Belize

21 September, Belizean independence. I didn’t know until this year that among the Central American nations there is a former British colony—and one that only gained its independence in 1981. While I realise that this is just ignorance on my part, I also think that it’s part of growing up in Australia: you tend to hear about the world’s large countries wherever you are, but, barring a major event like an invasion, you really only hear about the smaller countries from your own region. The current population estimate is just over 300,000.

Before Europeans came along, Belize was part of the territory of the Maya—the Mopan Maya were the original inhabitants, and some of the Maya still occupied the area into the 1500s. In fact, when the Spanish tried to colonise the area, they gave up after a Maya rebellion.

But then came English buccaneers. Pirates! They settled when they were seeking a sheltered place to use as a base for attaching Spanish ships. Such an illustrious group! Eventually there was an agreement drawn up where the British settlers could occupy the area and cut logwood if they’d give up piracy. The British government initially allowed settlers to establish their own government, fearing that if they acknowledged the settlement as a British colony, the Spanish would attack. It wasn’t until 1786 that the British appointed a superintendent.

While the rest of Central America separated from Spain, Belize—then known as British Honduras—stayed under British control, and was officially declared a British colony in 1862.

The official name-change to Belize came in 1973. While things were moving towards independence, Guatemala slowed down the process somewhat. Guatemala has claimed throughout Belize’s history that it has sovereignty over the region. Still, Belize got there in the end. Nonetheless, there is an ongoing border dispute between the two nations.

And the poem? This piece is by Joey García. I found it online here.


Choosing Camps

In my California school I heard tales of men,
women, children lying on the earth,
sparrow arms tucked into flannel sacks,
wagging heads lulled to slumber. I asked
my immigrant father if I, too, could bed beneath the stars,
silent as a stone
                          inhaling luminosity.

He laughed as deep and thick
as the Belizean jungle, where he had labored
as a logger for a dollar a day to surpass palmetto
hut poverty. He laughed at North Americans
with roofs and Macy's mattresses, who slept instead
on the rigid earth, pebbles caught in spines, trying
to call it vacation. He laughed at their dog noses and
damp clothing.
                          Then he painted

a galaxy on the ceiling over
my four-poster bed. Tucking me in,
he pointed out jaguar spirits and monkey gods.

          When I was sure he was asleep

                                                  I slipped away

to plunge my head into the liquid night
and pretend I was stone.

— Joey García

Mexico

I feel we all carry ideas of Mexico—and I think a lot of people forget just how large a country Mexico is. Fourteenth largest in the world. I mean, besides early memories of making tacos at home, when I think of Mexico I think of the Aztecs. I think of 90210 and the Mexican Standoff with Brenda and Dylan versus Jim Walsh. I think of Frida Kahlo. I think—yes, I’m ashamed—of sombreros. I think of cacti. See? Every word I write I’m either revealing my ignorance or reinforcing the ideas you already have. Well, except maybe the 90210 thing. Let’s celebrate Mexico a little, though—on 16 September 1810 Mexico declared its independence from Spain. It took Spain just over 11 years to recognise this independence, but hey—it’s better late than never, right? Independence Day! Before the recognition arrived, they had to fight the Mexican War of Independence.

For two years, Mexico was part of the First Mexican Empire—which was huge. It stretched down to Costa Rica, and into parts of what are now the states of Wyoming and Colorado in the United States. The emperor was deposed after two years, and the other Central American countries left the empire. There was a Second Mexican Empire in the mid-nineteenth century—also shortlived.

There are mountain ranges in Mexico—and, yes, there’s snowfall if you’re in the right place. And then there are deserts—the Altar desert in Sonora looks amazing. And we know about Baja, because that’s where Brenda and Dylan went on that ill-fated trip when Brenda forgot her passport. Mexico is also megadiverse: it has the world’s greatest biodiversity in reptiles (now that’s a claim to fame…) and second in mammals. I think that’s pretty amazing. I’m sure birders prefer to head down to Costa Rica and Panama, but as I prefer mammals and plants (and I don’t mind reptiles, with guidance) I think Mexico and I would get along wonderfully. And I loved Costa Rica and Panama.

The indigenous people of Mexico were lucky enough to have access to chocolate for years before the rest of the world came to experience chocolate-induced euphoria. Not to mention tacos, quesadillas, enchiladas, burritos… I love Mexican food. There’s something about frijoles that makes me oh-so-happy.

