It is the Fear that Drives Them

i see it in their eyes,
blue, green, eyes.
European, caucasian eyes.
they wonder if such tall tales are true:
are they great decedents/are they better than i am?
truth be known
the fear is real
and so they kill and scream
and remind us that we are no greater than dirt.
so we cry freedom!
and raise hell
and die...
...well.
it is about that time,
look over your shoulders,
the sun is on its way down.

Emancipation is a story that talks about the lingering complications and residual effects of slavery, servitude and how people, set in opposition to each other by politics and put-upon hatred, react, live, and communicate. Whether it is taught, implied, self inflicted: It is this truth that we are born into. It is a truth that is with us today. Again, in my observation of the time spent in Trinidad, where racial tension is both mild and hot, this story tells of how we continue to be reflections of our past while fighting to create a new self with a past to match.

Emancipation
by Mark James
 
Once there was a place and a people and a time, when black slaves were emancipated and indian indentured servants made to replace them. Story say, when they get there, some white people make them look in a mirror, as if to see what they saw; one by one, as feet touched new land and noses swallowed new world air, they were confronted by just how ugly they were. Behind that image was a face and a story and truth, behind that, were trees that looked like the trees before they were captured by the looking glass, behind all of that was India, so, their unattractiveness must be real. A hand mirror with a gilded frame, a thing that dirt dared to settle on and non-white fingers dreamed of being in affiliation with, daring. Acknowledgment of that crafted fact would serve to set them apart from beauty they would never posses, denial would only make living hard and truth difficult to swallow. Some say it is well to know your place; danger becomes friend to unreasonable requests when mans mind discovers that the new world, though unknown, is soiled with old things like Christianity, held hostage in the wrong hands, wielded like a sword, and handled like a whip or a cutlass ready to ruin the skin and scar the brain, like disease, demanding to infect and consume the uncontaminated, lording over the unsaved savage waiting to be lifted out of the dark by a good and beautiful white hand. Hands that held power, hands that look like white Jesus's, hands that came to India to explore and discover spices and jute, hands that steer boats and left other people to ponder servitude.
The Cedula of Population law had encouraged those hands, those ways of life, replacing old meaning with new. Replacing choice with cotton, cocoa tasted better with new dominance, coffee replaced deciding and cane was everything and freedom held captive. Yes, they replaced niggers with coolies because the work had to go on despite the half recognized ugliness of African slave trading; hands that did not do the work but used appendage to count coin and stroke wealth: rich textiles and curly bannisters leading to grand home; these hands, belonging to those people needed four years of apprenticeship to help bridge the gap. Something that wanted to be freedom came in 1833, attempting to make up for lost time, lost information and grief turned dance, song, and instrument into culture, some of which the African did bring with them here. But like hand me down clothes that masters no longer wanted, they picked it up and turned it inside out so that by 1834 scraps and throw aways did become new thing with new fit and high bottoms to push the fabric out and make it sit so, feeling free to reposition itself, free to come undone at the seems and be mended, free to rediscover and recreate a wealth so long left behind. About 17, 439 black bottoms that had legs and feet and torso, head and face and brain, a way all theirs, though feet had no clear path to walk this freedom. Canboulay come and man and woman make costumes and danced in portrayal, a mockery of their oppressors; singing, sticks and tattered flags, bottle against spoon made noise in segregated celebration. Before jack spaniard could build he-self a new nest, white master, from far and near, start dust off Mirror and put it in he sack; he did getting ready for new arrival, be we didn't know that. Some went and some stay. Black bottoms give white man they ass to kiss and went about they business hoping to make a way, taking land in Belmont or Lavantille, planting crops, establishing trade. Others stayed and bended their knees and hunched their backs and continued to work the field and cut the cane, or be domestic maid and wipe up shit and vomit and take abuse. I can't say which way was better and for who, but years passed and shit went down and white man get his way regardless. By 1845 he reach in he bag and pull out Mirror and wave it in front the newcomers like it was flag or gift or money. She face shine and flicker against the sun and some of them blocked eyes or looked away in shame, some admired her beauty. From India they brought family and friends and wives with children. Naked and wanting, they came but not running to or from, not really. Skinny and odd they looked and sounded but were not so black as predecessor. Everything they had and wanted to bring came with them, packed away in their heads and stored in their ways and being. After long journey, Nelson island was home and hospital, sores, dysentery and other illnesses cured, rest and then short travel again to Trinidad. Contracts were given, but not before Mirror showed off her gold and gave them comparison and degradation to hold. A white hand directed and mouth gave instruction, outlined contract: the new cane cutters had arrived. Between 1845 and 1917 many made a similar arrival. Between 1839 and 1866 and the start of the 20th century, French and German laborers, free American blacks, Africans from Sierra Leone and St. Helena, Chinese, Portuguese, Lebanese and Syrians, all came. Adding nearly 12,000 that made up the 143, 949 laboring bottoms to make this swizzle-stick-mix-up-callaloo-nation. Everybody didn't get Mirror pushing up in face since willingness escort them here, and unlike the Carib and Arawak nations and the blacks who replaced them, only to become homeless, aimless creatures without law and say-so, these new arrivals knew when their time would be up, contract tell them when to put the cutlass down and stop chop cane that make sugar that wasn't for them. Newcomers were not to have a flag or money but gift of land was given and handed down for generations to come; what would become theirs would be theirs or they could turn around and go back, behind, and away from Mirror, home. Choice is what they had. Black Trinidadians had to make do, had to pack up and move when white hands clapped and pointed out a new direction. Sometimes on the way to the new place they had to pass by the others, pausing to look at Mirror, seeing in her a new image, an anger, displaced yet again, and behind themselves in the looking glass they saw others who had what they didn't, their faces met and Mirror straitened herself up to introduce them, making awareness and comparison and ugliness, seeping in like curry to sada roti, like brown sugar bubbling in oil ready to make stew chicken. No dipping and scooping, no stirring spoon, just hands holding a new version of themselves.

