Wednesday, 21 September 2022

Cricket and the 12 and Under flag

Last Sunday - somewhere between the flying of the T&T flag to celebrate the wicket of Namibian cricketer, David Wiese, caught by Tim Seifert of New Zealand off the bowling of Jamaican Andre Russell and, later on, the vigorous waving of the Guyanese flag as South Africa’s Imran Tahir took the wicket of fellow countryman David Miller - came the first new edition of 12 and Under on TTT.

A juxtaposing of conjured illusion and the real. Fun in close communion with joy. It's the kind of life people of the Caribbean Sea live – child carriers of hope, and franchise cricket with nominal hosts that are entire countries.

The marketing so enthusiastically embraced that a flag was once disrespectfully trampled in disgust when it was thought that a non-national player, with ostensibly conflicted loyalties, had been less than enthusiastic during a game.

No need to recap too much about the techniques employed to stimulate interest. Fly a flag anywhere and you are certain to find interest and passion. Sympathies to entrepreneurs lacking similar opportunities at the IPL, BBL, BPL, and the PSL.

My good pal, Peter, is stumped way out of his crease each time I mention the lone national on the Saint Lucia Kings team and when he cries “big island” bias and outright t’iefin. It’s all part of the fun, though. Fly a flag, I wrote four years ago, and you change meaning. Expressed that way, a simple contest can become the bombing of Kyiv.

By 2018 when I was hauled over the coals for my observations, I had already commenced support for the “T&T Amazon Warriors”, now minus the “T&T” and habitually beaten by a team hosted in a place called “Trinbago.” At the start of the current season, I was backing the “T&T Patriots” and was targeted by fascist nationalists (lol).

So, on Sunday, having been to the QPO twice last week in “neutral colours” (I love cricket and the CPL is great fun), the flag that flew for me emerged from atop the TTT compound when 12 and Under was screened for the first time in decades.

Halfway in, I wondered whether it was intended to have members of the 12 and Under audience smile till tears came. I thought it was me alone. Then I saw that entertainment journalist, Laura, and others had been experiencing the same thing.

A little barefoot boy in his living room in front of a shaky phone sang and turned a big man’s legs into jelly (borrowing from David Rudder and twisting a bit). Another 10-year-old spoke eloquently about his introduction to the guitar and went on to perform like a seasoned pro’. Franka is sure he will beat them all.

Eighty video submissions, yes 80, had to be reviewed by a panel comprising young, accomplished performers in their own right. Nothing against the old fogeys, but it was refreshing to see that a new generation of talent has been elevated to adjudicate on our future.

Now, true, I also saw the children of the Samuel Badree and Daren Ganga academies at the stadium. They too, brought strong emotions. The commentator had been struck by the articulate responses to babyish questions. The look of hope in young eyes. In some ways, the interviews matched the finest strokes over the boundary that day.

So, here we go again, against the rub of the “lost generation” narrative. Here we go again, the explosion of creative power. In one month alone, a cascading of creative expression – pan, drama, dance, music, books, film, and the hope the young bring.

Yes, cricket too. It’s just the national flag silliness and faux “nationalism” I have a problem with.

On Sunday, we added to this the babies among us. However short on videographic production values, garish, oversized tags/badges and all, 12 and Under flew a flag on behalf of all of us. The children flew it high. I thank them. We all should.

 

 

 

 

Wednesday, 14 September 2022

Women and the Future of Pan

Among the numerous unspoken lessons of the Mark Loquan/Maria Nunes collaboration on the video series ‘Women in Pan’ – the first episode of which was premiered online on September 9 – is that the world of the steelpan is immeasurably linked to economic, social, and cultural development.

Note that pan aficionado/historian, Dr Kim Johnson, makes a distinction between the ‘steelpan’ as instrument and ‘pan’ as essentially a facet of human behaviour embracing love, resilience and survival.

There is a lot more to what the author of ‘The Illustrated Story of Pan’ has offered in support of the wider meaning of pan, within the context of our developmental deficits. Get the book.

But they largely coincide with my decades’ old argument that it could have been conceivable at one stage to have elevated the pan phenomenon to the centre of social, cultural and economic development. Not through jealously jingoistic possession (that window has long opened), but through extraction of unique assets.

You would have seen me mention numerous times a 1987/88 Independence Square discussion with the late (great) Keith Smith during which I wildly asserted that, over time, oil and gas will diminish in importance and value and that pan would have to come to the rescue as an additional wing of flight.

