Lifestyle

General Public Gastro: The Silent Killer

Simone Dalton

Jan 30 |00:00
By the time this article is published, I will be on the hook for another murder. The victim? Mr. No Blasted-Manners from upstairs.
Here's how we met:
Last week Monday. 7.40 a.m. The elevator opened on my floor. I spotted him. (He alooone in dey.) “Good morning,” I said, before my left foot had time to catch up with my right in the elevator. Silence.
Puzzled, I immediately began to mentally run through the possible scenarios as to why the greeting went unanswered.
Did I not project my voice? Was he wearing headphones? Oh wait...maybe English is his second language.
Then it hit me. Naivety tossed aside, the blinding rage began to build. Before I had time to ketch mihself, I was choking the coonoomoonoo who chose to ignore my greeting. All of this before the elevator reached the ground floor.
******
OK, so I didn't kill him. Not for real anyway. In my thoughts, he fell victim to my inner beast that sheds blood first, and asks questions later. Instead of telling people where to get off, I imagine I'm in “Saw”, numbers 1 through 3D, pulling the triggers on those traps. So, who are the people most likely to die?
Young men posturing themselves to claim space, while encroaching on my own. People, who are clearly afflicted with a condition known as “now I see, now I don't”, resulting in their inability to respect the pecking order of a queue. The cashier who thinks I read “palm” when she glances at me, arm outstretched and points to the money I've just handed her. “Oh, you said $5.59 not $5.29…Sorry,” I mumble, when I eventually decode her message. And one of my favourites, the salesman who loses all of his charm, once he realizes I am walking out of the store without the shoes, and with his commission.
For a long time, I believed I was passive aggressive.
Upon recent reflection, however, I have re-self-diagnosed myself as having General Public Gastro (GPG). The pain and discomfort of dealing with Joe and Jane Public on a daily basis is so violent that I can't help but want to inflict the same malaise 'pon dem.
I'm almost sure I first picked up the bug on public transit, oh, about seven years ago when I became a Trinitonian (a Trini living in Toronto). Since then, it has taken hold and grown like tumour, attacking my brain and all my “Ms. Diplomatic-to-a-fault” cells.
Riding public transit is part of my everyday reality now, and I spend a copious amount of time with my thoughts. It is a dangerous combination and GPG thrives in this environment. Like recently...
After an ugly, but productive, 12-hour day, I met victim #unknown – the bus rapper. He disturbed my relative peace so badly that, in a flash, I conjured up this scene:
Me: Standing up to get off the bus and backing into him by accident.
Him: Using the opportunity to pinch my bumcee.
Me: Flinging 'round my body to spit, "Boy doh mek mih break yuh fuc..."
This is why when I'm pissed off I don't open my mouth or react in the moment. I'm afraid of what I appear to be capable of. All I really wanted him to do was rap a little softer, but instead of asking him to I created a vision in my head that allowed me to release my wrath.
If you feel like you can relate, you may have GPG. Check for some of these symptoms:
Clenching/Grinding your teeth: When yuh dentist tells you to take a yoga class, yuh know what time it is.
Heart palpitations: True, you might just need some exercise. But, if your heart starts racing after the yute man bounce yuh down, while trying to race past you on the stairs, you might have a mild case of GPG.
Seeing red: This one happens to me every time I go home for holidays, and pass through Royal Castle for the wing special. The same wing special that is advertised to include a special condiment. Two words: honey mustard. Status: non-existent. Is every blasted time so?! Cue red, as the cashier proceeds to half steups, half inform me that “It eh have none”.
Tasting blood: I admit it. This is an exaggeration. But, I can't think of a better way to describe that feeling that you are literally ramming yuh foot so far up somebody's backside that you bite yuh lip and...well...taste blood. Once you reach this point, GPG has taken over any remaining peace-loving cells in your body. Yuh vex to kill!
Do any or all of the above apply to you? Addressing your GPG is important, as in the end the only person getting hurt is you. You can't be clenching your teeth all the time to avoid speaking your mind. Nor can you move through the world like Jigsaw, as much as you envy your friends who don't give an eff, and will cuss way people, if they don't step light.
Getting rid of my GPG is high on my list, and I'm in search of balance in all things right now. Let's see what this new year brings.

passiveaggBy the time this article is published, I will be on the hook for another murder. The victim? Mr. No Blasted-Manners from upstairs.  

