A sense of moment

September 03, 2001

It is the 39th year of this country's independence and the most penetrating question posed to those of us old enough is: Where were you on August 31, 1962, and what were you doing? It is the sense of moment that bewitches and possesses the youth much more than the obvious ideological considerations of political transformation. And sure enough such sense of moment always tends to reveal much more that ideology does.

August 31, 1962, we had occasion to join a somewhat different band moving through the streets of Port-of-Spain. Red, white and black bunting, streamers and flags were everywhere, draping buildings, electricity poles, trees and even vehicles.

The key streets of Port-of-Spain were jam-packed with people moving towards Woodford Square to jostle for and take up prized positions opposite the Red House, the House of Government, to witness better thereby the symbolic handing over of instruments of authority by the representative of British royalty.

We gave ourselves up totally, like mindless objects, to the bounce and flow of the crowd. Overhead, we could see the natural fruits and flowers of Trinidad and Tobago done up with wire and papier-mâché. Hanging on those wires above were masterpieces of decorative art, so real, that one felt like reaching up to pick the seeming succulent replicas.

There was in particular a slice of water-melon about which the people would talk for many years after, very exact and precise in tone and colour; the thick green outer layer and the pink, fleshy, firm pulp on the inside which was dotted and interspersed with jet black, "longish" seeds, a few of which were made to hang out as if about to fall, but never did. Cito Valasquez had certainly given back to his country in fashion most appropriate.

It proved useless attempting to stand there like forever under that particular "slice" of life when all and sundry were caught up, as it were, in the throes of movement that was not only movement for the sake of movement, per se. Even the drab asphalt of the roadways was being scrubbed to a shine by thousands of feet like our feet.

At the corner of Queen and Frederick Streets, the Renegades Disciples with their insignia of crossed cutlasses and led by some of their comrades, who, that very day, had been granted amnesty by the State and released from prison, swung into the thickness of things with a driving tempo that sent people into a frenzy.

To the beat of their conga drums, they were singing: "Are you ready for a fight/ For we are the Romans/ Are you ready for a fight/ For we are the Roman soldiers..."

We wondered initially about that choice of song to be sung on that said special night! Are you all ready for the fight, as we are, the Renegades seemed to be challenging the rest of society.

Many people stood in awe, while others, like us, simply allowed themselves to be swayed by the sheer power and beauty of the harmony of conga drums and rhythmic voices.

"Look at dem hooligans!" someone shouted as the Renegades Disciples pushed away the police barriers and swarmed the area around the cathedral where the solemn prayer service for the dignitaries was just about being concluded. Those in attendance within the cathedral only momentarily lost the voice of the officiating reverend to the deep sounds of the congas.

The band turned from Knox Street into Abercromby, which ran before the Red House where people sat on the lawn beneath the flagpoles. "We free!" one member of the band shouted to those beneath the flagpoles. "We free!"

We expected the dignitaries to respond in some way to the band in its feverish attempts to make that moment count. But the citizens of substance largely remained dumb, while a few appeared to be somewhat amused by the mere nuisance.

"Who are these glorified beings", we asked ourselves, "with their fancy clothes, taut faces, and deceptive half-smiles?" We stood staring back at them across the narrow but deep divide until the teeming swarm of merry but rejected "Roman soldiers" forced us away and beyond.

Then the following night Sparrow took the sense of moment to the "nth" degree. The previous week, he had lost to the Lord Brynner in the Independence 1962 Calypso King contest. Sparrow's song was by far superior to Brynner's ludicrous but jumpy offering. Sparrow did not lose; the judges gave Brynner the prize.

At the Savannah that night Sparrow began to render his Independence calypso and after the first verse he stopped: "What allyuh say? Allyuh say I singing sh**? Alright, gimme a minute!" Sparrow walked back to Bertram Inniss and whispered something.

A fresh and new melodic line was introduced and Sparrow for the first time dropped on us the bombshell: "Dan Is The Man In The Van."

The entire colonial education system as existed then was thorn to shreds in song. It provided focus and purpose to all the ideological talk about "change" and "massa day done." Talk about sense of moment! It is claimed that you could have "heard a pin drop" in the Savannah. That too was Sparrow's greatest moment in calypso.

Today in this 39th year, we are at pains to recall all that the politicians said and did back then but Renegades Disciples moving past the flagpoles before the seat of government and Sparrow's "Dan Is The Man" stand out indelibly in our mind's eye. When will we, as a society, come to terms with what such sense of moment signifies?