Further notes from Jamaica

Lydia Towsey concludes her Letter from Jamaica and asks what makes the work of one writer unique from another.

I’m writing this from Jamaica, but by the time you read it I will be back in the United Kingdom after my two week holiday to this island. I’m staying in Sandy Bay, a tiny village within the parish of Hanover. Far from Kingston, this part of the island is deeply rural. A series of towns runs across the coast line, interspersed by farms, goats and the occasional lean-to. If something isn’t a church it’s probably a bar, tourists are extremely few and far between, the landscape is astounding. But if the pace has been slow the amount to take in has been vast.

I came to Jamaica to write, or more accurately to think about writing: what it is, how you might do it – and why. At the back of my mind, there may also have been the horrendous English weather – weighed against Jamaican beaches and fantastic cocktails..but hey. Whatever order you put things in, I’ve been incredibly lucky; as my guide I’ve had the writer, Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze, to show me the ropes.

Now based in Leicester, Jean quite sensibly Winter’s in Jamaica with her family. Having the privilage of being able to spend a few weeks of it with her, has made me think about lots of things – but in particular, how a place might directly effect a person’s work.

In many ways, Jamaica is a country of contradictions. On the one hand, island paradise and home to some of the world’s greatest areas of natural beauty, on the other, it is still very much ecomically developing.

In contrast to the UK, state benefits do not exist and people must do whatever they can to get by. Basic infrastructure is lacking; street lights are few and far between, road works start, then stop when the money runs out. There aren’t enough schools so that some have to run several shifts. Hospitals are over crowded and healthcare in them has only just been made free.

Seeing all this first hand, it becomes easy to understand where the political side of Jean’s writing (and that of her cultural contemporaries) is coming from. From the lament of Third World Blues (Riddym Ravings, Race Today) to the anger of Aid Travels with a Bomb (Uncollected) her work is firmly rooted in experience. Nigril beach – with it’s 7 miles of white sand and endless expanse of tourists – is suddenly an illustration for Third World Girl (forthcoming, Cutting a Lime, Bloodaxe) and from Kingston to Sandy Bay, the Mad Woman (Spring Cleaning, Virago) – or man – is only too real.
Outside of political life – if anything really is – other aspects of Jean’s writing and inspiration have also become clear. Last week we visited Patty Hill, the tiny mountain settlement where Jean grew up, and I met her cousin Max. Later I read Easter Lilies (Edge of an Island, Bloodaxe) and discovered how – or at least, an imagining of how – he had come to be the person he was.
On Steamer Beach, I saw the wreck of a ship Jean’s son, Gareth once dived from, then later read Remind Me (Spring Cleaning, Virago), the poem about the day he did so. From poems and stories about ‘Aunt Nor’, her mother, to writings on school and church and love, one thing is clear. Only Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze could possibly have written Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze’s work. Had she been born and raised anywhere else, it would be entirely different.

Understanding this has been incredibly useful. I know it sounds obvious – that each writer has their own unique voice, formed by background and experience – but really seeing it, through the example of one person, has somehow been quite effecting. A poem as wonderful as Ordinary Mawning (Spring Cleaning, Virago) couldn’t have existed without Jean’s upbringing but neither could the work of every other artist – you’ve ever seen, read or heard. Jackie Kay couldn’t have written her Adoption Papers, John Hegley couldn’t have written about his French dad and Luton bungalow.

Looked at like this, every individual experience also becomes precious. If Carol Ann Duffy hadn’t found herself, one night, in love and apart from her lover, her amazing Words Wide Night wouldn’t exist. If Roger McGough hadn’t lived it (or something like it) neither would Summer With Monica.
On a personal level, all this gets me thinking. Ever since going into the Blue Mountains – and drinking Blue Mountain coffee there, I’ve been thinking about my mother: the first time (when I was 8 and she 40) that we drank Blue Mountain coffee together. Where it was, what she looked like, how she held my hand and what she would have felt – had she been here, doing the same, over 2 decades later. If I write it – for good or bad – this will be a poem, that only I could have written. That’s somehow really exciting. It makes me fall in love with writing all over again. It renews my hope. It almost makes me feel more responsible, to my both my work and my experiences.

Looking around, it also makes me intensely curious about everyone else. Right now I’m sitting on the veranda, watching Garnet, the guy who owns the bar across the way, set up. When did he open the bar? What were his parents like? What happened to him yesterday?

A tiny crowd of school kids have just bowled past, rucksacks bigger than their bodies – what about them? What does the tiny one, with the white wrapped pigtails and blue ankle socks, really want to be when she grows up? What’s her family like? What does she like doing, more than anything else?

Not everyone can – or will – tell their story. Not everyone will get to hear it. But if you are a writer, or an artist of any kind, what stories could only you tell? What songs could only you sing? They’re precious. They’re waiting for you to give them life.

Supported by Writing East Midlands

Lydia Towsey is a poet and writer. She coordinates and often comperes the spoken word night WORD. When not doing poety things, she is Creative Arts Coordinator for her local NHS Trust. She is also studying towards an MA in Creative Writing at Nottingham Trent University.