonage in places like Hispaniola in 1502, St. John in 1733 -1734, Saint Vincent, the Dominican Republic, Suriname, St. Kitts in the 16th century, Barbados, Guadeloupe, Antigua, Tacky’s rebellion in Jamaica 1736, the Berbice Rebellion in Guyana in 1763, Mackandal’s rebellion in Haiti in 1758, the Haitian Revolution, Sandy’s rebellion in Trinidad in 1770, Quamina a Cormantee in Demerara, Guyana 1823, or the Rebellion in Pointe-A-Pierre, Trinidad 1832, Damon led a passive peaceful vigil on August 2, 1834 in Essequibo Guyana that caused him to be hung because he unfurled a flag and it was said to be illegal and too rebellious. Forty revolts would occur from 1794 to 1834 all across the Caribbean. Many were put down in extremely inhumane and brutal fashion by Europeans.

Even the women rebelling in various cases were shown no mercy. They were brutally murdered and also sexually assaulted for fighting for Emancipation since in some cases they were seen to be more troublesome than their male counterparts.

There were also countless rebellions to achieve the full prospects of freedom as Emancipation was a farce in many cases. After 1838, Tony Martin describes many revolts by Africans to have their rights honored, as in some cases their housing, livestock and provision farms were destroyed by Europeans who did not want them to have autonomy to govern themselves, and many even had councils set up to govern their respective villages, lodges, and political organizations.

African Guyanese scholar Dr. Nehusi writes about African Guyanese creating the British Guinea African Association in 1842 to represent the interest of African and mixed race Guyanese in the face of the White planters’ oppression.

As Dr. Nehusi writes, the mistreatment of our ancestors meant that they received a partial freedom at this time. Trinidad and Tobago had countless rebellions to achieve and expand the emancipation franchise and some of this were incorporated in the carnival and J’ouvert celebrations, as they struggled for freedom.

These rebellions inspired each other.

The African participation in the U.S. Civil War and culminated in the passing of the 13, 14 and 15 amendments. Leading up to this would be Gabriel Prosser’s revolt in 1800, Denmark Vesey’s revolt in in 1822, Nat Turner in 1831, and John Brown’s raid in 1859. In all cases revolts included the usage of African religious practices, cultural resistance in forms of Vodum, Yoruba practices, Obeah and even Christianity which they sometimes used to disguise their African religious practices.

Hence, during Emancipation celebrations we reflect on the path blazed by our ancestors who should be venerated and propitiated through the practice of libation every August 1st. We must build a curriculum to mandate that all children going to school in the Caribbean learn about the movements toward emancipation all year. It is our history and culture. We must teach our children the truth, so they can redefine themselves and build a Trinidadian, a Guyanese, a Jamaican, a Barbadian, and an Antiguan culture that seamlessly integrates and affirms our Akan, Congolese, Yoruba, Igbo, Mandingos, Fulani, Golas from Angola, Krus, Fulani Ewes, Fons, and other ancestors.

You come in warships terrible with death I know your hands are red with Korean blood I know your finger trembles on a trigger And yet I curse you — Stranger khaki clad British soldier, man in khaki Careful how you walk My dead ancestor Accabreh Is groaning in his grave At night he wakes and watches With fire in his eyes Because you march upon his breast And stamp upon his heart.

Although you come in thousands from the sea Although you walk like locusts in the streets Although you point your gun straight at my heart I clench my fist above my head: I sing my song of freedom -Martin Carter

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Photo credit: Grenada Chocolate Fest & Arthur Daniel

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A Recipe for Success: How Grenada’s chocolate companies are taking on big chocolate and winning WRITTEN BY ZOE SMITH, FOUNDER OF BUD & ROOT HERBAL TEAS PHOTOGRAPHY BY ARTHUR DANIEL, LUVNISH KARNANI, EAN FLANDER AND TRI-ISLAND CHOCOLATE Twenty years ago, a small co-operative named the Grenada Chocolate Company (GCC) stepped onto the world scene.

While its title may seem unimaginative in hindsight, at the time the decision to name a chocolate company after a country in the global south (of which most had never heard) was a bold move.

Now, the Spice Isle is home to a further three chocolate brands Belmont Estate, Tri-Island and Crayfish Bay - and even boasts its own chocolate festival. Yet the path for these chocolatemakers and countless others across the globe in destinations as diverse as Haiti and Vietnam has been paved, to a large extent, by the Spice Isle-based company.

With their focus on organic farming principles, co-operative business model and most importantly the radical tree-to-bar business model, Mott Green, Doug Browne and Grenadaborn Edmond Brown succeeded in disrupting centuries of chocolate-making tradition.

Ever since Spanish conquistadors stole the secrets of transforming cocoa to xocolatl from the hands of the Maya, fine chocolate had been considered the sole domain of Europeans.

This standard resulted in the acceptance of nonsequiturs such as Brussels being regarded as the chocolate capital of the world.

FARMING ― WHERE THE TRUE MAGIC HAPPENS To walk into a gathering of the highly-esteemed Salon du Chocolat is to be greeted by a sea of white faces. At a Salon event on the health benefits of chocolate, I spotted one of the wealthiest men in chocolate, Barry Callibut, VISION MAGAZINE

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sitting behind me. Sporting a flashy watch and perma tanned face, he was surrounded by a team of sycophants in suits. He seemed more like a character from a 1980s mafia movie than someone who has any connection with the land.

Yet, this is the superstructure of a world of chocolate manufacturing into which GCC entered at the dawn of the new millennium.

Its audacious strategy - to craft fine chocolate from beans grown, harvested and processed in a tiny island nation and then retail it to some of the most prestigious boutiques in the world - was a defiant act that broke new ground for a whole new wave of tree-to-bar chocolate makers in developing countries.

As the GCC co-founder Edmund Brown stressed to me during a visit to the Hermitage factory early last year, “Without the farmers, there is no chocolate. Without farming, there is no chocolate. So we have to understand that the first chocolate makers are the farmers, because without them nothing happens - they are the ones who give us the beans.”

Veteran civil rights activist Baba Curtis Hayes Muhammad explains in the seminal work, Farming While Black, “Recognize that land and food have been used as a weapons to keep Black people oppressed. Recognize also that land and food are essential to liberation for Black people.” To promote the interests of chocolatiers of colour, as the GCC has done, is an act of resistance.

THE IMPORTANCE OF SUSTAINABILITY In an industry dominated by exploitation and child labour, the GCC model has also been revolutionary in the extent to which it sets a new standard by going beyond equity to arrive at sustainability as a value - placing environmentally-conscious organic farming at its core. As Green said during a magazine interview back in 2012, “My progression was activist, love Grenada, love machines and tinkering, making chocolate, and doing it all without hurting the land.”

While it is tempting to romanticise the GCC story, the reality is that the endeavour has been and remains arduous. “Agriculture here in Grenada is a problem for us,” Brown confesses. “As far as I see it, agriculture is very 19

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important for us, especially here in the rural community.

We have to make sure that these political guys make sure that farming is a priority. It has to be. If farming is not a priority, I don’t know what will happen to us.”

Given the historical links between slavery and agriculture, the resistance to returning to the land is understandable. Yet, as author and agriculturalist Leah Penniman argues, we risk confusing the oppression that our people have historically experienced on the land with the spirit of the land itself. The truth is that we require a spiritual union with the living earth to maintain our wellbeing.

NURTURING NATURE This symbiotic relationship with nature is an experience that cocoa farmer Joanna Mitchell attested to as she showed me around the acres of land she farms. The awardwinning farmer is among one of the larger suppliers to the GCC; however, money is far from her main motivating factor.

The land she owns spreads across Upper St John in St Andrew and as she proudly explains, this resource was earned with hard work by her mother and herself, not inherited. Her mother returned to the parish, after working in England for 49 years, and used the money she earned to buy larger estates, as she saw huge value in her children maintaining their connection to the land.

Photo courtesy Susan Mains and painted by Asher Mains

“Farmers realise that when you don’t come to your farm for days, the trees miss you because they’re accustomed to you.

Trees are like children, when they don’t see you, they lose their feelings; but every time you come back they grow greener for you.

For me too, when I’m here I feel so relaxed, I feel good on the land, I love it,” she smiles.

NEW BREED OF CHOCOLATIERS This ethos of respect for land and labourers alike has also informed the next generation of cocoa farmers on the island. London-born Aaron Sylvester is an unlikely chocolatier, but the model of the Grenada Chocolate company inspired him to leave a successful career in the UK music industry to introduce permaculture to the cocoa growing process.

Having inherited land from his grandparents, he bucked the trend of just leaving it to turn wild and decided to restore the cocoa that was growing on the land with a view of producing plant-based products.

Sylvester is the first to admit that being a city boy he had to learn everything from scratch. He started by learning about chocolate and then working backwards to understanding how to nurture the cocoa trees that would make the chocolate.

He explains that growing up in London he always wished to see the great products that grew in Grenada represented in stores: “I was always interested in exploring the ways in which I could contribute to positive change in Grenada, whether it be shifting

people’s financial situations.” He added, “I felt that the fact that we had all these great products and finding a way to export them might be a way to improve people’s lives.”

For Sylvester, chocolate is just the start.

His goal to inspire others to start looking in a different way at the crops that they have had on their land for generations by considering, for example, how can a single crop be repurposed into a soap, or a hot sauce, a meat rub or a chocolate inclusion.

The young agripreneur is committed to the mission to stop the influx of products that could easily be made in Grenada.

PURCHASING POWER When Mott Green died, his passing made headlines around the globe in outlets from the New York Times to the BBC. In a 2014 interview, Akima Paul Lambert, now Grenada’s Ambassador to the Vatican, spoke with me about the influence that Green’s untimely passing has had on her life. “His death had a tremendous impact on me and made me focus on doing the things I’ve always wanted to do,” she said.

Her sentiments are also echoed by those, like me, who only knew of the chocolatier through headlines.

In its 20-year-history, the St Patrick-based cooperative has achieved an impact that far outstretches its size. Despite the fact that the company has won numerous awards, perhaps its most notable legacy will lie in the part it has played in shifting the expectation that chocolate move from being a purely extractive resource and industry to a regenerative industry.

Yet while pioneers such as Green and Brown have set the standard, perhaps we as consumers, whether in Grenada or within the diaspora, also have a responsibility to put our money where our mouths are. If we really want to affect change and see our island and people prosper, there is an opportunity to be seized in supporting locally-owned, locally-grown initiatives in the communityminded spirit shown by our forefathers and forerunners.

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HOW VALUABLE IS YOUR EDUCATION OR LABOR WHEN YOU COULD BARELY AFFORD ADEQUATE HOUSING AND MORE PRECISELY YOUR OWN HOME? WRITTEN BY YAO ATUNWA The general affordability of housing is the basis on which a domestic economy is structured.

It dictates who control that economy. And this is how it unfolds, in a nutshell. A house is the most valuable commodity that most people would seek to purchase in their lifetimes. Such is seemingly the main feature or prize of societies where private property in the hallmark of social living, where the market reigns supreme. In other words, it is not the need or intrinsic value of the home that structures the dynamics involved in the purchasing of a home in capitalist societies.

But rather a premium on the security that is afforded through ownership of private property.

The given reality is that a very small number of people actually own their own homes in these capitalist societies, which suggests that the labor of workers is being continually commoditized and alienated for the benefit of a comparatively small sector of the population. A small sector of the population is engaged in seeing to it that labor is not liberated to benefit the vast majority of citizens and thus the group at large: the nation.

By all means, the house is the carrot placed in front the workers. Therefore, it is no surprise that most people would work their entire lives and still not be able to afford a home. Multiple generations would feel the impact of that reality, after parents and grandparents would have toiled for decades and centuries (for many of us whose fore-parents were enslaved and colonized),with very little to show for all their productive labor. Most of the developed world, as it is reported in the media, are experiencing and have been experiencing a major housing crisis, where homelessness is in the tens and hundreds of thousands in many cities (with no slowing down in sight).

