A cacophony of spiraling rhythms, oozing one out of another and into the next: language. It is a place that is nowhere, splitting realities that land us on a bridge. Busy traffic blaring bombarding noises to some but music and harmony to others if you listen closely…
“Shalom Shamwari! בֹקֶר טוֹב (Boker Tov)! Uri sei? Ça va bien! ¡Hace mucho tiempo que nos vimos! ¿Y tu? Bagay yo red…but as dey does say, yuh see me? I ha guts like calabash!”
Words trodding, evolving, they bear their own weight and, God forbid, our strength to carry it betrays us, it collapses in on us…rendering our mouths speechless. Yet, our language cannot die in the limitations of verbalism because it starts in our hearts. Thus we find revitalization in music and dance to fulfill our expression.
The vibrancy of our communication is extracted from pigments of the colorful walls and people in our environments that paint a living portrait of our lives. I am a breathing extension of Trinidad and Tobago. My heart pulsates to the beat of every steel pan. My blood streams through my body with the “chip” (dancing step) of every foot of every fêter on Carnival Monday and Tuesday. I claim the daring strides of a Moko Jumbie, the strength of Papa Bois, and the fluidity of the Lagahoo, and my spirit is that of a parrandera. My embodiment of these elements manifests in the cadence and substance of my speech.
I from the twin isle Republic of Trinidad and Tobago, where the choir of crapauds (toads) is the background melody of the average person life and does ring true to the meaning of home. This is the place where late is early and we go start when time come because it have no rush. Papa yo Trinbago! Where the squeal of the blue devil banging up the door at 4 o’clock in the morning on Carnival Monday does announce the commencement of the commesse (chaos, confusion) about to ensue for J’ouvert. What plenty does say is they religious pilgrimage. This is the land where Divali is a national holiday, and every-man-jack painting diyas in sarees and eating roti in school the day before to celebrate we Indian friends and them. The next week, if is Spiritual Baptist Day, bet your bottom dollar it go be a holiday same way. Liming and embracing, loving up each other on the sweet-sweet long weekend because we don’t make joke to take a sick day to make a likkle Tobago trip.
We existence in the belly of freedom.
The unity of Trinbago radiates through its multitudinous celebrations of different cultures and ethnicities as one country. The openness of such a tradition readied me for the vastness left to explore in the rest of the world. Our diverse history which includes the passage of over 30 to 40 languages spoken by our indigenous communities and other groups that resided momentarily erects a portal to a plethora of connections with people of different cultures. Simultaneously though, through the choice of language use, I uncover more about my country, my power, and the relationship between the two as they relate to me.
Trinidad and Tobago English Creole (TTEC) is a liberating language that unshackles us as Trinbagonians from the roaming oppressions pervading our society. Little Journee, though, tangled in the strings of lingering colonial thought from others around her, evaded her Creole, and clung to Standard English, seeking acceptance in the wrong circles. Naturally attempting to wrangle the two, she fell into the mesolect region of TTEC. In school, of course, you are taught to use Standard English in formal settings but, simultaneously, there is a destructive substandard undertone that crawls onto the back of the expression of the mother tongue to the point where it is not even acknowledged as a language, but “the incorrect”. Over time, Standard English became the voice I would engage subconsciously to give space to another person to please them. But then, a trail of seeds of consciousness was collected throughout my secondary school experience from Form 1 literature, Communication Studies, Lilliput drama classes, and most importantly The Black Consciousness Festival.
In reflection, captivated by the insistence on the use of Creole in my theatre shows when I was younger, I recognized the importance of its acceptability across all spaces. Later in Form 6, we confirmed the officiality of Creole as a language rather than a dialect, acknowledging that its reduction diminishes our voices as a people. As I learned during the Black Consciousness Festival, our accents and language should not be diluted for the sake of others, who do not attempt to understand us when we can be understood, for “there is a timber in the voice of the people of African Descent that is undeniable.” We must assert who we are boldly, and others will follow suit.
Before my baptism into polyglotism, language unveiled scant details of life to me. But when I learned Spanish and French, they spared no technicalities of the multidimensionality the world hid between its lines. Twelve years old, ears perked, legs dancing eagerly below the desk, awaiting a chance to speak at the back of the class, I would confidently share my homework about “ma famille” and “mi profesor favorito y les professions.” These languages gave me my first peek into another way of perceiving syntax, punctuation, and life through gender, a slightly more imaginative vision. With the sweet whispers of Spanish and French in school, I was drawn to the alluring calls of parang, konpa salsa, bomba, kizomba and other Latin dance styles, Hispanic and Francophone music, bilingual movies, and capoeira. Of the 7-part harmony amid the noise, two blending notes had revealed themselves through my journey with Spanish and French. My tie to these languages unsealed the door to world discovery and induced a holistic bond with those whom I would meet in transit and my transient self that exists in my river of languages.
