Abeng Interviews Clairmont Mali Chung from Roots Culture Media (Part 1)

Greetings. This is an exclusive Abeng interview with the CEO of Roots and Culture Media, Clairomont Mali Chung, who is a film maker, which is only one of his creative talents. Roots and Culture Media is the producer of the documentary Walter Anthony Rodney Stories (or W.A.R. Stories). This is Part 1 of  2

Kaya @TheAbeng +The Abeng World-wide: Bro. Clairmont, how you doing, Man?

Clairmont Mali Chung: I'm doing good, Kaya. How are you doing?

@TheAbeng: Beautiful, Man, Beautiful. Its good to talk to you. It's good to finally have you here with The Abeng. Been a long time in planning. Could you first tell the readers whats the concept behind Roots and Culture Media?

CMC: Well, it started out really as a gallery that had began in Guyana by a group of artists back in the early Eighties. And ah, many of them had migrated and the group that had sort of loosely arranged and I suggested that we have an extension of it in North America. And...when I set all of that up I realized that the medium, we needed more access to a wider range of audience, And so, I began to think of producing other kinds of media and writing also.

So Roots and Culture Media is really an attempt, then, to consolidate all aspects of the arts and provide a forum that people can express themselves.

@TheAbeng: Can you tell us who some of those artists were?

CMC: Well you have people like Dudley Charles, people like Gary Thomas; one of the benefactors was Camo Williams- a pan player; Omowale, Lumumba, and bout four or five others... Winston Strick was an important figure in that, Ras Ita, but those were the core of it.

@TheAbeng: How did you get into film making?

CMC: Well it, its not exactly clear, its more by default 'cause I'm not really trained. I did do a course in college on film and another course on television. And then many, many years later, almost twenty years later, I had helped produce a local TV program for the public channels. And I realized the power of it, or it reinforced the power of the media; and then I decided to do the Rodney project which had been languishing for thirty years and no one seemed to either be inclined to do it and so I decided that would be one of my first.

"Money can't save us..." ~ Clairmont Mali Chung

#TheAbeng: What was one of the biggest challenges you faced?

CMC: I think most people you ask that question to, including myself, people would say the money...right... 'cause the money answers a lot of questions. But at the same time, if money is the thing keeping you back, then you'll never get it done, because you'll never get the money; you'll never have enough, even if you get money. So, yes the biggest problem is the money, but if the money is gonna stop you then perhaps this is not the thing for you.

Artists on the whole, and I don't really consider myself an artist even though, you know, I'm in the arts, they don't produce work because of the money, they produce because they have to, and they can't exist any other way...

@TheAbeng: They have to get their voice out.

CMC:..Right, they have to produce or they'd just wither and die. And so, right, ordinary people are concerned with money, people who are serious are not concerned with money.

@TheAbeng: That's a very true statement, Man, that's a very true statement, especially for us writers...

CMC: Money can't save us is the final analysis. And it wouldn't save the arts, the arts exist in our genetic, historical memory and make up. And that cannot be purchased. People try to buy it but it defies a valuation, you know, we just loan our creations to the society because nobody could really pay for what people create.

@TheAbeng: So let's talk about one of my favorite documentaries of all time, which is W.A.R. Stories, aahm, Walter Anthony Rodney Story. When did you first decide on that project?

 CMC: Well it was around...well thank you first of all for the compliment... sometime around 2006 I was still producing the local television show and I was toying around with the idea of what to do with this new tool. And being, you know, a little familiar with what had happened to Walter Rodney, the importance of Walter Rodney to Guyana, to the Caribbean, to the Africa, to the World, it seemed like a project that would be important to the entire planet.

