Skin like midnight, baby, white sheet on its way, Skin like midnight, baby, white sheet on its way, Jus’ know your Mama loves you, prays for the break of day." - unrecorded Blues lyric
Late for class, bouts with anger, too lean for baggy-sagging – hip shoulder glide through bowls of raisins, winter suns, Hansberry & Martin fiction dreams corn rows tight set for homework.
Never knew, know what you’re saying! days stopped & searched, street cornered bitch again; black looks snot wiped, white look aways, snuffed fear they dare you share outside the crew; cool Math mapping: [lead point stray/intended] ÷ [licensed breath remaining] and your parent’s Sunday shepherd churching, her single lamb picked off, the blue wolf cruising.
Happy, still, you graduated; shook your hand so hard from years knife chipping, shaping the grip of Exit found, all grown & ready – Go, get medieval! – for that flag caped mutha – any triggery finger! – fucker, making you grind halt again. -W.W.
CLOUD
I come to pass like everything else but I do not pretend that pausing denies the stretch. I’m already no longer myself: quick, pause and read what you can of your dark mind in my faithless body of a thousand urgings and as many faces, all as naked as they’re shadowed, as good as gone.
On the first day back after an extended break there was this wonderful feeling of returning to waxed floor surfaces, scrubbed chalk boards, painted exteriors (if money had been found). After the summer vacation staffers could look forward to new class assignments, the timid faces of the freshmen. Regardless of how long they were out the John Wayne Cotter H.S. family, or those who considered themselves family, would confess with a laugh they actually missed the old school. They prayed no one had clipped the padlocks on their book cabinets while they were away. It was nice, really nice, to be back.
There were stories to tell, or no stories to tell, about what happened over the Christmas or the summer season: a plane hijack foiled on a trip to Spain; this absolutely gorgeous man on the boat cruise to the Caribbean; a boring husband who didn’t want to go anywhere; the rain in England; a wedding in California, My daughter got married to this computer analyst.
There would be meetings, of course, and new program schedules, the faculty assembly in the auditorium. Some teachers sported deep tans or beards that made them barely recognizable; some showed signs of weight loss, sometimes down to worrisome fat-free levels. There were jeans and sneakers, bright Polo shirts and bright T-shirts with logos; huddles of laughter, smooched cheeks and getouttaheres!
Bilicki was always happy to be back. He’d enter the building and rightaway his adrenaline started racing. He’d touch base with the department, exchange gossip with the department secretary (any new faces this year?) and any of the old crew who came in. He’d wander down to the cafeteria where he encountered other faces, more hellos, a touch on the arm, more pleasantries. The secretaries teased him about his haircut; it made him look so much younger.
He had few stories to share since he didn’t care much for travelling, at least not to vacation hot spots overseas. He looked forward to his class of new seniors taking notes, asking questions or staring out the window. Everyone needed to recharge the batteries, scrape off the dross and accretions of the previous semester. He’d be the first to admit that despite its problems and frustrations it was good to be back in the Bronx to John Wayne Cotter.
Reality began to set in at the faculty assembly in the auditorium. Still loose and relaxed, staffers toned down their chatter; there was an attentive hush as the principal began her welcome back address. The hush deepened into silence.
Bilicki was always prepared for this. He settled down, slouching a little, in the middle of the auditorium so no one would have to squeeze past his legs for a seat; and he opened his Times and got ready to immerse himself in the pages. He looked around for his co-conspirators, Radix and Mahmood. Bits and pieces from the podium floated past his head, sometimes making contact, as far away he switched to a fresh caption or headline on the page.
