baffu 7 - Image Factory

BAFFUseven
Channel 7 - Belize
Yaya Marin Coleman, social activist
Carlos Quiroz
Artists + Writers + Poets in this issue
Santiago Cal
Channel 7 - Belize
Carlos Quiroz
Rasheed Palacio
Chris Cansino
Stuart Silva + Tavis Swift
Andre Marsden
James Hernandez
Gerardo Polanco
Kyana Brindle + Jamaul Roots
Jermey Canul
Katie Usher
Kenya Dawson
Omar Tzalam
Gerzon Tobar
Kyo D’ Assassin
Keyren X
Meisha Simmons
Yasser Musa
Antonio Beardall
Jemuel E. Robateau
Briheda Haylock
A Claybrook
Jenean Sabal
Sheryl Chocolaad
Misha Gianchandani
cover: Santiago Cal, Radio Tower 2015
Joe Cruz
Chelsea Johnston
Kesha Peyrefitte
Natalia Pilato
Atlas Major
Kevin Chan
Butch
Alton Humes
Francis Ruiz
Chantae Guy
Kyraan Gabourel
Dwayne Murillo
Ms Sue
Quilz Tamay
Paul Steveson
Sean Taegar
Cindy Burgos
Rudolph Rodriguez
Yaoling Lee
Abner Recinos
Eyana Pratt
Rony Jobel
Christopher Ramclam
Uriel Cowo
Jaslyn Yorke
Michael Gordon
Carlos Quiroz
Rasheed Palacio
‘America’
Stuart Silva and Tavis Swift
(Conquistador’s perspective)
I came here for God and Glory
To make myself a new story
I came for all the indians
To convert them and make them christian
There I met malenche,my new bride
We got married and went for a ride
We destroyed their temples and killed their men
We captured their women and put them in pens
Guns made them run and hide
Now i am cocky and filled with pride
We introduced germs and they dropped like flies
Malinche tricked them with lies
I became a god
And Malinche became a servant to my rod
I also came for gold
Which I obviously stole
I made them fill a room up to the ceiling
I had fun killing and stealing
I’ll never forget the feeling,
Of Malinche’s sexual healing
(Native’s perspective)
I was in the bed with my wives
When I was greeted by guns and knives
My wives began to run and hide
He was a little too cocky and filled with pride
He demanded something called gold,
But we had no store that sold;
He grabbed me by the hand,
He began to scream and demand;
He shot one of my wives in the head,
They imprisoned me, I watch her bled.
He took our gold and our integrity he stole;
He married Malinche and she danced on his pole.
She betrayed us like Judas,and that was just cold
She was something like a germ or a mole
He became powerful like a God
And Malinche became a servant to his rod
She would always be on his ride
And would always beat us up and be on his side;
I filled a room up to the roof
That’s why they are rich,that’s the proof
They chopped off my head
Instantly, my body began to bled
Oh wait, I’m dead
Reflecting on a Photograph of Myself
Reflecting on an Antique Camera.
Andre Marsden
Quiet boy, bony boy
all ribs and elbows
and ponderance over simple things.
Did you run your fingers over the grooves
believing the world you felt
more than the often lying light of it?
Did you think there must be some
secret trick, some magical more-to-it-ness
to the mundane machinery,
the way you do even now?
You faintly glowing ember boy,
grandfather’s tobacco boy,
water held tight in hands boy, there’s no keeping you here.
Though I’m told your mother sees you often
I am left with only memories and mimicry.
At times, in homage, I seal my lips shut
with hours of silence.
Time spent staring at my hands
wondering which wrinkle in the lines
was you.
You under-kitchen-table-surfer,
you excavator of old valises,
you who knows as much about why
old people hide away old things
as I know why I keep them now.
That relic in your lap
will be yours one day, or one like it.
Treasure hunter turned memory maker.
I sometimes wonder, as some men often do,
would I truly become my father
and make another you. Or at least
become my own man
with my own wife and son.
Will he explore the ruins of our closets?
Brave the perilous journey of the high attic?
Plumb the depths of the under-bed. Will he be
a quiet boy, a boney boy,
all ribs and elbows?
James Hernandez
Melting Pot Exhibition
text: Kendra Griffith
photos courtesy: Quilz Tamay Flores
The "Melting Pot" art exhibition was launched on November 23rd, 2015 at the Venezuelan Institute for Culture
and Cooperation, Bolivar-Goldson. Its mission was to create culture retention and to nurture the understanding
and appreciation of Belizean art. I was asked by His Excellency Yoel Perez Marcano Ambassador of Venezuela
to Belize to organize and accomplish an art exhibition. On many of our conversations at cultural expositions
carried out at the institute the Ambassador mentioned how much Belize lacked cultural awareness. Leading
my decisions to set culture as the theme of the exhibition. Subsequently, I started to gather artists who were
interested in being part of the event; in the end five distinct Belizean artist were onboard and assigned the
task of creating three pieces. They were, Adriana Smith, Samantha Ke, Rasheed Palacio, Rudolph Rodriguez
and Shaquille Young. Event planning wasn't new to me however; it was the first art show that I had taken the
reigns on. With the help of Rasheed Palacio we managed to execute an awe-inspiring opening night filled with
musical performances and wonderful art. The exhibition lasted for four days where by different high schools,
primary schools, preschools and the general public attended.
The Girl You are about to Meet
Andre Marsden
The girl you are about to meet has a name that sounds like something men used to
pray to. She is waiting for you outside. It is raining and the wind has teeth tonight,
but she'll brave it all, waiting for you with two tickets in her pocket, smiling politely and
shaking her head 'no' at all the people who pass by. She'll say 'No, I'm waiting for
someone' to the men who ask after her safety and comfort, even the ones who smile
handsomely. She'll brave all that too. All of it, just for the sake of waiting. After all,
she's waiting for you.
When you get there she'll look relieved. You might recognize this look. It can either
confuse you or embolden you. She will be taller than you expected. In her boots and
impress-you-clothes she will be taller than you. You might think this means she is too
tall for you, too large, too square shouldered. She will stop you at the box office and
present you with the tickets she bought, refusing to let you pay her back thinking it’s
polite, or perhaps thinking this will make you less likely to be worried about money in
the relationship.
This will cause you to worry about money in your relationship. Specifically about
how much more money she must make than you and whether you are man enough
to seize control. This will also lead you to think that she is too tall for you. Too big
for you. Too much for you. You will not think that she is a girl. Just a girl. A girl who
waited outside for you, enduring the rapier wind and ravishingly warm looks from
handsome strangers. A girl who waited outside in the rain. For you.
You will notice her smile once you're inside. She has a cute smile. It shines with a
sort of modesty; humility brought on by her uncanny ears. She will catch you looking
at her smile and thus prompt you to look at her eyes. She's pretty. Far too pretty for
you. She is perfect. If things go well you will wake up in her apartment surrounded
by her clutter. You will see her childish, un-sexy underwear. You will see the dark
splotches on her skin; on her back and on her thighs, and the ever-present fuzz of hair
covering places on her body which your mind and issues of Playboy magazine tell you
hair should not grow on a woman. If things go really well you will discover hair too
bold to grow in peach fuzz. You will encounter her most intimate of briers. You will
find she is a terrible cook or that she puts ketchup on her eggs. All of your favorites
will be absent from her movie collection. If things go really well, you will become privy
to her every imperfection; not in one night, but certainly over time. And you may just
come to love her for it.
But tonight, things will not go that well. Not as long as you are intimidated by her. Not
as long as you fail to reward her graciousness with your graciousness. And certainly
not if you keep a girl like that waiting.
The girl you are about to meet is actually your enemy. There is only one copy of that
special edition book signed by the author left on the shelf and both your hands will fall
upon it at the very same time. She will pretend to be modest and shy. Will apologize,
because she is a girl and, unlike you, is cautious about unsolicited touch. She will
tell you, 'that's fine.' and 'You can have it.' You will not consider the questionable
judgement involved in starting a relationship based on a lie. If you really look you'll
notice the way her eyes never leave the book; and how want and disappointment never
leave her eyes. You, however, will be concentrating on how cute her glasses look.
You will offer her the book, thinking nothing of her eager and unhesitating acceptance;
in the hope that you will be able to parlay it into a date. You can, but you will have to
be a lot smoother than you actually are. You will in fact, have to take on a completely
different persona to pull this off. See previous caveat re: starting off relationships
based on lies.
You will think yourselves compatible. You will have all the same interests and you will
both think "Hm. Perhaps this is the one." And because you are both contemplating
this, and because you are both becoming tired of meeting new people you will both be
on your best behavior, and will therefore continue to lie to one another about things
which should not or would not normally matter. At the end of all this she will call you
a red meat eating, uncultured, whole milk drinking douche bag, and you will call her a
clove smoking, non-dick-sucking, two faced, hipster poseur bitch, and you'll both part
ways searching for the girl and boy you respectively met before one another.
The girl you are about to meet has eyes like you've never seen before. She is tired
of hearing about them. She will stare at you after you say it to her, lock you with
those unprecedented cliches, challenge you to say something to her, something
new, something--anything more. You will understand this inherently, feel the hollow
Christmas ornament nature of your polished tin complement and search yourself for
something with a little more...moreness to it. By the time you think you have it, the bus
has stopped, the doors have opened, and she's already left. You will never see this
girl again. You will always, always want her.
The girl you are about to meet has been told she has too much meat on her bones.
The moles on her face mark strange shapes between her mismatched ears, her
prominent nose, and the excess cheek that hides her eyes when she smiles. And
yet, she is beautiful. She wears clothes that do not flatter her but at least they drape
in patterns that disguise her paunch. She is too much of herself. She has grown to
dislike the taste. And so, you must taste her. You must kiss her so deeply that she
discovers brand new flavors in herself. You must do this so often that the hands which
come up to brace herself against the assault of your pressed bodies become quaint
tourist attractions. A place for you to visit and imagine a time when such a great nation
needed protection from invaders. The girl you are about to meet will someday open
her borders to you, tax free. Her hips are beach towels. At the sunset of your lives you
will find they have spread and you will both still enjoy the warm comfort of them long
after your children have played in the surf, built their castles, wrapped themselves in
their own beach towels, and put all the toys away.
