Ryan Hadeed
?There's no easy way to say this–I hate Carnival. That's right, I did something no patriotic Trinbagonian would ever do and used the words "hate" and "Carnival" in the same sentence. Despite this treasonous admission, I doubt it would result in an angry mob gathering outside my home, clamouring for my head to be sacrificed as an offering to appease the deities of Bacchanalia.
In fact, with today being Ash Wednesday, I reckon that close to two thirds of the population are either burnt and/or boozed out to pay much heed to my little corner of self-righteous criticism. For those who might take offence to our culture being trampled upon, be warned, it's going to get a lot worse from here. I hold no illusions that this draconian perspective puts me in the minority, appearing too incredulous to be taken seriously. With that in mind you wouldn't believe I come from a family of diehard masqueraders (most of whom will be none too pleased with the contents of this column), and that I spent some of my youth living in Woodbrook, a veritable epicentre of Carnival related activities.
But for some reason I just never took to it, and never had a desire to. While most look forward to the festivities, with their preparations having been undertaken months in advance, this time of year only fills me with dread and I end up spending the week leading up to it by stockpiling various forms of entertainment with which to occupy my mind against the onslaught of noise and depravity. It could probably be described as the modern-day equivalent of hunkering down for a siege against hordes of marauding barbarians.
There was a time when I preferred to look at the positives of what having a "Carnival mentally" meant. The creativity that fuels such a spectacle of art in motion. The time and dedication involved in taking the vision from the drawing board to the stage. And the logistical support that's brought to bear, along with the mobilisation of almost every facet of the national community.
Indeed these were things to be proud of. But with every passing year the negatives became harder and harder to ignore. The costs went up, and we spend money we don't have. The fetes became more numerous, and we sacrifice work and productivity to attend them. The costumes became more revealing, and we wear them without shame or self-respect. And the behaviour became ever increasingly deplorable, and we continue to drink and cavort with reckless abandon. The boast that this is "the greatest show on earth" is laughable, and the argument could even be made that it has become a reflection of everything that is wrong with our society.
And yet despite my heavy-handed pessimism, I can also admit to seeing examples of the excellence we are capable of, giving me a glimmer of hope that Carnival can be elevated to a higher form of pageantry. Chief among these exemplars is none other than Peter Minshall, our very own self-expressed "Afro-Saxon." As a veteran masman, Minshall has dedicated himself to reclaiming both the title and the artistry it embodies.
Eccentric as he may be, the man is a maestro in every sense of the word. Like it or not, understand it or not, his presentation of Dying Swan for the King of Carnival Competition, while unconventional, is nothing short of genius as a construct of our combined European and Caribbean heritage; a form embodying both the coloniser and the colonised.
Perhaps this dual symbolism is the essence of what Carnival is all about–the ongoing, maddening struggle of the Trinbagonian soul trying to sort out its identity. Minshall's work can be taken as a manifestation of the social and cultural renaissance that we should aspire towards. For in truth we can have it both ways–we can be easy-going as well as industrious, we just have to temper our good times with better sense.
Let us therefore rededicate ourselves to our nation's watchwords of Discipline, Production, and Tolerance. Believe me, the merriment will be made even sweeter when we have earned it.