Even back then I knew I was not alone in believing that pan was the single greatest thing we did … and still do. And that we had a key before us to unlock a different kind of future.

Now, if you are inclined to believe that this only has to do with an exotic taste in music you don’t necessarily like, or represents some kind of modulated ethnic preference, read no more. This is not for you. This will infuriate you.

If you do not detect vast economic benefits by way of the availability of specialised skills, creative and intellectual property value, and the prospects for social peace, then this is not the space for you to envisage a future that’s any different from the current futile environment.

The pan aficionados may also not all agree that the story of pan, and all it represents - as expressed by Kim and others - also presents a narrative of missed economic opportunity.

And I am not speaking about the largely ornamental declaration of ‘national instrument’ status. The only time this has any value, beyond first place in line for gratuitous state financial largesse, is when ‘pan’ begins to define the essence of the development process.

Sounds fancy. But what does it mean? I would suggest that ‘pan’ in all its facets - as a model of social organisation, as a source of IP wealth, as the fountain from which unique musical capabilities (innovation, manufacturing, tuning/blending, playing, arranging, managing) flow – has all the elements of an alternative developmental path.

Somewhere in there is where ‘Women in Pan’ enters the picture. Yuko Asada, Dr Mia Gormandy-Benjamin, Vanessa Headley, Michelle Huggins-Watts, and Natasha Joseph speak frankly about the challenges of girls and women in navigating the steelband space and, in the process, narrate prospective solutions with broader application for all of society.

I took careful note of two particularly poignant moments – though there are several others. The first was Headley’s exploration of the implicit suggestion by some that as a woman arranger, “my music has a gender.”

She is insightful enough to consider the profundity of the observation, and the notion that among the obstacles to our wider development is the marginalisation of the leadership role of women in key productive sectors.

Then Gormandy-Benjamin pinpoints panyard challenges with implications for the manner in which the poor treatment of girls and women has been normalised in wider society and considered to be simply the way we conduct our business.

Yet, the transformation of the panyard over time has provided clues into how the problem can be managed at the wider level.

I remember interviewing Texan, Emily Lemmerman, seven years ago. By then, she had found relatively comfortable space even as a young, white, non-national, woman pan tuner making an annual pilgrimage to the steelpan heartland.

It all started not at Katzenjammers, or Skiffle, or at Phase II (among others), but at an orchestral percussion class in the US where, under the late (great) Ellie Mannette, her gaze shifted from the timpani to the pan.

All of this and more converged as memory and as emotion when I viewed ‘Women in Pan’ last week. There is not enough space or time to say everything that came to mind.

All I know is that this Loquan/Nunes collaboration helps us understand so much more about what should truly be important to all of us.

 

 

Wednesday, 7 September 2022

Washing away the unlovely

Anybody who is surprised at the current abundant outpouring of creative productivity as we emerge from the darkest hours of the pandemic, could not have been paying attention to what has been happening over the past two and a half years in T&T.

Somebody quipped on social media last week that there was so much going on, she was spoilt for choice. This is simply the outward, public outpouring of creative powers sharpened and harnessed over months and months.

From Emancipation to Agri-Expo to Independence, there have been scores of options. Online, community, national, NAPA, SAPA, Naparima Bowl, Queen’s Hall, Little Carib, Black Box, Moriah, Speyside … everywhere.

Music, dance, art, craft, drama, design, film and literature “rooted deep within (our) Caribbean (bellies)” – to borrow from poet extraordinaire, David Rudder. They never paused. Never went away. Even so, “does it wash away all your unlovely?” the songwriter asks.

This has virtually been the singular strand of hope along a spectrum of looming despair, cynicism, anger and hate – some of it contrived and engineered to suit.

Some of us tuned in as bottled expression simply could not be contained during the lockdown period. My own interests found sustenance in music, poetry, and art. Mainly because of Jackie Hinkson and Teneka Mohammed, I took to watercolours after more than 50 years.

I was there for Jackie’s Carnival murals – filled as much with joy as with tears. I looked at Teneka hunched over the table with brush in hand, her eyes fixed on careful, artful strokes. Go to ‘Art Reframed – Celebrating 60!’ and see for yourself.

In one corner of the living room also stands a tenor pan with which Mikhail reacquaints effortlessly.

