One of the articles I was proud to publish recently was this one in Caravan, out of Delhi, a superb magazine if ever there was one. Between Caravan and Chimurenga I think I can truthfully say I’ve published in some of the best magazines in the world. One of these days I’ll post my Chimurenga Chronic piece on Peter Abrahams, in the meantime enjoy the one in Caravan. The article was in Caravan’s January 1, 2012 edition:
VARUN BAKER FOR THE CARAVAN
DJ Vybz Kartel (left), whose decision to lighten his skin in order to better display his tattoos set off a flurry of protest and criticism.
A former British colony of slave plantations, roughly 85 percent of Jamaica’s three million strong population is of African origin. So when Vybz Kartel, born Adidjah Palmer, the most popular DJ in Jamaica, released a song called ‘Cake Soap’ in which he appeared to be promoting a blue soap bar used to bleach white clothes as a skin-lightening agent it didn’t go without notice. Just a few weeks later it was followed by a second song, ‘Coloring Book (Tattoo Time Come)’, in which the DJ bragged about women’s responses to the numerous tattoos decorating his newly bleached skin.
Gal a seh mi pretty like a coloring book
She seh mi skin pretty like a coloring book
Kartel was unabashed about displaying—even flaunting—his own considerably altered face, with an epidermis several shades lighter than his naturally dark skin. A tattoo fanatic, the DJ explained that his bleaching was motivated by a desire to exhibit the designs on his skin, making it “a living, breathing canvas” rather than a sign of low self-esteem or a desire to pass as white. He was a proud black man, he asserted, just as he had always been, and his decision to lighten his skin should be viewed in the same vein as a white person tanning theirs.
In March 2011 Kartel made his way to the University of the West Indies. His lyrics had been a popular choice of students when they were asked to select songs to analyse in a course on Reggae Poetry, and so he was invited to present a guest lecture. The university, however, found itself underprepared for the massive throng that descended onto the campus to catch the popular DJ’s words of wisdom. Taxi drivers, itinerant vendors, hair dressers, touts and walkabouts from all over the city descended upon the appointed spot, straining the university’s facilities to breaking point.
During the lecture, titled ‘Pretty as a Colouring Book: My Life and My Art’, Kartel, armed with a PowerPoint presentation, elaborated his position on the subject of skin bleaching:
In which i’m awarded a plaque for excellence in blogging…the Jamaica Blog Awards
Was honoured to get this award tonight, with lovely commentary from Corve D’Costa, Jean Lowrie-Chin and Carolyn Cooper…Some days ago there was a tweet that was piercingly true from @kishnicks Kish Tzu
#JABlogAwards is just like the elections… the best blog will surely not win. The best electoral machinery will though
11 Jan
It’s a problem that plagues supposedly democratic systems everywhere–they’re easily and often perverted. But this award didn’t depend on electoral machinery…and for that I’m proud to accept it. Thanks to Corve and the Ja Blog Awards crew for doing what’s necessary to popularize and publicize what we all do online…
Carolyn Cooper and Jean Lowre-Chin beam with me...photo by Ishango.com
A ‘dead’ man lives to tell the tale of his near execution by police…but is now under police guard!
Lie perfectly still...taken from How to Play Dead
Some years ago I had occasion to write the following in one of my Herald columns. I later resurrected the column in a post on this blog called “‘Pronounced Dead’ Resurrected Three Years Later…”
‘Pronounced Dead’
What I wanted to talk about this week were the distortions of the English language one frequently hears and reads in local media reports starting with the much abused phrase “pronounced dead”. This term often appears in radio newscasts recounting police shoot outs where “shots were fired”, “the fire was returned” and then “the injured men” (rarely members of the police force) are taken to hospital, where “upon arrival” they are invariably “pronounced dead”.
I dig up all this now because of a really great story i read in yesterday’s Star in which a man declined to allow himself to be pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. The police had shot the man, the man played dead, and as soon as he arrived in hospital with doctors in attendance, he sat up saying that not only was he alive but it was the police who brought him in who had tried to kill him! What worries me now is that he is in another hospital recovering from his wounds under police custody!
Read the following excerpt from the Star article for yourselves:
A man shot by the police and believed to be dead, gave the lawmen the shock of their lives when he ‘awoke’ at the hospital and accused them of trying to kill him.
The man who had been transported by the cops to the Spanish Town Hospital to be officially pronounced dead, surprised the doctors and cops when he opened his eyes.
Information reaching THE WEEKEND STAR indicates that the incident took place on Christmas Day in the ‘Old Capital’.
It is understood that the man had been shot earlier in the day in an alleged shoot-out with a police team who claimed that he is a known associate of the recently slain Clansman gang member, Navardo Hodges.
Furthermore, it is alleged that the man was shot and thought to be dead because he appeared motionless which led the lawmen to carry ‘his body’ to the hospital for a doctor to pronounce him dead.
However, after he was transported there, he opened his eyes and began to give his account of what happened, telling the doctor who had gone to the vehicle to pronounce him dead, that the police attempted to murder him.
THE WEEKEND STAR understands that members of the police party who travelled with ‘the body’ and medical staff alike were astonished and were shaken up at what they had witnessed.
An alleged witness informed THE WEEKEND STAR that the injured man told doctors that he was at home when members of the police team kicked-off his front door and shot him unhesistantly without asking any questions.
“The man seh the police kick down the door and try kill him, him affi fake him death or else dem woulda shoot him again,” the witness said.