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with more robust economies than most places on the planet, homeless populations are six hundred thousand and three hundred thousand, respectively. Then there is the prevalent scenario where most renters in most North American cities are paying over thirty-five percent of their income in rent. It is quoted in mainstream media that a young person of the millennial generation would have to save for eighteen years in order to afford a down payment for a home in New York, where the median cost of a home is $650,000. I should add that the real wage for most workers in North America has been stagnant for nearly forty years, while the cost of living has not slowed down one bit. The price tag of a college education has vastly increased over the same period to over six hundred percent, though through financial aid provided by state and the federal government it has become more accessible to first and second generation students and people of color in those environs.

But the financial aid packages have not curbed the growing increase in student debt, which is currently $1.5 trillion dollars, the largest debt per capita (larger than credit card, which is currently in second spot). The average debt per student currently stands at $37,000 (with a great number owing over $60,000), while the median income in most U.S. job markets, college graduates included, is less than $50,000. Moreover, the personal savings rate of the entire U.S. population in 2017 is 2.4 percent (compared to 10.4 percent in 1960). According to a recent ATTOM Data Solutions’ report (featured on CBS News; March 28th, 2019), from a survey conducted on 473 U.S. counties, 335 listed median home prices are out of range for the average wage earner in those areas. The conclusion rendered: in spite the fall in home prices, the average wage earner cannot

afford a home in more than 70 percent of the country.

How valuable is your education or labor when you could barely afford adequate housing and more precisely your own home? Such is the question that will begin to reveal the matrix of the capitalist system. If you do not own your home, it means less of your earned income belongs to you in the final analysis. A renters economy is not an economy for workers to thrive.

It is rather difficult to grow wealth much less intergenerational wealth in communities that are not owned by the people who reside there.

The built-in dependency of a renters economy is a crippling one for the vast majority of residents, and hence the extent of homelessness in the so-called developed countries. Homelessness is very much a staple in that system. It is not a byproduct; it is very much a product of that social order.

Most persons in the Caribbean would not necessarily be paying rent, especially in the smaller countries like Grenada and St. Vincent & the Grenadines, nonetheless if the income one receives as a teacher or social worker is so minuscule that subsistence living is all he/ she can afford, mortgage or no mortgage, the general reality is still the same: the continual commoditization of their labor, which places the great majority of citizens in a situation where most would not be able to secure the most basic of needs, such as health care, and in some cases higher education. These are not the conditions for human beings to thrive and experience selfactualization. This is a system of servitude. Work has very little value in such a system, at least for the workers. The game of monopoly one may come to find out is more than a board game enjoyed leisurely.

Susan Mains:

Painting her World When you ask Susan Mains when she started to paint, it comes with an explanation, a backstory, a layered Caribbean tale.

A self-taught painter, she was a good many years in before she even called herself an artist. Starting with a story of a childhood Christmas present, a paint by number paint set of a horse, she starts to unravel a colored story.

“The Christmas present was from my parents— we were living in Barbados. I wasn’t too thrilled with the prospect of paint by number of a horse, so I took the canvas and paint and painted the cane fields and old mill of Gregg Farm in St. Andrew’s.” It was just the beginning of a fascination with the land.

Decades later, having exhibited all over the world, the land and sea and people of the Caribbean have become her epic novel with many chapters.

Susan Mains with Shervone Neckles

Her formative years were spent in Grenada, and after University education in the USA, Susan and her young family did a stint in Dominica, working in education. Dominica is where, as a young mother, she started seriously pursuing her “self-inflicted” art education. Reading, working with other artists, she also let her children have free access to all her materials. It was a good investment, as both sons are now artists in their own rights: Asher Mains, and Stephen Mains— google them!

Moving back to Grenada to settle in 1992, Susan always has found ready inspiration in the movement of people, the agriculture, the fishing, the sailing —the unique stories that are too often taken for granted by island people.

Her work has been collected widely by local

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businesses, hotels, and by art aficionados from all over the world. Queen Elizabeth, the Pope, and other high profile dignitaries have been gifted with Susan’s paintings by the Governor General of Grenada.

Recently, through DNA studies and delved into family trees, Susan has found that her ancestors first came to Barbados in the 1600s, and then bought a plantation in Grenada.

Perhaps it is those ancients who prod her and whisper on the wind to make a painted record of these islands. That plantation has long left the family, but it was interesting to find Westerhall Estate in the trees.

The series that she will show in January at the Gallery of Caribbean Art in Speightstown, Barbados pays homage to the ancestors. The cane fields of Barbados sway in the breeze under cloudy skies. With the resurgence of cane in Grenada, those could be the cane fields of Grenada in this century. Regardless of the rights and wrongs of history, what prevails is the richness of the resource of the land.

As a great concern, she notes the lack of institutions in Grenada to preserve the works of artists.

“I was in a drawing session at Art House

473 with a group of young artists— 20 to 30 somethings, and we were drawing figures. I just mentioned that one of my drawings looked like a Matuschek—an artist who lived in Grenada for a number of years, but then sadly died of cancer just over ten years ago at the age of 48. I was dismayed, but then not surprised, that none of them knew who she was nor had an idea of her work. They had never had the opportunity of seeing her work preserved for posterity. A very sad loss.”

Susan has been a moving force in bringing the art of Grenada to international attention.

She has since 2015 taken three Grenada

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Pavilions to the famous Biennale di Venezia, the most prestigious art exhibit in the world. Publications on such can be found on www.grenadavenice.org, as well as in Vision Magazine’s August Issue. The team of people who work with her are part of a groundswell movement of private, corporate and government bodies who have caught her vision.

Her hope is that the investment into art will yield an economic power to creatives in Grenada. The materials, the stories, the drive will ensure a clear identity that is derived from this sacred space, this island, and this Caribbean.

You can find Susan’s work in Grenada at Susan Mains Gallery at Spiceland Mall, and Art House 473 in Calliste, St. George’s.

On this very occasion we share some of her paintings with you.

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Photo credit: Grenada Chocolate Fest & Arthur Daniel

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I KNOW MY FACTS

BLACK MEN

Me, apologize for the color of my skin?

This is for my black men

Me, apologize for my blacknin?

Whose honor he could not defend

Me, apologize for loving myself the way I was made?

As he was locked up in massa’s den

Me, apologize for not wanting to change my shade?

And told his situation was God sent

No, you apologize for enslaving us!

No, you apologize for tricking us into being foes!

No, you apologize for institutionalized oppression!

No, you apologize for trying to feed us this delusion!

See I don’t know how you can call us backward

And taught for the blackness of his skin, he must repent This is for my black men Today for you I vent I see you I see you

When you met us going forward

I see you for what you are

Did you not meet empires there?

You blackness and your strength, so untouched, so awe

So why are you saying, you brought us to be civil here?

Even when massa’s belt tore at your soul like a claw

Did you not see how much wealth we possessed?

And left your wounds open and raw

You took us from a state of more to a state of less

You stood there, your blackness shining without flaw I saw the way massa tried to break you

I will tell you what you did

Took you from our family in an effort to make us forsake you

You tried to destroy a people with a fib

But your blackness and your presence remained true

Tried to make us hate ourselves from within Tried to teach us that our blackness is a sin And as we fought You were busy stealing what you ought not And to think that you would have some kind of shame But here you are still running “let’s kill a black man today game” Me, ashamed of being black?

You must not know that I know my history and my facts Kissandra Smith ©

Conquer through divide But your ability to overcome gave us the strength to survive I saw the way they worked you like a beast of burden in the field And don’t think for a second that I saw you as less when before massa you yield You did what you had to do You survived and for that I can never forsake you For to succumb did not mean defeated It only meant that you found a way to be stronger, and in your mind you retreated Years of enslavement Has left you broken and bent Your soul twisted in torment Scarred from head to toe Looking at your own reflection as a foe But your hand I will never let go The universe made me your Queen And to me your blackness is serene And I willingly sit by your side Until the day when massa’s demons in you subside Kissandra Smith ©

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ARE WE NOT TIRED?

Are we not tired?

From slaves to mass graves From drug addicted ‘babes’ to politicians lying and throwing shade From war mongers to a mother watching her baby die from hunger From televised lies to an abused child cries From food pumped with cancer to media censor Are we not tired?

From feminism in chains to children who don’t know their fathers’ names From oppression of one kind to the truth being miserably defined From police being above the law to the media defining what is beauty and what is flaw From racism to modern day fascism From bombs to one sided norms Are we not tired?

From pollution to hate being a solution From greed to many in need From broken homes to drones From missiles to pedophiles From government dictatorship to nuclear weapons, warships and sealed lips Are we not tired?

When will we say stop?

When will we stand for what should not?

How much more innocent blood must be spilled?

How much louder should mother earth have to scream at our ills?

How much more refugees must perish on the watery deserts?

How much more of humanity must hurt?

How much more before we can see?

That we are destroying humanity Are we not tired?

Kissandra Smith ©

Those poems are excerpted from Kissandra’s recently published book of poems, Acapella, which can be found on Amazon.com

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MEMORY RETRIEVER Where was I When language was being given form Taking root in tone and rhythm Before the many syllables were put together When gesture served as the vanguard To interpreting form to the lyrics of the environs And prose came automatically and naturally From diaphragms as air would How that must have been good I imagine poets roam the land Giving contours to meaning with slight curvature to words Adapting to the needs of spaces With the understanding that spaces are what’s essential In striving to release the creative genius of humanity Writing was hardly a pastime Time itself was nothing but an echo of memory Nonetheless its mechanical invention Has sought to mechanize language as well Overemphasizing specialization And distorting the natural rhythm and soul Of a people, killing poets before they set out to Rightfully claim their heritage as griots Retrievers of memory, designers of space, foundation builders Yao Atunwa ©

VIVA MAÑANA I’m leaving for Cuba tomorrow America and its bad medicine has gotten the better of me capitalism is no placebo or panacea nope this cancer is marketed as the answer to my feverish rush with life: chemo and the whole regimen apathy has gotten the best of society it’s the fix for the livid narcissism that is ever-present sad to say, but I am not near the profit margin debt will find me before profit does surely can’t create any bubble on my own nor am I privileged to do so that’s for the tycoons of wall street the wells fargos of this polity no golden parachute for this fellow I might have to skip on water to make this happen but overseas I am headed It’s time I embrace my refugee status with focused intent viva mañana!

Yao Atunwa ©

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ESTRANGED LIVES Where is the connectedness Apart from the vivid misery That surrounds These lives daily Restless they are But can’t seem to take a break From their preoccupation with undermining humanity Strangely enough This happens to be the mode of survival; Do or die Who isn’t already dead Is about dying to profit from the dead Where does the cycle begin I presume: the death of life A yearning lingers to invoke meaning in this space and time - call it hope Yao Atunwa ©

SWEET SILENCE Oh sweet silence Won’t you sing me a song For I long for your soothing tone And your indomitable calm.

How about a symphony That all of noise would envy Take my experience to a Realm of unquiet, exuberant beauty And if love should echo A pitch that is recognizable only to this Peak ear It will forever be grateful Of this adornment Dear.

Yao Atunwa ©

BLACK-ON-BLACK VIOLENCE:

The Psychodynamics of Black Self-Annihilation in Service of White Domination, Amos N. Wilson, Brooklyn, New York, Afrikan World InfoSystems, 2020, 236pp, ISBN 978-1-879164-00-0, US $20.

WRITTEN BY SHAWN MCDONALD The central idea of the book is that the main source of criminality and intragroup violence within Black America is grounded in well-crafted racist attacks that periodically generate internalized racism; together, these tragedies help to “unconsciously” nurture reactionary responses to the historical and contemporary disenfranchised nature of the Black American collective, entangled in centuries of white supremacy. Wilson effectively builds his case by typically examining an abundance of national statistics from several federal agencies such as the Federal Bureau of Investigation, amassing figures on arrest and conviction rates beside sentencing discrepancies between Blacks and Whites for similar crimes; every comparison reveals noticeable disparities amongst each cluster, Blacks suffering higher proportions in virtually every category, indicating a bigoted attack against Black Americans in the execution of justice and overall systemic racism in the U.S. criminal justice system. The text goes on to accurately disclose the immense regressive combined psychological components that are primarily forged through a host of dehumanizing conditions endured by Black Americans, adeptly determining how these circumstances contribute to criminality and violence among a substantial number of its members.