“Good to see everyone back…healthy and reinvigorated faces…what promises to be an exciting year… the challenge before us…happy to announce two of our colleagues got married over the summer… from the Science Department retired and was last seen bike-riding somewhere in Florida… the years go by so quickly … back from sabbatical and pregnancy… gave birth to a bouncing baby boy, we’re all excited at the news… now I’d like to introduce new members of our faculty…our mission for the new year continues …That was the good news, now for the Not so good news… Reading scores remain below acceptable levels…cause for concern…budget cuts…We have no room to put all these kids…bursting at the seams… Those of you who wish to continue receiving the NY Times… mailboxes should be checked daily…exciting possibilities for the new year.” (from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
Characters in Edgar Mittelholzer's novel, Shadows Move Among Them, would have given considerable thought to the suggestion that ghosts or "jumbies" __________________________ as experienced in a forest environment were little more than "electrical misfirings" of the brain. This SHADOWS MOVE AMONG THEM viewpoint was put forward by scientists writing in by an issue of the journal Nature. Human agents, they Edgar Mittelholzer claim, by sending electrical impulses to the brain, could induce anyone to think "duppies" are real Peepal Tree Press, entities. England, 2010, 358 pgs
In Shadows Mittelholzer's folk had their own theory __________________________ of ghosts and spirits. When asked to explain sometimes bizarre behavior in the jungle, one character described it as “myth pleasure”. This, he says, is when people exercise their creative imagination and amuse themselves in concordance with a code of make believe. “We here create our myths and conventions day by day and discard them as easily as we create them”. Seen in such playful, rational terms and robbed of its ancient mystery and fears, life without spirit visitations could be managed with greater confidence even if futures remain indeterminable.
Myth and innerworldly behavior have been central to the fiction of Wilson Harris. A cozy scholarly complex has built up around his books. The sequence of novels that comprise "The Guyana Quartet" was published between 1960 and1964. Using difficult prose Harris has argued (in "Tradition, the Writer and Society", 1967) against “realism”, asserting its “inadequacy” as a writer’s tool for exploring complexities in Caribbean history and peoples.
Shadows was recognized in Time magazine as one of the significant works of fiction published in 1951, a “hard to classify novel.” It could be read today as a comic parallel to Harris’ hyper-articulate folk taking off on metaphor-laden boat rides up the Canje river, finding at the very top the fabulous connectedness they want to find in "The Guyana Quartet". The humour and inventiveness in Shadows, the “mad slant” Mittelholzer brings to the Guyana landscape would appeal to many in the Caribbean, like folk in Trinidad, not disposed to “brood”.
Europeans as anthropologists, Governors, missionaries, adventurers have been drawn to Guiana with its exploitable Interiors and underrepresented tribes. From Schomburgh to the Roths these very serious men have left us museums and maps and musty volumes of fadingly important information. In Shadows Mittelholzer employs emblematic Europeans as central characters and it is tempting to view the novel as a satirical commentary on those explorers who came before, and the dream merchants who came after.
Reverend Harmston, the central character, is unlike those early serious men. Educated at Oxford he brings his family to British Guiana in 1937 and takes them 100 miles up the Berbice River. There he assumes the responsibilities of coroner, registrar and protector of Amerindian rights. Once settled he starts thinking, maybe he could build his own cross-cultural civilization amidst the splendour of rivers and vegetation, “the gruff roar of baboons” and those gentle residents of the forest, the Amerindians, whose lives seem astonishingly in harmony with nature.
It’s the imperial settler’s dream, after the search for Eldorado; and since he is miles away from official Georgetown scrutiny Harmston wastes no time establishing (what years later in 1960s North American argot would come to be known as) “a hippie commune”.
The location is an exotic-sounding place called Berkelhoost, an old plantation once owned by a Dutch family with an exotic name, the Schoonlusts. In 1763 the well-documented slave revolt took place. As events of that revolt unfold in Mittelholzer’s novel, the white family members were slaughtered, but strangely their 17 year old daughter, Mevrouw Adriana Schoonlust, did not resist when threatened with sexual assault. Her life was spared and she became a servant of the slave leader, Cuffy, attending to his sexual needs, and doing secretarial chores since leader Cuffy couldn’t read or write.
He forbids the consumption of alcohol at Berkelhoost, it’s against the settlement’s health code. He installs the core values of “hard work, frank love and wholesome play”. Order at the forest settlement is maintained with balata whips. Malefactors are generously granted three chances to mend their ways. A fourth offence would lead to their “elimination” as incurably bad folk. Throughout all this Harmston’s autocratic style is never challenged.
The Harmston development model is a basically simple one: shared responsibilities, plus a blending of European enlightenment and the “local influences”. His forest- dwellers are not entirely free to run around, having fun, half-naked in pursuit of interests and pleasures. Depending on their aptitudes the children are separated into “squads”, the Book squad, Drama squad, Labour Squad. Conditions are spartan but life though regimented is far from beholden to the Ten Commandments.
