How we landed on this small rock still puzzles me. I remember The Husband said I had three choices.
Three.
Perhaps what is astounding is not that there were three possible paths but that I actually believed these were my only options.
One. Two. Three.
They say bad things happen in threes. So, if you break your wrist, then lose your wallet on the bus, you know there is only one more nasty surprise coming your way before the cosmos is properly re-aligned. Good things on the other hand never come in packages of three. No one wins the lottery, finds true love and gets the Nobel for discovering a cure for cancer.
‘I have looked at all the places in the world we can live that would give us and the boys a good life and I’ve come up with a short list.’ he announced.
‘Really? You’re kidding right?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Just for fun, where should we live?’
‘Bangalore, Singapore or Barbados.’
Just like that.
There was not a hint of doubt in his voice. From nearly two hundred countries in the world he could coolly narrow the field to three.
‘Humm. Seems a bit arbitrary to me.’ I ventured.
‘Not at all. Bangalore is a very happening city where the kids will also have a chance to understand their cultural heritage.’
‘But they have lived all their tiny lives in south London. This is their culture.’
‘They will never be fully accepted as British. Not in their lifetime.’ he snapped.
‘Well, I’ve never even been to Bangalore so can’t say it appeals to me.’
‘You should go visit then.’
He was completely serious.
‘And Singapore?’
‘Ah yes. Very safe. And the kids will come out disciplined and ready for university.’
‘But Singapore is one big, soulless, shopping mall.’
‘We could leave on weekends and long vacations.’
‘Why can’t we stay in London and continue they way we are? What’s wrong with our life here?’
‘Didn’t you always say you wanted to go back to the Caribbean?’
‘That was when I was twenty-one. Not now. This is my home. I have spent my entire adult life here. I learnt to drive here. Voted here. My kids were born here. I’m not leaving.’
But even as I spoke I knew it was pointless to argue. It had been a brief, bloodless coup. Besides, wasn’t Barbados paradise?
Two and a half years on we are settled into our new home and have just completed works on His Office and My Studio. A tiny part of me still nurses jealousy and resentment as to who got the better deal. If we are talking square footage and views then, yes, the bastard won. But my space, while smaller, is better organized, also has views and is well positioned for nipping to the kitchen for cups of tea. And our contract expressly states that I have reserved the right to occupy such other spaces (including His Office) as is deemed necessary for the completion of art projects.
The Husband’s office is admittedly more tasteful than I thought him capable of creating. Instead of a traditional desk he has opted for a large refectory table and two Eames office chairs. There is a large white sofa that Jack the Jack Russell views as his bed and it all overlooks the garden of Samaan, Immortelle and Mahogany trees. But the most interesting thing is the pride of place he has given to a large crystal ball – a present from TK, a close friend and former colleague. The Husband may have moved on from predicting dollar/yen but he still divines the future and what he has to say is not nice. I live in fear that one more public statement of doom and gloom will tip the authorities over the edge and he will be stripped of citizenship.
Of course we all wish we had a reliable crystal ball to know the future. Obama could use it to know how and when to pull troops out of Afghanistan. Indonesians would have minimized the deaths and devastation these past months from tsunami after tsunami pounding their islands. Our friend Brian would have known he would soon influence the development of a nation as the next governor of the Bank of Jamaica. And the crystal ball would have assured us that this small rock was indeed the best place for our children. It is a place with low crime, great climate, decent education and good connections to the rest of the world.
But there is no need for a predictive tool – crystal ball or sophisticated mathematical model - to know that paradise does not come cheap. I have only reluctantly accepted that the price of living on an island of 270,000 people is that I will forever be an outsider finding friendship and solace with other outsiders. And to have the same variety of intellectual and cultural stimulation that I had in London would be arrogant.
For today it is enough to be writing in a room with a view of a garden filled with Samaan, Immortelle and Mahogany trees.
LOST IN TRANSIT
I have neglected Notes in the misguided belief that this would allow extra hours to be dedicated to a larger writing project. Instead it has meant even less words committed to paper. So at Miami airport with time to spare I will, dear readers, try to make amends.