James Hernandez
James Hernandez
Upon Finally Being Able
to Write About Nohmul
Gerardo Polanco
Because history was not done carving
language from my mother-less tongue,
made me beggar of identity:
too mestizo, they say, to claim
limestone as bones and hollowed flutes as soul.
Because history was not done carving
memories of embroidered flowers
and grandmother sitting riverside
chanting Yucatan alive.
Because history was not done carving
my limestone spine, they sent
iron and fire to demolish gods,
bringing celestial mound to human heights:
a gravesite for a grave/sight.
Atavistic pain too ancient
to produce tears and poetry sufficient enough
to understand, to deal,
to make reality feel
like centuries of destruction
from tongue to mind to heart to stone.
I bleed colorful cotton strings
and sugarcane flowers, too relentlessly white
to stop blooming;
I write feathered-serpent calligraphy
and make from demolition cloud
sky-shaped pottery
that keeps and that holds.
Neruda, Please Explain a Few Things
Gerardo Polanco
Our father, Neruda,
who is in the heavens,
who is the rustling of condor feathers
flying over Andean mountain ranges
and the Tawantisuyu holy land of golden potatoes,
in the ebb and flow of nameless men
and women, with soul of salt and wood,
that populated towns with wine and oil,
how many ashen colored feet, caked with earth
have used Neftali’s words as stepping stones
to reach Incan skies?
Neruda, fisherman,
nets cast over your shoulder,
overflowing with fish and verse,
do you still keep the nameless close?
Does vision in your eyes and voice on your tongue
still speak to them of eternity?
Do the nameless still people the earth?
Do you still find need to explain a few things?
Like blood of children, you said, running down the streets
like blood of, well, children.
Do you still think twice before metering
the metaphysics of volcanoes erupting in poppy flowers
because somewhere in one of the Four Regions,
a woman cries, or a child carries a rifle,
or a man is swallowed by the sea,
or someone’s heart has been broken
under another starry night?
Our father,
who rests in heights of Machu Picchu,
is there still silence and leavened bread?
Did your poems ever write themselves
as prophets of hope?
Because the love and beautiful desire
They spoke about,
persists.
Because the pain and lasting anguish
They spoke about,
persists.
Is there any hope nestled
among the rubbles of Machu Picchu,
or any other stone temple?
Kyana Brindle and Jamaul Roots Altered @ Empyrean
"The four brahma-viharas represent the most beautiful and hopeful aspects of our human nature.
They are mindfulness practices that protect the mind from falling into habitual patterns of reactivity
which belie our best intentions.
Also referred to as mind liberating practices, they awaken powerful healing energies which brighten
and lift the mind to increasing levels of clarity. As a result, the boundless states of (metta) lovingkindness, (karuna) compassion, (mudita) appreciative joy and (upekkha) equanimity manifest as
forces of purification transforming the turbulent heart into a refuge of calm, focused awareness.”
Metta
Kyana Brindle and Jamaul Roots Altered @ Empyrean
Karuna
Kyana Brindle and Jamaul Roots Altered @ Empyrean
Mudita
Kyana Brindle and Jamaul Roots Altered @ Empyrean
Upekkha
Santiago Cal
Jermey Canul
Jermey Canul
SIMMER DOWN
Katie Usher
My hands have finally stopped shaking. Well enough for me to write a few verses. Inside, the tempest
swells deeper and tries to release itself from the confines of my body. Wanting more space, needing more
fuel, looking for more than what I offer.
I am still reeling from what were some of the most indescribable months of my life. It has me questioning
myself, and human nature.
What is the purpose of being here? Why are we on a planet, in a hemisphere, populated by other souls,
if not to practice how to be with others. Interaction, conflict, connection, isolation. All these things come to
mind, for me at least.
I guess I've placed myself on a quest of pondering myself and others because of the fact that I just resigned
from a job, where I lasted only 88 days.
I left because I wanted to and because I needed to. Even though, ironically enough, I am in a deep financial
hole because of it.
What is finance?
We are socialized to be good children, good students, go to good schools, study, meet someone, a couple
someones, fall in love, have our hearts broken, get dumped, dump others, get drunk, get high, get it
together eventually, get married, have children, turn jobs into successful careers, in whichever order those
last four occur to finally sail you on to successful tides.
For some reason, the last four elude me. I'm not upset about it. I am used to it, really.
My formative years were spent between Belmopan and Belize City. I was always an outsider. Belmopan,
as I thought, when I went to visit yesterday, is all straight lines and structure, and attempts at perfection,
which may never be attained, ever.
Belize City, is gritty, with character, and probably too much for itself.
Depending on your socialization finance can mean your own kind of currency. My currency is human
connection. And I am flat broke, because I make poor investments.
On August 17, one day after my 29th birthday I started a job as a producer of a morning show for a Belizean
media house. Of course I was scared, of course I thought I could not do it, of course I thought that they had
made a mistake. But I showed up. I was never late, I was never absent, there was never a black screen,
and I was never acknowledged for my efforts. Instead, though I was hired, supposedly, because I was a
artist, and therefore creative, my creativity was suppressed. I was told constantly how boring the show was,
because of my choice of topics and guests. I was constantly told that I needed to learn what segments
were, what was newsworthy and what was not.
Of course there were more limits, instructions and restrictions doled out than ideas for format, concept and
relevance.
Still on I trudged, despite canceling guests (with no explanation and at the last minute), never-ending
segments, an immense work load, a load of emails, expectations, meetings, more and more tasks added
and insults. On I trudged.
On I trudged, even as much gains had been made to the extinguishing of my light, I was asked to 'come
here' (as I was always asked, just as you would call an unruly pet, or a recalcitrant child). "We need to talk
about what medications you're taking, if you're taking any, and which therapist, are you seeing one? you
need to."
I was shocked, not by the questions, but by the fucking audacity of the entire event.
I had never disclosed my general anxiety disorder diagnosis, to avoid the fangs and claws of the beasts
ignorance, close-mindedness and inhumanity. It matters not how many panels, mental health weeks and
forums are had, as long as it is considered ok to disregard persons with mental illness as "crazy people"
(and therefore unable people), hypocrisy and sub-development will prevail in Belize. And people like me,
will not be considered employable, once we disclose what is inside our hearts and definitely, in my case,
for example, our anxious minds.
An exhausting, "thankless job" (as they referred to it) is one thing, being confronted about my mental
health out of feigned concern for my welfare was quite another. Where was that concern when I reached
out to ask for ideas, planning meetings, and at the very least a peek at the unspoken, but apparently clear,
'list of approved and restricted guests'?
Concern, I suppose, is a most subjective and selective thing.
When I complained, I was told, well you put it on facebook, so it is public. The facebook post they are
referring to, is in fact a closed facebook group for support for individuals who suffer from and live with
anxiety, medical health professionals, fitness and wellness professionals, legal professionals, human
rights advocates and media professionals. The idea was to create an environment of support and resource
access online. Ironically, the funeral knell to my means of employment.
Only two weeks before, after one month of being told, how BORING the show was, I was asked to call
someone. That someone is their new prospect. I contracted my own replacement. This is how the world
works.
It is a dog eat dog world and in this landscape of job scarcity, words like friendship and loyalty are mere
shells, devoid of meaning.
What do I get from this?
I am not the only one bankrupt in the currency of human connection. We spend all day on 'un-social' media
and have few real experiences of friendship, camaraderie and socialization to show for it.
We talk about being evolved, but if we can not acknowledge and respect individuals as equals because
their minds are wired differently from yours, I dare to say that 'evolution' is deficient.
These are the things which, I am sure, will spur me further, insure me that the things I fight for, are things
that need to be fought for.
I leave, not a victim of circumstance, but a victor of situation.
Kenya Dawson
Omar Tzalam
Gerzon Tobar
An Ode to Chronixx
Kyo D’Assassin
Here comes Trouble
Chronixx deh yah
Belizeans purge themselves
Pon bottles of Spirulina
Wi heart clean Like a Whistle
We no worry bout Destra
Cuz we wa enjoy wiselves
From Alpha to Omega
Me no pay badmind
To people Under Curtains
We Nah give up
cuz we Ain’t Giving In
Who Knows the troubles
The faces we wa look pon
People speak in spirits
Inna Capture Land
Polly licking, Politricking
Dash shade ova di plans
Belizeans… real Warriors
Together we stand
Smile Belize, just smile
Enjoy the awakening
Rain Music a play
Ignite di Melanin
Build back Black Wall Street
Sound the Nyahbinghi
Eternal Fire…
Keep it blazing
All dem News Carrying Dreads
Need fi Wheel out Star
They don’t know Ghetto People
Got dem di live like star
From the worst comes the best
Outta Tenement Yaad
Reggae Music… a lifestyle
Dis da no wa fad
All we need is a one drop
Beat and a Mic
Promoters make dem money
Only uno di fight
Cuz Inna Music
We all unite
Start a Fyah
With Chronixx live in Belize tonight
In Due Time
Keyren X
I remember growing up; I was asked what I wanted to be.
Over the years replies changed, because I began to see clearly.
The possibilities are endless, so many topics in this subject we call life.
My youths look in the mirror.
Close your eyes and imagine having your dream job.
(Silence)
Now open them.
We live in false reality.
You got to work hard for that.
Decisions of quantity outweigh that of quality.
All driven by lack of morality.
While women become the victims of profanity.
We’ve all been thought that education is the key to success.
Some the smartest people aren’t in school.
My mother told me, “Son, without an education you’ll be a tool.
So then I bought that,
Because she thought that I could be somebody.
Yet
The thought of working hard seem to suppress our will.
See you have to find your value in being a human being, most of us are dreaming,
These illusions in the mind all seem but possible, only In Due Time.
I respect my fellow youths, working hard, living a honest life.
I know the struggle is real; we conceal the way we feel many days.
Yet were still driven in the same way.
We all want a better life.
See everyone wants change but when it’s time to get up and change things
Who will take a stand? Does it depend on your personal morals of being a man?
Or is it the softness of your hand that holds you back or the heart that you reprimand.
Every day I hear of a different crime in my country.