Harmston sets up his own education system which requires immersion in the Best of European Culture: Chopin, “Aida”, Shakespeare, "The Ride of the Valkyries”; and reading US "Time" magazine.
The European through whose interrogatory eyes we wander around the settlement is a tormented young man named Gregory. He arrives with a raft of personal “issues” that spring from crumpled nerves and marriage memories he can’t seem to erase. A psychiatrist had suggested a change of environment (the exotic climbs & discoveries in the Guianas) as a cure for these “issues”. Harmston considers him a refugee from an “over-civilized Europe”.
Slowly he is drawn into the weirdness of the Harmston experiment and he begins to display weird, trancelike behaviours of his own. In time he becomes the love interest of the Harmston girls – a precocious 14 year old who sends him notes (“My Flat Chest Burns For You”) written in her blood; and 19 year old, sexed-up Mabel Harmston who wants to give up her free loving way with Amerindian boys and settle down.
The problem for Gregory is, should he give up the securities of England (its night clubs, restaurants and banking system) and commit years of his life to a forestrial haven of corials, hairy spiders and those erotically-charged Harmston girls.
Events in the novel are not all outlandishly funny. Mittelholzer manages to keep a thread of 1930s colonial credibility running through the pages. Lightning and thunder, torrential rains and the full moon intervene at hallucinatory moments of self- discovery; and though the benabs aren’t built with creaking doors things manage to go bump on the forest floor amidst all the insect and bird noise. His Europeans might come across as cartoony inventions, but the unambivalent depiction of the Berbice wilds is a measure of the author’s imaginative of the Guiana landscape, from city to forest and savannah.
But where, you might ask, are the Guianese men and women in Shadows? Aside from the Amerindians who represent “the local influences”, they are miles away in George- town. These are the 1930s, remember. The brightest local minds, unrepresented in the in the novel, are probably preparing to set out for Oxford U., LSE and other hatcheries of new world ideas. Years later they would return and, like Reverend Harmston, begin to commission their own earth-moving rigidities, be it “socialism” or “cooperative republicanism”, or the ethnic chauvinisim that still grips the land.
With its European settler themes and characters Shadows Move Among Them – first published in 1951, and reissued in 2010 with an escorting Introduction by Peepal Tree Press – could be read as Mittelholzer’s cautionary tale for our unsettled nation, starved for notice of any kind. In the jungle, he might be saying, be wary of white elephants and European dream-builders; and new mobile entrepreneurs, their seed bags bulging with capital and big ideas. Like recurring omens they come to Guyana in many postures and disguises. Some may not even speak in European tongues. A few might well be shape-shifting Guyanese.
Grant them a wish, concessions, tracts of green virgin land anywhere, you never know what they’ll do next – the grand schemes they’ll devise, the human cost and waste if these grand schemes misfire.
Book Reviewed: “Shadows Move Among Them”: Edgar Mittelholzer, Peepal Tree Press, England, 2010, 358 pages. (A version of this article appeared in 2007)
"How’d you end up with a name like that?” Radix asked, that first day Degraf- fenbach reached over to shake his hand. “How did you end up with a name like – sorry, what did you say your name was?” Degraffenbach shot back, pulling in his chair, keeping things on even keel. He went on: “There’s this guy in the Math department, he’s from Nigeria, he’s got this funny-sounding name, nobody can get their tongue wrapped around the syllables… Oban…jem…funa! See, even I have a hard time with it. Anyway, everybody calls him Mr. O. The kids call him Mr. O. Even the payroll secretary calls him Mr. O. And, get this, he doesn’t mind! Says it makes things easy for him.” Then turning to Radix, he said, “By the way, everybody calls me Dave or Mr. Degraff. I have no problem with that.” Not to be outdone, or to seem outsmarted, Radix said there