It was a hot, dusty afternoon. The glare from the white hot marl was blinding. What little breeze there was sputtered like a furnace trying to get started. The sea was flat. Still. The air under the tent oppressive. White plastic chairs dug into the earth. The one year it didn't rain.
When I got up there, placed the binder on the carved lectern, inhaled the salt spray of sea and sweat, and surveyed the crowd - a dappled mixture of unknowns and the greats whose names anointed the spines of tomes on my household shelves - for one brief moment my breath got trapped in my ribcage and couldn't dislodge.
Curving my fingers around the smooth, bamboo(?)finish of the lectern, I shook myself, "jooked" my breath and pried it off my ribs, filled my lungs and began to read.And as I began, I thought of Lorna Goodison's hair blowing in the wind at Half Moon, I heard Austin Clarke's lilting cadence dancing through Pig Tails n Breadfruit, my mind travelled back to the seat on the Air Jamaica plane wherein I first discovered Oonya Kempadoo in a Skywritings magazine years before I would hand her a copy of her book and a pen.
As I began I travelled back years to Colin Channer standing in the Hilton talking about the need for vision in Jamaica, I returned to Shelly Harris sitting in my living room rifling through pages of her poetry, I journeyed back to the library steps at Mona and the privilege of holding a hand-scribbled, nascent Kei Miller piece. As I read I heard Kim Robinson again on the other end of my telephone, sat again in Betty Wilson's presence, listened again to a young Garfield Ellis reading at the Tom Redcam Library.
As I began, they all rolled in front of me, a procession, Paloma, Maryse, Grace, Kwame, Toni, Arundahti, Earl, Rachel, Pam, Velma, Margaret, Vidiadhar, Jean, Ziadie, Sam, Lucy, Michelle, Marge, Hazel, Olive, a parade, a cavalcade of hundreds more who line my shelves, my memories, my dreams, who beckon me with their pens to come and join them, to set it down in black and white, to record it, they all stood before me, waiting, listening, they who had spoken to me time and again, waiting to hear what I had to say.
I stood at that lectern on that hot, dusty afternoon because there are some who believe in Jamaica's ability to affect the world. I stood at that lectern because there are some who believe in literature and heritage and excellence. I stood at that lectern because there are some who believe in an international literary festival. I stood at that lectern because there are some who believe in Calabash.
So how you must tell me now about
cancelling Calabash? Where is the Tourism Enhancement Fund? There is a recession yes and the JTB can't come up with anymore. Fine. So what is the purpose of this Tourism Enhancement Fund? Calabash is not some fly-by-night program. Does it take nine years to convince you that something adds value to international scholarship, to Jamaican cultural heritage, to the tourism product? I won't get into paying American Airlines or saving Air Jamaica. All I am asking about is something that turned sleepy little Treasure Beach into a world renowned spot, something that gives small, very local enterprise big exposure, something that promotes and develops literature in every sphere of Jamaican and global society.
Somewhere in Trench Town is a young woman who needs to have a hot, dusty afternoon of her own, who needs to stand a stone's throw from Junot Diaz, to see the man on the spine of her school books and say to herself "that's George Lamming!", somewhere in Portmore is a young man who needs to browse the book while standing beside Nadine Gordimer, who needs to watch Robert Pinksy eat a fry fish.
No man, Calabash can't go down like this. Don't deny a young Jamaican a hot, dusty (or rainy) afternoon