Because of Duvone and Natasha and Aviel and Johann and Dane, and numerous online pan recitals by others, I passed a few lockdown moments, pan sticks in hand, on incompetently executed half-finished songs. Followed what my Exodus and Birdsong peeps and others were up to. They were all busy, busy. Playing, playing.

Dusted off the old music books for painful minutes on the guitar. Mission aborted when the fingers failed. Yet, Gerelle and Adrian and Chantal and numerous others were busy doing things. Guitars, keyboards, drums, horns, voices, strings of all types.

Ordered 300g cold press for the paints. Kept Patrick in the loop - Jackie and Teneka on the side-lines with advice on brush sizes, quality paints, technique, technique, technique.

Helen Drayton found time to reboot ‘Hyarima Lives’ in last Sunday’s poetry column, Gerelle Forbes worked with Mark Loquan on Ray Holman’s biopic, and Geneva Drepaulsingh’s daring direction of the Zoom performance of Victor Edward’s ‘Maniacs’ went where few ventured off the ‘live’ theatre stage.

Few found themselves yielding to silence or inaction. Mikhail’s LightBox series thrived on the creative emotions of the time. Look it up, those of you who chose surrender.

Fazeela wrote like crazy. Cassia took up her paints. Adrian blew that saxophone furiously while Krisson “Seraphim” made sure we never forgot calypso’s glorious roots.

People were writing books. I just got Ken Jaikaransingh’s ‘The Mark of the Cane.’ Ira Mathur completed ‘Love the Dark Days.’ Lance Dowrich, Lisa Allen-Agostini and many more. Right here in T&T.

The world never stopped spinning for many. Yet, true, we need to be aware that for some, critical space and time remained unavailable. It is good to recognise privilege; especially our own.

Victimised by both the virus and the measures meant to combat it, many reached no further than songs and prayers and expression within private spaces of grief and deprivation.

The loss of Bomber, Blaxx, Kenny J, Singing Sandra, Winsford Devine, ‘Soso’ (over in St Vincent), and Brother Resistance helped us ring the bells even louder – almost psychically connecting wider tragedy and a will to triumph through creative expression.

In naming names, I face the risk of cruel omission. But they all helped us through the deaths and the cruelties. They drowned the messages of conflict and disaster and hopelessness.

On another occasion, we can discuss the monetising of all this through a proper focus on creative industries as a private sector exploit - minus the problematic, brokering role of the state.

Again, our national poet: “Can you hear a distant drum bouncing on the laughter of a melody? /And does the rhythm tell you, come, come, come, come? /Does your spirit do a dance to this symphony? /Does it tell you that your heart is afire? /And does it tell you that your pain is a liar? /Does it wash away all your unlovely? Well, are you ready for a brand new discovery?”

I rather think we are.

Friday, 2 September 2022

The Pothole at the Roundabout

There is a small “roundabout” along the Saddle Road in Santa Cruz, constructed some years ago to address habitual recklessness at an intersection that grew busier as the years passed.

On Saturday, the car in front of mine suddenly avoided the diversion and sped through the wrong side of the encircled area and went its way. We steupsed as I correctly began negotiating the roundabout at my typically irritating snail’s pace.

Halfway in, the left front wheel of my car hit a pothole that threatened rim, shocks, suspension, and passengers in one go. “That’s why!” I thought to myself. I took my licks and drove on.

Another pothole not far away offered the remote, sadistic prospect of a solid aim by the transgressor in front who had by then long disappeared.

By that time, I had already begun contemplating the difficulty of an August 31 newspaper column given successive escapes from such responsibility through fortuitous timing over the years.

Where existed, I had been thinking, the perfect metaphor? On which current experience could I negotiate a suitable turn of phrase? I had read a week of columns and social media commentary comprising no shortage of gaslighting, trolling and manufactured disgust.

Sure, there have also recently been (failed) campaigns hinged on COVID denial, vaccine hesitancy and concerted resistance to every single official intervention.

The accompanying false narrative of lone, isolated, punitive national actions and of our own supposed “overkill.” All now exposed as cynical partisan narratives aimed at some kind of political advantage. So, no longer need to go there.

There is also, more recently, the sticky, leaky, painful bandage of collective punishment on the scrap metal industry, destructively resisted with absolutely no reference to the obnoxious reality of hanging phone lines and disfigured lampposts everywhere we turn.

The amateurish concealment of preference as professional commentary also lies in wait like a Santa Cruz pothole – know it only when you feel it or, like I usually do (yet not on Saturday), spot it from a distance.