was someone in his department with a name everyone managed to pronounce correctly, with no abbreviation, despite its strange spelling. “Zbryznski… anyone know him?” Degraffenbach said he hadn’t heard the name, nor did he know the guy. “In any case, what did Shakespeare say…That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet…? Isn’t that Romeo and Juliet?” Bilicki assured him it was. "That line has stayed with me since 9th grade.” Radix thought he heard in the tone of the other man’s voice an attempt to slide him down a notch. He figured Degraffenbach had just stopped by and had no intention of joining them. But the next day he was back, with his tray of cafeteria food, and his ebullient manner. When Radix tried to draw him out on political or current issues he got the same joking response. Once Degraffenbach slapped him on the shoulders, telling him to “lighten up”. Radix played with his coffee spoon, refusing to lighten up, his resentment of the man growing. For his part Mahmood seemed put off by Degraffenbach’s lack of seriousness, but chose not to make an issue of it, putting it down to the younger man’s inexperience. Raised on Long Island what could he possibly know about the lives of “rock breakers” around the world? One morning Degraffenbach joined them just as Mahmood was explaining an incident in California involving a white police officer who had found him in his stalled Volkswagen in what they considered a “wrong” neighborhood. Bilicki shook his head and reminded everyone there were “wrong” neighbor- hoods in New York. “I live in a “wrong” neighborhood just across the river in New Jersey. If someone like you happens along there at certain hours, acting suspiously, as they say, there are nice old ladies peering through the blinds who would not hesitate to reach for the phone.” Degraffenbach looked down at his plate, chewing thoughtfully; then as his forked picked away for the next food dispatch he made a startling disclosure: he’d lived among white people all his life on Long Island, and he couldn’t honestly say he had experienced racism. Everyone looked at him, mildly amazed. “No, I’m serious. I hear talk about taxis not stopping when you hail them in Manhattan, because you’re black. Well, I’m black, and I’ve never had a problem  
; with cabs in Manhattan.” “Why do you think that is so?” Mahmood asked. “I really don’t know.” Degraffenbach leaned back, and seemed to give the question some thought. Then he said, “Maybe taxi drivers find me attractive.” Bilicki laughed; he was the only one who didn’t mind Degraffenbach’s jokes. “That's it,” Degraffenbach went on. “That's why they stop for me every time. They find me irresistible.” His voice climbed to a falsetto of mock incredulity; his boyish face beamed amusement. A lost cause, Radix thought, his mouth compressed in irritation. Telling funny stories, simply refusing to think. Beyond saving, Radix felt sure.
(from Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!” a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.” – Requiem Mass
Mujeres in migraine storm, occupy a morgue, naming, wanting the bodies of loved ones struck numb in a prison fire.
Fear borne refugees cross burnt fields away from villages ravaged by soldiers; drop infants too heavy to carry, leave bones not keeping up.
Memo declassified: from men upright in blue suits: to men with chest medal drawers: Our future is in your hands. Burn their library.
Island school youth sentenced five years for stealing spice mango sleeps back to the window – fearing his bed – watching the door.
God shrilling warriors hurl stones, ferry open coffins of comrades shot up check scarf streets; gather again fresh, stone fresh.
Sun waxed plants stored away by squirrels thirty two thousand years ago see, disbelieving, skies of spring again, cheer scientists.
Days of glory, nights of stars – what, from nothing fallen, buried for that first tribe stare touch word? what something? whose voices of release? – W.W.
PLAINER AND PLAINER
my confusion of voice and eye, nothing left to prove or improve: a plain peace
sculpting certain ghosts drifting in and out of time, the wind caught by an ancient curtain:
sketches of essences, graphs of a stare whose centre is any, whose aim is all.