This book, in terms of statistics, is meticulously researched; the data illustrates the disturbing, antiblack basis of the U.S. criminal justice system.

Furthermore, the book shrewdly forewarns that the various additions in policing tactics are likely to not reduce crime and violence in the slightest. It declares this in the early stages of arguments for and the implementation of heightened surveillance, expand in arrest and sentencing, the erection of a massive police force and its attending militarization, extended prison construction, prolonged and severer sentences, “a war on drugs,” and a host of seemingly draconic measures that are documented failures. In this text, the author confirms himself incomparably perceptive as per the issue of crime and violence,

not merely amid Black Americans but the nation at large. Exceedingly striking, the work skillfully delineates the finer points of the psychology of oppression. Hence, the reason Wilson can boldly convey and connect the incidents (crime and violence, social disorganization, chronic dependency, other-directedness, and so forth) sustained by Black Americans with that of their African brothers and sisters across the earth; they are each characteristically being shaped in the same context—oppression!

This text elevates itself above most of its ilk while performing with surgical precision the dissection of the multiple sinister methods that criminalization and violence can be and frequently is inculcated into the psyche of disparaged, unsuspecting individuals and groups. The Black American male specifically (more so those of the underclasses) and the collective overall have been the victims for centuries of this variety of well-organized malicious manipulation of its environment and its educational, political, social, cultural, economic, “religious,” psychological, and countless other orientations by the architect of the U.S. capitalist system, a vital cog in the march for global white supremacy. That is the White American male elite, who have fabricated and furiously strives to maintain a system based on crude, unending inequality against nonwhites, mainly Africans, and the poor altogether; this transpires through limitless means, largely by warping the consciousness of its victims so that they can unwittingly support the very dangerous power differentials that sustain the White American male elite’s sociopathic dominant status.

A prominent strength of this book is whereby it utilizes federal government statistics to confirm the inequitable approaches by which every tier (police, prosecutor, judge, etc.) of the U.S. criminal justice system operates to inflict injustices upon its Black American masses; moreover, it efficiently discloses that racial biases are not a thing of the past but presently quite prevalent, nationwide.

It likewise satisfactorily validates that these premeditated biases serve to preserve and expedite obscene racial disparities between Black and White Americans exposed to the criminal justice system. These prejudices held by a sizable portion of White individuals in positions of authority within the criminal justice system culminate into racist practices with harsh consequences and the formation of a criminal justice system immersed in racism. Arguably, the eminent strength of this book is how it sketches the unrestricted measures that the persecution of Black Americans contributes to the falsification of its collective consciousness, their alienation; that alienated consciousness manifests itself in ceaseless retrogressive ways, habitually leading some, notably its male adolescents and young men, into enacting crime and violence against their kith and kin. Thus, further reducing its effectiveness in combatting the illimited discriminatory assaults issuing from virtually every angle of U.S. society.

Whereas the book is impressively strong, it does have a perceptible weakness. The book mentions and partially addresses the magnitude of the economic basis of the criminalization of ample quantities of Black Americans, expressly juvenile males and younger men, and its role in generating violence; however, it stops a bit short at mapping the various nefarious economic processes by which this is accomplished. For instance, the text superficially discusses hiring practices; it provides minimum emphasis instead of detailing how said actions routinely deny Black Americans, VISION MAGAZINE

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chiefly males of diverse ages, to willfully impede their economic growth and development; therefore, increases their odds of being trapped in a life of crime and violence, or other unsavory activities; thus, rendering them incapable of properly confronting and defeating the White American male predominant class. Additionally, it submits an inadequate emphasis on how the Black American community can develop a robust economic plan with its substantial earnings that it can apply to radically reduce the criminalization of large sums of its adolescent and younger adult males, basically, and the violence that repeatedly follows.

consistent with the perverted, voracious push for planet wide white domination. What is more, not too long ago Michael Bloomberg, former New York City Mayor, now running for president, apologized for the racist “Stop and Frisk” policy, which he fiercely denied was bigoted when he was the mayor; yet, the evidence was evermore available that this policy was discriminatory as it inordinately targeted and disrupted the lives of thousands of innocent Black and Latino male adolescents and younger men. It is pretty convenient for him to apologize now as he needs both Black and Latino voters on his march to the presidency. They best be . . . extremely careful.

The book’s strengths are of such a caliber that they are presently relevant. Since the time of the first publishing (1990), Black Americans and others have been studying while struggling to identify and eradicate the racism inside the criminal justice system. Furthermore, there have been significant gains in exposing antiblackness in the supposed criminal justice system and delivering justice to the Blacks and others who were victimized by it. The last few years have seen thousands of Black Americans throughout the nation being exonerated in part due to the use of DNA, community activists, and conscientious lawyers; they have been courageously revealing and fighting against the racism found in the criminal justice system that repetitively leads to untold wrongful arrest and imprisonment, especially to Blacks and Latinos. Nevertheless, these exonerations consist of approximately 49% Black males. the crowd hardest hit by racist, unlawful imprisonment; a Yahoo Finance analysis proclaimed that since 1989, Black American men and women were paid some $944 million for wrongful convictions.

While the antiblack reality of the U.S. criminal justice system, expertly portrayed in the text, persists to be uncovered and transformed, the death penalty in the U.S. is continually being revealed for being unfair, irrational, and bigoted; investigations concluded that Blacks receive the death sentence at a higher rate regardless of the merit of the case, and these racist findings are challenging the system to modify its procedure in implementing death sentences, if not abolishing it fully. Even in the sphere of juvenile justice, researchers, advocates, and concerned others proceed to unveil the partial and outright racist means by which White police officers, prosecutors, judges, and the like enforce the law when dealing with Black American juveniles in comparison to their White American peers for the same infractions; they stereotypically view deviant behaviors of Black juveniles as criminal and not that of White juveniles, just as the text cleverly divulges. Nonetheless, although they are facing great odds, investigators, community activists, and numerous dedicated others are moving to resolve these bigoted discrepancies, and reconstruct the juvenile justice system altogether.

Yet again, Wilson is proved astute as related to the antiblack underpinning of the U.S. wouldbe criminal justice system as thousands of Black American men and women are being compensated for unjust convictions, going back to the days of the first edition of this text. He was warning and battling against these very abuses in the criminal justice system as a New York City probation officer, a revolutionary scholar and psychologist, and a community defender; here he is being shown to be entirely accurate in his assessment and his fitting condemnation of the criminal justice system for its discrimination, almost three decades later. This occurrence is no mere oversight; it is continuous with the racism proliferating the criminal justice system and 35

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The author sensibly outlines the racism plaguing the U.S. criminal justice system as a constant of the overarching racism in the country that continues to be evidenced. While completing this review, the New York Times unleashed an article wherein Black and Latino police officers, active and retired, are suing the New York Police Department (NYPD) for racist policing tactics employed in a section of the city’s subway system between 2011 to 2015; they signed affidavits accusing a former NYPD Transit Unit commander of urging them to focus on Black and Latino passengers for lesser breaches like jumping turnstiles; conversely, they were instructed to view various European and Asian residents as “soft targets,” meaning that they

were to be ignored for the same transgressions.

Their allegations were bolstered a few months ago when a Black police union official testified that the former commander, now inspector, asserted pass frustrations with a subordinate over ticketing Asians when he instructed the officer to ticket Blacks and Latinos. The Black police union official was appalled by his admission, easily shown by his testimony.

It is no wonder that the preponderance of the people charged or arrested for fare evasion in NYC are Blacks and Latinos; specifically, it is not unexpected to find that although these two ethnicities represent a slight majority of NYC inhabitants, they are roughly 73 percent of the people ticketed for fare evasion. Evermore tragic, higher than 90 percent of Blacks and Latinos were arrested for fair violations instead of given a ticket; receiving a ticket is customary. No great surprise that racism has raised its monstrous head in dispensing justice in the subways of NYC; it is coherent with the underlying antiblack spirit of the U.S. structure. These officers sustained reprisal from the NYPD, most retiring instead of executing the fascist practices. Instead, they decided to courageously go against the “blue wall of silence” with this lawsuit. They are to be applauded and supported for taking a firm stand to bring this vital information to the public and venturing to correct this prejudiced custom preying on Black and Latino subway users.

“Black-on-Black” authenticates its exceptional benefits through submission of a piercing assessment and awareness of the psychical fundamentals that inevitably contribute, heavily, to the criminalization and violence too often found amid innumerable Black American neighborhoods; this book evidently rises above the rest. Much of what this work unveils and foretells almost three decades ago concerning the falsified consciousness amid the overall Black American populace, recurrently revealing itself in identity crises, displaced aggression, wanton consumerism, crude White American imitation, identification, and idolization, and overall alienation, is readily present in today’s Black America, as the book pointedly elucidates.

This falsified mindset has spawned an inordinate volume of self-defeating attitudes and behaviors that diminish the efficiency of the Black public in appraising and redressing numerous issues, distinctly intragroup criminality and violence, economic development, mental and medical health maladies, just to name a few.

This text painfully but astutely recognizes that this reactionary mindset amid Black Americans, and Africans globally, performs a pivotal role in the politico-socioeconomic disorganization in Black America, as it does in comparable African nations; this derangement assuredly leads to limitless pitfalls of which an excess of internal crime and violence are but two lethal outgrowths.

This barbarous assault on Black American humanity is not by accident but through willful, diabolical design by the White American male elite. The White American male elite, as the book shrewdly highlights, works in tandem with numerous similar European males to maintain this exploitive, self-destructive phenomenon on an international level, especially against African societies; it spends special attention on the African population inside the U.S. borders for this populace has the potential to thoroughly regenerate the African world; it has the financial capital, education, and an assortment of skills and appended institutions, for instance, but it is exceptionally disorganized and further disconcerting—it is profoundly conflicted.

This, in great part, is due to never-ending antiblack schemes that include a combination of internal agents, both clans are wholly dedicated to misdirecting the Black American society for uninterrupted exploiting and control. This White American male elite, like its European counterpart, in and out of Europe, achieves its wicked advantageous relationship with Black Americans through endless malevolent methods; this is consistent with what both they and fellow European complements do with Africans and a myriad of other peoples across the globe.

All European male elites, U.S. and otherwise, endeavor to manipulate the economies of nonEuropeans but more importantly, they aim to masterfully infiltrate their minds and project themselves as the standard for political theories, educational philosophies, aesthetic notions, so-called religious piety, and a host of other selfserving Eurocentric ideas, disguised as universal.

Were these loathsome steps to fail, the European male elites would have no qualms about bringing out their armies to attack and subdue their supposed enemies, aiming to take command of their societies. As Wilson properly identifies, “The lower classes rob houses, the ruling classes rob nations.”

elites, a people with a renown hedonistic and sadistic outlook, both U.S. and otherwise, are the preeminent means through which Black Americans and Africans abroad regularly become participants in their own victimization, oppression, and subsequent destruction; blackon-black criminality and violence are in part disturbing symptoms and direct fatal offshoots therein. While understanding the importance of identifying and recognizing the multiple means that Black Americans and Africans, commonly, are being marginalized, this book goes above and beyond mere analyses. It compels the worldwide African population to thoroughly and honestly appraise and revise or reject its centuries in abundance of received, oftentimes wrongheadedly embraced, Eurocentric (and other aliens) worldview while doing the same for its own worldviews and prepare to finally remove the European, and others, hold on their very humanity, or suffer gravely.

As aforementioned, the section that the book can be improved upon is the economic analyses of the capitalist system that Black Americans find themselves within as per the U.S., as does most other Africans across the planet. It was clarified, however, that before his passing,

Wilson publicly exclaimed to varied audiences attending his lectures that he was keenly aware that the primary source of Black criminality and violence, socioeconomic, political, educational, and equivalent disorganization is founded in the White American and overall Europeans vile capitalist system, dedicated to exploitation and domination of non-Europeans, and even the White underclass, by any means, permanently. He was to produce a detailed follow-up text, mostly illustrating, the economic root of black criminality and violence under white supremacy.

