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.