Am I a Writer?

Teaching creative writing has been one of the most rewarding activities in my life because it gives me the opportunity, as an inheritor of certain traditions, to situate my work within the flow of Caribbean literature and to transmit these values to my students.

One of the more frequent questions that I get from my students (usually by the second week) is "Do you think I'm a writer?" My usual response is, "If you hear on the news that Miami is under a hurricane watch, and you begin to pack pen, paper, and then, water, food, flashlights…you are a writer."

Or rather I should say, "You are a human being who because of certain experiences takes the role of writer seriously." Writers know their priorities. It is also part of the realization that as a writer, one has to be always prepared for those lucid moments that Anthony C. Winkler describes in Trust the Darkness: My Life as a Writer: "Taking pictures with my mind was something I had begun doing quite early, when, I do not remember, and why, I still can's say. What I do know is that every now and again, during a heightened moment when something particularly intense is happening or some spectacular view is unfolding, I hear a slight click in my head that tells me that my brain is taking a picture" (61).

Nearly every writer I know has experienced this "click in the head" or something like it, and unless one has the kind of memory that Winkler possesses "to recall the moment in all its vividness," one usually resorts to pen and paper to record the details of the event.

The best example that I can recall about this "click" (and when I was unprepared) was in 1996 when I decided to write a series of poems in response to Midsummer by Derek Walcott. But instead of writing poems that spanned two summers, I decided to follow the calendar year and write at least one poem per week.

So, during Easter Sunday in 1995, while my wife and I were visiting her godparents, Don Luis and Doña Asela, one of those "heightened moments" occurred and didn't have paper, pen, or even a pencil. It was a particularly depressing event. Don Luis was dying of cancer and Doña Asela, who was always his support, was fading into the twilight of Alzheimer's: "the shoals of her minds nibbled by the sea of a further shore."

I had gone to the hospital without paper or pen as a sign of respect for Don Luis and Doña Asela, but then life and poetry come at you when you least expect it.

And when Don Luis said, "Todos tenemos zapatos que nos aprietan," which roughly translated means, "We all have shoes that squeeze us," the camera went off, and I was naked.

For the rest of the visit, I was in a daze--mentally recalling all the details--but when I got home, I knew that I hadn't gotten all that I'd wanted to capture.

So the next day, I did something that I've never done before. I paid for a poem.

Let me explain. I had to go back to Mount Sinai Hospital to pay ten dollars for parking, which the day before had been free. I sat in the lobby, wandered through the gardens, writing down all the things that I needed to complete the poem as a proper tribute to Don Luis and Doña Asela.

"easter song" was the name of the poem that emerged, and it was eventually published in hurricane center:

easter song

On the walkway between the warner
building and saunders pavilion, mt. sinai,
a boy, recorder in hand, practices, "row, row
row your boat" to bands of gold lantanas
sunning under the tinted dome
of the ruth and sidney harris garden
with its iron butterfly mounted
near the corner where my daughter sips
water from a fountain--above her head:
to my husband, the love of my life
while the other kids play hide-and-seek
around the statue of the burning bush--
a symbol of god's love for humanity,
above our heads, so many dead, dying,
overlooking the emerald bay, battered
in the wake of cruisers ploughing
past idlers this easter sunday, on our yearly
ritual to present ourselves, the children,
to my wife's godparents: don luis, always
nattily dressed, with so few months to live,
a paisley suit on a stick, his lungs, liver, soon
his cortex invaded by colonies of corpuscles, plotting
their own death; doña asela, always the stronger,
floral nightie, stubs of hair, gray to the root, held
bravely by pink ponytail holders, the shoals
of her mind nibbled by the sea of a further shore.
she barely recognizes us, the children, so we apologize
for not visiting more often, don luis whispers
over the sand in her throat, "todos tenemos
zapatos que nos aprietan," and as we leave
the garden, its queen palms shrubbed
by bachelor buttons, we glimpse the stone
flame behind him, for it still burns,
it still burns.

Joseph Campbell once said, "All life is a meditation," and if that is true, then anyone who has accepted the role of poet should always be prepared for those brief moments when we are immersed in that field of "pure awareness."


And it shouldn't take a hurricane for us to awaken.

***

July 20, 2009: Am I a Writer? (Part Dos)


Related Post: The Top 10 Things Every Writer Should Know

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"Criolla de Dispossessed Meets the Great Griot From St. Lucia." by Donna Weir-Soley

Donna Weir-Soley was born and grew up in Jamaica. She currently teaches at Florida International University. She is a poet and critic and has been widely published in journals such as Macomere, Caribbean Writer, Sage, The Carrier-Pidgin, Frontiers and in the anthology, Moving Beyond Boundaries. She was recently awarded a Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship for career enhancement.

