THE SINGLE STORY

I was sent this link by a friend from Spain, who I attended university with in London.

I’ve been to Spain three times. I’ve also studied Spanish for 8 years of my life.

But what do I really know about the country? — a vague sense of its historical background, its music, its culture, its language.

And what do I really know about the classmate who sent it to me? We had mutual friends, and probably knew a lot ABOUT each other — both good and bad.

At least, in both cases, despite the lack of a comprehensive whole understanding or appreciation, there were different stories.

I did not judge the country by one place I visited or one thing I’d seen on TV; and though I never knew him personally, I did not judge my classmate by the country he came from, or by one thing I’d overheard from a friend.

Single stories

I find Chimamanda Adichie‘s piece riveting.

To my memory and knowledge, I have not yet read a single Nigerian text. Yes, perhaps, this flaunts my ignorance, but I did not grow up with Nigerian texts.

I have never seen a Nigerian film. I’ve seen glimpses or previews through friends and clips online, but I’ve never traipsed out to the cinema to see one. I can’t remember ever seeing one showing at a nearby cinema.

What I know of Nigeria comes from television, and from friends I met (which introduces a scary idea: what if I’d never met these friends? Would I, then, have a “single story” — Hollywood’s sad solitary portrayal?).

At university, we would laugh at how Africa was portrayed by the West, how Hollywood films like Mean Girls talked about Africa like it was wilderness, and — even worse — that Africa was one country… despite the fact that it was a continent contained of several different cultures and governed accordingly.

Trinidadian writing

I suppose I experienced a similar childhood to this prolific Nigerian writer.

My father loved literature and would give me books by Naipaul like “Miguel Street” and “A House For Mr Biswas”.

They seemed foreign to me.

The books I was borrowing from the library (on my sister’s card, since I was too young to join!) were from Enid Blyton and Judy Blume.

Parents hugged children and said “I love you”, things were always resolved. There was no abuse, no abject poverty, no cringing shame of one’s existence beyond tepid teenage angst.

It was a nicer world that what Trinidadian literature had to offer me.

A Caribbean tale

And so, when I wrote (and I wrote a LOT as a child), I wrote for a US or UK audience. I wrote things I liked to read.

Teachers were thrilled I wrote. They didn’t care what. Most children could not string a sentence together, and there I was, producing stories and naive novels at the age of eight.

Then, secondary/high school began.

“The Secret Garden” (UK) was the Form 1 book.

Form Two was “The Pearl” (US).

Only in Form 3, when students were able to choose whether or not they wanted to continue doing Literature as a subject, did a Caribbean book appear: “Annie John” (Antigua).

I did not like Annie John. It was too stark, too familiar, not foreign enough. It made me uncomfortable.

Reproducing the cycle

I suppose, that is the fate of the contrasting sides of the coin – a displacement of self.

I’ve discussed it with a couple of amazing Trinidadian writers, Roslyn Carrington and Lisa Allen-Agostini (which I wrote about in an article you can read here), and discovered that I’m not alone in that feeling.

If they identify with that internal war, what does the future hold for generations to come, with more and more foreign media influences?

I don’t write Trinidadian or Caribbean stories. And now that I am older, the world is no longer content just that I write but now it’s become an issue of what I write.

I have to represent Trinidad, I have to represent the Caribbean, I have to represent the developing world.

My writing has halted entirely.

I have no idea where to begin to write a “Trinidadian” novel.

Interestingly, I’ve found that my writings tend to leave out “place” entirely…