Mexico also has a Octavio Paz. As in, poet, Nobel Prize winner for literature, and diplomat. Just in case you don’t believe me when I saw that he’s amazing, here’s a poem to prove it.

Return

You spread out beneath my eyes,
a land of dunes—ocher, bright.
The wind in search of water stopped,
a land of heartbeats and fountains.
Vast as the night you fit
in the hollow of my hand.

Later, the motionless hurling down,
within and without ourselves
With my eyes I ate darkness,
drank the water of time, I drank night.
Then I touched the body of a music
heard with the tips of my fingers.

Dark boats, together,
moored in the shadows,
our bodies reclined.
Our souls, unlashed,
lamps afloat
in the water of night.

In the end you opened your eyes,
You saw yourself seen by my eyes,
and from my eyes you saw yourself:
falling like a fruit on the grass,
like a stone in the pond,
you fell into yourself.

A tide rose within me,
with a weightless fist I beat
at the door of your lids:
my death wanted to meet you,
my death wanted to meet itself.
I was buried in your eyes.

Our bodies flow through the plains
of night: they are time wearing itself out.
a presence that dissolves in a caress;
yet they are infinite, to touch them
is to bathe in rivers of heartbeats
and return to the perpetual beginning anew.

—Octavio Paz
from Modern Literature of the Non-Western World
translated from the Spanish by Eliot Weinberger

Costa Rica

The smallest of a bumper crop of Central American nations that gained their independence on 15 September, 1821, when they broke away from Spain to subsequently join first the Mexican Empire and then the Federal Republic of Central America before becoming an independent nation, the Costa Rica we know and love today. If you’ve been following my posts over the year, or checking my other blog, you’ll know that I spent a few weeks in Costa Rica a few months ago. I loved it. Which is not to play favourites—I’ve loved every country I’ve been to, and I want to go to every country I haven’t been to.

Now, Costa Rica is a hub of eco-tourism these days (and we know that anything with the prefix “eco-” is hot, right?) so I’m pleased to note that its improved its position on the Environmental Performance Index from number 15 in 2006 to number 5 this year. And Costa Rica’s government is serious about this environmental thing—they want to be the first country to become carbon neutral by 2021. I know that eco-tourism is where their bread it buttered, so to speak (rice and beans are the very yummy staples in this region of the world), and so it makes sense to make these moves, but I’m just excited to see how serious they are about it.

When I was in Costa Rica I had one adventure on what turned out to be a very long day—though they’re exhausting, and I certainly couldn’t have them everyday, these are my favourite things about travelling. While Costa Rica doesn’t have the spectacular pre-Columbian sites of some other places in Latin America, it shouldn’t be scoffed at. (I’m from Australia. Most ruins impress me.) I thought I’d go to Costa Rica’s largest archaeological site at Guayabo—a few different buses, with some serious waiting in between, and a long walk uphill because I foolishly got off the bus early. Now, while there’s a lot that we don’t know about this site, it looks like it was inhabited from around 1000 BCE, and then abandoned in 1400 CE. At its peak it had about 10,000 people living there. And—there is an aqueduct that still works. Given the plumbing I’ve encountered in all sorts of places, this impresses me no end. To complete the tale of my adventure, I will tell you that it started raining, heavily, just as I was leaving. I had an umbrella that—fell apart. And I thought, yes, there’ll be somewhere I can sit and drink coffee and read for three hours while waiting for the bus—except there wasn’t. Apparently no-one actually goes to Guayabo—and if they do, they don’t go mid-week in the off-season. Fine. Eventually I found a lady who ran a kind of general store from her house, and bought some corn chips. She was amazing—she asked me in, made me coffee, offered me lunch. She spoke no English, and my Spanish is—well, rudimentary is putting it mildly. I learned a decent amount—to get directions—and hoped that I would be able to use my Italian to communicate. So, we spoke in fits of understanding followed by misunderstanding, as she showed me pictures of her family, introduced me to her dog, and—oddly—watched cartoons. When I have these days that are in the middle of nowhere, when I don’t meet a single other tourist, I feel like I’ve had some sort of experience that I will cherish. And because this was so positive—this lovely lady opened her home to me—I will always remember Costa Rica as a beautiful place. Not just an eco-tourism wonderland of turtles and jaguars (not to mention the fact that I saw my first active volcano erupting in Costa Rica, and swam in volcanic hot springs for the first time there) being two buses and three hours from the capital, sitting in this house drinking coffee, and trying to talk as best I could with this amazingly kind stranger. And since this was a narrative of the kindness of strangers, I guess you can just call me Blanch DuBois.