Quarrel

Can't wait to love you more.
I care not about the flaws.
In an imperfect world it would be stupid of me to have such high expectations.
Now this don't mean I'm 'bout to settle for less partner, but, I'll settle for you.
So come as you are; I can only pray that this world takes me as I am.
Will you?

I Want You Too

Love missunderstands me.
At times we have a failure to communicate effectively.
I'd like to apologize for that, Love.
Thought I knew what it was but I'm finding out that I'm still learning about life and who I am.
Thought I knew what I wanted to leave behind and run to.
Now I knw that what I had is what I wanred despite the confusion and hurt you sometimes bring.
I share that responcibility with you Love.
I do.

Many will know. Few will unerstand.

Life given to me by the one,
Fostered by many
And plagued by the possible evil of millions.
I know the game.
Livin' in this life, I perpetuate the truest of lies.
Knowing and living true to Gods law, (as best I can) I pray for clarity and eventual salvation.
Amen.

To: Biutiful

How Biutiful is the world
When we think of this life as a gift given freely?
Are we ever prepared to return it in kind to the giver?
Never wanting.
Never requesting anything in return.
Never blaming Him or Her/ asking God why?
How Biutiful is a shower of much needed rain on a humid day?
I do not feel like crying
When life is revealed to me as being just a momentary world wind tour
Filled with the faces and sounds, mostly of things that I love.
Biutiful things,
Sad things,
Tremendous amounts of energy
Producing that which I cannot.
How Biutiful.
How Biutiful?
How good it is.

( Inspired by the film "Biutiful")

On a Rush Hour Train

Summer time.

The AC is blaring.

My armpits, damp with the evenings sweat.

As I look around, as I listen,

I see them:

the overworked, the underpaid, the shoppers, the students

and the privileged few, blessed with a day of nothing to do

and nothing to care for.

Words and sounds of The Roots blast into my ears,

a song about love, creative supremacy and life lessons.

I watch each stop pass me by only to remain,

seated, permanent in my ways.

The darkness in the near window absorbs my mind and I am happy

in this short lived solitary state.

(Should I write about the moment

or let it be another undocumented, thing?)

I recognize a familiar, but no words did we speak. 

A slight nod of the head was all.

What a rush of inactivity.

I ascend the stairs to continue my lonely journey.

A Witness to Infidelity

They went to find him.
He left.
He left them behind.
Days and weeks had gone,
but they found him.
Was it too late?
He had focussed his attention elsewhere,
taken up with somebody else.
A "her", out there.
A strange photo, familiar only to the boy, lay against the corner of a framed mirror.
He had seen her before, the boys eyes did.
Now she brings memory, and pain to a mothers face, and tears.
Tears that rise from her eyes and roll down her cheeks.
The sister, and daughter, was not there.
His boots, his scent, his clothes, it was all there.
She would take him back.
She loved him much more than he did her.
They made love in the bed that at first both mother and son had occupied.
Pretending to be asleep, he hoped that they'd keep
The hurried promises made;
if not for themselves
then surely for his sake.

New excerpt from The 6... This story is based off the book of Genisis and concerns the topic of angels and mans relationship to them. Again, set in the caribbean and Trinidad, primarily, it's a tale about the incompleteness of man and the works that are needful and continues to be done in the name of the one we call, God.

The 6...
by Mark James

...y trajo alegría con él.
From Cuba he did travel, having errand there too. Broad nose and beard covered his face, and on his head, a straw boater hat. A happiest one and always a smile etched across his face. Like a skipping stone, over green and blue water that had many moods, he hopped and jumped and landed. One to the other and down the chain of archipelagos: Dominican Rebublic, St. Croix, Barbuda, Grenadines, Tobago and settled in Brasso Seco Paria. He slept awhile and ate and swam at Church Rock and practiced his speech. Acclimation. Five miles, he journeyed from Pointe L’eglise, to Turtle Rock and onto Blanchisseuse. Greetings and smiles more, he received them warm and with hellos, patois in sound. After a night of drinking babaash and eating oil-down a smiling woman named MaeMae gave him a parcel of more food and drink and a change of clothes; saying "Ba-bye," she threw him a kiss and sent him on his way. Arima, thought he, and was named Anghel.