Donna is the author of First Rain, an amazing and passionate book with poems of nuanced meditation and engaging thought-provoking anecdote. She includes family legends, those of home, immigration, and displacement.

"Where are your monuments

your battles, martyrs?

Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,

in that gray vault. The sea. The sea

has locked them up. The sea is History."

("The Sea is History" by Derek Walcott)

Criolla De Dispossessed Meets the Great Griot from St. Lucia.



A me dis

de illegitimate offspring

of de illicit affair

de outside chile

once remove from both sides

both a dem a try fe deny me

mi double birthright

dis-possession

"I who am poisoned with the blood of both,

Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?

I who have cursed

The drunken officer of British rule, how choose

Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?

Betray them both, or give back what they give?

How can I face such slaughter and be cool?

How can I turn from Africa and live?"

("A Far Cry From Africa" by Derek Walcott)

No one nuh come fe claim I and I

so me climb up inna de cave

curl up with de snakes

and learn to whisper venom

blow me snake-breath into de wind

embitter de firs’ dust of spring pollen

bees come buzzing round me lap

creaming one love into me orifices

me lend dem deceit fe sweeten dem sting.



Me is de outside chile

de illegitimate one

mother declare herself unwilling

unwitting accomplice, declare me bastard

corrupt like me daddy passion

birthed me at de mouth of de cavern

and return to Prosper

unblemished from her nights of sin

"While somewhere, a white horse gallops
with its mane plunging round a field whose sticks are ringed with barbed wire,and men/break stones or bind straws into ricks."

("Elsewhere" by Derek Walcott)

Me deh yah de suck snake venom

while she squeeze out me milk

from outta her breasts

pon de hot fire-hearth stone dem

hear de tortured sizzle

as she drain herself dry like parched corn

(and dem claim dem never learn nuttin from mi granny)

while me de dead fe hungry

But me jus ban mi belly

and swallow bile with de venom

and grow forked tongues

dat stretch the length of fern gully

me grow verdant and supple

like alan bamboo

reaching round worlds

and back to this little piece of rock

where me stretch out, shed me skin

like croakin’ lizard

and wait for de day when me nuh longer wait...



Fadda nuh dare look pon me

him talk to mi wid im back turn:

"They walk, you write; keep to that narrow causeway without looking down

climbing in their footsteps, that slow, ancestral beat

of those used to climbing roads; /your own work owes them

because the couplet of those multiplying feet

made your first rhymes. Look, they climb and no one knows them;

they take their copper pittances, and your duty

. . .is the chance you now have, to give those feet a voice."

(Omeros, 75-6 by Derek Walcott)

And a so fe me fada name de worlds I and I see

and de faces that refuse to see me

me learn de rhythm of him voice

each curve and dip

every swell and whirl

syllable by syllable me swallow

him meaning whole

until me learn to speak in parables

like de river.



Red moon over Lagos

Bleeds fe me name in ochre dust

Ile Ife a call me

Ile Ife a call me

Ile Ife a call me name

"Then suddenly from their rotting logs distracting signs of the faith I betrayed,

or the faith that betrayed me,

yellow butterflies rising on the road to Valencia."

(Midsummer,"LIV" by Derek Walcott)

Street children throng de markets

bellies heavy wid wind.

gods are silent now, yes!

sleeping in de museum

By de Palace gate.



Rent de moon, Iyah!!!!

Let de rain come dung

Sacred blood cleanse even fools!

"Who is that dark child on the parapets

of Europe, watching the evening river mint

its sovereigns stamped with power, not with poets,

the Thames and the Neva rustling like banknotes,

then, black on gold, the Hudson's silhouettes?



From frozen Neva to the Hudson pours,

under the airport domes, the echoing stations,

the tributary of emigrants whom exile

has made as classless as the common cold,

citizens of a language that is now yours."

("Forest of Europe" by Derek Walcott)

Now… dem bound to hear

though dem still don’t see me

mis-naming me daughta of Caliban,

bastard chile of Miranda

when me is none a dat



just me in multiplicity!



me oneness, me own...

although me nuh have nuh face

yet me will roar yuh

thunderous ululations



mock yuh safety

yuh sureness of self.



Till I and I become de bo in bombo!

eloquent and sacrilegious

yuh will love me yet!

Know ME

name me right.



When me upset de table at yuh dinner-party

turn over de dutchie pot

off de pimento wood fire

dumpling turn to ashes

caviar nestling in vomit...