The book Black-On-Black Violence: The Psychodynamics of Black Self-Annihilation in Service of White Domination, by Amos N. Wilson, ought to be required reading for all Black Americans and Africans conjointly. Frankly, it is necessary reading for any subjugated people who are determined to overthrow any oppressors— whatever the hue, whatever the ideology, whatever the power disparity. It precisely unveils multiple relevant ominous tactics of oppressors and salient tenets of all oppressive systems as they venture to create and sustain the domination of others. This text is undeniably revolutionary!

Dr Amos Wilson’s collection

published by Afrikan World Infosystems

The author contends, rightfully, that this pernicious misidentification with the concepts and values of the white supremacist European

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Winds of Fédon WRITTEN BY DUNBAR CAMPBELL

The laws of nature that govern humanity do not spare those who violate them. Those laws apply as predictably on the battle fields as they did on slave plantations. One such law is that a man cannot brutalize another without brutalizing a part of himself. As a veteran, I have seen too often the pain of those who returned victoriously from battle fields. Similarly, slave masters and their families did not escape the moral degradation and punishment they inflicted on their slaves.

Most novels and academic books on slavery rightly expose the systemic brutality and dehumanization of such an ‘odorous’ practice. Few, however, venture to take readers into the lives of slave masters to reveal the immoral rot and insecurities they suffered, even as they lived pretentious lives in luxurious Great Houses overlooking their slaves at work in the fields.

And what better place to witness this than in their bedrooms.

My novel, Winds of Fédon takes readers from the plantation fields and slave villages, to the bedrooms of slave masters.

Below are excerpts from the novel, where the wife of a slave master is punished by the painful guilt and contradictions of plantation life. She seeks relief in the arms of other men:

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Neither pelting rain, roaring wind, nor rumbling thunder deterred Malcolm and the horse on the steady trot to Beauséjour Estate. He had to get there before dark, to see if a red sweater hung on Charlotte’s bedroom balcony, the warning signal she would use if her husband, Mr. Turnbull returned unexpectedly to the estate.

He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

haphazardly into dense shrubbery to the left, looked downcast and exhausted, its inhabitants probably in their only escape—sleep. Large drenched trees wept raindrops down on the thatched roofs and elephantear leaves below, with splatters that echoed in the rinsed air.

High on the hill, the great house stood white and waiting against the gray sky.

Finally, he rounded the corner to Beauséjour Estate. The abandoned fields sulked in the final gasp of ashen light. Not a man. Not a woman. Not an animal in sight. The windmill stood motionless, locked in place.

The boiler house chimney pointed skyward, smokeless, like an unlit cigar.

No red sweater.

The decrepit slave village, pushed

Malcolm’s

A woman stepped on the balcony.

She spread her arms and beckoned with urgency.

A shaft of sunlight thrust through the forbidden sky, lighting her hair like fire and exploding its reflection off her window. concerns

evaporated.

Nothing could go wrong now. Euphoric anticipation rushed up his spine.

He spurred his horse to a full gallop up the hill. *** Malcolm listened to the tapping of gentle rain on the balcony floor outside Charlotte’s bedroom.

Clean sea breezes blew through the open door, lifting the curtains in joyful waves, dancing yellow candlelight around the room, and rendering the room a most agreeable temperature.

Charlotte’s deep breaths blew against his chest.

He wished he had words to describe the pleasure that awaited him when he parted the mosquito net to her high-post bed and joined her under the white sheets an hour beforehand. He would bottle such words and guard them with his life.

He inhaled the fresh linen scent of her skin.

The same fragrance that lit his desire when Mr. Turnbull introduced her the day before.

Her ravenous kisses, flavored with red wine, still excited him. And her pleasure moans, encouraged by drumbeats of thunder through her open balcony door, still played in his ears with arousing effect. Like it did again and again before their spent bodies collapsed on her sprawling bed in a hangover of pure delight.

The room held every bit of Charlotte’s color and vitality, painted in a blazing sunset orange, adorned with thick rugs and sumptuous drapes.

A twinkling crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling beam. Above it, a wide mural. Mythical babies with tiny outstretched wings, floating amidst puffs of white clouds.

Charlotte’s breathing stalled, and her eyelashes brushed his skin. “You like it?”

“All those happy babies? If the world had half this happiness, it would be a far better place.”

She sighed. “I always wanted a baby.”

“You are still young. And beautiful.”

“I envy Venus,” she said. “Slave she is, sleeping on hard ground, slashes on her back, and I envy her for her baby. Strange, is it not?”

“How is she?”

“Visited her this morning. Only God knows why ’tis so difficult for babies to live more than a fortnight on these plantations. A rather strong girl Venus is, her baby might be just as strong.”

“Do you know the father?”

“Kojo.”

Bewildered, Malcolm asked, “Kojo? The same Kojo who whipped her?”

“Yes. Quite strange what this life does to people.”

“He had tears in his eyes when I grabbed his hand yesterday.”

“And he helped me clean her wounds,” she said.

“She will bounce back. She wants me to teach her to write, so she can one day write her baby’s name.”

“Will Mr. Turnbull permit that?”

“Once the baby is born in a few weeks, I will solicit him to return her to the kitchen as a servant. When he is away or out in the fields, I will sit her at the table with pen and paper.”

“Suppose he disagrees?”

She touched his lips with her fingertips. “I have my ways.”

Jealousy pulsed through him. How could she stomach the company of such a pig?

She sat up and pulled the sheet over her shoulders. “You know, there’s a brown child in the village. Kojo says her father is an overseer Mr. Turnbull fired years ago.”

“Yes?”

“This happened before I arrived. The girl is now about twelve, deformed by polio. They call her Lovely, but the poor child is anything but. No one can tell me what became of her mother. I often wonder if she is Mr. Turnbull’s baby. If another woman can give him a baby, why not me?”

He placed his finger to his lips. “Listen.”

Up the hill towards the house came the muddy clomps of a horse. ********************************************** Charlotte studied the Colonel’s face. “Your son Malcolm is ever as handsome and wise as you are.”

“And how, may I ask, did you get to know so much about Malcolm?”

“I met him once, when he visited my husband... on his way to Belvidere.”

“I am proud of my boy Malcolm,” he said. “His loyalty and service to King George incites great admiration and respect among his Liverpool family and friends. He wrote me that all went well with the Belvidere papers.”

Seated next to him, she gulped her wine and returned the glass to the table. “It feels perfect being here with you where no one knows us.”

“You never answered me. When are you returning to Grenada?”

“You have a wife and a happy family. My family is in Boston. Even with a husband, I live a lonely life.” She recounted some of the events that occurred during his departure: Venus’s hanging, Massa Baby, Kojo’s strange disappearance, and Mr. Turnbull’s increasingly barbaric treatment of the slaves. “Things are getting worse. I could not stomach another week.”

“Come back with me. I will provide you a room in St. George’s. I shall make Mr. Turnbull understand your desire to be independent of him.”

“Not just Mr. Turnbull. Grenada is on edge. I feel it when I look into the eyes of the slaves.”

“You are too close to these Africans. They do not value life the way we do. ’Tis why they do what they do. And why we do what we do. God’s way.”

She glared at him and refilled her glass. “I beg to differ.”

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rhythms that grew harder, louder, and sweeter than he remembered in her Beauséjour bed.

They exploded together in pulsating pleasure Colonel McDonald felt would never end—until she whispered in his ear.

“Oh, Malcolm.” ************************************ Malcolm gazed at Charlotte. “Your husband will not take kindly to my presence.”

“You could have asked one of the slaves. I was alone. He was on business in Grenville for a few days.”

and nurturing babies—and for pleasing men.

“I am a soldier, not a saint.” He sipped his wine.

“I have not the patience to indulge in shallow reckless sentiments.”

The silence between them surrendered to the vibrancy of the busy harbor below, sounds of a thriving British colonial center. Horses clopped resolutely on the stone roads, built by the taxes on plantation goods. Filled wagons clattered in haste towards the pier, perfuming the air with burlap bags of tobacco and sugar. Seagulls yelled over bobbing vessels readying to deliver goods to English homes across the Atlantic.

All powerful evidence that Britain’s global mercantile machinery rolled uninterruptedly, keeping the Union Jack flying high on every continent across God’s planet. Soon, he too would reap the status and wealth accorded men of unwavering faith.

Men like Colonel McDonald and his son, Malcolm.

Maybe Charlotte’s dim view came from her female nature, hardly equipped to comprehend the global and personal implications of commerce. The gentle nature granted to women matched well with the duties of bearing

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Charlotte leaned towards him. “If opposites attract, that explains why you and I are here today.”

Her voice teased with the naughty tone that had first led him to cast aside Mr. Turnbull’s friendship in favor of ravenous moments with his wife.

Colonel McDonald held her hand and kissed it. She embraced him with a yearning and an open-mouthed wine-flavored kiss that aroused him.

They left the empty bottle and glasses behind.

Her door opened easily into a simple room ablaze in sunset red. They helped each other undress, even as their hungry lips sought each other’s. The salty film of sweat on her neck lifted his excitement. They rolled across her bed, too eager to squeeze under the sheets.

She closed her eyes and spread her knees.

He braced himself on top of her, her legs in a tight embrace around his waist. He thrust his manhood into her with a delight that ran up his spine.

She moaned and clawed at his back. They tightened their hold on each other in gyrating

Charlotte seemed lost between two worlds, and again fleeing one for the other. She tried to transform her Beauséjour existence to her liking, to escape Boston. But slavery persisted around her. Cruelty persisted. Death persisted. And not enough pleasure in her bed could shelter her from the ugliness that surrounded her on Mr. Turnbull’s hill. As long as she remained under his roof, she remained a benefactor of a plantation system that crushed human souls— hers too.

She had to leave.

Malcolm would miss her, but it felt like she wanted to use him to cross the bridge from her dreary past to her uncertain future. It lacked the reckless lust that drove them to ecstasy under her sheets. Malcolm wanted to hold her and reassure her, but the memory of Rosette’s voice, laughter, and grieving tears, gave him pause.

Just standing alone with Charlotte felt contrary to his wishes, now that Rosette had moved into his heart.

Charlotte wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his unresponsive lips. She dropped her arms and stepped back, her face downcast.

They turned and walked in silence until they reached the lamp-lit entrance to the boarding house.

Her tears welled up. “You are too young to deserve the wrath of a woman scorned.

Farewell, my friend.” She turned and ran into the boarding house. ********************************************

But even in the midst of rebellion and destruction, hatreds and executions, pure love existed between a white British officer and a young black girl—for a fleeting moment. Until the harsh reality of slavery, racism, and intolerance raised its disapproving head. *** Rosette held his hand. “Come with me.”

Malcolm followed her along the face of the cliff, parting shrubs as they went.

Past another huge rock, a room-size hollow opened in the cliff.

They crawled in, on to a surface layered with dry leaves and old cloth abandoned by the maroons.

In the darkness, their lips met with unabashed desire.

Oh, how long the aching months of waiting to see Rosette again. The tumultuous upheavals he endured with his father. The vicious, inhumane battles. And the agonizing journey he travelled to expel his British pretenses, to make a safe room in his heart for Rosette. They all came roaring out of him in a moment of pure longing no mountain could stop.

She must have also felt the same. Did she not also have her innocence battered in a storm of war, brutality, and subjugation? And her will to live tested in the throes of the fever, like he had?

And to see her father fall from the unconquerable hero in her eyes to a defeated fugitive, hunted like an animal in the land he loved so much. Rosette must have craved release as much as Malcolm did. warmth welcomed him deep inside her.

pushed away the darkness in the cave.

Her smooth dark face glowed, and her eyes searched his.

He kicked off his boots and tore off his uniform.

In a flareup of repressed passion, he lifted off her thin wet dress over her head.

They gyrated against each other. Their rhythms grew faster and harder. Their moans grew louder.

He pushed harder and deeper—until a mountain of delight rose in his groin and exploded in tremors of ecstasy he felt would never end.

His hands tingled on her smooth skin and feminine curves. He lowered her to the soft floor.

She cried out and dug her nails into his back, her hips shuddering in a hard press against his.

She pulled him on top of her and held his head to her breast, still damp with river water.

He collapsed into her arms, and their moans slowed into heavy breathing.