Peace and blessing bredren, sistren...good morning...and so long.
Of me, of pleasantness. The world was changing and the elders did not know what to do or say about the youth. Grandmothers and grandfathers had done the best they could. No more community. What was mine was mine and what was yours, keep to yourself. If neighbor saw child misbehaving in the street she no longer disciplined, but shook her head and turned his back and kept lips pressed tight together. Of smile, and greeting, instilling a way, then falling short. Generation that followed did not allow them say or input in their lives, despite the mess that lay about young feet like wind-strewn garbage and the foolishness that clutter thoughts: a glare, and a sharp tongue lashed like whip and made the body shudder.
He heard them be disrespectful, and mean it.
"Shut up! I look like lil gurl to you. I is big 'oman!" A young Natalie, or Candace, or Alecia, once so sweet and not so rude.
And Mama and Papa knew that innocence was gone and a new torture did start.
Of humility, of grace and mercy, do not be afraid...Anghel did not meet many smiles and warm hearts in Arima. Heavy drinking, void of joy, and black boys on corners and not in school. Imitation and ignorance was the new ambition. Jail, and dub-song spewing profanity and disunion accepted now. Outcry from the innocent and lawmakers and government officials alike, asked for a heavy handed approach and solution. None came. Violence spread to schools once great now run-a-mock with barbarity. Neighborhood once safe for child to play in the street make parent come outside, beckoning them inside as the sun hid her face behind the moon. They did not listen to Anghel, "What d'hell you so happy 'bout?" They questioned, not caring for response. A boy wanted to stay out and play but parent pulled and rung his ear as a result of his disobedience. As the boys' cries made way for whimpers and snorts, Anghel tried to remember the people on the north coast from where he had come. Drinking and dancing and percussion gave song to the air, alegria, alegria. Then news came.

Wear something red, was the popular cry
And like pavements and streets
They were filled with envy
Because by morning light
They were covered with our blood
I tell you, not one soul here escaped the frenzy
You know sometimes you're a gambling king
And wild is the joker
And sometimes the sight of the moon
Just riles up the lost, the hungry, the mad
These are troubled times
That we have down in Trinidad... (Hoosay, David Rudder)

Signs were present. Anghel saw into the coming day and days, discerning the tearing down and the pulling apart and the hatred that would bring it about. He did come to bear joy and peace but now knew that he was sure, on task, and ready. Sweet T&T, God bless your waters and your sands. It was 27th, July 1990 when the news did come and many were shocked and mouths held agape for long and many minutes all over the land. Spreading like wildfire, televisions reflected images of men of Jamaat al Muslimeen, and Yasin Abu Bakr had word for every staring eye, every listening ear: calm, he said, and do not loot. No heed. Fade to black. Screens unwilling to tell the news and radios in no mood to broadcast. A coup d'état is what it was and the Red House, seat of Parliament, bled a second time since 1903 first brought protest and fire. Sixteen dead. Forty-two injured. This time around, those held hostage ran and shielded their heads from falling glass and lash and held arms up like shield to block shouts and demands and enemy fire. Having seen destruction before, the House braced and warned each corner stone, column, entablature and wedgwood, but the men inside did not heed. God bless the waters and the sands, (Twenty-four dead?). Bless the children of men, them that do not understand each other and choose to go unconscious. Together we despise, Together we abandon, was the new national motto. Devotion had a new face.

...Above the bloody asphalt
Strange dogs were barking, deep in the night
Under the crescent moon
I say the drums were silent
But somehow the rhythm continued
Oh what a sight... (Hoosay, David Rudder)

And memory did confess and pavements and alleys heard, and remembered, and then condemned it too. A past, catching up, and sacrificing for erstwhile misdeeds. Some called it Curse. Some called it Restitution or Reciprocity, come to get what she was promised. 6 days, and it was over, this illegal seizure and attempt to overthrow government had backfired, leading to surrender. Port-of-Spain appeared war-zone. The vandalism apparent and penetrating on site. Anghel had journeyed the length of the east-west corridor, now on Abercomby Street standing in front of the House and what was left of it, made him feel like singing, and he did, and people wondered about him: Must be madman or drunk. Melody: "Don't despair, do not be afraid, I come to give guidance and carry you out..." He sang, the man who before had a smile traded it for song and put himself on full display. "Oh sweet, sweet Trinbago, bless your waters and your sands. Who hears you, who feels you, who sees you naked now, no judgment..."
Stray and mange dogs howled from a distance, as if in response to Anghels' vocalized cry. Coming to see what all the fuss was about, villagers from Petit Valley, Maraval to El Socorro and San Juan, poked their heads out from doors and windows; shifting eyes filled with question and concern appeared through drapes of curtains to see if it was safe. The curfew would stand. In time, civilians gathered in Town to see if this thing really did happen. Anghel still sang, and after they wondered about the man, they wondered about the military men with big guns that walked every corner and fenced every building worth protecting with their bodies. This war seemed over and the bane would lift. Set in motion, the repair did start and the man who sang in the streets appeared on newspaper fronts. People far away wondered, but those who knew of him understood what their minds would let them understand. Smiles in repair and mouths upturned.
Headline: Singing Man Helps Restore a Nation.