 "Since the government itself has taken over so many facets of economic life, has nationalised the bauxite, has nationalised sugar, has nationalised a number of private firms, justifiably so, it has taken up a position as the principle, far and away the largest, single employer in the country. Consequently, the ground is really set for utilization of this device of the party card, of political control by means of denying the right to work." ~ Dr. Walter Rodney (see at 5:55 of this video clip W.A.R. Stories)

Op-Ed: My Why by Carla Thomson

My Why

By Carla Thompson

In November 2016 Trump won the presidential election to become the next president of the United States; who would have thought? For years we have watched him lie, deceive, and cheat. Then America voted for him.
Trump being elected president wouldn’t have bothered me if the man’s character held any positive value- if he had used his wealth for the betterment of the world, like say Bill Gates. But enough of that; the only reason Trump matters in my story is he caused me to open my eyes.

I was born in Guyana and immigrated with my parents to the United States around eight years old. I was teased in school by Black kids and sixth and seventh grade sucked. Those years made me wish I was lighter, prettier, and didn’t speak with an accent. I desired to become better, which to me at the time meant lighter. I separated myself from my blackness.
I didn’t listen to hip hop or rap, I choose soft rock and easy listening. I didn’t speak slang and I got upset with family members who did. I even wanted to marry a white man, so my kids wouldn’t be as dark as me. I had issues, bullying issues.
And this leads me back to Trump.

During the months leading up to the election a dog whistle was blown: “Make America great again”. I believe what was heard was “I will make America as it was in the 1950’s and before”. I wasn’t a frequent visitor to Facebook until February 2017, A.D., which is "after Donald" took office. It amazed me how people of color are hated because we have a complexion that had nothing to do with a decision we made, nor an intrinsic choice. It was just hurtful.

The big lie America told those of us who don’t know our history, is that we are equal in her eyes. The issue isn’t black or white, America says, its rich or poor. Anyone can be rich if they work hard, and keep their nose to the grind stone. Work hard and things will change. Never mind Jim Crow laws, all that ended in the 1960s and is irrelevant in 2017.

My insight to being black changed in those days A.D. Although I had been taught as a child to hate who I was because of the color of my skin, I had grown to learn that bullying is not just a black thing, it's a human thing. My accent, complexion, hair, and face were things that were different to them.

The awakening caused me to read about true history, not the fairy tales that were taught in school. I didn’t know about Liberia, red lining, Brown v. Board of Education and so many more decisions made for people of color. Before, I was one who thought my vote didn’t count so I only voted in the  presidential-election years; then, I complained my vote didn’t count and how old Caucasians made decisions for me. I went out like millions of others who had to figured out that the midterms elections mean something.

Midterms are when members of state and federal congress  are elected; and yes, they do matter! I want to get involved in the decision making. I want to get involved in activism. I want people of color to know that voting matters. How can you complain in a household if you don’t know what is happening?

President Lyndon B. Johnson once said, "If you can convince the lowest white man he's better than the best colored man, he won't notice you're picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he'll empty his pockets for you." And he appointed the first black to HUD agency.

I'm just saying!

Carla Thompson

Black History: The Haitian Revolution (The Revolt That Birthed a Nation-Part I)

  Black History: The Haitian Revolution (The Revolt That Birthed a Nation-Part I)

                                          by K. Omodele 2016 @TheAbeng

Introduction- Slave Revolts In the African Diaspora

There have been hundreds of slave revolts in the history of the African Trans-Atlantic slave trade. Africans resisted captivity in slave forts, on ships and plantations. In St. John and Guyana, slaves took over whole colonies, tasting freedom temporarily, before being re-conquered and re-enslaved.* Maroons in Jamaica, Surinam and Brazil, and Black Caribs in St. Vincent, fought colonial masters and militias to establish independent/sovereign societies that existed autonomously within individual slave colonies. However, the slave insurrection that is distinctive in achieving an ultimate level of success (freeing the whole slave colony AND forming an independent nation) is the epic Haitian Revolution.