Moonlight retreated. Darkness rushed in again.

Thunder rumbled. The trees cried rain.

He took her breast in his mouth and mounted her.

War be damned. Hatred be damned. Bigotry be damned.

She turned away from him and grew quiet.

She locked her arm around his neck and pushed her hips against him with a strength he never thought could exist in her slender body.

His erection met her. She gasped and pushed against him.

With gentle persuasion from his manhood, her

The rain softened outside, pitapatting with the chirping chorus of awakened insects. A mist of silver moonlight filtered through the trees and

If fate took her away from him again, he wanted to preserve this moment forever.

He kissed her. “I missed you so much, my love.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

He knew the bliss had ended. Harsh reality returned.

He kissed her cheek and tasted tears.

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“

The best way to be an independent sovereign state is to be an independent sovereign state.

Countrymen, the task ahead is great indeed, and heavy is the responsibility; and yet it is a noble and glorious challenge – a challenge which calls for the courage to dream, the courage to believe, the courage to dare, the courage to do, the courage to envision, the courage to fight, the courage to work, the courage to achieve – to achieve the highest excellences and the fullest greatness of man. Dare we ask for more in life?!

“

- Kwame Nkrumah, Father of Ghanaian Independence and First Prime Minister and President of Ghana, Pan-Africanist (September 21st, 1909 – April 27th, 1972)

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“

“

“

If a white man wants to lynch me, that is his problem. If he he’s got the power to lynch me, that is my problem. Racism is not a question of attitude; it is a question of power.

The job of the conscious is to make the unconscious conscious.

- Kwame Ture’, Black Panther leader, Pan-Africanist (June 29th, 1941, November 15th, 1998)

I want us to think big, I want us to dream big because the African nations were meant to be big.

- Samia Nkrumah, Daughter of the Great Kwame Nkrumah, Ghanaian politician and Pan-Africanist (Born June 23rd, 1960)

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“

“

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You do not make progress by standing on the sidelines whimpering and complaining.

You make progress by implementing ideas.

- Shirley Chisholm, U.S. Congresswoman, activist, author (November 30th, 1924 –January 1st, 2005)

It was in the townships where we shed so much blood. Nothing could have been achieved without the sacrifice of the people. Black People.

- Winnie Madikizela Mandela, Political Strategist, Freedom Fighter (September 26th, 1936 – April 2nd, 2018)

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Grenada, Nicaragua, and Cuba as three giants rising up to defend their right to independence, sovereignty, and justice on the very threshold of imperialism.

- Maurice Bishop, Late Prime Minister of Grenada (May 29th, 1944 – October 19th, 1983)

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“

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We are going to emancipate ourselves from mental slavery because whilst others might free the body none but ourselves can free the mind.

- Marcus Mosiah Garvey, Pan-Africanist, writer, founder of the UNIA (August 17th, 1887 – June 10th, 1940)

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The national liberation of a people is the regaining of historical personality of that people.

“

Bear in mind that the people are not fighting for ideas, for the things in anyone’s head. They are fighting for material benefits, to live better and in peace, to see their lives go forward, to grantee the future of their children…

- Amilcar Cabral, Agronomist, poet, philosopher, Pan-Africanist, revolutionary (September 12, 1924 – January 20, 1973)

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Writing poetry is the hard manual labor of the imagination.

- Ishmael Reed, Poet, playwright, novelist (born February 22nd, 1938)

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Como es la Vida en Mexico para Expatriada Carvita Neema Richard

Mexico, land of the Aztecs, is definitely one of my second homes, and one of my most favourite countries. On arrival to Mexico, my main interests were learning Spanish as a second language (mission accomplished) and certainly getting a taste of the popular spring break in Cancun that I always watched on MTV. I do have to clarify however that this country has way more to offer than those little desires of mine, it’s quite more dynamic and vibrant too. My name is Carvita Neema Richard from the “Spice Isle”, Sunset City to be exact, and I would love to share with you a part of my experience on living in Mexico.

When I first moved to Mexico approximately 15 years ago, it was because I received a scholarship to further my education. I did a bachelor’s degree in Economics followed by another degree in International Trade.

As fascinating as it is to live in a foreign country, there are obviously challenges

that are faced when there are cultural differences, language differences and the uncommonness of people who look like you etc. I have to mention that I couldn’t wait to get back to “me good fry fish and rice and peas and oil down.” Can you imagine being in a country where they eat chicken with chocolate, ripe plantains, nuts, biscuits and spices all blended together in a sauce? Well, I for one couldn’t. Needless to say, it is now one of my favourite dishes on the planet. It’s called Mole. Coming from a culture where we don’t put “spoons in our mouths” to say things (as my people would say) as opposed to here in Mexico where people have the art of saying things in the most considerate, disguised way, I definitely experienced culture shock. But I can attest that mostly everyone who I crossed parts with, from art professors, language professors, career professors, friends and the general public, have been nothing but accommodating and overly generous.

Writing this, I can’t help but get excited reminiscing about all the unforgettable and wonderful people that I came across from different parts of the world, the pueblos magicos (magical towns) Taxco “silver” City (being the most special that I lived in) and what I continue to discover as I keep uncovering new things and places in this culturally rich country. I love the level of creativity that Mexicans possess; I love how they love their friends and family and stand by them through good as well as rough times; I love how one can travel from state to state and receive a completely different

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relaxed, so it’s no longer an issue. I started my own family here, I have an 11-year-old son who speaks Spanish as his first language, and a Mexican partner. I think it’s fair to say that I’m a Mexicana now.

The best thing about living here, for me, is that cost of living is quite low; transportation, housing and food are all very reasonably priced. Possibilities are endless here. If one desires entertainment, luxury, simplicity, nature, culture, tradition or good live music, one can have it. In general, my experience in Mexico has been one of personal growth, and I’m very appreciative that I had the opportunity to come and start a life here

feel of liveliness and colourfulness of the local people and traditions. Each state is as if it was a different country in terms of its exquisite cuisine and practices. The live music in restaurants and Mariachis on the streets keep me motivated to love and appreciate life. The natural beauty and richness are way more than any “sombrero” and “tequila” one sees on television.

I was quite reserved and enigmatic and maybe somewhat shy when I first arrived in Mexico. So it was particularly difficult for me living in the provincial state of Tabasco, where I live initially.

Though it’s a petroleum state, with important companies, visitation from tourists on a whole is quite low; thus, causing us foreigners to be a bit of focus of attention. People are curious, as it turns out: they want your pictures, they point and stare and come up to ask questions all in an inoffensive way. Now, I’m a bit more “unbothered” and

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THE TOWER ESTATE, GRENADA

Home of the Blue Tea

The Tower Estate has recently re-opened its doors to the public. The property includes a beautiful Great House, a spice, fruit and organically grown vegetable farm, and soon to come a bungalow for short term rental.

Visitors can enjoy afternoon tea, Sunday brunches and soon a Farm-totable cooking experience. Wedding and other events are also hosted in the Great House and on the grounds. Whether persons are nature, history or tea lovers, the Tower Estate has options for you.

The Great House was built in 1913 by members of the Mathlin family of Grenada for a Grenadian lawyer, C.F.P. Renwick, to remind his wife of England. Unfortunately, she left anyway, and debt caused him to lose the house. In 1945, Dr Leonard Slinger bought the house for the then princely sum of three thousand, two hundred and eighty pounds.

Since then it has been the home of the Slinger family, where three generations have been brought up under its roof. Most recently the family of his eldest son, Paul Slinger, a former Minister of Tourism, are its new stewards; with Isabelle Slinger, the eldest daughter of Paul Slinger, managing the estate. The house has several maps and photos

covering the history of Grenada for the last 200 years, including photos of Grenadian troops leaving for the First World War: making it a history lovers’ dream.

The main property is a fine example of a West Indian Great House built with two-foot thick stone and lime cement walls and elaborately carved mahogany paneling and ceilings. The steep pitched roof is perfectly suited to the Caribbean weather and has survived two powerful hurricanes: Hurricane Janet in 1955, and Hurricane Ivan in 2004. The family is delighted to share this beautiful and best-preserved example of a Grenadian Great House with their guests. They hope that by opening the house up for tours and encouraging young Grenadians to visit some may be inspired to create similar works in the future. Additionally, the proceeds go toward helping to cover the cost of renovation, to ensure the continuous preservation and beautification of the estate.

The garden has been a key feature of the estate from its inception. It was first laid out by Vera Slinger, the wife of Dr. Leonard Slinger. Thirty years ago the baton was passed to Victoria Slinger, the wife of Paul Slinger, who has VISION MAGAZINE

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butterfly pea flowers, sorrel, lemon grass, soursop, cinnamon, and mint. And, yes, their tea is truly very blue. All served using antique tea sets for that authentically unique experience. Reservations are required, as each table is uniquely set and prepared for your visit.

All teas are blended with health and wellness in mind. Afternoon tea is served Wednesday to Friday and on the first Saturday of the month.

developed it into a tropical paradise that is listed in the book ‘1001 Gardens You Must See Before You Die’ by Rae Spenser-Jones.

The two-acre garden is a plant-enthusiast’s dream, with beds of variegated foliage and flowering shrubs and vines, including some less common ones like the Rangoon Creeper, Jade Vine, Bromeliads, Heliconias and Cape Honeysuckle. Many of these plants are used in Grenada’s stand at the Chelsea Flower Show, which has for many years won the coveted gold prize. There are also many tropical trees such as Flamboyant, Mahogany, King of Flowers and numerous spices and fruit trees occupying the grounds. Designed to provide year-round color, many guests return to the garden throughout the year to enjoy different plants in bloom. The estate also provides a wealth of vegetables and fruits for the table, as well as flowers and medicinal plants for their signature tea blends. Victoria’s special garden tour is available on Fridays.

Current steward Isabelle has added a vegetable farm to the property, which promotes the use of natural methods of pest control and fertilization.

They hope to provide a model for how this type of farming can be done sustainably. Climate-smart methods are also in use. In 2020, they will be further developing an assortment of raw products as well as processed goods for sale, alongside setting up a cooperative comprising of farmers from the area,

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to provide fresh, naturally grown vegetables and dried fruits. As is currently, the products produced will be used in all the food offerings provided.

Even more emphasis will be placed on recycling as their capacity to produce more increases, in keeping with their goal of being environmentally friendly.

The Tower’s food offerings include their signature three course, traditional English tea menu, featuring beautifully presented tiers of freshly baked cakes, cucumber sandwiches, devilled eggs and other delicacies. A glass of chilled prosecco awaits you, should you choose the Royal Tea option. They serve beautifully blended teas; once again using ingredients from their farm, including blue

They also collaborate with Chef Belinda Bishop of Flavours of Grenada to offer a Great House Sunday Brunch. Belinda’s roots are also in St. Paul’s, and her cooking is well appreciated both locally and internationally.

Starting in 2020,The Tower Estate will be adding a farm-to-fork culinary experience hosted by Belinda. Guests will enjoy picking the vegetables and fruits themselves for the intended meals. In so doing, they will and learn how to use them to create new dishes. Guests sit on rustic mahogany benches under the trees while Chef Belinda demonstrates how to cook their lunch. The idea is to promote healthy eating. Brunches are served the second Sunday of every month, and the farm-to-fork culinary experience happens weekly, starting in 2020.

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Roger Bonair-Agard is a native of Trinidad & Tobago, and Brooklyn. He is author of Tarnish & Masquerade, (Cypher Books, 2006), GULLY (Cypher Books, 2010), Bury My Clothes (Haymarket Books, 2013), which was long listed for the National Book Award, and won the Society of Midland Authors award for poetry; and Where Brooklyn At?! (Willow Books/Aquarius Press, 2016). A Cave Canem fellow, Roger is Writer-in-Residence at Brooklyn’s National Sawdust, and frontman for the band Miyamoto is Black Enough. He is Program Director, teaches, and writes on Pedagogy and Curriculum design with Free Write Arts & Literacy at Cook County Juvenile Temporary Detention Center, and Cook County Jail Division 10, Chicago, IL. The brief collection before you is from his manuscript, American Orisa.

