23rd Frank Collymore Literary Endowment (FCLE) Awards Ceremony, Barbados, February 2021
Ladies and Gentlemen, fellow writers and readers
I am very honoured to speak at the awards ceremony of the Frank Collymore Literary Endowment. My first instinct upon receiving and accepting the invitation was evidently to learn more about Frank Collymore, the “Barbadian Man of the Arts” and I was amazed by how much I did not know. A man whose contribution to the evolution and development of arts and literature in Barbados and the Caribbean is immense and invaluable. I’m not presumptuous enough to attempt to tell you about Frank Collymore. I refer to him only to demonstrate how ignorant we in the Caribbean can be of important works from one island to another. However, in Caribbean writings, many themes and images show the similarities and the connections between our countries.
Collymore wrote:
Like all who live on small islands I must always be remembering the sea Being always cognizant of her presence;
Our vision of the sea is a complex one, it carries glimpses of our history. Our love for the sea is sometimes mixed with feelings of fear, sorrow, and our connection with the sea is unique because it goes beyond its beauty. The sea transcends its immensity, taking us back and pushing us forward. As Erika J. Waters who has studied Caribbean literature extensively writes: “Thus, for a great number of native-born Caribbean writers, the waters surrounding the Caribbean, however beautiful and compelling, must bear the curse of history.”
Indeed, the images of the sea reflect the complexities of our vision and of our history. Paule Marshall compares the sounds of the ocean to the lamentations of the enslaved, while Collymore in Return, speaks of its “dark embrace” and refers to the sea as a “mother vomiting her living and her dead”. Aimé Césaire mirrors this idea when he writes “we, vomit of the slave ships”.
Our history invades our writings in order for us to tell, to denounce, as well as value the courage and dignity of our ancestors. From Julia Alvarez to Nancy Morejon, from Jamaica Kincaid to Earl Lovelace, from Louise Bennet to Kendel Hippolyte, many themes linked to history seem to be shared throughout the Caribbean.
In his book Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History, Michel-Rolph Trouillot argues that narratives produced what we call history through the choice of sources, the creation of archives, the facts that are told versus the ones that are silenced. Therefore, Trouillot affirms that to some extent each historical narrative is a fictional story, but with special power: the power to shape not only our view of the past, but to explain our present and dictate our future as well. In the Caribbean we are subject to the perception of history as produced by the dominant European view. We have to work hard to transcend these perceptions, and see each other from our own perspectives.
For me, this is when and where literature plays a significant role. Fiction may give voice to people who are otherwise misrepresented or simply forgotten by textbook writers. Women’s role and contribution, for example, is often ignored. Fiction can give life to the forgotten. Fiction at its most powerful can move the invisible out of the shadows. In that sense, fiction can fill the gaps left by historical narratives.
The history of slavery and colonization is a testimony to how silencing and revising historical facts are able to shape the views of generations towards populations, cultures, and events. This year, throughout the world, from Martinique to Belgium, from Virginia to Paris, from Boston to Barbados, statues were torn down. Debates around the symbolism of statues and monuments highlight the impact of historical narratives on perception. How can we properly appropriate our history?
In the works of Caribbean writers, I hear numerous voices: those of the oppressed, of the enslaved; the voices of abused women, those of people struggling to live with dignity and attain happiness. From Velma Pollard to Esther Phillips, from Edwidge Danticat to Olive Senior, from Vladimir Lucien to Yanick Lahens or Kettly Mars, writers use their sensitivity and their creativity so as to denounce violence that kills, cupidity that destroys, and oppression that makes individuals risk their lives finding a better place to live.
Caribbean writers are open to the world; because insularity is not a synonym of isolation. For me, the island is a place where we grow from our errors, from our past, where we stand on our own two feet and a place that is never too small for our dreams. Even when writers leave their place of birth for different reasons, even when they are born elsewhere through life’s circumstances, they seem to stay attached to the islands.
I am thinking especially of Edwidge Danticat who left Haiti at the age of 12. Although she writes in English, her work evokes Haiti with its complexities, its challenges, its creativity and richness. I think also of Andrea Levy who was born in London of Jamaican parents, and who delves into her island history and presents a strong and sensible vision of the Caribbean and of its place in English history. Like many of our writers, Levy raises some unpleasant subjects and gives to readers a valid perspective of humanity.
