tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374648029086410512024-02-20T04:22:08.219-04:00myantiguabarbudaWhen the muse moves me I write about my people lest I move nearer and nearer to the maddening crowd and do not return to foreverDr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.comBlogger179125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-10021255907886247372020-06-19T17:52:00.000-04:002020-06-19T17:52:21.863-04:00The Brave New WorldThe Civilizing of Racist White People<br />
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We are indeed at a crossroad in history. Racists whites have a simple choice: Either to continue to live in their false, alternative universe, or to come into the real world they have been running away from. <br />
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Make no mistake about it. Apologizing is relatively simple, as all school children know. Regarding the reasons for the criminal act and the false constructions you deliberately and wittingly put up to justify your crime, demands a refreshing act of civilizing that forces you literally to be “born again”, and in so doing to denounce that which you see in the mirror. <br />
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No wonder the Church has great difficulty here. It is the grand, all inclusive confession beyond and fundamental to all others. Indeed Revelation begets Genesis. <br />
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We must continue to hold that mirror of history and humanity up to them until and even after they can hold it up for themselves. <br />
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Mirrors must be the new public statues. Mirrors. Just mirrors.Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-75614310821774789762020-06-13T17:30:00.001-04:002020-06-13T17:30:28.241-04:00Don't Stop The CanivalWe Playing Masks<br />
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It’s been a long time some women don’t always want a man winking-up behind then at carnival time. Long garling time. I have known this since I was a little boy. With so many females in my family I didn’t have to peer like my friends to see and study them. Women were always in my face; on rising in the morning and at going to bed at night. And don’t talk about the many times I had to go outside to see why our dog was barking nonstop. Some wayfaring stranger fearing he would lose his whey for the night would be whistling to signal his coming. She was not going outside tonight. Carnival time.<br />
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It’s been a very long time that I have been watching women; big Christian women especially. Some of them were wont to carry my vulgar, wanton, cursing cousin’s name to granny. The way they retold the school-cursing story, that they didn’t witness, under the hill, when school was over, teachers out of sight, and nonfat dry milk powder all over the road, told me how much they wanted to be free like her. Carnival. <br />
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They waltzed through our unhinged gate with their equally unhinged minds, uninvited, as guardians of village morality. They staged up themselves in our yard like my Amazon cousin. Dead center. Sometimes to the left, near the sugar apple tree. One hand akimbo; the other at an obtuse angle in the air. Almost like flamenco dancers, before my granny. Even grandfather, Pythagoras, got up off his hypotenuse. These square ladies. These square ladies whom I thought knew only of square dancing. They wanted carnival. <br />
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They came to the picnic. They claimed they didn’t want to dance. So what on earth were they listening to the music for; and shaking your feet? They liked to watch. All day long they chatting chatting, chatting, drinking ginger beer, eating cake and sugar cake and licking ice cream; as if I didn’t see the aliquots of white run. And they had the nerve to send away poor little me to buy sweetie to suck away the scent. Three hundred and sixty five beaches and they don’t want to swim. They can’t swim. They just splashing water on their bodies, adjusting their bathing suits and asking each other if it’s tight, tight after getting wet. Carnival again. <br />
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And what about the tall, bespectacled elegant one; the parson’s sister? Remember that Sunday after church when she walked to the bus with her body in elliptical motion? Broke her shoe’s heel my foot. I couldn’t swear in church but I almost swore she deliberately prized off the heel. Any heel can break off just so and look so, and happen while she was sitting in church? She didn’t even go up for communion. At least she was honest. And she was even more honest at a funeral a few days after. Some longtime friend asked her how she looked so good, so happy and contented; and begged for a portion of her secret potion. She said it was her faith in the Lord. She should have stopped there. No. Funerals can resurrect the dying truth. She went on to say that everything was for Jesus. Now. Now. The good Lord must have plenty mercy for real father, to give to so many of us; and a sense of humour too. My little ears clean, clean, clean. I heard somebody whispered to somebody else that she was so right. Everything was indeed for Jesus for true. Apparently or reportedly, depending on if you saw or you heard, some young man ( not poor little me) was ravishing her night after night whilst she was bawling Jesus; Jesus. Jealousy is worse than witchcraft. And they want to stop the carnival. <br />
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This Jesus echo came to mind again many years later. Women must have a rabid sense of humour to endure some men. There I was, professionally, well really and truly professionally, and not alone, in the room of a prostitute that served as the blood collection area for taking samples from just under one hundred women of the night. Yes. I know. A dear friend said I should be careful with my preposition; although he had mistakenly said proposition. This hard work on a Sunday was in the early days of HIV. Never before or since have I seen a greater density of pictures of Jesus Christ on a wall. Jesus wept. Who were you going to call in remembrance? And I was so stupid to ask, as twilight descended and some early workmen ascended, why the light in the room was so dim. The bilingual female interpreter glanced quizzically as me. Dim-witted idiot. But I got one back. She didn’t get the pun on the tip of my tongue; sorry; on the tip of her bilingual tongue. Carnival again.<br />
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And what about those women who think it is their heavenly duty to harbour and berth deadbeat men who only come into port when the tide is high? Flooding their room with insipid water that stains up their frocks like dropping, dripping juice from hanging, concaving green bananas. It cannot be that half a man is better than no man at all. Will you continue to say this when you are halfway into your grave? Six foot distancing with a broken jar, a twisted nose, a black-eye, two black-eyes actually, a dislocated shoulder (again) and a knife cutting away thin slices of your life; free at last from his life, from your life and from the lives of your pickaninnies. Sometimes a woman just wants to breathe and not breed. You can’t stop the carnival.<br />
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This year we playing mask. Six feet apart is good distancing. She can wine-up in peace, finally. It’s a long time they planning this. I remember as a child seeing big, hard men dancing six inches, and closer, behind women and the women pushing them off. And instead, they calling poor little boys like me who revered them in the village. But now they were in town, dancing up. And when the little children suffered and did come on to them, they smiled, asking if this was the little boy for so and so that grew up so big. And they gone again; darling; darling. Carnival.<br />
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The things little children see and hear and believe. We really thought Mr. Benwood Dick was a lovely old gentleman with a bent wooden leg. Poor man, we thought. Our sister should help him across the road to his house. And what about the lady who was called Miss. Rounders. We thought she was really a good player of the game, rounders; until she quietly told her handy man to wet his hand and wait for her. Our English teacher had just taught us the meaning of homophones. So, was it wet or was it whet? The unbridled joys of being a handyman. Carnival come. <br />
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The word homophone was spoken very softly. Bright young children showing off was frowned upon. But we saw and heard everything. One lady was warned by another to be very watchful of her newfound lady friend, who was renowned for, among other things, cursing badly, with bad words to boot, in public, even on Sundays evenings, respectfully after the evening’s Gospel Hour program on radio. It was deftly suggested that if she and her new friend were to fall out, her so called friend would not hesitate to put her tongue on her. It is said but not written that at the reception of that warning, the lady’s cheek went from as black as a berry to as red as a cherry. Don’t stop the carnival. <br />
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Some men have sex on their mind all the time. All the time. They see sex when it’s not remotely present. Switching channels remotely; like a TV; if you get the TV drift. Their mind and body can stretch to near breaking point. Man goes into a pharmacy. At the cashier he sees all the sexual aids, extensions and supplements that will complement and compliment his performance. The cashier is simply doing her job, professionally, smiling and being courteous. He buys a pack of condom. He asks for two packs instead of one. She puts up two fingers to verify. He reads something in the two fingers that is totally absent. He thinks her two fingers are very far apart. Is this a signal? No. The music in the store is Air on a G string by Johann Sebastian Bach. Is this a signal? No. Her name is not Joanne. There is no sea in Sebastian. She is not coming back with you to Darkwood Beach for your carnival with the tropical air caressing her G string. Leave the woman alone. Don’t stop her carnival. <br />
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Some women just want to have fun. Plain, adult rated unadulterated fun, all by themselves. Six feet apart in this time of Covid-19, sanitized hands, playing mask, is perfectly fine for some of them. So please. Don’t stop the carnival. <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-21071267775198276012020-05-10T12:02:00.004-04:002020-05-10T12:02:51.380-04:00HAPPY MOTHERS DAY FATHERHAPPY MOTHERS DAY:<br />
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And to think that everyone’s mitochondrial DNA is derived from the mother, who got hers from her mother ...ad infinitum...(whether you are male or female). <br />
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Take this back many genomic generations ab initio and it begs at least two questions: <br />
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1. Is God a woman! <br />
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2. Did Eve come first? <br />
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3. Or even if Adam did come first, with his maternal mitochondrial DNA from God, was it the woman in God that sent Eve onto him?<br />
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Sorry, 3 questions!<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-14496491474740433482020-05-09T23:14:00.000-04:002020-05-10T08:35:59.660-04:00Father Son and Holy ProteinsIn His Image<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqR330SJtljfxFgsbefhaSSMMBbRZufoqjQzPa3soRlavlSFMS86DR3BTEEoessmelMoyPZOIERsLnmlUH-s4T6FDs9Rs_2jeNdEXkxJugs8cEMDwhsOx0zA6mq6DJzjFn7WSNHCWJpYQ/s1600/dna.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqR330SJtljfxFgsbefhaSSMMBbRZufoqjQzPa3soRlavlSFMS86DR3BTEEoessmelMoyPZOIERsLnmlUH-s4T6FDs9Rs_2jeNdEXkxJugs8cEMDwhsOx0zA6mq6DJzjFn7WSNHCWJpYQ/s200/dna.jpg" width="200" height="200" data-original-width="1300" data-original-height="1299" /></a><br />