Do read up on Costa Rica. And in the mean time, read a Costa Rican poet. This poem is by Jorge Debravo. I found it online here.

The Lovers

They are impressive, fortunate, made of moon, in
the middle of the night.
They burn like timber. They exude fresh and
delicious water, like the sap of large trees.

They don’t seem to come from terrestrial rocks: we
imagine them sprouting from caves more savage and
deep. Or rising perhaps from an oceanic pit
where from sirens they have learned the art of embracing
until arms achieve the transformation into snakes.

If they had names like us, we would not
believe them to be human. We would think of them as inhabitants of
stars unknown, from planets of wheat.

Among shadows they mingle, sometimes, with the
gods. They slip and are frightened like animals, which is
another way of appearing like gods.

They don’t dare use the word: they moan and coo. The
shortest words on the earth and more words,
nevertheless.

When I return home I will ask Death not to
come for them. Beautiful it would be for them to be free for
ever and for them to emerge out into the streets joined, like
prophets of a powerful and vegetative ritual.

We would sing them songs of joy and we
would dress them with garlands of fresh leaves. Large garlands
that would comfort them when they find themselves
without pillows in some bitter place upon the
earth.


—Jorge Debravo
translated from the Spanish by Oscar Fernández

Nicaragua

Even though I’m really too young to remember it—and was born in the wrong part of the world for it to have made a huge impact—somehow the name “Nicaragua” still automatically conjures the words “Sandanistas” and “Contras.” Though that’s over, it’s still the first thing that comes to a lot of people’s minds—such that, when I was considering getting to Nicaragua earlier this year when I was already spending time in Panama and Costa Rica, I checked a Lonely Planet guide that immediately said: yes, it’s safe to go there now. Also, I called my mum and said I was interested, and she too had the pause. It’s a natural reaction, I guess: people think of the last time the country penetrated the awareness of people all over the world. But today I don’t want to dwell on that so much as wish Nicaraguan’s everywhere a happy Independence Day. Yes, it’s a bumper day, as all of Central America broke away from Spain at the same time as the Captaincy General of Guatemala before other manifestations of Central America gave way to the current nations we are familiar with today.

Browsing as I do when I write these entries, I’ve just found a photograph of 6000 year old footprints that have been preserved in volcanic mud—yes, they’re human. I always knew I loved volcanoes—but seeing preserved footprints makes me love volcanoes even more. Nicaragua has been home to humans for at least six thousand years, and we’re familiar with the arrival of the Spanish in the early 16th century. Yes, the indigenous population was devastated by their battles with the Spaniards.

After independence from Spain, Nicaragua did the same as its neighbours and first became part of the Mexican Empire, and then joined the Federal Republic of Central America, before becoming a completely independent republic in 1838. There was a region of the Mosquito Coast on the Caribbean that the United Kingdom still claimed, and eventually this was annexed to Nicaragua, creating the area that makes up the country today. Oh, and early in their independent nationhood Nicaragua was visited by one William Walker from the US, who set himself up as president—and was quickly driven out. I guess an interloper can help foster a sense of nationhood.

We all know about the Panama Canal (I am in love with the Panama Canal) but not as many people know that before the Panama Canal came into being, there had been proposals floating around for years for the Nicaraguan Canal—and, in fact, they are still around. In the past few years the government has brought the idea back, wanting to create the canal, and make it larger than the Panama Canal (that is, wider) to handle the ships that are “Post-Panamax” in size.

Canals aside, Nicaragua has had a problem with military dictatorships over the years—even before the Nicaraguan Revolution turned things upside down. And then came the 1980s. Iran-Contra scandal anyone?

Like neighbouring Costa Rica, Nicaragua is an excellent place to go if you like turtles. They come ashore at the same time and at the same place each year to lay their eggs. Turtles are amazing.

Today’s Nicaraguan poem is by Ernesto Cardenal. Once again I thank the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984.