Here's how we met:

Last week Monday. 7.40 a.m. The elevator opened on my floor. I spotted him. (He alooone in dey.) “Good morning,” I said, before my left foot had time to catch up with my right in the elevator. Silence. 

Puzzled, I immediately began to mentally run through the possible scenarios as to why the greeting went unanswered.

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Livin La Vida Bored? Get More Social

Karel Mc Intosh

Jan 23 |00:00
A typical day in your life goes like this. You wake up – grudgingly – about 5 a.m. or earlier (props to you if you can get up later; pats self on back). You hurriedly rush to work. Thankfully, you make it through the workday.
Then you head to the gym, grocery, or drugstore. Then rush home to watch your favourite reality show, cook dinner for yuh pikney, surf Facebook for four hours nonstop, or do all three at the same time.
Then Friday comes, and you jump on the TGIF bandwagon, and blaze Rihanna’s “Cheers (to da frickin’ weekend) on your speakers.
Hypocrites! All of you! I see you!
Know why I’m calling you a hypocrite? Because you damn well know yuh not going a place this weekend. Furthermore, you sell out yourself, when you log onto Facebook or Twitter, giving ball-by-ball commentary about a rerun of a reality TV show, or complaining that Flow’s cable pop down after 30 seconds of rain (ok ah exaggerating…15 minutes?).
Now there are several reasons you might be bored out of your mind, and devoid of a social life…like…
You doh have a liming crew
See all of those 700 nonfriends you have on Facebook? Make a lil fake friend ting with them, and take the relationship to the next step – actually meeting. On Twitter, suggest a tweetup. Tweetups are a perfect excuse to pretend that you’re a very social person, with a real personal life, and real friends of your own, who just happens to like meeting cool people you’ve found online. No one will think, “But aye aye, Marva only suggest a tweetup because she have nuttin else to do”.
Okay. I really didn’t mean to ketch some kicks off of tweetups (really; pinky wear; grins evilly). I have been to tweetups myself, and had an awesome time with some of my favourite peeps online.
The whole point is, you can use social media to make you more social in real life too. Yes weirdos, perverts, and lame-os who have used Facebook to become popular by posting funny status updates use the Internet too, but once you’ve been using social media for a while now, you should have already been possessed by the spirit of discernment, and know who to lime with, and who not to lime with. You can’t complain about not meeting new people, if you don’t try to meet new people.
Basically, yuh learn to create casual friends for liming-only purposes. Doh tell dem yuh business. And to those who doth protest to this line of thinking…think twice. The blimp has passed over your house at least once, and I’m sure there’s a record somewhere showing that you’ve limed, at least once, with someone you’d never consider a true friend.
Yuh doh like to fete/party
Right now is Carnival time in Trinidad and Tobago. It might be against your religious beliefs, or yuh just really not into that sweaty pace. So the Carnival season is torture for you. I totally identify.
But you don’t have to be a Carnival person to enjoy some good culture. Take in a  lil “Normandie under The Trees”. A lil “3Canal” production. A lil geriatric fete where the old people will squeeze yuh cheeks and say how nice yuh grow up, and literally shove food into your willing arms…Yuh get meh drift.
This year, I promised a friend I’d go at least one fete with her. The fact that this is the year of groovy Soca means that I won’t have to drop on the ground and roll, bubble on a DJ, or jump and wave incessantly every five minutes. Isn’t that what the gym is for? (Replace the DJ with the hot trainer or aerobics instructor.)
But I am specifically going to a fete that is more lime than fete.  A more mature vibe, with loads of GOOD food. Yes, if you’re like me, any plans to be social must involve food.
Outside of the Carnival season, play pool, take in a movie, visit our underwhelming zoo, go a fete match (no is not a fete, and if yuh doh know what that is…ask somebody)…Just do something that gets you out of the house, and puts a smile on your face.
Yuh have pikney
Don’t feel sorry for yourself just because you have five pikney running around the house, basically making sure you’re grounded. On the bright side, you had sex five more times than at least 100 other humans on Earth. On the duller side, it just means you have to time begging granny, nen nen, tan tan or aunty to babysit your kids.
On that note, it bodes well to have well-behaved kids, who, though they may be a lil wild and have loads of fun, are generally a joy to have around.
So time yuh requests for babysitting, and plan at least one epic night out on the town. If you’re a single parent, give your friends due notice that they owe you a lime. If you’re coupled up, and/or married, let your partner know that although the pastor, imam, or pundit didn’t say it, he or she vowed to lime every now and then, til death do you part.
It have nuttin to do in T&T
That sorta depends on your outlook. I mean…if you live in the west, work in the west, run your errands in the west, eat in the west…you’re living in the west. Sorry…I meant a box. A really small box.
True Trinidad isn’t New York City, but yuh ever lime in Arima, San Do, or Point Fortin? You know where the hot spots are? (And no I’m not talking about the SOE hot spots.)
Explore the place a bit, and you might find a nice lime. For this one, I suggest you actually have a crew you can depend on, because I doh know about you, but I am not playing Dora the Explorer with Kern from Facebook, who might be a madman on de low.
Basically, to be more social, you’ve got to step out of your comfort zone just a little.
Go out once a week. Try something different. But unless you make an effort to gingerly step out of your house, you, my dear, will forever not have a social life.
Disclaimer: I personally left out money as a factor, because money trees outta season.