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By Lester CN Simon-Hazlewood<br />
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If DNA is the Father molecule and RNA is the Son molecule then the central dogma of molecular biology says that instructions from the Father can be transcribed onto the Son, the messenger, who can then by translation send that message onto us, proteins.<br />
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And if by reverse transcription the Son can become the Father, can we protein beings not only exist in the image of the Father but through his Son, inform the Father?<br />
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And if again, some 98.5 % of our genome is truly not involved in protein synthesis (and supposedly not involved in {“reverse”} protein prayer ) but rather that 80 % of this “dark genomic matter” is concerned with architectural planning, genomic blueprinting and regulation of the expression of the word of DNA, then heaven must be a place where most of the heavenly energy is expended not directly on us but indirectly on ensuring that heaven is in good, constitutive order, presumably for us.<br />
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And so, finally, if all of the above is true then the central dogma of our existence on this earth must surely be, not necessarily to pray incessantly but rather to use our “dark, latent, silent energy to ensure that like in heaven, our planning and blueprinting and regulation of life on earth is in constitutive tolerable order.<br />
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That then is truly heaven on earth!<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-27733908320648497692018-08-03T11:33:00.001-04:002018-08-03T11:33:17.867-04:00BORN AGAINBUTTON AND BUSH<br />
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It’s my birthday. I am reflecting on my 67 years of life on earth. Reflection at this age is mixed with looking forward; and so my thoughts immediately went to my favourite, deceased uncle. He taught me two important lessons. <br />
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Lesson one: Doing what Jesus did will help to find you a place in heaven. My uncle preached that he should go to heaven because if per chance they made an error and he descended into hell, all he had to do was to call up to Jesus and remind him that he, my uncle, was a carpenter too, and tradesmen should look after each other; a sort of union thing.<br />
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So what about all those who did something or try to do something that Jesus did, will they be able to get the same passport into heaven? Those who give you cheap wine, as if they made it from water; those doctors who think they alone can heal the sick; those pathologists who raise the dead by taking the body from a lower to a higher tray in the morgue; those school bullies who take away your lunch of bread and salt fish to feed a multitude of school children; those who have to walk on water when the heavy rains come; those who are anointed by prostitutes on and off Popeshead street.<br />
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Lesson two: Addiction comes in all forms. When his drinking was destroying his liver and swelling his feet, I was silly to try to show off my medical student knowledge about the effects of alcohol. After my dissertation, he calmly directed my attention to a plant in the house and, taking me back to one of my duties as a child, reminded me that plants need water. My tears were almost enough to soak the plant. We should all have plants inside and outside the house.<br />
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Can it be that you learn your most memorable lessons early in life? If so, what lessons did I learn from bullies in school? They will never stop until something drastic, more drastic, happens. For example, when you are confronted one night by two of them, you surprise them, and yourself, by thumping one of them in the face, and pushing the other one into the gutter. And run away to fight another day. <br />
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But why did they do these seemingly strange things? Like; put a piece of bush on your shoulder and dared you to brush it off! It was not my bush so I didn’t want to touch it, even though it looked freshly plucked and clean. But it was my shoulder; given to me by my mother and father. Was I a breech birth with troublesome shoulder delivery? Confused, I stood still, shoulder square and broad, lest the bush fell off, in the blowing wind (with no answer). <br />
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So now, at a certain workplace, some nearga will put glass bottles on the property on the shoulder of the grassy knoll , where vehicles can park. And I am suppose to remove them? That this will happen to me one day, decades later, is what my school bush-bullies were trying to teach me? <br />
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And too, they will waltz up to you, three or four of them, as if they knew that the waltz is in three-four time. Then they commanded me to touch my button (“If you think you bad”). Now, this was more serious and confusing than the bush on the shoulder. With all the hand washing my school clothes had to endure, my granny, with her aging body but seemingly microscopic eyes, will regularly sew buttons onto my shirt. Why then should I interfere with my granny’s handy work, other than when putting on and taking off my shirt? Plus, I did not think I was a bad person, who had to do bad things like touch one’s own button on the command of someone else. <br />
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So now, again at a certain workplace, the same place, some nearga will deliberately park their vehicle behind mine, in such a way, and so close, that I cannot move. They refuse to drive around the building to find trouble-free parking waiting for them. They must the descendants of the button bullies, now telling me to get in my vehicle, my very own vehicle, and reverse (“If you think you bad”.)<br />
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Growing old has it virtues, the single most important one being, no longer in my younger, more effervescent days, I am a little calmer; I think. I take almost all matters with a pinch of salt; or I do away with the salt altogether and drink more water. My birthday coming always at Carnival, water will serve me well in the Burning Flames after passing through Hell’s Gate. I am not a carpenter. Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-1745499204437047752018-06-03T12:25:00.001-04:002018-06-05T23:29:56.859-04:00YOU CAN DANCE TO THE MUSICThe Counterpoint of Classical Music and Black People.<br />
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Recently, black musicians playing classic music have attracted the attention of more than a few people. Actually, and factually, we have been playing this genre of music since the 1820’s, with black musicians and composers to still learn about and celebrate. Ambivalence seems to ransack the thoughts of both musicians and listeners. A true counterpoint exists. And as in any counterpoint in music the independent parts are also interdependent. <br />
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The typical, negative reaction of most blacks to classical music is largely based on two factors: The mere sound of the music, and, probably more important, the historical relationship between Europe and Africa and the Caribbean.<br />
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So what happens to a black listener or musician who falls in love with classical music? How do you react to those whites and blacks, and voices in your head, telling you it’s not black people music, so leave it alone? Do you note that classical music ranges in style from baroque to "classical" to romantic to modern, with sometimes razor-thin separation, if any, between traditional classical music and jazz in the modern style of classical music? Do you counter by reminding them of all the genres of music blacks have given to the world, or do you walk away and deny the genuine emotions you feel, and ask why are others denying what must be the same emotions on hearing, at least some forms of, classical music?<br />
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It may just be that a black person, listener or musician, has to live a bipolar life. A life in which you understand and value the contributions of black people to music on one hand, or in one head, and, on the other hand, or in the other head, notwithstanding the history of Europe, or standing with a constant reminder of the history of Europe, you do the same valuation of European classical music. <br />
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But how can you live such a crowded, maddening life without seeking to find “that tune”. That tune that has never been played. That tune that some refuse to hear. That tune that says until and unless Reparation is seen as a civilizing principle and process, for whites and blacks, to the actualizing end, dissonance will ravage and consume the counterpoint. And that is not music. <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-5378019573523968862017-07-31T11:22:00.000-04:002017-08-18T17:39:57.119-04:00It's Carnival, Baby!Midsummer Nightmare<br />
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Dr. Lester Simon-Hazlewood<br />
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A long time ago in the land of Nti, the Arn festival of emancipation was celebrated by taking off one separate article of clothing every day for twelve consecutive days. To prepare for the festival, some folks dressed heavily, donning thirteen pieces, whilst others made no such stuffy preparations and gleefully, at the drop of a hat, started doffing their hats, their shoes, ounces, pounds and hundredweights of makeup, wigs, weaves and other hair pieces, over-wear, wear, and underwear, and even layers of their beautiful, black skin. Others just took off altogether and left for the neighbouring lands of Uda and Unda. <br />
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On the sixtieth anniversary of the festival, the king summoned all the minstrels to his palace. Some singers were also kings and queens of the land in their own musical realm; and musicians were regarded highly as the main custodians of culture. Some musicians played music that made people start to dance, stop dancing, and start to dance again; again and again. This led to some of them deployed as traffic wardens dressed in red, amber or green, to make drivers slow down, stop, and start again; again and again. They also played special music to stop drivers using their cell phones in traffic. <br />
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The most difficult task these warden-musicians faced was getting drivers to be kind; to say thanks to other drivers who were kind to them, and to be wary of weary passersby trying to cross the road. However, some of these passersby, old and young, were very cantankerous, an assumed native characteristic, and oftentimes told the warden-musicians, who were mostly horn players, that they, the musicians, were going to get a real, good blow…. in a certain, basal part of their anatomy. <br />
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At the meeting at the palace, the king announced that this anniversary was very special; that there should be no nastiness, not even from Queen Ivenus, the loved one; that the land needed special music and special songs and especially, special dances. No longer will emancipation mean taking off one’s clothes. Instead, emancipation will mean from now on, and forevermore, respect for each other. There was a long, deafening silence, so quieting one could hear the wailing waves of dead ancestors coming from the bed of the middle passages of the Atlantic Ocean. <br />