Dave Degraffenbach was everything the school’s Superintendent, the Board of Education, the school’s supervisors and Mrs. Haliburton looked forward to seeing more of in the teaching community – a bright, intelligent, enthusiastic young man of color. They weren’t enough of them coming into the profession, everyone agreed. Of course, Mrs. Haliburton had said it all along. At a time when young black males were viewed as increasingly uneducable, there was a serious need for young men of color to enter the teaching profession. They’d serve as important role models; they’d know how to win the confidence of troublesome students; they’d be living testimony of professional accomplishment outside the fields of sports and entertainment. The system could not survive as it had all these years with young black males – so many raised by single mothers! – being taught in classrooms by mostly middle- aged white women. When she first met Dave Degraffenbach she’d sounded him out for those personal traits that would endear him to her. He was raised, she learned, outside the community, on Long Island; he didn’t wear a Malcolm X goatee. What fires she sensed in his stomach seem to fuel his own personal ambitions, but he was affable, well-groomed, energetic in his roly-poly way, and everyone seemed to like him. It would have been churlish of her to raise what she perceived as shortcomings in his character. “I’m a very adaptable person,” he told her. “I get along with everybody.” This was much in evidence in the teachers’ cafeteria. He’d fill his food tray with whatever was on the menu that day, joking with the kitchen staff about portions and choices; and confessing that in any case his waist belt and stomach could cope with anything they prepared. Then he’d look around and head off to the first table that struck his fancy. For awhile he joined the Phys. Ed teachers table; they talked and laughed with locker room exuberance, in Polo shirts and sneakers never mind the weather; they organized wagers on major league sports like the super bowl game, and debated fiercely the teams’ chances. Then he sat with teachers from the Foreign Language department, a merry group of women, young and old, with hairstyles always sparkling; they ate and laughed and shared jokes from late-night TV shows they’d watched. They talked about the guests on the shows, and what movies were currently playing. Degraffenbach would slap his thighs, his clothes as loose and breezy as his manner, and repeat his favorite one-liners. One afternoon he stopped by Bilicki’s table, declaring, “Why don’t I sit with the intellectuals today… if that’s alright…how you guys doing?” Even if they wanted to they couldn’t resist his rolling good cheer. “Intellectuals? Is that who you think we are?” Bilicki said, making room with his chair, smiling. “Just kidding,” Degraffenbach said.
(from “Ah Mikhail, O Fidel”, a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
Flights to Paramaribo arrive just past midnight, if you’re coming from New York, on the regional carrier, whose seats and operations these days feel overused and over- worked. There's a nine hour wait in Port-Of-Spain, Trinidad for a connecting flight. To kill time you might consider venturing out via airport taxi; join multilane traffic under a Trinidad sun; catch a beach, “eat a food” or, if it’s Christmas, drink a Ponche de Crème. Take note and measure how close the island has moved toward developed- nation principles and practice.
The flight schedule alone is enough to discourage the unadventurous from discovering Suriname, unless you’re willing to stop over in the Republic of Guyana and risk fractious travel over land, bridges & rivers. You might also need a sense of purpose. A young couple, college-break free, speaking Dutch, wearing sandals and visiting the former colony might find it easier to look forward to quiet settings where familiarity breeds acts of kindness and harmless transgression.
The taxi ride in from the airport past midnight follows a narrow road, headlight-swept and free of anxiety. Visitors from industrial geographies might be excused for thinking they’ve entered a country of “sleepy” communities, stuck in time past, comfortable in village habits; though as you come closer to commercial areas – slowing for “drempels” (speed bumps) – and gas stations and security-lit buildings, a group of young men on motor bikes appear, hanging out (it’s Friday night); shiny crash helmets sitting on small heads, casting them as astral occupiers of night’s dreaming hours.
Next day the radio wakes you with Sranang talk and sentimental song which play on almost every station. It closes you in like elevator doors. For the rest of your stay and depending on your circumstances, you might feel digitally cut off from the world, or at least temporarily disabled; though you may or may not mind.
Over morning coffee paragraphs from the newspapers might leap out at you showing you how things are done here, [2011 AlphaMax Academy, Paramaribo] as for example this, from De Ware Tijd, recently: "The President has often stated since this government took office that he supports a transparent land policy. This has resulted in the sacking of Martinus Sastroredjo as RGB Minister after it became known that his concubine had applied for a large tract of land."
On the streets, under a Suriname sun as bright and brassy as a Trinidad sun, people go about their business, as elsewhere, in cars and in bubbles, leashed to triumphs and failings, of diverse race and creed. There are sudden fierce rain showers which stop abruptly, then skies are clear blue again. If you stay long enough you might hear of crepuscular activity, a twilight gathering of local spirits or conspiracy webs. Individuals who otherwise seem educated and informed will swear that, regardless of how things appear, each resident soul is monitored by unseen forces, by living and dead people.
The outside world has reached over language barriers, and moved deeper inland. The new consuming China with agreements-to-sign and full steaming enterprise has bespectably installed its zonal interests. Street blocks, currently home to many Brazilians, could expand in time and be viewed one day with settled pride as Little Brazil. In the Paramaribo of downtown bumper-to-bumper “progress” you are where you dine, or where you shop.