Since returning to this small rock in September it appears to have shrunk to even less than the 21 by 14 miles acknowledged on maps. Some days even the air seems scarce. The unusual heat is partly to blame. Or it could be the intrusion on our civil rights of mandatory fingerprinting at Grantley Adams International Airport introduced without warning or legislation. Perhaps the island also got a little smaller the day a photograph was published in The Nation showing the public flogging of school children – just punishment meted out for arriving late at school. Most surveys, radio call-in programmes and press have joined in a righteous chorus supporting “de rod”. I am considering home schooling.
‘Paradise is slipping away.’ I whispered to Jack the Jack Russell.
He did not even open half an eye in acknowledgment. And this is supposed to be man’s best friend. I want to go home. Of course it is an absurd request. So I kissed the family goodbye for a couple days hoping to inhale different air.
In Miami there are the well-rehearsed distractions of sushi, a few arty friends and shopping. I planned to buoy up the economy with purchases of Christmas presents, novelties for holiday entertaining and fulfilling First and Second Born’s impossibly long wish list. But that required stamina and enthusiasm for all manner of unnecessary plastic objects. After a day of sushi for lunch and dinner as well as mandatory visits to the Apple Store and Pottery Barn I had lost the will to buy. By the following day I had opted instead for a poolside lounger coupled with a divine novel – the latest offering from William Trevor recounting the ordinary tale of a chance at present love denied by ghosts of a distant past.
But peace never came in this temporary home. Sleep was impossible. I spent last night haunting the less obvious spaces of the hotel and exploring the deserted financial district that surrounded it. My fellow insomniacs and I made a curious sight. Shift workers walked quickly and stayed in the shadows. Above the streets two lovers laughed and kissed on their balcony. Later I stumbled on Walgreens – Open 24 hours. My friend H. had a request so I went inside in search of Reece’s sweeties. Despite pacing up and down each aisle only two packets of candy and a new toothbrush found their way into the shopping trolley.
I walked out past a woman with a harsh, angular face and blank eyes, a cigarette burning between her fingers. We did not acknowledge each other. It seemed the only way to respect whatever private demons had led us at this unusual hour to these lonely streets. I walked and walked and walked hoping the act of one foot in front the other would make time tick faster. Back at the hotel the wall clock showed 5am. In one hour the night would be forced to give way to the first tentative morning light. A man seated in the lobby was wearing yesterday’s light blue suit and a still knotted paisley tie. His left hand twitched with involuntary spasms. His face was oddly contorted. He used his steady hand to keep the coffee cup from spilling. I wanted to go over, hold his hands and tell him everything was going to be okay. If his trembling stopped would mine not also end? As if sensing my intrusive thoughts he got up abruptly and walked over to the lift and with a deep sigh pressed the ‘up’ button. He was ready at last to confront the dread within his well-appointed room. Does this dread follow him, hiding under the bed and behind the curtains? Is it in every hotel room in every city? I stared at his disappearing form and tears flowed down my face.
By 7am this morning in the full glare of morning I decided to return to Bim earlier than planned. The household will survive without the new linens, kettle and DS games I should have secured. The first available flight is not until early evening but I cannot stay in this room and I am too exhausted to walk anymore. Airports are great places to be alone and yet surrounded by people. Eight hours in Miami International might in different circumstances be a descent into hell but today it is a respite. Instead of the airport lounge I have opted for the loudest, busiest spot available. I opened my laptop and began to write.
With each tap of the keys the night is lulled to sleep.
I'll be home soon.
Since returning to this small rock in September it appears to have shrunk to even less than the 21 by 14 miles acknowledged on maps. Some days even the air seems scarce. The unusual heat is partly to blame. Or it could be the intrusion on our civil rights of mandatory fingerprinting at Grantley Adams International Airport introduced without warning or legislation. Perhaps the island also got a little smaller the day a photograph was published in The Nation showing the public flogging of school children – just punishment meted out for arriving late at school. Most surveys, radio call-in programmes and press have joined in a righteous chorus supporting “de rod”. I am considering home schooling.
