School Alone

So, I read this article in the Caymanian Compass the other day, and am still disgruntled by it.

It constantly amazes me as to how some parents can be so clueless and careless with respect to their children, although during my conversation with one of the teachers at the school, she states that we should be somewhat thankful that the chill’un are attending in the first, even if the school and teachers are being used as a glorified babysitting service.

I cannot begin to fathom how a parent(s) can allow a child to remain at school until 7:00PM, and not take safety issues into consideration, coupled with the fact that the child must be tired, smelly and hungry. What about a set routine for a child, which includes bath, dinner, relaxing at home; quality time with family; homework, and an early bedtime in order rinse, lather and repeat? This can never happen if a child is left at school until 7:00PM, and what perturbs me even more, is the fact that there are repeat offenders. Had this been a habitual offender who’s child remained at the school until 7:00PM, Social Services should have been contacted, though I am not even certain how they could posibly this problem, or if the parent(s) would particularly care.

Everything being relative, there are instances of parents fighting with teachers; parents fighting with students; chill'un cussin’ teachers; ganja brownies in schools, and heaven only knows what else. I am too naive to consider the further possibilities. It would be interesting to cross reference the attendance, punctuality, behaviour and grades for the children that are habitually left at the school until the wee hours, in order to asses the possible social concerns that may potentially adversely affect the Islands in the future, and to decide if and when an intervention would be required.

It was also ironic to note that within the same newspaper publication, the Ministry of Health and Human Services announced that it would be hosting a planned symposium to review the points at which young people enter the Criminal Justice System, though the article reads as an extravagant homage to nothingness. There were a lot of words, though nothing was said. I just think that in terms of common sense, the so-called symposium attendees should draw from the Compass’ article about the school pick ups, and this may provide them with a starting point for their sociological, political and economic assessment as to how young people could possibly enter the Criminal Justice System.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

'Fro

Children, Race and Self Esteem

Take a look at this video, and lets seriously contemplate the methods by which our children are socialised to feel racially inferior. This should serve as a gruesome wake up call.

It would be interesting to view the results of similar experiments in the Caribbean.

Please be sure to share it with all of your friends and family.

I need say no more.

'Ta

Arthritic Knees and Football Glory

So, glutton for punishment that I am, after our glorious and renowned victory over the evil villains in the indoor five a side football finals, the Lady Lions have once again taken to the battlefield to defend our illustruous title.

Prior to each practice and game, my knees send shock waves through my body by emitting a series of cracks, creaks and aches, blatantly protesting the form of torture that will be meted out when I am running up and down the court seeking to deliver the little ball into the goal. I had previously pledged that 2007 would be the year that I would actually take care of my knees by doing the dreaded surgery, but my modus operandi at this point is to continue with my rabid denials in the hopes that if I should ignore it, the problem will go away . Miracles do happen.

Well, the Lady Lions are back, though I am sorry to say that the team is not the same. Last season we took the field with laughter, jokes, revelry, and an incomprehensible attitude of hope and joviality after each and every loss. Now, our team structure has changed, as some players have left, and new players have joined the roster. Winning seems to be the primary motivation, and the so-called “novice” players are taking a back seat to the more ‘elite’ and "world-cupesque" players. Last season, everyone played, and a good time was had by all. Now, there is cussing (each other and the referees), back door lobbying, sussing and they are all acting like...dare I say it…girls. Once again, I am reminded of why I had decided to discontinue team sports for all time, as I no longer have the patience nor the tact to deal with the foolishness and aggravation that accompanies the diverse personalities. I am just too old for that crap.

Additionally, games are scheduled for Friday nights, and by the time I finish playing, sweating, applying the Tiger Balm and icing the old knees, no dyam happy hour for me, and I am too mash up to go anywhere later! Stoopid season is interfering with my social life. Crap!

On that stinkin' note, I shall now exit.

