Place, Language and Identity in Afro-Costa Rican Literature

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Place, Language, and Identity in

Afro–Costa Rican Literature

This page intentionally left blank



Dorothy E. Mosby

University of Missouri Press Columbia and London

Copyright © 2003 by The Curators of the University of Missouri University of Missouri Press, Columbia, Missouri 65201 Printed and bound in the United States of America All rights reserved 5 4 3 2 1 07 06 05 04 03 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mosby, Dorothy E., 1970– Place, language, and identity in Afro-Costa Rican literature / Dorothy E. Mosby. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-8262-1472-X (alk. paper) 1. Costa Rican literature—Black authors—History and criticism. 2. Costa Rican literature—20th century—History and criticism. 3. Blacks in literature. 4. Bernard, Eulalia—Criticism and interpretation. 5. Duncan, Quince, 1940 —Criticism and interpretation. 6. Campbell Barr, Shirley, 1965 —Criticism and interpretation. 7. Woolery, Delia McDonald—Criticism and interpretation. I. Title. PQ7480.5 .M67 2003 860.989607286—dc21 2003000586 ™ This paper meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, Z39.48, 1984. Designer: Kristie Lee Typesetter: The Composing Room of Michigan, Inc. Printer and Binder: The Maple-Vail Book Manufacturing Group Typefaces: Adobe Garamond, Worcester

To my grandmother Dorothy Josephine Snowden


Contents

Preface ix Acknowledgments xi Abbreviations xiii Introduction

One

Two

Afro–Costa Rican Writing A Diaspora Literature 1 Roots and Routes Foundations of Black Literature in Costa Rica Negotiating Home The Poetry of Eulalia Bernard

75

Three

Quince Duncan and the Development of Afro–Costa Rican Identity 120

Four

To Be Young, Gifted, and Black Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald

Conclusion

Becoming Costa Rican Bibliography Index 247

239

vii

233

167

32


Preface

There is a Creole saying in Limón, Costa Rica, that speaks to the history, identity, and culture of the Afro–Costa Ricans. To say “me navel-string bury dere” is an affirmation of “belonging” to a place and a challenge to those who deny the cultural contributions of the descendants of West Indian immigrants born in Costa Rica who helped to form its modern state. To bury your “navel-string” or umbilical cord in a place is, in effect, to plant the self in a particular space or territory. The expression refers to a folk practice of “burying an infant’s umbilical cord in its parents’ home ground . . . or in some place of symbolic significance.”1 It is to literally take a piece of the developing self and inter it so that it becomes part of the land and, in doing so, represents an indelible bond between the self and place. To bury the “navel-string” of the descendants of Afro–West Indian immigrants in Costa Rica is to root the self to a location—to affirm that this place is a home, even if home neglects, denies, or renders invisible the black presence. This difficult affirmation of belonging is represented in the traditional oral literature, such as stories of Anancy (the trickster spider of African Ashanti animal tales) and calypsonian lyrics, and in published and unpublished Afro–Costa Rican writers of West Indian descent, including Alderman Johnson Roden, Dolores Joseph, Eulalia Bernard, Quince Duncan, Shirley Campbell, Delia McDonald, Prudence Bellamy, Claudio Reid Brown, Marcia Reid, and Alonso Foster. The literature records an “intrahistory” often neglected by the hegemonic and homogenizing project of the Europeanized values of the dominant Hispanic culture of Costa Rica. Black writing from Costa Rica reveals the story of a people who were formed and strengthened by the great waves of West Indian migrant laborers, who began to arrive in 1872. This study developed out of research conducted in Costa Rica on a Fulbright Grant for graduate study and research abroad during the 1997–1998 academic year. The original focus of my project was literature by Afro–Costa Rican women. After conducting interviews, meeting people in the community, visiting libraries, and speaking with academics, I decided it was necessary to expand my research to include male writers. Questions of place, language, and identity 1. Oxford Dictionary of Caribbean English Usage, s.v. “navel-string.”

