The Haitian Revolution in The Book of Night Women

“No, this be nigger hell, but we soon turn it into nigger heaven. Just like Saint-Domingue. Me was have from the massa himself. He get letter from Barbados hearing that the Saint-Domingue nigger trying to unite the island. You hear that? They going to call it a republic. Me hear that, me almost want cry.”

            The Book of Night Women by Marlon James is a profoundly realistic portrayal of Caribbean slavery in early 19^th century Jamaica. Violence, rape, torture, intimidation and a culture of fear remain ever-present in order for the small white minority to control a slave society overwhelmingly black. Taking that into consideration, James had no choice but to depict the cruel, ugly reality of Caribbean racial slavery that reveals the lowest depths of humanity, mostly on the part of whites but blacks themselves who internalize the values of their white oppressors and collaborate with the slave regime. Moreover, this story takes place as the Haitian Revolution fundamentally overturns white supremacy and slavery in the French colony of Saint-Domingue. Thus, the climate of fear whites in Jamaica utilized to protect themselves and colonial rule became even more violent and excessive to prevent the slave population from emulating the model of violent self-liberation used in Haiti. The slave population, however, already heard news of Haiti and followed events as closely as possible, as well as remembering Jamaica’s own long history of maroon wars, slave revolts, and conspiracies. Therefore, the image of Saint-Domingue in the novel illustrates a revolutionary period and inspirational story for blacks still living in shackles in the Anglophone Caribbean as well as a terrifying shock to white Europeans that turned their world upside down.

            As mentioned previously, fears of the Haitian Revolution spreading large-scale insurrections in Jamaica led to whites tightening the reins of the slave regime. Many perceived events in Haiti as attributable to a leniency toward African slaves that did not actually exist in Saint-Domingue. For instance, Massa Humphrey, owner of the Montpelier estate where the events of the novel occur, hears his mother say the following, “Serves those bloody Frenchies right, the mistress say. Too slack, that Code Noir. Way too permissive with those negroes. I swear, give a negro a free hand and he’ll rub it all over you” (139). This heightened fear of slave revolts led to more British redcoats being stationed in Jamaica to ease white fears (43). This British belief that the leniency of the Code Noir, a French government promulgation attempting to codify the laws regarding slavery and punishment of blacks issued under Louis XIV, encouraged the Haitian Revolution lacks any basis, since metropolitan edicts issued to the slave colonies were rarely enforced. 

This perspective, however, allowed white Europeans to continue to discount the organizing capabilities and intellect of enslaved blacks, whose rebellion was allowed to only occur because of whites letting down their guard or actively undermining slavery itself (abolitionists). Unsurprisingly, many whites of the era believed the Haitian Revolution occurred because of abolitionists leading it themselves or indirectly guiding blacks, who like animals, are dumb and unable to organize themselves and act in concert. Similarly, whites in Jamaica respond to the slave uprising sparked by women on different plantations in Middlesex County with shock and blinding paternalism. In the case of Massa Humphrey’s insane mother, who had tortured Homer, the elderly woman who spearheaded the revolt after hearing about the Saint-Domingue August 1791 slave revolt in the Plaine du Nord (302), she tells Homer before she is killed, “Oh, dear Lord. What do you want from me? I’ve always treated you niggers well. I have always treated you well” (403). Cleary, self-delusion and projection of their own savagery was a requirement for whites to live with the unbearable oppression they imposed on others. No matter what enslaved blacks did, they were always the savages, the rapists, the beasts. The narrator of the novel, Lilith’s daughter who tells the story of the women who planned the revolt since nobody else, black men and white men, would bother to tell the story of these slave women, sums this up quite well in the following quotation: 

“The truth be this. They’s scared of the negroes. They scared of the arms that can grab three stalk of cane in one grip and chop it straight through with one swing. They scared of the fingers that sprinkle something in the soup that might be pepper today, poison tomorrow. They scared that the hand that can wring a chicken neck can wring a lady neck. They scared that what between negro man leg goin’ battering ram up in white woman and leave her loose with niggerkin, and ruin her. They scared that deep in the blackest pussy more bewitching than opium.” (260)