meetnewpeopleA typical day in your life goes like this. You wake up – grudgingly – about 5 a.m. or earlier (props to you if you can get up later; pats self on back). You hurriedly rush to work. Thankfully, you make it through the workday. 

Then you head to the gym, grocery, or drugstore. Then rush home to watch your favourite reality show, cook dinner for yuh pikney, surf Facebook for four hours nonstop, or do all three at the same time.

Then Friday comes, and you jump on the TGIF bandwagon, and blast Rihanna’s “Cheers (to da frickin’ weekend) on your speakers.

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To Stay Home or Not to Stay Home? That is MY Question

Natalie Dhanoolal

Jan 23 |00:00
Never in a million years would I have imagined that I would be strategizing worthy ways to make being a stay-at-home mother a reality. Housewife! Yuh crazy! I would never be a housewife. That certainly was my stance about ten years ago. Who would have guessed that today my dream job is to be a housewife?
Funny eh? The reason why I went to college was to facilitate my successful entrance into the workforce. To one day join the ranks of the many working mothers out there.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not for or against any of the aforementioned titles. I am currently a working mother facing a dilemma. I am in no way or form disillusioned by the glamorous life that awaits me, if I should stay home. It is hard work. Even harder than what I do, when I leave my children in the capable hands of their babysitter.
Not only will I have to ensure that the little munchkins are fed, entertained, washed and rested; I will also have to ensure that the house is in order. The very thing that I tell myself time and time again that I would do if only I had more time at home, get my house in a reasonably presentable fashion.
I must secretly admit that I harbour a teeny tiny bit of fear that I may not be up to the task of staying home with the boys. I conquer that fear with the sad thoughts that recently seem to be constantly bombarding me.
I am missing out on some very entertaining and crucial developmental years with my children. Again, I must stress that I do not believe that should I not stay home with the boys that they will somehow become a scourge on society. I teach many children who did not stay at home with their mother in their toddler years, and they are very well-adapted, little children.
I am also very capable of being a working mother. I mean to say, I am woman hear me roar! But with all the roaring and carrying on that goes with being a strong, multitalented woman, my little kitten heart continues to break, as I make my hurry meals in the evening – with a baby clinging to my pant leg and a toddler trying to pull me over to engage me in his exciting world of play dough construction. So as capable as I am at what I am currently doing, I am choosing to leave my career, and enter a new, exciting, and many-times frustrating field. That of a stay at home mother.
The first time that I felt the urge was following my first maternity leave. It was a wet, grey and cold morning, and I was due back at work after enjoying the wonderful bliss of staying at home with my cute, little boy. I had mentally prepared myself for the moment in the weeks prior, or at least so I thought.
So there I was in the car driving to the babysitter thinking to myself that the weather MUST be an omen that it wasn’t a good day to take him to the babysitter. But on we went, my husband driving, I in the passenger seat sitting quietly, trying to put on a brave, strong face. We arrived, and we took him out of the car, and into the babysitter’s apartment. Not only did he look at us with a face of utter betrayal, which further compounded my feelings of sadness as I left him; he also did not even crack a smile.
