I inherited a copy of Kenneth Ram Chand’s West Indian Narrative – An Introductory Anthology. The subject of this literature was the question that first confused, then inspired, and became more innovative as the years went on. I must share this foreword with you, imposing its logic:

“How would the terror and agony of a slave rising become a part of the West Indian experience if Mittelholzer had not made it so? Or the burning of Castries becomes a part of the West Indian memory if one who saw his world dissolving had not written… ‘Wanted to tell more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire, All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales. Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar…’? Or Mourant Bay, in Jamaica, with its rusted corrugated-iron roofs set against vivid green hills, would have become part of the West Indian heritage if Vic Reid had not made it ours. For it is the artist who fashions the symbols of unity in the English-speaking Caribbean, not the politician. In Lamming’s phrase, he charts the West Indian memory.”

This little book covered the lives and works of numerous Caribbean writers, as I read it then, of the past, as there were others to come. Some narrated with excellence, like the tale by Mittelholzer, My Bones and My Flute, narrated on radio by the then tremendous voice of James Sydney, followed by the incredible drama of Tides of Susan Berg, written by my friend, Francis Quamina Farrier. And the many who followed, contributing to the national memory, with other reflections of how we live and endure—whether in satire or folk legend, we persist.

I cannot summarise the distractions of this era today. We are not enticed to explore the ego, with numerous alter-egos that have eclipsed the recognition of all that I have referred to, and the rites of the balance of living. But I can recognise what our fathers knew: that a man who forgets the salient truths taught to him through parables, and with living examples and local street and village tales of the tough, but wise and principled characters against the sinister that stood out, can make a judgement and realise that whatever mysteries we may construe of the principles of religion and philosophy do whisper to our memories. There are examples in history that can debate our questioning.

There are always tempting paths inhabited by luring whispers that infiltrate our observations with persuasive arguments that lead towards regret. For even our learned aesthetics can be misinterpreted, based on moments of self-accusation and confusion, if one fails to explore. The talents are there, and in diverse areas. Talents have left us examples; the mechanism, however, is where the knowing effort is lacking. However, new talents, if aware, will shape the nexus of a tremendous heritage that must be shaped to inspire those gifted to learn.

In conclusion, the task must be the need to know, and rather than follow, choose to lead, as the brothers and sisters before us stumbled and rose again—simply because you don’t have to justify folly. In our world of self-examination, every experience is a lesson learnt. Let the new awareness be your guide; inhale, breathe again, and enter the ring for the next encounter of awareness.