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On Marches and Morals

In the brief and hushed lull that can be found in the aftermath of the two marches that have been held on the streets of Road Town, observers (like myself) may fall into the trap of comparing these two protest acts by virtue of their size, their gusto, their organization. I think though, that such comparisons may miss the mark and weigh the scales of success too heavily to one side.

The first march was a production of much skill. It carried that element, production, and was clearly a machine. The organizers were clearly shrewd, prepared, and driven. These several factors resulted in a massive throng of bodies not quite in lock step in all things, but solidly behind the main message of demonstrating the general displeasure of the populace with the UK government’s recent constitutional overreach in our affairs. I haven’t seen crowds like that on the streets of Road Town outside of the Rise and Shine Tramp.

Residents march against the UK’s decision to impose public register of beneficial ownership. (Credit: Davion Smith/BVI News)

I had to observe this first march from abroad, and from abroad, the images and videos of thousands of my countrymen marching were impressive. But that impression did not dissolve my few concerns about the march’s effectiveness. As a disclaimer, let me place on the record my support for the sentiment that drove the demonstration. The UK cynically overreached on the issue of public registers in the Overseas Territories. Its motivation may be inconsequential to us, but clearly with an international climate that approaches Cold War temperatures with regards to Russia on the one hand and impending trade wars with the United States on the other, financial systems that Russian oligarchs enjoy doing business with were bound to be an overt or covert target at some point. The concern I have is rooted in the perceptions of the British public (both in the UK and right here) concerning both our financial services industry and our own financial governance.

I can get past the initial questions quite easily. Why march on the Governor’s Office when our governor has said all the right things and has expressed both disappointment in Parliament and support for our financial services industry? Why march on the Governor’s Office when the governor is away? The answers I can arrive at on my own is that it is not feasible to carry the march to Westminster, therefore the only accessible symbol of British rule and therefore British overreach is the Governor’s Office.

The vast majority of people in the United Kingdom have been conditioned to see us as a tax haven, as where the wealthiest Britons hide their wealth from British taxes. At a period when austerity measures are gutting public services like healthcare and transportation and more and more Brits are falling into poverty, forcing the Overseas Territories to make registers of beneficial ownership public may seem to many like a fair thing to do. This trading of privacy for transparency for transparency’s sake by subjugating your colonies may seem hypocritical to us, but most of the Brits who will support this action will never once have to look a Virgin Islander in the eye. The fact is, the Overseas Territories have never been able to win this fight in the court of public opinion in the UK. Large newspapers like The Guardian were involved directly in the leak of the Panama Papers and the Paradise Papers, and have therefore coloured the opinions of laypeople in the UK public against this industry. While UK media also covered the devastation wrought here by Irma, they seem much less interested in any of the the issues we might have now. In fact, to their uneducated reader, the Decision March may have looked like a defense of tax evasion and money laundering.

While this first march may not have moved the needle much at all as far as the UK government is concerned, it seems to have had other effects. It was a notable display of togetherness, something for many segments of the society to rally around and feel part of something bigger than themselves. In addition, the march created an outlet for the outrage that people felt to have had the public register amendment happen so quickly on the heels of Irma, seemingly jeopardizing any hope of the BVI recovering fully. There have been too few opportunities for such moments in our territory. It also appears to have acted as a platform to propel some political hopefuls – however cynical a view that is. However, I do think that the comparisons to the Positive Action Movement that both marches made rang hollow. In this instance, while Lloyd fought to protect the economic rights of Virgin Islanders, he did not fight to protect an industry that is largely populated and dominated by non-Belongers. In fact, Lloyd most likely would have had a lot to say about the small numbers of BVIslanders in the very top positions of management.

Protestors march to bring attention to a number of issues with the ruling government (Credit: Clifton Skelton/BVI Platinum News)

The second march was a very different animal. Whereas the first was led by individuals with impressive resumés and track records with marketing campaigns and political involvement, this second march seemed much more of a grassroots living room endeavor. The language was not as sharp, the placards not as well produced, the presentation a little haphazard. What they lacked in organization, they made up in passion. It’s possible that their platform, being more directly in opposition to the sitting government, was not as palatable to the masses. It’s possible that that platform immediately reduced the number of people to whom the march would appeal. But still, there seems to be more anti-Government sentiment than the 50 or so who turned up. Perhaps a list of 70 concerns is just too many to galvanize people behind. Perhaps Members of the House of Assembly with a historic majority won’t rush to throw support behind a march that actively campaigns against them while they would do much more for a march with an external focus.

Despite the many obvious differences (the size of the crowd, the production of the protest), both marches ended with somewhat blurry messages, and both marches were underpinned by the same central theme – morality. Both marches suggested that the government they protested had trampled upon the rights of British Virgin Islanders, that they had robbed us in some sense of our dignity by taking decisions that they knew were not in our best interests. Both marches contained suggestions of extricating the people of the British Virgin Islands from a relationship with what they saw as tyrannical governments.

I feel cursed with ambivalence. I can find much of value in both movements, I can find much to critique as well. The marches, taken in context, are I think an important step in the civic and social development of the BVI. Especially in the aftermath of the August Flood, Irma, and the Sanctions and Anti-Money Laundering Act, the marches along with the tenor of conversations taking place in newspapers and on social media demonstrate a populace that is no longer complacent. They demonstrate that the BVI public is beginning to demand certain things of their government and themselves. Both sets of organizers seem to have political aspirations and attachments but I can’t help but wonder what use the local political ecosystem will be if the society keeps changing as rapidly as it has. At some point, the conversation has to shift to a constitutional review. A new deal with the UK and a new deal for the BVI people. I think it is the only thing that has the power to grant both marches what they really want – freedom from imposed legislation and the threat of direct rule on one hand, and standards of political transparency and accountability on the other.

 

Territory Day Keynote Address

The following is my keynote address at BVI Territory Day 2017.

I must say I was deeply honoured when I was asked to present today’s keynote. However, I was also gripped by a deep feeling of hesitation and consternation. While I am an academic with an unwavering love and commitment to the history and culture of these British Virgin Islands, I am no historian. I would not dare step on the toes of the many venerable historians, cultural workers, legal experts, and politicians who could do a much better job than I in examining all the bends and twists in the road that has brought us this far. But, perhaps reassuringly, this keynote is centered on the theme of renewal, and that is something that writers such as myself constantly think about. As a poet and in my station at H. Lavity Stoutt Community College, my daily life is deeply preoccupied with language. In particular, I am deeply invested in words and what they mean, the various connotations that they contain when spoken that we are compelled to confront and the multitude of emotions and implications that may slip past us if we are not paying due attention. As such, there are two words that accompanied my invitation that drove home certain truths about our peculiar realities in the British Virgin Islands and I therefore felt compelled to confront them. Those words are of course: awakening and resilience.

So let us awaken. It should not be lost on us that the day that we are celebrating is Territorial Day. Territory. As in “an area of land under the jurisdiction of a ruler”. As in possession. As in property. As in the inescapable fact that these 60 islands, rocks, and cays are the colonial possession of the United Kingdom. Let us be clear. We are one of the 13 remaining colonies of the British Empire. Regardless of your politics and regardless of whether you are an advocate for self-determination or to remain under British rule, this is the first inescapable fact of our reality. It is the first distinctive fact of who we are that separates us politically if not culturally from most of our Caribbean family. So, while we rightly celebrate the 50th anniversary of our ministerial system and the increase in autonomy enjoyed over that time, we must remember that we neither have complete authority over our own affairs nor representation in the institutions that largely determine our future. You will forgive me therefore to explore what this means in the present day.

