Can stories about
Caribbean people in the diaspora still be Caribbean?
After the
blog on Nancy Drew (March 2), it might seem that I was overcome by the
realization that Nancy Drew was still beloved.
I admit to being somewhat confused. What do I write next which is
relevant? Has it all been for nothing? So perhaps it has taken this time to
garner my thoughts. I can have no quarrel with Nancy Drew. I too loved her, and
look how I turned out. My life has been about writing stories, our stories for
our children.
And there is
much more activity on the children’s book scene: young writers writing, young
publishers publishing; Caribbean book prizes of substance now exist, including our
Lignum Vitae Awards, which will consist of the revitalised Una Marson Award for
adult writing, and Vic Reid Award for YA, and the brand new Jean D’Costa for
children’s; and she is still alive. This is recognition indeed, as there has been
the realisation of the need to divide the former children’s section into two
categories. Book festivals abound here, and in the region at large. Talking Trees
comes up this month (it alternates with Calabash) and I am delighted that it
has good corporate support. Moreover, there
has been more corporate support for literacy and books through the purchase of
local children’s books for leisure reading. These initiatives have been
spearheaded by the new generation of writers and publishers. Reading Week, this
week, sees corporate sponsors providing
for reading in schools. Some schools, on their own initiative, have asked for
authors to come and read. What more could one ask? Well, more sales, but we
might be getting there.
From the
point of view of what to write next, some of us have also revisited the concept
of quaint versus contemporary. And as we look at the books/stories from the
developing world, which are recognized by the developed world – allowing for
publishing opportunities and increased sales -
we see that quaint, or what is different, holds sway. And indeed, why
not? If I’m reading about some other country far away from our region, I think
I would want to know what’s different, what traditions and customs have created
the situation in which the characters find themselves, and have made the
characters behave in the way they do. (Does anybody know of a book set in the
Seychelles or Mauritius? I just have a feeling that might be fascinating.) So
if you are going to write a Caribbean children’s/YA story do you have to set it
in the Caribbean? What a question to
ask. In truth, I never thought I’d ask it.
In search of
an answer, let us see what this journey has been? I come from the group that
produced the first truly Jamaican children’s stories to be put in schools as
supplementary readers. We were bold even in the face of some opposition, but
the Ministry of Education believed in that project and in us. We were bold
because we had survived colonialism. Perhaps you would not understand unless
you too had been there, to survive. We created stories set in our own environment,
with children in the image of our people, using our own words. Bold indeed! We were
the group that celebrated black is beautiful. Perhaps you would not understand
unless you too had been there, to celebrate.
We became comfortable in our hair and our skin, and in our island and region, and we dared to
put them in children’s books. We dismissed Enid Blyton!
And in our
literature! We delighted in Naipaul, Selvon, and Mittleholzer and Carew, and
later, Hodge, who knew exactly what colonialism had done to us. We almost felt
as if we had discovered these writers, and indeed we had, because we had
discovered ourselves through them. I was in Trinidad as a presenter at a workshop when Selvon died, and
Merle Hodge wrote in my own, original, old copy of Crick Crack Monkey, and I
thought that I was a part of history.
So we are
bold enough to ask, what can we write? Should it be quaint or contemporary?
Should writing for the Caribbean be set only in the Caribbean, or can it be in the diaspora? Discovering the diaspora
as a valid place for us to be, is akin to discovering ourselves when we were
bold enough to recognize ourselves in books and create ourselves in books. I
was therefore taken aback when an overseas writer said in an interview, giving
advice to us, ‘You don’t have to write about somebody going to Toronto or New
York for it to be important. Setting your stories right here in the Caribbean
is important’ (paraphrased). And I thought, but we know that! We have survived
colonialism, we know that black is beautiful because we signed on for that, and
we know that we are in books because we put our protagonists there.
But what
about migration, the enduring fabric of our lives? We all have family that has
migrated. Do they have stories to tell? Marlene Nourbese Philip’s Harriet’s Daughter (YA set in Toronto)
had a story to tell. Samuel Selvon’s Lonely Londoners had a story to tell.
What is contemporary? I think we must write about all the experiences of our
people. We must be bold enough. Each writer must write the story each writer
has to tell, even if not being at home in the region all the time or quaint, is
not the place to be.
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