So, yes! The pothole at the roundabout!

On previous (rare) occasions, I have cited CLR and Best and Williams and (Dennis) Pantin who all shared the view that the challenges of social, political and economic independence could not be engaged without an understanding of a vision of society beyond mere recitation of noble constitutional aspirations.

For, every time you see the word “vision”, there is fast and easy but usually futile resort to the amorphous values of the watchwords: Discipline, Production and Tolerance.

There is also easy reference to displays of the national flag and daily declamation of the National Pledge (once touted as effective instruments of the social engineering of children) – all things we did at primary school in the 1960s and which made no difference in the manner in which we conducted public and private life while building the foundations for today’s dysfunctionalities.

All of us who witnessed the polite, correctly spelled and enunciated embrace of inequity, bigotry and privilege are often amazed at pronouncements about “the good old days.”

It’s among the myths to be dispelled. In it contains a hankering for what amounts to a case of collective Stockholm Syndrome defined by persistent, unspoken depravities we dare not find time to expose.

This finds us, among other things, repeatedly (and proudly) complaining about ourselves to others. “Naughty, we’ve been naughty. Spank us, please.” Spank us, Privy Council. Whip our butts, Embassy. Tap us on the head, United Nations. Bring out the tambran whip, OAS!

So, today - Santa Cruz pothole and “vision” in mind – I turn not to Williams or Best or CLR or Pantin but to Donric Williamson aka Lord Funny.

His classic calypso of 1987 – ‘How You Feel’ - was irresistible as artistic expression at a time of political change amidst looming social and economic change. It sounded alerts that were roundly ignored at the time.

Despite the admonitions of ‘How You Feel’, we barreled through the wrong side of the roundabout and, by 1990, even those who had tried to stay the course had hit a tragic pothole lower down the road, sustaining irreversible damage.

Some of us went around and around getting nowhere as efficiently as we had arrived at the juncture.

Funny captured the timelessness of the development challenge, not having inherited the best of circumstances but confident that change was possible.

“You feel that we just keep moving on, or backing back on we heel … 25 (60) years have gone, how you feel?” There is a pothole at the roundabout waiting for we.

 

Wednesday, 24 August 2022

The bandage of collective punishment

Whatever the responses to the collective punishment administered on people, communities, and sectors such as the scrap metal industry, there is sometimes validity in ensuring that fissures evident in the public space are bandaged beyond the visible wounds, while lasting treatments are conceived and applied.

Provided the intervention is not as injurious or as vandalistic as the condition it was meant to address, and restoration is promptly achieved, I believe a society can benefit from such actions.

No doubt, as is the case of scrap metals, complicity is far wider than the core suspects. The absence of key interventions has had the effect of normalising wrong-doing and widening the net of complicity.

But the debasing of daily life to limp vulgarly severed cables wherever you go symptomizes a malaise that’s deep and tragic. If in your advocacy against the measures this does not constitute a key part of your messaging, you affirm your role in the depravity it depicts.

I am not, of course, speaking about “collective punishment” of the Geneva Conventions kind. No one is being maimed or killed, however tempting the metaphors. I am also not blind to available civil remedies. But none of the required mitigation includes the act of mashing up the country.

Both the open and barely concealed criminal threats that have emerged since the suspension of the scrap metal sector also, by themselves, compel its necessity.

I would add that it’s time to apply similar constraints on a number of other vexatious public issues. This is nothing brand new. In the 1980s, in order to ration foreign currency, we expanded the negative list to include, among other things, imported fruits.

There were undeniable impacts on the conduct of business, valid claims of corporate victimhood, and evident restraints of trade may have been considered. But Peter footed the bill for Paul and Paul eventually paid for us all.

Global trade rules now seriously challenge the thought, but the emerging Caricom agriculture space offers an opportunity not unlike the self-sufficiency that flashed briefly before our eyes in the mid-1980s. 

So, in a real sense, we are used to measures that impose prohibitions while financial, social and other crises are addressed. Some may appear punitive in nature (the suspension of scrap metal exports, for example) while others constitute a withdrawal of privileges.

My friend, writer/editor Fazeela Mollick however reminds me that, in any event, “some things that are set in train, are difficult to halt, but not impossible if the will is there.”

I have taken some time to come to the point of all this because it is important to have some context against which an increasingly popular campaign has been set.