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The silence was broken by a silly musician, actually a comedian masquerading as a musician. Some often asked what was the difference between the two? He reminded that being respectful can be dangerous, even fatal. He recounted how his brother, a Rastaman, had ventured into a cowboy saloon in the Wild, Wild, West; and on pushing past the swinging, saloon doors, greeted the cowboys by hailing, Jah! May his wandering soul, emancipated from his bullet-ridden body, shredded to pieces, rest in peace. After the token laughter, the comic-musician didn’t tell them how the police said they had so much respect for the first, real Rastaman in Nti, Ras King Nki, that they respectfully locked him up innumerable times; seeing how he had plenty locks. <br />
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Being minstrels, they all tried to impress the king and queen with tales of misbegotten respect. Like the one, told after a festival many years ago, about the respectable, hoity-toity woman who didn’t want to dance in the middle of the road for all to see. Instead, she danced and danced, respectfully, round and round, behind everyone’s back, until she ended up dancing on top of her stepmother’s grave. Sadly, the stepmother had been buried at sea. <br />
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Some minstrels were not pleased with the new decree and wondered aloud why respect and lubricious, emancipatory dancing had to be separated. They reminded that respect begins at the bottom. A plump, maiden minstrel, of good background stock, as they are wont to say in the land of Nti, was not at all amused. They laughed at her and made her feel so badly, she had to retort. She reminded them how disrespectful many songs were of women, as if all women were descendants of Jean and Dinah, the English ones, and Rosita and Clementina, the Spanish ones. <br />
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She pointed at one musician in particular and told the gathering how he had tried to interfere with her, as they are wont to call it in the land of Nti, and how she refused his advances and told him what to do with his unrequited love. Now they all wanted to know what she told him. School children say, as they are wont to say in the land of Nti, that after he told her she was being obstinate, she advised him to go home, take a shower, drink a rum, lie in bed and, with a novel, sardonic double entendre, “Wet you hand and wait for me”! Even the nubile queen roared and choked with laughter, until her head fell off and landed in the king’s lap. No one made any jokes about the king giving back the queen her laughing, choking, fallen head. <br />
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The oldest musician showered bounteous praises on the female minstrels, until he was reminded that he had fallen victim to the mango juice legend. Again, school children had it to say that legend has it that whosoever washed their face with mango juice and went to sleep will fall in love with and become addicted to and tied to, as they said in Nti, the first thing they saw on awakening. So, who tied the red cow in the pasture next to his house? He quickly hid the Red Bull drink in his hand. And that was the clean version. <br />
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Then the king’s seer, Oma, addressed the gathering. A broad hush brushed across the floor. The ceiling dropped a few metres to meet it. Quiet filled the room as the walls drew closer. One musician thought of calling on the group, Air Supply. Surely the sage will have something sagacious to say. After all, school children say, he was the most learned man in Nti. They say whilst studying for degrees at the University of Timbuktu, he took Kelvin, Celsius, Fahrenheit and Centigrade too. By this time visitors to the palace, who had come from far and farther and farther still, had joined the assembly. Oma proclaimed emancipation, like reparations, to be a two-way civilizing act. And one minstrel whispered to another that to repair past damages, and with due respect, they will no longer play mas on Redcliffe, Market and High Streets, or any other one-way street. <br />
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And so it became that for that festival and thereafter, all the music and dancing were played on two-way streets. Then the visitors, some of whom were colonizers, went back to their homelands and told their kings and queens including King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, that carnival, emancipation and, most importantly, reparations all meant respect for all humanity including oneself. And they all lived and danced happily ever after. <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-21044608872400872282016-05-07T16:06:00.000-04:002016-05-07T21:20:26.901-04:00Long Live The Caribbean Court of JusticeTHE SUICIDE OF JUSTICE<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Simon-Hazlewood<br />
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In an epiphany moment one day, many years after I had grown up, I was travelling on a road away from my village when a giant, incandescent light bulb appeared and revealed the rationale for the seemingly irrational behaviour I had witnessed as a child in some of the inhabitants of my village. <br />
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When the debate about the Caribbean Court of Justice (CCJ) digs up irrational, societal behaviour, coupled with irrational responses, we should call in the social psychologists and forensic anthropologists; neither of which I am.<br />
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My vote is a yes for the CCJ becoming the final appellate court of Antigua and Barbuda and the region. My vote is a yes because I have regarded the eleven-year history of the CCJ and I have listened to the objections and I am convinced my decision is the correct and logical one, based solely on the legal evidence. Nothing else. <br />
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A stark irony of historic proportions is being played out by those who oppose the CCJ and by some who are for the CCJ. When the argument moves away from the sterling work of the CCJ over its relatively short history, we run into contradictions. Yes, the CCJ is not just about the CCJ itself but also about how we feel about ourselves as a Caribbean civilization. But no, the central and essential argument cannot and must not reside in the societal package that encloses the CCJ. <br />
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If the yea-voters make the argument that the CCJ is essential because the Privy Council does not understand our local and regional nuances, then the same yea-voters cannot be alarmed when local and regional judges understand our local and regional nuances diametrically differently from the way we understand them. <br />
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This differential was the basis of the Observer Group legal case. It revolved around the legal concept of the stark nakedness of the constitution, compared to the inhibiting, tight clothing and aloofness of the constitution. To be fair, the Observer Group went to the Privy Council because that was then the final court of appeal. I am convinced that any such group going to the CCJ will get the same judgement that was handed down by the Privy Council.<br />
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The legal profession has an intrinsic problem of alienation from the public. The medical profession had a similar issue until it was forced to come to terms with primary health care. The journey from the posh doctor’s office to squalid communities and to health clinics to practise social and preventative medicine was not an easy trek for many doctors, whether trained at the University of the West Indies or in Cuba. <br />
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The CCJ is on a blistering marketing campaign that is almost perfect. The Right Honourable Sir Dennis Byron, president of the CCJ, gets a 99 per cent rating for his presentation, “Restoring Public Confidence in the Independence of the Judiciary”. His 1 per cent shortfall is for not admitting that confidence must be stored first before it can be re-stored. Additionally, the abject failure of the rank and file members of the legal profession, singly or in associations, to court, inform, educate and champion societal issues is a blazing backfire that bellows a loud wake-up call.<br />
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But, as Dorbrene O’Marde wrote, it is not about the CCJ. The nay-voters may be saying that they are dissatisfied with the lower courts and they want them fixed first. More deeply, they may be saying they are dissatisfied with their lives, with the way they see not just justice but many aspects of Caribbean life in general and the legal profession in particular. <br />
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This entire matter brings to mind the suicide of Kirillov, a character in the novel, The Possessed, by the Russian novelist, Dostoevsky. The reference to this suicide and the intransigence of people is not uniquely mine. The following quote from Stanley Crouch is essential.<br />
<br />
“Negro Americans are not predisposed to follow people. They aren't. That's why there is always a certain element of chaos in the negro world because I think from slavery we just didn't like [follow instructions]. So someone telling you over and over that you got to do this, you know....I'm not doing that, just because you said so. Yes, but it's right. I don't care if it's right, I'm not doing it anyway. Why I'm not doing it? For the same reason Dostoyevsky said I'm not going to do it. So that I can tell you that I exist. So I'm just gonna mess your stuff up.” <br />
<br />
Interestingly, Stanley Crouch, a jazz critic, with whom I do not always agree, was writing about how Duke Ellington was able to keep his band of dueling personalities together, <br />
<br />
Kirillov decides to commit suicide because to him it is the most important act of self-will. A blogger noted that it is his non-cooperation act against his maker and hence his ultimate expression of unbelief. <br />
<br />
I believe the nay-voters are not shooting themselves in the foot. They are shooting themselves in the head in a sardonic plea for emancipation from injustice. If this is correct, and if the reference to this intransigence, this inertia, this nihilism and this non-cooperation is correct, (I will take away my ball and stop the game), then there is only one way out of this uniquely Caribbean, societal, suicidal conundrum of justice. It is that voting for the CCJ must be synonymous with and predicated on a vote for reparations.<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-74178776959389605262015-12-29T19:44:00.000-04:002015-12-29T19:44:10.946-04:00A Police Tief Me Hag!New Year Resolution<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Simon-Hazlewood<br />
<br />
This is just a friendly suggestion. For Christmas 2016, be highly selective of those to whom you offer good tidings of great joy. For example, if a seemingly pregnant woman and a man and a donkey come caroling at your gate and beg lodging for the night, do not under any circumstances put them up in the manger. <br />
<br />
We rescued them and put them up in the manger. And now look at us. The first clue should have been the donkey singing. It was a Trojan ass. The second clue, in hindsight, was that they must have landed on one of our many isolated inlets and checked out, but did not check into any of the hotels. We should have suggested that they take up the CIP program, Christmas in Paradise. <br />
<br />
So here we are at the police station undergoing questioning by a police officer who thinks he is really hot, with degrees in Centigrade, Chemistry, Fahrenheit and Forensic Sciences. He wants to know why I was away in the manger when the police came. I told him the yard-man usually looks after the cows and pigs and other animals in the manger. I couldn’t tell “when c’est last” I looked out there. But since we had already decked the halls with boughs of holly and it was a silent night, I was just going to see how the strangers were settling in, when suddenly the police pounced on me.<br />
<br />
The officer said I should have suspected something when the strangers came calling late at night. He suggested that I should be very careful, especially at Christmas time. People take advantage of other people’s kindness; and you don’t know who might be a terrorist these days. Then he let on about manure in the manger containing gases like ammonia and carbon dioxide that can be toxic, and hydrogen sulfide and methane that can be used for explosives. <br />