In 2002, the United Kingdom granted full British citizenship to the citizens of its Overseas Territories. By default, those citizens also became citizens of the European Union. In 2016, the United Kingdom’s referendum on its membership of the European Union led to the ongoing political and economic saga that is Brexit. No one predicted this, and as such, we still do not know what the ultimate consequences will be for the Overseas Territories. Following Brexit, David Cameron resigned as Prime Minister and was replaced by Theresa May, who held a parliamentary election a few weeks ago in order to solidify her mandate. That election resulted in the Tory party losing the clear majority that they held just last month. Talks to form a government between the Conservative Party and the marginal Northern Irish Democratic Unionist Party have just concluded. We do not know what that government will look like. We do not know what their policies are going to look like in the wake of the Grenfell Tower tragedy and the terrorist attacks in Manchester, London Bridge, and Finsbury Park. We do know however, that we are not part of those conversations. With all this uncertainty swirling around in the minds of British society, the political status of the Overseas Territories is not at the forefront of their concerns. As such, when the British media – liberal or conservative – engages with the territories it is exclusively in a critical and interrogative examination of our financial services industries or a fetishizing of this place as another unspoiled place to be conquered by the Western tourist.

At the same time, we are facing our own period of uncertainty in the BVI. The public sector is facing serious financial challenges while there are clear and pressing needs to maintain, improve, and in some cases develop our physical infrastructure and utilities. We also have to deal with the social challenges that come with the sort of rapid population growth we have experienced over the last 30 years – in particular: crime, health care, and education, all while grappling with the uncertain futures of our main industries. We are all in the proverbial trenches trying to find and develop solutions to the significant problems that we face. Perhaps paradoxically, these great challenges and changes also represent great opportunity.

It is times like these that require, as the Turkish writer Elif Shafaz says, “pessimism of the intellect and optimism of the soul”. We must question everything, especially the local and global status quo that has led us to these difficult circumstances. We must question what it means to remain a colony in the 21st century. We must question what our priorities have been and what they should be. We must question what the core values of this place must be. We must question the very notion of what it means to be a Virgin Islander.

The themes of today’s ceremony are awakening and resilience. But Virgin Islanders have always been a vigilant and resilient people. We are not newcomers to challenge. The history of these islands is steeped in trial. The genocide of indigenous peoples; the scars of slavery and the trauma of the transatlantic slave trade; the cholera outbreak and insurrection of 1853; the cocolo generation and the loss of the Fancy Me; all the storms and tsunamis that have led us to today.

It is in these times that we need to develop our cultural capital to arm our citizens with a sense of self and belonging that is greater than the colour of their passport. Look at how lustily our schoolchildren sing the territorial song, look at how proudly they wear our territorial dress and recite the pledge. Look at the entrepreneurial “Be V.I.” and “Virgin Islands Made” brands and their success and resonance with our youth.

Our young people are desperate for opportunities to express their pride in these islands and it is our responsibility to equip them with the tools needed to take advantage of them. Just last weekend, the Culture Minister of Barbados, the Hon. Stephen Lashley admonished the region to take the cultural industries seriously if they are serious about economic development. He pointed out that, in the U.K., £90bn of GDP comes from the creative industries. Every 1 in 11 jobs in the U.K. is in the creative industries. More importantly, creative industry jobs cannot be automated. In South Africa, creative industries created 192,000 jobs in 2014 alone. Worldwide, creative industries generate more than $2.25 trillion in revenue, substantially more than the entire global telecommunications industry and more than the GDP of India, Russia, and Canada.

In the BVI, we are seeing a renaissance of sorts in this area. We can see Virgin Islander fashion designers, musicians and music producers, actors and filmmakers, writers, and visual artists popping up home and abroad and enjoying varying degrees of success. The talent is there. These are our present day culture makers. What are we doing to support them and what can the territory do to capitalise on this moment? How do we facilitate those children who are exhibiting incredible artistic and creative potential in our schools right now? When do we stop telling them that the arts do not lead to a viable career? When do we start telling them the truth?

Three new books: The Fuzzy and the Techie, Cents and Sensibility, and Sensemaking, are arguing that liberal arts majors are the people best equipped to succeed in the digital economy and not those who have chosen to major in the STEM fields. Arts majors are taught to think critically about human contexts and the human experience. They are the ones who are best equipped to understand people and their various perspectives and are therefore the ones best equipped to tell us the stories that help us to understand others and ourselves. I fear if we do not start telling our story, someone will come and start telling their version of our story.

In facing these new tests of our mettle however, we must be brave and remember the ingenuity our ancestors showed when they faced their own obstacles. We must reject the status quo that has brought us to this juncture and be brave enough to find the creative solutions that led us to invent the Virgin Islands sloop and the traditional style of our gingerbread houses. We must find again the courage and the genius that led us to establish our financial services industry and institutions like HLSCC and the National Parks Trust. We cannot conceive of making our way through the storm by staying the course and continuing to sail straight through it. Fellow Virgin Islanders, what great ideas do you have for our beloved home? What new passage will we chart for ourselves? How brave a world can you imagine?

On Cultural Preservation and Local Arts

“…we all speak from a particular place, out of a particular history, out of a particular experience, a particular culture, without being contained by that position…” – Stuart Hall

The wonderful potential of possibility contained in that statement by Stuart Hall can be an empowering thing, especially when those places, histories, experiences, and cultures that we find ourselves in have become prisons. In order for us (I mean Virgin Islanders/Caribbean people) to avoid that mental trap, we have to begin to appreciate fully the parameters of those various contexts. I choose here to focus on that last item – culture – but really, to focus on culture is to focus on all of the above: place, history, experience. The BVI, like other small corners of the archipelago, is a community still in the nascent periods of its quarrel with history – still identifying historical sites, and physical spaces; still arguing over how to commemorate and recognise them; contemplating how to monetise both those physical spaces and their narratives; recognising the need for more agitations towards a Territorial Museum of Art and History; and perhaps just beginning the arguments about the usefulness of those narratives in the first place. I believe we are in a similar state in the area of culture.

A presentation at Elmore Stoutt High School during BVI Culture Week 2013
A presentation at Elmore Stoutt High School during BVI Culture Week 2013

It would benefit us then to agree first what it is we mean when we say culture. We often hear talk of cultural preservation – which, in my mind, positions culture as something in need of protection, something under threat by external factors. This may indeed be the case, and a worthy cause to be fighting for but it dangerously suggests culture as a dead or dying thing – a specimen that exists behind glass. This is the most insidious notion possible for a community like ours. It formulates culture as something indefinable and past, as static and inaccessible. It completely immobilises then decimates the possibilities that that quote suggests.

The reality is the contrary. Culture is alive and organic. It is supple and adaptable. It evolves at a rate similar to language. That function provides the insight then for a more workable definition: culture is the assortment of values, beliefs, traditions, ideas, and identities of a particular community or group of people. The processes by which cultures amalgamate and assimilate these various ingredients make interesting studies, and a sustained examination of the process at work in the British Virgin Islands would be no less intriguing. But in layman’s terms, the clearest implication for the above statement would be that BVI culture has room to contain both eponymous fungi band The Lashing Dogs as well as the various contemporary soca (Drastic and VIBE) as well as hiphop acts (NJAR) insomuch as those acts espouse the values, beliefs, traditions, ideas, and identities of the contemporary Virgin Islander.

The most substantial benefits for possessing a distinct culture are an equally distinct sense of identity and belonging. This sense of belonging bestows upon the culture’s practitioners and inheritors a cultural identity (despite their ability to observe it or fully articulate its meaningfulness and with the understanding that this sort of cultural understanding must be wary of the edge at which it can fall into the dark precipice of nationalism). This starting point should intimate to us the importance, or rather, the desperate need for a fledgling society and certain of its members to dedicate the resources of time and energy (both public and private) to invest in the sorts of activities, institutions, and traditions that study, support, and contribute to that community’s culture.

Over the past few years, steps have been taken by the current administration to establish certain touchstones that speak to civic duty and national/territorial pride. These touchstones – a territorial song; a territorial pledge; various symbols; and a territorial dress – have all had an observable impact especially in younger generations. By schools mandating that students learn the territorial song and pledge and actively perform them with consistency, the generation of school age citizens is being armed with a sort of belonging more powerful than any political ‘belonging’.

Painter Ruben Vanterpool at work on a mural.
Painter Ruben Vanterpool at work on a mural.