'Ta

'Fro

Weeping For The Willows

So, as I was driving along the coast of South Sound the other day, I was at a loss as to why the usual jaunt along what was one of the most beautiful pieces of coastal scenery on Grand Cayman did not provide me with my usual sense of peace and tranquility. As I snapped out of my revere, turned down my tunes and pulled over to the side of the road, I realized that South Sound as I once knew and loved was no more, and once again, the rabid environmentalist dwelling deep within the recesses of my heart let out an undignified roar for the loss of what was. (Well, sorta, though this sounds more dramatic).

My heart bleeds for the South Sound of old, fraught with the elegant statuesque weeping willows that engulfed the road and invariably hid the skyline from a pedestrian’s view, assisting with the receipt of cool onshore winds, as the needles of the willows made their eerie music whilst swaying in the wind. The flora and fauna of South Sound were abundant and raw, and I can always remember my brothers and I trudging through the boggy surf to go fishing and to get up to all kinds of childhood mischief. I can’t remember when this all changed.

As a child, I can remember driving through South Sound with my Granddad, knowing that he would mischievously turn off the car lights as we were engulfed in total darkness, unable to see our hands in front of our faces. I would squeal in abject terror and plead with him to turn the lights back on. Two minutes later, I would beg him to do it again. This was our game, and regardless of our destination, my Granddad would always make it a point to drive through South Sound, even if he had to go miles out of the way. I can’t remember when this all changed.

As a child, I can remember competing in road races that traversed through South Sound, running barefoot in the early mornings, at one with the winding road, counting trees as a distraction, hearing the wallowing surf breaking through the trees yet unable to see the beach from the road. I can’t remember when this all changed.

Today, I stare in resignation at the bulldozers that are lined up to further render the flora and fauna of South Sound, all in the name of progress and development. The South Sound as I knew it no longer exists. The weeping willows are gone, replaced by towering mansions competing for dominance along the coast, landscaped with imported palm trees strategically placed as a part of the ‘natural’ landscaping .

Today, property values along South Sound are sky high, and Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom, will further continue the developers’ work. The beach has receded after the passage of each tropical storm, and Hurricane Ivan has made it almost non-existent. Advantageous fishing spots are difficult to find without trespassing on private property, most of which are cordoned off by intricate fencing, keeping out the nappy haired people that look like me. Trees and shrubbery are almost non-existent, as the last of the weeping willows hang on pathetically in their solitude, with their roots stretching into the sea. Running through South Sound in the afternoons is a heat stroke induced nightmare, as the lack of any form of foliage provides no protection from the harsh rays of the sun, and the on-shore winds from the rolling surf offer no consolation from the vicious heat of the sun.

I weep for what once was.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

I Want My Baby Back...

So, there are no electronic whirring, buzzes and kebangs resounding throughout the house, as cyber villains are shot, lambasted killed and/or maimed by a weapon of choice, be it karate chops, kicks, ray guns and other assorted weaponry.

There are no longer blasts from televisions throughout the house all constantly tuned to Cartoon Network, for which I dare not change the channel for fear of whiney repercussions and eventual squabbling and justifications of one being able to ‘multi-task’.

The house is clean and I am able to walk unimpeded from room to room without stepping on shoes, games, cartridges, underwear and other randonmly strewn unmentionables, now able to preserve the delicate nuances of my voice as I observe the cleanliness, remembering the bellows of aggravation from having to constantly supervise and monitor the clean up process, or shaking my head in resignation and leaving it alone.

I am able to dive into my bed for a good night’s sleep, without having to play the vicious game of dodge the bony elbows and knees randomly kicking in any direction, as a body is tossed any which way during peaceful, innocent exhausted slumber.

Sigh. Sonny has gone back to Bim and I miss him so much . Two more school terms are left before this aggravating separation will end.

On that note, I shall now exit, with the theme song from the Chili's restaurant chain commercial singing an annoying, repetitive refrain throughout my head: "I want my baby back, baby back, baby back...", and I doh mean ribs.

‘Ta.

'Fro

Family of Supermoggels...

