Sylvia Wynter's Dream

Ethnically, I am half Creole and half East Indian. Culturally, I am Creole. As I’ve mentioned before in previous posts, Creole in Belize refers to people who are descendants of enslaved Africans and the European enslavers. My maternal grandmother was a proud Creole woman who kept her culture alive through cooking Creole cuisine and speaking only her mother tongue, Belizean Kriol. In the poem below, I reflect on various aspects of the many times, too numerous to remember, spent at my grandmother’s house as a child.

Grandma’s Yard

A pink bungalow house on southside Belize City
in the middle of what young me thought to be
the world’s most beautiful garden is home –
home to my most precious childhood memories.
It is the land where I learned that food comes from
plants, to spin marbles and make tortillas in the dirt.

The gallon of ice-cold rainwater from granny’s vat
perched on the veranda ledge enchanted students,
on their commute to and from school, to enter
and quench their thirst on many hot afternoons.
This is the land where I learned to be kind to others.
The land where I learned to make things to sell.
Peel the tambran. Add white and brown shuga.
The scent of sour tambran waters my mouth and
the big sugar grains get trapped between my fingers
as I try my best to make perfect tambran balls.

Papaya jam on the stove and Creole bread baking,
grandma’s house always smelled like a home.
The heat and smoke from the backyard fiyah haat
that travelled to the kitchen was always worth it.
Even today, I can taste the coconut milk made
from freshly grated coconuts from the tall tree
right next to the fiyah haat, as I think about those
golden, yet soft and flaky johnny cakes cut
open with melted butter on both middle sides.
It is the land where my love for food grew. The
land where I learned food to be a love language.

Spinach growing wild on the backyard fence
and a surplus of medicinal plants like pissabed
and bukut leaf never went to waste because
even though three of the four sides of the yard
was somewhat fenced, there was no gate.
I like to think my grandmother’s yard was a true
representation of her – always open for anyone
in need – of food, water, a listening ear –
and most importantly of all – love.
It is the land where I learned to love and to be loved.