KAISO MONEY ORIGIN STORY Kaiso Money decide is he alone could do anything to fix it. So he kiss the cutlass up to the baddest blacksmith till the edge come back like fire, till the blade vibrate vibranium

The Esu of Forgiveness or Black Fatherhood takes the long way round

He spend 40 days decorating the handle to a blinding sparkle - 735 diamond pieces bequeathed him by a deaf traveler who was so quick fingered he demonstrated his ase from the gods by picking Kaiso ID from the wallet inside a pocket in Kaiso jacket while Kaiso was reciting to him the hidden lyrics learned from the reverse playing of Chalkdust’s Put on My Guns Again.

Is so Kaiso learn to believe and accept that he needed a clock and a cause.

It was always only going to be black and born in the fire, work done in the dark and powers come from somewhere on high The deaf traveler hear Kaiso scripture and give him back the wallet and the gift of flight left over from the first Africans to return home. He bathe him right there with it, by a stand pipe at the end of Ford Street right before you walk in the cane.

Kaiso skin turn slate & shale from a squat he could launch his body anywhere the jewel-handled blade, lead.

He could leap wide rivers in a single bound.

All slackness start to cower in fear All evil tremble when Kaiso was in the air.

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My father married at 19, emigrated to Canada with his new wife.

By 22, he had three children – his marriage floundering. He met my mother somewhere around that time, at McGill University in Montreal. They were both from Trinidad – opposite ends of the island. My mother remembers him as a serious, organized student.

He helped her study for an important English final. During the summers they would hang out together in New York, where my mother worked as a nanny for a wealthy family to put herself through school. On my father’s 25th birthday, my mother was 7 months pregnant with his 4th child – me. He was in Montreal. My mother having graduated was in New York. There are conflicting versions of the communication that took place between them, but he wasn’t there – for her pregnancy, for my birth, for any of the 2 years my mother had to leave me in the care of a foster family and return home to Trinidad to look for a job, before she returned to get me and take me home.

My father came home to Trinidad once or twice a year. My mother would call him to remind him of birthdays and to send something for Christmas. I grew up without him. I am – if you read every report about black youth – a statistic. According to the ‘evidence’, anecdotal and otherwise, black fathers routinely abandon their children, and they’re left to the ravages of a world that preys on children. Listen closely to the timbre of some of this evidence and you’ll hear the strains of ‘this is really the reason that black children flounder – their absentee fathers, their single mothers, their lack of sustained family units and relationships and their failure has nothing to do with any larger forces we may want to ascribe to it.’ Listen closer and you’ll hear some other things about blackness too, but – one thing at a time. It must also be noted that my relationship with my father now is intensely close, deeply important to us both, and enduring in a way that I could not have previously predicted. +++

I am today, a father – a black father. To be sure, the jury is not yet in on the success or failure of my attempts at fatherhood. *At the writing of this, my daughter – my first child – is only 8 months old. There are several years of testing to go before I can say I’ve been a great, or even adequate father. Still, I moved to a city that I didn’t want to live in so I could be there for my daughter. This is not something that requires an ovation. It is part of what I see as my job. I consider myself lucky to have become a first time parent at the advanced age of 45. I have significantly more clarity than your average 25 year old about what kind of parent I want to be. I’ve significantly more sense of who I am and what patience means and requires – not because I’m wonderful, but because I’ve survived. Moreover, I look around me at my friends – other black fathers, and what I see is the most dedicated cadre of fathers you can think of – men who are not only shouldering their share of the financial burden, but working hard to be there for their sons and daughters regardless of the state of the relationship with the mothers of those children. Indeed, not one black man with whom I have an intimate relationship can be said to have abandoned his children. Wherefore then this idea that black men are more likely to not be there for their kids? How then did this narrative get born? +++ I’m a freelance teacher of creative writing. Among the places I do this work is in juvenile jail. You probably know where I’m going with this thread. Many of my students have not had the privilege of involved fathers. They are all Black and Latino. They almost all come from Chicago’s South and West sides, which in the context of America’s continued segregation, means neighborhoods of low socio economic status and entirely black and brown. Further, a significant number of their fathers have also been in prison or continue to be in prison.

The stories are as common among that population, as they are heart-breaking. Their fathers give them what advice they can – father them however they know, until they are taken away again. Uncles and grandmothers and mothers pick up the slack. Indeed uncles and grandmothers and older folk in the neighborhood are involved whether or not the fathers are there. The village attempts to raise because it has no choice – because their schools are terrible (or have been taken away). There are no resources. Jobs are scarce and they fall back on the extended family – the family that existed before industrialization and modern business slicked us with the con game of the nuclear family, cleaved from the rest of its support, to fend for itself in a post-industrial landscape. +++ I’m running away with a rant now. My daughter laughs when I go into her room to get her in the morning. She can’t believe I’ve come back.

She continues to shriek as I read to her while she holds the bars of her crib and bounces up and down maniacally. She fusses through the changing of her clothes and we head out to the bus – or the subway.

Everyone smiles at me on the street. White women who pretend I’m ether when I’m alone, talk to me at the streetlights waiting to cross.

Occasionally, I end up with a free ride on the bus – if I’m scrambling for my bus card or it turns out that I miscalculated and my card hasn’t enough of a balance on it. I’m praised for the simplest act of caretaking

– the body of my child strapped to mine as I go about my daily business. Black women are often ecstatic or confused. I am a menace when alone, something to be sized up. With my child I’m somewhere between magically visible and an alien from a foreign land. So much of what we believe about ourselves is a confusing mélange of lived experience, a con job about what should be, and statistics, damned lying statistics. +++ Here’s what I’ve come to notice: in general white men are far more awkward with Nina (especially in her first 3 months) than black men have been. They are scared to hold her, or think she’s too little – scared they might break the infant. They’ve had no experience with children in their family they say, or, they’ve never been asked to hold a child even if there’ve been children there. Mostly, these white men are young, middle-American, and middle-class. They fit comfortably into narratives of who they are as ‘men’ in their society. Not much comes up to make them question their manhood in the general scheme of the dominant white American narrative, even though they’re progressive, liberal, white men in most cases. I guarantee that none of these men has ever heard it questioned whether he will or will not be present when he has a child.

Almost to a man the black men in my life and black children for that matter, pick Nina up as if it’s a matter-of-fact. They feed her – from their fingers even as did my best friend’s 13 year old son. They signify all the various ‘tones’ of blackness we’ve come to identify. They’re intellectuals. They’re titans of commerce. They’re violent cops.

They’re thugs and reformed thugs. They’re hat backwards freestyling on the train youths and their ability to be tender and show love is not new to me, but I’m an old man now and my daughter is my everything and black men close to me hold her like she is everything to them too. They’re villagers, raising our children. Why is this important?

Because this is an image of black manhood that we are nowhere in public representations of black men allowed to see. The narrative that dominates is that black men are menacing and frightening and it is necessary to stand one’s ground against them (even if they’re running away) and this narrative goes even further to not just criminalize but animalize black men with the idea that we’re to expect that they/we, would abandon our young.

I have several white friends whose fathers weren’t there. I know of white youth whose fathers didn’t manage to stay. None of them seem to be treated as part of a statistic. None of them seems to walk around with the ‘knowledge’ that this is part of some cultural statistical yoke they must wear. Indeed, in most of their interactions, others are surprised to learn this about them. I have several white friends whose fathers were there, whose fathers are, indeed, still married to their mothers.

Some of them have parents who ‘waited until the children were gone’ to leave. Some of those people wish to all the gods that their parents had divorced. Some of them have parents who share an incredible love. Some of them are working through years of therapy to parse their parents’ relationships. No-one is surprised to learn about my father’s absence – to know this as a thing about me, because I’m black. This includes black people and Latino people and white people. We’ve

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bought the idea inter-generationally that we don’t take care of our children – that we are somehow incapable of nurture. Since we’re on statistics, those will also let you know that black men are at least (depending on where you are in the country) three times more likely to be convicted for a crime of the exact same circumstance as white men are. The socio-economic undertones of conviction for crackcocaine as opposed to powder, and the generally racist undertones of the war on drugs have carted black and brown men off to prisons in record numbers in the last 30 years. Indeed, America has found a way to cart black men off to jail at numbers far exceeding that of their white counterparts from the moment Reconstruction ended.

These arguments are not separate from the narrative of absentee fatherhood in black communities. The critique about a crisis in black fatherhood cannot be had without examining where black fathers go and why, when indeed they are absent. It cannot be had without also talking about why black boys and girls are adultified in the media and the criminal justice system, and anywhere they are encountered, with often deadly consequences. It cannot be had as a discussion without also having the discussion that the ability to freely go to the polls has only existed for black people in this last generation; in my lifetime.

My friend, Camille tells of how her mother hated to take her and her sisters shopping. For her, a young woman who grew up in the 80s and 90s, the idea of shopping was a joyous occasion. She could never understand why her mother didn’t share in their joy. As an adult, she asked her mother who revealed that as a girl in Houston, when her own mother took her shopping for shoes, she’d have to have her foot outlined and presented to the clerk, because black people were not allowed to try shoes on – shoes that presumably might also have to end up on white feet. Shopping, even in the 50s and 60s meant subjecting oneself to constant indignity. Of course, the shopping example is only microcosmic about what all black life has been like in America up to very recently. The decimation of schools in black neighborhoods, the prison industrial complex, Trayvon Martin and the **188th day since George Zimmerman’s acquittal, all conspire to suggest, that to speak of black fatherhood, in the context of that white American trope of nuclear family head-of-household figure, without also examining the myriad ways in which it might be made not possible or might not be the most advantageous model even, is to ask all the wrong questions and to cultivate willful ignorance. It is also to ignore that across all lines national divorce rates are around 50% and climbing, that alternative modes of family are steadily on the rise among all people, that even as we speak America is deconstructing what family means. Some of those very white friends who grew up in two-parent households aren’t sure that’s what was best ultimately.

But the narrative about black men and their children morphs into a narrative about nuclear family being something we should aspire to, and must ignore all the other truths in our lives in order to maintain a nuclear household or be counted (or looked upon) as part of that statistic and conversation about ‘the breakdown of the black family.’

In this narrative, marriage is sacrosanct and without recognizing it we engage in equating non-wed parenthood with abandonment of the offspring, even when those fathers remain involved on a daily basis.

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We beat that idea about the head, because we desperately want it to be the reason for everything that ails ‘the black community.’ We’d rather not look to some more deeply seated, fundamental reasons for general social inequity. +++ The Yoruba of West Africa, whose descendants peopled much of the Caribbean, and Americas through slavery, count among their orisas – their manifestations of the Godhead, Esu. He is the messenger between the human and divine worlds, Undergod of duality, crossroads and beginnings, and also a phallic and fertility Undergod, transporter of souls to the underworld. He is considered a trickster god. Think Coyote of some Native American traditions.

Esu is the embodiment of that very Christian of biblical ideas that we can’t possibly fathom how God works, or know what he has in store for us. For the African in diaspora, Esu is a grounding idea (whether he participates in the Yoruba spiritual system or not). How else to explain the Middle Passage, what God’s intention is, but by the idea that He manifests as a trickster with the ability to show multiple faces of the self to others and to ourselves. I often think of Esu when I think of the myth of the absent black father, the black father gone, abandoning his charge. Among the many stories told of the playful Esu, who manifests as Elegba often in the syncretization of Yoruba and Christianity in the Caribbean and South America, is that he once walked between two brothers, each working on his own land on opposite sides of a path. Half his body is painted blue, the other half red. One brother says “Did you see that blue man?” The other says “No, he was red!” And so they argue until Esu passes back going the other way, such that the first says in effect “My bad, he was red” while the other argues ”No, no. you were right. He’s blue.”

