[dropcap]T[/dropcap]here is no shortage of stories illustrative of the aphorism that warns us to be careful what we wish for. In The Monkey’s Paw, by W.W. Jacobs, a family whose son has been killed in a work accident wishes for his return home, then deeply regrets it when he does; they had failed to specify what condition: alive or dead. In the remake of the movie Bedazzled, the main character wishes to be rich and have a beautiful wife, in pursuit of which he cuts a deal with the devil. He wakes up as a powerful Latin American drug lord whose rivals are trying to kill him—with a wife who hates his guts.
Catholics like to quote St. Teresa of Avila, to whom they attribute the following: “There are more tears shed over answered prayers than over unanswered ones.” By countless accounts it was Teresa’s way of reminding her fellow faithful that God has a perfect will for their lives but sometimes will give them what they ask for, if only so they might live to regret their arrogance. Proof that God is as human as you and I and our respective relatives.
Regardless of our religious orientation, it makes good sense to be careful what we wish for, whether on our knees or at a wishing well, for there can be serious consequences attached to wishes not thoroughly thought out—especially when related to politics.
Who could’ve imagined what followed the appointment of Adolf Hitler as Chancellor of Germany? Certainly not the six million victims of the Holocaust. The same may be asked of the abruptly (if only temporarily) united thousands who in 1997 turned up at polling stations throughout Saint Lucia with one mindset: to hand to an untested election candidate a mandate previously unimagined. He promised constitutional reform; an end to victimization, nepotism and government behind closed doors. He swore on the Bible that transparency and accountability would be the new norm. Then, just days afterward he handed to the sitting governor general the throne speech that in time would prove the Lilliputian equivalent of Mein Kampf—the first serious indicator of the price Saint Lucians would pay for our mindless collective wish come true: Less than three months later he secretly started sowing the devil seeds of Rochamel, Frenwell, Grynberg and other disasters, in contradiction of the oath he had taken that unforgettable joyful day at Government House, in the presence of Sir George Mallet, smiling from ear to famously hirsute ear—regardless of his doom!
Conceivably, those Saint Lucians who in 1964 had overthrown via the ballot box their grassroots chief minister in favor of his more intellectual betrayer believed in their veins they had done the right thing in their circumstances. Over the years they continued loyally to stand by their man, time after time returning him to office, never holding him accountable, regardless of the dizzying tales that swirled around him. What was considered wrong, immoral and contrary to law when committed by regular folk was altogether acceptable when their star politician was the perpetrator. Small wonder that even he came to believe—if until 1994—he was monarch of every aperture he surveyed!
We are a people determined to let lying dogs sleep. Should a visitor from Pluto suggest there is truth in what Santayana said about those who cannot remember the past, count on it, the chorused response will be: “Looshans eh stupid no more; let’s talk about now!” Never mind the contrary howls immediately following Sunday night’s bonfire, the past, that is to say, history, has never meant much to us . . . neither our own nor other people’s. Consequently, our nasty past keeps on slapping our barefacedness, as if with a rolled up towel dripping dog doo-doo.
As I write the latest preoccupation is with the deceased Folk Research Centre. (I almost said national preoccupation but that would be a gross exaggeration. Oh, and I am mindful that by the time this article is published, two days from now, public interest will likely have shifted to something, er, more en vogue.) On Monday, at a wake sponsored by News Spin, Timothy Poleon invited the nation’s presumed leading culture vultures to bare their souls in the aftermath of the most recent cause for pause. And boy, did they dare to bare! Monsignor Anthony’s opening line to the nation and to the world via the Internet challenged a much earlier oneliner by the then leader of the St. Lucia Christian Council, The Reverend Job, rendered temporarily mute when confronted by the telling footprints of a powerful wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“If he had been more careful,” Job advised a particularly inquisitive journalist, “John the Baptist might’ve saved his head.”
As horrid as it was, the truth that confronted Anthony & Company at Monday’s vigil was unrelated to concupiscence, at any rate at time of writing: lost to evidently unstoppable flames was a 2-storey building that once upon an innocent time had been the residence of a member of the well-heeled Devaux family, until it was purchased for the laudable purpose of preserving the unique treasures that made Saint Lucia culturally rich and Helenesque. By any measure, such a building demanded the level of protection associated with, if not Fort Knox, then the local equivalent. Protection from soulless desecrators; from potential theft; from local Philistines and from fires, regardless of origin.