"The revolution is made by ordinary people, not by angels, made by people from all walks of life." ~ Dr. Walter Rodney

The Haitian Revolution was the most successful slave revolt in the history of the so-called New World (i.e. The Western Hemisphere). This revolution significantly affected dynamics in the histories of the West Indies, both Americas, the African Diaspora and Europe. Its events gradually formed a nation, but the revolution's leaders didn't learn their tactics in military academies studying the art of war or political science; nor were they propagating a new economic system or faith. These revolutionaries emerged off fields and fled plantations, first brandishing cutlasses, machetes, hoes and fire; then, with guns, cannons, more fire and cries of freedom, they executed revolts that became a revolutionary war that gave birth to Haiti** - the second independent republic in the Americas and the first nation formed by former African slaves.

Saint Domingue In The 1700s

In 1697, Spain ceded the Western third of Hispaniola to France. The Spanish called their colony Santo Domingo, the French called theirs Saint Domingue. In the 1700s, Saint Domingue was the most prosperous colony in the world and the richest in the entire French Empire. Africans slaved on highly profitable plantations where sugar was the chief crop, but others included tobacco, coffee, cocoa, indigo and cotton. By the end of the century, estimates have the population in Saint Domingue at:

-  30-40,000 Frenchmen (grand blancs and petit blancs)

-  22-27,000 Mulattoes and free Blacks (gens de coleur)

-  500,000+  Black/African slaves

"Nowhere in the West Indies in 1789 was there a greater hell on earth than the French Colony of Saint Domingue..." ~ Dr. Eric Williams

These various classes/castes within the society resented, often despised, each other. Being outnumbered over 10 to one, the Frenchmen, the plantation owners, were constantly on edge to hold on to the balance of power and so kept their African slaves in line by brutalizing them for slight offenses and beheading and racking them for insubordination. But these Whites themselves were divided by class: the grand blancs were the planters and merchants, while the petit blancs were the lower-class workers and laborers.

The Mulattoes and free Blacks had the right to own property but resented the fact that they had little or no legal rights.

Of course, slaves had no rights and so they despised the other classes.

*some leaders and members of these rebellions committed suicide rather than be taken alive and forced back into slavery.

** Haiti ~ Ayti was the Taino Arawak name for the island Columbus "claimed" for Spain, calling it Hispaniola (present-day Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Ayti ,means "Land of high mountains"

The Haitian Revolution Part 2 - Leaders of the revolution: Boukman, Touissant, Dessalines, Christophe, et.al.

References:

Fick, Carolyn E. The Making of Haiti: The Revolution from Below. Knoxville, Tenn., 1990.

James, C.L.R. The Black Jacobins: Touissant L'Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution. 1938. Reprint. New York, 1963.

Williams, Eric. From Columbus to Castro- the History of The Caribbean 1492-1969

Williams, Eric. History of the People of Trinidad and Tobago. Reprint.

Renaissance Man: Blessed Earthday, Ivor Edson Brown

 Blessed Earthstrong, Ivor

By K. Omodele @theabeng

"Don't judge the man you see before you by those you seen before!" ~ I.E. Brown, The Love Ethic

Today is my cousin Ivor Edson Brown's Earthday, which means it's the anniversary of the day he drew his first breath on Earth.

I mentioned before, on this blog, our final reasoning over the phone, talking clear 'cross the Pond. I could tell you how, in our catching up with each other's life, he listened tentatively and was compassionate when imparting his wisdom. I could share how we laughed, hard, 'til we belly nearly buss, at a Church Street memory- me, at seven and fresh off the plane from America, gripping a cricket bat over my shoulder like a baseball bat, waiting for my cousin to bowl me the ball.

I could tell you 'bout his mind- BRILLIANT; whenever we'd notice one another Online on FB, we would drop in and chat about history or economics or music, sometimes expound on something that caught his eye here in my posts. See, Cuzzo and me, we shared the Rodway passion for African history, culture and art. And, dissecting politricks.*

I could go on for days 'bout his gifts and talents; our tribe's creativity permeates his poetry and saturates his song, tapping form from hip-hop styles and melting tone from Windrush**/Caribbean themes. I could express what he means to us that knew him, those who came to love him. But here, you can see for yourself, read what people thought about my cousin http://www.iebrown.me/tributes/

Brixton Man

Born in London to a Jamaican father and St. Lucian mother, Ivor also spent years in Georgetown and Vieux-Fort; so, Ivor is truly a Son of the Caribbean. Like the Caribbean sun, he shines passion-hot and flows with his convictions.