The punchline is this: I think it is time for a comprehensive moratorium on the importation, sale and use of all pyrotechnics except where necessary for purposes of civil protection and national defence.

This has nothing to do with individual preference – though I find this fascination with noise and colourful explosions to be expensive, self-indulgent nonsense, made personally worse by the fact of my exposure to fatal gunfire some years ago.

I visited the Emperor Valley Zoo on Saturday and noted the signs everywhere you turned calling for a ban on fireworks. I have attended to my pet cat as she trembled under a table for hours. I know people who have suffered the loss of pet dogs. I am aware of the impact of sudden, loud noises on wild animals.

On January 5, this space applauded Yesenia’s newspaper silence and ushered in the New Year with the following wild prediction: “On December 31, 2022, there will be firecrackers, “squibs”, bamboo bursting, and unauthorised use of fireworks almost everywhere in T&T.

“Animals will cower, and some will die. A house or two will burn. A teenager will suffer injury to his/her hearing/vision.

“The police will not respond to complaints. A government official will promise yet another inquiry or legislative review.”

Four weeks short of my prediction, all hell seems set to break loose by this time next week. This space has been used to chronicle the periodic outbursts of promise from the highest quarters. It has also recorded spectacular failures.

I am willing to take bets on this. Make me rich. Banning the fireworks may be considered to be an act of collective punishment to address the misbehaviour of a few, but it can bandage some existing wounds on our humanity. It can help, however little, to rescue us from what looks like imminent scrap heaps and carnage.

Thursday, 18 August 2022

Youth unemployment and social crises

 Listen to this here:

Among the more tragic outcomes of this pandemic era (and, no, it is not yet over) has been the declining ability by countries all over the world to address the serious challenge of youth unemployment and the productive participation of our young people in society.

The International Labour Organization (ILO) has suggested that young people are at least three times less likely to gain access to meaningful employment than their seniors. At this time of the pandemic, the young have been the most significant victims of shrinking, undermined labour markets.

In most instances this means that among the growing cohort of unemployed you can expect to encounter the under-25s in expanding numbers – particularly young women.

In its 2022 youth employment report, the ILO estimate of youth not engaged in either employment, education or training in the Latin American and Caribbean region is 20.5%.

No one would argue that the Caribbean statistic is likely to be considerably higher given our thin resource bases, high vulnerability to external shocks and weakened resilience in some key sectors. In T&T, the rate was estimated at 9.12% in pre-pandemic 2019.

Bear in mind, the technical folks working on these things assess youth unemployment as the share of the labour force ages 15-24 without work but available for and seeking employment.

Our comparatively low percentage could, in that light, be symptomatic of a severe crisis being manifest in a variety of ways as growing numbers withdraw from contention for jobs.

Increasing the official age of retirement - which is an entirely understandable compulsion given the bunching of state retirement benefits - can also have the impact of keeping older people in positions that could otherwise be made available to the young.

There is much to dampen the prospect of youth employment. But also no shortage of challenges to independent youth entrepreneurship within both the formal and informal sectors.

The pursuit of opportunities in the informal economy (which accounts for 77% of youth employment globally) is frequently discouraged and even punished here.

There is indeed evidence that our informal sector has grown during the pandemic. In many instances, it has met public demand for goods and services more seamlessly than obtained in the past. Business groupings need to make greater efforts to embrace the new initiatives and to provide greater support to bring recognition and legitimacy to them.

Meanwhile, the focus of ILO efforts to generate increased movement from the informal to formal has not been readily embraced by either the state or the network of private institutions assigned implicit responsibility for so doing. The benefits of achieving this are readily expressed in access to social protection mechanisms.

Instead, these most vulnerable subjects of the scourge of brittle labour markets, the young, are routinely and pointedly excluded from participating in those areas that rely on the energy and creativity they bring naturally to the table.

State agencies, banks, insurance companies and others seemingly lie in wait to shatter dreams. Labour unions pay them absolutely no mind and the organised private sector is slow to embrace them. This is quite a formidable alignment of countervailing forces.

To their credit, some of the larger more successful business enterprises have attempted to provide a measure of support, even as a form of enlightened self-interest.

Dismantling mechanisms to promote the required social dialogue, such as the National Tripartite Advisory Council, is thus among the worst things that can happen at this time.

In this respect, our labour unions are drifting into a rapidly moving stream of irrelevance, beyond its undeniable role in the collective bargaining process.