Well, low and behold, I then realised that I’d locked the car keys in the car. To me, another sign that I should not leave him at the babysitter that day. I kept waiting for my husband to voice my sentiment, but alas, it did not happen. The babysitter drove us to work, where I cried my little, new mummy heart out. Needless to say, Alejandro had a good day and the thought never seriously entered my mind after he transitioned quite easily to life at the babysitter.
When Giovanni came along, the desire to stay home became even more pronounced. Now Alejandro was a perfect little baby, but Giovanni? Not so much. Cute as a button, but he has a special talent for screaming. Not just loud screaming, but prolonged, ongoing, loud screaming.
The feeling continued to cement itself when our babysitter, ever unflappable and a seeming miracle worker, texted us one day, asking when we were coming to pick up the boys because she couldn’t take the screaming anymore. More evidence that I should stay home with the boys, because, even though he is a screamer at home, he will at least play with his toys or his brother, therefore saving his screaming bouts for special occasions.
It really hit me one day while on my way to pick up the boys from the babysitter that it was dark, when I dropped them off that morning and there I was picking them up and it was dark. I felt a twinge of guilt creeping into my tired thoughts of what will I cook for dinner? And will I have time to pick up the toys from around the living room tonight?
This was the first time I actually seriously started to consider staying home with them. By seriously, I mean, I actually started to formulate realistic scenarios for achieving my goal.
I started getting ‘signs’ from any and everywhere. A few days later, after talking to one of my co-workers who also has a toddler, I overheard someone talking about how they wished that they had slowed down and enjoyed their children when they were younger. I mean that HAD to be a sign. While watching Oprah’s Life Class, she had a few episodes that focused on topics like slow down, enjoy your present life. One of her shows also focused on listening to your inner voice that tells you what your purpose in life should be. Well let me tell you, bells started ringing, telling me that at home is where I needed to be.
So here I am, at a crossroad, doing extensive research because I cannot afford to be impractical. I must consider realistic things like, will we be able to cover our expenses with only one major income? If it was necessary for me to provide some supplementary income, what would be a viable source of money if I were to stay at home? How much can we reduce our current debt before I embark on my journey? What if I couldn’t hack it out as a stay-at-home mom? Will I be able to re-enter the workforce easily?
I am in the market for any and every type of advice. I know in my heart of hearts that staying home with the boys is what I WANT to do. I also know that I must be practical in my desire. So I ask, to stay home or not to stay home? I’ll let you know what I decide.

stayathomemomNever in a million years would I have imagined that I would be strategizing worthy ways to make being a stay-at-home mother a reality. Housewife! Yuh crazy! I would never be a housewife. That certainly was my stance about ten years ago. Who would have guessed that today my dream job is to be a housewife? 

Funny eh? The reason why I went to college was to facilitate my successful entrance into the workforce. To one day join the ranks of the many working mothers out there.