On my 18th birthday began the exploration of the world bombed by silence. Sign Language filled my heart with a passion and love I'm not sure I'll ever be able to express. It expanded my access into the invisible realm, and others to mine. Dumbfounded by the history of deaf culture not only in Trinidad and Tobago but spanning across this earth, my eyes were brutally opened to the Deaf’s forceful submission to speech without other means of communication. Assaulted into silence they were. There is a certain lack of power in a lack of knowledge and the inability to choose the opposite of the language which dominates your people. However, a belting voice sings from the symphony of allegro melodies that flows out of the synchrony of hand gestures and corresponding facial expressions. This is their form of resistance that brings new power into a hand-built home. Humbly, I exist in this space of my deaf friends and cling to each sign as it dances on the strings of my heart.
Swimming into the expanse of my soul and the sun of my solace, I encountered Hebrew. I submerged myself in the depths of my relationship with God. The pandemic hauled with it a well of gravitationally unbound space and time. Subsequently, I fell into this infinitely expanding universe of hunger for the word of God. I traveled through time to ancient civilizations' cosmologies, attempting to understand their story and the artful conglomeration of poetry recited through the Bible. Yet, researching in my language wasn’t enough to taste the succulence of their words. Whirling in questions, I started בראשית (b'reishít) in the beginning – Genesis – and rid myself of the assumptions that I had about what the authors were trying to say. I realized that, like most people, I often approached God and the Bible, especially the creation story, with a very western, 21st-century mindset, ignoring that the beauty in language lies in its diversity, creativity, and personality of the speaker. Therefore we must make room for them to be heard. My desire to gain answers from the Bible about what God did and how he did it was less important to the biblical authors than why He created us. We can't and shouldn’t seek what wasn’t attempted to be addressed. Words and phrases existed in ancient Hebrew in an entirely different context that can't be directly translated into English, and if we don’t take the time to even recognize that, we may not ever truly understand the message of the writers of the Bible. Thus, I find consolation in this language and find hope in a profound relationship with the Creator as I discover more about Him and His creation.
Swaddled in the blanket of peace, I desired to outstretch the skirt of my comfort to my friends, greeting Shona and Haitian Creole. By appreciating these languages’ cultural and historical significance to their respective countries, Zimbabwe and Haiti, I portrayed my love for others through this new expression. Coming into university after crossing the Caribbean Sea was a nerve-wracking, shuddering, and potentially isolating quest, where your home only lives in pockets of spaces through your tongue, images, food, and mind. However, meeting my international friends who could share these sentiments of a mystifying temporary loss, we gained strength in communal experiences, and I felt inspired to create a new window to home for them. Through instructive conversations, I learned their languages connected to their traditions and the complexity of their minds, and their hearts smiled. Their souls were warmly embraced with glimmering eyes of gratitude, knowing they have a space to share themselves in their entirety and bring home to the present. I demonstrate my love for my friends and others by making them feel seen, heard, and welcomed as I create space for them to speak in the voice they feel most comfortable in.
Dance is my first language. My nonverbal way of life that I express artistically. Dance is an uninterrupted manifestation of my heart's emotions. Anytime my words struggle to escape the binding arrests of the confusion in my mind, I dance till I find my way. Partner dancing facilitates a soul-deep magnetic pull, full of resistance and boundless connection, all at the same time. Here, we read people, and they read us by the subtleties of our hands and feet and our blended movement, as it tells our collective story, narrated by the lead. My poetry is recited by the groove and glide of my body. This language has healed, restored, shaped, and continues to uplift me.
Language is an entrancingly beautiful world to me. Its value is infinitely beyond the comprehension of the swarm of vibrations hurtling into the ear canals. With it, comes cultures of communities that have countless lessons to share and gifts to offer. Learning a language unlocks the door to another universe of life that would never be explored unwaveringly without the immersion of the self in this art. This is why I am a polyglot; to learn from others; to experience life abundantly with another person whom I may create a lifelong connection with, where language is no longer a barrier. I am a polyglot because I relish all aspects of life: laughing, fighting, eating, journeying, and absorbing the multiplexed organisms around me, while having no double-mirrored boundary to divide our worlds. I am a polyglot because the various languages that I consume beam through the multi-colored shards of glass that arrange themselves in the unique mosaic that is Journee.
The stained pieces of glass and tiles that makeup who I am feels like pieces of me that I’ve collected along the way to build the puzzle of pieces that I am.
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