I heard, somewhere, that a man's true wealth isn't measured by the amount of possessions he's acquired in life, but by the amount of lives he's touched. Then Ivor, Man, I hope you know how we feel about you.

Remembering Ivor Edson Brown  www.iebrown.me

"For if you always think of me, I will have never gone."

Never Gone! Never Forgotten!

One Love, Cuz...

                

Ivor's #CaribbeanPoetry

                 Amongst The Architecture

                 copyright Ivor Edson Brown

Let's blaze it up in the name of those that death became

and those who name loved ones amongst the slain.

Aggression is almost instinctive in the city where the blitz* hit,

estates dominate the landscape of every district.

Where men love to boast about crime, bait theyselves up,

Police had done spy them from a mile.

Now, which one of these stooges can come test my heights?

We're fire and ice, like logic and the fool's advice.

My Garveyite foresight, reveals to me what fools see in hindsight.

Looking beyond the hype, price tags and bright lights,

beyond all-a-dat drawing knife and gun fights,

beyond the stereotypes that plague the inner city.

The ignorance only serves to make the crisis worse,

the devil's ways infiltrate even the wisest church.

Me and my people deal with life science, year to year

and still stay shitty and pissy like estate** stairs, for real.

I drink with Africans straight from the continent

and live amongst immigrants in my estate tenement.

Speaking with my pen again, I think in black ink.

Sisters, youths and grown men again, come we make the link.

I wrote this, hoping you will quote this to one another,

take it with you as you travel through this concrete Gomorrah.

In a left hand drive with Dutch plates, my brandy spills,

bunin' lean-up on the right, sliding down Brixton Hill.

Watching the fatherless play crime games in the early hours,

Getting their name mentioned, screw face, sour.

Over estimating power, under estimating their potential,

75% of black youth leave school with no credentials.

Coming off their estates calling that ghetto,

'cause there's coppers on the outside and guns in the middle.

False prophets say the working on it, speaking in riddles,

the average age of killers dropping north and south of the river.

Equipped to kill and contemplating murder, that's a child, lord.

Fools drift to sleep and slide off.

Pseudo Afrocentric baby mothers and fathers clashing,

gwan neglect your seed, I guarantee your revolution ain't gonna happen.

That's the legacy from the black holocaust years.

I urinate on architecture built on the proceeds of slave trade.

Look into yourself for answers.

You better have a plan for your child 'cause the system's

got plans for us.

copyright I.E. Brown

Read more of Ivor's Writing    
http://www.iebrown.me/ivors-writing/

Dub Poetry: Kwayana's Meditation (Wisdom of the Drum)

Abeng Dub Poetry: Kwayana's Meditation
(The Wisdom of The Drum)
     
copyright 2015 K. Omodele  @TheAbeng

"The Caribbean tradition, taken as a whole, is a revolutionary tradition. It is the stage on which acted Cudjoe and Cuffy, Accabreh and Accra, Toussaint, Quamina and Damon, Adoe and Araby."* ~ Sidney King (Eusi Kwayana)

Eusi Kwayana #FreedomFighter

Intro:  
Yow! Dis meditation/Moves di nation/
            ReVERBERATION...VERBeration

I feel de drum-min' of yuh words,
rub-a-dubbin' of yuh verbs,
yuh meditation is kinetic-
medication of de herb
levitates me like a bird-
yuh rebel riddim moves me
depose a titled king, go
liberate like Baba Eusi.
Asante rise up outta shanty,
proverbs, Broddah Anansi**,
yearnin' for Kumasi***
Cuffy burn down half a Canje
Uncle Brian scribed we picture,
painted scripture, sketched the sound.
Uncle Walter woke the people,
lit the city; Tell de town!