That being said, the best way to observe the culture of a place as it grows and evolves, is to read that place’s literature, listen to its music, and appreciate its art. This is because literature, music, and art – the creative industries of a place – are the ways that a community or nation communicates, quarrels, and struggles through its understanding of its own culture. We must then look to the contemporary artists, musicians, and writers in the territory in order to appreciate our culture in its present form; we must find sustainable ways of providing them with the proper platforms. I would argue therefore, that it must be a distinct priority of any territory with a sincere interest in its culture and identity, to patronise, support, and nurture the arts.

A legitimate argument can be made that, while our culture is not in need of preservation, our arts industries are in desperate need of management and protection while the people in them who have passed quietly from our consciousness are in need of remembrance and celebration. It is a dream of mine to see the establishment of a Museum of Art and History become a priority for our government. Imagine the cultural and social impact such an institution could have on the psyches of the generation for whom the territorial song and pledge are already committed to memory. Aside from such a large financial commitment, there are clear and much less expensive ways to facilitate and support those who are creating work of cultural importance. If local bookstores and libraries committed to local authors in the same way that some radio stations and their programme directors commit to playing local artists we will have achieved much. If local authors and performers were compensated what they were worth (and on time) we will have achieved more. And if our children can recite the poems of Rufus Faulkner and Sheila Hyndman the same way they can sing the territorial song the heart of this poet may burst in his chest.

Portions of this essay have been developed from my remarks at the launch of the recent anthology Where I See the Sun – Contemporary Poetry in the Virgin Islands and a brief talk I gave at the 2016 Culture & Heritage Week programme at Elmore Stoutt High School.

The Limits of Our Empathy

In early January last year, the award-winning Nigerian-American writer Teju Cole wrote an essay in the wake of the Charle Hebdo shootings in Paris. In that piece, titled “Unmournable Bodies“, he explored the myth of The West as an amalgamation of serene societies being provoked into violent action by savages. Later in the same essay, he speaks to why the victims of the Charlie Hebdo attack (and later the victims of the November 15 attacks) became symbols of Western solidarity and worthy of mourning while other atrocities (he mentions the ongoing abductions and killings in Mexico, state sanctioned slaughter in Gaza, massacres and more abductions in Nigeria) go without us paying similar amounts of attention. He comes rightly to the conclusion that we cannot respond to every barbarity committed in the world, but we should question how certain deaths are ascribed greater meaning, and therefore commemoration while others are effaced from our collective memories.

There is a centuries-long history of BVIslanders braving the waters of the Caribbean Sea in search of improved lives, often without formal papers or documents that we would consider standard today. Whether they landed in Panama, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, or elsewhere, many returned home having established lifelong connections to their new homes, but many remained where they landed and planted new roots in a new home. Some souls perished at sea as well. The horrors of an ordeal such as that cannot be captured in black and white.

These narratives for the most part have been buried in a shallow past, replaced by what we now see as legitimate migratory reasons – usually the pursuit of tertiary education. But I would argue that the impetus is the same. The need for the degrees from North American or European universities is to equip the individual with the qualifications necessary to improve their lot in life in the future, just like the person who risks everything in order to find something better. However, there is often another dimension to the sort of migrations we are talking about. Whereas BVIslanders at the turn of the last century were fleeing dire economic conditions and a lack of jobs and opportunity, many of the migrants we see in Caribbean waters are fleeing similar poverty and sometimes violence. This added dimension means that remaining where they are is not seen as a viable option, and the desperation that this creates makes them easy targets for traffickers to exploit. There is nothing in this dynamic that paints them as degenerate and criminal (a recurring theme in recent American politics), in fact, what little we know would seem to demand some quantity of empathy from us.

Recently news broke about a boat that had been stranded, then abandoned in waters near Virgin Gorda. The captain of the boat was (and presumably still is) nowhere to be found, and the 20 Cubans on board were rescued and then immediately detained. The news report estimated that each person had paid $5,000 for the trip from St. Maarten to the United States Virgin Islands after another larger sum secured them passage from Cuba to St. Maarten. A week earlier, 20 other migrants were rescued. That group comprised of three Haitians and seventeen Cubans. Over the summer, another boat on a similar route with a similar number of passengers capsized. Four were rescued. There has been no public outcry, no public conversation save for the impassioned letters to media outlets by relatives of some of the Cubans currently in detention. In fact, the sorts of anonymous comments some have posted have been deplorable.

This phenomenon strikes me. I have begun to wonder what renders the humanity of these people invisible. In the aftermath of both attacks in Paris, social action avatars and hashtags flooded social media. First #jesuischarlie in response to the January attacks on the staff of the satirical magazine and then #istandwithparis and then the Tricolore profile pictures after the November attacks. Where is the outpouring of sympathy for the lives that have been and continue to be lost in the Francis Drake Channel?

While the communal silence on the Virgin Islands’ role in the surge in Cubans trying to find passage to the United States is disturbing, the manner of our news coverage is deeply problematic. The people who have been stranded in our waters and islands are consistently referred to as “illegal” immigrants despite there being no intention by them to enter or stay in the BVI. Their migrations are also commonly referred to as “human trafficking” but we have not heard any discussion about sexual exploitation or forced labour. Frankly, we have not heard much about them at all. Their breaking of BVI laws is an unintentional consequence of the delinquency or maliciousness of the various boat captains, and while ignorance of the law is by no means expected to give us protections from it, this aspect of their predicament points to a gap in our capacity to apply sympathy for people seeking asylum. To his credit, Governor John Duncan declared legislation addressing asylum requests a priority in his Throne Speech to the House of Assembly a week ago and it will be interesting to see how those conversations unfold in government.

In the interim, the bodies of the seventeen souls lost in July were never recovered. Their names have not been made public and we do not know if their families were ever informed or if their names were known to our authorities. I know of no concerted efforts to attempt to make their losses register in the national consciousness. Do their lives not matter?

Another seventeen Cubans and three Haitians from the stranded vessel that was captured in September have been detained indefinitely at Her Majesty’s Prison. According to their relatives, no official has met with them to discuss their desires to seek asylum. They are barred from access to communication. They are without clothes. They are fed little.

All of these allegations are serious and seem at the very least violations of the detainees’ human rights. Contemporary global and international opinions also appear to side with this perspective of the families. The Council of Europe’s Human Rights Commissioner Nils Muižnieks earlier this year demanded that British ministers refrain from referring to foreign nationals as illegal immigrants regardless of their status. According to Muižnieks: “People are not illegal. Their legal status may be irregular, but that does not render them beyond humanity.”

Amnesty International likewise challenges the practice of detaining migrants and asylum seekers in prisons. According to that organization, detention must be proven justifiable and necessary in each individual case. By that measure we are failing. What is actually recommended is community-based supervision (perhaps through aid organisations like the BVI Red Cross) partnered with regular reporting and checking in to BVI Immigration. Amnesty International reports that method as having a 91 percent success rate with respect to appearances at detention courts. With the relatively small numbers of detainees we are discussing, I would expect that rate to be even higher in our territory. Prolonged detention after the psychological trauma experienced in a failed defection or asylum effort has proven severe negative effects not limited to depression and anxiety. Furthermore, mass repatriation without entertaining individual asylum requests may at times lead to violent reprisals from factions who the asylum seekers were fleeing in the first place. In the least case, many have nothing left to return to having risked whatever assets they had to get to the United States.

More than 100 Cuban refugees await to disembark onto a U.S. Naval warship from the Coast Guard Cutter Baronof about 50 miles south of the coast of Key West in August 1994. [Associated Press (1994)]
More than 100 Cuban refugees await to disembark onto a U.S. Naval warship from the Coast Guard Cutter Baronof about 50 miles south of the coast of Key West in August 1994. [Associated Press (1994)]
What makes this particular situation particularly distressing and problematic is that had these vessels made it to the USVI, the Cuban survivors may actually have had a chance to have their requests heard. However, as a result of the U.S.’ wet foot, dry foot policy, if they were stranded or abandoned in USVI waters, they would not be able to attain residency, but the possibility of seeking asylum in a third country would be allowed. That option appears to have been essentially taken off the table. It will be interesting to see what the new laws governing asylum seekers do to change the current modus operandi.