Say yeah, a me rule

fire an’ brimstone a fe rain dung ya so!

A weh oonuu tek dis ting fah?

"The small plough continues on this lined page

beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree,

the tornado's black vengeance,

and the young ploughman feels the change in his veins, heart, muscles,tendons,

till the land lies open like a flag as dawn's sure light streaks the field

and furrows wait for the sower."

("Forty Acres: A Poem for Barack Obama" by Derek Walcott)

***

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"Everything Pure Must Be Broken"

"Everything pure must be broken," she said,
her smile tightening into a stranglehold.
and I began to feel the familiar cold

crawling across the floor and into my bed,
following the sweep of her dress over the threshold.
"Everything pure must be broken," she said,

her heels crunching the bones of dead,
men who never dreamt their story would be told
as the maudlin tale of a sad cuckold:
"Everything pure must be broken," she said.

--Geoffrey Philp--

***

My contribution to Read Write Poem #82

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Annual Jamaica Independence Essay Competition 2009

The Jamaica Information Service in Miami is now accepting entries for the annual Independence Essay Competition, which forms part of the Jamaica Independence celebrations throughout the Florida communities.

The contest now in its ninth year, is open to all Jamaican children, first and second generation, and residing in Florida State, The deadline for participating entries is Friday, July 24th. The winner in each category will be awarded with a plaque from the Jamaica Consulate General.

The merit to this project is to advance community awareness while exposing our youth to their Jamaican culture and heritage. As they research and prepare compositions, applicants are given the opportunity to reflect on the nation’s history and culture; look at the impact of their Jamaican roots on their upbringing; and the positive events that have catapulted Jamaica and its Diaspora in the global arena.

Children in the Diaspora are being encouraged to take interest in the annual Essay Competition realizing that the occasion would inspire young Jamaicans to more seriously consider learning the island of their origin.

Students can choose from a selection of topics related to the island’s cultural heritage some of which include community leadership, entertainment, education, history and culture, geography and national development.

Applicants must be between five and eighteen years of age and resident here in Florida. There are three age categories for the responses five to eight (5-8); nine to twelve (9-12); and thirteen to eighteen (13-18).

For information on entering the contest, interested persons can contact the JIS office at the Jamaica Consulate General in Miami located at 25 Southeast Second Avenue, Suite 609, telephone (305-374-8431 ext. 232) email jismiami@bellsouth.net or the Consulate’s website at www.jamaicacgmiami.org

JAMAICA INFORMATION SERVICE

JAMAICA INDEPENDENCE ESSAY COMPETITION –2009

Essay topics are as follows:

Write about your two favorite places in Jamaica. These could include historic landmarks, places of recreation, cities, or even your family home. Name them and describe why they are your favorite.

How do you think Jamaican youth in the Diaspora can best contribute to Jamaica’s economic development.

Do you know of a Jamaican group or Jamaican individual who has made an outstanding contribution to their community or attained an outstanding achievement? If so, write about their contribution or achievement and its impact on the community in which he or she resides.

What is your opinion of reggae music today, and explain the role that this genre of music has played in Jamaica’s social, cultural, and economic development.

Explain how the process of “Brand Jamaica” can be promoted through the export of our cultural heritage including art, music, folk culture, plays, food, etc.

Briefly describe the significance of Jamaica’s six national symbols.

There are several prominent Jamaican landmarks (e.g. Port Royal, Devon House, Rose Hall Great House, Spanish Town, National Heroes’ Park, etc.). Choose any Jamaican landmark that you know and explain briefly its context to Jamaica’s rich cultural heritage.

***

Each entrant must choose only one topic. The response must NOT exceed two pages and should be double-spaced.


Essays can be emailed to jismiami@bellsouth.net or mailed to the Jamaica Information Service, 25 SE Second Avenue – Ste 609, Miami, FLA 33131.

Each entry must be accompanied by the contestant’s name, address, telephone number and age. There are three age categories for entrants: five to eight (5-8); nine to twelve (9-12); thirteen to eighteen (13-18).

The deadline for entries is Friday July 24th.

***

Cheryl Wynter (305-374-8431 ext. 232)

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"Bad" Words & Storytelling

During a radio interview in the eighties, Peter Tosh said that there were no "bad" words and I believed him. However, to many in his listening audience this was a radical concept and another example of Rasta-speak. But to overstand what Peter meant, one has to realize that he, like many Rastafari, realize that words in themselves are not "bad," but they are merely the vehicles of an awakened or unawakened consciousness. Or to put it another way, if one's mind is "as clear as a hillside lake," as another of my teachers said when I was telling him about "bad" and "good" energy," one would be able to see through "bad" and "good" as merely events--without attaching limited judgment to phenomena.