<br />
We were shocked! I told him I was so thankful and grateful that they had been trailing the terrorists from the time they landed. Realizing we were not in cahoots with them, he decided to let us go with a stern warning. Seeing we were nervous and distressed, he kindly offered us a plate of food and a drink since the police were having their Christmas party.<br />
<br />
As we sat down to eat, I started wondering why the police allowed these dangerous strangers to reach so far; and why they were really patrolling our area so much that night. Just then, I saw someone passing in the police yard with a crocus bag under his arm. Then I saw cousin, King Obstinate locked up in a cell, singing in a sad refrain, “Family! A police tief me hag. A police tief me hag. A police tief me hag and wrap um up in a crocus bag.” <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-8250590801868424852015-09-22T10:05:00.002-04:002015-09-22T10:05:33.849-04:00COME IN PLEASE<br />
<br />
Algebra and the CIP<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Simon-Hazlewood<br />
<br />
Let me confess I was the student in first form at the Antigua Grammar School who asked the math teacher if I could do mathematics without algebra. I will also say, thanks to the best male math teacher in the world, Mr. Bennett of the Antigua Grammar School, and thanks to the best female math teacher in the world, Miss James of the Princess Margret School, a group of us ended up realizing that mathematics, the queen of the sciences, was the most beautiful, logical and rewarding subject in school, even more so than (some of) the girls at The Antigua Girls High School.<br />
<br />
So imagine my consternation and starry constellation when I read an article in The Daily Observer about the Citizenship by Investment Programme (CIP). Eric Major of Global Managing Partners of Henley & Partners noted, inter alia, that “What I would like to see also is a double digit refusal rate from the CIU” (Citizenship by Investment Unit). <br />
<br />
The responses from three learned men were that they disagreed with the need for a double digit rejection rate. Can it be that they preferred a single digit rejection rate and I am making an algebraic storm in a teacup, or a mathematical hurricane in a saucepan?<br />
<br />
One of the wise men said, “If it is the people qualify, we have set out certain requirements for eligibility…” Another wise man stated, “What we should be concerned about is not the number of rejections, but whether or not the independent overseas providers are in fact doing the due diligence to the best of their abilities”. The third wise man added, “You’d wish to have all applicants pass the test”.<br />
<br />
Simple, algebraic, linear equations should inform us that the rejection rate is on one side of the equation and that the other side of the equation comprises the composite of requirements for eligibility, independent overseas providers doing due diligence, and the statistical improbability of having all applicants pass the test. <br />
<br />
The CIP program must be attended by algebraic commonsense, lest CIP will not mean Citizenship by Investment Programme, but instead, Come In Please. <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-54702444911947314992015-04-14T20:41:00.002-04:002015-04-14T22:58:59.581-04:00FLUWhat’s on my mind?<br />
The flu of course<br />
Flu in my head<br />
Flu on my chest <br />
<br />
Cover your mouth<br />
Cover your nose or nares <br />
Open your ears <br />
Healthy tips AM and PM<br />
On Healthy Choice FM (94.9)<br />
<br />
Imagine you travel from Antigua to Brazil and Argentina to catch flu<br />
What happen? Antiguan flu not good enough for you?<br />
<br />
Next holiday I will stay home; have a long nap <br />
Spread out and read the entire world map<br />
If I really have to travel I will walk on water <br />
Yes, laugh at my charade and dance on my watery grave<br />
<br />
But seriously, next holiday I will not fly<br />
You want to know why?<br />
I got the flu because I flew<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-70878847731106547782015-03-12T22:24:00.004-04:002015-03-13T08:24:29.079-04:00Which Doctor?The Doctor In Spite of Himself<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Simon-Hazlewood<br />
<br />
<br />
It saddens me to the core of my trembling heart to have to write about this matter of a doctor and denial of his registration in Antigua and Barbuda. It is my firm and confirmed opinion that the good doctor should be registered. But registered as what?<br />
<br />
There are clear and written guidelines to register a medical doctor. In general, the medical school the doctor attended and the hospital where the internship was done after graduation are two key elements that form and inform the registration process.<br />
<br />
For registration as a medical doctor, it does not matter one jot if the person is the nicest, sweetest, most caring and respectable person in the world proclaiming the gospel of health. It matters not if the person speaks with the tongues of men and of angels, bestows all his goods to feed the poor, heals the sick, and that the sick bellows the healing powers and charity of the healer. If the guidelines for registration as a medical doctor are not fulfilled then registration must be denied by the medical council and registration sought and obtained from some other council or body, as some other good doctor.<br />
<br />
How then was the good doctor registered in the first place? It is my understanding and it is also my view that the first registration should not have been granted. Indeed there were copious objections in some quarters to the initial registration but the majority won. The then majority made a fundamental blunder, a cardinal error of commission that is haunting this entire harrowing matter. <br />
<br />
But what irks me the most is this: If you are walking amongst flowers and butterflies and swarms of bees, and stepping in cow dung and horse manure moistened by leaking hoses of spraying water, you must know to yourself that you are being taken down the garden path. Why go along this wrong route when there are other legitimate paths to travel and register and conduct your good work? Why? How can you see through a glass so darkly?<br />
<br />
So when good people from all walks of life, from sinner (like me) to bishop, in a band of sounding brass and tinkling cymbals, cry victimization, I have to cry. It cannot ever be right that because I can preach; because I can touch the sick and heal them; and because I can sprinkle red cool-aid in water and claim to turn pipe water into fine wine, that I can be registered as a cardinal, or an archbishop, or a bishop. Register me just as I am, without one plea.<br />
<br />
Those who should know better should do better.Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-63894257272108395372015-02-24T07:03:00.000-04:002015-02-24T11:38:27.422-04:00Parasols What colour shall I dye my hair?<br />
Green<br />
Tangerine<br />
Chatterbox red<br />
Or weeping indigo<br />
Parasols<br />
Dark shadows walk beside us<br />
In this blazing Caribbean sunlight<br />
What parasols do we bear?Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-64407439783554129092015-02-14T20:00:00.000-04:002015-03-19T06:23:23.134-04:00HEALTHY CHOICE FM 94.9Kindly listen to Healthy Choice FM 94.9 in Antigua & Barbuda, or on www.simpleradio.com or www.tunein.com; or download our App on Google Play Store or on Apple devices.<br />
<br />
Healthy Choice FM, the Dedicated Health and Wellness Radio, is owned by Dr. Lester & Norma Simon.<br />
<br />
Healthy Choice FM 94.9: All the health and wellness tips you need, embedded in a core of jazz with sprinklings and splashes of other musical genres.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9rjLbFCfUk5sPmVp2YRSLAJyXkTJO27kndGiVCL_ssgDC-Kb2BLqUdsZijdxl7Ci6fPsaeLS_xjJwL058AKvjXNJLz_APkEavzCWdunhlvPBbPZdoPMVDshvwoilH3-PP1pczqz9J1So/s1600/HCFM+Logo1.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9rjLbFCfUk5sPmVp2YRSLAJyXkTJO27kndGiVCL_ssgDC-Kb2BLqUdsZijdxl7Ci6fPsaeLS_xjJwL058AKvjXNJLz_APkEavzCWdunhlvPBbPZdoPMVDshvwoilH3-PP1pczqz9J1So/s320/HCFM+Logo1.png" /></a><br />
Your ears will never be thirsty again, and your mind, body and soul will be wholly satiated.Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-75283921385418298652014-08-11T09:13:00.003-04:002014-08-11T19:41:58.324-04:00Cinderella's DanceCinderella And The Steel Band <br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Hazlewood-Simon<br />
<br />
Once upon a time there lived an unhappy, motherless girl with her stepmother and two stepsisters. The stepmother did not like her one little bit because she was prettier than her own two daughters. In fact, the poor girl was prettier than anyone else in the whole, wide world. She should have had a web site, www.noneprettier.com.<br />
<br />
She was forced by her spiteful stepmother to do all the housework. Her only respite came at the end of the day. Even in her stepsisters’ hand-me-downs she had a calming effect on all around her, except her stepparents. As she ate and shared her scraps of food, the cat did not eat the mice and the mice did not eat the pumpkin. Together, they sat in the pumpkin patch near the fire, looking at the shapes of the dying embers of the coal. She gazed at these fallen cinders so much, they called her Cinderella. <br />
<br />
One carnival day, two beautiful costumes arrived at the house for the stepsisters to go to the steel band panorama at Carnival City. Cinderella was very sad she could not go. But suddenly that evening a moko jumbie appeared and turned her raggy clothes into a beautiful carnival costume, the pumpkin into a coach and seven mice into six horses and a coachman. Before she went off to panorama, the moko jumbie warned her that she must leave carnival city at midnight, when the spell would end. And the cat said, “meow”. <br />
<br />
As the steel bands played at panorama, Cinderella danced. She danced, she danced, she danced, until she and the steel band became one. The upper parts of her body danced to the front line steel pans, the single and double tenors and the double second pans. Her lower chest and abdomen danced with the mid-ranged pans, the guitar, cello and quadrophonic pans. All the basses from the four bass to the nine bass pans went to her lower back and behind, and the engine room was strung along her hands and feet. She danced. <br />
<br />
All the while, her two stepsisters were gyrating rudely to the steel band, dancing out of time, out of rhyme and out of everyone’s mind. Cinderella danced so well she forgot the warning until she heard the first stroke of midnight. Quickly, trying not to miss the next beat of the clock and the next beat of the music, she ran from Carnival City, lost her glass slippers and vanished into the night.<br />
<br />
The next day, the winning steel band, for which she had danced the best, went in search of her, using the glass slippers to find her. When they reached Cinderella’s house, her stepmother tried in vain to get the slippers to fit her daughters. But Cinderella was the perfect fit instead. As the steel band played again, Cinderella danced again. Legend has it that for every panorama since then, the band to win must make Cinderella dance the best. <br />
<br />
The music for panorama must satisfy the criteria. The arrangement carries 40 per cent of the points. The judges and the audience must follow the intro, the outro, the development of melody, the development of motif and the re-harmonization. If you are not a very well trained and tested musician or an ardent follower of steel band, you should go to the pan yard to see how these elements of the criteria are developed, shared out, interchanged and exchanged from pans to pans. <br />
<br />
You have to listen keenly to hear these musical elements, changes and interplay. Otherwise, it is all noise. Listening keenly simply means going to the pan yard often and just being there without trying too hard to listen. A quiet, passive, receptive mind is all you need. Witnessing the development of an orchestral performance is an invaluable tool that can assist you in all facets of life. It will really make your life dance, like Cinderella. The bounteous treasures in the steel band are yet to be fully unearthed for personal and community gains. <br />
