(it's long, i know...)
There are experiences in life that rip you wide open, making you hypersensitive to colors and tastes and sounds, allowing you to see beauty and suffering coexisting in a way that you’ve not yet seen. Jamaica was that experience. Jamaica was the place where I noticed every flavor, every song, every flower; Jamaica was the place where I cried over the collision of injustice and beautiful expression, where I have never seen so clearly the effects of both slavery and freedom; Jamaica was the place that ruined me to anything but Jamaica.
It made me want to shout at the top of my lungs, from the highest mountaintop, two very different messages:
Hello, world. There is something horribly wrong with you. Then,
Hello, world. You are so wonderful.
I was at a loss for words my first day back in America (a home that suddenly seemed to be lacking, neutral, bland…)—one word answers, sentences marked by vagueness, protective of the depths of my experience. Conversations were brief and, even with those closest to me, slightly awkward.
This was the story that Jamaica began to tell me—one story with an abundance of plot lines; a story that, unless you’ve seen Jamaica, felt Jamaica, touched Jamaica, makes no sense. A story whose characters fought for my attention, fought to be told. It is a story of Jamaica then and Jamaica now, a story of desperation and of hope—inseparable, as each part has been so entangled in each other.
Jamaica then: slavery, oppression, exploitation, perverted religion, greed; beauty
Jamaica now: tourism, cultural exploitation, the continuation of a master-servant relationship; still, beauty, freedom
Desperation: poverty, violence, struggle
Hope: community, children, laughter, church, music, art, rhythm, culture
I can only assume that the intensity of their freedom and hope flows directly from the intensity of their enslavement and desperation.
We learned about the slave trade in elementary school, I’m sure, glossing over facts, minimizing the horrors so that our young brains would not be damaged by such harsh truth. We spent very little time learning about the ships and the diseases, about the punishment; we moved quickly into the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln, emancipation, freedom. Oh, to be an American fighting for the cause of justice…
Any notion of past/present/future responsibility, global connectedness, collaboration was effectively silenced. The slave trade that formed Jamaica confronted me, though, in a different way, telling me a different story. Perhaps it was the detail of the readings or the tours of the Great Houses; perhaps it was seeing the imprint of hundreds of years of slavery so clearly stamped on today’s Jamaica. Perhaps I was a naïve little girl suddenly awakened to the reality of an unjust society, an unjust world, a brokenness in our humanity.
I struggled with the idea of collaboration. I imagined myself a young girl in England, circa 1720, eating my favorite: a chocolate cake. I imagined indulging in each sweet bite, licking the frosting off of my fingers, then running off carefree to join my family in church, completely unaware that I had just collaborated with the greatest system of injustice in human history. I had eaten chocolate cake, made from sugar cultivated by slave labor, in a country where my “people” (that is, white folk) did not belong, using my religion and our “progressive weapons” as their oppressive tools. In feeding myself, I had fed the machine. I had essentially affirmed colonial action in the West Indies, the dehumanization of an entire people group, racism and bondage. What did that make me? What did that make my nation, the motherland? How could I identify with people who valued money and power over human life? I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, I don’t. Oh, but how easy to fall into the trap of chocolate cake, the enslavement of a continent.
Of course I, Kara Lee Kimball, born in California in 1988, can not be held responsible for British colonization and slavery; but collaboration does not end on August 1, Emancipation Day. Americans were once Europeans, and Europeans were once (twice, infinity times) dominators. Jamaicans are still living inside of the web of conquest and oppression that was spun before them; I am still reaping the benefits. Had we gotten here by collaboration?
Had I, by traveling to Jamaica, collaborated in the Tourism Board’s scheme to increase travel and lessen cultural authenticity?
Had I, by staying at Silver Sands, by enjoying the presence (and the food) of my house moms at Valhalla, collaborated in the continuation of a master-servant relationship, so prevalent on the island of Jamaica?
Had I, by purchasing a pair of underpriced jeans three months ago, collaborated in a trading “free zone,” where Jamaican women are exploited for cheap labor in order to survive?
Is collaboration the default human response?