Hence, European narratives and accounts of the Haitian Revolution likely exaggerated and emphasized tales of black men raping white women and the extreme violence committed by former slaves against their white oppressors, but never perceived their own transgressions as anything akin to cruelty or evil. This is not to deny the violence of the Haitian Revolution, or the extreme violence slaves on the Montpelier use against white slave-drivers and the Johnny-jumpers, or black men who collaborate with the slave-drivers and whip negroes. Indeed, in the novel the blacks, even after killing whites, chop, stomp, burn, and desecrate the corpses out of rage and a desire for vengeance. Indeed, in one section of the canefields, where the slave uprising began, the narrator describes the carnage after the blacks refused to continue work as the following, “The negroes in that section circle the mens like a flood and swallow them up. They stop screaming. The negroes still stomping and chopping” (398). Blacks were uncontrollably seeking vengeance, and since the men resented listening to the women who orchestrated the uprising, they wasted time breaking into the stable for horses they could not ride or even the rape of Miss Isobel, the half-French white woman orphaned by Lilith who killed her entire family prior to the slave revolt (401-402). 

Clearly, the white response to the Haitian Revolution not only led to an increase in white repression of blacks in the immediate aftermath, but also forced whites to acknowledge, although begrudgingly, the unsustainability of slavery as a social institution once blacks have liberated themselves from the shackles of plantation life. Indeed, after the quelling of the Montpelier estate rebellion, the narrator describes the future as, “Maybe it better for backra and nigger that things go back to what people think is the best way until the fire next time. White man sleep with one eye open, but black man can never sleep” (421). This ominous conclusion on the relationships between masters and slaves symbolizes a constant struggle, manifested in the numerous revolts of blacks, especially those of Coromantee blood, known for leading several revolts throughout Jamaican history. Once the Haitian Revolution succeeding in unseating white rule and slavery in the Caribbean, the climate of fear, vigilance on the parts of whites, and slave revolts and conspiracies flourished across the Atlantic world, eventually forcing Britain to abolish slavery in the 1830s.

In spite of the aforementioned extreme violence and vengeance enslaved blacks justly used and how deservedly whites received it in Saint-Domingue and Jamaica, Lilith, the protagonist of the novel, transcends the ethical values of her time, choosing to not murder blacks nor whites anymore. Lilith, unlike Homer, does not find the whites of the novel inherently unnatural and inhuman, so serves as an ideological bridge between whites and blacks. This dark-complected, green-eyed mulatto house slave struggles to discover her identity and humanity in the most barbarous, inhumane conditions, but refuses to kill after she discovers the permanent stain of spilling human blood. Unlike Homer and other slaves, she also falls in love with the Irish overseer, Robert Quinn, who challenges her views on whites, even though their relationship is one founded on slavery and unequal power relations. Nevertheless, she embraces extreme violence to engage in self-defense against white and black attacks on her body, sexually and physically. Thus, Lilith represents a deeply flawed injection of moralism in a sea of excessive bloodshed. Unsurprisingly, Lilith at times forgets her blackness, or in the words of Gorgon, Lilith’s half-sister through the former overseer, Jack Wilkins, “De only white be full white, fool. Whether you mulatto, mustee or octoroon, you still nigger. Some o’ we forget dat, Gorgon say” (341). Similarly, many people of mixed descent in colonial Saint-Domingue also forgot their blackness, partly due to the absence of the one drop rule in the French Caribbean whereas Jamaica’s racial structure closely resembled the Anglo-American one drop rule to the north. Therefore, Lilith’s opposition to the extremism of the enslaved masses, especially field slaves out for revenge, could be partly due to her multiracial identity. Likewise, gens du couleur of Saint-Domingue often worked against the radicalism of the enslaved African masses. Consequently, the Haitian Revolution was not heralded as a great event in Lilith’s mind, especially because Homer and the other woman plotting the insurrection did not have a concrete plan for escaping and surviving the Maroons and avoiding starvation once the plantations were burned (347).