Wherever the decisions of our lawmakers fall with respect to the treatment of those seeking asylum in the BVI or those who we find attempting to pass through our waters while seeking a better life in the United States, the one thing we can be certain of is that the vast majority of people detained here and eventually repatriated are not hardened criminals seeking to destabilize our society. Rather, they are desperate people seeking to improve the lot that they have drawn in life, coincidentally not too unlike a brave generation of BVIslanders who once found themselves on boats buffeting the Atlantic on their way to the Dominican Republic, Cuba, and Panama.

Cuban and Haitian migrants speak with Seventh-day Adventist volunteers (left and centre) on Tuesday at Prospect Reef Resort. Seventeen Cubans and three Haitians, one of whom is a 10-year-old boy, are being housed at the resort while their applications for asylum are processed. Photo: FREEMAN ROGERS
Cuban and Haitian migrants speak with Seventh-day Adventist volunteers (left and centre) on Tuesday at Prospect Reef Resort. Seventeen Cubans and three Haitians, one of whom is a 10-year-old boy, are being housed at the resort while their applications for asylum are processed. Photo: FREEMAN ROGERS

UPDATE:
In the October 13 issue of The BVI Beacon, Freeman Rogers reports on developments in this case. The detainees have been allowed to apply for asylum and have since been relocated to Prospect Reef Resort. They have also been granted contact with The BVI Red Cross and other volunteer agencies. Officials from the United Nations Refugee Agency are expected to visit the BVI to facilitate the asylum process. Those interested in assisting may contact The BVI Red Cross at 284-494-6349.

The Quiet Violence of Being

The day before I put the proverbial pen to paper to write this, one of the most prestigious places of learning in the world decided not to remove the name of a forefather of the confederacy from one of its residential colleges. John C. Calhoun, an alumnus of Yale, is most famous today for his statement that slavery was a “positive good”. Any cursory examination of Calhoun’s record will reveal a man that stubbornly persisted with a perverted world-view that had at its centre the necessity of slavery and its benefits. In fact, he believed that it was not possible to build “a wealthy and civilised society in which one portion of the community did not, in point of fact, live on the labour of the other.”

Understandably, many students of Yale see harm in retaining a symbol of hate and white supremacy who refused to see many of them as deserving the full slate of rights expected by citizens. All freedom loving people should be able to appreciate the psychic trauma that continues to be wrought by the continued immortalisation of Calhoun and similar figures. Instead of scrubbing his name from the college, Yale has decided to name two new buildings after Benjamin Franklin and Anna Pauline Murray – the first black woman priest in the Episcopal Church. The university has also agreed to cease the use of the title ‘master’ and replace it with ‘head of college’ in the new academic year. This change, interestingly enough, was instigated when the sitting master – Stephen Davis of the Pierson College at Yale – wrote to the community expressing his desire to no longer be addressed as such. Davis wrote that “there should be no context […] in our university in which an African-American student, professor, or staff member […] should be asked to call anyone ‘master’”.

I begin with this because I want to point out that the discussion that I am about to engage in (with no little hope of instigation) is one that is ongoing and sadly universal, and fraught with all sorts of tensions and uncomfortable silences, and all sorts of unchallenged privileges that we must drag out into the brilliant light of the day so that we may recognise the apathy and complacency that we must fight against. Too often, history, tradition, and culture have been the excuse for us continuing to commemorate and celebrate colonial icons and supremacist iconography. It is even more problematic when we realize that we often do so at the expense of the edification of our own heroes and values. It might be a symptom of a deeper identity war that we are still fighting within ourselves – a war that cannot end until the people of these islands seriously interrogate what it means to be who we are.

Thursday last week was a holiday throughout the British Virgin Islands in honour of Queen Elizabeth’s 90th birthday. Interestingly, on that day, no public holiday was observed in the United Kingdom. You may wonder then, as I did, just what Her Majesty did last Thursday while our police force marched in their resplendent white uniforms alongside the crew of the visiting British naval ship HMS Mersey.

Britain's Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip study a plaque after she unveiled it, during a walkabout close to Windsor Castle as she celebrates her 90th birthday, in Berkshire, England, Thursday, April 21, 2016. (John Stillwell/Pool Photo via AP)
Britain’s Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip study a plaque after she unveiled it, during a walkabout close to Windsor Castle as she celebrates her 90th birthday, in Berkshire, England, Thursday, April 21, 2016. (John Stillwell/Pool Photo via AP)

She unveiled a plaque.

After that she lit a beacon.

The beacon is one of 1,000 that were lit throughout the Commonwealth and there is a lengthy programme of events stretching into June, but none have been designated holidays in the UK.

We should note that the United Kingdom only has 8 public holidays, while we in the British Virgin Islands have 14 this year. A missed day of work in most sectors equates to a missed day of business. Businesses that close still have to pay their employees for that day’s work but many will miss out on the potential income they would have collected had they been open. RBS and Natwest opened on UK bank holidays in 2015 to combat that very reality and continue to view public holidays as a drain on the economy.

But this is not an economic argument. There are fourteen British Overseas Territories of which we are one. All of them celebrate the Queen’s Birthday, most on Monday June 13th this year. But the essential difference between those islands and us is that they all also celebrate a National Heroes Day to honour those who have contributed significantly to the building of their states and identity. In addition to the National Heroes Day, many also celebrate their territorial identity with commemorative dates for Anguilla Day, Bermuda Day, Constitution Day in the Cayman Islands, and National Heritage Day in the Turks and Caicos. This is an example we must learn from quickly. In a recent Facebook conversation on the BVI National Forum, former Deputy Governor Elton Georges pointed out that he was part of a committee that advocated similar changes. The 2001 Holiday Reviews Committee endorsed replacing Commonwealth Day and the Sovereign’s Birthday with a Heroes Day in November to commemorate the 1949 protest march and another locally relevant celebration. They also wished to replace St. Ursula’s Day with a more culturally suitable holiday. I would be extremely interested in hearing the rationale then and now against those recommendations.

While the fourteen Overseas Territories are just that – territories, and therefore the property of the United Kingdom, they do not enjoy a very beneficial or equal relationship with the main. Much like the unincorporated territories of the United States, we do not have a vote in the general elections of the United Kingdom and we often find ourselves at the negotiating table without any bargaining chips. Our constitution can be suspended from afar, and our governmental operations suspended without any possibility of legal resistance. Less I be misunderstood, the purpose of this essay is not to argue for independence or even greater autonomy. That is a greater conversation with no less relevance. What I am insisting on today is that we begin to have an internal dialogue about what it really means for us to call ourselves British Virgin Islanders. Similar conversations are happening across the channel in the USVI and to the northwest in Puerto Rico.

The Royal Virgin Islands Police Force Honour Guard, the crew of the HMS Mersey, and assorted primary and secondary school students.
The Royal Virgin Islands Police Force Honour Guard, the crew of the HMS Mersey, and assorted primary and secondary school students.

A fortnight ago, there was an essay competition with the prompt: “What does being British mean to me?” (full disclosure: I served as a judge on this competition). I won’t elaborate on any specific essay here, but what struck me profoundly about that prompt were two things. First, are we truly British? In terms of feeling a patriotic loyalty to the United Kingdom, I doubt that many who were born and raised here have much meaningful sentiments to being British. It is arguable how British even the British consider themselves! Primary loyalties often seem to be to the English, Welsh, Scottish, and Northern Irish flags. In fact, a 2011 study published by The Guardian found that when asked to choose, 52% of English voters choose British first, compared to only 19% and 30% of Scottish and Welsh voters respectively. It is telling that the survey did not so much as bother to poll voters in Northern Ireland.  As such, British nationals usually identify as something else first and Brits second, if at all. So, if we are to answer that question sincerely, shouldn’t we at first consider what being a British Virgin Islander means?

