Joanne Hillhouse
Por: Joanne Hillhouse
An Ode to the Pan Man, originally published in The Caribbean Writer
This one is for the pan man
The beating his pan all night
At the pan yard man
Working overtime
In the engine room, an’
Keeping the rhythm tight
While the wiry bass man
Bend like a rubber band
This one is for the pan man
The beating his pan all night
At the pan yard man
An’ the woman
Can’t forget the pan sistren
tek dem ‘tick tu’n tune
Create a musical meal
De people can feast pan
This one is for the pan man
The beating his pan all night
At the pan yard man
The yout’ man ‘strumming’ the guitar
While the tenor carry
Ah melody the people can ride pan
‘Cause nutten sweeter
Than de Antigua Benna rhythm
This one is for the pan man
The beating his pan all night
At the pan yard man
Because he’s a kind of magician
A oil drum, a pair of sticks
Produce music like this?
Music with symphonic range
Even the elite can hang on pan?
This one is for the pan man
The beating his pan all night
At the pan yard man
Den cum ah stage
An’ tear ‘um dung
With swagger an’ bounce
Fu trounce all comers
And re-proclaim demself champion
This one is for the pan man
The beating his pan all night
At the pan yard man
He stick an’ dem mek man cry, man,
Musical licks as the notes soar
High, man, then tumble down to rest
In the heart ah man
Where it drum drum drum a new rhythm
Ghosts lament, originally published in the SX Salon
Their ghosts
walk the lawn.
They leave shadows.
Shadows slant in the setting sun,
as someone beats a
pan;
a skanking Marley jam.
The ancestors walk
in the shadow of these
fortified walls,
where women were
raped,
and blood mixed with the diesel,
and gun oil spilling into
the sea.
The ancestors cry
at their legacy erased,
at another’s legacy embraced.
Excerpt from The Slow Process of Letting Go from a short story collection in progress
“Since when you drink rum?” Carlong asks as he slips in to bed. “You not becoming an alcoholic on me are you? Because I need you at the cash register.”
He’s joking…I think. But I feel guilty like I need to hide the shot of rum though he’s already smelt it mixed in with the coke on my breath.
“It’s Old Year’s night,” I say, chin jutting out. “People are supposed to drink on Old Year’s Night.”
He doesn’t respond right away. He’s still for so long that, though it’s dim in our room and I can’t really see him looking at me, I squirm. I see his head bob sharply, a round shape against the shadows; then he stands up with purpose. I find out I’m part of that purpose when he tugs me, and, when I resist, tugs harder.
Our home is above the shop and Carlong grabs the key for the liquor cabinet in the shop on the way down the curving wooden stairs. Barefoot and in my nightie I feel resistant and excited at the same time. This is so out of character for Carlong. But it’s not like I’ve been feeling like myself lately either. I play along.
We wind up watching the fireworks ushering in a new year, from one of the patio chairs in my back garden. I’m in Carlong’s lap with a fresh drink – smoother and more potent – in my hand. “If you goin’ do it, do it right,” he’d said when he lifted the heavy bottle from the cabinet. The laugh that bubbled up in me at that was a surprise. I realized he was trying, really trying to make me feel better. How worried he must be.
As the sky crackles, there’s a warmth in me that has nothing to do with the expensive rum.
He’s still Carlong and he’ll never really get all this fuss over losing a friend I’ve known since kindergarten. But he’s here, and he’s trying.
“Hey,” he says, and he tips his glass so that some of the rum spills on to the grass. I look at him cock-eyed because Carlton doesn’t waste anything. “For Tamra,” he says. A particular loud explosion makes me jump just then, causing some of my rum to spill and my eyes to get wet.
I lean in to him. And we sit out there drinking long after the night settles. That was some powerful rum; almost enough to make me forget.
Later, Carlong pushes in to me and I move under him, sparks shooting through me.
She Lives There, originally published in the Womanspeak literary journal
Where the rough soil
Toughens the feet
Fierce winds bring
Tragedy
And rain falls like
Tears down a lonely face
Where the sun smiles
Expression fixed
Clouds hover, a tarp on the spirit
And sugar stalks stir sweet melancholy
Where Suitors dock and dance
And the moon whispers with a soca lilt
And music...'n rum anna a good lime
make the spirit forget
diving in, though it never learned to swim
She works…, originally published in the Womanspeak literary journal
A thin row of cane stalks marks the boundary of the land
She carries a bath heavy with clothes in her hands
The house is a uniformed beige and brown
So like the others all around
A row of blues swings on the line
A child’s under-things on the line behind
The dog growls
The fowl scratches at the ground
Sheets of uneven galvanize rectangle two beds
Into which seeds have been laid
But it is dry, and the land is thirsty
The day is long, and her feet are weary
And she works
On the Lord’s day
Under the blistering rays
Of the Antigua sun in drought season
Where the land is so parched only the bitter raspberry ripens
Excerpts from novel Burt Award winning teen/young adult novel, a Kirkus Reviews top indie of 2020, Musical Youth
(Zahara)
When she was in primary school, Zahara’d had a girl crush on a girl named Lauréna Lee; a girl big in body, personality, and charisma who’d started filling out way before the other girls were even dreaming of training bras.