‘Paradise is slipping away.’ I whispered to Jack the Jack Russell.
He did not even open half an eye in acknowledgment. And this is supposed to be man’s best friend. I want to go home. Of course it is an absurd request. So I kissed the family goodbye for a couple days hoping to inhale different air.
In Miami there are the well-rehearsed distractions of sushi, a few arty friends and shopping. I planned to buoy up the economy with purchases of Christmas presents, novelties for holiday entertaining and fulfilling First and Second Born’s impossibly long wish list. But that required stamina and enthusiasm for all manner of unnecessary plastic objects. After a day of sushi for lunch and dinner as well as mandatory visits to the Apple Store and Pottery Barn I had lost the will to buy. By the following day I had opted instead for a poolside lounger coupled with a divine novel – the latest offering from William Trevor recounting the ordinary tale of a chance at present love denied by ghosts of a distant past.
But peace never came in this temporary home. Sleep was impossible. I spent last night haunting the less obvious spaces of the hotel and exploring the deserted financial district that surrounded it. My fellow insomniacs and I made a curious sight. Shift workers walked quickly and stayed in the shadows. Above the streets two lovers laughed and kissed on their balcony. Later I stumbled on Walgreens – Open 24 hours. My friend H. had a request so I went inside in search of Reece’s sweeties. Despite pacing up and down each aisle only two packets of candy and a new toothbrush found their way into the shopping trolley.
I walked out past a woman with a harsh, angular face and blank eyes, a cigarette burning between her fingers. We did not acknowledge each other. It seemed the only way to respect whatever private demons had led us at this unusual hour to these lonely streets. I walked and walked and walked hoping the act of one foot in front the other would make time tick faster. Back at the hotel the wall clock showed 5am. In one hour the night would be forced to give way to the first tentative morning light. A man seated in the lobby was wearing yesterday’s light blue suit and a still knotted paisley tie. His left hand twitched with involuntary spasms. His face was oddly contorted. He used his steady hand to keep the coffee cup from spilling. I wanted to go over, hold his hands and tell him everything was going to be okay. If his trembling stopped would mine not also end? As if sensing my intrusive thoughts he got up abruptly and walked over to the lift and with a deep sigh pressed the ‘up’ button. He was ready at last to confront the dread within his well-appointed room. Does this dread follow him, hiding under the bed and behind the curtains? Is it in every hotel room in every city? I stared at his disappearing form and tears flowed down my face.
By 7am this morning in the full glare of morning I decided to return to Bim earlier than planned. The household will survive without the new linens, kettle and DS games I should have secured. The first available flight is not until early evening but I cannot stay in this room and I am too exhausted to walk anymore. Airports are great places to be alone and yet surrounded by people. Eight hours in Miami International might in different circumstances be a descent into hell but today it is a respite. Instead of the airport lounge I have opted for the loudest, busiest spot available. I opened my laptop and began to write.
With each tap of the keys the night is lulled to sleep.
I'll be home soon.
THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH
Billy Joel (please say you remember him) once cooed that,
Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.
Well Billy boy, if its honesty you crave then you should have left New York ever since and taken up residence on this small rock. They don’t come more honest than your average Bajan. We call it like we see it: a spade is a spade. Of course there are exceptions in every community but I am talking about your average Marlon and Mavis catching the Black Rock bus pon a morning.
This search for truth is most evident when it comes to naming persons, places, animals and things. Where else will you find a producer forthcoming enough to brand his product C-thru White Rum. It does exactly what it says on the tin so proceed with caution.
And giving your child a conventional name like Melanie or Peter will not prevent them acquiring one closer to their true nature – as seen through Bajan eyes. Sheila, with her bee-sung lips, is known as Lipton while Desmond, with his larger than average head, is Bus Stop. As if this were not difficult enough to live with, how about being hailed on Broad Street as Gun Prick, Old Girl (for a man) or Biff (big igrant foolish f**ker). Oh and by the way my spell checker is working. Someone who is not very smart but thinks they are is ‘ignorant’ to a Trini and ‘igrant’ in Bim.
