Prince Charles, Camilla & Who We Are
It was here all along, obscured by the rising body count. I was able to see it the week the Prince of Wales and Camilla visited: hundreds of small school children lining Queen’s Park Savannah, waving flags.
It was yet another stunning day; unabashed gold sunlight filtering through the swish of trees, leafy shadows dancing on the pavement.
It made you want to let your glass down.
The air rose hotly, tinged with something that is just ours…melted pitch, freshly-cut grass, a ruby red tree splashed on the hills. I had forgotten.
Thousands of parents got up to tend to bright-eyed children, dress them in crisp ribbons and starched white shirts, pack their schoolbags and lunch kits and sit in traffic for hours shuttling them to and from activities, checked homework, dreaming big with them.
I got word from a young Trini couple who quit their highly-paid jobs in London to come home. They spent Christmas here with family; in the sun. And decided it was time.
We may have among the highest incidence of professionals leaving the country in the Caribbean, but navel strings are buried deeply here.
There have been times when I have been uncomfortable about our identity, especially after yet another brutal murder over $20, a pair of shoes.
What are we?
Ostensibly, a tiny New World island, fragments of faraway continents, forgotten languages. A people who come alive at a State-funded Carnival, whose creativity is swallowed up by beads and wining.
Some people think that’s our culture and are offended if we speak out against it. But we have to be more than a people who “break away” well. Anybody with a drink in their head can do that.
We are built on the foundation of CLR James, Dr Eric Williams, Sir Vidia, Frank Rampersad, Prof Courtenay Bartholomew, Dr Allen Patrick, Peter Minshall, David Rudder, Sam Selvon, Sir Ellis Clarke, ANR Robinson, just a few among many brilliant men and women who, in various ways, have defined us.
They showed we had scholarship, ambition, cricket, a work ethic and tolerance like no other country.
A Tobago/Indian joint family
I was reminded of that last weekend at the wedding of Dr Victor Warren Wheeler and Dawn Palackdharrysingh (daughter of a former UNC senator) from south Trinidad.
People were saying this inter-racial union was “healing.” But it was nothing out of the ordinary for us. Warren has been our Tobago brother since we landed from India.
As Warren said during his reception, “Varun [my brother] is the closest I’ve come to having a brother.” Warren felt Varun’s absence on his wedding day as keenly as we did.
Blood brothers couldn’t be closer or have more fun together. Warren did more for Varun than we could, once staying in surgery with him for 13 hours.
Warren is medically cautious, but he didn’t believe the writing on the wall about Varun’s cancer prognosis. That kind of denial only a brother can have.
Warren’s three sisters, Gillian, Cathy and Alana, were the closest we three siblings (my brother, sister and I) came to having three sisters.
There was an adjoining door between our homes, and this Tobago family, headed by Lolita Wheeler and our family lived like a Tobago/Indian joint family.
Aunty Lolita was the first real Caribbean matriarch we encountered. There was order, industry, discipline in the Wheeler home.
Sunday church was such an occasion that we felt forlorn when Aunty Lolita left, four children in tow. I still see the shine on Cathy’s shoes, the ribbons in Alana’s hair. I learned how to bake cakes, stew cherries, make guava jelly from Aunty Lolita.
At the wedding, we heard from his uncle that Warren was expected to either do law or medicine. Much was expected from all the children. Much was delivered.
Gillian is also a specialist doctor. Cathy and Alana are respected professionals.
Aunty Lolita belonged to the generation who stood for discipline production and tolerance. It has been passed on, is still amidst us.
We can win a battle at a time. It’s the spring hope of yellow and pink poui racing now on hot pavements.