For the majority of the slaves, however, news of Haiti was hailed and praised. Scholar on the Haitian Revolution, David Geggus, cites evidence of Jamaican slaves singing songs about the Haitian Revolution as early as the 1790s, proving that news of events in Saint-Domingue percolated throughout the Caribbean. Moreover, slaves such as Homer’s following statement reveal the pride and desire on the part of slaves in Jamaica to emulate the Haiti: “You hear ‘bout Saint-Domingue, Lilith? That be the all-negro republic. Nigger want freedom and they take it. Nigger want land and they take it. Nigger want blood and they take that too” (304). Blacks such as Homer obviously did not perceive events in Haiti as proof of African savagery but as a morally justified response to whites that should be carried out throughout the Caribbean. Indeed, according to Homer, “Nigger from Saint-Domingue better than we, them woman have sense and them man have balls. Them don’t take nothing from no devil no more. Our time now” (305). She also interestingly highlights the role of women in the Haitian Revolution, which is often overlooked and male-centered, focusing on leaders such as Toussaint, Dessalines, Henri Christophe, Boukman, and Alexandre Petion rather than the countless women who sacrificed their lives fighting, organizing, and dying for emancipation. Likewise, the Jamaican women who plot the revolt, Homer and Lilith’s six half-sisters, carry it out work in concert with slaves at other plantations in the county but the revolution is remembered as that of Atlas, a male slave whose role was marginal, but his maleness allowed posterity to remember him. 

In addition, Homer and the Night women who plot the revolt practice Obeah and Myal, fusing African-derived traditions and religious practices into their resistance to slavery. Just as Vodoun played a necessary role in the Haitian Revolution, as an influence on the worldview and the belief in the supernatural among slaves, Obeah and Myal are used and widely believed in among the slaves of Jamaica. For instance, Homer and another older woman face accusations of witchcraft and Obeah because of the death of slaves due to bloody flux. Andromeda, a house slave and enemy of Lilith, dies after Lilith asks Gorgon to see an Obeah woman, illustrating the presence of magical realism in the novel (126). Numerous other instances abound of Homer invoking African spirits and communicating with them and through them, her deceased children stolen from her by her mistress’s insistence on selling them into slavery or invoking African deities such as Shango and Oshun to heal Lilith after her near-death beating (169). Homer and the night women also invoke one hundred to two hundred spirits before the revolt begins to ensure success (278).  In truth, these references to the importance of African religious traditions and the focus on life in the present and collective liberation entailed in these creole faiths that united Africans from different cultural backgrounds played an essential role. The experiences of African-descended slaves in both Haiti and Jamaica were quite similar as majority black slave societies with significant African retentions due to the large presence of bossale, or African-born slaves, thus Jamaican slaves likely knew and understood the importance of preserving and looking to slave religions for sustaining the Haitian Revolution. Indeed, during slave revolts, charms believed to protect people from bullets were believed in by enslaved blacks to allow them to face whites armed with muskets and rifles. This liberatory potential of African-derived faiths for slaves was a necessary counter to the pro-slavery sermons, the following given to slaves on Christmas in the novel, “Preacher man tell them that the Bible say them to stand firm in they suffering ‘cause that is they lot for being the cursed son of Noah. That Jesus don’t care for slavery but for the heart of the slave. That Jesus goin’ reward them in heaven for being a good nigger” (149).