Caribbean literature has become a place where I recognize parts of myself; a place I would like to visit more often, but it is not always easy to gain access. Because even though we share so many similarities through our writings, some essential questions come to mind: How do we communicate with each other? How often do we communicate with each other?
I know I am privileged, first of all to be multilingual. Lucky enough to have met so many great poets and writers, not only from the Francophone world, but also from the English and Spanish speaking islands. Not only have I met many poets and writers, but I was able to communicate with them, to share experiences, and to develop friendships over the years. Most of all, I am able to read their writings. This is not at all common, unfortunately. I think we all deplore the fact that communication between us is not what it could be. Most Caribbean writers speak only one language, especially if they are English speakers. I wish there were more translations of our works from one language to another, from English to French and Spanish, and vice-versa. This is one of the reasons why I value the work of La Casa de las Americas that translates many texts from the Caribbean.
Furthermore, there are many other Caribbean writers I will probably never know, that I will never read because they are not identified by the editorial powers in Paris, London or Madrid. I find it ironic that the former colonisers who were the greedy intermediaries between the continent of Africa and what they called the New World are today playing cultural intermediaries between the former colonies. Too often, the western capitals get to decide which writers are major Caribbean writers according to their own views of the Caribbean and their own visions of our realities.
I believe it is time to bypass the intermediaries. It is time to communicate directly from one island to another, between us, writers, and poets, and artists, to learn from each other, to exchange and create more. We need more national events like this one here in Barbados. We need more local and regional awards for the purpose of recognising and value our peers. In Haiti, we have a national award that was created 45 years ago: le Prix littéraire Henri Deschamps (Deschamps literary award). In the past five years two novels written in Creole have been rewarded, and this reflects the importance that Creole has taken in the literary world. This is an importance that French critics cannot fully appreciate although they sometimes behave as if they were the authority on Haitian literature. We have some strong prizes in the region. The Carbet de la Caraibe Prize was created 30 years ago and has been won by many Caribbean writers, such as Nancy Morejon, Edwidge Danticat, Jamaica Kincaid, and Kei Miller. It is interesting to note for example that Kei Miller was awarded both the Carbet Prize and Bocas Award for the same book. And of course, there is El premio de la Casa de las Americas, one of the oldest awards in the region.
Still today, so many years later, I remember the event in Martinique organised by the poet and activist, Monchoachi. It is there that I met Maya Santos Febres, Velma Pollard, Olive Senior, George Lamming, Edouard Glissant and other writers from the Caribbean. Although I knew about the French speaking literature, I was sadly ignorant about much of English and Spanish writing. Evidently, I knew the big names already famous outside of the region, but that was the extent of my knowledge. That week in Martinique was a milestone for me. I learned about a literary world I wanted to discover, cherish and explore.
From one island to another, from one writer to another, we have to face the challenge, as individuals, as well as literary communities, to rise above the obstacles of language and other barriers. We from the Caribbean, from this region, born from a complex mixture of linguistic and cultural elements, seem to have the ability to evolve in difficult conditions. We have managed to brilliantly delve into and reflect on our history, to engage with painful but necessary subjects, to bring new light to our realities, to go beyond the clichés that surround our islands, and use our creativity and intelligence to give life to beautiful poetry and fiction that talk to the world from our own niche in the world.
It is time for us to strengthen our ties, not in quest of bland uniformity, but simply to make a powerful statement of our diversities. Increasing our cultural events allows us to meet within the region, so as to value what we create and honour our poets and writers.
In conclusion, I will read some lines from René Philoctète, from his book titled Caraibe. Here the author is attempting to portray what he sees as the new Caribbean man in a new Caribbean age: “when each branch carries the wish of the roots!... when each stone testifies to the saga of our sweat! Where all presence guarantees the certitude of blooming! Child of migration, nourished by your legends, master of your gestures to the Sun, I recognise myself in your gatherings”. (Translated by Évelyne Trouillot)
Thank you.