Carnival Nostalgia

By Majessire L. Smith, Esq.

I hate Mondays. I’ve been staring blankly at two stacks of documents, the significance of which is now completely lost on me. I can’t really concentrate. My chair offers no lumbar support. And the collar of the crisp white button-down I wore under my business suit is pinching my neck. I looked down at the large calendar that decorated the surface of my desk. February 23rd, 2009. I suppose most people share my intense dislike for Mondays. In fact, I am certain that many of my colleagues can think of a hundred places they would rather be than this office. On this particular Monday, I myself can think of only one.

You see, I was born and raised in Trinidad, West Indies. And in Trinidad, February 23rd was a day that marked the beginning of a celebration—two days of revelry starting as early as the pre-dawn hours of Monday morning and going straight through until Ash Wednesday. It was the first day of the great festival known as Carnival. And as a native Trini, I knew there was no better place to be.

But alas, I was in the States working in an office in Virginia when the great festival took place.

As I sat at my desk, I could only picture the hundreds of revelers from all walks of life jumping and dancing together in the streets. I could imagine them adorned with ornate costumes of magnificent beauty, dancing to soca under the hot West Indian sun. I could see the scantily clad men and women of all shapes and sizes covered in streaks of mud and paint leftover from J’ouvert. And I could see the smiles on their faces as they sang out loud, chipping down the road with seemingly relentless energy.

I could only imagine looking out over the crowd at the sea of flags of every color waving obediently in response to Superblue’s request. I could even see the moko jumbies. How they managed to walk, run and even wine on those stilts, I’ll never know. To this day it fills me with a child-like awe. They made it look so easy. And I could hear the unmistakable sound of steel pan music as a rhythm section rolled by in-between the bands of masqueraders. Now that was talent. Some of those kids were no more than fourteen, fifteen years old. And already they had the undeniable talent of making those corrugated steel drums sing. The Woman on the Bass had never sounded better.

And the big trucks! They would often roll by complete with powerful subwoofers, garnished with a sprinkling of revelers about the top and sides. Sometimes Shurwayne Winchester or Allison Hinds would be on one of them—singing one of their latest hits and giving a tutorial on how to wine to an audience that included scores of West Indians who already knew.

When all of these factors combine, they create an experience that is indescribable. It is one of the most tangibly enriching aspects of our culture, but it’s not just because of the revelry, the bacchanal and the general commess that takes place. Although, I must admit, for many of us that is a substantial part of the appeal. Carnival is also a dazzling display of West Indian talent and creativity that overwhelms us and fills us with pride.

Don’t get me wrong, the diversity of the attendees is proof-positive that the West Indies is truly a cultural melting pot, a place where all are welcome. And for us, that is yet another immense source of pride. But at its core it is a celebration of a culture that is uniquely our own. As Machel Montano so aptly put it, “Carnival belongs to us.” And for the few days it lasts, we immerse ourselves in it with a relish and abandon that makes the other three hundred and sixty-three days seem easier somehow.

The world of crisp white button-downs, desktop calendars, and mysteriously ominous stacks of documents just doesn’t compare. I would have given anything to be there.

(Majessire L. Smith, Esq. is a contributor to Island Vibes Magazine. For comments, please feel free to contact her at majessire@islandvibesmag.com.)