Commonly a young man got gunned down or a business getting runs down.
Politicians lie, mothers cry, you see everyday somebody dies.
But for what??
To my Belizeans brother, bullet from a gun goes far
So why fight over territory when you live blocks apart.
From north and south our country has becomes a target, marketed by corruption.
We are subliminal, failing to realize that all politicians are just educated criminals.
How long will it take for us to realize that this is our home?
From Sarstoon island to Corozal’s coast. We boast…we boast
You see when the poor steals from the rich it’s called violence, when the rich steals from
the poor its call business.
What is this?
Both issues but what do we seek first peace or justice.
Society should choose wisely but society is us.
Because when the peace doesn’t come people take justice into their own hands.
Then they realize that they lost the peace trying to get justice.
Have well really lost the real meaning of what trust IS?
So many promises and nothing’s change.
We!!!….We want change,
Because hands together can defeat any body’s arms.
because only when it is dark enough can you see the stars.
That is my creed.
My youths don’t give up the fight, your dreams are real.
It’s not the end, your story has but just begun.
Make history with the name you were given
And the story will 1 day be told. .
But In Due Time
Because everybody wants to rich.
Money may make you wealthy, but it doesn’t make you rich.
I’m telling you that for free.
Most of us a confined and lost in our own dreams,
Nobody hear you, so all you do is scream.
All I ask if open your mind, because when they tell you that you can’t.
Tell them you can,
When they ask why you’re wearing it this way,
Tell them it’s my way,
When they tell you you’re broke,
Tell them your time is coming.
And stop running from your imperfections,
Cause the taste of perfection in eyes of others,
is not a fair reflection of you.
Belize we are Free
All we need a peace of mind,
Assurance that we are really free to do what we feel is right,
Make contributions of good, instead of starting fights.
It’s our natural born human right. Let’s unite
I hope you understanding me.
I hope you understanding me.
True.
Meisha Simmons
Meisha Simmons
Meisha Simmons
Yasser Musa
Yasser Musa
Get to Know Me
Antonio Beardall
The cracks are deeper now,
Sometimes hard to see,
But they are there,
Revealing the sham that is a façade,
Revealing the vulnerability.
Stiff upper lips
And lips that rarely curve into smiles
Have done justice to the past,
Showing iron strength
On the throne of ice.
But one can only rule for so long
Not blinking an eye
Not shedding tears in pain nor laughter,
For even hearts of steel can break,
Even walls of stone shatter.
What is to be done
With a monarch of stone
When cracks appear in the shoulders
Heavy from burden
And laden with grief?
Will the cracking mask reveal
A soul welcomed for being fragile?
Or will the king be overthrown
For showing to all
That he too has a heart?
My Voice
Jemuel E. Robateau
I just want
ed to hear your voice and I forgot to tell you that I love you.
The sound of your voice lingers in my ears. After we’ve said goodbye,
the rest of the evening becomes so dull and boring I wish we could talk all night.
One mind, one man, one mouth, One book, one pen, one vote that counts,
From ten times louder than a thousand decibels to hardly a whisper
Like the wind passing through the tree leaves, she listens, he listens, we listen,
they listen and I listen for the sound of my voice, it puts bricks and mortar; it builds
walls, it imparts knowledge and dispels myths, slicker than any oil spills,
sharper than any two edged ‘Panya’ machete or samurai sword, critic, witty or sarcastic,
My voice makes them cower with fear while it thunders in fury amplified
by my facial expressions and hand gestures. It’s the scariest thing!
Yet every day it’s what she longs for. She wants to hear it.
My voice sets her at ease, makes her calm and puts her to sleep.
She longs to hear me whisper of my love and when the conversation was so sweet
but you must delete we delete text messages, emails and chat
but what always remains is the sound of our words.
From ten thousand peals of anger to faint whispers of life and serenity
I’m sorry but no apologies,
I’ve got to use it! This is what she wants.
Belize needs it! Everyone needs to hear…my voice…
'Portraits of a Man in Love'
Jemuel E. Robateau
Ode to what the painter saw and tried to reproduce. They say I
have a gleam in my eyes, a light on my face. It appears for two
reasons. It appears when I speak of her. She is my bittersweet
past and present. She is the past that somehow I can't seem to
let go of. The light shines when I speak of her memory and the
hopes that somehow between her developments the past will
revive and we will love again. Maybe we can love the way we
used to. Others have seen the gleam when I speak of you. You
are my hidden present and possible future. You came along and
filled my heart to overflowing. I cannot help but speak vaguely
of what only we know. For now your love must remain in the
shadows. Oh how I ache and long to hold the reality of you in
my arms. You tease me with the taste of your possibilities. Will
I move on? Will I have you for forever and always? Will we ever
consummate our passion for one another? My past might say I
won't. But then again maybe I will...
Rain Water
Straight from the heavens
into my body, into my brain, into my heart,
My lungs, my mouth, my tongue
into my soul, into my mind
the thoughts I'm thinking
into my blood stream, my urine, my body odors and secretions,
Into my semen, the essence that makes a woman pregnant,
into my head and shoulders arms, legs, hands and feet
into my fingers and toes in what I write and where I go
Into the ground to awaken the seeds
that sleep into life to give life to life itself
the life giver to quench the scorching burning of death's tongue
as it were to cool the very sun move, seep, drain, run,
into everything dry and dying into the earth, into the whole world,
the entire universe inside of me
cursed by the wind yet a blessing falling from the sky
into my ears, nose, throat and eyes
father time's son and mother nature's daughter
come to me
I love you...
15th November 2015 by Jemuel
E. Robateau
Carlos Quiroz
Carlos Quiroz
Briheda Haylock
Briheda Haylock
Briheda Haylock
Briheda Haylock
call to creatives
Did you know?
The first week of December 2015 Belize National Library Service and
Information System celebrates 80 years of providing public library service to
Belizeans. Services specific to the literary community include:
1. processing ISBN applications,
2. hosting book launches,
3. providing access to past and
present cultural content for research.
This vast collection of Belizean research is possible through legal deposit.
Legal deposit is a system that entitles the library to receive free of charge within
thirty days of release two copies of any book, pamphlet, journal, newspaper,
magazine, report, slide, phonographic record, audio tape, audio-visual tape,
CD-ROM, DVD, thesis, dissertation, plan and any information constituting
Belize's cultural and historical heritage, published or produced in Belize and
intended for public distribution.
Sensual Journey
A Claybrook
The taste of your lips
The sway of my hips
The look in your eyes as you slip
Down, down, down you go
Touching and gliding as you reach low
Low below to the place only you know
Tender touches
My cheek flushes
Pressure building
As your finger slips in
Milk and honey flowing like a river
The wind blows and I begin to shiver
Struggling I try to maintain focus
Sucking and touching you destroy my lotus
All I can do is give in to this lust
Grinding and sliding
My mind is slipping
Movements uncontrolled
I suddenly fall into a black hole
The kiss of your lips
You between my hips
Every time you take me on a trip
Stand Up
A Claybrook
Stand up my brothers - stand up I say
And fight for your right to say what you want to say
No more holding back
No more cutting them slack
Unions and parties United as one
To fight against this injustice that is handed down
Down upon us and our families
By these political parties
Who do not give a damn about us the common man?
The people who put them there
The ones they should hear
So today we stand up and say
We shall not be moved - not until they hear what we have to say
And do what must be done
To unite back our nation
Yes - we will fight this contention
In every jurisdiction
Under the constitution
Of this Belizean nation
To Whom It May Concern
The image you show is one of a happy boy turning into a man and has yet
to learn all the crosses of life. Tall, dark skin, that egg shaped head that I
can't seem to get the image out of my head from between my legs... But
let's give you a glass of whiskey. In fact, that’s not enough… heads up this
bottle of bittaz just to make sure to take two shots of tequila and I'll have you
right where I need you to be. Telling me everything, everything that hurts you;
everything that makes you feel some type of way. Telling me about girls you
pass through and the fact that they made you feel whole for that second, but
your mind somehow finds its way back to the smile on my face that brings
you at peace. Stories about lectures that teaches you nothing that you already
haven’t known but yet it reminds you of me... Back to the times we would sit
for hours talking about life and the world and the people in it and every time
you would ask the question… did you know? I'll look at you and smile and
say no. I did not, just so you can shake your head and continue thinking that
you’re teaching me the world. Even though everybody told me otherwise, I
never doubt for a second that you weren't the reason for my smile. Deep in
your stories you said her name, Mrs boo and you smirked a smirk. You never
did when talking about girls that reminded you of me. That very moment my
heart sunk so far down, I did not hear anything that you said after that. It was
like, I am at the bottom of the ocean searching for air to breathe knowing there
was no way out but up. Up seems so impossible to reach to; I fight. Fight back
the tears, the anger, the betrayal, the disappointment. Holding my tongue
and looking the other way. That night, I found myself laying on my back with
you on top and I felt nothing and usually we zing, but yet I wanted to feel
something but instead I stopped and looked you in your eyes and realize after
all these years, I still couldn't get you to look me in my eyes. I still couldn't
get you to kiss me with your heart or touch me with your souls. But yet I fight
back from leaving; for my heart I was trying to store but how could you store
away something you can't find. You lucked me behind jerseys and friends.
You feed me to bitches and hoes, but I'll tell you this… it won't be no more; it
may take some time for me to get over you but lord knows I'll linger your mind
for years to come because everything about her reminds you of me. So try to
leave, try to forget; you've placed yourself in a trap and I wish you the best of
luck for the original is on her way out while the Copy is putting you through a
drought...........
Yours truly
Justice
Jenean Sabal
Life’s Eyes
Shenyl Chocolaad
I see what you saw; I’m not overlooking any flaws.
As I am made of them all, starting over crawling.
Not able to stand up on my own two feet, not wanting to be falling, again.
Still have the exam to pass, learning to forget, not feeling guilty leading to regret.
Life is seen, but not through our own eyes.
Looking straight at the answer, we see nothing…mind aching.
Heart only generates the cause of reaction.
Read in hast to result to an interpretation…life.
Without what I am not, I am not…hate to love, bad to good, ignorance to knowledge, coward to brave,
sad…to happy.