So, the odda night the entire fambily dress we’selves in we finery, and headed on down to the photo studio, to take pictures . My four brothers and sisters, my Mom and Dad, the one grandchild, and our significant others. We went all out. We mixed and matched the moggeling: Chillen only; chillen and parents; parents and grandchild; sisters; brothers; father and sons; father an' daughters…you get the point…

My parents have been separated for over 10 years, divorced for three, and they have never gotten along better. They actually posed for pictures together, as if all was well and hunky-dory. We had a great laugh abut this. My Mudda is gettin’ sexier in she ol' age, and Daddy is jus’ mellowing out. Now that I am older, I can see them for who and what they really are, with a view that is no longer tempered by childhood ideals and prejudices, nor fears of 'taking sides’. I can clearly see their flaws and weaknesses whilst appreciating them for their individuality and the sacrifices that they have made when raising us chillen. My mother is now my friend. She is annoying, aggravating and spoilt, but as I am now an adult and a mother to boot, I can call her on her behaviour. My Dad...well, our relationship is a bit more complex, but we have learned how to deal with each other. I can now dole out hugs and kisses to my Dad, and appreciate the fact that he is a very strong man, with many weaknesses.

Anyway, after we did tek the pics, the whole tribe a we swarmed on a nearby restaurant, where we mixed and mingled some more. My parents commenced with the telling of old childhood tales about us chillen, that we never tired of hearing. We drank wine and champagne, and competed for volume. We were loud and obnoxious, as this was the first time in a long time that we had all gathered, without someone being missing. It was also a tad poignant, as my eldest brother will be moving to Canada in January, so this was also our farewell party for him. Sigh. I am gonna miss him a lot. I am used to having my siblings around me all of the time, and other than college and vacations, we have never been apart like this before. Now, he gone and start a new trend! He will not even be on another Island where I can pop over for a weekend, but all the flicking way in Canada. Cho! Anyway, to put a positive spin on this, I am already planning mine and Sonny’s ski vacation next year, and I know that Caribana will not be missed by the I and I!!!

All and sundry, please have a happy and SAFE New Year! Hold your loved ones close, and treasure them always. My soda drinking days will officially end on January 1st 2007, so in the interim, I am now drinking an ice cold glass of Pepsi, my fifth for the morning. Hear my cyber belch.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

'Fro.

Snot Filled Christmas

Merry stinking Christmas to me. Yippee. Here I sit on Boxing Day, stinky and yucky, sniffling, sneezing and with a nasty raucous cough that rolls out of me like a freight train and leaves a hallow and painful feeling in my chest . I have not showered or brushed my teeth all day, as movement in any form hurts. That, and I jus’ doh feel like it. I ain’t shame.

My Mother’s intricately prepared Christmas dinner was a loss to me, as the gourmet scents and samplings could not penetrate my stuffed up, booger ridden nose, and the dinner that was piled on my plate was tapered with menthol flavoured Halls. I only ate half a round of food, and could not even go back for seconds and thirds. I watched my family of vultures down my Moet champagne with rabid eagerness, and finish off my three bottles, supposedly in my honour, acting on the premise that I was ‘ill’ and could not drink alcohol with my medication. Cho. I missed the rounds of dominos, cards, scrabble and ludo, as sleep was my enemy. My numerous complaints about the noise from the family’s revelry went unheard, as they were obviously unsympathetic for my plight. Hmprh! They nevah had to slam the blasted dominos so hard !

Just know that I am vex and bitter . Not even my new Subwoofering entertainment thingy from Santa DV could appease my disgruntled status, cuz I jus’ vex and bitter (I reiterate). The noise from the woofering hurt my head and various other body parts. I also missed a great party last night, cuz I had to stay at home in my sick and pathetic state, whereas going out and spreading my germs would have made me feel somewhat better.

Oh, the pain. My head. My chest.

On that note, I shall now exit with a raucous snot ridden cough and sneeze .

Watch out for my cyber germs.

‘Ta.

‘Fro.

Pinky Spirit-Fingers...Yippee!!!

Christmas Elf Name My Christmas Elf Name is Get your Christmas Elf Name at JokesUnlimited.com

A Christmas Letter To Santa...