Furthermore, the image of Haiti and its symbolic importance for enslaved blacks not only encouraged slave resistance but fundamentally altered the relations of power and labor in the broader Caribbean, including Jamaica. Black consciousness and transnational anti-slavery gained momentum in this period, with slave revolts spreading across the Caribbean and inspiring unrest throughout the region. Britain could no longer ignore the inevitable slave revolts and violence that the system relied upon, and blacks knew this. The desire for retribution, taken to excess by both slaves in Saint-Domingue and in this novel, exemplifies the role of violent retribution as cathartic and required for fomenting consciousness, a very Fanonian idea. Thus, Homer’s role in the revolt was partly due to retribution for the lifetime of beatings and the robbery of her children, as well as a general desire among her and other enslaved persons to live free, like those in Saint-Domingue had achieved. Indeed, the desire for freedom and hatred of whites fueled Homer saying, “"Enough. Learn this, and take it as God-swearing truth. We goin' kill them, girl chile, every single white son of a bitch within hundred mile. We goin' kill them all."

The Book of Night Women is a perfect example of the role of the Haitian Revolution in Caribbean and Western race relations, abolitionism, and the competing narratives and impacts of Saint-Domingue on slaves and whites. In the novel, whites find their worst fears materialized and a complete reversal of their natural world rooted in subordination and enslavement of Africans, whereas Jamaican slaves use the Haitian Revolution and its successes to inspire their own revolt. The actual revolt was hardly a success, with hundreds dying on the side of the blacks and only 94 whites killed, but had the blacks stayed and fought, they could have overran and won the county. Although Lilith’s character serves as a beacon of moralism in the novel, she is overshadowed by the extreme violence of slavery and cannot prevent the revolt. Indeed, her own experiences slaughtering the Roget family, including the children, and getting away with it earns her the respect of Homer and the night women. Nevertheless, the Haitian Revolution’s permanent contribution to Caribbean emancipation furthered the cause for the abolition of the Atlantic slave trade and eventually emancipation in 1834, since Caribbean slaves in Saint-Domingue showed the world that racial slavery, the plantation system, and white rule were not timeless features of life in the region.

Palace of the Peacock

Guyanese author Wilson Harris's Palace of the Peacock is extraordinarily complex, multi-layered, and perfectly responds to Conrad's Heart of Darkness.  Instead of the Congo, Harris takes us to the jungles of Guyana where Donne and his mixed-race crew pursue Mariella, his woman who left him to stay at the Mission. I had read elsewhere Harris's Hegelian dualism permeates the novel, but as it appears in Harris's prose, its relevance to the impact of colonialism on Guyana becomes ever clearer. Harris intelligently uses the indigenous population and their worldview with respect, too, forming an excellent rebuttal to Conrad. 

Donne and his crew are already dead, existing between life and death on the river (also identified as a river of life, stream of death), a significant theme for the novel's dualism. Alive and dead, heaven and hell, native and non-native, Harris uses dualism to argue for a synthesis of states of binary oppositions, an apt metaphor for colonial society. The 'palace of the peacock' is an astounding symbol for the novel's powerful conclusion, which ends with a seven day search for the indigenous population of Mariella Mission, the laborers Donne exploits and treats cruelly, in spite of his own dark skin. The novel's somewhat ambiguous ending of revelations for the deceased crew are highly suggestive of the colonial society in which Guyana exists. Will they share the land, for example? The ambiguous fate of the Guyanese society is left open to the reader's interpretation, but an optimistic future seems to be the overall message.  

Along the way the world of polar opposites, life and death, peace and conquest lead to trouble among the crew of the vessel. The unstable narration (the unnamed narrator, the Dreamer) mirrors the liminal space occupied by the characters, already dead, as they endeavor to catch up with the Arawaks who flee while dying again in pursuit (and pursued) of their various dreams. Love, race, incest, the search for fortune are some other themes important to the crew. Despite their mixed racial origins, they too perpetuate discriminatory views of the indigenous population, yet rely on an old Arawak woman as their guide along the river. 

Eschewing conventions of the novel form, Harris's first novel can be quite difficult to follow, but it's beautifully written, possesses all of the complex symbolism of Conrad's novel, and avoids any dehumanizing language. As a Caribbean writer of African descent who foregrounds the indigenous population of the region, Harris's novel is also conspicuous as one of the few from the Anglophone Caribbean for including Arawak characters and mythology, an untapped reservoir for Caribbean literature. 