Lauréna Lee had also been the queen of tall tales. Zahara and her classmates would sop up her stories like bread soaking up gravy. Looking back, Zahara could see how ridiculous they had been.
Was the Queen of England going to come and see them perform the maypole? They didn’t know, but Lau-réna Lee had said the Queen would show up, so they’d danced their butts off at practice in anticipation.
Were there really scouts from Temple University coming to hear their grade six marching band play their rendition of Short Shirt’s “Pledge” at the Independence parade? Probably not; but when they marched across the field at the Antigua Recreation Ground and saluted the Governor General, Lauréna Lee’s back straight in spite of the big bass drum she carried, they’d turned it up a notch and lifted their knees that much higher. Come to think of it, it was a blessing that Lauréna Lee had used her powers for good because God knows where she would have led them otherwise.
As a child, she had studied Lauréna Lee trying to figure out how she got them to believe every story that came out of her mouth and follow her lead. Zahara wanted to be like her. Mostly though, she was in awe of her, wondered how anyone could be so bold.
Her classmates had all scattered after grade school, and if Lauréna Lee was still on the island Zahara hadn’t seen her in the almost three years since she had traded her blue jumper for a plaid one. But it was Lauréna Lee she’d thought of as she’d fine-tuned a calypso melody for her presentation.
As a starting point, she’d jacked King Obstinate’s “Dancing Days” and Short Shirt’s “Tourist Leggo,” not the actual arrangement but the spirit of them. Both songs were full of unbridled energy. She remembered watching the Party Monarch crowds Carnival after Carnival on TV and the way her idol CP and others commanded and the audience responded. She wanted to be like CP when she said “wave” and the audience waved, said “jump” and the audience obeyed. But that kind of magic was beyond her reach.
Lauréna Lee had it. She remembered the girl holding court, and all the other children rapt. And as she’d strummed her song for the presentation, she’d channeled a bit of Lauréna Lee’s oomph, just a bit, and let it shoot out through her fingers. What came out had had a cocky sound to it, like calypso with a hard rock edge. Or at least it sounded that way when she played it in her room.
***
(Shaka)
One day, they’d been doing laps around the track during PE, everyone except Kong who always got a pass because of his leg. Shaka had spent the time composing a rhyme in his head as he ran, too distracted to notice the burn in his legs. He didn’t come back to himself until he’d felt the need for a pen and his notebook to write down the lyrics before they slipped away. That’s when he’d realized everyone else was in the middle of the track. His classmates had dropped out one by one and were cheering on the only two runners left on the track: him and Andra Small.
They’d been neck and neck, and he remembered the look of deep concentration on her face. Even now, he wondered what she’d been thinking about. He’d never been particularly athletic. He did what he could for his House on Sports Day, had shot hoops with his boys for as long as he could remember, and rooted for teams during the NBA playoffs. But he’d never cared about being an athlete himself. Andra had obviously cared. She’d pushed herself hard, invested in winning. Not only was he not invested in winning, now that his mind was back in his body he was feeling every burn. He’d caught a stitch and pulled back, and she’d won.
The girls had swarmed around her and from where he’d stood doubled over and panting, he’d seen the look on her face. She was just happy to be one of the girls again. He’d felt good, like he’d given her something she’d been missing. Though it wasn’t like he’d let her win; she’d always been the better runner.
His body had hurt for days afterwards and when the track coach had chosen him and Andra for Inter-School games, he’d tried everything he could to get out of it. Thankfully, the boys from the other schools had been more invested and more talented on the track than he was. The best he’d ever pulled off was third place. Endurance running was hard when you were actually in your body to feel the burn.
Andra though, had won her heats and for once everyone had focused on her running and not her chest. She’d also seemed to have gotten that area under control somehow. He figured that someone had recommended sports bras for her. At the time, he’d just been relieved that she’d gotten them to behave. They were distracting. And he’d never liked it when the other boys ogled her.
Andra Small had been his first crush.
Joanne C. Hillhouse (born 1973) is a creative writer, journalist, producer and educator from Antigua and Barbuda. Her writing encompasses novels, short stories, poetry and children's books, and she has contributed to many publications in the Caribbean region as well as internationally, among them the anthologies Pepperpot (2014) and New Daughters of Africa (2019).
Hillhouse's books include the poetry collection On Becoming (2003), the novellas The Boy from Willow Bend (2003) and Dancing Nude in the Moonlight (2004), the children's books Fish Outta Water and With Grace, the novel Oh Gad! (2012), and the young adult novel Musical Youth (2014), which was runner-up for the Burt Award for Caribbean Literature.
Published on 10.08.2021