Dear Santa,

I know you probably wondering why I writing yuh one day after Christmas
but after opening mi present dem yestiday, I just had was to write yuh.
Santa, mi was a very good girl all year round. Mi listen to mi madda
when she talk to mi and mi help out wid di chores dem round de house. Mi
even help di neighba pickney dem do fi dem chores tuh. One day mi all
help out di old crasses Mr. George, the blind an cripple one, crass the
road when di odda children dem just ah watch him an dida tek gamble pon
what kind of cyar did ah go lick him dung. Santa, dem just lef him deh
fi dead, but mi help him out.

Santa mi studied real hard in school this year, so hard till mi all come
fuss inna di class. Mi mek it mi duty to be nice and not naughty Santa.
Mi was so good. Ah real good girl Santa. Santa when mi write mi
Christmas list to yuh dis year, mi ask yuh fi a Barbie princess doll, ah
Barbie kitchen, ah Dora the Explorer computer game, ah cyabbage patch
doll and ah monopoly game.

So Santa, how the blood claat after reading mi list yuh leave under di
Christmas tree ah phukking light up yo-yo, one plastic tea-cup set and
ah phukking no name dolly dat look like she have polio and ah dead from
AIDS?

Santa is either yuh blind or yuh cyah blood claat read!!! Every year mi
say mi woulda stop believing in yuh and like ah dyam fool mi always give
yuh ah next chance, but not ah phukking-gain, yuh hear mi Santa? Not a
bloodclaat. Yuh hear whe mi sah Santa? Yuh phukking fat red rass yuh.

Yuh see all nex year, yuh betta dont try squeeze yuh big fat batty thru
mi louvres dem, because Santa mi swear mi going phukk yuh up. It going
to be mi, yuh and dis sharp blood claat knife, so mi can jukk yuh inna
yuh belly.

Yuh hear mi sah? Mi ah go stab up yuh Bloodcaat.

Imagine, yuh give that likkle cock eye gyal Sally from crass di road
everything that she ax fah. So much so dat she all nuh have nuh room fi
walk round she house.

Yuh see all nex year Santa, mi will be back to mi good old self. Dat's
right Santa. Mi naar go giv mi madda nuh trouble or cause nuh havoc
roun'ere . And Santa, a goin wait pon you patiently.... mi goin wait pon
yuh paitently with ah big blood claat rock stone fi yuh backside.

And den when yuh and dem blasted reindeer dat favour some dyam
oversize goat wid tree branch ah grow otta dem head top, com ho-ho hoing

down pon I old rusty zinc nex Christmas..... BOOP!!!!! Is one rass lick inna yuh
blood claat head.

Santa mi goin' done yuh blood claat, Memba dat yuh hear Santa. Try Memba
dat!!

Love

Likkle Keisha

New Year Sacrifice

So, December has been a trying and busy month for me, as I have donned my Social Butterfly guise, and have taken to the town more often than not for the completion of those items that are on my very busy social calendar.

I love the month of December. I can feel it looming when November brings on the Christmas Breeze that will cause all and sundry to don the so called winter garb of the Islands. For me, the month of December is all about closure, and the time to remember and cherish all that is important to me - family and friends. Mistakes and accomplishments can either be eroded or applauded in the month of December. January is coming, and with it the opportunity for renewal. We can either learn from our mistakes, or we can make them again and continue vicious cycles of regret.

Last year, I had undertaken to start each succeeding year of my life by making some form of personal sacrifice, which would have no particular form of content or context. I needed this to test my limits, restraint, willpower, and just to create some excitement from the monotony of my life. For January 2006, I gave up red meat. Now lemme tell ya, this was not easy. I still yearn for a nice and juicy home cooked hamburger , or a piping hot plate of beef lasagna…but I have managed to stay the course. My red meat hiatus should be easier or the next few years, as I have now committed to this lifestyle change.

My eldest sister was diagnosed and has suffered from Tinnitus for the past ten years. She has also experienced gradual hearing loss in both of her ears, to the tune of 21% loss in her left ear and 22% in her right. She has learned to live and adjust to the hearing loss, but her symptoms of Tinnitus results in a constant buzzing or vibration in her ears, which is akin to the constant roaring of a lawnmower or generator, the sound of which can increase or decrease, depending on certain factors. Caffeine, stress, loud noises and certain foods will increase the buzzing, and she will often take to her bed with migraine headaches due to the noise, and her inability to stop it.

