Here’s a scenario for you, which I suspect for a lot of us would be an all too familiar one. You go to a funeral or wake to join others in mourning the loss of a fellow Caribbean émigré. Somewhere in the mix there’s a preacher, after a fashion, who has been assigned a role. Whereupon there follows a certain amount of disappointment for those expecting that this person of the cloth would be delivering remarks tailored to fond remembrance of the deceased. The designated preacher, it turns out, is on a whole other kick, practically ignoring the departed and opting instead for aiming fire and brimstone, more than likely a high-decibel variety, at assembled mourners.
A few years ago, at services for a well known figure in Trinidadian entertainment circles, the preacher of record, also a Trinidadian, thought to regale the gathering with a recounting of misdeeds of his “bad john” phase in Trinidad, before he found salvation. One sensed that there might have been an overall positive feeling among the mourners for this brother’s eventual triumph over his checkered past, albeit bewilderment at why was this occasion seen as compatible with the memory lane trip. A perceptible restlessness in the audience soon became openly expressed annoyance that, “We don’t want to hear about that,” and a tart admonition that the preacher should talk about the deceased.
Religion, of course, takes a multiplicity of forms, and taking exception to anyone’s preferred form of religious practice isn’t exactly the smartest way to go. But while there’s no intent here to knock what seems to be a pretty well ingrained custom among certain pastoral types, of using the funeral forum not to commiserate with and comfort those pained by the loss, but to preach “at” them, this in all honesty looks to be a practice very much open to question. Thank heavens it’s not an across-the-board type of indulgence but seems to occupy a particular (and relatively minor) niche in the religious spectrum.
At the recent wake for a kindly, quiet soul, the pastoral connection included a female whose spiel included a boast that she had “never played mas yet” and “never been in a calypso tent.” And again, there would have been those present who wondered: “What is there about this setting that’s conducive to being fed these biographical tidbits?” And who is to blame those among us who take umbrage at anyone’s pejorative putdown of mas playing or visiting a calypso tent? You need look no further for a perfect example of self-righteousness in overdrive.
Admittedly mas playing has in recent years largely degenerated into an exercise that’s a far cry from the tradition that was. One need not be a cleric of any persuasion to find in the modern-day female-dominated masquerade, not a lot to commend it and a whole lot that’s objectionable. You’re entitled, however, to bask in wall-to-wall pride if yours is a recollection of playing in George Bailey’s “Relics of Egypt” or “Somewhere in New Guinea” or Harold Saldenha’s “Imperial Rome” or Peter Minshall’s “Papillon” or any of the brilliant presentations of Bobby Ammon, Stephen Lee Heung, Wayne Berkeley and so many other stalwarts of yore. Any claimed prerogative to censor mass participation in those splendid affirmations of cultural identity has to be dubious.
And what of the similarly disdainful mention of calypso? Again, there’s no attempt to imply that one finds in all of calypso a wholesomeness good for passing muster with the moralists. But there’s no question the calypso files across the years reveal inspired works of beauty, depth, humor… none of it deserving of any alleged holy man or holy woman’s diss. Consider that not having gone to a calypso tent probably means the sister pastor is unaware of “Look De Devil Dey” by Penguin (to whom I should apologize for having so often quoted it since its release in the early 80s): “It have some devil/With gown and bible/Who praise their savior/But cuss their neighbor/Another kind share kicks and blows/Hiding behind some police clothes.”
And she would have missed out on Chalkdust, in “They Ent See Africa At All,” calling out the parents of Black children for denying their babies’ African roots: “The baby black like a Zulu doll/But they ent see Africa at all…” Likewise there would have been no interest, presumably, in a proclamation of Black solidarity like “Stay Up Zimbabwe” from Brother Valentino: “I pay homage to Steve Biko/And the children who died in Soweto/To the freedom fighters I declare/Africans’ affair is my affair/Ian Smith and Botha got to go/The revolution say so.”
What a pity someone committed to the idea that calypso is all toxic or “defiled” material would have summarily ignored even a masterwork like “Progress” from Winsford Devine: “…And some of the things the scripture predict/Truthfully come to pass/Soil that wouldn’t bear/Children making children to be a part of this growing mass/And alas if this is progress/How long will it last?”
And there’s a lot more where those came from. Maybe the sister pastor and others like her, prone to get on that putdown path right quick, would do well to try the humility bit first. At the very least, if there’s for them but one ordained way to proceed, perhaps the home flock is good, safe pickings. For the “foreign” turf of a funeral, a different vibe. Word to the wise.