The adoption of a Territorial Song and the consideration of a Territorial Pledge are welcome steps to spur these kinds of thoughts in the populace. The gusto with which our young people sing the Territorial Song demonstrates a sense of ownership and identification which is frankly often absent from renditions of the National Anthemn. This tells us that our people are thirsty for these kinds of symbols of identification, even if they have not yet formed the words to request them.

The second thought that was ignited in my mind by that essay prompt was: how are we supposed to know what being British means in general, much less what it means to us individually? While the wonders of the information age mean that we can consume British popular culture and news in ways our forefathers could not imagine, it is only in the last ten years that we have seen large numbers of BVIslanders migrating to the UK for careers or education. We know why that is. Prior to the Overseas Territories Act of 2002, we were not citizens. We were classified under the British Nationality Act of 1981 as British Dependent Territory Citizens and did not have the right to live, work, or go to school in the United Kingdom. How could we be British when the British did/do not see us as British?

Gaining full citizenship and all the rights that come with it is indeed a boon to us. But as can be observed in all the other Caribbean islands with similar relationships with the United States, France, and the Netherlands (many of whom have had full citizenship long before the BVI), having those rights does not automatically assimilate people into the nation state. A look at the politics of St. Martin, Aruba, and others will demonstrate just how fractious relationships between colony and the main can be.

As the remnants of colonial power, the last ruins of the Empire, we are often asked to perform the song and dance of colonialism, simultaneously celebrating emancipation and the Empire that enslaved our ancestors and nearly eradicated the original possessors of these islands. Whenever we do that, we quietly reenact those violent realities with little more than a passing thought, a tacit submission, a regression to being good colonial subjects. There must be something more. There must be a better way of being BVIslanders, one that takes the focus away from the first letter of that acronym.

So while I sincerely wish the Queen a hearty and hale happy birthday, just as I would anyone achieving the milestone of entering their tenth decade on this planet, I must ask the question: where are our heroes? When and where do we commemorate our own rich history in this corner of the Caribbean? If we continue to meet these sorts of questions with silence, we are dooming ourselves to genuflection without introspection – a life performing the eternal mimicry of the mute and passive subject.

A Legacy: The Sea and Verna Penn Moll

The business of excavating the history of these islands of the northeast Caribbean is a funny thing. Firstly, there is a paucity of texts that deal with the history of the British Virgin Islands. The most popularly known and read publications are perhaps Vernon Pickering’s A Concise History of the British Virgin Islands (1987) and the books and pamphlets published by Norwell Harrigan and Pear Varlack in the 1970s and 1980s. Isaac Dookhan did much important work on both the American and British Virgin Islands in the 1970s as well, yet many of these texts have fallen out of print and are very difficult for the average person in the BVI to put their hands on. Given this dearth of widely available historical texts, and many other disparate reasons, much of our history continues to subsist in local legend and oral tradition. It is telling then, that when perusing academic documents in pursuit of my doctoral degree, much of what I found had been written by non-locals whose work had access to university and publishing networks.

As with the rest of this region of the world, discussions about history invariably lead us to the sea. It floods our eyes when we think of the large and painful waves of migration to this region throughout history – namely the voyages of Columbus, the Middle Passage, the period of East Indian indentureship, arguably concluding with the turning of the tide with the Windrush generation following the second World War. As Brathwaite wrote in ‘The Cracked Mother’:

And why do the waves come here
riding from allotted lands

M NourbeSe Philip and Zong!
M NourbeSe Philip and Zong!

It is difficult at times to think of the torturous path through which bodies were brought to the new world, and much poetry has been written attempting to write through those wounds and memories. Indeed, the Middle Passage dominates sections of Brathwaite’s The Arrivants (1980) and Walcott’s Omeros (1990) while a single Middle Passage voyage is the birth point for NourbeSe Philips’ Zong! (2011). For the most part, in Caribbean literature the sea operates as the nightmarish portal connecting the New World citizen with his precolonial past. But that is not the sea’s only possibility – and I can think of a few exceptional poets who embrace it differently. I am not certain how relevant the fact that they are all women might be or what that might say about the boundaries of my reading. Immediately, I think of the sea and fluidity as presented by Dionne Brand in No Language is Neutral (1990) – as embracing an alternative poetics and politics of gender and sexuality, a new and brave way of understanding the world. Similarly subversive is the use of the aquatic and the submarine in the poetry of Lorna Goodison in Turn Thanks (1999). That work is full of images of women working the trope of washing – clothes, children, bodies – culminating in ‘My Mother’s Sea Chanty’ where Goodison (with thanks to Kincaid) in a dream sequence transforms her deceased mother into a sea nymph.

As has been the case in the previous entries of this space, it has been my mission to write Virgin Islands literature into the empty spaces of the canon. With this in mind, as we can identify the centrality of the sea in the work of numerous Caribbean poets, there should be no surprise that we find similar themes in the work of Virgin Islander poets. In the introduction to the work of Alphaeus O. Norman I previously presented at much length, the power and violence of the sea is integral to Norman’s presentation of the natural world – the elements are there to be survived.

In her collection Legacy (1997), Penn Moll suggests a sea that is not one that is all rage and violence to be conquered, hers is a sea that is both mystical creator and sustainer of life. While she does not deny a sea that is imbued with a godlike persona, the agent of an apocalyptic violence on land, body, and memory – she carves out a space where the sea is full of a somber peacefulness. Legacy is comprised of poems where the sea is a stoic provider. ‘Pelican Dive’ opens the collection in a small fishing village on Tortola which could be any one of a number of small northern coast communities. Here, the sea sustains the village through a harmonious ecosystem where the diving pelicans are how fishermen find ‘where fishes beat / in schools’. In the best ways Penn Moll reveals herself as a properly sentimental and nostalgic poet. The men of this village of ‘the land of her youth’ have not lost their abilities to observe the natural environment and to find their place in it. In this land, there is not yet the modern haste of rush hour nor the concrete monoliths that have risen below the peaks of the island’s hills.

In this respect, Penn Moll’s poetic sensibilities are a distinct departure from A. O. Norman’s as covered in this space prior. While Norman examines the struggle of various unnamed men to become something more than themselves – something historic, Penn Moll is primarily concerned with nature in general and humanity’s responsibility to it. This view is reinforced by one of her recent publications, This Land: A Trust from God (2014) – a book of collected essays, many of which focus on environmental concerns.

Overwhelmingly, what the poems in Legacy point to, is a pastoral imagining of the British Virgin Islander way of life as well as a nostalgia that, when examined, suggests that these memories of her youth are in danger of being effaced from the collective consciousness of the islands.

A large part of that way of life as presented is the work of the fisherman, as opposed to the exclusively agrarian communities on the hillsides. ‘The Fisherman’s Nets’ dedicates itself to the documenting of that work:

A heavy evening haul
late for market
netted and pegged
the catch near shore
in the crawl
for cold storage.

What is interesting here, is that Penn Moll diverts the attention of the poem from the body itself although we recognize that it is bodies doing the work of the village. Instead, the work itself is central, a socialized ritual performance where persona and the individual have been excised and the only worth that remains is the value to the families of that community. Both of these poems, as is done in the other sections of this work, concern themselves with this business of recording this work of fishing as it sustains the small community. The sea provides food and fuels commerce for the unnamed bay area village. As such, it gives life to body, culture, and essentially for Penn Moll, it provides an anchoring sense of self, identity, and belonging.

However, perhaps even more interesting that this aspect of her work is the manner by which the removal of individual bodies in order to focus on fish and fishing begins to create a different kind of meaning. The lines that follow the previous excerpt begin to confuse whether it is just fish she speaks of. In a manner reminiscent of Brathwaite’s work, the enjambments above create phrases that are fractious in meaning. She writes: ‘netted and pegged / the catch near shore / in the crawl’ followed later by ‘splitting, gutting, / sea-salt corning’. The violence that must be routinely exacted on the bodies of the fish cannot help but begin to mirror the kinds of violence wrought upon the bodies of the enslaved on these shores. It is that sort of clever juxtaposition that confirms for me the value in continuing to re-read our local works and attempting to locate them within and against our estimation of the Caribbean canon.