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Compre vs. Prestige: Did the Type of Secondary School You attended Matter?

Jolisa Brewster

Jan 16 |00:00
“You went a Compre, serious? But yuh doh sound like yuh went ah Compre. And well, yuh so calm.” That’s usually the response I get from folks when they find out I attended a junior secondary and Senior Comprehensive school.
I’ll admit firsthand that the stereotype that is usually held of a Compre - the indiscipline, the use of illicit drugs and promiscuity kids are somewhat true. Having to deal with the stigma that was attached to that Compre uniform I wore was equally unforgiving. The negative perceptions that came with attending a Compre school were endless and hard to break.
Not everyone who attended a Compre ended up pregnant got kicked out, or dropped out of school. We all weren’t foul mouthed and disrespectful either. And what teenage girl isn’t boy crazy? There were some students who studied hard, and attended the same universities as their prestige counterparts and now hold well-paying jobs; some of us even own businesses.
How do I know? I’m one of those kids.
I’m proud of the Compre school I attended – Pleasantville Junior and Senior Comprehensive. I had great teachers, especially those who saw the potential in me that I didn’t see in myself.
My passion for writing was nurtured by my English teachers, who strongly encouraged me to keep writing. They were ones who have helped to shape the well-rounded individual I am today.
It took me a while to realise and believe that I could be whatever I wanted to be, and that the choice was ultimately up to me to work at it and make it happen.
You see…from the time I read my result slip on Common Entrance day, the feared that gripped me wasn’t that I was going to attend a Junior Sec and not my first choice of school.  The real fear that entered my mind was that I wasn’t good enough, and that somehow I had failed.
I thought maybe I wasn’t smart enough, even though I was a straight A student. Maybe just maybe I thought, I wasn’t good enough. It affects you psychologically, as a 10/11/12-year-old child, writing your first major exam. You’re weighed down by high expectations and academic pressure. You’re made to believe by your peers, and even some teachers that if you didn’t attend one of the more prestigious schools, then you weren’t smart and that you couldn’t dream big.
Let’s just say I’m grateful for a supportive family, who rejected any sort of self pity on my part.
So...years later...has attending a junior and senior comprehensive school mattered?  It has mattered for those of us who attended those schools and persevered through all the humiliation we were made to feel because of where we were being educated. Through the negativity, through all the perceptions of being underachievers, we made it.
Yes the stigma still does exist, and yes there are those of us who feel ashamed to even admit that we attended a Junior Sec or Compre for feared of being dubbed – not smart. But my thoughts on this are, so what if I attended a Compre?
One of the biggest lessons I learnt after joining the world of work, at quite a young age, was that it didn’t matter what school you attended, because once you were qualified for your job, your work ethic spoke volumes.
Your employer doesn’t care if you attended a prestige school or not. Company X and Mr. Manager Y cares about your ability to get the tasks  done as effectively and efficiently in the  timeliest manner.
At school, I was taught the importance of teamwork and working hard. I learnt about having self respect from the pep talks we received from our teachers who genuinely cared about their students well being.
Of course, your co-workers all come from different work and school backgrounds, but nobody really cares where you went to school (okay, some do, but does that get in the way of performance?). It’s all about your capabilities and your ability to deliver results.
The opportunity to have a well-paying job allows you to be independent and financially stable. The bank, stores or landlord never asks which school you attended, when you purchase or make an application to them.
I’ll admit that though I didn’t attend a prestige school, I’ve always admired their tightly wound network – their alumni. There is strength in numbers, and it is evident in their alumni. Their camaraderie and school spirit is strong; it’s almost like a sister/brotherhood. They support each other no matter what, because they all attended the same school. To be quite honest, I wish my alma mater had such a powerful network. It really is a great thing.
Still. Attending a Compre made me a versatile person. I would never trade those Intercol football days, or any of our school bazaars for anything.
Attending a co-ed also allowed me to be able to relate with the opposite sex, helped with my awkwardness, and allowed me to grow confident. But more importantly, attending a Compre didn’t stop my personal growth. I thrived and excelled. I didn’t give up just because people didn’t expect much from a Compre student.
Through it all there are those of us Compre kids who achieved. We work side by side with ‘prestige school’ alumni, holding esteemed positions. We’re entrepreneurs. We’re law abiding citizens who contribute to our communities. It’s not about what school you attended, because a school doesn’t define who you are.
While some of us may walk around feeling slighted by the masses about how we were treated years ago because of where we were educated, I don’t, because I didn’t allow negativity to stop me.  If anything, it was my fuel to push harder. What really matters is that you work hard, try your best and really take the time to figure out what you’re good at. Some persons may not be academically inclined, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be a success. So when asked what school I attended, I politely smile and respond, “A Compre”.