Epitaph for the Tomb of Adolfo Baez Bone

They killed you and they did not tell us where they buried your body,
but since then all of the national territory is your
                              grave;
or rather: in each palm of the national territory where your body
                              is not found, you were re-born.
They believed they were killed you with an order of “Fire!”
they believed they were burying you
and what they were doing was burying a seed.

—Ernesto Cardenal
translated by Wayne H Finke
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

El Salvador

Yes, another of the Guatemalan Kingdom—15 September 1821, independence from Spain. Nationhood? 1838, when the Federal Republic of Central America dissolved, though El Salvador was one of the nations that attended to restore the Union in 1842. The restoration didn’t happen at that time, nor were the subsequent attempts to re-establish the federation successful. El Salvador was also part of the Greater Republic of Central America along with Honduras and Nicaragua, which formed in 1895, but this too fell apart after only a few years, in 1898. Another significant day that Salvadorans celebrate each year since 1992 is January 16—Peace Accords Day.

I’m guessing that most people know primarily know about El Salvador in relation to the Salvadoran Civil War that, after political unrest and insurgencies in the 1970s, ran from 1980 until 1992. Prior to the start of the war, there were fraudulent elections and poor living conditions for most of the population. With the government responding to large demonstrations complaining about these things with the suspension of constitutional rights and unleashing violence of civilians, it became clear that things would turn ugly. The Catholic church denounced government violence—and I’m so glad that the church did denounce the government—but this contributed to the most infamous assassination performed by the Salvadoran death squads when the Catholic Archbishop Óscar Romero was shot during mass in 1980. Archbishop Romero is revered as a national hero.

Following a coup d’état in 1979 and the death squads’ assassinations, the civil war grew until a 1986 earthquake helped things settle down—for a while. I wish I had the space to write more about the civil war as a whole—but I hope you will take the time to learn some more about it. During this timeout the Human Rights Commission of El Salvador published a report, outlining the use of forty types of torture used on political prisoners.

Amnesty International’s report in 1985 stated that many of the 40,000 people killed in the civil war until that time had been killed by government forces. In addition to the huge number killed by the end of the war, more than 25 percent of the population was displaced—there are still large El Salvadoran refugee communities all over the place.

The trials of El Salvador aren’t over—unfortunately there are high crime rates, including on the highest murder rates in the world. It’s considered to be at the center of the gang crisis. While in the last year and a half the homicide rate has dropped, it’s still the highest in Central America.

Today’s Salvadoran poem is by Roque Dalton—it is titled “Poet in Jail.” It comes from the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984.


Poet in Jail

I did not want to think about destiny. For some reason
I associate it with forgotten tapestries of shame and majesty
where an impassive face
(like that of Selassie)
struggled to impose upon itself an eternal mark. Only the air,
absurd from cold in this my frying-pan country, applauds
till it reaches the heart in this hour. Oh, assault!
Oh, words that I shall no longer pronounce the same!
sit of commissions for returning grandfathers.

This morning the guard brought only scraps
for me—the poor man has not suffered—
scraps which, with the fog, have given meaning to the day.
They are dead pieces of salt of some dead shellfish,

corn tortillas attacked with that fury
without more warm places to annoy,
remains of wild rice like three haughty standard-bearers
occupied in sparing lives of lambs and crude logics.

The wall is full of dates that I bear sinking,
Pieces of the final fatigue, bare fatigue, that cry and are
the worst witnesses of something that not even my tears would erase.


—Roque Dalton
translated by Wayne H Finke
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Honduras

Like much of Central America, Honduras celebrates its Independence Day on 15 September, in celebration of the 1821 separation of Guatemala from Spain: Honduras was, in the colonial days, part of the Guatemala Captaincy General. On gaining independence from Spain the larger Guatemala joined up with the Mexican empire, going through another round of independence in 1823 when that dissolved and Honduras was part of the Federal Republic of Central America. A few years later, in 1838, the Federal Republic also disintegrated, and Honduras, like other member states, became an independent nation.

Mayans did get down to Honduras—the western region, near its border with present-day Guatemala. Following the decline of the Mayan civilisation, the Lencas were the main indigenous group living in that region of Honduras. But it’s not like the west was the only region that anyone lived in—there’s plenty of evidence of other pre-Columbian cultures here, as pretty much anywhere in Central America. But we know Columbus showed up, and it became a post-Columbian world.

