The genetic implant of Colonialism

THE raising of a flag was considered, and believed in, by most of us, including yours truly, to mean that we were independent as a nation; that we possessed the right to pursue a path beneficial, first, to those whose birthright lies within our borders. But with time, observation, and experience, we came to realise that nation-building is far more than raising a flag, singing a new national anthem, and changing the names of a few streets.

Independence is an internal process that develops over time, and must include mental bridges built and recognised to develop the assuring awareness that we have achieved the new bridges through our own efforts. Notwithstanding, we must also reconcile with the best, in our rational interest, of the very colonial experience. They didn’t get everything wrong, measuring the benefits, and the outweighing flaws.

There is a study that touches on the relationship between genes and culture, from individualism to social sensitivity, that cultural experiences are replicated in genes. The culture of colonisation, no doubt, did not only cultivate the necessary inferiority complexes of dependency at both an active and subconscious mental level; it ingrained a tepidness towards discussing what is not popular to be applied from within, rather than questions of curiosity and encouragement, in a discussion of pros and cons. It is quick to close doors to ideas where examples do not locally exist.

I can recall, as a teenager, hearing arguments between adults about whether we can produce ‘Salt Fish’ locally to replace the imported ‘Cod and Smoke Herring’. Independence, as a force, proceeded, and local salt fish is now here as if it were always here. But there is always a need for innovative encouragement. For example, it did take, with the cooperation of our Carnegie School of Home Economics, several editions of ‘What’s Cooking in Guyana’, and the need for income resulting from the economic loss of thousands of jobs as a result of computerisation. Changes in merchant marine shipping and the absence of new labour-intensive employment launched a new wave of street-food providers to the satisfy familiar tastes of hungry couples and bachelors, from mettem, cook-up with fried fish, roti and curry, soups etc.

But the struggle now lies in the ability to recognise that guilds have to be facilitated for the guidance of expertise that can create new frontiers of employment. Whatever is focused on must have a market beyond Guyana, and meet the required standards.

Some time ago, I did an article on a Campbellville resident, who I knew while working at “chilren propaty”, as The Guyana Rice Board was nicknamed.

INCREDIBLY TALENTED
Daniel, (for privacy sake, I have not used his real name), is an incredible industrial designer. He was featured in the Chronicle about 40 years before, so I did it again after visiting where his father (Nature Boy) lived in Campbellville Housing Scheme to locate him. He had another idea in the making, so I published his talent in this column, and went even further to find out from an engineer if there was a Guild or such locally that he could talk to. I was told no.

The greater problem lay in that he could not even patent his designs; this is the bigger issue. I did promise to make some further inquiries, but my own issues got in the way. I saw him recently. After he called out to me, I was doubly embarrassed that I didn’t live up to my promise, but he had a brush cutter, and, based on the demands of living, had joined this crowded service business. This was my second embarrassment and disappointment; not of his action, but instead that he had to make this choice to survive, regardless of his talents.

The classic caricature of the colonial was pointed out to me by a close adult relative. In my mind, the caricature was mad; I couldn’t define madness by any other terminology, if you behaved a certain out-of-order way. That’s how young folks interpreted things back then. None of the mental health differentiations known today was part of our vocabulary in the late sixties. The man’s nickname was ‘Walker the N*****’, and he had two smooth bricks in his hands, and a fierce look in his eyes. I was told that his rage at our becoming independent resulted in his condition. I don’t know if this was true, or if this was the only complaint he had, but he did shout, “British! We are British people! Long live the Queen!”

I saw him later in my teenage years. He was still reminding passersby that we are “British people.” He’d lived at the Palms then. Change doesn’t come easy. Many others had and have replicas and forms of ‘Walker the N*****’ within. Because this character is no doubt multifaceted, as the character of the ‘Briga Bobby’ became the post-independence equivalent of ‘Walker’. We can only struggle to understand, through observation, and understand the contradictions, then side-step and walk the most logical path in the jungle of nations towards practical, self-serving Independence.

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