All I need to understand and progress is simplicity…
With peace and diligence, no need to jump the fence and…become an intruder.
Simple thoughts, metaphors and parables help the stress grow older.
Then weaker we can now conquer and get rid of once and for all, the pain that had no purpose from
the start.
It cannot be denied, life it truly beautiful, such an exquisite art intellectually compiled.
Many shapes and forms it has taken, been abuse lead to the misleading but still results in you reading
and analyzing , all its purpose, to mold us, to truly be us.
Only yourself, the raw essence of light in the dark, your awakening shines forever…that spark.
Oh that spark that is immediately recognized, it’s not too long when we realize, and souls harmonize.
Give meaning to purpose, no need to look for, in each moment it was given.
Already secured and locked…life. Life it is for all.
Conscious to be aware, fear is nowhere near.
There is a natural mystic flowing through the air, maybe we found it right where we are, and now willing
to express in motion, interact physically; it’s now visible through two now one…body.
Personally, a promise can be made and spiritually it remains.
Echoing in rain, everything flows so here comes another new day.
Only time will tell, the end result how much you’ve retained and how well.
Peace in pieces and left to understand, hold my hand because love, life never felt so good.
Smile, when speechless, hearts unbroken, questions arising…is this love that is felt?
Fire I see burns to smoke in the breeze…at ease.
The ache no more, space around heart grows…straightened and aligned walking forward with no
need to look behind.
Stars cosmic, life’s magic. In self-defiance, brilliant compliance as love is whole.
Go on continue in peace, be bold my child be bold.
Yasser Musa
Shame
Discrimination
Fear
Hatred of self and others
Jealousy
Inequality
Distribution of wealth
Are all man-made.
Oysters
One tiny grain of sand
Barely noticeable
Virtually inconceivable
Causes such discomfort
To the fleshy oyster
That it begins to coat
The intruder
With nacre
Covers it
layer after layer
And produces something beautiful
Something precious and treasured.
In the same way
You must know truth,
Not ignore or avoid it.
It should make you so uncomfortable
That you rise up
And do something about it.
It should cause
Such discomfort
You are forced to create something beautiful
For future generations to cherish
And marvel at.
Words and model: Misha Gianchandani
Photo and drawing: Joe Cruz
Photo inspired by instagram user: michelabacco
Second poem inspired by: Jenny Lewis
Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins- Rise Up with Fists
I will never stop being controversial.
You may misunderstand me,
Hate me,
Never forgive me,
But I struck
Such a deep chord in you.
I know you will think
I know you
Will forever be changed.
Do you not have an opinion?
Or do you just not speak it aloud?
What are you afraid of?
Are you ashamed?
Do you think I am scared to be ugly?
I am
Unapologetic.
Channel 7/ Belize -
Giovanni Brackett, President of Citizens Organized for Liberty and Action (COLA)
Chelsea Johnston
Colonel Edward Despard was executed
in London in 1803 as a terrorist and
traitor. However, the seeds of his
radicalism were sown on the other side
of the world, during his military service in
the Caribbean. A patriotic war hero who
fought alongside Nelson, he fell from
favour with the British government after
he was appointed governor of Belize and
allocated equal shares of land to black
and white settlers.
Recalled to Britain, he shocked London
society with his mixed race marriage,
and his pursuit of racial equality and
political rights steered him towards the
revolutionary underground.
source:conwayhall.com.uk/event/the-unfortunate-colonel-despard/
20,000
SPECTATORS
In 1802 Despard was named by
government informers as a member of a
conspiracy engaged in a plot to seize the
Tower of London and Bank of England
and assassinate King George III. The
evidence was thin but Despard was
arrested, prosecuted and found guilty by
the jury of high treason, and sentenced,
with six of his fellow-conspirators to be
hanged, drawn and quartered. It was
the last time that anyone received that
sentence in England.
Prior to execution the sentence was
commuted to simple hanging and
beheading, amid fears that the draconian
punishment might spark public dissent.
Despard was executed on the roof of the
gatehouse at Horsemonger Lane Gaol,
in front of a crowd of at least 20,000
spectators, on 21 February 1803.
source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Despard
I Love Her
Kesha Peyrefitte
It’s risky what I do. One word and I will be kicked out of school. One word and I can kiss graduation
goodbye. One word and I can kiss being the first person in my family to earn a high school diploma.
It’s risky what I do. There is a picnic bench under a shady tree that faces her office and from a distance,
I can see when she leaves and when the other teachers bolt. At just the right moment, according to my intuition,
I knock on her door, open it without an invitation, and walk right up to her desk, say ‘Good evening Mam,’ leave
a fresh note on her desk right in front of her face and exit.
It’s risky what I do. The notes don’t take me long to compose, “There are a million wrong reasons for
what I’m feeling and only one right one-You. You are the One. You are the One on my mind, in my heart, the
speaker to my soul. Your fairy wings leave their dust at night and I have sweet dreams of your perfumed skin,
of kissing every part of you.” The words come easily, naturally. I’m not a lame-duck man who has to rely on Mr.
Shakespeare or Mr. Browning. You may call it infatuation. I call it passion. And it’s at the tip of my heart, and at
the tip of a great many things.
It’s risky what I do. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Don’t laugh. I am a man, honest. I
came to Belize when I was six years old and not a word of English, much less of Kriol, I knew. I was kept back
a lot in school, year after year, until I learnt the language for the classroom and the language for recess.
I’m a twenty one year old fourth former. I’m used to being the oldest in class, the most mature. I’m used
to being the oldest at home, the most mature. I have a father but he’s manure. No use talking about him; I’m
wasting my time. I might be wasting my time with Ms. Slusher but it’s time well spent.
It’s risky what I do and this time, as the sun is slanting and camouflaging the grass I walk on to get to her office,
she is waiting, it seems, for the regular ambush. With a smile on her face, she hands me a note before I can
place my note in front of her. I am really excited now. I smile, tip an imaginary hat and I am out the door. As soon
as I am out the door, I unwrap. It’s Christmas in March, “Meet me tomorrow. GG Park. Pink Bench, under the
Bougainvillea tree, the one that blossoms red.”
She sits and is hardly startled when I approach and ask, “Why pink? The bench I mean.”
“Cause it’s my favourite color.”
“I would not have guessed that.”
“There are great many things you don’t know about me,” she says as I sit and she shifts over to her side
of the bench.
“There are a great many things you don’t know about me.” I repeat.
“Really? I know for sure you’re a horny little shit who I should report.”
“Then that must make you a she-pervert who should be handcuffed.”
Her stare stiffens at my reply. I can see her sweet eyes fighting in her face. I laugh and release the
tension.
“I’m sure that’s not who you are.”
“It’s not,” she says defensively.
“Then that’s not who I am.”
She takes a while before she asks, “Who are you?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kiss you.”
I kiss her. She’s the most paranoid person I’ve ever met. I love this too about her. I feel like I’m a coin
collector, except really, it’s a Jennifer Slusher collector of cute antics and I collect and recall and reload, ready
for something else from my beautiful Mam to collect.
I kiss her. She’s the most paranoid person I know. We meet in a very remote B&B, it’s back to the
Caribbean Sea, where you can hear the waves heave. She checks in at 4, tip-toes down the stairs and texts
me when the receptionist retired to an inner room. I sneak in. I knock three times. If I knocked once, I’m sure
she wouldn’t open.
I kiss her, full on. She is surprised. She backs into the TV stand. She presses back and it’s a tug of war
of warm, moving, mounting, moaning kisses. She pants, “I can’t” and I repeat, “Just let go.” See, I was at the
edge of that cliff once and falling off. Well, it’s some kind of wonderful. When she finally does, she shudders,
stifle a scream in my shoulder, bites hard and she’s everything I thought she’d be and more.
I kiss her all over. All the places she will allow. Her body is hills and valleys like the Maya mountains of
down South. Her body is a temple and I am only too happy to kneel and worship. My favourite book is Green
Days by the River and she is my Joan.
I’m at home and she’s out of sight and never out of mind. My mind. I want to take a picture of her so
badly. She won’t allow. I want her picture on my phone. I want to look at her when I’m not looking at her. She
won’t allow. Instead, we text, under false names, of course. Her insistence, of course.
I’m at home and I smile to myself thinking of hours spent in our paradise. We meet two times a week.
Same place, same time. We lay naked together and talk for hours. She tells me I have the air of an old soul. I
tell her I read a lot. I tell her I want to be a journalist. A bona fide badass, with black-rim glasses, and a hand on
my chin as I ask the hard questions. She hates her mother. I hate that my mother stays with my father. I hate
my father. I hate that everyone who came here about the same time we did has a nice house, some cement. I
hate that our roof cries when it rains and there are card-board pieces all over the walls to stop her tears. I hate
that my little sisters have to use the cheapest products in the shop and a few pairs of clothes are their fashion
choices. I tell Jenny about the beatings we used to receive. I was eleven. There’s a scar on my shoulder from
my father’s machete. She kisses the matted skin. I’ve always tried to save my mother and I’m doing a heck of
a good job now that I’m a man and my father is just manure, a piece of shit drunk, old and none wise.
I’m at home and I smile to myself thinking of hours spent in our paradise. We meet three times a week.
Same place, same time. We lie naked together and talk for hours. She tells me about her family; two brothers
and one sister. She doesn’t say much about her father. I ask and she’s clam shut. She’s pearl-perfection,
so I don’t push. I tell her I am the oldest of six and the breadwinner too since I work on some weekdays and
weekends as a shop-boy at the Chiney down my street. She tells me about her brother. He died seven years
ago. Her mother doesn’t talk about it. Her mother is ashamed of him. He did not like school. His name is Kevan.
He didn’t listen to his lessons and soon was caught with up with the wrong crowd and the wrong substances
that pleased the crowd. Her mother didn’t tolerate his habits and he was kicked out of the house. He became
the village thief. He was shot in a man’s yard, his hands still clutching the pair of stolen $5, Hecho in China,
rubber slippers. She was a university student and she couldn’t afford to get him the help he needed. She
catches her tears and I kiss her wet cheeks. I tell her it’s not her fault. She tells how much she trusts me and
how much I mean to her. And she shows me.