These were also two brothers (in one odu, who had neglected to adequately honor the orisas). The essence of Esu is to remind us that not everything is as it appears, and that we must know all sides of a thing before we can locate what it really means. My therapist, a man of endless analogies, says “Do you remember the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind? Do you remember how many people had the vision of the mountain and drew it, but got to it and couldn’t make contact? Richard Dreyfuss character made a 3-D model out of mashed potatoes or something, so when he got there, he knew he had to walk around it and go to the other side.” We were talking about cognitive behavioral understanding or some such. I was trying to understand my own actions, how I might live more honestly in them. Fatherhood, is like that – but then so is blackness, and its intersection with maleness, and its intersection with white western post industrialized life. We heed the lesson of Esu and forgive what we thought we saw the first time round. All around me are black men so full of love and tenderness for their children that I’m often on the edge of weeping for joy when I see us on the street, give dap to us when we get together. We can let statistics that want to tell one story ‘prove’ one thing to us, but we must watch what is actually happening and seek out stories on the ground; walk to the other side of the mountain to find out the real truth.

EGUN (after the Trinidad airport’s photo of my family welcoming me home – on Instagram) My mother is in the airport – floating in the rafters when I come home. She is tropical and laughing into the first touchdown beer no matter the hour. No matter the hour she comes to the airport, my father too & my brother, my childhood best friend too – even now she comes, spirit-self to the airport where I am an immigrant in my own land, an immigrant in my own body. Motherless. My protection no longer here, but now, everywhere; and especially in the airport when I come home looking for myself, and her, and because she is still at work – finding all the histories of me, i’ve left behind.

I’ve left behind songs, lost notebooks of poems, a woman who sewed her own clothes who was finishing final stitches when I got to her door.

She never shaved her legs. We never stayed all night at the party. We made love instead. My mother spent those nights at her girlfriend’s house – those were the first moments of murder and burglary and the chickens of post-colonial ambition coming home to roost.

We were learning finally how to be Third World how to choose to live by someone else’s leave.

My mother told me I was black, every day. I understood her panic. I packed my bags. I flew. I sought the promise.

I sought a promise in the land in which I was born. Brooklyn, New York. My mother swollen full with child and ready to drop this hot new album of black boy, just six weeks after Martin Luther King was shot. The Angel Friends’ Nursing home was the Catholic foster care agency where I alit.

Every major American city burnt that Summer.

When I feel froggy, I tell people I did it, then went home to watch and laugh. 19 years later, I return. Crack era New York, young, angry, venomous, alone – my mother, nowhere; me, gathering poems, spit, blood. Shango, Ogun wrestling for my ori. Looking on, plotting – Osun Listen – if Osun scheme on your ori, she wins; this is the nature of the vacuum in the breakbeat she occupies. The moment of make and let live win out every time, and so – my mother is now,

everywhere. Content to make her home among stars and particles at last. Two boys shepherded through the valley of death and rum-talk the best way she knew how. One learned to belong by mapping his way in the fields and streets the other, mapping the home and the interior of the brain, both magician and victim of its lightning synapses. She left because she had nothing more to give us she believed, because she wanted to be beautiful forever.

She’d already taken our prayers past the sun.

ANOINT FOR KAISO MONEY Kaiso Money and Grind Teet use to break biche to tief five-fingers from a patch of land you had to enter from a trace off Back Street. Never mind Back Street was little more dan a trace itself.

The grass was waist high on the boys – they were only in 5th Standard – and dize really how they survive when Old Mr. Castillo fire a rifle over their heads.

Nobody never hear Grind Teet say a word except Kaiso Money, and Kaiso say Grind Teet had special powers – say Teet hear de shot before it fire – say Teet pull boatahdem dong in de grass and slow his own heart beat until Kaiso own slow dong too. And jes so they stay until Mr. Castillo and de dogs pass right next to dem de lil fellas invisible to the old hunter, unsmellable to the bloodhounds.

Kaiso Money used to be sorf as a lil boy. Grind Teet use to have to fight Sugar Head and Black Boy for him.

But according to Kaiso, is Grind Teet self perform de ceremony to get him ready to go up in de cold. Grind Teet know de cold had white people, and white people was presshah even doh Grind Teet never meet one, so he bless Kaiso Money wit will and armor. He bleed a jet black cock, pour rum on some black stone and make fire and smoke come from dirt by jes waving he hand Kaiso Money say. Den de twoahdem smoke two cigar and Grind Teet talk for the longest stretchahtime Kaiso say he ever hear him talk.

Dey was only nine years old den. From dat Kaiso Money tun bold, tun fighter. Grind teet go back to silence – bright like a star, stronger dan any bull, black and as quiet as night.

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HOW OSUN CHOSE THE LAND OF THE HUMMINGBIRD no veil no caul but the child back from shoulder to shoulder and forehead down to the missing eyebrows covered in a fine hair like feathers, or fur, like she might take flight. Black eyes like an eagle she peers out already from the hood.

Who knows what she dreaming only days called forth from the other side? Who song she trying to answer back? Never too soon to summon help to keep the child singing this side Osun see it fit to call the child so we make a way.

Better pitch some coconut husk and see what Elegba say. right hand on top the head, left hand rock the shoulder lose, and the child wriggle free – nearly fall but I slide her onto the mother belly and she breathe and I breathe and if you hear noise; me and she bawling like the break-breath take two of we – like one DJ switch and scratch mix the blood back into heart, reverse the air from cord to make the lung bloom like the grand-charge of a frightened blowfish, and thunder! The child throat is a sound clash. Me? I still spinning the same tune across from this new prodigy crying, grateful for how brash this youth come in, salute my set – my receiver, mute.

If it sound like the heart-physics’ blood-flow is Rick James yelling Temptations, Sing! at the bridge in Super Freak - If it sound like the seven minute Fela Kuti instrumental lead-in to the lyrics in Zombie dragging a gorilla heart beat of bass toward its sentencing If it sound like Nina Simone looking out to sea her pirate ship come to Tubman her from the white men she invisible to even when her knife at their throats If it sound like J’ouvert morning, and the engine room waking up to iron and cutlass dragging making welding fire in a circle around the steelpan rack, then you should see how dark she get by day three how Arima eyes start to slit open like a Spanish throat night rise to her skin, shadow make the Carib, a coat The first god came announced by spiders then bees.

Make me re-constitute myself while thinking I was making the world. That is the way of a man in the way of making anything. That is the way of a man making God laugh when thank Osun, is only

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the last whistle of the last riverboat leaving with the orisa prayers that he answering in the quest to remaking himself. Osun ask for the house, nine months later bring me the bees, and the next thing you know – sweetness. And then sweetness again. She bring me by the river but she didn’t bless the yellow and pink for photos. She cuss me so I move the camera from her face. Kneel. Mind the offering drifting out to sea.

Ase the blessings drifting back to me.

The story say that in the beginning, Shango, Ogun, Obatala, Oya and them sent to the Earth to make the Earth; set up Osun with the send-off. Make haste and don’t come back they tell her. We don’t need your kind to make the world. And just like that the sweet-water gone. They can’t make. Nobody can’t furrow. Nobody can’t forge. Nobody could make rain, much less thunder. Much less people to people and manage to honor the orisa them.

Story say they return to Olodumare who ask where she there who have the honey, who make the sweet water. They say, for what Boss? He say Don’t make joke you can’t do nothing without she. Apologize where the river and sea meet And pray she not too bad mind to come back; to loan you her sweet.

And the story say Osun was up on the moon looking in a glass when the big boss send for her and say to help them.

And I wasn’t there but it sound like Osun had a mind to just leave them to fail. It wasn’t just that they had to ask her back, but they had to apologize – not just say sorry but make sure it don’t happen again. And one story say that in coming to the reasonings she turn herself on herself and give birth to Elegba, the inventor of three card monte, Jesus knocking at your door dressed in rags. So she save them, and by them I mean we. Every man get a crossroads to reckon with and from that way forward, another crossroads So Osun test we and give we a way to figure it out And so we still fuck it up, so we still don’t know when to hush we mouth.

In the study, lights off leaned against her mother skin, the child begin to take on the aspect of her name.

Arima. Carib. Place of water. Dark retribution.

She look like where she come from – Iere which is to say, Black, which is to say African and indigenous, you dig? Down deep the child come from. Mother blood from a place where machete carry several message too, so it seem right, even with the tall bookshelves there to shadow them.

I start to dream the past in the now when I look in her face. The child not playing – cry like she want to fight.

My mother say she have my mouth, which mean my father own too.

Orisa bless man with woman to do the job he couldn’t handle.

I have my work to do. But she not waiting. She up early. She done light a candle.

Follow me here: not one, not two, not three, but seven set of people Columbus meet when he reach here, when he take his fast self just like a man to say he naming something. Just like a man to meet you and immediately call you out your name – Trinidad. All them people – Araucas people (where I come from) Tamanaques, Chaimas, Chaguanes, Salives, Quaquas, Caribes called the place Iere – land of the Humming Bird.

We saying in fact that Osun began here, with us, where wings kata and dive to offer bodies to their mates, where beaks make lush the landscape with their love of nectar where everything grow because the birds, like the bees move the sap that make every single body come We move the honey. We make the sugar cane. We invent rum.

And rum come from sugar cane, and likewise molasses and we know the flora of peacock tail and LaBasse corbeaux alike. And sweet masquerade and the head detached from the traitorous body alike – we who worship humming bird, Scarlet Ibis, La Diablesse and Moko Jumbie alike. We know is fire must blaze for the pan tune to honey up to the North Stand so sweet, killers cry to hear a minor chord arrangement run like a cane-fire through tenor, double-second, guitar and cello pan.

So is no surprise to we that Osun, drag Ogun from a Talparo bush right here, so that Iere might work again even called out its name. Is no surprise is here Ogun stay – hammer & pan his only reason left.

Here is a fact: No Trini woman ever beg a man to come back in a love song yet.

Pull up your socks. Straighten your pants. Drag your bow Mr Fiddler, and join the fete.

Once a woman courted me, called me out to eat and drink interviewed me for a small publication, and we walked from the place for miles and couldn’t done talk.

She was black as a Point Fortin woman because she was; and we lie down with each other enough times to ask a question of time and space even though I was already due to leave town. Oh God she was sweet, and I in need of sweetness. I had squandered honey before and thought myself ready to worship the bees themselves. So when she stood there calm blue slip sheer & bright enough to cut maljo and said No, I couldn’t believe it. Them days I thought I was Shango.

I had misnamed myself. She wasn’t for me, only to reintroduce me to myself. I wasn’t cured or nothing – just released to do my work I went on. In search of further carnal rescue. I dug in deeper. I faced my dirt.

Forget how you forget what home look like and study how Osun try to save the rivers, the bird sanctuary,

the leatherbacks thousand mile swim to beach at Grand Riviere; their pawi’s high piping - How she try to save J’ouvert morning, every Pagwa color, the binding of hillside dirt in Diego Martin, the perspective of newly dug produce’s plumage flanking the bent backs of the crowd on the slow uphill crawl through the market in Siparia on the way to make offering to La Divina Pastora – all dat she try to save.

Orinoco River, Cascade River, Two Head River. Caura River. She try to save your memory of the day you finally discovered science right inside the poetry you were flailing at digging soil for study on one of the banks. Meanwhile, you only studying woman and rum.

Osun put on she peacock costume and head towards the sun.

And the story say Osun take all these prayers towards the one god. And to get to the one god you have to cross the sun.

And Osun know she could get pressure trying to cross that heavenly swelter, but is only one way to get these prayers answered; to get paradise saved. All that immortelle and man can’t see the sky. Meanwhile Scarlet Ibis ending up in pot and leatherbacks making the thousand mile for the last time.

Manzanilla coconut trees getting thinner and thinner. Locusts come to mimic as if to mock any Exodus we try. Throats are slit. Bullet make like bees to tear young flesh into nothing like honey. Pan holding on – at least that have some sweet.

But is pure baccanal. Money thieving. Oil price dropping. Cocoa can’t grow.

Osun steups and dance the costume wide like a band Queen and wheel towards the flame Pure road march tune. Heat in the place. She burning for the people; calling out Olodumare name.

KAISO MONEY WENT ONCE TO THE RACE TRACK with Polo – a uncle who chain smoked Benson & Hedges and had a round belly and loud echoing tenor whether laughing or cussing.

Uncle Polo carry him to his first ever cinema show. They sit down in pit where everybody keep their foot up so rat don’t run on them during the movie. They watch Cornbread, Earl & Me at the Palladium – Kaiso learn how to grieve then – learn how to carry death easy easy when the black boy with the orange juice bottle get shoot in the back by a police. Since then he learn to shrug at blood. He was so easy, with blood, he grandmother swear he was going to be a doctor.