To say the sea is ubiquitous in island life is a clichéd yet desperately accurate statement. On most of the islands in this formation, it is very difficult in the outdoors to lose sight or smell of the ocean. It dominates the vista and the smell of the sea spray travels far inland. Given the inability to ignore the sea and the sentiment of much of her poetry, the value of the sea is as a sort of recorder of not just history, but also the traditions and culture of these smaller shores of Africa.

Photo by Ed Gregory and used under a Creative Commons license.
Photo by Ed Gregory and used under a Creative Commons license.

The subsistence living culture that Penn Moll depicts in those two poems is no longer a reality here. There are very few full-time fishermen given how dramatically local society and economy has shifted over the past five decades. Despite this, my wife and I came across a beautiful image in Carrot Bay several weeks ago, that pulled my thoughts directly into the pages of Legacy. On the humble fishing dock there, a thin and stark concrete strip with few rusted brown slips, a barebacked fisherman stood untangling his nets. No less than five pelicans stood on the platform with him, jostling for the small fish he loosed and tossed toward them. It was nearing sunset, and the light that glowed around man and birds lent the scene a surreal air. It was a snapshot into the time that Penn Moll has recorded, where the sea is recognized as the metaphysical force of creation that it is and islanders understand and maintain our symbiotic relationship with it.

We are now constructed as a tourist’s paradise, explicitly presented as a place that Westerners can discover removed from the common beaten path for visitors to the Caribbean, and too often the image that I just described will be coopted into that problematic and consumerist image. This remains an important part of our not too distant history – despite the unspoilt Eden narrative – and importantly it is part of the legacy that Penn Moll seeks to preserve as the land of her youth has shifted about into something that no longer resembles the scenes she constructs.

‘Before a Raging Sea’: The Poetry of Alphaeus O. Norman

Anegadian Alphaeus Osario Norman (1885-1942) may have been the most skilled poet of form these islands have produced. Unfortunately, his poems are not readily available for reading, most easily accessed in time capsule documents like 1834-1984: 150 Years of Emancipation published by the Ministry of Education and Culture or in books of devotional and autobiographical poetry by his granddaughter Andria Flax. Andria has been very gracious in sharing several of Norman’s poems while I pursue my doctoral degree, and his grandson Richard Courtney deCastro shared documents that clarified errors in other publications. With the hope of spreading both an appreciation and intellectual curiosity for Norman’s work, I have selected three poems here to focus on:the haunting ‘Loss of the HMS Valerian’; a retelling of the 1733 St. John slave rebellion in ‘Amina Negroes’; and the anthemic ‘The British Virgin Islands Negro’.

View down the main street from the Grand Hotel, Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas Island, Virgin Islands. 1941.
View down the main street from the Grand Hotel, Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas Island, Virgin Islands. 1941.

But first some history. Norman was an engineer by trade and at the time of his death in 1942 worked in the shipping port at Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas in the United States Virgin Islands. The closest thing to a biography that exists on the eminent local poet of the time resides in the memoir of another notable BVIslander – the entrepreneur and philanthropist Joseph Reynold O’Neal. O’Neal devotes about five pages to Norman spread throughout his memoir Life Notes: Reflections of a British Virgin Islander. According to him, Norman trained as a blacksmith through an apprenticeship with the Royal Mail Factory in St. Thomas – a skill which enabled him to travel to the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, and Mexico before settling in Road Town. Norman was also an accomplished seaman, having had two sloops (the Spider and the Pelicanus) built for him to sail goods for trade to and from the Leeward Islands and the Dominican Republic. When the United States joined World War II, Norman found work on St. Thomas manning earthmoving equipment, and it would be while working with one such machine that an accident brought his life to a violent end. Throughout his time resident on Tortola, Norman was known as a poet and historian, writing his poems in an exercise book he carried everywhere.

ST. THOMAS, Virgin Islands, 1940-1960s; Water Front Scene.
ST. THOMAS, Virgin Islands, 1940-1960s; Water Front Scene.

A preoccupation with the sea and the Virgin Islands history submerged in it prevails in Norman’s work: the poems that I have been able to retrieve are ballads that are devoted to ships lost at sea, the evolution of the inhabitants of the islands from enslavement to autonomy, or exploring the mythic power and terror of the sea. Overall, inasmuch as seven poems can define a poet’s concerns and focuses, Norman is fixated on documenting moments of historical significance to these islands through his poetry. The sea appears universally in these poems, ranging in form from a metaphorical paradise for the marooned slaves in ‘Amina Negroes’ to an unyielding and tempestuous supernatural force in the sinking of vessels the HMS Valerian and the Fancy Me. However, the primacy of the sea in its roles in Norman’s work is its place in the storming and unrelenting tempest. Of the seven poems that can be read, four present the sea as such. No chronology exists for these poems, so it is difficult to surmise when they were written or if there are enough unseen poems to deviate from this particular presentation of the sea.

Norman’s poems are also submerged in biblical, literary, and mythical allusions when depicting the sea in this way – no doubt informed by his faith and voracious appetite for books. This seems to paint a deified intent into the tempests he describes. For example, he begins ‘Horseshoe’s Reefs’ by describing the impenetrable darkness that plagues sailors seeking to navigate Horseshoe Reef off the coast of Anegada:

Egyptian darkness reigns supreme
from Horseshoe Reef to Sopher’s stream.

The phrase ‘Egyptian darkness’ is rooted referentially to the book of Exodus as one of the plagues that Yahweh besets upon Egypt in order to coerce the release of the Israelites in slavery:

Yahweh then said to Moses, ‘Stretch out your hand towards heaven, and let darkness, darkness so thick that it can be felt, cover Egypt’. So Moses stretched out his hand towards heaven, and for three days there was thick darkness over the whole of Egypt’ (Exodus 10: 21-22).

This reference and its connection to emancipation obviously resonated with the poet. More ominous than the darkness for the sailor is the reef the sea conceals. The sea that Norman examines is consistently presented as a powerful force full of deadly phenomena. Reefs are hidden in waves and hurricanes materialise unexpectedly. The opening line of Norman’s ‘Loss of the HMS Valerian’ owes much to the Shakespeare’s The Tempest, where the sprite Ariel reports to Shakespeare’s good wizard Prospero how well the plan to incapacitate the King and his court has gone. Norman spins the line in question, ‘the still-vexed Bermudas’, into ‘Still vexed were the Bermudas / Still were they tempest tost / When the good ship Valerian / And most her crew were lost’. This overriding focus continues throughout this particular poem, at times comparing the wrecked Royal Mail ship to the Titans of Greek mythology while contextualising the loss of its British crew and their afterlife in terms of the Norse legend of Valhalla while comparing their entombment in the sunken ship with Viking burials. Norman’s poems are occupied by an awareness of the histories they record. Such a juxtaposition of various major events in the history of these islands against these myths so steeped in the supernatural infuses the local, smaller histories with an epic grandeur. Throughout the work that we have, Norman seems driven to use these mythical allusions to elevate the historical experiences of Virgin Islanders alongside Shakespeare and the finest Victorian ballad writers.

British war sloop “HMS Valerian” foundered in a hurricane off Bermuda in 1926.
British war sloop “HMS Valerian” foundered in a hurricane off Bermuda in 1926.

Besides the consistently mythically and supernaturally violent sea, ‘Horseshoe’s Reefs’ and ‘Loss of the HMS Valerian’ thematically position the sea as a burial ground, another consistent element of Norman’s poetry and its presentation of the sea. This framing of the ocean symbolically presents the sea, similarly to Walcott, as a crypt of history but also more practically of bodies and ships. In ‘Horseshoe’s Reefs’, Norman writes that:

[a] hundred stately ships have found

their everlasting burial ground
upon the awful reefs and rocks
and from moles and graving docks.