What if, I sometimes think. What if my parents had remained in El Salvador? What if I’d dropped out of
school and joined a gang? What if I was dead by now? What if Jen taught at a different school? What if she
had followed her sister to the United States? What if she was dead by now? It’s unthinkable. We were meant
to meet. In a sky full of stars, I saw her first and it’s her light that I’m fixed on. There are no what- ifs there.
What if, I asked you to think of your favourite memory, your favourite gift, your favourite anything,
something you treasure and multiple that by a million. You’d know how much Jenny means to me. My troubles
are further and my joys are sweeter when we are together and I can’t imagine a separation, or at least, a
permanent one. I try not to come on to her too strong but the feelings are strong, too strong. The moments with
her are memorable, the times spend together exhilarating, and I can’t imagine a week without her.
“Is this love, is this love, is this love, is this love that I’m feeling?” Yes, Mr. Marley, it is and I want to say
it to her so badly.
“I want to say something.” We are lying together watching a movie about people living la vida loca.
Lately, my mom has been having bad dreams. She’s saying it’s a bad omen. Lately, a nasty creeping, hateful
thought has been in my head, whispering words I wish I couldn’t comprehend. “She’s gonna leave you.”
“Now?” I ask, forcing a smile.
“I want to tell you something I haven’t told anyone before.” I sigh silently in relief and when I look at her
eyes, it’s as if she’s staring at a gun-man. I ask what’s the matter.
What she tells me next is so horrible it makes my father seem like a saint compared to that sicko. It
makes sense and it doesn’t. She’s petrified by the sound of zippers. It makes sense and it doesn’t.
Her mother knew what he did to Jenny. Jenny knows she wasn’t the only victim in the house. Her mother told
her, “Gyal, stop your nonsense,” and threatened a beating if she told anyone. The touching continued. I want
to kill that son-of-a-bitch for a second time. Instead, I catch her. I comfort her. I kiss her. I caress her. I cradle
her. I want to tell her those three words. I don’t want to come on too strong and I want to be strong for her. I
realize how fragile she is and I know I will have to continue the cool I’m blowing in this relationship. I will have
to continue taking my time because I want to spend the rest of my time on Earth and in heaven if that’s where
she’s going, with her. It’s hard to believe an angel wouldn’t go back to her home and if that’s not the case, I’ll
be wherever she goes.
She’s in my arms and falls asleep and I can see how soundlessly and contentedly she breathes. Her life
has been a beautiful ballet, an enchanted myth for the audience watching. Like the reality of a dancer, her life
has been hard work, putting on the show. She can stop now. I hope she finds happiness. I hope she’s happy. I
hope I’m making her happy. I want her to be happy. I want to make her happy. I want us to be happy together.
She fits perfectly in the V-of my arm. She fits perfectly in my arms like a seed in a fruit’s flesh. Like seeds
that are planted, grow and become mature and eventually are planted again-she’s my beginning, my ending,
and my beginning again. All the love words in all the languages of the world won’t sum up what it is that I’m
feeling.
When she wakes up, we talk some more about the future. “I wonder how our kids will look?” She gives
me a what-look and I continue, “What shall we call that mix? Creole-estizo?” She giggles and her laugh is
louder than the sea behind us. Later in the week, she sends me pictures for the first time. All sorts of pictures.
She’s alive now and free.
***
Once, Juanito accidentally knocked me full-swing with a softball bat. I saw darkness in the daytime
before seeing stars. Juanito comes to me and what he tells me, I am not seeing stars. My mind is black, in
disarray, in disbelief. There are nude pictures of Jen on the Internet. I lost my phone almost a week back.
Juanito tells me someone told him that they know for sure that the principal has my phone. Outside, Poseidon
is roaring mad and Zeus retaliates. The angels are crying.
Juanito tells me someone told him that they know for sure that Ms. Slusher took her life. My mind is
black. She’s dead now and free.
“Is this love, is this love, is this love, is this love that I’m feeling?”
The angels are crying. And so am I.
“I Love Her” is the answer to “What If”, sister
stories, by author Kesha Peyrefitte. Both
stories explore the relationship between a
twenty one year old student and a school
counsellor. The ending will surprise even
the most astute reader.
For more, contact the author at 6364619/802-3565 or connect with her on
Facebook at Kesha Peyrefitte to preorder her collection of short stories “What
If…I Love Her and Other Stories”. You’ll
own an authentic autographed, collector’s
edition before copies hit bookstores.
Indulge your literary sweet tooth and
support Belizean Art!
Gerzon Tobar
A Painted Conversation
text and images - Natalia Pilato
This Mural is part of artist and educator Natalia Pilato’s dissertation research for her Ph.D in Art Education from
Pennsylvania State University. This collaboration began in November of 2014 with Galen University and many
members of the Community.
Galen University students from Ms. Sherry Gibbs
social Issues course interviewed over 100 people
in San Ignacio to investigate the assets of this
town. Their research resulted in the mural visually
representing peace and tranquility, diversity, youth
recognition/ambition, community pride, social and
personal responsibility and a tribute to Ms. Merideth
Sans (R.I.P), who birthed over 1000 babies in this
community.
In the summer of 2015 a special topics art course
was taught at Galen University by Ms. Natalia where
students learned design principles and painting
techniques as well as how to participate in civic and
community relations.
Galen students, Pablo Cambranes, , Miriany
Lalchand, Angela Wu, Landee Longsworth,
Samantha Cruz, Jessie Gentle, Hiram Ochaeta,
Natasha Velasquez, Elissa Waight, , dedicated
themselves to this process maximizing community
engagement every step of the way.
The mural design is a collage of photography
and drawings which was traced, color coded, and
hand painted on 32 5’x5’ panels indoors, totaling
800 square feet. Over 175 people, ranging in age
7-71, from across the country and internationally,
joined Ms. Natalia and the Galen Students in the
St. Andrews Community Center to help paint. The
mural was completed and celebrated on November
27th 2015
Dis dah fa we!
Don’t let them steal it,
Katie Usher
with expensive concealer, mascara
lip stains and such,
they’ll sneer at you from behind masks
you could never afford
how could eyeshadow be, breakfast for three?
but the fucking know-how
apply this,
let that dry
line here
smear there,
paste here
pat there.
I don’t know and couldn’t care.
who cares,
as long as it was matte not greasy-shine, distracting me from what was said
not wearing chanclas, a hat, poor, black, nappy, fat
looks are everything
“no slippage!”
as if i don’t know where I am, and what we’re doing
do you?
You’re in charge, do you?
Don’t let them steal your shine!
They call you friend,
can’t remember your birthday
want you to make a humongous fuss about theirs
Don’t talk to you for months, befriend the strangers
you introduce her to,
tells you to date that ‘perfect guy for you’ then proceeds to grope his ass
Tell you they think of you often
straining and stretching that lie, into a wide, sympathetic smile
the one for occasions just like this one.
Don’t let him steal your shine
Remember when i called?
you hung up
I had no breath inside my lungs and was sure
I was dead, or close
remember when i walked passed your house
and asphyxiated almost,
hot tears streaming down cheeks brought back some breath
I remember that,
i laid down wild in my bed
no breath
eyes bulging with grief
loss
rage
regret
You?
Silent.
I?
Crawled into my mother’s bed.
29 and completely powerless, like 2
I am strong now.
I walk passed that place
where I begged you for
sex
forgettable,
limp,
ending too soon,
selfish,
ending when you peaked and spilled.
Don’t post anything on my facebook page.
Don’t whisper behind me, when I interview people
don’t fade-away wave, when you see me walking home, tired
from a day of being cud
and trying very hard to breathe all day,
don’t.
Nor you,
Returned from nowhere after 2 years of nothing
Don’t come back.
Don’t steal my light.
ANDY PALACIO reflection
yasser musa, 2 december 2015
for Celebration Mass at St. Martin De Porres Church, Belize City
I miss Andy Palacio. We all miss Andy Palacio. He had a conviction for substantial
things, not addiction to superficial things.
Tonight, on his birthday I want to reflect on many things, but time must restrain my
enthusiasm. Let me settle for three - cultural matters, climate change and Andy as an
Ambassador of ideas.
Often I would discuss cultural matters with Andy and one such issue would be the way
many artists in our land are made to feel like cultural refugees. Respect is such an
important thing in the multi-cultural space. It is as important to understand the other as
much as it is to comprehend the self. Cornel West says, “Tenderness is what love feels
like in private. Justice is what love looks like in public.” Andy was an artist who stood up
for all of us. He evolved into a man who negotiated and navigated through our many
Briheda Haylock and Joshua Arana
multiples and brought the emphasis of our lives down to its simplest tones – love for
humanity.
Andy Palacio was a Garifuna man engaged in the development of society. When he
was awarded the highest global recognition by the United Nations, as UNESCO Artist
for Peace it secured a space in the imagination of the world, that we in Belize belong to
the community.
Today there are serious discussions and plans to extract History as a subject from the
curriculum of High School. So the artists, writers, thinkers and teachers of this land must
be prepared to stand against this. More than ever a subject such as history must be
the foundation upon which we build the educational integrity of each youth, build his or
her capacity to reason, analyse and think. This is why the teaching of history from the
perspective of oppression, resistance, triumph and accomplishment is so critical.
Andy was a big supporter of the teaching of African and Maya History in our school
system. He believed that the root lines to our Africaness and our indigenousness is a
critical step on the ladder to mental and emotional liberation.
Andy was a Belizean of enormous talent, kindness and humility. He had an amazing
capacity to listen to and understand the struggle of others.
Right now in Paris leaders from across the globe are in heated discussions regarding
climate change. Now 99% of all scientists across our planet agree that climate change
is a man made disaster, but inside the congress of the most powerful nation there are
serious forces latching on to the 1%. What does this have to do with Belize and Andy
Palacio? Well Andy was a man who engaged with his village, his nation and his world,
and we too must follow this kind of behaviour – connections with ideas is the first step to
action.
Let us continue to share with our youth the significance of Andy Palacio. Not because he
has transition from Ambassador to Ancestor, should we reduce our desire to forge forward
the ideas he fought for – music, love, peace, joy, creativity, expression, celebration,
cultural activism, social consciousness. These things are to be taught everyday.