<br />
The general performance also carries 40 per cent of the points. This comprises interpretation, dynamics, creativity and balance. The remaining 20 per cent points are divided equally between tonal quality and rhythm.<br />
<br />
As steel band arrangement becomes more sophisticated, the overall sound of the band becomes paramount. Cinderella must dance throughout the entire piece in such a way that the entire musical story unfolds from intro to outro, with all the nuances and surprises in between. There must be an overall harmony throughout the steel band so that crucial parts to be heard above others, at certain times, are indeed heard. Without this, remarks from a passionate pan lover, about her own steel band and mine, will include, “After the flat tune, the band played “ pure stupidniss”; “pure stupidniss”. Either the remark was correct or the inner beauty of the music was lost. It’s all about the design and architecture of sound, on the panorama stage, on the night and not just in the pan yard. <br />
<br />
Frontline pans can become background pans and vice versa. Also, the mid-range pans can soar to the front or fall to the back. Cinderella’s dance will teach you when to listen and when to talk and how different parts can work together or work separately and still be part of one glorious, dancing whole. <br />
<br />
Some arrangers here and in Trinidad and Tobago are calling for more sophistication in the arrangement of music for steel bands as they try to stay within the panorama criteria and yet get away from the historic, formulaic simplicity of most of the arrangements. However, regardless of the sophistication of the music, the physical setup on stage, the overall balance and the overall storytelling on the panorama stage are fundamental requirements for winning, lest all the hard work in the pan yard reap little. <br />
<br />
During the next panorama performances, and indeed for any steel band performance, listen well. This means your mind must be open and at rest. Listen well and see if you can see Cinderella dancing from rags to riches. It will be easy to determine the winning steel band. The winner will be like the prince who puts the glass slippers on Cinderella’s feet and make her dance the panorama criteria so well, so logically and so clearly that she and the steel band will be married and will live happily after. And the cat that knows music will say, “Meow”. <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-28236854446442857832014-07-06T22:35:00.002-04:002014-07-07T09:57:06.249-04:00Mr. Browne and Mr. GreeneAll The Leaves Are Brown Again<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Hazlewood-Simon<br />
<br />
<br />
In 2006 The Daily Observer carried an article, All The Leaves Are Brown. You can read it on my blog, www.myantiguabarbuda.com. It ended with the prediction that …… “the opposing forces will one day come to see and know that the ALP will only win again when all the leaves are brown.” <br />
<br />
Throughout the campaign of the recent general elections, there was a very arresting and counterintuitive reaction to the promise that personal income tax will be abolished. The overwhelming, positive response came from those (the majority) who do not pay personal income tax. On the other hand, many of us who pay personal income tax wondered where on earth (or in heaven, or hell) will the replacement money come from; as if we felt obliged to pay and to issue a warning. Some even wondered what was wrong with the non-paying majority greeting the promise like the best thing since bread, sliced or not.<br />
<br />
The study of economics, like the study of all things, has an inherent logic that appeals to the common person in less sophisticated ways than it does to the experts. Despite what was done to lessen the economic burden on the common person, taxing the middle class to the extent that there was less money in circulation for the common person was the reason for the seemingly counterintuitive response to abolish personal income tax. <br />
<br />
Money, like blood, has to be in circulation for it to have common good. It cannot stay in one place, like the unaccompanied woman who sits or stands or, worse, lies down, and refuses to jiggle, wiggle, wriggle or waggle to the dancing music of the Mighty Shadow. <br />
<br />
The search for what will replace personal income tax and the general question of the movement of money led me to the book on economics that is taking the world by storm. It is Capital in the Twenty-First Century by French economist, Thomas Piketty. He has been hailed as the modern Karl Marx, writing the book of the season that is influencing thousands and forcing economists to think and re-think. Any book on economics that cites the novels of Jane Austen and Honore de Balzac and contains tons of carefully researched data must be good at best or provocative at least. It is both. Read it.<br />
<br />
The central theme of the book is the evolution of economic inequality. It speaks more to advanced economies than to those of the Caribbean but it will be foolhardy not to read it to understand capital and inequality, even if the inequality we see in our emerging economies is arguably proportionally less. <br />
<br />
When wealth accumulates in the hands of few and money does not trickle down, the economy will not grow despite the growth of private capital. In fact, the analysis of data from the past two centuries informed Piketty that capital does not naturally tend to trickle down but to remain in the hands of the wealthy. Circumstances have to force the unnatural trickle down effect. Or governments will have to tax hoarded wealth. <br />
<br />
A direct quote from the Economist magazine will underscore the central dogma of the book. “ Other things being equal, faster economic growth will diminish the importance of wealth in a society, whereas slower growth will increase it (and demographic change that slows global growth will make capital more dominant). But there are no natural forces pushing against the steady concentration of wealth. Only a burst of rapid growth (from technological progress or rising population) or government intervention can be counted on to keep economies from returning to the “patrimonial capitalism” that worried Karl Marx.”<br />
<br />
For Antigua and Barbuda, it means that the burst of rapid growth that the government is pursuing fits directly into the equation to balance or offset the hoarding of capital. Hoarding, here? Additionally, with the loss of money from personal income tax, it must mean that the government will collect all the other taxes with neither fear nor favour. <br />
<br />
But can you sense there is something missing? Look again at what the Economist magazine says, “…..there are no natural forces pushing against the steady concentration of wealth”. The central question is, what forces can we muster to counteract the unbridled tendency to hoard capital and in so doing encourage spending? Over and over again we hear of the “enabling environment”. Is this simply and only an economic environment?<br />
<br />
If the love of money is the root of all evil, surely the world of economics and our survival cannot be based solely on the movement of money, whether is moves slowly, as on a slow boat to China, or trickles down and circulates fast as prescribed by Mr. Browne. There must be something else that makes you want to live here and put your capital to work here; indeed not just live here but be human here, in Antigua and Barbuda. <br />
<br />
The article in 2006 in the Daily Observer, addressed the question and idea of the soul of the nation. It made reference to the definition that ‘A nation is a community of mutual obligation that is based on a shared history’. <br />
<br />
Money is undoubtedly a unifying, and dividing, force. As we seek to find ways to grow the economy of Antigua and Barbuda, the task of capturing and securing one vital underpinning of the community of mutual obligation may very well reside in how we regard, nurture and celebrate our culture. Maybe this is why we have one composite ministry of Trade, Industry, Commerce and Consumer Affairs, Sports, Culture, National Festivals and Youth Empowerment.<br />
<br />
Indeed, for all the leaves to be “Browne”, firstly all the leaves will have to be “Greene”.<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-25596335733868378762014-06-20T09:36:00.001-04:002014-06-20T09:36:33.620-04:00The Charge of the Light Blue BrigadeThe Twelfth Night<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Hazlewood-Simon<br />
<br />
<br />
I found her at 14 past 3 in the wee hours of the morning, after the massacre of the twelfth night, naked as before she was born, awash in tears. Tears flouting gravity, ascending beyond her forehead and, on exhaustion, descending to her toes onto the floor, draining and seeping under the door. Written on the wall behind her in bright, dripping red was the reason for her torrential tears: How can we have clean, general elections without water?<br />
<br />
I took her up, put her down on the bed and covered her nakedness with the red sheet. That was all I could find. There was a single, small blue pillow but her head needed to be flat, and her feet up, to send more red blood to her brain. Without oxygen her parched lips will turn blue, a signal, lost colour. <br />
<br />
When she recovers I will have to explain a lot to her. One pollster had told her she will be red and another pollster held that she will be blue, after the general elections. I will tell her that polls can be wrong for many reasons. The wording and even the order of the questions can lead to error. The size of the sample and the way the sample is chosen may be faulty. Even the tone of voice of the interviewer can affect the response. She will want more details.<br />
<br />
It is unlikely that persons will lie to one poll and tell the truth to another. The sample size may have been a critical factor to explain the consistent variance between the two polls. Let us examine these factors of sample size and response by first regarding situations that are actually opposite to how they initially appear. <br />
<br />
In medical school we had a brilliant anatomy teacher who knew every single part of the body in fine detail. We were initially surprised to learn that he was a poor surgeon. It became obvious that his very fine, detailed knowledge prevented him from operating as quickly as the average surgeon. In effect, as perfect as he was in anatomy, very few patients attended his surgical clinic despite all the fine accolades he received from the very same patients who went elsewhere. <br />
<br />
One of our brilliant, young, local pianists commented that he learnt so much from his piano teacher, he had immense difficulty deciding what not to play. Far too many choices came to mind during improvisation. Sometimes he had to pretend and play very simply and leave all the complicated music behind. <br />
<br />
We all know some persons, including some politicians, who are very respectable. Yet they are so incapable of getting the job done quickly that we say yes to them and behind their backs we quietly ask or beg someone else to do the job.<br />
<br />
When we regard the two polls, the CARUSO poll quotes a margin of error of 3% while the CADRES poll quotes a margin of error of 5%. The simple mathematics here is this. The ideal poll will access every single voter in the population. The population can be the entire constituency or the entire island. Such an ideal poll is really a census in which the margin of error will be zero per cent because you have polled every single voter. Since this is difficult or impossible for pollsters to do, they poll samples of constituencies and samples of the national population. In statistical terms, the margin of error acts as a bell curve, which means there is a point at which a large sample size becomes counterproductive to polling.<br />
<br />
The larger the sample size, the smaller the margin of error. The smaller the sample size, the larger the margin of error. The tendency may be to get as many persons polled as possible to get a small margin of error. But hold on. What happens if there is an intrinsic or extrinsic bias in the polling population? <br />