schoolbags“You went a Compre, serious? But yuh doh sound like yuh went ah Compre. And well, yuh so calm.” That’s usually the response I get from folks when they find out I attended a junior secondary and Senior Comprehensive school. 

I’ll admit firsthand that the stereotype that is usually held of a Compre - the indiscipline, the use of illicit drugs and promiscuity kids are somewhat true. Having to deal with the stigma that was attached to that Compre uniform I wore was equally unforgiving. The negative perceptions that came with attending a Compre school were endless and hard to break.

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What is Christmas without Light?

Vishala Parmasad

Dec 24 |00:00
The week, before Christmas, I was doing my shopping in the glorious bonanza of Trincity Mall, and I caught the Christmas spirit. As I say this, I know the response I will get.
“Glorious?” my mother will ask, one eyebrow raised.
“Bonanza?” my friends will ask in snide tones.
What they are implying goes without saying.
Malls are nothing more than the new cathedrals to crass commercialism. Christmas now is really Consume-mas! This season is an exercise in excess. Nowadays, every imaginable surface must be dripping with decorations and baubles. Fake evergreen wreaths must be on all walls and doors. Fake Christmas trees must be in every corner of every public venue! Santa hats. Santa sleighs. Christmas lights. Icicle lights. Multi-coloured lights. Christmas brooches. Santa Clauses. Gifts for every random acquaintance. The flimsiest of throwaway toys for the kids.
Never mind that the trees are fake, the snow is cotton-wool, we eh have snow, icicles, reindeer or chimneys for Santa to climb down, and we cyah wear no velvet, fur or boots in THIS weather! But if you say BOO to any ah dis yuh is a Scrooge! What Christmas spirit you talkin’ ’bout?
My North-American friends would add – “Please – you all think it’s better up here? Santa hats, suits, and Christmas paraphernalia just feed the machine of over-consumption and materialism. And don’t even get us started on the jarring crassness of those multi-coloured Christmas lights!”
No, none of this needs to be said, because I have said much the same myself. I agree with most of it too. Christmas has become more commercialized, and our own particular Trini ways of celebrating it are increasingly under threat of being overrun by imported Americana or the ever-earlier encroachment of Carnival.
But I can’t agree with EVERYTHING that’s said. For example, I can’t see lights as a bad thing. I associate festivity and celebration with light. How can I not, when I also celebrate Diwali – the festival of lights?
The lead-up to Diwali is much the same as to Christmas – the house must be scoured from top to bottom, the curtains changed, whatever little corners are scuffed and rusting must be buffed and re-painted, the more long-lasting ingredients for all the seasonal delicacies must be bought early and put aside until the real cooking starts.
Deyas are selected with deliberation – how many, what size, waxed or not? – cotton wicks rolled, bottles of coconut oil bought and stacked until it’s time to light up.
Along the edges and corners of the house lines of lights are draped, tacked and nailed. Then before you know it, your floors and house are gleaming, and it’s Diwali night.
You have your family prayers, stuff your face with food and sweats, and get ready to lay out the deyas. If they’ve been soaking for a few hours, drain them, line them with wick, fill with oil, and carefully light them. Pass them around to the rest of the family to lay them out on the driveway, bannisters, gateposts, brickwork, pillars, dirt, grass, and on any available surface. Brave little pools of light dance in the breeze, defying the darkness, suffusing you with a deep joy.