My Bones and My Flute

Mittelholzer's My Bone and My Flute is a well-written horror story that successfully transfers the reader back to Guyana in the 1930s. The narrator, Milton, bears an uncanny resemblance to Mittelholzer himself, and despite the dark themes and frightening suspense, there are moments when one cannot help but giggle because of the self-deprecating or absurd and self-referential references either made by Milton himself or some of the other characters. As for the horror genre within Caribbean literature, Mittelholzer is the main one who comes to mind for me, although Mayra Montero and a certain novel by the Marcelin brothers from Haiti also employ similar motifs and culturally or historically specific reference points for their mysteries. Mittelholzer did a better job with the genre than the Haitian brothers because his story is solidly within the confines of horror and does not take itself too seriously while The Beast of the Haitian Hills was all over the place. Both stories, to their credit, contain much of social import and reflect upon the rural-urban divides within both Guyana and Haiti (not to mention class and color) with some suggested morals for the reader. Much like Haiti, the slave revolutions of the past, really history in general, is never forgotten. 

A Morning at the Office

Edgar Mittelholzer's social realist novel set in a Port of Spain office in a Trinidad on the cusp of social change offers some useful insights on Trinidadian society and the author's own views on race, class, gender, sexuality, identity, and the human condition. Incorporating himself into A Morning at the Office and "telescopic objectivity," Mittelholzer's novel uses an inventive narrative framework to tie the racially diverse employees of the company into broader trends in Trinidadian society, not to mention objects that trigger memories and futures for the characters while reaffirming the objectification of individuals by their racial, gender, sexual, and class positions. Furthermore, Mittelholzer positions himself in opposition to some of the burgeoning forms of "faddist" nationalism that was evolving in Trinidad and the rest of the British West Indies at the time. Instead of valorizing Caribbean folklore or traditions from the plantation and African past, Arthur, a character presumably representing Mittelholzer as much as Mortimer Barnett, argues for an essentially Western orientation of the West Indian, a sentiment often expressed in his With a Carib Eye. 

But the real emphasis in A Morning at the Office concerns the multiple layers of social stratification in Trinidad and its "caste-like" system of subjugation. Of course, the order so adeptly described and satirized here (not to mention in the works of V.S. Naipaul or the tragicomic moments in Shiva Naipaul's work) is in flux because of growing anti-colonial sentiment, the labor movement, and black and Indian social mobility, but it is seen through the eyes of Portuguese, Spanish, English, black working-class, coloured middle-classes and gendered perspectives in the office of a company that is tied to larger themes of economics and labor in late colonial Trinidad. Each character broadly represents their social groups and the various nuances of the racial categories thrust upon them. And each character is haunted by something they cannot, for reasons of respectability, status, or happiness, attain. Each character likewise must confront their own class and racial biases in the office, with the top positions always given to whites while mixed-race members of the professional and political strata continue to look down on Indians and blacks who in turn have their own nuances (such as the wealthy creolized family of Miss Bisnauth versus the poor Jagabir who is never allowed to forget his origins on the sugar cane estates). 

For Horace Xavier, the poor black office boy hopelessly in love with the mixed-race Miss Hinckson from a respectable and influential family, his ambitious plans for the future, intelligence, and large-scale changes in Trinidadian society in the 1940s and 1950s will only propel him while the others must make sense of their different predicaments that block the road to happiness. For some, it is a question of interracial romance or forbidden love that is unacceptable to their families or society. In the case of others, it is thwarted hopes of success in writing, children, social climbing, or, as in the case of some English living in Trinidad, returning to Europe due to racism against the local population or a feeling of disdain and disgust at how white skin rewards mediocrity in a colonial context. Mittelholzer, with great humor and compassion, explores the minds of each of these characters during a few hours at the office and as much as the racialized class system appears rigid, the assertion of Horace, the career steps of Jagabir, or the promise of West Indian literature as exemplified in Barnett foreshadow the changes in Trinidadian social relations to come.