After Honduras became its own nation who do you think moved in? Yes, that’s right—US fruit companies. Hey—it’s a great place to grow bananas, and it was the original Banana Republic. Now that’s largely used pejoratively, but at the time the term was coined I assumed it was more about acknowledging the influence these fruit companies had economically and politically than being solely a dismissal. These days, economically it’s a tough picture—Honduras is one of the 10 poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere.

Wars? Well, first there was the Football War with El Salvador, also know as the Soccer War. (For anyone interest, Kapuscinski’s book, The Soccer War, includes a wonderful essay on this. And you should read Kapuscinski anyway. You’ll learn a lot.) This war lasted five days—and is sometimes called the 100 Hours War. Yes, there was rioting at a football match between the two countries, but it wasn’t caused by the game. There were actually broader issues like land reform and immigration.

My family, for better or worse, used to refer to Central America as “Ronald Reagan’s playground,” because of America’s involvement in the region during the 1980s. In the 1980s, Honduras received a lot of aid from the US, economically and militarily. The payoff? Well, Honduras became a base for 15,000 Nicaraguan Contras, and joined the US military in joint maneuvers. The Honduran army’s Battalion 316 members received training from the US through the CIA and military bases. Which became problematic when this unit carried out political assassinations and torture of those suspected of opposing the government. Subsequently investigations and hearings have occurred, and many people have reported that Negroponte, in the early 1980s a diplomat in Honduras, “routinely ignored troubling evidence about the Honduran government” regarding the human rights abuses going on at the time.

Honduras did away with the death penalty before Australia. The last person to be executed was in 1940. But I shouldn’t speak to soon—the current president is reportedly keen on bring capital punishment back. I’m not a big fan of that idea.

Today’s Honduran poem is by Roberto Sosa—it comes from his book The Common Grief: Selected Poems.


Time

To Eduardo Bähr and Víctor Meza

Life moves on and drops its rotten apple.

Time turns and all creation changes. Beasts

will turn to foam and jails to kindergartens.

Gold, its infinity, or the hate of man for man

will be by the end of this affair

mere paper birds.

Meanwhile our great day doesn’t dawn.

We live like those

whose hands are in the fire

who know Time

as a noose around the neck.

Trees burst into tears for fellow trees.

I'’m moving on. Before long

so will you.



—Roberto Sosa
translated from the Spanish by JoAnne Engelbert
from The Common Grief: Selected Poems

Guatemala

1821. Guatemala gains its independence from Spain. Let’s celebrate!

Know anyone who’s been to Guatemala? I’m sure that they checked out the spectacular Mayan sites scattered around the country—the Mayan civilisation lasted until around 900 CE. We still don’t know why this culture collapsed—a current theory is drought. Though the Mayan kingdom collapsed, subsequent regional kingdoms still retained aspects of Mayan culture.

In terms of European forays—they started in 1518. The region—called Guatemala by the Spanish—was a Captaincy General during its colonial time. One of the early products that Spain got out of the region (which was much larger back in the day) as red dye from cochineal insects. Amazing! I always think of cochineal red as coming from Chile—which still is, I believe, the biggest producer of this pigment—but I love that Guatemala contributed to the great paintings of the world as well.

After its independence, Guatemala was briefly integrated into the Mexican empire—but that ceased existence only a few years later.

More recently, we know that Central America was a pretty contentious place in the latter part of the twentieth century. Civil war started in 1960, and stretched on through several changes of leader until 1996. Guerilla groups entering from outside the country, and forming inside the country were part of the 1970s and 1980s—and not surprisingly, the presence of these groups led to both urban and rural guerrilla warfare.

The government took part in some pretty horrific acts—the 1992 Nobel Peace Prize went to Rigoberta Menchú, who worked to bring international attention to the atrocities of the Guatemalan Civil War. In 1996 the United Nations negotiated a peace accord, finally bringing the war to an end. The UN-sponsored Truth Commission asserted that the state had engaged in genocide against particular ethnic groups during the period of the civil war—and then US president Bill Clinton stated that the US had been wrong to provide support for the Guatemalan military forces who participated in this genocide.

Of course, as a result of ongoing war there is number of Guatemalans living outside the state. It looks like at least half a million are displaced—but the full numbers still aren’t known, more than 10 years after the Peace Accord was signed.