<br />
An intrinsic bias can mean that lots of persons like the government but are reluctant to say they will vote against the government. They are conflicted between their liking the government and thinking the opposition will be able to do things better. So they tell a little lie. They lie to both polls. However, the poll with the larger sample size will include more of these little liars, and get it wrong. <br />
<br />
An extrinsic bias will have the same effect in that the bias is fuelled by money or gifts offered to the voters. Also, intrinsic and extrinsic biases can exist in a single voter. Look at Barbuda and the result from the CADRES poll. Landslide?<br />
<br />
One theoretical alternative or addition to the above is if one poll had interviewers who misrepresented what persons said to them, either because the interviewers were incompetent or they were corrupted by extrinsic or intrinsic bias, or both. <br />
<br />
The simple answer I have to give this “blue vex”, expectant, naked, dripping-wet woman, now covered in red, and “in labour”, is that bigger or more is not always better. But if I were to tell her this, she will start crying all over again. She will cry more torrential tears for five, long years with the reason for more tears emblazoned on the wall next to her bed, in dribbling ocean blue: How can you have a clean government without water?<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-58806001926066214702014-06-05T12:02:00.002-04:002014-06-05T12:04:32.710-04:00VOTE FOR ME The Department of Explanation<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Hazlewood-Simon<br />
<br />
Today they brew, tomorrow they bake. Next day the country’s reins they<br />
take. No one knows their political game. Rumpelstiltskin is its name.<br />
<br />
Early one morning, a woman walks into the department of explanation. What does she want? Explanation, of course. Explanation. Explanation. Explanation. The wretched, melancholy lady wants to know why, after ten years, she has to choose between staying with her current lover, and leaving him for a new suitor. <br />
<br />
The apprenticed heckler at the door reminds her, in a not-too-gentle manner, that she came here five years ago, and indeed five years before that, asking the very same question. He wonders why she doesn’t use her phone and call and save the trip. Her phone is out of service? He suggests she goes to church more often. <br />
<br />
The master heckler rebukes him. She, by her very name, is of the church. She was not always like this. You can still see some history in her. A conformation that beguiles the beginner; inlets and outlets to recess and rest in reverie; a level but shapely abdomen without extensive flabs; gentle, inviolate, undulations in the right places; and, if you are up for the hike, handfuls of rolling hills rising to an elevation that makes men peak and go boggy. <br />
<br />
The apprentice whinges. The master continues. Her problem is that men have always been fighting over her, from ancient times to now. But do they really love her? There is very little evidence of this. Greed, power, narcissism and indifference, masquerade as love for her. <br />
<br />
The intrigued apprentice wants to know how to love an island. Leave her and go on voyages to discover lands in her name. Plant her flag on captured territory. Bring back gold and silver and curry and pepper, like Christopher Columbus and Vasco Da Gama. The master heckler reminds him he has to first learn to swim and sail to do all that. Then he has to convert natives to Christianity and give orders to burn to death women and children as they plead for their lives. <br />
<br />
The young heckler considers his options. He will have to invent chattel slavery and erect edifices and statues. Tourists will visit, including the descendants of the slaves who built the cities on cane and chain under the pain of death. They will admire and respect and take pictures, without flash, lest they have a flashback on history. Worse, he will have to refuse to come to the table for a civilizing discussion on reparations.<br />
<br />
Some islands, like some women, are best left alone, before and after the meridian of life. They are not worth looking at or fighting for. But not this ardent, native one. This island-lady demands explanation but really needs no explanation at all. She comes here every five years because she has the power and the greed. What can simple hecklers tell her? Look back and see what her lover has done in 10 years and in that same fertile moment of imagination look forward to what her suitor can do. With her power and greed, she engages and enjoys this real and imaginary, uninhibited, quinquennial concoction.<br />
<br />
But is she worse than politicians? Their divine power and rampant greed are everlasting because they pretend to give us the right to choose. And we love the collusion of pretence. They can turn straw into gold. They can move mountains, whether or not Mohammed wants to go to the mountain. We know the truth but the effervescent thought of the impossible becoming possible fills us with incandescent joy, like milligrams of viagra in a geriatric, desiccated, shrunken man. <br />
<br />
Such nice people; some politicians. Granting favours, solicited and unsolicited, out of the sheer kindness of their heart. What can we do without them? Every five years we become desperate for real love or for play-play love. Our tender heart cannot pump alone. <br />
<br />
And so this island-lady is garlanded with planks of aching signs, complaining symptoms and logs of political medications that can make you sick. With so many promises to fulfil and so many premises of wood, her natural beauty is lost from the full forest and the single trees. <br />
<br />
Our island-lady knows what promises are real, unreal or surreal. She knows when politicians are lying through their teeth. She can even taste the potential misery in their five-year, greeting kiss. And yet, the department of explanation is called upon every five years to explain this consensual orgy of power and greed; this fusion of pretentious love and portentous lust. Yes, we vote with an X. <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-36466103583696086632014-04-27T13:10:00.000-04:002014-04-27T13:10:00.815-04:00CRUCIFY HERI Find No Case Against Her<br />
<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Hazlewood-Simon<br />
<br />
<br />
And they brought her before Pontius Pilate, on wireless, on scrolls, and in bars and associations, wherever and whenever they gathered together. Pilate went out to them and asked, What accusations bring ye against her. They answered and said unto him, She talk, she talk, she talk, she chat, chat. <br />
<br />
Voxus Populus, son of Vox Populi, embedded within the multitude, whispered, Is she not the speaker, hence she speaks? But Cursus Vulgus replied saying, She can’t talk as she like. She must stay on one side of the constitution. She is as a malefactor; to which Jokus Pokus retorted, She was a female factor, with plenty POWA.<br />
<br />
Now, it was the feast of the silly season, a time when promises, plastics, words, yea all manner of favours and deeds, titles and even bread were released unto the people, whatever or whomever they would. <br />
<br />
And they had then a notary prisoner, called Modus Operandus. Therefore when they were gathered together, Pilate said unto them. Whom will ye that I release unto you? Modus Operandus, or Speaka Talka Housa? For he knew that for envy they had delivered her since she only spoke what was galling and choking others to speak.<br />
<br />
When Pilate was set down on the judgement seat, his wife, Forma Memba Powa, sent unto him, saying, have nothing to do with that just woman, Speaka Talka Housa: for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of her. <br />
<br />
Verily, verily Consciencus Voisus stood up and said, She spoke openly to the world and for the world. For what justice can we have when our court proceedings and the appearance of justice seem to defy arithmetic? Is it that the long arm of the law is so long it has wandered far away from the people it serves?<br />
<br />
And Noisus Plentus jumped up and said, Speaka Talka Housa can talk as she like in her house but not in the house of the people. To which Observus Papus reminded that the appeal judge’s judgment in The Observer case spoke of The Observer group knocking and disturbing “the sanctity of the constitutional door”. <br />
<br />
And Plentus Peoplus remembered and joined in and spoke to the crowd, saying, It was the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council that rebuked the appeal judge and proclaimed that, “With respect, the image of the Constitution as secluded behind closed doors is not one which their Lordships adopt. Nor would it be right to think of the Constitution as if it were aloof or, in the famous phrase of Holmes J., “a brooding omnipresence in the sky.” <br />
<br />
And on hearing that, some members of the multitude wondered aloud in unison, saying, If our constitution, as sacred and supreme as it is, cannot be aloof or cannot be a brooding omnipresence in the sky, then justice cannot be blind to arithmetic.<br />
<br />
And Pilate took her and scourged her and lo the brutality appeared on Facebook. When she cried not, some of the multitude mocked her and asked why she cried not. But when she cried, some of the multitude asked what was she crying for and said, She na get nutten fu cry fa yet! Kill she wid blow. And Reparatus Membus bawled out, History is beating, haunting, taunting and torturing us. <br />
<br />
Pilate went out again and said unto them, I find no fault in her. Behold the woman. Then she went forth wearing a purple robe. And little Johnny, asked his father, why the colour purple? Discarding thoughts of some famous quote from the book and movie, The Colour Purple, the father said unto little Johnny, Red and blue make purple my son.<br />
<br />
And Pilate said unto them, Whom will ye that I release unto you? The notary Modus Operandus or the faultless, Speaka Talka Housa? For he knew that for envy they had delivered her. And those in the blue corner said, Give us Modus Operandus. Then Pilate said unto them, What shall I do with Speaka Talka Housa? And the red corner said, Crucify her!<br />
<br />
When Pilate saw he could do nothing, he washed his hands before the multitude saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person. And Plentus Pleopus in blue and some in red said, How can responsibility be washed away after all this? And Verily, verily, Consciencus Voisus answered, Is this not what the entire matter is about? <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-59954006787486766352014-04-23T08:57:00.000-04:002014-05-03T22:48:50.927-04:00The Preacher and the MosquitoMosquito One Mosquito Two<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Hazlewood-Simon<br />
<br />
<br />
It can never be a good or wise thing to stand before a congregation, including little children, offer praise and prayer to God, and preach fire and brimstone, when the air conditioner is not working, and mosquitoes are swarming about. Amen.<br />
<br />
It is not only that you are praying far too loudly Brother Fire, why you cannot hear them. Evolution has made modern mosquitoes smartly silent. The same good book you are waving at us reminds you that those who cannot hear, including you, Brother Fire, will feel. <br />
<br />
We train our children as well as we can. We tell them to have manners to adults; to be kind but watchful of strangers; and to do onto others as they would have others do onto them. Especially in pubic places, like halls of worship, they must only speak when they are spoken to; and not pretend they are speaking to God, since God speaks to children only through their parents, grandparents or godparents. <br />
<br />
Parents know bright children and we also know challenging children. Sometimes, they are one and the same. Take little Johnny for example. You know he will grow up to be a musician or a lawyer. He always has something to say. When you beseech him to stop, he continues with such interjecting syncopation, you have to quote Psalm 121, “I will lift up mine eyes onto the hills, from whence cometh my help”. But, to little Johnny, figures of speech and reality roll into one. So when you lift up your eyes onto the hills and chant the Psalm, he lifts up his eyes to an imaginary hill. And then he quickly reminds you that Jack and Jill went up the very same hill. <br />