Broader social activism has been abandoned with little input into modern realities that impact on the world of work, social peace, and the interests of the people of tomorrow.

Additionally, while there has been understandable concern by all about our young men, girls and women actually account for a higher proportion of unemployed youth than their male counterparts and face a multiplicity of unique, corresponding risks.

Globally, young men are almost 1.5 times more likely than young women to be employed.

This is one of those times when the macro-economic fundamentals cannot stand on their own. Debt to GDP ratios, rates of (jobless) growth, foreign currency cover and what sits idle and unproductive in the banking kitty mean nothing if the reality signals a crisis of the young.

We are not going to be forgiven for dropping the ball on this one. The costs are too high to contemplate. We are already witnessing some inevitable impacts.

 


Thursday, 11 August 2022

Of hope and dystopia

Listen to this here: Wesley Speaks

Every day now we witness the unfolding of what the late Morgan Job contentiously diagnosed as a dystopian destiny - the product of a toxic concoction comprising political depravities, acquired ignorance, and the teetering infrastructure of increasingly impotent social institutions.

Yet all the time, as was the case two decades ago, bastions of resistance emerge as countervailing forces in the form of youth creativity, skill, and achievement. From the very heart of a so-called “failed generation” and “failed race” come the main pillars of substantial hope.

Jereem, Nicholas, our Kids Sooo Amazing, Leandra, Mikhail, Teneka, Adrian, Chantal, Aviel, Duvone, Gerelle, Vaughnette, Johann, Brandon, Justin – a fuller list requiring much more than mere column inches or finite time.

Social and political movements founded on the notion of the chronic failure of others themselves slant toward extinction. It’s not all mystic parable if we countenance the daily decay on the public stage. We know it when we see it. We all know who you are. Laughing emojis jeering tragedy on social media have real and fake names attached.

These days, I have been driving on potholed roads past copper lines hanging as limply as the slothful, impotent official and public responses to them. No time found by some for outright condemnation of such acts or a prescription to address them. We hear the silence.

Little energy left to prosecute except by way of disproportionate vigilante justice – kill them when you can. Or worse, leave them to the quiet consent of those who do not wish us well … at least for now.

Abandon legitimate protest and effective civil disobedience and burn some tyres or destroy public property for good measure. Bust the water pumps, smash the fittings and the lines. Cut the poles and let’s see how they feel. Mash up de place good and proper.

Kill them. Or let them die. No COVID-19, no masks, no vaccines. Monkey pox as “jokey” as they come. “Ventilation” as singular remedy in poor, small, over-crowded spaces. And, by the way, there’s no climate crisis. Flat-earth science versus fact.

After all, whose are the public faces of CARPHA, WHO and PAHO? And why, indeed, should they be ignored in favour of others? Look at them. Look at them. Look at us. Look at us.

“Because, you see, they walk up to each other in broad daylight and shoot each other in the head.” The way, in full public view, hope is torn from the hearts of those who simply need a break.

Just a slither of space to bring flight to fanciful ideas. Not a new car or a home mortgage. Only a fantasy with the promise of financial surplus to take them through as people in their own right. But they’re better off now, they say, than under thatched roofs far away. Still “no head for business.” An inability to convert “sense/cents” into dollars, they say.

Those of us who have chosen to stay and fight, with both feet inside, cannot but believe that through all this there are more than tiny glimmers of hope. This comes from living here and knowing about us and what makes us tick from both sides of the burglar bars.

Had our world been smaller, we would have mistaken all of this for total collapse. Had we not known that from Guayaguayare to Chaguanas to Toco to Speyside there is life and living, and people making things, achieving, hoping, we would have fallen for the myth, expressed as tacit political slogan, of tribal and thus a form of collective failure.

The real risks come when we concede to a conclusion of collapse. How, at that point, can we continue to call here home? But there is no yearning by most of us (who have chosen to remain both physically and emotionally), despite forceful alternative mythologies, for second class citizenship. A relinquishing of sovereignty, ownership, and responsibility.

This is a small space with many wonders. There is also joy we should not allow anyone to take from us. I see the great promise of the young folk. My son’s personal creed is “keep making things.”

I am prepared to embrace these young citizens. They bring us hope.

 

Cricket and the 12 and Under flag

Last Sunday - somewhere between the flying of the T&T flag to celebrate the wicket of Namibian cricketer, David Wiese, caught by Tim Sei...