Monsignor Anthony had better things in mind. He seemed to suggest the building that until Sunday had housed the very soul of our people was destined all along to suffer a martyr’s fate. Quoth the monsignor without elaboration: “Perhaps FRC had to die for the sake of Saint Lucia!” By which this listener took him to mean nothing in this world could’ve prevented the particular disaster. Meanwhile, the News Spin fan was wondering: Were no lessons learned from the fire that in 1948 had turned Castries into an overflowing monster ashtray? Valuable documents and important records were lost to the flames, the town flattened. At Barclays saved only a vault. Might the brains trust responsible for the safety of the FRC’s largely wood headquarters have stored some of their irreplaceables in the fireproof vaults of one or two generous Castries banks? Might they have stored original material in a safe harbor, with only copies on public display at the center?
The News Spin fan also wondered whether the FRC building was insured. Were its priceless exhibits also covered? If, as has been bruited about, the FRC was insured, did coverage extend to Sesenne Descartes’ cherished recordings and other items similarly valuable? Some have blamed the fire on (wait for it) faulty electrical wiring. When was the last time the building’s wiring underwent a professional evaluation? Oh, but none of the News Spin superfan’s concerns was on Monday addressed, and none of the mourners volunteered related information. At times Monsignor Anthony and his fellow dedicated preservers of local culture reminded of the weeping relatives of gang-war and police casualties. (“Is true he was a troublesome boy . . . but he was always nice to me, I love him, I will miss him . . . he didn’t deserve to die like that . . .”)
Time after time it was implied on Monday that the nation’s youth demonstrated little interest in local culture—as if the perceived shortcoming were combustible. It seemed it had never occurred to Timothy’s special guests that kids learn best in the controlled environment of schools; that they learn best when they have reason to love the subject being taught. Pointless denying it, teachers are blameable when their young students know not what they are expected to know. Our young people certainly know “carnival is our main national showcase.” They know, too, what to do with their agile behinds on the first note of “Split Down De Middle” or anything by Vybz Kartel. Most of them appear to have studied and dismissed our lupine leaders in their see-through sheep’s attire. Our culture vultures obviously do not believe, though they often mouth the words “culture is dynamic.”
Dispute it if you must, but what defines us at this time is a combination of several cultures; a blood mix from diverse sources: French, English, American, Indian, Portuguese, African, Caribs, Arawaks . . . the list is long. The music of Boo Hinkson features different flavors, not all necessarily indigenous. Which begs the question: What exactly is “local music?” Is a piece of music Saint Lucian simply because it was written, recorded or sung by a native son or daughter? When Boo offers his version of Green, Green Grass of Home is he offering Saint Lucian music? Is Elvis’ Jailhouse Rock still “black people’s music” even after he has refined it to please white audiences? Might the untutored listener at first hearing imagine Mamai la Dee Wi (forgive my spelling) is Dominican music? Or Martiniquan?
History is defined as “the study of past events in human affairs.” Tradition as “the transmission of customs or beliefs from generation to generation, or the fact of being passed on in this way.” As for culture: “The arts and other manifestations of human intellectual achievement regarded collectively.” Wrestle with that, dear dedicated follower of culture.
If indeed we have a background to be proud of, then why continue to preach and propagate the culture of ignorance? What precisely is the feel-good factor in the kele? Hang me for speaking my mind if you must, but I speak nothing but truth, however inconvenient for some, when I say most of today’s young folk would describe the mentioned African ritual (it involves slitting the throats of live and conscious goats) as “cruelty to animals”—and dissociate themselves from the bloody activity. Some African tribes practiced cannibalism, for whatever reasons. In any case, should I be proud to tell the world I have cannibalism in my DNA? Obviously there is much about our roots of which we can be proud. It’s the job of our teachers and writers to uncover them and package the information for consumption by our young citizens in the time of the Internet. There’s a good reason why more and more educated people are giving up on religion, millennials especially.
Once again we are pontificating at a graveside. Almost everyone has proffered a wonderful idea that might’ve protected the lost FRC treasures from their fiery destiny. The usual suspect voices subtly suggest Sunday’s fire might never have occurred if only the government provided adequately for the FRC. (It might be worth knowing the last time the FRC submitted its audited accounts to Parliament?) And speaking of government and doomed politicians who cannot remember the past (why else do we continue to see MPs behaving badly?) I am, for lack of space, forced to save further comment for a future roast. But stay tuned!