On the plane, early last year, next to my window seat was a Trinidadian (Lawrance G.) a soft-spoken man with a boxer’s upper body. Looking past 50 yrs, his fingers trembled as he settled his paper cup of coffee, hinting at a creeping vulnerability. He’d started working with an oil company soon after leaving high school in Port of Spain. How that transition straight forward happened he didn’t explain. Nickerie, in an area reportedly rich in oil deposits, was where he (and a team) were now headed on new contract & assignment.
He had travelled around the world, slipping on work boots, hard hat and gloves each day as the company probed and drilled into the earth: to Gabon (the nicest people, despite miles of deprivation); to Venezuela (the President there cares about the poor, despite puffed global moments of ad hominem fist shaking.)
Had he given any thought to How much longer, doing this? His body had endured the rigors of travel and work hazards. What excited him these days, he revealed, was exploring the working parts of the human body.
He reached into his carry-on bag and whipped out his latest purchase, the iPad. Did I own one? No? I should get one. The iPad 2, they say, has sharper screen display. To impress me his fingers brought up for viewing glossy images of organs in the body. He touch-swiped through the heart, liver, organs of reproduction, inserting his own commentary and breaths of marvel.
A world of new information, which in all likelihood could extend his longevity, was now within his reach. And though near enough for pension plan review, he wasn’t thinking of retiring, not just yet. (Though where – in his hands? strong character? – lay the source of that span of energy upholding him over the years.)
So what was my business in Suriname, he wanted to know, now that he had shared information and we were no longer strangers? Why was I going there? To see an old friend, I told him. And to learn about an event he was planning.
The event was the launch of a book, “Msiba, My Love”, by poet, Ivan A. Khayiat, a Guyanese educator who lives in Suriname. (The publication launch seems as ubiquitous these days as the baby shower.)
Khayiat describes it as a “symphonic poem”. It has a coffee-table book readiness – assuming that books are still welcome these days on coffee tables – with high gloss pictures and supportive verse revealing the natural beauty of Suriname, and the ecological damage done to parts of its landscape. And it comes with a companion DVD of evocative images and soundtrack over which voices, in English and Dutch, present the poem in heartfelt cadences.
"Msiba" DVD offers ten minutes of shimmering surfaces. It may be much less than a "symphonic” work, but the launch apparently made for a wonderful, rare evening out for invitees in Paramaribo. The Government of Suriname, it is reported, has adopted the DVD & book as a state gift for visiting dignitaries, impressed no doubt by what it sees as an excellent mix of art photo information and spoken words about the country, framed by knowledgeable, friendly hands.
Finding brave new worlds imagined by Suriname writers and artists might require a long stay, some search and enquiry. There is evidence of activity – workshops, art discourse, exhibitions – facilitated by stakeholders in Holland. A more vibrant, grand platform for exposing creative talent to residents and visitors is certain to be avail- able when the next big cultural event, the regional festival for the Arts (Carifesta), takes place in Suriname in 2013.
In the meantime, Wan Fu Nyun Winti Seti Sranan Bun. So the sharp suits and bill- boards say. – W.W.
≈☼≈
OPHELIA MAROON
Every leaf will return to blaze sharp green all about me through days without night (and yet no star shall be erased.) My gaze is the same as the sun’s; neither smile nor frown. My gown of water is all red and white buds not yet burst like my heart.
