Y'Boy first hear the story of Sangre Grande in Foundations of New World History, a class which was lecture by Dr Brinsley Samaroo, whereby Y'Boy did take in the 70s at UWI, the University of the West Indies, that institution which Y'Boy does still think of as carrying the full potential of it own spoken acronym: "UWI" equals "You-We" equals "Us," the possibility, the frightening/inspiring potential, of the combined peoples of the cricket-playing territories the English and them other European powers did carve up half-a-millennia ago: if You-We could only get together, this All-O'-We Caribbean would be a contender for Best Place to Live in the Whole Firetrucking World; or so Y'Boy does feel, most days.
Dr Samaroo had give a story of the origin of the name of the well known northeastern Trini town. "Sangre Grande" translate from the Spanish literally as "Big Blood;" and big blood it was, in truth, or so Brinsley tell Y'Boy and the rest of the history class.
In the early days of European arrival in the New World, it had Spanish conquistadores wandering around east Trinidad who bounce up some recalcitrant indigenous peoples, who apparently didn't want to accept Jesus as they personal saviour and Spanish as they personal massa. The Spanish soldiers chase down this unreasonable tribe of First Peoples and catch up with them; and, rather than waste more time trying to persuade them, opt for the simpler and more effective method of slaughtering them; and so the place get the name "Sangre Grande," from the amounta blood whereby get spill there.
And, with a nice little storyteller' touch, Brinsley add on that some of the tribe did get away little bit and run little further, but them hardworking and dedicated Spanish soldier give chase, and catch up with the remainder a little bit further down the road, and finish off the job there, but it was only a relative handful who had get away, so when they done dust them up, they could only call that next spot "Sangre Chiquito": Little Blood.
And is becaw thoughts of "big" and "little" running in Y'Boy' head that he thinking of Sangres Grande y Chiquito, watching down from the airplane, 38,000 feet above the southern coast of the USA. First is the thought how the big planet Earth get so chinksy that Y'Boy could left little Barbados and, before he could read a few chapter of he book-self, he almost reach in Dallas, Fort Worth, where Y'Boy heading, on Ruth to Austin, which part work taking him for a few days. The amounta sea Y'Boy fly over in three hours woulda take three months for them dead Indian in Sangre Grande to canoe; even the Spanish galleon and them mighta take three weeks to cover that ground, or rather water. And thoughts of big and little run again through Y'Boy head: how, when he get on the plane, he was almost startle by the size and power of the wide-bodied aircraft them real airline does use, not the chinky little small-maxi Dash Eight whereby he now realise he get accustom to flying on between he two destination of home in Barbados and work in Trinidad (which is just as much as or even more home than Bim, excepting he family is in Bim, not Trini).
And Y'Boy nearly jump when he see the coastline of the You Ess of Ay from the elevated perspective of the white-people' plane: as far as Y'Boy could see, going north, is the US; same thing, west. The Florida peninsula out of sight but, eef Y'Boy was to parachute down to the coast he seeing and only steady keep walking northeast along the beach, he would pass them Carolinas, Florida, and swan and swan, until he reach New York City self, and then he have a good way to walk again before he walk out of the US of A and reach Canada. If he turn the next way, when he done stow he 'chute, and walk west, it would take days, maybe weeks, to reach New Orleans, which Y'Boy want to believe he watching down on from the plane now, not becaw he could make out the Astrodome whereby it had gunplay and drama during Hurricane Katrina, but becaw of the amount of silt in the sea, the clear brown line marking effluent from the Mississippi as distinct as the oil spill must have mark out the Gulf of Mexico.
And the plane flying west steady, and the sea vanish below and get replace by land and all that Y'Boy could see is American. Horizon vanishing in the haze but even if the plane fly on for the rest of the day, it will still be the USA. Is 48 contiguous state plus Alaska plus Hawaii, 51 different local character, if you counts Puerto Rico, maybe 52 after the Castros dead and the US reannex they natural casino island of Cuba, all that vast geography and is one common identity the Texan and the New Yorker asserting alike, and don't mind the Californian, theatre-going sophisticate might scorn the Bible-toting Alabaman, the two of them rallying around one flag still.
And Y'Boy watch down at a piece of land whereby get clear for planting. The plane too high to make out the modern combine harvester that does be bigger than some Parliament buildings in the West Indies, but Y'Boy could see is one farm, the great house set in the centre of a huge expanse of land made ready for sowing; and Y'Boy don't know whether to laugh, cry or wind he watch, becaw that one farm run by one man, probably, with maybe help form only he three son and a few minimum wage Mexican sufferer, that one farm Y'Boy watching bigger than the entire Bajan parish of Christ Church; maybe everything from Bridgetown to the Crane, maybe everything from Chaguanas to Chaguaramas, including Santa Cruz, could fit in that one farm. And, where the man from Portland, Oregon, embracing he counterpart from Portland, Maine, the small-minded West Indian finding room, in his little territory and mind, for Bajan pride and Trini contempt for small islander; it have nothing like delusions of Grande.
BC Pires is in the chorus-and the wings-and Black Friday has turned blue. Read more of his
writing at www.BCraw.com