It has never been clearer that history is not stagnant—the way that greed is still dictating international policy, economic policy, human interaction. It is now so clear that even the most evil of schemes are not out of reach for those “civilized” persons who seek personal gain and survival. Yes, Richie Spice was correct when he said that the world is spinning around, upside down. The Great Houses had on display “man traps” for catching and mutilating runaway slaves; Spice sings of nuclear weapons destroying the population. We are not so far from the days of slavery.
All of these things—the value of human life (or lack thereof), religion, culture—propagated by White men, backed by Western power—are upside down. In slave ships, humans were positioned in a way that they were not able to stand, fully erect, as humans. To force slaves into submission and obedience, masters used a cat-o’-nine tails—a horrendous torture tool. Of course, when I think of the cat-o’-nine tails, I immediately think back to the narrative of the brutal crucifixion of Jesus Christ in the Gospels, during which the cat-o’-nine tails was employed. What an ironic parallel, I thought, that “Christian” masters were acting as the Romans, beating their slaves as they had beaten their Messiah. Now, the name of Jesus was being perverted for the sake of capitalism, monetary gain, pleasures that would not and could not last.
I felt sick, thinking of how many had allowed this to happen, turning their backs and closing their mouths, protecting their own interests. I wondered, how was it ethically sound to take a journey that kept slaves in such awful conditions that nearly one half died before reaching their destination? How was such loss of life justified? (Not to mention, how was this practice economically beneficial for slave traders, though I could really care less about their financial prosperity.) I wondered so many things about the so obvious presence of evil. Justifications were offered, decisions were explained, and yet, I could not wrap my mind around it.
Hence, my silent return to America. I was too angry to speak, too nervous that others wouldn’t understand, too busy sorting through the constant battle of good vs. evil. I felt responsible, if not for the slave trade itself, then for future generations. As a human being. Because I’m alive. Because I recognize how easy it is to slip into patterns of injustice. I came to a conclusion: collaboration, even unconscious collaboration with evil must come to an end in order for humanity to survive. We cannot survive another slave trade, another genocide, more racism and greed, else the foundation of humanity, of community, will crumble beneath us.
Of course, Jamaica is not all slavery and oppression and poverty—not by a long shot. Jamaica is defined by resistance to the West that sought to confine it—music used to express their sorrows and concerns; dance, because they’ve got rhythm; colors so vibrant, standing in direct opposition to the neutral colors filling my suburban America; food so full of flavor, people so full of life, churches full of praise. “Full,” it seems, is an apt description of what Jamaica is. This “fullness” tells the story of their emancipation; I hope that by experiencing, engaging, learning the culture, we have participated in the only acceptable form of collaboration—that is, collaborating with freedom.
Music was a form of resistance. In buying a Bob Marley CD or T-shirt, we collaborated in spreading his (and Jamaicans as a whole) concerns for social justice and change throughout the world.
Religion, disguised as oppressive, was in fact, a form of resistance—affirming a heavenly reality far better than the earthly reality that slaves were accustomed to. In attending a church service, we collaborated in a genuine faith experience, one not used to oppress, not used as an opiate for the masses. Instead, the Jamaican faith has been birthed out of a truly biblical resistance to oppression and a Jesus who is not poised for a portrait, sitting meek and mild, covered in white skin.
In creating real relationships with authentic Jamaicans, we collaborated in the defiance of the “tourist” stereotype and the master-servant relationship.
In painting a mural with the special education students at the Duncans All-Age School, we collaborated in creative expression, in laughter and childish innocence; we collaborated in life and in love.
Richie Spice sings, as his last line, “Oh, I can hear the trumpets sound.” Trumpets. As if ushering in redemption, canceling out the need for retribution. How I would love to be in Jamaica, with Valerie and Deneisa, their kids and grandkids, on August 1, celebrating the story of their freedom and the redemption that has come and will come. Soon come. There is a bond between us, a responsibility among us, not just because of my short stay in Jamaica, but because of our humanity, our hope for the future. Because I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Jamaica ruined me in the best possible way, and now, my world is changing.
There are experiences in life that rip you wide open, making you hypersensitive to colors and tastes and sounds, allowing you to see beauty and suffering coexisting in a way that you’ve not yet seen. Jamaica was that experience. Jamaica was the place where I noticed every flavor, every song, every flower; Jamaica was the place where I cried over the collision of injustice and beautiful expression, where I have never seen so clearly the effects of both slavery and freedom; Jamaica was the place that ruined me to anything but Jamaica.
