As I post, Trinidad should be a ghost town. Hours ago, people hustled to make their way home before the government-imposed curfew at 9 p.m.; or opted to take the high-road by adopting our infamous “bounce me nah!” attitude (one that causes us to test the limits in any given situation) to knock back some drinks at a favourite watering hole. After all, this wouldn't be the first time Trinidadians have faced a curfew and limed through it.
News of the “limited state of emergency” came to me the way I receive most of my up-to-the-minute information these days – Facebook and Blackberry Messenger status updates. “Spectating” from Toronto, I felt disconnected and sad. I knew my home, more specifically, my neighbourhood would appear on the list of “hot spots” under suspicion from the police.
I grew up in Belle Vue on a breezy hill. To this day, regardless of the place or time, any feeling of a warm breeze against my skin immediately transports me back to Sunday afternoons filled with the smells of sugar being burnt to prepare stewed chicken, the sight of our living room curtains billowing over me as I napped on the couch, and the sounds of rockers (reggae) being carried through the air.
I knew all of my neighbours, even sampled their pots from time to time. I was known as Ms. Esther's daughter, the woman who drove the Datsun Sunny, and felt respected and protected (of course boys will be boys and as developing girl I received my fair share of “psst.... family/darkie/glasses/slim” propositions over the years.)
Like my own, many of the families in the neighbourhoods' three areas (Belle Vue, Dundonald Hill, Debe) were kept a float by a single parent. While income levels ran low, for the most part, we had our own privileged class living among us - a common characteristic in countries of the developing world. Truthfully, there were times when even I felt privileged as I was driven to school by my mother wearing the uniform of a “prestige school” and enjoyed regular nights eating out. Around Christmas time, hard up for work, young men and women who came to our home looking for odd jobs left with some small payment and bags filled with extra goodies that mummy gave without judgement.
But....the criminal element was always there. There were gangs and gang leaders who assumed reptilian pseudonyms. Some were before my time and apparently tame in comparison to those of today. You were sure to find a piper (drug addict) in your yard at some point raiding your fruit trees or lightening up your clothes line. I knew the smell of weed from early on, had even seen my very own “homemade” gun, and never mistook the sound of a firecracker for that of a gunshot. But, I wasn't scared.
Then a shift started taking place. It started within me. I started noticing how often our garbage remained stinking at the entrance to the trace leading to my house; how many times we didn't have water but Federation Park did just a stone's throw away. I was seeing boys become men while liming on the block, instead of in their careers; girls become hardened women, scarred from too many baby fathers.
The neighbourhood changed. Soon enough, we had our first break-in – the ultimate betrayal. Even though I was already living abroad, I felt violated. But more than anything, I was livid. Things were escalating and there seemed to be an undercurrent pulling the area down.
Today, my little island with all its "hot spots" desperately needs a new shift. The challenges are not unique (the gap between the rich and poor, lack of opportunity, broken families) but, if left unattended, they will leave irreparable damage.
While it is unknown whether any real difference can be achieved in two weeks, it's better than not trying something. New Trinidad map (I stole this link from a friend's Facebook profile.They say if you don't laugh, you will cry.)