(Bridge:)
Yeah Man. Don't bother call dis no poetry/dis is kinetic flow-etry
Prophets are hardly recognized in their own lands
This rebelution forged by drum-ragin', fire-blazin' sound.

Seethin' like Accra buss 'e chain
want SParK field a-flame
Darke flicks-ing up the protest****
jukked an' gutted from de frame
pickney***** scatter down de lane
Boy, u bet-ter run
policeman ah come
wid bad-mind and gun.
But the soundin' of de gun
can't drown de wisdom of the drum
grind a fool down with a pestle
can't part de foolish from a dunce.
Kwayana's wisdom may taste bitter
cure de sick, move de lame
N'Daiye couldn't tame
cock she crown, lock she mane.

* Caribbean slave revolt/rebellion leaders. Quote from "Birth of Freedom," New World Magazine, Special Independence Issue, 1966
**Anansi, or Anancy, is a spider, a trickster character from African oral tradition, that was
brought over by slaves to the West Indies/Caribbean and lives on in Caribbean
tradition and folk tales. (Akin to Brer Rabbit in the U.S. South)
***Kumasi is the chief city of the Asante/Ashanti, NW of Accra, Ghana
****Father Darke was a priest stabbed to death while photographing government
forces brutalizing anti-government protestors in Georgetown, Guyana
*****children

Caribbean Poetry: A Rain - Season Morning in Georgetown (a Tritina)

Want cuddle you up this puddled up morn
as raindrops TINK-ing 'pon zinc roof top sound
like dreams DINK-ing in empty Milo tins.

Cozy; senses tingle from steel-pan* sounds
strummin' like fingers, breaths stickle** on pins
drops titillate we up this Georgetown morn.

I stir; your moans drown, rain-coins TINK in tins
Thru sprawled windows breeze caresses our morn-
whispery touches pimple skin to sound.

You never cuddled to the sound of rainfall on a zinc-tin
roof one rain-season morning?

*steel pan (aka steel drum) - a West Indian percussion instrument made from oil drums
** balance

©2015 K. Omodele

Caribbean Short Story: Mother To Son (Comrades and Thieves II- Mass Games)

In the third row behind his school banner, the Son marched wearing crisp, clean school khakis his mother had ironed the previous night, with her own bare-ring-fingered hand; right before she had hauled back that said hand and slapped all the thiefingness out of him. The mother had scolded her son:
"If you too 'fraid to do something in front somebody face, then yuh coward if you hide and do it behind they back."
In truth, he rathered licks from her hands, any day; licks, after all, would burn and cool. But them words out her mouth always lingered, haunting him like jumbie.*
By this time, the Third-World sun had climbed nearly midday high and was pelting rays upon rays down on wave after wave of marching, perspiring school pickney.** From all over this Cooperative Republic, children like plenty-thousand ants, but in line-tight rows.
Left, Right. Left, Right. So they marched in synch, second nature after months of training drills.
'Just don't miss a beat,' the Son told himself.

Earlier that morning, these primary and secondary school students' numbers swelled under Cuffy's shadow*** as they gathered in Revolution Square. With a late start they flowed like a river up Vlissingen Road, swirled left by Camp Ayangana, then surged down towards the National Park. Marching soaking wet - but with frozen faces straight in-front; left feet forward, right arms up; right foot forward, left arm up - in perfect timing.
In the section ahead, the older National Service teens marched in military gear, lean and green like bamboo shoots in spit-shine boots.
The whole time, the Son thinking, 'Try, don't bother stand out.' The entire school seemed like government supporters- from the Head Mistress straight down to the Prefects. So each morning he just went through the motions with the rest of his classmates, pledging allegiance while a photo of Comrade Prime Minister sat high up on the classroom wall, staring down on them like a god. The son kept his family's Alliance business to himself. Like his mother said, you never know who is who.