A significant portion of the population is indigenous, and at there are twenty-one distinct Mayan languages still spoken, as well as many non-Mayan indigenous languages. Hearing that languages live on always makes me happy. Spanish is the official language, but there are definitely segments of the population that don’t speak Spanish, even as a secondary language.

Today’s Guatemalan poem is by David Unger, who translated the poem himself. It comes from the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984. Please enjoy!

Insomnia

Yes, I finally understand why
Mayan priests plucked out
still blossoming hearts:
“Now that I’ve known you
I can never live alone again.”
A threat? Perhaps,
but more likely a confession
with thousands of aftershocks
that leave me jumpy,
a cut so deep
mere sleep becomes a chore.

I’ve given up
on permanence, rather believe
we’ll pass the passing years
with slight betrayals
that, complemented by inflation,
leave holes in our pockets,
a residue of Kleenex and lint.
But we’re past the penny-ante stage
and, despite doubts,
we’ve staked our hearts,
this spare change.


—David Unger
translated from the Spanish by the author
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Puerto Rico

I wonder how some places escape a particular pop cultural association? Puerto Rico, for instance, is linked in my mind to West Side Story. Which is not to say that’s all I think of, but it’s like people mentioning Steve Irwin when I say I’m Australian. Not that I mind that—he was a top bloke—but it must be frustrating. Of course this year’s primaries in the endless American election gave us another spotlight on Puerto Rico, and Hillary’s support-base there. So, it’s a Caribbean island, to the east of the Dominican Republic, and it’s an unincorporated territory of the United States.

Not a lot is know about the period before Columbus sailed into the New World. First there were Ortoiroid people—apparently they were fishermen. Yum. Fish. Early in the common era the Igneri arrived from the Orinoco area of South America. Later the Taíno culture developed. And then 1492 brought our old chum Chris.

Not long after Europe’s discovery of the island, Spain colonised it. Taínos were enslaved, and their population was severely reduced when both their extreme working conditions and disease brought death. Still, it didn’t take long for a Taíno revolt—in 1511 they drowned the Spanish soldier Diego Salcedo. Oh! They drowned him in order to find out if the Spanish were immortal. It’s so interesting that different ethnic groups meeting for the first time might assign supernatural abilities to another. They watched his drowned bodies for three days just to make sure he was really dead. Unfortunately for the Taínos, their revolt didn’t earn them freedom—it was quickly put down by Ponce de León. With the Taínos dying rapidly, they were replaced in the form of African slaves. Spain kept tight control on the island, as it remained an important port for the Spanish Empire.

It was during the Spanish-American war that the United States invaded Puerto Rico—when this war ended, Spain ceded Puerto Rico, Cuba, Guam and the Philippines to the US. 25 July was the date of the arrival of US troops in 1898, and on that day in 1952 Governor Muñoz Marín proclaimed the local constitution. Obviously, as we saw in the primary, the relationship between Puerto Rico and the US is still under debate.

Today’s poem is by Judith Ortiz Cofer—it comes from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse. As well as writing poetry, she has also written short stories, essays, young adult novels and autobiography. I’ve chosen her poem “Under the Knife” for this project.


Under the Knife

My aunt wipes blood from her knife
across a kitchen towel, spilling
the thick contents of a just decapitated
hen into the sink.
I feel slightly nauseated but must
forbear for her sake. Childless
family martyr, renowned for her patience
with human frailty, and her cooking.
Her man drinks, she has failed three times
at childbearing. She squeezes the last
of the blood from the neck and a blue button
falls into her hand. Rinsing it, she drops it
into her apron pocket. And as she places the
pale carcass and the knife before me, she explains
how to cut the pieces with even, forceful
strokes: no hacking. She is under
no obligation to be kind.
The mothers and the daughters
have given her a lifetime license to mourn,
and like a queen in exile she acknowledges
nothing as a privilege. The pale fingers
of my aunt work with precision over
the pink flesh, showing me just how
to separate the tough from the tender.

—Judith Ortiz Cofer
from The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse

Saint Pierre et Miquelon

Moving through the little slices of French territory around the world, I’ll forgive you for perhaps forgetting Saint Pierre et Miquelon—I’m guessing there are a lot of people who couldn’t point to this island group on a map. Caribbean? No. African? No. Oceania? No. The islands—population not much over 6,000—are just south of Newfoundland. It’s French status is a hangover from the colonial territory of New France. And so it celebrate’s France’s Fête Nationale.