She has had to give up a lot of the things that she loves while adjusting to the on set of tinnitus and her hearing loss, one of which is Soda. Yes, people try to sell that caffeine free junk, but it just ain’t the same. My Big Sis is not a coffee drinker, or a chocolate eater, but she did treasure a nice cold Pepsi with a Patty first thing in the morning on the way to work. Sigh. There just ain't nuttin else like it. The burning feeling of the caffeine when you inhale a huge gulp from that red and blue can with the ice cold condensation running down the sides, the consumption of which will result in a resounding belch that can shake the rafters of a house. Sigh.

Let it now be known to all and sundry, that for the new year January 2007 (Drum roll here), as a show of solidarity for my wonderful, awesome and magnificent Big Sis, I will no longer be drinking Sodas. Can you hear the mournful bagpipes and depressed violins wailing and weeping the loss through the Cyber Universe? This is a body that used to guzzle at least 2 six packs of Pepsi per day, and there is nothing better that an Appleton and Coke at a Carnival fete. I will now have to find a suitable replacement. All thee holding stock in Pepsi Cola, sell you shares before January 1st, 2007. I have spoken.

I love my Big Sis, and though I cannot ease her burden, I can try something to let her know that I support her in all that she does. I now goin’ send her a text and call her a Doofus . She will know what I mean.

On that sappy note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

Children, Sporting Events and Sportsmanship...

So, I went to watch DV’s recreational basketball team play the other day, and as with many of the sporting events on the Island, I was rather perplexed and disgusted by the behaviour of some of the players and spectators. It caused me to step back to ponder about the state of that thing called sportsmanship, and whether the concept has been eroded from that thing called sports. Does the concept exist anymore? Is the concept akin to that thing we call ‘manners’ and ‘humility’? Does shaking hands at the start of a game mean anything anymore? When can we separate genuine celebration from bragging and posturing at the expense of the opponent?

It seems that on watching professional and recreational athletes, the concept of sportsmanship has become a myth as the behaviour of the fans, athletes and parents have deteriorated to an incomprehensible level. Potential sporting events must be thoroughly screened before I would even consider taking my child, and further, God forbid I should never have a babysitter when I go out to play, because I do not trust the athletes or spectators to comport themselves in a manner befitting the presence of a child. Profanity, fights and general inappropriate behaviour are abundant, and it seems as if raunchy behaviour is no longer adjusted when children are present. Whatever happened to the flicking village raising the child? When I am running the bases, is it that I must speed back to the dug out for fear of what might be said to further warp the mind of my child or random children? I can remember asking spectators at an event to refrain from using profanities in the presence of my child. This seemed to be a shocking and unnatural request, and at one point, I was belligerently advised that maybe I should have left my child home. Needless to say, in practicing what I preached, I did not cuss them in front of my pickney, but waited for a more suitable occasion.

I can vividly remember the football brawl which erupted during the finals of the five a side football tournament. Children of all ages were present, playing vdeo games and romping throughout the venue, when the brawl eventually spilled over onto the carpeted area. Spouses and significant others eventually joined the fracas, and it was disgraceful to note that not all parents grabbed their child / children and exited the venue. Fighting and cussing were their priorities at the time.

On watching the afrementioned recreational basketball teams compete, had parents taken their children out to watch, they would have been privy to disrespectful behaviour to officials; racist comments; and general profanity to a level that was downright embarrassing. It seems as if sporting events no longer cater for young and impressionable fans, nor do a lot of adults stand up and take notice, in order to ensure that said sporting events are conducted in a manner suitable for children.

Lawd’amercy. Have we gone mad? I could go on and on with this, but the I and I too tiyad. You get the point.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Molestee and Molester...

So, the other day I popped into KFC for a bite to eat, when I spotted the father of one of my best friends from primary school days. He was looking kinda macheted and haggard, and I remembered my Mudda telling me that he had been severely ill with diabetes, but I had never found the time to pass ‘roun to their yard, to hail him up.