The marching river veered right and streamed through the National Park gate. Splashes of applause from the not-far-distance dribbled through to the Son as schools, sections ahead of them, flowed and disappeared into a bowl-like canyon of stands.
Left, Right...Left...
He wondered how his cousins and them were making out marching with their own schools.
His mother's tinny voice pinged in his head. "Must remember in all the Mass Games marchin' and all yuh salutin' that is them same ones lockin' up your uncles and yuh aunties them lef' an' right."
She ain't have to keep telling him; he'd been there playing chinkie with his cousins the day when the Land Rovers rolled up. Brandishing weapons of destruction and wrong-and-strong mentalities, the babylon**** rushed in his Uncle's yard.
"Where the printin' press deh?"
"Yuh slandering' Comrade Leader with your subversive paper, eh? He should hang the whole set of all you for treason." They rounded up every adult present and carried them straight to Eve Leary.*****

Left, Right. Left, Right...Under the flogging sun the youths marched in a steady, mind-bleached rhythm. His school curved 'round a slight bend and finally entered the already crowded canyon of stands. People everywhere; the all-'bout energy slammed him like the Atlantic crashing against the sea wall.
Ahead, the rows of National Service teens rolled by the Grand Stand. As the bamboo-green uniforms passed the Prime Minister's box, they stiffened their backs all together, turned their heads right to face him, and saluted while in midstride. They held the salute 'til  they cleared the Grand Stand, then faced front with perfect tempo, marching on. Left, Right...

The Son's school now approached the Grand Stand. Just a few more yards to go.
"The government boots is not your own, y'hear me Boy?" He could hear his mother say.
At the Prime Ministers' box, one of the banner-bearers commanded:
"EYYYYES RIGHT!"
As one, they all stiffened their backs, turned their heads right and, with a snap of their right hands over their right brows, saluted in stride.
The Prime Minister and his henchmen saluted back, sharply.
As he marched by, the Son squinted into Comrade Leader's box. There, one of the bodyguards, the one with a head bigger than a lorry and a snout like a bush cow; it was Mr. Hang-All-Yuh-For-Treason, himself.
The command was shouted from up front. "FAAAACE FRONT!"
Smirking, the Son swung his head to front a full second before the rest. Chest swelled and he could hear his mother say, "Ow, de boy,"****** with she rebel self.

* jumbie- ghost, spirit
** pickney -child or children
*** referring to the monument of the Revolution of 1763 - a statue of slave revolt leader Cuffy (Kofi,Cuffie, Cuffe)
**** oppressors; an oppressive, corrupt system; or, as in this case, police forces of a corrupt system
***** Eve Leary was the Criminal Investigation Department headquarters in Georgetown
****** atta boy; like a pat on the back; subtle praise or congratulations

Mother to Son I http://consciouspen.blogspot.com/2015/09/caribbean-short-story-mother-to-son-of.html

©2015 K. Omodele

Caribbean Short Story: Mother To Son (of Comrades and Thieves)

              Caribbean Short Story: Mother To Son (Comrades and Thieves)

                                    copyright 2015 K. Omodele

The evening before he was to march in the Cooperative Republic's Youth Mass Games, a mother ironed her son's newer, khaki school pants as the boy buttered his supper bread. They lived in a 'big yard' with three other board houses, each divided into apartments. While the sun ducked below the tropical skyline of zinc* roofs, coconut and mango trees, the mother lowered her voice and told her ten-year-old son:

"This whole Mass Games business is some play-play, Mao Zedong - Red Brigade type a thing." She squared her eyes sternly on the ironing board; shook her head. "Only thing, our youth have black and brown faces and West Indian lingo.**"

Giving his lemongrass tea time to cool, the boy gobbled a mouthful of butter bread, half-listening to his mother. His shoulders ached and his wrists were a 'lil bit sore from lashing sixes and hooking fours during recess earlier that day.

"Oh, an' the Prime Minister, Comrade Leader, preachin' socialism an' robbin' the country blind, same time." She ironed with smooth but forceful strokes like Clive Lloyd defending the wicket.

Wrapping her words with hushed tones, she reminded him. "You see how they lock up yuh Uncle and your Auntie?" Knotted her speech with short strings of grumbling. "And for what? Eh? Talkin' his mind and tellin' de truth?"