<br />
If some children need home schooling, some children need home churching. Because? Here are father and son in the front row of the congregation because they came late and the front pews were empty because everybody knows Brother Fire loves to point on people when he is preaching. <br />
<br />
When Brother Fire heats up and is drenched in rivers of sweat, wetting up handkerchief, wash rag and bath towel, and getting ready to point, daddy knows it is time to gently touch little Johnny to warn him to keep his little behind quiet. <br />
<br />
But little Johnny’s growing brain is full of countless networks. So daddy’s very gentle touch is the prime signal for little Johnny to play. Since he is in church and mosquitoes are teeming about, what better song to sing and play other than his favourite, and his father’s favourite, mosquito one mosquito two?<br />
<br />
Some children see colours when they sing. Some see movements of clouds or people or words, even objects and places crossing through lines and boundaries. So now, having learnt the mosquito song at home and having practised it to ward off mosquitoes, what better help can innocent, caring, little Johnny offer sweltering, poor Brother Fire? Brother Fire struts about, as he is wont but now more so. In fact he is hopping and skipping and jumping in the stifling heat to avoid the devilish army of crucifying mosquitoes.<br />
<br />
Johnny sings softly to his father; mosquito one mosquito two. But for the fist time in his young, singing career, little Johnny can see his entire song come to life. As more mosquitoes crowd around and entangle Brother Fire’s jumping shoes, little Johnny sings on. Mosquito one mosquito two, mosquito jump in the old man shoe.<br />
<br />
Toilet training is a crucial and satisfying part of growing up. Any good toilet training must start and end with proper entry and exit via the door. For example, walk to the toilet; don’t run. But emergencies happen. A brisk walk to the toilet can accelerate to a run as you near the door and the call of nature hastens. Brother Fire knows that the door nearest the pulpit is his quick, saving exit from the punishing mob of mosquitoes so he makes an accelerating toilet move. As he is about to open the door, a squad of mosquitoes land on the doorknob, sandwiching his hand and the knob, biting him with devilish vengeance. To little Johnny, the mosquitoes are only playing a game with Brother Fire. Little Johnny sings aloud to inform the whole congregation. Mosquito three mosquito four, mosquito open the old man’s door.<br />
<br />
Brother Fire espies another exit, drops the microphone, and the good Lord’s Bible, takes his feet into his hands, along with another gang of hungry mosquitoes, and attempts a “usainian” bolt for the other door with his feet passing his pointing hands. Little Johnny cannot believe how real his little song is coming to real life. Mosquito five mosquito six, mosquito pick up the old man sticks.<br />
<br />
Good toilet training must make use of other activities children are used to. Opening and closing the zipper of the pants is like opening and closing a door. Lowering your pants and sitting properly and quietly on the toilet seat is like opening a gate properly and cautiously to allow easy, uninterrupted passage. <br />
<br />
So by now, knowing what must be next, daddy jumps up, makes a quick sign of the cross and grabs little Johnny’s hand to lead him outside. But before they reach the middle pews, little Johnny looks back. Brother Fire is covered by a wild posse of mosquitoes and everyone is in embroidered stitches. The laughter rises to the high ceiling and is enjoined with a wicked, rolling, escaping, and deafening poop; from Brother Fire. Mosquito seven mosquito eight, mosquito open the old man gate. <br />
<br />
It must be punishment for something Brother Fire did, to attract the horde of unrelenting mosquitoes. Sprays of Off! and Baygon try to rescue Brother Fire. As father and child reach the door, everyone thinks it is over. Too late. Little Johnny knows instinctively that, as a prophecy must be fulfilled, so too must a good song be concluded. Little Johnny triumphantly continues to sing at the top of his shrilling voice. At the door, he glances back and points predictably and conclusively at Brother Fire. Mosquito nine mosquito ten, mosquito biting the old man again. <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-11319405204850586342014-04-21T14:29:00.000-04:002014-04-25T00:22:00.147-04:00Rosita and Clementina500 Years of Solitude<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester Hazlewood-Simon<br />
<br />
To tell the truth officer, my sister and I were simply taking a message to Jean and Dinah. We, the two of us, were not round the corner posing, or exposing, or selling anything. This warrant you have been carrying for the arrest of Rosita and Clementina, for over 50 years, is totally unwarranted.<br />
<br />
We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wrongful association. Since then, countless diseases have despoiled our bodies and taken up chronic residency in my sister and me, as if we were indigent wards of an infirmary. <br />
<br />
First, it was syphilis, which they wrongly claimed we gave to Christopher Columbus and his men, to take back to Europe, after they landed in our country in 1492. Are they claiming that that is what they and Europe got in return for greeting us with sounding brass and tinkling cymbals? How uncharitable. <br />
<br />
Do you know how syphilis works? It uses a ploy seen in old, war movies. All the supplies lines are blocked off one by one until there is no bite to eat, no drop to drink. The isolated body consumes itself into a cannibal corpse. <br />
<br />
Everyone talks about Tuskegee. Black men with syphilis left untreated. To study the natural course of syphilis. But who remembers our people in Guatemala? Deliberately and barefacedly injected with syphilis. To study how penicillin worked. The doctor in the Tuskegee study was the same boldfaced doctor in our Guatemala experiment. He became assistant surgeon general in the USA Public Health Service. Countless years it took us, to learn to trust doctors again, even after an apology from Hilary Clinton.<br />
<br />
So you know how we felt when this local doctor came and took blood from over 75 of us in a room in a place called Stables. He came on a Sunday morning. No day of rest for us. He took vials of blood for HIV study. When the sun set and his eyes grew tired, he foolishly wondered aloud why the light in our room was so dim? How bright? He mocked our Pavlovian response to the mere sight and touch of any invading jab, telling us the hypodermic needle was only a little prick. <br />
<br />
I have one apology. The streetwalker near the Yankee base in Antigua. Lost her head. First post-mortem at home for doctor. That headless corpse. His dear cousin, Ethlyn. More than 30 years. Head still not found. In 108 square miles. A very bad joke we made at the time: If you can keep your head when all about you are paying you for it. We were wrong to say that. And worse, we wondered if she was too obstinate with her price? We are truly sorry.<br />
<br />
The Mighty Sparrow mashed up my family name. No one in my family can be called Rosita or Clementina again. We put up a good fight against gonorrhea. But our forces could neither kill it by firing guns nor by engaging it in hand-to-hand combat. Gonorrhea is protected, warding off our natural ammunitions, becoming resistant, and turning our genitals into fibrous barricades where neither spermatozoa can travel nor fertilized eggs can leave. <br />
<br />
Chlamydia came with gonorrhea, like clapping hands. It too avoided our native, killing forces. Worse, it cannot live alone, so it inhabited us, seized our nutrients for its sustenance, and proliferated and colonized us like cockroaches. Where were extra-large condoms when we needed them?<br />
<br />
When we discovered, too late, that we had been doubly infected and realized, after late remedies, that we could not bear children, tears walked down our barren faces like streams of molasses. We had become transitive verbs, gerunds, genitive and dative cases, all at once. Men punctuated body and soul. <br />
<br />
Some of our clients joked to their friends that they had never seen a larger galleria of pictures of Mother Mary and Jesus, and of the crucifixion, in any other square meter, as in our room. But on whom should we call? When kilometer men are driving long, meters of nails into our flesh and forcing us to drink sponges of bubbling vinegar and gall at the end of wooden staff, on whom should we call?<br />
<br />
Night falls. Garments tumble around our beds. HIV engages a dance of death, starting with deadly handshakes. One hand of HIV engages one hand of the host and the other hand of HIV fuses with the other hand of the host, leading to a warmhearted, penetrating embrace. No condoms in these condominiums?<br />
<br />
When Sparrow said there were no more Yankees in Trinidad and that they were going to close down the base for good and girls like Jean and Dinah had to make out how they could, where do you think we went? No one made a row when the Mighty Sparrow took over then and we were sent back home. To meet whom? Not parents. Not friends. Not the assassinating and assassinated Trujillo. The same Yankees who left Trinidad greeted us. As the Mighty Sparrow predicted, we had to eat hard bread by the sweat of our brow; and by the toil of our temple. <br />
<br />
HPV is on everyone’s lips these days. Its tactic is old and vulgar. Once, our bodies had legions of sentries, with a molecular policeman; rather like you officer, I dare say. He was the sentinel of forces and signals, sensing danger and damage to property. HPV simply disarms the molecular policeman. And showing no mercy, it does not kill the host. That’s too easy. It spares us so we can flourish in our altered, cancerous state, in living hell, infecting others. <br />
<br />
Now officer, after over 50 years, you can arrest my sister and me. Take me first. I am hoary and tired after more than 500 years of solitude and confinement. Death to me, like men, is no maiden voyage. But hold my younger sister, Clementina, tight, tight. Don’t let her go. She wanton.Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-63928255065586204902014-04-16T21:05:00.000-04:002014-04-17T08:34:03.808-04:00A Friend In DeathDeath And The Maiden Voyage<br />
<br />
A friend of mine <br />
<br />
And dear friend of a member of my family <br />
<br />
Died today<br />
<br />
From the ravages of prostate cancer<br />
<br />
And the rains came down on this parched earth<br />
<br />
Quenching some desiccated seed<br />
<br />
And thus a new plant will grow in his stead<br />
<br />
Making and giving oxygen to another human life<br />
<br />
So if you see me stop and talk to a tree<br />
<br />
And tell the tree it looks familiar<br />
<br />
I am not mad<br />
<br />
I have not gone around the bend<br />
<br />
I know my family <br />
<br />
And I know my friend<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-84871921674980573042014-03-30T14:21:00.001-04:002014-03-30T14:34:59.392-04:00The Ballad of Andy NarellPan Man War<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simon-Hazlewood<br />
<br />
Anyone who likes music and loves the steel pan should find time to go to www.whensteeltalks.com and read the comments by, and responses to Andy Narell following the 2014 Panorama in Trinidad and Tobago. It is highly recommended reading with implications for steelbands in Antigua and Barbuda. The thesis, arguments and responses are almost as fierce as a real, old-time steelband clash, with the irons in front and the steel behind.<br />
<br />
When we remove the periphery of this very interesting discussion, the central points from Andy Narell are that "Winning Panorama and creating music have diverged"; the great, winning Panorama arrangers pushed the limits; year after year we hear the same chromatic runs and gimmicks; and "the discouragement of innovation has been going on for decades".<br />
<br />