I recall how I felt when his live performances enveloped the space of my soul. That could
never be erased, diminished or deterred. Let us pause today, even for only for a few
seconds, on the music man’s birthday and remember how precious it is to just remember.
Andy Palacio
Kyraan Gabourel
A-ncestors they call you home
N-yahbinghi was your segunda
D-awn, your voice calls
Y-our words resonate within us all
P-eace was strum from your guitar
A-coustics sound the Paranda
L-iving legend… music timeless
A-yo… goodbye but never forgotten
C-hatuye’s message... Lidan Aban
I- am Garifuna Nuguya
O-mnipresent always… Watina, our memories
Chosen
Atlas Major
Let me put myself in the moment,
Let me gather my thoughts.
I'm lucky to be alive
But not at peace with those odds.
We were rebels without a cause
That's the way we were raised.
To turn up,
Then get forgotten when we lay inside our graves.
But I see different,
I got vision,
I'm just trying to make a difference.
Though you tell me that I can't
I was gifted with persistence
And precision to maneuver through the obstacles their
making.
I got all this pressure on me
But still no signs of breaking.
I'll take all the world could give
Without ever giving in.
Regardless of the struggle
I know, I was born to win.
From the lineage of slaves
I know, I was born a king...
Friendship, According to M.I.N.G!
Kevin Chan
They say when you’re surrounded by good friends it’s a blessing
but just be careful cause behind your back they’ll be texting.
You don’t have to listen to me but just keep this in thought
everyone has a number and friends can be bought.
Because good friends come around just as a blue moon
so choose wisely and don’t trust too soon.
Love can get you hurt but trust gets you killed
you don’t need friends for your life to be fulfilled.
Fake friends won’t always have the knife in their hands
it’s the mind that holds the deceitful plans.
My family are my friends so I’ll never fall into the snake pit
I’ll never fall for all the fake bullshhhh, I won’t say it.
because if the caps fits you should wear it.
“Friends” without the R and the S spells “fiend”
its people like that I DO NOT need
around me or my family, so your negative vibe I brush off completely.
This might all sound harsh but it’s true
I speak the way I do cause the shame won’t be on me; it will be on you.
“Friends” without you there would be no affliction
without you there would be no confusion
from the spiritual side of being
now is the time to open our eyes and start seeing.
In god I trust but not cause it’s a must
but because greed, lies, gossip and lust
Destroy the true friendship that should be
these words I heard from M.I.N.G
So you can consider what I said and use it in due time
ring ring ring, it’s the truth calling are u going to decline?
“South – Side”
Butch
Fish market, a hole in the bucket
We are living a lie
Underdeveloped consciousness
Ruthless, anger, dyer frustration with the SYSTEM ---- Some run to Babylon
We are mentally dead
Brain starving, babies bawling
Wi Hopeless
“STRESS”
Police out on the streets, looking for the beef
No meat deh fi yam, we haffu rab waa Chiney man
Corruption an lies
Dreadlocks calling ---- Rasta FarEYE
Society ----Bwai get civilized
Decay, infestation, drugs, violence
Miscommunication
No Hope
Pure Dope
Baby mama, where is the fada ---- next generation
Confused creation, true reality no self pity
Stand up, build up, make a way ---- get REEL
Find GOD – make a change
Yet wi shouting Westside when wi living on the Southside ---- more di out-side
© I. Cacho
“Walking Beasts of Night and Day” (#8)
Alton Humes
[In Dedication and Memory to Mr. Ernest “Jawmeighan” Meighan –
Cyclist, employee, friend and Belizean brother – killed on August 9th, 2014.]
Walking Beasts of Night and Day,
Stalking those at work and play.
Wickedness Lives in Worthless Men,
Their Ruthlessness exploding again
and again.
They took him down – he of Eternal Flight,
Now forever silenced in the void’d night.
He who is Mighty now Banished to Ground,
In gloomy echoes pervading ‘round.
He who worked and feeded bread,
Now feasts on ashes and lasting dread.
He who would ride the lightening down,
His mortal self now lays upon the ground.
He who is Father, Brother and Foe,
Is Greater Now than He’ll Ever Know.
Now Call to Him, as you may Dare,
But Where He is, He cannot Hear.
I Loved him Not for supposed wrongs,
Nor for the triumphs of his songs,
I Loved Him for all He Is, [had] Been and [could] Be,
I Love Him for all He never was to Me.
Walking Beasts of Night and Day,
Now you have taken Our Greatest away,
But assure you, do I, of this:
You took the man, but the Soul is
Unkissed.
Walking Beasts of Night and Day,
Stealing from those at Work and Play.
The Race is Over, the Line is Crossed,
But our weary hearts retain this loss.
(w.) 12-08-2014 (transcribed – same day as written)
[Typed with moderate editing and corrections on
September 24th, 2014; minor further editing done
on October 6th, 2014 and on October 10th, 2014]
Francis Ruiz
Rasheed Palacio
Rasheed Palacio
Belmopan Art Fest 2015
Chantae Guy
BAY Board Member /Project Staff/Entrepreneur
The Belmopan Active Youths is a
community-oriented youth group aimed to
engage, educate, and empower young people of
Belmopan to produce greatness. BAY envisions
Belmopan as an economically-robust, youth
friendly society that strives on strong family
values, discipline, civic pride, and community
involvement.
The Belmopan Active Youths has a very
diverse group of young individuals, through
them and their many talents we see the need
for events such as the Belmopan Art Fest. Our
young artists expressed to us that there were
limited opportunities in our community for them
to showcase their talents, hence we designed an
event specifically for our artists and in extension
for our citizens to come out and enjoy a day of
art that was family oriented. Through this, the first
ever Belmopan Art Fest emerged.
With
BAY’s
Job
Creation
and
Entrepreneurial Project ongoing we were able to
capitalize on some of our young business owners
who came out on the day of the Art Fest to vend
food and drinks, we also had live music and a DJ
for the entire event. BAY was also able to tap into
our database to garner volunteers who assisted
with both the planning and executing of this event
. BAY had strong support and cooperation from
JICA , The Department of Youth Services , NICH ,
Belraide and of course the Belmopan City Council
from the inception of Belmopan Art Fest 2015.
The BAY art fest team invited artists both
young and old throughout the entire country. The
Art Fest hosted thirty artist from all art forms to
showcase and market their gifts and talents. The
art fest included Musicians, Painters, Illustrators,
Fashions designers and Artisan just to name a
few.
The turn out from Belmopan citizens was
good despite the weather which was a bit rainy.
Everyone was blown away, not by the rain but by
the talent that was showcased at the Art Fest by
both amateurs and seasoned artists. Some artists
demonstrated their work on the spot using fresh
canvas to paint, loose beads and strings to make
jewelry and other raw materials just so spectators
could see the different styles and concepts to
their art. Overall this art venture was successful
and we plan on making this an annual event.
For Us By Us (F.U.B.U)
Kyraan Gabourel
My generation…
Always the topic of conversation
With the most education
But lacking occupation
Dehn throw wi unda di bus
& lynch we inna dis nation
Old people run dis country
I mean no disrespect
But uno frustrate we long enough
Til fu wi pickney staat feel it
So instead ah we mek change
We continue di cycle uno started
History repeat ihself
With di generation weh come next
From your generation to mine
We pass on di hatred
Worst generation…
But who raise we?
Uno da di same ones weh fail we
Children are to be seen not heard
We grow up di struggle
With di injustices weh occur
Being forced to tun
Wa blind eye without wa word
Be submissive…
& follow the herd
Uno grab di reigns
No seek help ya
We try correct uno
Tell yuh how fi do it propa
Yuh look down pon we
Seh we opinion no matta
When di thing fail
Da we uno point fingas atta
Cuz Belize operate
Inna areas of grey
Da pon uno grounds
We haffi play
So even if we go
By di rules uno lay
We still lose
At di end of di day
Fi tell yuh di truth
I tiad of see paypa policy
Di sit down pon shelf
Tiad of uno di use mi name
Inna “at risk” projects
Weh uno know wa fail
So uno tek di profits
I refuse fi wait round
So yuh could throw scraps atta me
Tek wa sip from di fountain
& look inna di mirror
Yuh wa see no difference
Just di ties weh severed
Maybe if yuh replace
Lord Rhayburn with Nello Player
Yuh da understand
Our way of thinking better
So instead ah fight we
Why yuh no work with we
Fi create wa brighta future
Weh staat today
Bring policies to life
Our efforts build di economy
Teach we fi fish instead ah be
IN dependent pon you
We di do dat fi ova 30 years
Da time fi something new
WE wa uno listen
Just like we listen
To Dawn is a Fisherman
& Drums of my Fathers
Immortalize fu we words within
Just like these poems
Only soh we wa could move forward
Like I seh before
No Disrespect
We di wait pon uno
Fi help we clean up di mess
Changing di conversation
Dis space… di test
The conversation starts now
We’ll be waiting
Jai (jay) Maa Durga
Dwayne Murillo
The conch shells have been blown aloud. Sound fills the air. The
unseen djinns-demons scurry in plight and back to their abode.
The Brahmin priest shakes the bell, a sheet of smoke from lit Diya
lamps, dance their way from the lamps on the Aarti veneration
plate.
To a Murti (murtee) (statue) of the goddess do devotees with
clasped palms, stand and pray.
Her eyes, wide and glowing -awe inspiring, yet terrifying.
Taping feet to the drums warrior beat .The sandalwood, myrrh,
perfumes the air with an intoxicating heavenly smell. Our hearts
sway like fluttering birds as upon indulging in an ocean of sacred
mantra words.
Unable to stop ourselves from entering a trance like state shouting:
Jai Ma, Jai Maa Durga
The epitome of motherhood a protector a guardian angel since
childhood.
Clad in royal red jewels and sari.
Auspicious compassionate as yogi Shiva of whom you have marry.