But the honesty Bajans display goes beyond naming. It may be hidden deep beneath layers of social obligations and reservations. This will never be an obstacle. Nor will a Bajan let the truth be obscured by silly legal niceties. The Nation newspaper column - Puddin’ an’ Souse - titled after the unofficial national dish, has as its raison d'être the uncovering of illegal and immoral goings on in a voice that neatly side steps potential libel suits. A typical, recent Puddin an' Souse outing of the truth was this:
Who is the legal mind who is involved with a woman half his age?
And why does he think that the child she has is really his?
This woman and her relatives get themselves into all kinds of mischief because they know the man would protect them.
People in the know want this man to shift these bad-behaved folks because he is already losing respect.
In a population of 350,000 you can be sure a goodly portion of the chattering classes know the identity of the unfortunate gentleman and are already sending telegrams to those who don’t.
This all makes me think that perhaps there is a place for a little dishonesty. Maybe not outright lies, but occasionally I find myself nostalgic for a soupçon of reserve. A long lost European friend or relative would never greet you:
‘Oh luss gul, you was real nice when yuh did young. Now yuh gine get fat and ugly.’
But in Bajan terms it is as if they had said,
‘Hi there! Haven’t seen you in ages. Gosh you’ve changed.’
From the translation it is manifestly clear the greeting is without malice – merely observation of your position on the wrong end of the body fat index. To compound matters such an observation is often swiftly followed by the generous offer of a home cooked feast. To decline would be very rude so stuff your chubby face with macaroni pie and stew chicken and let the diet begin tomorrow.
I guess it all depends on how you prefer to face the slings and arrows of this outrageous life. There is no avoiding the arrows ripping into your flesh so you can either take them in the chest or back. Consider the experience of a recent visitor from foreign parts to our small rock. He had lost one eye. Within days total strangers were affectionately greeting him as ‘Cyclops’. But he knew he a fully paid up member of the parish when he was christened ‘S - Blank’ – a reference to the domino piece with one dot and a blank space. Bajans love a game of dominos and indeed the world champion, Ronald ‘Suki’ King, is a Bajan to the bone. S-Blank is crucial to the game.
Back in London people who encountered S-Blank pointedly refused to comment on his missing eye. At least they never made a comment directly to him. That would have been considered poor form – a bit too honest. Yet on this small rock the failure to acknowledge and incorporate his distinctive look would have been the dishonest act. So if you are planning to rock up to Bim anytime soon remember to thicken your skin and get ready for nuff sincerity and honesty to last a lifetime.
Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.
Well Billy boy, if its honesty you crave then you should have left New York ever since and taken up residence on this small rock. They don’t come more honest than your average Bajan. We call it like we see it: a spade is a spade. Of course there are exceptions in every community but I am talking about your average Marlon and Mavis catching the Black Rock bus pon a morning.
This search for truth is most evident when it comes to naming persons, places, animals and things. Where else will you find a producer forthcoming enough to brand his product C-thru White Rum. It does exactly what it says on the tin so proceed with caution.
And giving your child a conventional name like Melanie or Peter will not prevent them acquiring one closer to their true nature – as seen through Bajan eyes. Sheila, with her bee-sung lips, is known as Lipton while Desmond, with his larger than average head, is Bus Stop. As if this were not difficult enough to live with, how about being hailed on Broad Street as Gun Prick, Old Girl (for a man) or Biff (big igrant foolish f**ker). Oh and by the way my spell checker is working. Someone who is not very smart but thinks they are is ‘ignorant’ to a Trini and ‘igrant’ in Bim.
But the honesty Bajans display goes beyond naming. It may be hidden deep beneath layers of social obligations and reservations. This will never be an obstacle. Nor will a Bajan let the truth be obscured by silly legal niceties. The Nation newspaper column - Puddin’ an’ Souse - titled after the unofficial national dish, has as its raison d'être the uncovering of illegal and immoral goings on in a voice that neatly side steps potential libel suits. A typical, recent Puddin an' Souse outing of the truth was this:
Who is the legal mind who is involved with a woman half his age?