When Mr. Man saw me, he face did light up, and he rushed over to give me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Now, not being a touchy feely kinda person, it was a tad bit awkward, as I have a tendency to be very particular about those who invade my three feet of personal space, but, I stood there like a trooper, as he reminisced about old times, and how it was good to see me, all whilst hugging me. Until, his had slipped down and…shall we say…caressed my flicking posterior…!!

Now, have you ever had one of those moments where shock renders you immobile, and you continue to second guess yourself, and it is not until you come into yourself when the perpetrator has disappeared that you actually have an apt response for the episode in question, and two weeks lata you still cussin’?? Then, you turn so bitter, that you set yourself up for when next you see the perpetrator...Den you doh' see dem fi' months???

Well, I had one’a dem! I stood there, immobile stunned, and I lookin’ at the man to see if he hand did slip, or if he miscalculated the location of my back, due to our significant height differential, but alas it was not so. Mr. Man now looking at me with a smarmy look on he face, and now coming in for a’nudda hug. I dress back one time, and as I am known to be quite suspicious and calculating, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, though the ‘doubting’ aspect would not allow me to have him enter the sacred three feet territory again.

Then, to further aggravate me, when I went home and tell me Mudda, is then she choose to inform me seh he was a smarmy man from day one, and I must avoid him where possible. Had she warned me before hand, the man would’a nevah get to cop a feel! Damn pedophile!!

On the opposite end of the spectrum, the other night, I walking through the National Storytelling Festival, when I spotted a friend of Sonny’s . Seeing him gave me a bout of nostalgia cause I can remember when I used to pick him up and arrange play dates with Sonny, and I used to baby-sit him and smack him up the side of his head whenever he did become facetious.

Now, Mr. Man is six foot odd, and having all kinda Adam’s apple popping outta his neck, and he now speaks in a squeaky baritone, that has not yet perfected his range. Sigh. My Sonny goin’ reach there someday.

When Mr. Man saw me, he flew over and stooped down to give me a hug. Remember the aforementioned three feet business??? Note to self: I REALLY need to reinforce that rule more severely. Anyway, being happy to see Sonny’s pal, I hugged him back and prepared to engage in the patronizing adult to child talk, which was not really working out, considering the fact that he was over a foot taller than I am.

When Mr. Man look at me and seh: “Hey sexy…” with a lascivious sparkle in he eye, mi catch mi ‘fraid. What the fcuk?? Can you say Mary Kay Letourneau???

From one extreme to the other…molestee and the potential molester. Makes me wonder if I am at that age where I am neither old nor young, and people from both ends of the spectrum see me as fair game. One end potentially in need of Viagra, wanting a method of reliving their youth, and the young whippersnappers wanting to frolic with the older woman.

Sigh. What is a body to do? You jus’ haffi live.

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Flipper In The Neighbourhood Pool

So, when I was advised that they were advocating for the development of a park that would keep captive dolphins, it hurt the radical environmentalist dwelling deep within the deepest recesses of my heart. My family can remember fondly our tuna boycott, due to the fact that dolphins were being caught in the trawl net of fishermen.

I felt as if there was something fundamentally wrong with the notion of dolphins in captivity, especially on my little rock, and I joined the dissenters and petitioners who let out a rallying hue and cry against the importation of the same. As is often the case with these Islands (and dare I say the world), should there be political backing and money behind a proposal, it is rare for an action to be denied solely for the moral good, or simplistically, our conscience.

After signing the petitions, buying the T-Shirt and the bumper sticker to assist with the “Keep Dolphins Free” cause (though the sticker was not going on my new car), I noted that there seemed to be two powerful factions vying against each other, with the almighty tourism dollar seeming to be at the root of all that is evil. The advocates on both ends seem equally matched in terms of resources and political clout, though I know governments rarely side for what is right and what is good when individual representatives are wined and dined by powerful lobbyists with powerful friends and powerful dollars.