Before the Europeans arrived, it’s thought there were some prehistoric inhabitants—most likely the same group that inhabited Newfoundland. And then Europeans arrive, some time around the early 16th century.

The British attacked the islands a few times—they also took possession of them for the fifty years from 1713 to 1763. After the French took the islands back there was about 15 years of peace before they got passed back and forth a few more times. After 1815 they stayed with France—and the islands were quite prosperous, until the local fishing industry began to decline.

Things did perk up a bit with prohibition—the islands were, apparently, a handy spot for those smuggling alcohol. No mention of pirates in my reading, but, honestly, smugglers are just as good.

Also interesting is the fact that the guillotine was only ever used in North America once: in Saint-Pierre. The guillotine used was shipped from Martinique, and didn’t arrive in working order. Then there was trouble finding an executioner—eventually a recent immigrant agreed to the job. Want to see it? Go to Saint-Pierre’s museum.

It didn’t find a poem by an islander—I guess with such a small population that’s not so hard to believe. But I found a piece by William Henry Drummond—he was born in Ireland and moved to the French portion of Canada. He published a couple of books in the 19th century, and in this poem, illustrating the dialect of English-speakers in the region he lived, he mentions the islands a number of times. This is a small portion of what is a much longer piece. I found it online here.


from The Rose Delima

You can sew heem up in a canvas sack,
     An’ t’row heem over boar’
You can wait till de ship she ’s comin’ back
     Den bury heem on de shore
For dead man w’en he ’s dead for sure,
     Ain’t good for not’ing at all
An’ he’ll stay on de place you put heem
     Till he hear dat bugle call
Dey say will soun’ on de las’, las’ day
W’en ev’ry t’ing ’s goin’ for pass away,
But down on de Gulf of St. Laurent
     W’ere de sea an’ de reever meet
An’ off on St. Pierre de Miquelon,
     De chil’ren on de street
Can tole you story of Pierre Guillaume,
     De sailor of St. Yvonne
Dat’s bringin’ de Rose Delima home
     Affer he ’s dead an’ gone

—William Henry Drummond

United States of America

First of all, how on earth do I pick an American poem or even just an American poet?

Because no-one growing up on any kind of American media diet needs to be told that 4 July is American Independence Day. I don’t suppose we need to be told that George Washington was the first president, or that the Declaration of Independence was largely drafted by Thomas Jefferson. (Who, yes, owned slaves—he wasn’t, after all, Honest Abe.)

Who doesn’t know the Statue of Liberty? The Grand Canyon? Or, for that matter, the zip code of Beverly Hills?

Though not as many people remember, from conversations I’ve had here, that America was used as a penal colony—though not solely. (I only mention this because people tease me about convicts; and I remind them, remembering my Moll Flanders, that it wasn’t all Puritans in the early days… They had to send people somewhere before they found Australia.)

America, home of the combination: bacon and maple syrup.

And, again I suppose because of their dominance over pop culture, there’s no other large country whose many many states are known to people who’ve never visited—who know the stereotypes of east versus west coasts, and southerners versus their northern neighbours.

The truth is, the history is so rich but also so familiar that I don’t think I can go into it all.

I’ve been living in Washington DC for a year now, and for the most part I really like it—I love being able to visit the Smithsonian museums, and the National Gallery of Art, the monuments and to wander past the Capitol as I head to the Library of Congress. I love the free events I can go to most days of the year, and the sense that so many people are in DC doing something—studying, or working for the government, or working for NGOs. It’s exciting.

At the same time, I’m aware that there are a lot of parts of the city I don’t see, and I feel like this invisibility is true of America at large. Going to U Street, home of the Harlem Renaissance, or even to Adams Morgan, is like going to a slightly different city. Being on the east side, people look at me strangely on public transport—not antagonistically, but with a degree of surprise. It’s only realising that people are surprised that I’ll realise I’m the only white girl on a bus—I usually forget it quickly (too busy reading some book or other) but divides of the city are so clear. The streets of Georgetown too. And then, the Georgetown campus is a very privileged and beautiful place—and once a week during the semester, I volunteer as a writing tutor at a high school a few blocks north, to find that the school looks like its falling apart, many of the students, who have had to audition to get in, are from poor backgrounds, but that people are just trying to get things done in spite of the small number of opportunities they get. A good friend has just been writing about class in America, and it’s a conversation I would love to see more often, and more openly.