Illustrious with your complexion’s golden kissed hue. Through
your wrathful destruction, peace and balance comes a new .A
devoted muse you are to many ,dreadful deadly karma to only
a few. To you, oh mother, we say:
Jai Ma , Jai Maa Durga
My Brotha
Ms Sue
Every time I see you
I try to remember if my chain is hidden
And ever so slightly slide my phone into a pocket hoping that you didn’t see
Every time I see you
I think of how lucky you must be to be alive
When it is that some days 3-4 mothers cry
Every time I see you
I expect to be riddled with
Distasteful adjectives and sexual innuendoes
Why is it that my vision and expectation of my Brodah has become so vile
On sight not for one second giving him the chance to show me that he is more
More than my statistics guided inclinations
The chance for me to not judge by what I see
But to know that he is more than likely the victim rather than me.
When will I see you my brotha
See you and be comforted, overwhelmed by security in your presence
Take pride...
You see him ... He is my brotha
And he’s more than just a great lover,
He's A King; Full of love, ambitious, Respectful, a provider, a protector....
He is fortified with all the richness of not only what a man is....
But, who a man is
Why then...?
Have they poisoned my reaction to you?
Are they truly the ones to blame or is this all on you?
Not My Cup of Tea
Ms Sue
Not my cup of Tea until …
He asked for my number but, I declined
I don’t know; I just thought he’d be wasting my time
And as it went by …. He tried and tried and I finally complied… and wrote my digits on the
line
His first text was something about how he thought that I was fine
And that he somehow knew that I didn’t taste like lime
But, how he made me regret allowing him to search and find
Irritating to the point that he made me think of committing a crime
As he kept on blowing up my line sometimes 5-6 times at bed time
And even more before the sun would even shine
You would really think he was mine
Wanting to know if we could go dine sip some wine
Or just go shake our behinds
I then ask that we face-time so I could break the bad news, you know dish the grime
And like that I made it clear see he had no chance in this life time
Throwing his fishing line in my maritime
Poor guy replied like he was a mime and signaled his good bye with the peace sign
And as time went by He faded like tan lines in wintertime
Until one day I saw him holding hands with this dime… she was so fine
Oh how it got me so entwined with jealousy seeing him and her all sublimed
And now I keep thinking about this onetime he could have been all mine
Back when I thought he was too juvenile now I am here tapping trying to rewind
If only my 2020 was hind
And had accepted to be his partner in crime in that sweet climb to carry on his blood line
Instead of just wasting my prime with this ass Mr. Kline who makes me focking feel like a
soldier does during wartime
I wonder how I can let him know that I had a slice of that (humble) pie and am ready to
come in peace this time
I just hope he hears my cry
Quilz Tamay
Quilz Tamay
The Nabor Stories Project
text + illustrations - Rasheed Palacio
Throughout the course of the year a project has been
brewing in regards to documenting the stories of the
late great Alfonso Palacio better known as “Paul
Nabor”. "A Collection of Short Stories by NABOR”
was a collaborative effort done by Ludwig Palacio and
Greg Palacio with illustrations by Rasheed Palacio.
I conducted an interview with both Ludwig and Greg
asking about the project.
Ludwig Palacio: I spoke about the partnership with
cuz Greg who I have not yet met, I know him through
his painting which I totally admire. I shared my writing
with him which he admired. Then Uncle Joe Palacio
did the connect just a little after Andy Palacio's passing.
The spirit of our ancestors are the ones at work here
and that is why this modest book will go a long way.
Thanks to you as well. Talent is what Nabor was about.
Rasheed Palacio: What would be other interesting
facts you would like to highlight about this book? And
has the release date been set as yet ?
Ludwig Palacio: Well that it is a gift to the world from
the late Nabor. I am his instrument as well as all who
collaborated in putting it together. It is our story from
our perspective. Read it and give an overview that you
will send. Will look at it
I would like to have the book ready in Jan around his
birthday. I think toward the end”
Rasheed Palacio: In the beginning of this project you
told me what is was about , but could you tell me that
again and what it means to you as a fellow artist and as
a Garifuna male sharing the Title Palacio.
Greg Palacio: First, you know Nabor's real name is
Alphonso Palacio right? So ob that note the book is
short stories told to Ludwig personally by Nabor of his
life. As a relative I'm proud of the Palacio legacy both
yesterday and today. As a fellow artist, I'm just doing my
part in society but most of all upholding our impeccable
name plus Garifunaduo...
Rasheed Palacio: What did you find most interesting
about this project as it developed , and also how would
you like it be received?
Greg Palacio: What I found most interested was
the first voice it's written in. It is almost as if Nabor is
speaking himself! Well, I know it will be received well
because he is a legend and mysterious but Belizeans
plus the world are still intrigued by his charisma!
His impact is immeasurable.
THE SEALION AND THE MERMAID
Paul Steveson
Baeoguid Aangstroem sat admiring the flock of fluffy sheep as they flowed across the long
green fields down to the pebble beach, as his father and grandfather had done before time.
The events of the previous evening stayed with him as clear as the moment. Ever since had
known himself, he had never imagined the autumn full moon would cause the sea lions to
peel off their sealion skin and walk out of it, standing on two legs just like he did. and then
they danced, with much singing and hoots and whooping and kicking reels, the like of which
Baeoguid Aangstroem had only seen at gatherings of the clan, at the big house by Aalborg.
Baeoguid Aangstroem wanted to see the gathering of sea lions dance again. Even though he
knew it was a momentous occasion, he also realised his fortune of opportunity to see it. and
so it wasn’t until the full moon after spring equinox that it happened.
Baeoguid Aangstroem watched with awe from the low bank of stubbly fine grass as the sea
lions came ashore, shaking themselves free from the memory of the cold, calm green black
sea. Watched with awe as they settled to their favourite spot. Watched with awesome wonder
as it came for the time for each sealion to carefully peel off their sealion skin, place it carefully
on the pebbly beach then skip lightly to take up their position in the great ring of dancers
surrounding the most enormous and ferocious fire that sent sparks up to taunt the brightness
of the silvery moonlight.
As the sea lions danced, Baeoguid Aangstroem sidled himself close to a sea lion skin. Soon,
he reached out and touched the sea lion skin. The skin was warm and furry. He pulled the
sea lion skin closer and all at once, he found himself actually inside the skin of the sea lion,
as if for all time.
Shuffling and rolling to the waterline, Baeoguid Aangstroem gently eased himself into the
green black water, the familiar crashing of the surf on stone giving way to green and black
echoes. Shafts of silver light shattered the blackness and Baeoguid Aangstroem plunged
with alacrity, deeper until the silver streaks of moonlight piercing the surface became distant
sparks on a massive canvas.
Hours turned to days and presently, on a hunter’s moonlit night, without notice, the familiar
stone beach appeared again. Swimming and plunging easily through the shallows, Baeoguid
Aangstroem was surprised to see the most beautiful creature swimming beside him, a full half
woman naked to the thighs with the features of a fish's tail was her bottom half.
Baeoguid Aangstroem was intrigued and puzzled all at once. They shuffled through the surf
onto pebble. As each studied deeply into the others eyes, they discarded their skin and danced
under a hunter’s moon, and they danced and they danced and they danced. As if a dance had
never been before and they lived happily everafter, for always.
The Fire of Christmas
Sean Taegar
The fire of Christmas dances in the eyes of children
Launching on an infinity of flames where their souls rest
In the warm sugar of breasts nourished on hope’s milk of memory
And eternal remembering
The fire of Christmas sleeps in the eyes of the beloved crystals of dream
Smiling their glory to a sky of diamonds dreaming sweet clouds of thought
The fire of Christmas floats in our bones of blood memory
Of ruby throats cherished shouting the joy of hearts unified
in the flow of the sun
Spirit of the future float to my skull so I can see your throat of memory
Your brain of belief
Your voice of flame journeying our bones of bread
Christmas your voice of blind venom blossoming universes of sound
Blossoming visions of the future fire dreaming the face of the sun
Christmas your sweet sugar
Christmas your voice
Christmas your sky
Warming our hearts with the fire of joy
Brightening the kaleidoscope of memory with your heart of infinity
And your eye of vibrating wisdom
Christmas blaze our hope with light
Spirit our hearts with fire and the wind of remembering
Tuesday 23 December 2014 4:23am
Belize City, Belize
Cindy Burgos
Samantha Ke
Rudolph Rodriguez
I Should Retreat to the Bottom of the Sea
Yaoling Lee
I should retreat to the bottom of the sea
Lave my foot prints behind me
Hold my breath that troubles me
I dive into the ocean…
Water swims, brushes past my flesh
For the last glance
I turn my head and look back
Feel no sound
Dim light disappeared
I should retreat to the bottom of the sea
Where my weary heart rests and regains her need
Life After Love
Abner Recinos,
Upon the gold-studded sarcophagus,
Sat the cadaverous hag akimbo.
Clad in silk she somberly thought,
Of love in life she lived a many,
5In days so fertile when flowers bloomed,
When life was filled with love and truth.
The life of her eyes are no more
Frozen like falls in winter’s cold embrace.
So an aria to one she loved and loves,
10Of love she held in eternal hope,
That bliss may fill her life again
In such a time she lived in youth.
Melody and words in confluence
Bring memory of feelings once conceived,
15In secret and passion brightly burning,
The kingdom within forever free
And a heart asunder the price will ever be.
Jaded she sat in silence still,
When voice of mind began to woe,
20For of love and life it needed to know.
So tell she of love and life,
Of Adonis who filled her life with love,
More gallant than the knightliest knight,
His jubilance radiated tenfold the sun,
25Breathing life into sadness and uncertainty,
An indulgence greater than any,
Refusal unthinkable.
Aristocrat in the ways of passion,
Senses blurred with his every touch and kiss,
30An astral journey indescribable,
Reenactment impossible.
Masterpiece made greatest in time,
Art refined for its essence,
Colors and so vibrant and everlasting,
35Reconstruction only a dream.
August and amorous are virtues,
Sustenance for a soul lacking,
Fountain of eternity most pure,
Possession only yearned by many.
40Unsullied like flowers before spring,
Innocence defying the divine,
A property most envied.
His laughter shattered voids created in silence,
Music that brought beat her heart,
45A sound worthy of praise,
Sweetest melody held by one,
A note heard only by the herald.