It made me want to shout at the top of my lungs, from the highest mountaintop, two very different messages:
Hello, world. There is something horribly wrong with you. Then,
Hello, world. You are so wonderful.
I was at a loss for words my first day back in America (a home that suddenly seemed to be lacking, neutral, bland…)—one word answers, sentences marked by vagueness, protective of the depths of my experience. Conversations were brief and, even with those closest to me, slightly awkward.
How was Jamaica? It was…intense…(the only word that came to mind that could do my three week stay in Jamaica any form of justice)…Oh, well…you look tan…Thanks (end scene.)There was a song that I found before leaving for Jamaica that gave me the slightest hint at what my experience would look like. I listened to it on repeat, added it to iPod playlists, fell asleep with its rhythm and lyrics flooding into my ears:
Say the world is spinning around
Everything is upside down
They show no love for the people
Say the world is spinning around
Everything is upside down
Oh, I can hear the trumpet sound
Everything is upside down
They show no love for the people
Say the world is spinning around
Everything is upside down
Oh, I can hear the trumpet sound
This was the story that Jamaica began to tell me—one story with an abundance of plot lines; a story that, unless you’ve seen Jamaica, felt Jamaica, touched Jamaica, makes no sense. A story whose characters fought for my attention, fought to be told. It is a story of Jamaica then and Jamaica now, a story of desperation and of hope—inseparable, as each part has been so entangled in each other.
Jamaica then: slavery, oppression, exploitation, perverted religion, greed; beauty
Jamaica now: tourism, cultural exploitation, the continuation of a master-servant relationship; still, beauty, freedom
Desperation: poverty, violence, struggle
Hope: community, children, laughter, church, music, art, rhythm, culture
I can only assume that the intensity of their freedom and hope flows directly from the intensity of their enslavement and desperation.
We learned about the slave trade in elementary school, I’m sure, glossing over facts, minimizing the horrors so that our young brains would not be damaged by such harsh truth. We spent very little time learning about the ships and the diseases, about the punishment; we moved quickly into the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln, emancipation, freedom. Oh, to be an American fighting for the cause of justice…
Any notion of past/present/future responsibility, global connectedness, collaboration was effectively silenced. The slave trade that formed Jamaica confronted me, though, in a different way, telling me a different story. Perhaps it was the detail of the readings or the tours of the Great Houses; perhaps it was seeing the imprint of hundreds of years of slavery so clearly stamped on today’s Jamaica. Perhaps I was a naïve little girl suddenly awakened to the reality of an unjust society, an unjust world, a brokenness in our humanity.
I struggled with the idea of collaboration. I imagined myself a young girl in England, circa 1720, eating my favorite: a chocolate cake. I imagined indulging in each sweet bite, licking the frosting off of my fingers, then running off carefree to join my family in church, completely unaware that I had just collaborated with the greatest system of injustice in human history. I had eaten chocolate cake, made from sugar cultivated by slave labor, in a country where my “people” (that is, white folk) did not belong, using my religion and our “progressive weapons” as their oppressive tools. In feeding myself, I had fed the machine. I had essentially affirmed colonial action in the West Indies, the dehumanization of an entire people group, racism and bondage. What did that make me? What did that make my nation, the motherland? How could I identify with people who valued money and power over human life? I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, I don’t. Oh, but how easy to fall into the trap of chocolate cake, the enslavement of a continent.
Of course I, Kara Lee Kimball, born in California in 1988, can not be held responsible for British colonization and slavery; but collaboration does not end on August 1, Emancipation Day. Americans were once Europeans, and Europeans were once (twice, infinity times) dominators. Jamaicans are still living inside of the web of conquest and oppression that was spun before them; I am still reaping the benefits. Had we gotten here by collaboration?
Had I, by traveling to Jamaica, collaborated in the Tourism Board’s scheme to increase travel and lessen cultural authenticity?
Had I, by staying at Silver Sands, by enjoying the presence (and the food) of my house moms at Valhalla, collaborated in the continuation of a master-servant relationship, so prevalent on the island of Jamaica?