After your guests have eaten and drunk their fill, after you’ve tended your own deyas, filled them up with the last of the oil and replaced the burnt-out wicks, you go for a walk through the village. Up and down the street, along the edges of the road, deyas shine on bamboo arches, patterning the night. Your neighbours’ houses and yards are also dotted with twinkling lights, and some are outlined by radiant strands. Looking out over the flickering landscape, you see that each individual house is beautiful alone, but together their light transforms the night.
It’s no coincidence that many religions of the world celebrate major festivals in this season, and celebrate them with light.
Here in Trinidad, Diwali, Eid and Christmas fall one after the other. People like me, who have Hindu, Muslim and Christian family, and who, therefore, celebrate them ALL, walk around for the last two months of the year on a sugar-high.
For me, Christmas is waking up in the morning to eat freshly made coconut bake, ham, pastelles and chow-chow, going to my grandmother’s to open presents and eat more – baked chicken and stuffing, leg of lamb, fried rice, scalloped potatoes, deviled eggs, cauliflower in cream sauce, curry goat, curry duck, pumpkin, stuffed mushrooms, black cake and ice-cream. Then we all just loll around in a food coma amidst the wrapping paper, until my Uncle shows up with his cuatro, box-guitar and Parang side to finish off the evening with Daisy and dancing.
And, of course, Christmas is light – the lights on the Christmas tree, the garland decorating our staircase, the lights on the houses around us, or in the malls/stores/houses that my family visits in this very sociable season. And I don’t care if they’re red, green, neon, icicle or popsicle lights. I enjoy them all, and I find them very beautiful.
The beauty of Trinidad and Tobago lies in our capacity to appreciate and value all our traditions, and to focus on the commonalities that unite us, while celebrating the differences that enrich us. As with so much else in our country, our Christmas is beautiful not only because it celebrates the sanctity of this time of year.
Our traditional festivities also incorporate the many histories that have gone into making us a nation. We have Spanish ham, Parang and punch-à-creme, Amerindian pastelles, chow-chow, British-baked chicken, stout, stuffing, and I’m not even sure where the sorrel and gingerbeer come from.
For many people, the joy that starts at Diwali is channelled through to Christmas. Some people who decorate their houses with electric lights for Diwali leave them up until the New Year, even adding to them for Christmas. I have Muslim friends too who put up Christmas lights and decorate their houses.
Every holiday season, T&TEC constructs two conical Christmas-trees out of strung lights at the Monroe Road flyover, decorated with a deya, a crescent moon and star, and topped with a star.
Because what is Christmas without light?
From the Star of Bethlehem to the pillar of light, light in the darkness always guides us towards peace on earth and goodwill towards men. Whether we find it above a stable in Bethlehem, in Ayodha to welcome home Rama, or around our houses on festival nights, I believe that what is being celebrated is the same. Light over the darkness, knowledge over ignorance, peace over hostility, good over evil.
So yes, we need to be aware of the creeping threat of overcommercialising influences, but as with all things Trini, let’s not ignore our own penchant for incorporation. Don’t tell me anything when I sigh over the sparkle and twinkle in Trincity. And don’t get on my case about my multicoloured Christmas lights. They’ve been up since Diwali, and they’re staying up until Epiphany.

christmaslightsThe week, before Christmas, I was doing my shopping in the glorious bonanza of Trincity Mall, and I caught the Christmas spirit. As I say this, I know the response I will get.

“Glorious?” my mother will ask, one eyebrow raised.

“Bonanza?” my friends will ask in snide tones.

What they are implying goes without saying.

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