Class Act

This is not about blind nationalism nor foolish pride. This is about something like purity, about some sort of ideal. It is about things making sense, for a change. Look to India and there you will see a team of Trinbagonians. Not some haphazard bunch of men with a sport in common, but a team. No star batsman, no star bowler, but a team. They spent the entire tournament as a unit.It was a total exhibition of class. Finally I feel like I could stand up with older men who have seen great West Indian teams of the past and say "Yes...I see one too."

Not a team by fluke, but intention, preparation and habit. Aspiring together and achieving together; exhibiting discipline, tolerance and productivity. A team that made us proud and surpassed our expectations. Dare I say more than we deserve? No, that would be wrong. If we did not deserve it, if it was not our time for such an example then, simply, it would not exist for us to see.

Now it is for us to take their example, to look at how Ganga and the management instilled a sense of responsibility into everyone and made a group of men, who had a sport in common, turn into a team. A team that didn't dissolve or turn into a pumpkin at midnight.

How this all came together in a land filled with the stench and stink of such shitty politicians is not important. What is important is that we've been shown a way put of our own filth. Not by some foreigner or some self-righteous conman, but by our own. Trinis like you and me who like ah fete and ah j'ouvert. Some who eat five finger from right off the tree, some who love pomerac and sorrel. Doing things in our own way, charting the unknown come hell, highwater or Udecott. I am thankful for this team and their example. True they came in second, and hats off to the other team for a game well played. Ganga himself admitted afterward that the team did crack under the pressure of the final with some players unable to find their form. They proved over the course of the tournament though, both in victory and their solitary loss that form is temporary, but class...class is permanent.

Jazz In the Calalloo

In the spirt of a recently concluded Sunday lunch, by today leftovers, this blog is a recipe for a quite unusual dish called 'Melting Pot'

Ingredients:

1 existing twin-island Republic population;
1 combination mixture of crude oil and river water;
85 exploited Chinese labourers;
400 plus murders for one calender year and counting;
1 Overworked Police Service;
100 sun kissed beaches;
A bevy of politicians;
1 looming smelter plant;
1 lb of salt for every citizen regardless of age, gender or health condition;
1 lb of sugar (see above);
Pepper;
1 beer (stag);
1 pseudo beer (carib);
1 bottle of Puncheon Rum;
1 pinch of concern;
Liberal helpings of the media;
1 Year of typical tropical weather;
1 earful of hearsay;
1 over done tag line (The Greatest Show on Earth);
1 outdated mentality (Carnival mentality);

Method:

Begin with bevy of politicians and apply to the existing twin-island Republic population pre-soaked in Carnival mentality.
Bevy of politicians are chilled and pre-wrapped in The Greatest Show on Earth tag line.
Feed Puncheon to overworked Police Service.
Skewer the overworked Police Service, add salt and sugar without regard for age, gender or any existing health conditions.
Ignore the looming smelter.
Combine all 85 Chinese labourers with half of the media.
Combine the other half of the media with the 400 murders plus and combine with previously overworked Police Service.
Ignore the looming smelter.
Prepare the 100 sun kissed beaches with equal amounts of Stag and Carib.
When this is done, shell the 1 year of typical tropical weather and mix in slowly (WARNING: DO NOT IMMERSE IN WATER, PRONE TO FLOODING).
Press play on earful of heresay.
Add one pinch of concern and pepper to taste.
Set to a boil in oil and water combination.
Do not ever decrease temperature, best consumed piping hot.
Before blessing the food, ignore the looming smelter.

Somebody tuh Hug Up

As I sit here typing I am faced with a most delicious question. What do I write? This question is not posed from that shadowy area known as writer’s block, where many a creative figure throughout time has been lost to the reverse of the crackheads’ itch. This reverse, absolutely no sense of sensation, is more dreaded by writers. This time, rather, I can savour a taste, a sensation of exhilaration and badassness as I realize that it is because I have so much from which to choose that I ask, ‘What do I write?’

Do I write about the national U20 football team and their World Cup experiences? In my mind I can already romanticize an older Leston Paul sitting, in what strangely is not a West Indian living room, with child on his lap who is idolizing some Italian footballer on the TV screen, and Leston beaming, telling the child about sharing a field, a moment of battle and camaraderie with this same man. I can see the amazement and wonder in this child’s eye.

Do I talk about the conflicting thoughts I have about Rio de Janeiro being awarded the Olympics in 2016? Indeed it is a triumph for the South American continent as Rio will be the first of its kind to be entrusted with the responsibility of hosting these time honoured games. A triumph too for Rio was chosen over Madrid, Tokyo, and Chicago (the not so subtle attempt at influence by the Obamas did not help the windy city).

But one cannot help but wonder what will be done with the favellas and its inhabitants that overlook the poshest parts of the city. Already having a ‘lower class’ stigma attached to them, what manner of oppression will be constructed and released by the government and other associated ‘organizers’? And one cannot also help but to recall that the current PNM (non)-government administration’s response to a similar problem when the eyes of the world blinked on our little island for a few days earlier this year, was to build a wall around them. Entrapment, endangerment, disgust and fear, were all employed under the guise of security, beautification and long-term planning. What will Brazil do?

Or do I write about my own intensely personal and ever enlarging internal journey? Perhaps I can use this form to confront the ‘self’ and address the ego. I can document here thoughts, feelings, actions, beliefs and emotions. I can undress; strip free of all labels, all judgments, in a systematic and symbolic fashion for all to see. I can share what I have learnt over time about ego and its role, about its triggers and suppressors, its pros and cons. Or I could delve into my struggles with both a specific, romantic love, and a universal love. Maybe then, I could bare my soul?

Or do I write about women who dare question the man’s world? The Gayatri Spivak’s, Melre Hodge’s and Atillah Springer’s amongst us. Modern day giants whose shoulders will one day support others. Now Sycorax is seen and heard. Her voice is powerful; her image is calm. Sycorax seeks not revenge but the safety of her children, the end to oppression, and a little bit of time to relax and hug her youth, because some things yuh could write about and other times yuh just really need to share yuh touch.