Life in the yard was like mackerel in a tin; always bent her up whenever neighbors got loud and made their quarrels everybody-in-the-yard's business. She'd shrill out in her little, fine voice. "Man, why yuh big an' brawlin' so? You don't have no broughtupcy*** or what?"

But this evening her whispering didn't wear no gown of decency, no; it was fashioned in the fact that subversive talk might drift through spaces between shanty wall-boards and be carried off as conspiracies, way-far beyond the tenement yard.

Her son sipped his tea and she held her breath- it might burn him. When it didn't, she carried on.

"I have a good mind keep you home tomorrow, yuh hear? No Mass Games. No marchin'. No nothin'"

He sipped the tea. It wanted more sugar but she had done stirred in two spoons already- she might flip. He stole a glance. She wasn't looking, just set the iron upright.

"But if you don't march, they goin' kick you out the school? They wouldn't do that, would they? Before you take Common Entrance?"**** She turned her back and draped his school pants neatly over the wobbly-legged Berbice chair.

Quicker than a wharf-rat, he snuck another heaping spoonful from the sugar tin, dumped and swirled.

She threaded a needle. Knotted the thread and took up is clothes-line dried school shirt. "People at the plant done sayin' how the Opposition too damn ungrateful." She placed a new-bought school crest over the shirt pocket, where she'd removed the worn-out one, and began stitching. "'Bout how, if it wasn't for Comrade Leader we might still be using Pound an' Shilling. And how if the government lock up all a we Alliance backside up, it would a serve we Rodney-rass right."

She bored and pulled as she spoke- face tense. Gored and pulled.

"You finish?" She asked, getting up. She came over to her son calmly.

He nodded. Pushed back his chair, plate empty.

She shot him a stinging box***** across his shoulder. "Think I didn't see you thief more sugar behind me back?"

*corrugated tin sheets

** Caribbean dialect

*** good behavior; wasn't brought up (raised) with good ways

**** a placement exam to leave primary school and enter high school; taken by students throughout the former British West Indies

***** slap

Mother to Son II   http://consciouspen.blogspot.com/2015/10/caribbean-short-story-mother-to-son.html

___________________________________________end___________________

Rodney Speaks: Memorable Quotes, Speeches or Phrases by Walter Rodney

The bomb that exploded in Georgetown, Guyana on June 13, 1980 may have snatched Walter Rodney from the physical, but it couldn't kill the Brother's words. Though they tried to blast away what was deemed a threat to the powers that were, you can't snuff out inspiration. You can't stop words nor songs of freedom. You can't assassinate conversation.

Martyrdom fueled Rodney's voice. Walter cried out about injustice. Walter lectured about social imbalances and inequalities. Walter informed about OUR history.

Walter grounded.

Walter spoke.

Walter speaks.

"By what standard of morality can the violence used by a slave to break his chains be considered the same as the violence of a slave master?"

"I would go further down into West Kingston and I would speak wherever there was a possibility of our getting together. It might be in a sports club, it might be in a schoolroom, it might be in a church, it might be in a gully. (Those of you who come from Jamaica know those gully corners.) They are dark, dismal places with a black population who have had to seek refuge there. You will have to go there if you want to talk to them. I have spoken in what people call ‘dungle’, rubbish dumps, for that is where people live in Jamaica. People live in rubbish dumps. That is where the government puts people to live. Indeed, the government does not even want them to live in rubbish dumps. I do not know where they want them to go, because they bulldoze them off the rubbish dumps and send them God knows where. I have sat on a little oil drum, rusty and in the midst of garbage, and some Black Brothers and I have grounded together.
Now obviously, this, first of all, must have puzzled the Jamaican government*. I must be mad, surely, a man we are giving a job, we are giving status, what is he doing with these guys. [The newspaper] calls them all manner of names… you know: ‘criminals and hooligans’. What is he doing with them? So they are puzzled and then obviously after that suspicion, he must be up to something, as the paper will try to imply. But we spoke, we spoke about a lot of things and it was just the talking that was important, the meeting of black people." 
~ Groundings With My Brothers