And why does he think that the child she has is really his?
This woman and her relatives get themselves into all kinds of mischief because they know the man would protect them.
People in the know want this man to shift these bad-behaved folks because he is already losing respect.
In a population of 350,000 you can be sure a goodly portion of the chattering classes know the identity of the unfortunate gentleman and are already sending telegrams to those who don’t.
This all makes me think that perhaps there is a place for a little dishonesty. Maybe not outright lies, but occasionally I find myself nostalgic for a soupçon of reserve. A long lost European friend or relative would never greet you:
‘Oh luss gul, you was real nice when yuh did young. Now yuh gine get fat and ugly.’
But in Bajan terms it is as if they had said,
‘Hi there! Haven’t seen you in ages. Gosh you’ve changed.’
From the translation it is manifestly clear the greeting is without malice – merely observation of your position on the wrong end of the body fat index. To compound matters such an observation is often swiftly followed by the generous offer of a home cooked feast. To decline would be very rude so stuff your chubby face with macaroni pie and stew chicken and let the diet begin tomorrow.
I guess it all depends on how you prefer to face the slings and arrows of this outrageous life. There is no avoiding the arrows ripping into your flesh so you can either take them in the chest or back. Consider the experience of a recent visitor from foreign parts to our small rock. He had lost one eye. Within days total strangers were affectionately greeting him as ‘Cyclops’. But he knew he a fully paid up member of the parish when he was christened ‘S - Blank’ – a reference to the domino piece with one dot and a blank space. Bajans love a game of dominos and indeed the world champion, Ronald ‘Suki’ King, is a Bajan to the bone. S-Blank is crucial to the game.
Back in London people who encountered S-Blank pointedly refused to comment on his missing eye. At least they never made a comment directly to him. That would have been considered poor form – a bit too honest. Yet on this small rock the failure to acknowledge and incorporate his distinctive look would have been the dishonest act. So if you are planning to rock up to Bim anytime soon remember to thicken your skin and get ready for nuff sincerity and honesty to last a lifetime.
EDUCATING MUMMY
September signals the end of the silly season of summer frivolity but my kids are not going down without a fight. They are convinced that only a truly heartless bitch would insist they return to full time education while it is so hot, humid, rainy or while a replacement for Second Born’s exploded fountain pen has not been procured. Well flying fish, it’s been a long, fraught, nine weeks and they can either go safely back to school or risk commencement of adoption proceedings.
And I will lead by example. Yup. Even though First Born considers me one step away from a Zimmer frame, I’m going back to school. I’ve been hanging out at one educational establishment or another since the age of three and the fact that I now live on this small rock is no reason to radically change the habit of a lifetime. And there is something about September that says it is time to take stock and maybe make amends. Whatever resolutions were made in January have long since evaporated into the ether. But September is a time of second chances. New battle cries can be heard on the buses to take classes, join gyms, or finally knit that teacosy you always dreamed of, your whole life.
But going back to school when the glow of youth has dimmed is not easy. So you want to learn, but what? Is this the right time in life to finally get beyond ‘hola’ en español? Or maybe since I live in the ‘bread basket’ of Barbados I should read for a Diploma in Inspection in Meat and Other foods. Having already engineered one career switch, good sense dictates I stay focused on my current subject matter. This of course is when the constraints of small island life slap you round the face. The particular research degree I want to pursue is not offered in paradise. Sigh. I need the sunshine but I also need the space to think through the making of art. You never know what you’ll find. Monteverdi in the seventeenth century founded a style of music (stile concitato) after reading medical treatises. How cool is that. Mummy will just have to be educated through some juggling act involving airline food, thermal underwear and missing Jack (the unbiddible Jack Russell).
While we negotiate the pursuit of knowledge I have found another way of sneaking back into a place of learning. Teaching. The Community College is the only game in town offering a degree in fine art so I begged them to have me.
‘You know we only pay the absolute minimum we can get away with and not be called slave traders?’ said The Boss looking down at me.