Forget the environmental studies; forget the moral and political implications; forget the fact that our Islands now seem desperate in having to resort to such garish and gaudy attractions; forget the fact that Grand Cayman has almost evolved to an unnatural concrete jungle and that there are almost no more aspects of nature tourism available for eager visitors who are not willing to dive the deep wall to find it; forget the fact that as a local, even if I were so inclined, I would have an all encompassing feeling that the park did not serve my best interests, nor can I afford it.

Needless to say, as the political rhetoric is spilled, and the debate continues, the Minister of Tourism confirmed that dolphins slated for the captive tank are ‘expected’ to die, as did six quarantined sharks who died due to a mechanical malfunction. A more cold and dismissive statement that I have never heard. Send in the first batch, and they will die until we get it right. They will be the martyrs for the cause. What a travesty and an embarrassment.

As I stand here on my personal soap box, preaching to one and all, let it be known that I and mine shall boycott said facilities (whether they like it or not!!). This boycott shall stand the test of time and the probable pollution of the North Sound, and further, as mere lowly peasants casting our ballots but once every four years, we are too poor to afford entry anyway!

We will show them! Viva La Revolution!!!

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta.

Pirates' Week

So, Pirates' Week has come and gone, and once again, I am confused.

Back in the day, I used to revel in the concept of Pirates' Week, and would eagerly anticipate the arrival of each district day. But, now that I have gotten older I have become somewhat disillusioned with the Festival, and the hypocrisies surrounding the celebration thereof. I see the need for the Festival, and will continue to support the endeavors in an attempt to refrain from being one who sits back and critiques the efforts of others, with no constructive assistance to offer. Note the use of the word 'attempt'.

Pirates' Week originated as a celebration of the cultural heritage of the Cayman Islands . Albeit, in my age old cynicism, I have always found it curious that the Islands have never actively acknowledged its slave history, though we do laud the raping and pillaging of the pirates. Needless to say, it is here, and it is mine, so I will keep it, inconsistencies and all.

For one week of every year, pirates invade Islands. They arrive in grand style on their schooners, amidst booming cannon fire, smoke, costumery and a wonderful display of swordplay to kidnap the Governor of the Cayman Islands at a scheduled time each year. You would think that the Governors would have learned by now, but…

As a child, I can always remember mi Mudda dressing up us chillun, all’a we donning some form or pirate costumery, and trooping into town to watch the landing. We would actively vie for a spot at the front of the barricades, petrified yet hoping to be noticed by the pirates as they aggressively swiped their broad swords on the road, and tossed beads and souvenirs to kids in the audience. If a kid was really lucky, a pirate would kidnap you and run down the street with you, while you kicked and bawled bloody murder. Then, you would brag about it to all of your friends the next day. Sigh. It was awesome. Later in the night, we would take off our shoes and run barefoot through town during the street dance, playing catch until our parents rounded us up, and marched us home.

As a teenaged Diva, I would eagerly await the start of the street dance, so that I could witness performances from the likes of Denise Plummer, Calypso Rose, Gabby, and Sparrow. Every heritage night would find my friends and I in the district of choice, hunting down lobster and shrimp dishes, and taking in the band. By the time the trial of the pirates would come around we would be exhausted from all of the activities, and could not wait until they were thrown off of the island!

In my old age, as I am walking through town, I really cannot begin to fathom what the so-called festival entails. As we breach the barricades and stroll past the Hard Rock Café, the screeching sound of a hard rock band pierced my ear, as the band proceeds to massacre some heavy metal tune or another. I must admit that I am somewhat embarrassed to put this into writing, but, them is the facts. Set up on another corner, is a cordoned off area for the ‘Teen Disco’ from which the sounds of hard core reggae is competing for dominance with the heavy metal music. Fifty meters down the road, the so-called Heritage Song Fest is in progress. I guess that the event organizers did not think that the metal heads and the teens would not be interested in the song contest, nor did they wish to give the entrants the possibility of a wider audience. Worst yet, a fricking plate of lobster cost $12.00, and is not enough to cut the hunger gnawing at your stomach!

Needless to say, by the time I hit the centre of town to set up my little spot to take in the featured band, I was confused. Sigh. What is a body to do. We jus’ have to live.

On that depressing note, I shall now exit.

Ta.