Andy Narell is saying what many musicians and pan lovers are afraid to say. He has made similar observations before. I share his central remarks on Panorama as I stay awake year after year, to the very end, straining my ears and my sleepy self to hear something more, something different; something I have not heard before.<br />
<br />
We have to separate the core of Andy Narell's message from Andy Narell's response to his own criticism. I listened to a recording of the semifinal performance of his arrangement this year and I think it should not be in the finals, as the judges at the semifinal decided. I listened once because I did not want to listen a second and third time to be more analytical. Judges listen once. I understand the harmonic ideas he said he included in his arrangement. And I share his desire to want to hear this short of harmonic complexity in Panorama. I love the African 6/8 rhythm section in his arrangement this year. The arrangement reminded me of Coffee Street and I even rudely referred to it as Bush-Tea Street because of the similarity of concept. <br />
<br />
Andy Narell is facing a very interesting problem to which there is an equally interesting solution. When an arranger sets out to arrange for steelband, the crucial, inescapable, musical fact is that despite the difference in pitch and range, the similarity of sound from all the different steel pan instruments is in stark and obvious contrast to the wide variety of the types of sounds from the instruments in a symphony orchestra. Hence" Carnival of the Animals" by Camille Saint-Saens will probably not work as well in a steelband adaptation.<br />
<br />
Arrangers for steelband will probably be better served, initially, by regarding the string quartet than the entire symphony orchestra simply because the string quartet has a similar handicap in variation in sound qualities. Harmonic and rhythmic interplay must take charge when variation in sonority and timbre is narrow.<br />
<br />
The difference between Panorama arrangement as it is now and what Andy Narell is clamouring for, is inclusion of more harmonic and rhythmic complexities and less of the banal, formulaic, predictable, chromatic runs and other gimmicks. You can even predict when some of the gimmicks will be played, and go to the bathroom or refrigerator, or catch a quick nap and get back up, losing nothing much.<br />
<br />
Andy Narell said it was just a few ticks faster than Clive Bradley's arrangement of High Mass, but I was not moved much by his arrangement this year. I must confess that this is probably because I think his Coffee Street arrangement is of such a high class that it was not surpassed by this year's arrangement of We Kinda Music…then again, to be fair, I have listened to Coffee Street more than 100 times.<br />
<br />
What Andy Narell may be saying or wishing is for the top, winning Panorama arrangers to do what, to my mind, he does not do very well. Take out some of the simple musical gimmicks and add more harmonic complexities and variation in rhythm. What Andy Narell may be saying is that he knows the top, winning arrangers can do precisely that but they have locked themselves into this winning formula and refused to push the boundaries. How annoying it must be for him that others refused to do what they can do, to my mind, better than he. Panorama deserves it.<br />
<br />
A local musician, George Jonas, suggested that if Boogsie Sharpe had done precisely what Andy Narell did this year, the judges and pundits would have hailed it as the best slice of bread and sleight of hand to have happened to steelband arrangements for Panorama. My feeling on this is that as Boogsie Sharpe continues to stretch the boundaries of rhythm, the boundaries of harmony will remain dissatisfied, frustrated and unfulfilled without similar stretches. Time, the heartbeat of music, will tell.<br />
<br />
What Andy Narell is saying to us, in the final, reasoned analysis of this wonderful argument and subsequent melee, is to be ourselves, to be West Indian, to be like the pan instrument itself: different, and innovative. <br />
<br />
Being creative and winning and pushing boundaries are the fundamental, unique and defining qualities in our cricket, music, language and style and fashion, and even our badness. Those Trinidadians and Tobagonians who are annoyed and are heaping buckets and gallons of scorn on Andy Narell are probably unknowingly upset that a white, foreign, pan player (who was introduced to pan by an Antiguan and Barbudan, my recently deceased cousin, Rupert Sterling) is reminding us, just reminding us, how to be West Indian. <br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-38069676793951160612014-03-17T21:23:00.001-04:002014-03-17T21:25:05.670-04:00Death in the FamilyFor Cousin Rupert Sterling, a.k.a Spanky<br />
<br />
<br />
He lies there all by himself<br />
On some cold gurney <br />
The big, foreign cities prepared him for the cold<br />
Didn’t even know he was sick<br />
Didn’t even know he was above me<br />
On a ward in the same hospital where I work<br />
And he was family<br />
<br />
The first time I came across his exercise book<br />
All those trigonometric signs and symbols<br />
He must be bright, the brightest, I concluded<br />
With handwriting so clear, the pages looked unworthy<br />
I must go to school to become as good or better<br />
Because he was family<br />
<br />
How did we find place and pride at the top of a new village?<br />
And fall from grace and place in one generation?<br />
Some thing, some sin, some contract<br />
Must have come our way<br />
Or maybe some of us are just too smart<br />
Too smart for our own good <br />
And too dangerous <br />
For family<br />
<br />
And yet he taught the world's best steel pan player, arguably<br />
Arguably the best but not arguably the teacher<br />
And to think my father was responsible for him in his first steel band<br />
When my father reportedly drank a drum full of "brebritch"<br />
To win a bet I presume<br />
And how many other bets were wagered<br />
One for my maiden mother?<br />
And so for my immediate <br />
Family too?<br />
<br />
He gave me my first saxophone<br />
So I should go and play at his funeral, if asked<br />
To say thanks and ease his tortured soul<br />
Because with his earthly passing<br />
The grief, hurt and destruction heaped on members of this family<br />
Will not be buried with him<br />
But we have to move on<br />
And live on<br />
And learn that good and evil comprise us<br />
Because whatever he was, he was one of us, inside us<br />
Family<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137464802908641051.post-76978344415351459112014-02-25T15:50:00.003-04:002014-02-25T15:51:40.008-04:00You Must Remember ThisDriving Miss Hazy<br />
<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simon-Hazlewood<br />
<br />
I am at the Transport Board. My vehicle, not me, is undergoing inspection. The inspector tells me to do this; I do this. The inspector tells me to do that; I do that. So far; so good. <br />
<br />
The inspector tells me to put on the high beam. I put on the high beam. The inspector tells me again and again to put on the high beam because, apparently, I am not putting on the high beam at all. I am simply turning the headlights on and off. It suddenly hits me, unlike a high-beam of light, that I do not remember where to find the switch for the high beam; in my vehicle. The first thought that comes to my logical, scientific mind, I kid you not, is that they should do this part of the inspection, about lights and high beam, at night. Don’t you think so?<br />
<br />
Memory loss can be an awful thing, especially since you may not remember that you cannot remember. And so here I am asking myself if I am one of the 35 million people in the world suffering from Alzheimer disease. Have I lost my memory, my cotton-picking, cane-cutting mind? <br />
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I remember that the disease got its name from the German psychiatrist and neuropathologist, Alois Alzheimer, who first described the disease in1906. So my memory is good; great. But I had read about Alois Alzheimer over 30 years ago in medical school and in the early stages of Alzheimer the most common symptom is difficulty in remembering recent events. Ah! Surely I don’t have Alzheimer because I hardly use my high beam and most likely I have not used it in recent times. Or have I? Lord, let me see the light; the high beam.<br />
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Maybe I should call my mechanic. Or maybe I should just stay here and wait until nightfall. But changes in behavior and eccentric thinking do occur in Alzheimer.<br />
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At least it may be in the early stages. But what about the later stages when memory loss for long term events creeps in? Will I remember anything about the fight for reparations for slavery? And how will my family and friends cope with my confusion, irritability, aggression, difficulties with language and mood swings? <br />
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By that time I will not be legally allowed to drive and the instructor will not bother me, as I sit in my stationary vehicle, coming from my imaginary service station, driving all over the island, without high beam, music blasting, sailing away from family, friends and society. At least I will still have music, if I remember to turn on the real radio, instead of the blasting radio in my head.<br />
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Can it be that it is the instructor who has Alzheimer? Maybe I turned on the high beam and he forgot. After all, it may take a long time for Alzheimer to develop before it is recognized. And after diagnosis, the average life expectancy is about 7 years. Quick. I should exit the vehicle to warn the poor fellow. <br />
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How will I explain to him that the cause of this disease is not clear? He might think I just do not remember. Maybe he reads a lot and he knows that the main risk factor for Alzheimer is age and that the incidence of the disease doubles every 5 years after 65 years of age, even though Alzheimer is not necessarily the outcome of aging. He is probably in his late forties so I should advise him (if he will remember) that some cases of Alzheimer run in families and can occur earlier in life than the more common, non-familiar, sporadic type.<br />
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The mere mention of plaques and tangles in the brain in Alzheimer might sound odd to him. More confusing might be that the plaques are due to a normal protein in the brain that has folded into an abnormal shape. Worse, I will have to tell him that the enigma of Alzheimer is that the biological function of this normal protein is unknown. Almost like me not knowing about my high beam; in my vehicle. <br />
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I will also have to say that there are tangles in the brain because another protein is altered and it reacts with more protein to form tangles that can affect the brain’s function. Similar to the tangle in which I find myself over the high beam. <br />
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When I tell him that evidence suggests that Alzheimer may be delayed by a balanced diet, mental stimulation and exercise, he may recommend that I leave the vehicle, go for a walk, and call someone to show him the high beam. <br />
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So here I am walking on what I suspect is Factory Road, wondering as I wander why I am walking seemingly aimlessly on the road. And where is my vehicle? <br />
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I may not remember where my vehicle is located. I may not recall names, faces, or which political party to vote for, even if they take me to the polls. But there is one, single, solitary thing in my ambling, rambling solitude of which I am certain; as certain as night follows day; or is it the other way round? I am absolutely, dead certain, as cars pass cars and swerve to avoid me (or is it each other?), that wherever my vehicle is located, the high beam is unquestionably not on.<br />
Dr. Lester CN Simonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10311572278631000301noreply@blogger.com1