‘Yes!’ I enthused. ‘I won’t dream of asking for a cent above the cost of giving the children a little salt bread pon ah morning.’
‘Excellent. You’re hired.’ said She Who Must Be Worshiped.
‘Thank you so much.’ I gushed. ‘I won’t disappoint you, I promise.’
‘Yeah. Whatever. Close the door on your way out.’
'Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’ I said, all the while bowing as I walked backwards out of The Giver of Contracts office.
Anyway, I’m thinking that now they have officially hired me they’ll want me to stick around – thus saving themselves the hassle of finding another deranged artist willing to be institutionalized for minimum wage. So I might as well create havoc. Today was the first day and it was more fun than I have had in ages. The second year students on the bachelor of fine arts programme are now my very part-time responsibility.
We met and I was utterly smitten. They are naïve, self-assured and full of life. I had so much fun trampling over the safe, little paths they had projected for the term ahead. They looked less happy. Okay, so I may have accused one of confusing art with therapy and told another she was in a space of ideas not dogma. But I did encourage them to consider their relationship to the other and to question the gaze through which they filtered the world. Artists should have to struggle to find what their practice means and its relationship to the quotidian – and if not, they should be forced to. I can hardly wait for the next class.
And I will lead by example. Yup. Even though First Born considers me one step away from a Zimmer frame, I’m going back to school. I’ve been hanging out at one educational establishment or another since the age of three and the fact that I now live on this small rock is no reason to radically change the habit of a lifetime. And there is something about September that says it is time to take stock and maybe make amends. Whatever resolutions were made in January have long since evaporated into the ether. But September is a time of second chances. New battle cries can be heard on the buses to take classes, join gyms, or finally knit that teacosy you always dreamed of, your whole life.
But going back to school when the glow of youth has dimmed is not easy. So you want to learn, but what? Is this the right time in life to finally get beyond ‘hola’ en español? Or maybe since I live in the ‘bread basket’ of Barbados I should read for a Diploma in Inspection in Meat and Other foods. Having already engineered one career switch, good sense dictates I stay focused on my current subject matter. This of course is when the constraints of small island life slap you round the face. The particular research degree I want to pursue is not offered in paradise. Sigh. I need the sunshine but I also need the space to think through the making of art. You never know what you’ll find. Monteverdi in the seventeenth century founded a style of music (stile concitato) after reading medical treatises. How cool is that. Mummy will just have to be educated through some juggling act involving airline food, thermal underwear and missing Jack (the unbiddible Jack Russell).
While we negotiate the pursuit of knowledge I have found another way of sneaking back into a place of learning. Teaching. The Community College is the only game in town offering a degree in fine art so I begged them to have me.
‘You know we only pay the absolute minimum we can get away with and not be called slave traders?’ said The Boss looking down at me.
‘Yes!’ I enthused. ‘I won’t dream of asking for a cent above the cost of giving the children a little salt bread pon ah morning.’
‘Excellent. You’re hired.’ said She Who Must Be Worshiped.
‘Thank you so much.’ I gushed. ‘I won’t disappoint you, I promise.’
‘Yeah. Whatever. Close the door on your way out.’
'Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’ I said, all the while bowing as I walked backwards out of The Giver of Contracts office.
Anyway, I’m thinking that now they have officially hired me they’ll want me to stick around – thus saving themselves the hassle of finding another deranged artist willing to be institutionalized for minimum wage. So I might as well create havoc. Today was the first day and it was more fun than I have had in ages. The second year students on the bachelor of fine arts programme are now my very part-time responsibility.
We met and I was utterly smitten. They are naïve, self-assured and full of life. I had so much fun trampling over the safe, little paths they had projected for the term ahead. They looked less happy. Okay, so I may have accused one of confusing art with therapy and told another she was in a space of ideas not dogma. But I did encourage them to consider their relationship to the other and to question the gaze through which they filtered the world. Artists should have to struggle to find what their practice means and its relationship to the quotidian – and if not, they should be forced to. I can hardly wait for the next class.
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