The man was later transferred to another hospital for treatment under police guard.
smh. “…transferred to another hospital for treatment under police guard.” I sincerely hope the media will monitor the progress of this case. Otherwise no prize for guessing what happens next. Police killings are quite common here, and this was by no means the only such event to take place recently. Only yesterday another man was killed in Denham Town by the police. What disturbs me about the case of the latter-day Lazarus who was shot on Christmas day is that we don’t even so much as know his name.
An Account of Jamaica’s Prime Minister designate Portia Simpson-Miller’s 2006 swearing in.
Portia Simpson Miller at SALISES's Prime Ministerial Series in Summer 2011One of the disdainful Clovis cartoons published by the Jamaica Observer just the day before Portia's devastating victory
Sigh! No, i haven’t been invited to the Swearing-in tomorrow…! So i’ll watch the goings on from the comfort of my living room. In the meantime below is the column i published in the Sunday Herald following Prime Minister designate Portia Simpson-Miller’s first swearing in on March 30, 2006.
Getting on the Bus
There was really no place else to be on the afternoon of March 30 than King’s House. In the end you didn’t even need a ticket, no matter what colour, though I would never have gone had a friend not called to say she had a ticket for me. So ticket in hand and clad in a red silk sari I headed to Hope Road to attend Portia’s swearing in. Yellow and red coded cards were the tickets of choice. Mine had a blue band. Oh well I consoled myself, it could have been worse; green cards (for a change) must be at the very bottom of this ranking.
The weather couldn’t have been better. Rain had washed the city earlier in the afternoon without drenching the ground and leaving puddles. The miles of white plastic chairs were wet though being dried by young men with clean rags. I saw John Maxwell and attached myself to him as we searched for a suitable seat. There were placards everywhere designating groups of seats with rather puzzling labels: Judges; Professional Associations; Caneworkers.
I temporarily lost John as I commiserated with a diplomat friend whose designated area was somewhere in the distance. I glimpsed John again; he was seated under a giant mango tree with a good view of the stage; I reattached myself. There was no placard labeling this section and according to John he had heard a rumour that the seating system had “broken down”. Discreet enquiries established that this was actually a red section but what the heck no one was checking.
We were only a hundred or so feet away from the stage, in fact we were right behind the section that must have been designated Big Business. Are you sure we aren’t going to be evicted from here I whispered, looking nervously around at the fast disappearing seats all about us. I SHALL NOT BE MOVED announced John; I wasted no more time worrying, concentrating instead on looking as much as possible like an immovable object dressed in a red silk sari. It worked.
There was about an hour to kill before the ceremony began but time passed swiftly. The band struck up at 4.30 pm exactly and shortly before 5 the central figures in this national drama appeared on stage. As former Prime Minister P.J. Patterson made his last speech red-gowned men and women constituting the combined choir of the University Singers and the Kencot Youth Choir assembled on a stage to the right of the main stage.
The choir was a beautiful sight and sound with Dean Fraser and Shirley Willis performing a gospel song especially chosen by the new Prime Minister to herald her entrance. Then Portia took centre-stage opening her innings with a prayer. I know my last column was a fulmination against a nation at prayer but there is a difference between praying rather than doing and praying and doing. The latter I think is what the new Prime Minister intends and I’m in full support of that.
Let’s hope that she meant what she said in her thoughtful, well-articulated maiden speech, That line about balancing people’s lives rather than merely balancing the books was a brilliant one and I think captures the nation’s predicament superbly. Portia also said that she couldn’t make the necessary changes without the wholehearted help and support of the people. Again this is something that couldn’t have been stressed more. It’s an obvious thing but one that only a leader who inspires and moves the people can achieve. If anyone is capable of doing this it’s Portia Simpson-Miller.
There was something symbolic about the mingling of the crowds at Portia’s swearing-in. Those who came early got good seats, regardless of the people they had been intended for. All Michael Lee-Chin was standing by the way, and other rich and powerful faces were seen waiting in vain for seats. But as Portia said money shouldn’t make some people more important than others, learning shouldn’t make some people more important than others (loud cheers broke out at this) and neither should colour, class or gender. Jesus, she’s written my column for me, said John.
The national anthem was sung and people were heading over to the West lawns for the reception. It was time to leave. I had been dropped off at Kings’ House and now had to find my way home. There was hardly anyone around I recognized, where were all the UWI folk? Except for Carolyn Cooper, Trevor Munroe, the Hicklings and John and myself I didn’t see anyone. Was there a section marked Academics I had missed?
Walking down Hope Road a man fell into step with me and introduced himself. Where was I parked, he wanted to know. Oh, I didn’t drive I told him, I live up UWI way and figured I could find someone who’d give me a ride. Alright, he said in a taking charge manner, I’m parked at Papine, I took the bus from there, why don’t you take the bus with me to Papine and then I’ll give you a drop. To allay any worry the expression on my face may have indicated he pulled out his ID and showed me that he was an ex JDF man of 34 years standing. Er, how much is a bus fare, I asked, its years since I took a bus. Fifty dollars he said.
The next thing I knew I was on a bus heading to Papine with my sari blowing in the wind. It was an exhilarating ride and before I knew it I was home, wondering why I didn’t take the bus more often.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
The Louvre Museum has 8.5 million visitors per year. This blog was viewed about 110,000 times in 2011. If it were an exhibit at the Louvre Museum, it would take about 5 days for that many people to see it.
Active Voice 