The Dragon Can't Dance

"But, for all his apparent casualness, he had read Marx and grounded on Fanon and Malcolm X and he was on the outskirts of what called itself a Socialist Movement, involving professionals and fellows from the University of the West Indies."

Earl Lovelace’s The Dragon Can’t Dance, is widely considered one of the best novels to come out of not only Trinidad but the Caribbean. Indeed, it is a well-written, poetic novel about self-liberation from the colonial psyche set in the fictional slum of Calvary Hill in Port-of-Spain, Trinidad. Lovelace explores the impact of the colonial psyche and discovering one’s identity through multiple characters, such as the protagonist, Aldrick, Pariag, a man of Indian descent who leaves the countryside for Port-of-Spain, Philo, a calypso singer, and many others. Lovelace also uses Trinidadian dialect for dialogue combined with a standard English prose imbued with lyrical genius. Thus, the novel has some similar themes with Toni Morrison’s Tar Baby, specifically regarding how people of African descent respond to the extreme rationalism and regimented, authoritarian social orders and labor systems associated with plantation slavery and the industrial West. 

Aldrick, the novel’s protagonist, initially saw the way of life of the people of the slums as the best response: avoiding the strict, western hegemonic rationality and devoting one’s life to idleness and living day to day. Son, in Morrison’s Tar Baby, has the same initial response as Aldrick, the dragon masquerader in Carnival, but through his relationship with Jadine, who wholly absorbs the Eurocentric mould, eventually is forced to make a decision altering his life forever. Likewise, Aldrick eventually realizes the errors of his past ways after partaking in hijacking and kidnapping of a police jeep and 2 officers, in a vain attempt to lift the consciousness of the people of Trinidad, demanding freedom, liberty, democracy. He acknowledges that driving around in a car, asking for freedom and respect will never end slavery or neocolonialism; in order to liberate the masses, people in Calvary Hill and other slums of Port-of-Spain must rise up by acting like free, human beings. The false dichotomy of selling oneself for the so-called free, but troubled existence of idleness or giving into the Eurocentric approach to life, represented by Guy in the novel, will not bring liberation. Indeed, Lovelace also cleverly but not so subtly critiques Afrocentric, black nationalist, Afro-wearing blacks, socialists, and other self-proclaimed radicals who do nothing to seize their humanity.

Lovelace has a unique style and literary voice. I recommend this novel although it may be hard for those unaccustomed to Trinidadian culture, especially regarding food, language, and cultural elements pertaining to Carnival, calypso, and the multiracial character of Trinidad. This is seen in the novel through the mulatto, Cleothilda, and Pariag, the Indo-Trinidadian who wants to befriend Afro-Trinidadian Creoles in Calvary Hill but the ethnic differences continue to divide. Overall, this is a fascinating read that deserves multiple readings to truly comprehend the metaphor of Carnival for Trinidad’s persistent colonized mentality and the African-derived traditions influencing the masquerade and Carnival celebration. Moreover, with the focus on characters of lower socio-economic status, Lovelace depicts the lumpenproletariat as saviors of themselves, with the only avenue to liberation coming from themselves alone. 

The Wine of Astonishment

"And we really blind not to see that to these people we is just a joke that come in fashion once every five years when they come with pen and paper and take our names, promising to bring down the moon and the stars, feting us on rum and roti so we could ride their car on election morning and mark a X next to their name."

Earl Lovelace's The Wine of Astonishment is an interesting read for those who gravitate toward Caribbean literature. Employing the Trinidadian vernacular English through Eva, the peasant woman who narrates the tale, Lovelace tells the story of the tribulations Spiritual Baptists face in Bonasse as they struggle to express themselves and their religion in a colonial context. World War II, the negative social impact of the Yankees, the colonial government's discriminatory outlawing of the Spiritual Baptist church, urbanization, class, and the betrayal of the black political leadership are just some of the obstacles to freedom of religion and asserting the humanity of Trinidadians of African descent. 