More often than not MaryJane Syphers sat alone with a cup of coffee and her cigarettes and a folder of scripts over which she poured diligently, hardly looking up; though if anyone happened to stop by at her table she’d interrupt what she was doing and give them her undivided attention, brushing back strands of hair; and turning in her chair, leaning forward to share confidences. The semester was weeks away from Christmas. Classes were set to run right down to the start of the holidays, leaving teachers no time for seasonal shopping. A memo from department chairs reminded faculty that Christmas parties, or events linked to the spirit of the season, were to be discouraged. In fact, classroom observations of teachers were scheduled for just this time, when students, in a fractious celebratory mood, made classroom management difficult for everyone. Radix, Mahmood and Bilicki were more than happy to find each other during the lunch period. The situation in the hallways was approaching levels of the “chaos” MaryJane had described. Radix had attempted once to separate two students fighting in his class. He was advised by Quickenbush to follow Union guidelines – take yourself out of harm’s way first; get help from security personnel. He talked to Bilicki about this – was it a really dangerous thing to do, jumping in to separate two students fighting? When MaryJane did stop by again, it was on a day of hysterics and incident. There had been a knife stabbing on the 1st floor. There was a trail of blood spots leading to a stairwell, but no sign of the victim. Two security officers with much theatrical hand gesture directed foot traffic away from the blood spots. MaryJane gasped, then thinking there must be a wounded student somewhere in the building, she started following the blood trail. Thinking better of it she turned back, muttering, “O my God!” She entered the cafeteria as the Principal was appealing over the P.A. system for calm on the 2nd and 3rd floors. She swept past their table, her shoulders bunched; she came back, gave them a look of terror, and in a harsh trembling voice, the tendons stretched on her neck, she said, “What did I tell you? What did I tell you? We’re way past redemption now.” Then she rushed off again. They looked at her, speechless. They had no idea what she meant. They supposed she was referring to what they’d been discussing – the general breakdown of order in the building. Annoyed at the school’s effort to dampen or ignore the Christmas season, students were finding ways to celebrate. Someone kept pulling the fire alarm. Bells went off almost every day. They rang for five minutes before someone shut the alarm off, but the strobe lights kept flashing and teachers were never sure what to do – ignore the bells, wait for an announcement or vacate the building right away. Outside the sirens of fire units could be heard approaching. Then there were nerve-jangling bangs as from left-over Halloween firecrackers; fights erupting in the hallways; and the emptying of classrooms when someone stuck his head in the door and shouted, “Fight!” Bilicki railed at attempts by the administration to downplay the gravity of the situation. It was the responsibility of the supervisors to provide a safe learning environment in the building. Evidently they were failing to do so. The school was on a slippery slope, moving closer and closer to a state of anarchy. There was this proposal he’d been working on. He was thinking, he said, of forming a watchdog group. He had a name for it, Excellence in Teaching. No, this was not another attempt to run for office. The watchdog group would throw a spotlight on areas where radical improvements could be made. It would be a far cry from the sentiments emanating from the principal’s office; a far cry, too, from the police blotter of alarming incidents issued by the Union chairman. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about it. He wanted to hear, first, what Radix and Mahmood thought. (from “Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!”, a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
Raised to bury or block thrill display, tamp down spread fires until the right darkness when there’s no excuse, he can get madrass bad all he want. Fresh water lily blooming years , the having to cross a river of lizards, uniformed for learning. Ankle socks skirting city masques, shops that would shutter quickly if snatch street dogs unchain making you run for fabric cover.
All of which jewels you the rani of cold wait, brown eyes on search clues for newspaper crosswords on Metro rides. From close in feel of others you extricate. Leg pant sleeve scarf export ovals of virtue, scorn all you want! There’s honour, too, in silence, men with beady eyes and fingers teach.
A secret worth keyholes? everybody codes one. Okay, your mother one day pulls you past this house, a woman crying her fate out under a tree, wife hammer, in hammock, swing pending. What if your serve time’s being arranged? lamb cheeks raised, the chosen vowed to rear? Indigo & beards, they say, share flower bed licks, bless compliant lips; the leaf rustle of undress.
Victoria you’re not, Sha’riya, gyal. Reed slim you wisp past swayed behinds tattoos on spine. Plus, why back side with bugging issues, gnats to ambition? Desire, futures horned in gold, swell locked. In Crescent village news gather for breaking: Girl doing fine. No time to link. Busy studying. Still, what if, chance willing ̶ angstamber! ̶ ankle bracelets raise? one leg has flashed through the fabric slit, you’re learning the tango noon prayers never intended. Sacred months pass. João (de Janeiro) might notice now you wider whirl, faith weights of expectation lifting; petal webbed, not quite the renouncer. Tracking off. Wired paths from profile page found ̶ Olá e Bem-Vinda! ̶ saved. Reset you’re all.