The poem primarily bemoans the lack of a beacon to warn ships that come upon the reef despite being written hundreds of years after the first wreck. Norman, being a sailor himself, imbues a sense of a fraternity of the sea in his elegiac poetry. His lines grieving over the lives of the sailors lost with the HMS Valerian in 1926 off the coast of Bermuda were inspired by the fact that the same crew two years prior were in the British Virgin Islands providing relief following the devastation wrought here by a hurricane. A semblance of an account of their assistance can be found in the notes by Agnes Hancock, the wife of the sitting Monarch’s Representative in the islands at the time of the hurricane, Captain Otho Hancock, OBE:

On September 9th HMS Valerian arrived with the Acting Governor, Archbishop and other good friends. All the ship’s crew worked for two days, but even 60 of them couldn’t move a house which still completely blocks the road which had been floated off its foundations.

They brought us food and seven huge cases of clothing. These we have in the church and three of us are sorting and doing up parcels all day. Long lists are coming in from all parts of the island (Tortola) and outlying islands asking for clothes…some lists have things like the following example – “Have lost roof, trunk and three children”.

Given the severity of the storm, and the speed of the aid provided by the Valerian’s men it is unsurprising that Norman felt so moved to write in their honour.

In keeping with this sentiment, across several poems Norman constructs a fraternity of sea voyagers be they black or white, slave or slaver.

In ‘Amina Negroes’, a poem commemorating the revolt of enslaved Ghanaians on the neighbouring island of St. John in the Danish West Indies in 1733, Norman uses the types of descriptors expected in poems of great wars. ‘Amina’ was the term often used in the 1700s to identify Gold Coast Africans who spoke Akan. Interestingly, the insurrection that Norman immortalises was the first island-wide, well planned, and successful rebellion of enslaved peoples in the Danish West Indies lasting almost seven months between November 1733 and June 1734. The various Akan peoples arrived to St. John in a succession of Danish slaving vessels between 1730 and 1733 and were quickly identified as being the most unmanageable of those enslaved on the island. The Governor of the Danish West Indies at the time, only identified as Gardelin, in his appeal for military assistance to Monsieur le Marquis de Champigny, the Governor General of the French Windward Islands described the Amina as ‘the worst runaways of all Blacks’ (The French Intervention in the Saint John Slave Revolt of 1733-34, trans. And ed. A. P. Caron and A. R. Highfield), with the implication that this recalcitrant reaction to their enslavement is in part due to the specific belief ‘that at their death they return to their fatherland’. Death therefore, held no terror to the Amina, and this outlook would fuel the ferocity of the rebellion and seal its near mythical conclusion.

Norman’s poem begins in Africa and the men who would lead this rebellion are immediately identified as ‘[a] band of the Amina sons’, euphemistically juxtaposing them with European soldiers and the language that identifies them as noble defenders of something greater than themselves in Victorian and First World War Poetry. At times the lyrical qualities are reminiscent of Lord Alfred Tennyson and poems like ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ especially in its attribution of nobility and bravery in what is ultimately a hopeless endeavour as well as its challenging of the reader to deny the same to them. The closing stanza in Tennyson asks the reader ‘[w]hen can their glory fade?’ which exhibits a similar sentiment to Norman’s penultimate stanza:

Who can forbid that prayers be said?
Or carols changed for the dead?
Or disbelieve that they shall rise
on angels pinioned to the skies?

The fabled conclusion to the revolt that Norman commits to verse according to the local legend is that ‘the rebels chose death by throwing themselves over a cliff rather than allowing themselves to be recaptured’. This particular slave revolt has become a source of islander pride as a counter narrative by demonstrating a historical tradition of self-determination and assertion by the people of these islands. The revolt has been revisited in the arts subsequent to Norman, having been interpreted through drama and dance by St. Johnians and this collective and communal memory has ensured that Fortsberg fort and premises remains one of the few parcels of land with historical importance to remain in local hands as opposed to the National Parks.

These elements seem to solidify this particular event as worthy history for a categorically disenfranchised people to take hold of, and since Mary Point, St. John (the cliff from which the vanquished Amina warriors are said to have leapt to their watery deaths) is in such proximity to Tortola as to be in plain view regardless of weather, Norman’s desire to share in this specific moment as a celebration of physical resistance to oppression is mirrored in his other works which celebrate the transformation of the islands’ black citizens from enslaved people to land owners, from disenfranchised to active political members of their society. One such text that charts this transformation is ‘The British Virgin Islands Negro’. In it, Norman assumes an almost celebratory tone from its beginning, echoing a cessation of the oppression wrought on the body by slavery represented by the literal burial of the white planter:

No longer rise the wails of woe
No longer bleeds the dark Eboe
The planter’s shell has ceased to sound
The massa’s in the cold cold ground.

There is however, a fundamental difference between the successes that Norman specifies the ‘British Virgin Islands Negro’ possesses versus the plight of the insurrectors on St. John. Severe droughts that persisted for almost ten years between 1837 and 1847 coupled with several severe hurricanes striking the islands in 1819, 1837, 1842, 1852, 1867, and 1871 made the two main crops of sugar and cotton unsustainable. Most planters had mortgaged heavily against their estates and found it difficult to recover from each unforeseen catastrophe. Thus defeated, many estates were sold, some were lost to unpaid taxes, and still more were abandoned having been destroyed by hurricane. The formerly enslaved, once freed, usually remained on the plantations they had worked for generations, which now provided a small wage as well as clothing and housing. These circumstances demonstrated the impracticality of the plantocracy being supported by anything other than free labour, while allowing Norman less than one hundred years later to declare that in the British Virgin Islands, ‘[t]he Black is lord of land and sea / And title-deeds assert his right’. Norman however inhabits a peculiar duality. Firstly, he enjoys the privilege of being able to use his work to speak back to the coloniser in a manner similar to Caliban’s retort to Prospero: ‘You taught me language; and my profit on’t / Is, I know how to curse’ (Act 1 Scene 2). Building on the celebration of the St. John rebellion – an event in which 40 white men, women, and children were killed – the white colonial ‘massa’ figure is the focus of much of ‘Negro’ as a contrast to the autonomy being enjoyed by Norman and his contemporaries:

No longer crack the driver’s whips
His sons go down to sea in ships
He never feels the oppressor’s hand
His sons are owners of the land.

No more he bows to lords he meets
His chariot rages in the streets
No more his plaintive beggar’s plea
He orders on both land and sea.

Simultaneously however, Norman seeks to embrace, identify with, and even claim ownership of the British construction of empire. Despite ending the previous stanza with the line ‘[f]or Hodge’s slave is Belle Vue’s lord’ (a clear reference to the infamous Arthur Hodge), he writes in the next stanza that ‘[h]is empire’s battles he has fought / ‘Gainst Prussian horde and Hottentot’. There appears to be a strident dissonance between the actual enslavement by the white colonials present on the island and the philosophical commitment to the idea of the British Empire symbolised by the distant crown. After Emancipation, some Virgin Islanders chose conscription in the West India Regiment and travelled to Jamaica for training. The most famous Virgin Islander to do so was Samuel Hodge. At the time, and indeed into the 1980s as evidenced by notes in Ye Yslands, it was believed that Hodge was the first black man to receive the Victoria Cross. This would have been Norman’s impression and those lines are clearly his honouring of the Virgin Islanders who served in both the Napoleonic Wars against the ‘Prussian horde’ as well as those who fought in Africa.

This recurring theme of those who were slaves now finding themselves in control of their own destinies and in ownership of their own land in the hundred years between emancipation and Norman’s day may gloss over what has been recorded historically as consistently desperate economic depression for most of the territory’s residents.

Norman’s devotion to and pride in local history is self-evident in his work, and it is this richness of his poetry that in my mind establishes him as one of the most important writers in BVI history and necessitates the unearthing of whatever work of his remains uncovered for the edification and education of us all.

Firing the Canon: The Condition of the Literature of the British Virgin Islands.

