Without being overly sentimental, I have to declare my unwavering love of Caribbean literature. I was enchanted with Caribbean literature while I lived there and now that I’m away sometimes I swoon with chagwen* and tabanca* at the lyricism. I’m currently reading The Last Warner Woman by Kei Miller. I have wanted to read it from the very first time I heard Miller read an extract, when the novel was in its infancy as a manuscript. I am reading it in small bites because it is an unparalleled Epicurean experience. For example, the following image is absolutely beautiful:
The fish-women gather around concrete sinks and run metal files up and down the bodies of snappers and mackerel; bright silver scales jump into the air and land softly on the women’s heads like confetti.
(Miller, 2010, p. 7)
It evokes all kinds of nostalgia for me, an island village girl. It stirs memories of days where I would scale fish in the outdoor sink at home, and the scales would fly everywhere. It might have been a household chore, especially the cleaning after, but I enjoyed it. To have it described as confetti indeed captures the strange beauty of preparing fresh fish to eat. And by fresh, I mean fish that had not been frozen. I also used to enjoy practicing the delicate technique of parting the stomach, at the right tender spot and reaching up with my thumb and forefinger to grasp the gills and tug firmly so that all the entrails would come away in one swoop. If it was done well all that was left to be done was rinse out the fish and lay it aside for the next level of preparation for dining. Depending on the type of fish, there would be the added pleasure of the treasure of eggs. And the smell of cleaning fresh fish…it lingers, it frustrates, but it is the scent of vitality and sustenance. It is, for me, a pungent homely scent.
In some vegan circles I imagine this description is disconcerting. But I can’t apologize for the beauty and necessity of these ways of sustenance. A big part of me has chagwen which goes beyond my distance from my island home. To enjoy healthy fresh fish and that way of life already feels so remote with climate change. I think to love how animals feed us does not mean that we should harvest indiscriminately. To love how they sustain us, or just love how they are requires us to take better care of their homes. This wasn’t meant to be an eco-political meditation. But guess what, there’s no predicting where the lyricism of beautiful prose takes you; how it gives you pause. Isn’t that part of what good literature does?
*Caribbean vernacular terms which mean something along the lines of poignant heartbreak, longing, yearning for something dearly loved.
Reference: Miller, K. (2010). The last warner woman. UK: Weidenfeld & Nicolson; UK
Galicia S. T. Blackman 