Melville Cooke
Bombs, guns and triumphant entries are common, picturesque and often very misled notions of revolution, but they are simply forceful signs of forced change. The same change, without the explosions and speeches, pyrotechnics and posturing, if you will, is just as revolutionary and certainly less physically destructive.
When Louise Bennett-Coverley, one of the very few persons to actually bear the official title to deserve being called 'Honourable', went to be with her very wise Auntie Roachie, last week, in the outpouring of emotion I do not know how many people realise how revolutionary a person she was, cherubic smile, headwrap, bandana material and all. In a society where the unruly tongues of the black majority have been subjected to as much straightening and controlling attempts as their equally unruly hair (with far less success), Miss Lou gave us the licence to 'chat we chat', which was and is, unfortunately, still deemed by many as 'bad'.
And long before she was deemed honourable and a cultural icon, welcomed into Emancipation Park, in 2003, by persons whose tongue and tongues she had contributed significantly to emancipating, Miss Lou faced the colonially curbed speech and unflattering tongues of the imitation English (in more ways than one).
The process of legitimising language is a long and tenuous one, which requires not only that it is spoken in informal, but also in formal settings. I do not know whether Miss Lou was the first ever, but I do know she was the first person I heard on radio, saw on television, read in print and was certainly recited in the peculiar chorale speech of primary schoolchildren who expressed herself in this 'derived' language, as she would say.
'Derived' tongue
So, many years later, as happened last Sunday, when a very young Trinidadian boy, named Isaiah, asked if I was from St. Vincent, I said, "No". He asked where I was from. I said Jamaica and his eyes went wide as he demanded that I "speak Jamaican no?" It is Miss Lou's licence to speak in this 'derived' tongue that made me a two-second hit. I said, "Yow, whaa gwaaan? Yagga." His eyes got as large as saucers and as bright as crystal headlamps; his mouth made a perfect oval and he said, "Oh God!"
Of course, my personal experience is nothing in comparison to this colonisation in reverse of the unruly tongues of Jamaicans through music and, to a lesser extent (not because of impact but volume), film. We as performer or audience do not, of course, think consciously of Miss Lou when a deejay waxes lyrical as he or she rides the rhythm, or see an actor or actress chatting the chat without adjustment or apology. However, she was and is instrumental in setting in motion a cultural change, in conditioning our minds to accept that this 'derived' language is a legitimate form of expression.
And it is a very lucrative one as well, as any deejay or singer who makes the weekly round of concerts in Jamaica or heads out to perform overseas can testify to.
So as Miss Lou heads out to her final Ring Ding, escorted by the spirits of the countless children she chuckled with and chided gently, coached and comforted, we need to recognise that she was an agent of social change. She has, if not outright given us the licence, at least given us a bligh on the road test to hit the highway of cultural export with more confidence in how we speak. It is a profitable possession and we should be very grateful.
Jack Mandorah, mi no choose none.
Miss Lou, we thank yu fi true
- Mutabaruka
Melville Cooke is a freelance writer.
