Rex Nettleford
I found people liked to recall the royalty of his name and nature but thought that King was too high and mighty so they named him a prince of men and that somehow seemed right.
I got to know Rex Nettleford when I was Editorial Assistant with the West Indian Commission 1991/92 – which produced the report “Time For Action”, still very relevant I believe. Rex Nettleford was a member, almost infinitely celebrated – extraordinary dancer and Director of Dance, scholar and Professor, University head, leader in thought in every imaginable field, friend and advisor to Prime Ministers, Jamaican and West Indian icon, a man in whom humanity flashed its brilliance and its best in a hundred ways. He often came to talk with me – about this and that but often enough to do with some point in the Commission’s work – and then we got to know each other well and there needed to be no Commission point, only the this and that of friendship.
He wanted to know about my tennis at Wimbledon and in the Davis Cup playing for the West Indies. He wanted to know how I felt on court playing well, on song. He liked to see people perform when they were on song whatever it was they did. “Was it not sweet to feel light as a feather on the grass of Wimbledon? I remember when I danced well the ground hardly touched my feet! How I loved those days!” I was dazed by his enthusiasm. How full of life he was! What a marvelous man!
In the long and wonderfully interesting travels and discussions involved in the work of the Commission, I was fortunate to have many long conversations with Rex Nettleford. His talk enthralled me. I was enriched. I remember one conversation we had about the life stories of West Indians and then specifically about our own life stories. I recall his remarkable phrasing – “Ian, we are drivers in this important car of ours. In the rear-view mirror I see, among other things, the victims of slavery. And you must see, I am sure, among other things, builders of Empire. But the most important thing is that we are guided by the headlights in front of us to find the way!”
We often talked about poetry. “I am not a poet” he said. And when one protested that he was indeed a poet of movement, of thought, of vision, he would dismiss it. “No, no, we all have frailties! I am not a poet of words, pure words! My mind is constructed to shape things otherwise”. He certainly knew his Walcott up to date. He seemed to know all of Louise Bennett. He taught me a lot I didn’t know about Langston Hughes.
Once I read him my favourite Martin Carter poem and immediately he liked it forever. He would say: “I’m feeling a little low today, Ian, read me Martin’s poem.” And I would read.
Tomorrow And The World
I am most happy
as I walk the seller of sweets says “Friend”
and the shoemaker with his awl and waxen thread
reminds me of tomorrow and the world.
Happy is it to shake your hand
and sing with you, my friend
smoke rises from the furnace of life
red, red red the flames!
Green grass and yellow flowers
smell of mist the sun’s light
everywhere the light of day
everywhere the songs of life are floating
like new ships on a new river sailing, sailing!
Tomorrow and the world
and the songs of life and all my friends –
Ah yes, tomorrow and the whole world
awake and full of good life!.
When I was awarded an Honorary Doctorate at UWI, I was told – perhaps simply to flatter me in which case it certainly succeeded – that Rex Nettleford had joined Sonny Ramphal and Alister McIntyre in recommending me for the honour. If this was true it adds for me a brighter gleam to that Caribbean honour I greatly cherish.
Father Brown
I hardly knew Father Brown. Readers are entitled to ask why write about a man who gets only a paragraph or two. The truth is his story will be best recorded by a writer with credentials far superior to mine.
Father Brown was a simple priest who for decades did good work among the very poor and the limitlessly deprived. Life is strange. Some cursed his presumption. I do not know of any mark of recognition he received.
He once gave me a little book of drawings by himself for my children. The drawings could themselves have been by a child: Joseph and Mary with a donkey on a road; Jesus nailed to a cross wearing a bloody crown of thorns; a Christ child in the arms of his Mother; etc. Little prayers of peace and praise adorned the book. I treasure that little book of cartoons more than most in my library.
When I was in Mercy Hospital one day I was told Father Brown was in the room next door. He was dying. I went in to see him. He didn’t know who I was. But he held my hand tight. I saw he was in agony. The old priest released his grip – perhaps the spasm passed. He smiled. “Thank you, my son.” Tears were in my eyes.
