On Becoming A Writer and Discovering One’s Roots
I wouldn’t be a writer today if not for my father who as a child was engrained in his African roots through his Antiguan mother, grandparents and English Habour village, steeped in the oral tradition.
I am so privileged to have grown up in this environment. I am also very fortunate to have lived in Liberia, West Africa, for fourteen years and to have heard the very stories and customs of which my father spoke. I have to say “heard of some of these customs,” because they are steeped in mystery and the strong belief in the duality of our world-- a realm where the physical world and the spirit world are equal. It is a place where man, through magic, can transport him/herself into other entities like lightning, an animal or a water spirit. It is a world from which non-members of secret societies (Poro and Sande) are barred.
I was in a unique position as a instructor/Assistant Professor at the University of Liberia to learn from fellow instructors, professors, writers and students. Through conversation, writings and essays on customs, traditions and rituals, I learned more about myself and the beginnings of my people.
Through this blog, I will be sharing some of those dots that now connect and cement my African past to my Caribbean present in the form of poetry, short stories and essays.
My first contribution is a poem inspired by a Liberian dramatist who recently stated that Liberia needed to bring back some old traditions in order to restore the discipline and respect he felt had been eroded by Western influence, years of political upheaval and civil war.
Installment 1: a poem
I believe one of those customs he wanted restored should remain buried. The poem below reflects the custom which I very well remember haunted me as a child. Did it exist on your island as well?
Haunting Lesson
The cure tested for generations
on West African shores
remains only a threat today
on some Caribbean Isles.
Elders used to string tin cans
on twines and ropes and tie them
round tiny waists and ankles.
The tins clang-clanged
as children goaded with “goan, goan”
were paraded through village streets.
Heads hung, salty tears
streaked small black faces
in the morning’s island breeze.
Villagers watched.
There was no need for cardboard signs.
The clanging said it all:
BEDWETTERS.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 29. 11. 2010
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