What both these men were trying to teach me in less mystical terms was that every individual creates a context, largely defined by language, through which s/he perceives the world. If the contextual framework is removed or expanded, then the relative terms, "good" or "bad," begin to lose their meaning because of their limited relevance to reality. My teachers' worldview can be summed up in the Taoist story of the farmer.

Yet context (character, plot, setting) is at the heart of fiction and one of the guiding principles of my storytelling is to use only the words or sentences that will either advance the plot or reveal character. And since many of my stories are about working class or middle class Jamaicans with a patina of "sophistication," how the characters speak, especially when they are faced with conflict--the essence of storytelling--is vitally important. If a writer betrays his characters because s/he fears what the audience will think, the story will lose its soul and the audience even if they are amused by changes, will realize that the writer has been unfaithful. And that is a certain death of the story and perhaps the writer's career because trust--the willingness of the writer to speak the truth of a character and situation--is the element upon which all good stories are built. That trust is sacrosanct.

It was against this backdrop that one of the most embarrassing episodes in my writing career took place.

In July 2003, Colin Channer, Kwame Dawes, and I were invited to read at Jamaica College, an all boys' school, as part of the school's efforts to rebuild the library. I was very excited about reading Benjamin, my son, my coming-of age novel, because much of the action takes place at Jamaica College, my alma mater.

In Benjamin, my son, I use the framework of Dante's Inferno to challenge the illusion of Jamaica that is promoted by our tourist brochures and to illustrate the loss of moral vision in post-Independence Jamaica. The latter has had a corrosive effect on every aspect of culture, which extends to games such as dominos or cricket--two staples in the lifestyles of Jamaican men. One could even argue that mastery of these games is a male rite of passage in Jamaica.

As an alumnus of Jamaica College, Jason Lumley, the protagonist of Benjamin, my son, approaches women from a background of fear and hostility. But as he wanders through Standpipe, a neighboring community of Jamaica College, he encounters many different women who affect a change in his attitude, and by the end of the novel, he is reintegrated into the protection of the sacred feminine.

So, for my triumphal return to the school that was the setting of my bildungsroman, I thought I had chosen the perfect section from Benjamin, my son--the domino scene.

I chose that section to exemplify many of the social attitudes that are still prevalent in Jamaica: disrespect for women, homophobia, and machoism. For although dominos is largely a game of chance, in order to win, the players must possess certain skills to "read" the game. And like cricket, about which CLR James ruminated in Beyond a Boundary, there is a social contract that involves camaraderie, community, and playing by the rules of the game. All of these rules are violated in the domino scene.

Also by using the conventions of dominos, character can be revealed, as I've done in "Beeline Against Babylon" in Who's Your Daddy?, through dialogue that will also advance the plot. In other words, the "bad" words that appear the the text reveal the characters' attachment to their definition of what is means to be a "man." And when that definition is threatened, they spew out a torrent of hellish "bad" words--this is how demons squeal when they are faced with awareness.

After I read the excerpt, I had expected to be congratulated for accomplishing something akin to what Derek Walcott had done in Another Life: using the local Caribbean landscape to illustrate global themes, such as the loss of innocence.

Was I wrong.

One woman in the audience congratulated Colin and Kwame on their writing, but then started to curse me with a string of "yous"; "Why did you have to read that? You…you… you." She complained about all of the "bad words" that I had used in the story when I knew there were children present. To be honest, I hadn't seen any children, for if I had I would have read from the "resurrection" scene near the end of the novel.

But no matter how much I pleaded or argued about freedom of speech or artistic integrity, she would have none of it. I apologized.

She went back to her seat, confident in her victory.

Later that night, a friend of mine, a JC Old Boy, consoled me over a Red Stripe and I tried to figure out what had gone wrong. Were there children present?

That reading changed me. It hasn't changed how I write (my fidelity will always be with the story and the imagined characters), but it has changed the kinds of material I read for Jamaican audiences. I understand the context and given the deeply conservative nature of Jamaican society, I now choose my sections carefully.

So, even now when I'm still accused of the gratuitous use of the word, "B*mb*" (children may be reading this) at the beginning of Benjamin, my son, I realize that if the person could be more offended by this word than the material conditions that the novel portrays--the word symbolizes the Jamaican male revulsion to the feminine--then, I realize that my work, as a fishmonger once said to a friend of mine, "Ain't for everyone."

***

This post is part of Middle Zone Musings: What I Learned From Bloopers, Mistakes, and Embarrassing Moments

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