Because of its postcolonial themes and assertion of a communal basis for black advancement in a Trinidadian context, the novel is quite similar to the only other novel by Lovelace I have read, The Dragon Can't Dance. Both use local traditions and themes (Carnival, stickfighting, Afro-Christian Spiritual Baptist traditions)  and an unmistakable solidarity with the lower classes for social advancement. In this novel, the push for the colonial government to ensure freedom of worship for the Spiritual Baptists is inseparable from their dignity, pride, and African roots, just as Carnival and stickfighting also represent the black creole culture of Trinidad. Through these traditions, which survive rural to urban migration and (Western) education, one can arguably see the survival of these cultural forms and the assertion of human dignity by the people of Bonasse after all their trials and tribulations. 

That is why the novel's conclusion is so powerful. The Spiritual Baptists celebrate their freedom to worship but the Spirit does not descend. Instead, on the way to an election event for Ivan Morton, the politician who has betrayed Bonasse by trying to live as a white man for years, they find the Spirit in a steelband performance. The Spirit of this syncretistic Afro-Trinidadian church is found in the culture of the everyday people, in their celebration of themselves as uniquely Trinidadian for empowerment. This allows the novel to transcend any superficial attempt to limit it solely to religious expression. The novel is a defense of the peasantry of Trinidad, of stickfighting and the African-derived warrior. This realization among Eva's community, this acknowledgement of their own pride, power, and ability to defend themselves, despite failing to do so against the self-sacrifice of stickfighting hero Bolo, is what will allow their community to become more than the earth, to reach for the skies and reveal their agency. 

For anyone searching for a difficult but short read on Trinidad, The Wine of Astonishment is an excellent literary feat. One will finish this novel with a much greater appreciation of Trinidad's cultural heritage, as well as the pervasive landscape that defines the community. While Indo-Trinidadians are largely absent(The Dragon Can't Dance is more inclusive), the historical context in which labor organizing, social change, migration to Port of Spain, and the burgeoning anti-colonial movement are key themes which increases the relevance of the novel to the broader Caribbean or Africa. Trinidad, with its black creole traditions that evolve as in the case of stickfighting or the Spirtual Baptists, is highly suggestive of the optimism that characterizes both The Wine of Astonishment and The Dragon Can't Dance. 

A Brighter Sun

"He used to say that all this business about colour and nationality was balls, that as long as a man was happy that was all that mattered."

Selvon's first novel, A Brighter Sun, \tells the story of Tiger, the protagonist in Turn Again Tiger, the entertaining sequel which continues his story. Married off to Urmilla at age 16, Tiger struggles to understand manhood, or, better yet, adulthood and his place in an expanding world. Going to Port of Spain for the first time, becoming a father, working with the Americans on the Churchill-Roosevelt Road, learning to read, and gaining a deeper, nuanced understanding of knowledge, politics, and race, Tiger's vision of himself and his role as a man brightens as the sun. Of course, aspects of Trinidadian adult masculinity are certainly disturbing, such as Tiger and Joe beating their wives, but the community of Barataria and the various "characters" who populate Tiger's world illustrate nuance along race, class, gender, or political affiliations. 

Selvon, as mentioned elsewhere on this blog, is an expert at humor, the highlight of this novel being Sookdeo, the old Indian village drunk, selling his half-blind donkey that does not "look" well to another man. The vernacular dialogue also shines through this novel, which contains more than enough local colors, sites, and characterization of the countryside, village, and town. Joe Martin, Tiger's best friend in Turn Again Tiger, as well as Tall Boy, the Chinese shopkeeper, have their own backstories, too. Joe's origins in the barrackyards of George Street, for instance, or Rita and Urmilla's friendship which transcends the creole/coolie divide, remind one of Minty Alley by C.L.R. James. Like James, Selvon knows and empathizes deeply with the popular classes of Trinidad during the war, a time of tremendous change as Yankee bases hired local labor at higher wages than the sugar estates and government positions (rum and coca cola!). 