*at that time Hugh Shearer was Prime Minister

“I trust that my use of the words such as ‘capitalism’, ‘imperialism’, and ‘neocolonialism’

will not be deemed as a cover for sinister intent. My indulgence in

those terms is aimed at opposing a system which is barbarous and

dehumanizing – the one which snatched me from Africa in chains and deposited

me in far off lands to be a slave beast, then a sub-human colonial subject, and

finally an outlaw in those lands. Under these circumstances, one asks nothing

more but to be allowed to learn from, participate in and be guided by the African

Revolution in this part of the continent; for this Revolution here is aimed at

destroying that monstrous system and replacing it with a just socialist society.”

Rodney in letter in the Nationalist newspaper (Tanzania) 17th December, 1969;

walter rodney poster (Photo credit: nicholaslaughlin)

cited in Issa Shivji, 1980

"I was brought up not very far from here, in a typical range yard in Bent Street.

And there, amidst the poverty, looking back now, I can see in my mind’s eye

ordinary black people who were worth everything, who were human beings who

had strength, who had character. Never mind he may have been a cartman,

never mind the woman may have been taking in washing. When you stop to think

about it, they had character. Some of them were miracle workers, because it’s a

miracle how they used to bring up families on what they earned.And now I

cannot accept that such people must be put to do some dirty political

skullduggery – coming to court, lying, to get another man convicted of murder...

    …as I said before, you start with one thing, you end with another. The system

doesn’t stop at racial discrimination. Because it is a system of class oppression, it

only camouflages its class nature under a racial cover. And in the end, it will

move against anyone irrespective of colour. In the end, they will move even

against their own. Because, don’t believe if you are a member of that party today,

that you will be protected tomorrow from the injustices. Because when a monster

grows, it grows out of control. It eats up even those who created the monster.

And it’s time that our people understood that."

From speech in 1977,campaigning in defence of Arnold Rampersaud who was accused of the murder

of policeman James Henry.

"I try to find some meaning among the mass of the population who are daily performing a miracle, they continue to survive! Kingston is meaner  then when you left it, and when you left it you probably did not know how mean it is… Today, all that matters, is the question of action, determined, informed and scientific action against imperialism and its cohorts. Just as Leonardo Da Vinci is the archetype of Renaissance Man, so Che Guevara is the ideal of Revolutionary Man. All that is required is that one should extract the essence of his life's experiences, rather than attempt to embrace his numerous suggestions concerning guerrilla warfare. The latter course has the serious limitation of being irrelevant to many objective situations (as Che knew).. I doubt whether the situation is explosive, and I doubt whether I will be here long enough to witness the explosion; but as a matter of integrity I must address myself to that question so long as I am here. Otherwise, what will distinguish me from the Philistines?"

"I was doing some paper on the Russian Revolution and it struck me that this Lenin was a person who had a tremendous capacity for intellectualizing and at the same time doing. In my own naïve way, I called this phenomenon ‘a revolutionary intellectual.’ But the professor was very hard on this statement. He said: ‘There is no such thing. One can be an intellectual or one can be a revolutionary. You can’t combine the two. Lenin may at one time have been a revolutionary, at another time an intellectual, but the moment he moves into practical activity he must abandon intellectualism.’This was a most curious argument. I just sensed that something was wrong about it. And I felt that somehow being a revolutionary intellectual might be a goal to which one might aspire, for surely there was no real reason why one should remain in the academic world – that is, remain an intellectual – and at the same time not be revolutionary."

"Lenin as a Revolutionary Intellectual," from Walter Rodney Speaks

Tweet

Related articles

• Martyrdom: Patrice Lumumba (To Divide and Rule Was Their Only Plan...)

  ---

• Walter, you will always be my hero!

  ---

• Guyana remembers 'intellectual rebel' Walter Rodney

  ---

• Forty years of How Europe Underdeveloped Africa

  ---