The loss was nonesuch incomparable,
Swept away like Pyramus from Thisbe,
50 By death that knows naught but death,
Her heart was forever torn apart,
Mended only by prodigy of love as he,
Perpetual dance entwined inside,
As nova shown brightest in heavens.
55She tells no more of her life and love,
For pain and grief she wants no more,
But this the world she leaves and bids:
“That love is life and life is love,
For life she lived so love she had.”
60Her life now filled with loss and sorrow,
She lay to rest her heart so dear,
For renaissance in death for love she will.
Give to life
Abner Recinos with Eyana Pratt
(Semper Fidelis)
The night sky glistens, the moon is full
Noise fades and birds sleep
Stillness broken by bright flashes
“I’m coming”, it reads.
Smile brightens and her heart made content
A game played in daylight by two,
Passing with only a slight touch
A meeting with meager exchange
Culminating with a warm embrace,
(10)Held tight, as breeze in the high seas,
Words cease to flow, only farewell to bid
An encounter she thought once lived
Unknowing of plans, of universe’s conception.
So she lay in anticipation, door unlocked
He appeared with the light of Selene
And shown unto his lover’s beauty,
A sight of utmost admiration and worship
Most perfect in all its imperfections
Engraved in his heart it will forever be,
(20)He takes leave, to refresh his essence
Returning he slips into comfort next to her,
Lured to Eden by the scent of vanilla
That filled him with life anew.
With a gentle caress he pulls her closer
Falling together like pieces in a puzzle,
Kisses like rain in the desert’s arid plane
It awakens the dormant to show its bloom,
A sweet sound made by lips so bright
Thought gone, washed away like footprints,
(30)With a kiss most intense of hue,
The flash of heaven felt within
In darkness, love’s radiance to illuminate,
A radiance most powerful than any elixir
The zenith of love elusive to many.
Setting free the soul of the bound,
Giving purpose to the desultory,
Apart they now sat, relishing love and beauty
For only with breath can life be felt.
And talk of life’s tides, rising and falling
(40)Of memories of days of love’s creation.
Fearing the tempest that rends hearts
Creating voids and life’s shards dither,
Taking her hands to console mind and body,
Tacitly forges accord to love and cherish.
To sail against the winds, sea’s serpentine currents,
And heal her scars of war with self,
That most perfect creature God has created,
A gift from heaven greater still,
And endure any ill without question,
(50) That the love may be everlasting and true.
Rony Jobel
Rony Jobel
Christopher Ramclam
Santiago Cal
Uriel Cowo
Innocent Blood!
Shenyl Chocolaad
That look in his eyes, she despise!
Hate with such a passion she acts out!
With screams of vulgarity, she scratches violently.
Blood is shed by your hands, your sister hated innocently.
The good thoughts he has towards her, oh how delightful.
She rages like an over steroid bull!
Each fake conversation she forces, so clever, like the devil.
Your sister sheds another tear, all you do is stare; blood is shed by
your hands and you don't even care!
The smile on his face shows how sweet to him it must be, if only...if
only he could...but before he realizes, all he sees is blood.
Blood on his beloved. This puts him in a shock, he knows not how
to react.
That sister of the poor girl now smiles, as tears fill the secret admirer's eyes.
All this while she knew the bright future he wanted for them, so she
made it a task of hers to have her condemned.
Daily negativity, scenarios of doubt...when the poor girl was finally
cornered, she couldn't even shout!
Finally beaten, faith and trust defeated, the secret admirer stops
eating.
Blood of two now pours before you; on your hands the stains remains, one that cannot be removed.
Smile on since you are s accomplished! Jealousy in your heart
created all this!
Sisters, gender based violence isn't always male to female, sometimes its female to female. We need to be there for each other
rather than break down just for the attention of a brother.
Write Me a Song
Jaslyn Yorke X Kyo D’Assassin
Write me a song
where I can hear the sweet rhythms of your heart
That split the world in two; the core tremors by you
A calm ease a sense of peace; a joyful sound that cries out for
love
Write me a song
that blaze like the morning sun
the birds they sing
forever be the pun
Write me a song
explain the details that shape each tear
that tells the truth behind the glances you stare
Write me a song
that puts U and I together under the moonlight
hearts command the weather
let me be your inspiration; the missing piece
for the scars upon your heart are visible to me
Write me a song
that starts with kisses
where the outro ends
with you as my Mrs.
Write me a song
of truth, peace and tranquility
Write me a song
that traces your curves
she’s my hieroglyphs, my diamond, my pearl
show me how you feel, let me in your world; I’m here to heal
Write me a song
that binds us by touch
an imperfect perfection… a rare but fatal attraction
not impatient for lust; it’s beyond me
teach me to love and I’ll love thee.
Michael Gordon
Michael Gordon
imagefactorybelize.com
Two Horses for One Book
Yasser Musa
25 November 2015
It may sound arcane, but it’s a singular accomplishment for a history programme in Belize; to build it from the ground up– complete with textbooks, syllabus
documents and a website in two years. Today, the head of the history department officially handed it over to the school administration, and, in fact, to the
world – since everything can be accessed online. Here’s how the crafters of the programme explained it:…
(Channel 7 News, Belize/ 25 Nov 2015)
St. John’s College High School made a bold step by going against the traditional curriculum when in 2013, it introduced African History and Mayan History into
their curriculum.
(Amandala Newspaper, 27 November 2015 — by Johnelle McKenzie
The revised History program leads the student through the journey of the nation providing alternate perspectives on already-taught topics, for example the
indigenous and African populations in the Americas.
(Reporter Newspaper, 27 November 2015By Ingrid Fernandez/ Staff Journalist)
(Yasser Musa, teacher, Delmer Tzib, teacher and Yolanda Gongora, SJC Principal
Daniel Middleton, 3rd form student, President of History Club
Today the History Department of St. John’s College formally presents the first form curriculum – African and Maya History
and the second form curriculum – Belizean History to the Principal of St. John’s College Ms. Yolanda Gongora. In addition to the
curricula we will also present the accompanying e-readers. Of course these elements of education are connected to our online
classroom www.belizehistorysjc.com.
In a recent conversation in St. Louis, Missouri, USA our history teacher Delmer Tzib listened to Fr. Richard Buhler,
SJ explain that in the 1970s St. John’ s College set up the Belizean Studies Journal and introduced the teaching of Belizean
History at the JC level because the Jesuits felt that our road to Independence needed to be supported by the leading academic
institution in promoting our national identity inside the classroom.
Also it is important to note that the writer Evan X Hyde has been calling for the teaching of African and Indigenous
studies since the early 1970s and in June 2013 he was invited to SJC to be presented with the school's intentions to roll out this
new program.
Today, we are 2 1/2 years into a new approach to the teaching of History on the very same Landivar campus. History is
a subject that has great relevance as we navigate toward a post-YOUtube, post-Jimmy Morales, and post-ICJ world.
In first form we teach Africa as the birthplace of humanity, one of the early cradles of agriculture, iron, higher education
and empire. We teach Africa because we believe in providing our students a solid clarity to root line. We believe in dispelling
ignorance and retrograde perceptions about who we are and where we came from. In first form we teach Maya because we
want to make connections not to a fantasy Maya created for brochures and tour guides, but to the living Maya of Belize fighting
for land, for survival, to live and participate in the multi-cultural space we say we want for our modern society.
In second form we develop our narrative as a journey of the many, but from the perspective of the oppressed – the enslaved
African, the dispossessed Maya, those fleeing war in the Yucatan, St. Vincent; those returning from wars in the 20th century,
rioting, rising up for better working conditions, those of a post-WW2 era, decolonizing, nationalizing, on the road to our
independence still stuck with aggression from the nation to our west.
History is about thinking out loud, arguing, debating, listening to the views of others, and reflecting on the journey of
others. We must learn to wear history, not just on our street, or our neighbourhood, but in our hemisphere. The global space is
pressed against our ears every minute of the day, we press into its screens with force and ease.
The purpose of teaching history is not to duplicate the mystique of the marketplace with all its technological seductiveness,
but to inspire in our students a desire to be self-directed in their learning, to stand up against injustice and to act in the now.
These documents come from a space of burning. I pause to offer my respect to a young colleague Delmer Tzib, for
joining our team and becoming a true collaborator. In the 11th century in the Empire of Mali, in the city of Timbuktu a King gave
up two horses for a beautiful book, an Islamic dictionary manuscript. Today we present paper, not expecting horses, but as
contributions to the hard work of education, culture and history.
BAFFUseven an e magazine from Belize
Published by the Image Factory Art Foundation
91 North Front Street, Belize City, Belize, Central America
www.imagefactorybelize.com
email: imagefactory70@yahoo.com
BAFFU editorial TEAM =
katie usher, rasheed palacio, briheda haylock, kyraan gabourel, yasser musa
Katie Usher
b.16|8|1986 San Ignacio, Cayo
art activist, thinker
BAFFU is free and open expression, unconfined, and
unadulterated display of expression
Working on: researching anxiety and wellness in Belize
Reading: Cannery Row by John Steinbeck,
Rasheed Palacio
b. 31|10|1994 Belmopan City
artist
BAFFU is an idea giving tangible form to unknown concepts
beyond most of our comprehension
Briheda Haylock
b. 28|12|1990 Belize City
multimedia artist promoting social awareness
BAFFU is one step to developing a tangible art culture.
Working on: art exhibition- march to bring awareness to
street harassment in Belize
Reading: we real cool men masculinity by bell hooks
Kyraan Gabourel aka Kyo D’Assasin
b. 20|6|1991 Belize City
spokenword artist, writer & entrepreneur
BAFFU is honey in a barren land; the nectar of survival; the
teflon of immortals
Reading: Not Without Laughter by Langston Hughes &
Eel on Reef: poems by Uche Nduka
yasser musa
b. 17|7|70 belize city
artist, teacher
Working on: art project = DNA lines 2016
BAFFU is active transgression
Reading: Zero Hour by Ernesto Cardenal
baffu is an open publication for arts, culture and ideas generated from belize. all works
are submitted by the individual artists and writers and used in this publication with their
permission.
copyright belongs to the individual artists and writers.
posted: 13 December 2015
if you wish to make a comment or submit works for possible publication
baffubelize@gmail.com