For any and everyone interested in Selvon or Trinidad & Tobago, A Brighter Sun is more than a worthwhile introduction. Although many events happen and Tiger's still unsure what exactly makes a man, the jokes aside will keep the reader enthralled by this rapidly changing world. Indeed, Tiger's growing interest in politics and the class and racial divisions, hint at greater change to come with keen attention to the facade of populist local officials in the legislative council who, despite their appeals to racial kinship, offer nothing but broken promises. Somewhat reminiscent of Naipaul's Suffrage of Elvira or the colonial politician in The Wine of Astonishment by Lovelace.

The Lonely Londoners

"Wherever in London that it have Working Class, there you will find a lot of spades."

Samuel Selvon's short novel, The Lonely Londoners, expertly captures the Caribbean migrant experience in London. Chronicling the experiences of a group, consisting mostly of men, through a series of interconnected vignettes. The uprooting experience of migration, particularly as a stigmatized racial group, leads to numerous powerful, distressing stories of the cruel and inhospitable environment the early waves of West Indians faced in London. 

Despite being British subjects and serving in the War for Britain, racism in housing, labor, sex, and the Othering experience these West Indians face provide insurmountable obstacles that provoke deep reflection in the aptly named Moses, one of the leaders of the West Indian men in London for being there longer than most others. Due to his experience, Moses guides later arrivals, and the community of West Indians grows and emulates aspects of its past while being forever changed. 

Aspects of their West Indian societies remain (colorism, the lively market women tradition, calypso music), particularly their nostalgia for their homeland, but gradually the migrants accustom themselves to the bitter winter, fog, daily racism, and false promises of streets paved with gold. Like the best immigrant literature, the disillusionment or disappointment of the migrant experience is the overarching theme, exemplified by Moses's troubling indecisiveness about returning to Trinidad. 

The novel's key themes are undoubtedly universal, particularly in the alienation and social divisions that inhibit communities. The class system, for example, is powerfully invoked to place poor West Indians in a social context in which class identities are seemingly accepted by all. Gender, romance, and love are similarly deformed by the city, which turns to cheap thrills, prostitution, and sexual depravities as the only intimacy. Marriage is not seen as viable by these early Caribbean migrants, because marriage with white women leads to problems with racism from the spouse's family, and racism against mixed-race children. And like poor whites, when not able to find work, Afro-Caribbean migrants' only option was to try to get on welfare and barely subsist until they can find low-paying work below their qualifications.

Selvon's use of symbolism and inventive language (drawing on his Trinidadian vernacular English, of course) is also noteworthy, from the symbolic use of seagulls and pigeons to mirror the migrant experience of these black West Indians, to the chapter consisting of a single sentence lacking any and all punctuation. Selvon's brush with more experimental prose, clever combination of dialect and Standard English, and local slang add humor, context, and realism to a work of fiction. One can see how this novel influenced later multicultural writers from London, such as Zadie Smith, who also writes about Jamaican and West Indian communities in London, interracial families, etc. 

I must also add that this novel reminded me of two other novels, one by Tayeb Salih from Sudan (Season of a Migration to the North) and Gisèle Pineau, a French writer with parents from Guadeloupe. The former's novel features a character who spent several years in London, experiencing the same racism as Selvon's West Indians and African character (Cap) from whites who only see blacks as sexualized primitives, who are continually dehumanized. 

In the latter's work, Exile According to Julia, I see some similarities between the old Jamaican woman, Tanty, in The Lonely Londoners, and Julia, the grandmother in Pineau's novel. Both are older Caribbean woman living in European metropolitan cities who are described in rather humorous ways, which is suggestive of some of the parallels between Caribbean communities in different European countries as they struggle to grow accustomed to the climate, form families, assimilate, and survive.