But, to get back to my initial problem, how do I pick a poem? There are so many American poets I follow, and love. Just as its tempting to choose a poet like Whitman or Dickinson or Williams because they do so much to define American poetry, so too is it tempting to choose a contemporary, first-generation poet.

In the end I’ve chosen Marianne Moore—in part because I just finished reading her Complete Poems, and, also, because everyone who reads poetry thinks she’s great—but no-one ever really talks about her much. She does dazzling things, that seem so simple until you look and look and see the intricacy of her forms. And, reading her complete poems, I found so many new poems to love, as well as old friends. There are at least a dozen I would love to include, but I’m choosing—because I have to choose one—“What Are Years?”


What Are Years?

     What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
     naked, none is safe. And whence
is courage: the unanswered questions,
the resolute doubt,—
dumbly calling, deafly listening—that
in misfortune, even death,
          encourages others
          and in its defeat, stirs

     the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who
     accedes to mortality
and in his imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
          in its surrendering
          finds its continuing.

     So he who strongly feels,
behaves. The very bird,
     grown taller as he sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
          This is mortality,
          this is eternity.
 

—Marianne Moore
from Complete Poems

Canada

People talk about how Canadians sew a patch with the Canadian flag on their backpacks when travelling, so people will know they’re not American. They also say that sometimes Americans do it too, to avoid anti-American sentiments. These may both be true, but I do wonder if perhaps some people just sew it on because it’s so damn pretty? I’ve always loved the Canadian flag with its maple leaf, and really, who wouldn’t? And today is a day to love all things Canadian: that’s right, it’s Canada Day. And Canada is the world’s second largest country… 1 July marks the occasion of the joining of the British colonies Nova Scotia and New Brunswick with the Province of Canada (which was separated into Ontario and Quebec) into a federation in 1867.

And, seriously, let’s celebrate the country that gave us Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Anne Carson, Michael J Fox and Degrassi Junior High. And ignore for a moment that Celine Dion is also Canadian. A favourite moment in the series The West Wing came when Donna finds out that she is considered Canadian after a border was clarified, and Amy asks her, “Canadian, hey? Do you feel funnier?”

Of course Canada’s been inhabited for ages—I’ve just read that archaeological studies suggest that there’s evidence of human presence in the Yukon dating back 26,500 years, and in Ontario 9,500 years. Then of course we know that the Vikings stopped in around 1000, but then disappeared. And then there were the French, Basque whalers, and the English.

This year marks the 400th anniversary of Quebec City, founded by Samuel de Champlain.

So after those initial four provinces formed a federation, Canada took control of the North-Western Territory and Rupert’s Land, which became part of the Northwest Territories. Why do we not hear more about Rupert’s Land? Manitoba was created in 1870, and in 1871 British Columbia joined Confederation, followed by Prince Edward Islands in 1873. (PE Island—do I hear the Anne of Green Gables fans sighing?) Then 1898 brought the Yukon into the mix (after the Klondike Gold Rush, the setting for Chaplin’s wonderful The Gold Rush), and Alberta and Saskatchewan became provinces in 1905. And still it’s not over! Newfoundland only joined in 1949, and Nunavut only became a territory in 1999 when it separated from the Northwest Territories.

Canada is, of course, in a peaceful part of the world—there is, however, a tension between Anglophone Canada and Francophone Canada—there is a Quebecois separatist movement that has been bubbling along for decades.

My favourite poet is Canadian. Anne Carson. I can’t get enough of her. And now, in turn, I’m handing some of her work over to you. This poem, “Essay on Error (2nd draft)” is from the wonderful Men in the Off Hours. Buy it. I dare you.


Essay on Error (2nd draft)

It is also true I dream about soiled suede gloves.
And have done so
since the day I read
in the third published volume of Freud’s letters
(this was years after I stopped seeing him)
a sentence which I shall quote here in full.
Letter to Ferenczi 7.5.1909:
“He doesn’t look a bit like a poet except for the lashes.”
Freud hesitates to name me
but
let me tell you
that was no
pollen stain.
Here
I could paraphrase Descartes
the hand that busy instrument
or just let it go.
After all
what are you and I compared to him?
Smell of burnt pastilles.
I still remember the phrase every time I pass that spot.

—Anne Carson
from Men in the Off Hours