The contents of this essay have been ricocheting around inside my skull for the greater part of two years. Maybe this is not an essay – perhaps it is an extended musing on the state of affairs for a writer in a community increasingly bereft of readers, perhaps it is the rant of a man who fancies himself more a writer than he has any just reason to be considered one. Ultimately, this essay is about three especial concerns of the Virgin Islander (or any) writer. Those concerns succinctly put are: audience, exposure, and reception. These three concerns almost mirror exactly the issues that Jamaican scholar and poet Edward Baugh identifies in his revisiting of his famous essay “The Quarrel with History” in 2012 for Small Axe. In his introductory paragraph he talks specifically of the difficulty West Indian critics have in finding their routes to publication both locally or in British and North American journals and the attached anxieties of “audience, exposure, and sustained accessibility”.

The primary preoccupation of every writer before the pen touches the page should be the identifying of their audience. The dangerous trap that many find themselves ensnared in is the belief that their own amusement or catharsis provides adequate impetus for their words to be recorded and read. However, to paraphrase David Foster Wallace, good writing is not based in expression but in communication. Regardless of the genre, good writing (and our local literature deserves nothing less) should communicate and elicit meaning and feeling of value to the reader, not the writer. Indeed, we must assume that often the reader does not share all the same interests, concerns, and tastes as the writer but is able to extract an idea or an emotion from her writing that possesses value for him. Sometimes indeed, it is the writer’s duty to demonstrate that value to her reader.

One of the clearest values a local literature must have is that the work it catalogues under itself must provide or present ideas of permanent interest specific to the people it concerns. This definition allows us to distinguish between, for example, a local author and a text that can be designated local literature. I would argue then that a local author that writes a book of devotion or financial management has not written a text that has become part of the local literature. At the same time, the expatriate who pens a poem, short story, novel, or memoir that is set in these environs and examines characters and themes that breathe the Caribbean air we breathe or has been constructed by local experiences has done more to develop our local literature. The value that is demonstrated to the reader is that literature is one of the avenues through which the identities and experiences of a community are both preserved and examined. Literature of the Virgin Islands therefore is of obvious importance for that purpose, the added possible impact is the inspiration of younger writers having seen, read, and in some cases listened to writers who share their experience and environment.

How to Escape from A Leper Colony: A Novella and Stories. TIphanie Yanique 2010.
How to Escape from A Leper Colony: A Novella and Stories.
TIphanie Yanique 2010.

It is this impact of inspiration from which we currently suffer. Looking across the channel, the young writer Tiphanie Yanique stands out as the most relevant voice writing in the USVI, producing impressive works of fiction over the past four years. Looking around on the islands that fly the Vigilate flag, there is a noticeable void in comparison. However, casting our gaze into the past there is no shortage of reading material. In fact, there is a rich tradition of Virgin Islanders writing as far back as the well-named Anegadian Alphaeus Osario Norman (1885-1942), a fine poet who began writing in the Victoria Era. In the years since his death, a long list of poets, novelists, historians, and memoirists can be compiled to include: Jennie Wheatley, Quincy Lettsome, Verna Penn Moll, Sheila Hyndman, J.R. O’Neal, Roy Hodge, Vernon Pickering, Patricia Turnbull, and Hugo Vanterpool to be brief. Some of these writers enjoyed greater success than others, their works becoming almost required reading in the small circle of academics that call these islands home. Some others passed on without ever seeing their work read seriously even in this small territory.

The contemporary local writers struggle also with this question of audience. The writer who mines the Virgin Islands for her content and inspiration has had an even lonelier existence than the one well engrained in clichéd memory. She has probably had to self-publish a book or two, hold a book launch in the breezeway of the Central Administration Complex, and resign herself to a readership that numbers itself in the tens despite the number of copies she sells and signs. She has no awards or honors to look forward to, no celebration of her life’s work, and no guarantee that her books will be talked about after she is no longer able to sell them herself.

In order for this dynamic to change, the local writer cannot only target a local audience. The work produced locally – despite its local focus – must be of regional relevance and international quality. Without those attributes, books produced simply will not be commercially viable. Further, in the information age, it has become seductive to patronize vanity publishers. These companies charge authors for the printing and publishing of their books and will print anything once they have been paid. This practice only serves to chip away at the local writer’s reputation – the implication being that their text cannot survive the editing process of a publisher. This perception, whatever its veracity is damaging in itself, but perhaps more importantly, the exposure that it may offer the local writer is extremely limited. Both vanity-publishing companies – also referred to now as subsidy presses – and the self-publication route are only as effective as the author’s Rolodex. Neither then, can truly address the issue of a middling readership. It appears that the local writer needs to begin to consider publishing her work in regional and international presses. Such an endeavor, though daunting, will begin to establish the readership necessary to establish regional relevance as an author and then hopefully territorial significance in the landscape of our local literature. Poets need to start publishing their poetry in established online and print journals, novelists need to start publishing short stories, and so on. The obvious benefit to the individual is that arduous process of creation and revision sharpens her skills and hones her craft, meaning that when the next great Virgin Islands novel is published it can be a text that stands up to and against the contemporary novels of the region.

Professor Eddie Baugh.
Professor Eddie Baugh.

I pause here to provide some history. The Department of English at the University of the West Indies at Mona began its programming in 1950, but it was only in 1969 with Professor Baugh as its Head of Department that the curriculum there expanded from the history of English literature. The first course on West Indian literature ran in 1969. This is a striking bit of trivia. Considering then that Mittelhozer had already published the entirety of his massive bibliography, Selvon had published two classics, Naipaul was already an accomplished author, and both Walcott and Brathwaite were publishing to critical acclaim, it is clear that the leadership of the institution and the department prior to Baugh were clinging to the old establishment when the material to be studied was on bookshelves at home and on both coasts of the Atlantic. Here we are forty-five years later, and in the British Virgin Islands some of that mulish resistance finds itself in our curricula.

A cursory glace at the syllabi of Language Arts classes at the primary level and literature courses at the secondary and tertiary levels reveal a paucity of Virgin Islands literature being taught. Many moons ago, while I was a student at the then British Virgin Islands High School, we read Harriet’s Daughter, A Brighter Sun, Miguel Street, The Hills Were Joyful Together, The Wine of Astonishment, as well as the poetry of Walcott, McKay, and others. The opportunity was there then to experience a world of literature that was not distant, that was not foreign, that was something we could access and create for our own. Increasingly, as I stand in the Caribbean Literature and Black Diaspora courses that I teach, I realize that my students, my English majors are not as versed as my peers and I were in the well-established canon of Caribbean literature. Too many do not recognize any of the names I listed previously. They do not recognize those women writers who dominated the 1980s – Senior, Kincaid, NourbeSe Philip – or the contemporary writers who compete for awards and critical praise like Kei Miller, Marlon James, Lisa Allen-Agostini, or Sharon Millar.

This is an unfortunate turn of events, and perhaps points more specifically to a number of challenges being faced at the secondary level both with the profile of the student and the various demands in a very peculiar and politically charged education system, but what is more alarming to me is the number of Virgin Islander writers who I have had to discover on my own. The Virgin Islanders I listed earlier should have been taught alongside the West Indian greats. No child should graduate from primary school in the British Virgin Islands having never heard of or read the work of Alphaeus Norman, a man who may still end up being our most important contribution to West Indian literature. Jennie Wheatley’s Pass It On! seems readymade for use in the local Language Arts curriculum with its series of Boysie shorts. At the secondary and tertiary levels, there is a wide range of work available to cement in the mind of the Virgin Islander student that he can both be proud of and inspired by a vibrant local literature.

This acceptance and celebration by our educational institutions is integral to the development of our contemporary and future writers. Following in the footsteps of Professor Baugh in 1969, beginning to study our own literature will afford it the respectability and validity that comes with literary criticism. This is the only way the region can become aware of the great Virgin Islander writers who have gone before and afford them their rightful place in the canon. It is also the best path we have to ensure that the stories of the Virgin Islands continue to be written.