- W.W. �
160;
THE MASKED MAN TO THE MADAME
To the tango of blood that hurries, woman of green, waltz only. Across the cobra’s forehead that burns as it tries to climb your ladder of fire, drape your snow veil. Wait until night to drop your buds and thorns on to roofs of sleep and to the moon’s flag a feather kiss. (from “Fabula Rasa” by Brian Chan)
MaryJane Syphers (English) stopped by their table one morning with clicking heels, a scraping of the chair and a dramatic collapse. This was her manner of arriving anywhere in the building, always with a clatter and a crash, as if her body were a wooden cross she must drag each day through the hallways. In other classes the kids did a riotous imitation of Miss Syphers’ entrance – “Alright, settle down quickly everyone, let’s get this over with, painlessly and seriously.” – like rehearsals of grim resolve. At their table, once settled, she searched her bag with squirrelly urgency for a cigarette, all the while speaking fiercely to Bilicki who was her intended target. She lit up, threw her head back, exhaled; and only then did she seem to acknowledge the presence of Radix and Mahmood. Mahmood nodded and turned the pages of his Times. Radix looked at her, then looked away, a wave of resentment sweeping over him. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. What he resented was the way she’d barged in, how abruptly she’d cordoned off Bilicki for conversation. Strangers mere seconds ago, they contrived to ignore each other. MaryJane talked to Bilicki about a “stupid” note she’d just received from Pete Plimpler about her “failure” to submit to him, as requested, the lesson outline for her classes. That she should be subjected to this level of humiliation, after all these years, was a sign of how terrible things had become in the department. Bilicki listened and nodded in sympathy; he was growing a new beard. MaryJane shifted her behind around and pulled on her cigarette, as if wishing all her problems with the department chair, with the school, would quietly go up in smoke, leaving her lungs and her life in blissful contentment. Radix couldn’t bear to look at her saucer-round eyes, the lines writhing on her skin; couldn’t bear the meanness in her voice. He turned in his chair and made a point of looking anywhere but at her. And MaryJane, who sensed how displeased he was by her intrusion but couldn’t care less, coolly exhaled and carried on. “Did you get your guidelines for tomorrow’s Parent-Teachers conference?” at one point she asked Bilicki. “What guidelines?” “It’s in your mailbox. Memo from our beloved Supervisor. Reminding us how to conduct ourselves when we meet with the parents. You know, what to say to them, what not to say.” Bilicki shook his head. “They want us to focus on the positive. We must be careful not to cause injury to the self-esteem of the little darlings. Parents have enough problems of their own. They don’t come to our conferences to be told negative things.” MaryJane flicked ash off her cigarette in Bilicki’s empty coffee cup; and then, deciding this was perhaps the moment to open portals of interest in Bilicki’s friends, she said, switching her glance between Bilicki and Radix: “I think parents have a right to know what’s really going on in the classrooms. On a daily basis. I mean, what good does it do hiding the truth?” Then looking directly at Radix: “When you’ve been here as long as I have, you begin to see the bigger picture. We’re engaged in a never-ending war. Between order and chaos. And it seems to me that with every passing day we are losing that war.” She stopped talking for a minute, her blanched face bristling with certainty. She appeared to be waiting for Radix to say something, assuming he had something interesting to say. And Radix, clearing his throat, said, “Sometimes a little chaos is useful.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t…” MaryJane looked at him with quite frightening, staring eyes. Radix raised his voice: “I said, sometimes a little chaos can go a long way. You know, shaking things up…turning old habits upside down. It’s like, things have a way of calcifying, if you see what I mean.” MaryJane sat back, her finger propping her chin, studying this man, wondering who he really was. “Some people get stuck in their habits and offices…and routines, so a little chaos might help start a revolution.” “A revolution!” MaryJane gave a hoarse, incredulous laugh. “So that’s what this is all about.” She’d heard what sounded like resentment in his voice. She stared, backing away, but only so she could measure his range, let him flounder about as he got the angry stuff off his chest. When she spoke again her voice was controlled and precise. “Don’t get me wrong. There’s always enough blame to go around. Never enough money, the building’s in disrepair, the bureaucracy’s out of touch. And burnt-out teachers like me keep bitching at everybody.” She laughed and reached out to grasp Bilicki’s arm. “When you get right down to it,” she resumed, “we come here every day to teach. But these students, bless their poor hearts, come here with no readiness to learn. You’re constantly spoon-feeding them. Serving it up like Gerber baby food. And when you think they’ve got it, they walk out the door and…poof… it’s gone, all gone, turned to vapor.” Gathering her books and papers, she prepared to drag herself off. She shook her head, so sad, the situation we're in, and confessed she was near the end of her tether. She was thinking the other day it was time to call it quits. Hand everything over to the younger folk. “Like this young man here,” she said, tossing a smile like a bouquet at Radix. (from “Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!” a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 