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Polo give Kaiso $5 and send him to buy a roti and bet on a horse. The horse was a two-tone grey and white thoroughbred name If so, Why not Kaiso Money win $20 back and Uncle Polo treat him like a big man – next week they going and see King Kong the week after that The Seven Steps of Kung Fu. Kaiso was developing a bounce to his walk – like Cornbread, like Silver Fox. He come out the theater Kung Fu fightin sharing a Mackeson with Uncle Polo. He think about them days as he sit down in the cold in Chicago, watchin youths march in de street, fed-up watching their own blood run. He think about Cornbread, in the rain, running home, juice in hand, when the bullet hit him. He think about how dead people still don’t faze him since that. He look at his knuckle scars.

It was so long ago. He was seven.

He loved the movies. He was unafraid.

Pan-ifesto – an invocation against forgetting We declare to the French-Creoles and the English, to the new imperialists in America, the old ones in Europe, to those whose anthropological instincts concerning the marvelous survival of Black people makes them want to penetrate again and again into some new interior, that Pan is ours.

And we declare that we who speak are most definitely African, and find ourselves 10.7 degrees N latitude and 61.5 degrees West on the island of Trinidad, and we made the Pan there and offered it to no one but our eternal exodus to freedom.

We declare by the orishas who have kept us, that the oil drum is Ogun’s and the machete that protects it too, and the blowtorch that rends the steel, and the hammer that pounds it into song and song into it – Ogun’s. We declare Charlotte Street our beach at Normandy. We name it one of our shrines and declare that it too, seeped through with blood of Black youth, is Black, and Pan, ours. In the name of Jit Samaroo and Boogsie Sharpe and Pat Bishop and Spree Simon and Ellie Manette and Anthony Williams we declare Pan a weapon in the continued unchaining of the enslaved. We declare its composers and arrangers High Priest and Field Marshall and we enshrine too the yards of John John, Laventille, East Dry River, and The Village at Hamilton Street. In the name of all the pans we wrapped in crocus and transported under cover of night through the Dry River, we assert the black stripe in the flag to be Pan’s stripe. In the name of ghost practicing for Panorama so as to keep our arrangements ours, our sticks so many battymamselles hovering over the bowl of the drum, wings rolling to disturb air so that the music made is the angels’ share, we declare that silence ours and the boundary of the yard Ogun’s and made of war and love at once.

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bamboo pounded into the earth to mimic goatskin, we enshrine the sound of the wind in the bamboo leaves atop groves in Caroni, Arouca, Paramin, Arima, Sans Souci, Valencia, Mayaro. We declare as black gods the Arawaks and Caribs who did it first, who survived to teach us new ways to rhythm the dirt. We claim Vishnu, the dark one, the blueblack one, the one who enters everywhere as Black too. For we have seen them dancing together in the bush up Lopinot Road, in a gayelle in Valencia, on a beach in Mayaro and on the streets of Longdenville and the forests of Tamana too. We rebuke any narrative reducing Pan to a single bullshit story that cannot recite the verses of the African overboard to mermaids turned into multi melody to unchain our bodies. We reject co-optation and invoke Black Stalin’s Bun Dem on all interlopers of Blackness and History and Black History and History still told by victors and false discoverers. Pan is Black. Ours. We remember that to be Black and find ways outside the cane field to magic and thrive, is /was /is illegal and we lay the cutlass wounds, the blunt force trauma at the feet of the blameworthy European colonists and French Planters fleeing Haiti; Niggers aspiring to be more white than their captors and enslavers, and American occupying troops anywhere such troops occupy. And we pray to Saint Earl of Lovelace for his wisdom and dancing dragons to remember our Blackness by. We declare Pan Black, Ours. We talk to the gods through the hieroglyphs of our fathers’ unnamed scars, Black skin keloiding into cowrie shell and currency.

In the name of Phase II Pan Groove and the eternal breakbeat at the center of Black soul and Black music anywhere diaspora phoenix into new and shifting definitions, we declare Pan of diaspora, and ours at once. We declare Pan Black and from Trinidad. We declare the theft of those oil drums righteous and saintly. We declare the Pan sacred and Black, the country sacred and Black, survival sacred and Black, the North Stand sacred and Black, flag women sacred and Black, a hidden cutlass up under a six bass sacred and Black and Pan is a weapon and we are warriors still storming all the beaches that keep us in chains.

We declare we will be free. We hold it to be true.

THE LEGEND OF DOUGLAS WATSON AND THE AFTERNOON AT ST. FINBAR GIRLS’ Kaiso Money did fraid licks.

Douglas Watson? Not he.

Douglas Watson was the kinda fella decision-make based on how much strokes he feel he could tolerate that day. Mr. Richardson try several times to make a example of Douglas Watson.

Once, he send Douglas over the fence to the empty lot to pick a new switch from a guava tree.

All the beaters liked a guava whip. It was strong and pliable. You could get a kind of reverb on the landing of the stroke. Kaiso Money had already get six strokes for going and playing in the girl school the afternoon before. Kaiso was vexed - with the girls for telling, with Richardson

for the most doltish rule ever. Kaiso Money had a pact with rage, so he bawl out and continue bawling from before the first stroke land, until several minutes after the sixth. Grind Teet get six too. Andy Lovell too. Shawn Collins too. Gerald Alfonso too. Wendell Ryan too.

Douglas Watson come back with a slim branch so Mr. Richardson send him back again. He return with a stout cane and Mr. Richardson make him stand up in front de class. Douglas make a show of folding his arms. Richie pull the short khaki pants tight against Douglas bottom and deliver nine of the finest blows. Douglas only flinch a little on the last three. He wasn’t expecting them. When Richie say go back to your seat, Douglas watch over his shoulder at Richie as if he was sorry for him. Douglas Watson face look like ah old man own; like he know several generations of what make Mr. Richardson cruel. That’s what Kaiso Money remember most about the school at the junction of Back Street and Lopinot Road, about St. Pius Boys’ Roman Catholic School. About 1978 – the year they turned 10.

A MEDITATION FOLLOWING THE KATA OF CHARLES DICKENS My father’s family name being Pirrup and my Christian name Phillip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip, so I called myself Pip and came to be called, Pip. Charles Dickens – Great Expectations

My father’s family name being Williams and my Christian name…

My father’s family name being son of Jon Zachariah…

son of Eugenia My father’s family name being Scottish or Welsh or Norse or his and not his…

My father’s family being unknown to me…

I recite names…

My father’s family name being a derivation My father’s family name being not mine…

or my mothers…

I recite names… my infant tongue could make sense of could make myth of, so I called on the names of Black men I could recognize. I began

with Sobers and Pele, born Nascimiento born The Birth. I began with Rivelino and Richards which meant brave power which meant rule with a sword or a bat or the black of one’s back hand when Black is a flag to a country that might recognize your name. I searched for my country. I recited ours was the corner within which wound a city of imagination, of names, of Josimar, and Lloyd which means grey… which conjures most often a marsh and the sky above it which never seems to waver, and the sort of man who might survive the pallor without going mad because he is the sort of man one needs in that time, the sort of man I want to be, I want to be my father – Whose family name being about conquest - desire-helm, as in helmet for war - is not about being Black. To be named not about one’s own self, to have no name one’s infant tongue can come to call oneself is to not know full liberty, full fraternity in the brotherhood of men to be always some kind of 3/5 version of self until one finds the name that drums in the palate and makes bass in the trunk which of course means to recall trees, which mean to need roots, and intricate connections to other roots and other trees and therefore a grove and therefore a forest, a massive interconnected flora and underground industry of insect and larvae and fauna and excretion and resurrection, hibernation and Spring an epiphany of ecologies and therefore a knowledge of what is coming long before one has to face it – drought, famine, disease, such that one tree always knows what the sacrifice of self is for what it lets survive by sending word ahead and cutting off its own roots – so the body finds a name it can live and root and sound in like the drum of the fallen tree and so calls oneself Muhammad or Ali or Nandi or Kofi and knows its way when all the world around it refuses its name refuses to call it by the name it knows itself and can hear in its own body and make there, a heartbeat.

My father’s name being Roosevelt which means field of roses but resonates for me mostly in the –velt being a sound I knew for decades as South African as Boer – all their names were something –velt or something –bok and meant to supress that which is not yours to oppress that which frightens you, which frightens you because their God is somehow not yours, even though you live VISION MAGAZINE

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on the same planet, part of the same complex ecology, which frightens you because they are an ecology, not Richards or Williams or Rogers whose names all connect to fame with spears or rule which is to say means something about blood on the hands for generations which frightens because you cannot isolate the trees for the groves, clear the land for the forests and forests of warriors who fight only to be left alone, to survive, to hear their children’s names respond to the drum in the palate which becomes the echo in the trunk - but is saved by the open door of the –Roos the double-O being the place where one enters onto the field, perhaps by pushing a wooden gate or scrambling up an embankment from a river in a valley to a sight so emblematic of the existence of God, - which means of course so many roots intertwined to make a cosmic law of oneself such that if one lives by it one would live forever and ever – that one could be moved to cry, and so I weep. And so I enter my father, there.

And there is where I enter him, every time and hope to be alive long enough for my children to know what it means to have names which are theirs which they sound deep in their bodies their father and mother have given them that they might find the field through which to enter me reciting names, reciting the means to their roots to what God wants to mean so as to know exactly how to name themselves to live forever.

MOVING MY MOTHER IN We’re unpacking my mother’s things from her room here in Brooklyn; a drawer of tax and immigration documents, untouched linens, several tiny brown canisters of prescription medicine, gloves, several paid electricity bills, a library card, membership to the YMCA. I start putting things aside – a felt broad-brimmed hat, with a red ribbon as hat band – i’m going to have that replaced in brown leather – a blueprint for renovations on the house in Cascade, a letter from my father dated 1971. There is no turning away from the detritus of mother’s life. Half of it here, half of it recently been asked by the Earth to move and settle again. Trinidad sifts itself down into the Richter scale 7 and houses quietly strike up new agreements with their foundations.

I am in charge now. I know what she wants would have wanted. I fumble with the tenses of her living and leaving. This is the way with death. My mother moves in 57

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with us now, though not in the way we had first planned. I drive her back to Chicago, the way I got there, all crammed in to a truck, everything distilled to a few key items – a goldenrod bedspread I covered with as a child, pictures of my own children helping my mother mark the time in her elder years, and now the notes she took for Nina’s naming ceremony – a word crossed out here for a better option, an underlined phrase there the grammar of her hands’ calligraphic slants, so much patient detail, a lifetime of it parsed to 5 numbered index cards. I remember her that afternoon, in white I believe, sanctioning the child’s offering to the universe. This is one of a few archetypal ways I see her – speaking, controlled, strident, no word denied the full throttle of its consonants. Mostly she shows up like this; motif of one of the major arcana of the belief and lived scripture of her days mother, warrior, teacher, speaker, jester, lover, listener, thrower of parties and punches, drinker and dancer of costumes, carnival Tuesday, winged or caped, sequined and glittered, head-pieced and standarded, and black and black and black.

There are drapes here for our bedrooms, necklaces and earrings for me and the children, exquisite sweaters and scarves. I cull a few pieces for my woman, pull some aside for her granddaughters.

The two older ones have each chosen a clutch purse which they play with in the next room, their imaginations lifting them into worlds they can see, think to arrive at, that we won’t approach.

Maino says she shows up from time to time.

She is concerned about the garden, so she stares from the kitchen window out into it and so I know what must be done.

Upstairs, a mirror in an empty bathroom leaps off the wall, shatters. We sweep, pack things into boxes and bags. Friends have brought gifts for the last child too and so these evidences of life we go with are meant to bookend the whole business. In comes one, out goes another to begin a new work in a new realm. My vision gets clearer.

Frames, trophies I’ve won, copies of books I’ve written I reclaim them to my mortal self. I work. I wait.

In the next room, my children dream dreams I cannot fathom. I slow. I pack. I fold.

These things too my mother would have me hold.

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