Had I, by purchasing a pair of underpriced jeans three months ago, collaborated in a trading “free zone,” where Jamaican women are exploited for cheap labor in order to survive?
Is collaboration the default human response?
It has never been clearer that history is not stagnant—the way that greed is still dictating international policy, economic policy, human interaction. It is now so clear that even the most evil of schemes are not out of reach for those “civilized” persons who seek personal gain and survival. Yes, Richie Spice was correct when he said that the world is spinning around, upside down. The Great Houses had on display “man traps” for catching and mutilating runaway slaves; Spice sings of nuclear weapons destroying the population. We are not so far from the days of slavery.
All of these things—the value of human life (or lack thereof), religion, culture—propagated by White men, backed by Western power—are upside down. In slave ships, humans were positioned in a way that they were not able to stand, fully erect, as humans. To force slaves into submission and obedience, masters used a cat-o’-nine tails—a horrendous torture tool. Of course, when I think of the cat-o’-nine tails, I immediately think back to the narrative of the brutal crucifixion of Jesus Christ in the Gospels, during which the cat-o’-nine tails was employed. What an ironic parallel, I thought, that “Christian” masters were acting as the Romans, beating their slaves as they had beaten their Messiah. Now, the name of Jesus was being perverted for the sake of capitalism, monetary gain, pleasures that would not and could not last.
I felt sick, thinking of how many had allowed this to happen, turning their backs and closing their mouths, protecting their own interests. I wondered, how was it ethically sound to take a journey that kept slaves in such awful conditions that nearly one half died before reaching their destination? How was such loss of life justified? (Not to mention, how was this practice economically beneficial for slave traders, though I could really care less about their financial prosperity.) I wondered so many things about the so obvious presence of evil. Justifications were offered, decisions were explained, and yet, I could not wrap my mind around it.
Hence, my silent return to America. I was too angry to speak, too nervous that others wouldn’t understand, too busy sorting through the constant battle of good vs. evil. I felt responsible, if not for the slave trade itself, then for future generations. As a human being. Because I’m alive. Because I recognize how easy it is to slip into patterns of injustice. I came to a conclusion: collaboration, even unconscious collaboration with evil must come to an end in order for humanity to survive. We cannot survive another slave trade, another genocide, more racism and greed, else the foundation of humanity, of community, will crumble beneath us.
Of course, Jamaica is not all slavery and oppression and poverty—not by a long shot. Jamaica is defined by resistance to the West that sought to confine it—music used to express their sorrows and concerns; dance, because they’ve got rhythm; colors so vibrant, standing in direct opposition to the neutral colors filling my suburban America; food so full of flavor, people so full of life, churches full of praise. “Full,” it seems, is an apt description of what Jamaica is. This “fullness” tells the story of their emancipation; I hope that by experiencing, engaging, learning the culture, we have participated in the only acceptable form of collaboration—that is, collaborating with freedom.
Music was a form of resistance. In buying a Bob Marley CD or T-shirt, we collaborated in spreading his (and Jamaicans as a whole) concerns for social justice and change throughout the world.
Religion, disguised as oppressive, was in fact, a form of resistance—affirming a heavenly reality far better than the earthly reality that slaves were accustomed to. In attending a church service, we collaborated in a genuine faith experience, one not used to oppress, not used as an opiate for the masses. Instead, the Jamaican faith has been birthed out of a truly biblical resistance to oppression and a Jesus who is not poised for a portrait, sitting meek and mild, covered in white skin.
In creating real relationships with authentic Jamaicans, we collaborated in the defiance of the “tourist” stereotype and the master-servant relationship.
In painting a mural with the special education students at the Duncans All-Age School, we collaborated in creative expression, in laughter and childish innocence; we collaborated in life and in love.
Richie Spice sings, as his last line, “Oh, I can hear the trumpets sound.” Trumpets. As if ushering in redemption, canceling out the need for retribution. How I would love to be in Jamaica, with Valerie and Deneisa, their kids and grandkids, on August 1, celebrating the story of their freedom and the redemption that has come and will come. Soon come. There is a bond between us, a responsibility among us, not just because of my short stay in Jamaica, but because of our humanity, our hope for the future. Because I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Jamaica ruined me in the best possible way, and now, my world is changing.
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