ix

Preface

x

emerged as ever-present issues across the few generations of black writers of West Indian descent. I learned in the course of the investigation that each generation expresses these notions in different ways and that identity is not the fixed category I once imagined it to be. As I read more of the literature, it became apparent that identity for blacks in Costa Rica has shifted and changed over time through their engagement with place, language, and the quest for “belonging.” The early Afro–West Indian immigrants wanted to make money from their labor and return home. The company in charge of building the railroad that initially attracted West Indian labor was owned by the British and North Americans. English was the official language of the venture, and Anglo cultural practices dominated the region. Gradually, as subsequent generations were born in this “foreign” land, the return home became an unfulfilled dream. Home was neither here (Costa Rica) nor there (West Indies), and the people who occupied the space of the coastal province of Limón were no longer British subjects, nor were they considered Costa Rican by the national government. The second- and third-generation children of West Indian immigrants were, as Franklin Perry and Kathleen Sawyers Royal describe, “nowhereans.”2 All the distinct Caribbean national identities became lumped together as “afro-antillano,” “West Indian,” or “Jamaican,” where the majority of immigrants originated. The Afro–West Indians were unified in a common struggle for cultural preservation for the eventual return “home,” even those of the second generation born in Costa Rica. It was not until 1948, with the reformist platform’s “acceptance” of blacks en masse into the national political scene of Costa Rica, that the blacks of West Indian descent became officially Costa Rican or called themselves Afro–Costa Rican. Since the late nineteenth century, Afro–Costa Rican identity has been “in progress,” as Stuart Hall declares, adapting, transforming, and defining itself as cultural and historical circumstances dictate. With this identity formed and transformed in difference, black Costa Rican writers and storytellers have examined their identity as persons of West Indian descent, as Costa Ricans, and as Latinos and Afro-Hispanics. With the process of identification occurring in each passing generation, Afro–Costa Rican writers, through the oral and written word, have announced their presence to affirm that their “navel-strings” are buried at home, in Costa Rica, deep in the soil and soul of their native land.

2. Perry and Royal, “Costa Rica,” 218.

Acknowledgments

With much gratitude, I would like to thank my parents for the gift of education and their unconditional love. I wish to extend a special thanks to colleagues and friends for their support along the way, especially Sheridan, Debbie, and Carol. I am grateful for the invaluable assistance I received while I was in Costa Rica, particularly from Walter Ferguson, Quince Duncan, Mitzi Barley Gayle, Eulalia Bernard, Franklin Perry, Marcia Reid, Delia McDonald, Floribel de la Paz Anderson, Nora, Manuel Monestel, and the Universidad de Costa Rica. I wish to express my appreciation to the Fulbright program for its support and, most important, to acknowledge the encouragement of Dr. Marvin A. Lewis, who witnessed this project from the beginning. All translations from Spanish to English are my own.

xi


Abbreviations

CAW CE CN GR HC LP MBK NC PP RH RN SCO SM TR

Central American Writers of West Indian Origin: A New Hispanic Literature, by Ian Smart Los cuatro espejos, by Quince Duncan Ciénaga, by Eulalia Bernard Griot, by Eulalia Bernard Hombres curtidos, by Quince Duncan La lluvia es una piel, by Delia McDonald Woolery My Black King, by Eulalia Bernard Naciendo, by Shirley Campbell Barr La paz del pueblo, by Quince Duncan Ritmohéroe, by Eulalia Bernard Rotundamente negra, by Shirley Campbell Barr El séptimo círculo del obelisco, by Delia McDonald Woolery Sangre de madera, by Delia McDonald Woolery Tres relatos del caribe costarricense, by Dolores Joseph Montout

xiii





Introduction

Afro–Costa Rican Writing A Diaspora Literature Soft rivers run deep. —proverb from Limón

A

fro-Hispanic literature has been increasingly recognized as a rich body of work that deals powerfully with the multiperspective realities of the Americas. Nevertheless, Afro-Hispanic writers are overlooked by the traditional Hispanic literary canon because their writing is considered too specific in its themes on the black experience. Richard Jackson affirms the intrinsic merit of Afro-Hispanic texts and the expansion of the Latin American literary canon to be more receptive of these texts. In Black Writers and the Hispanic Canon, he states, “The Black text is not hermetically sealed from reality; it has power and authority precisely because of the reality it reflects and represents. As Black literature emerges, it will continue to offer a challenge for admission into the canon ‘worthy’ of Hispanic texts.”1 However, in the recent scholarship on Afro-Hispanic writing, there is a regional imbalance with preference given to the Hispanic Caribbean (Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, and the coastal rim of South America), whereas other regions, such as Central America, the Andes, and the Southern Cone, receive little attention. Central American Writers of West Indian Origin: A New Hispanic Literature (1984), by Ian Smart, is the only book-length work dedicated to black writing in this region. This landmark endeavor provides a brief survey of black writers, but does not give a comprehensive history of any of the West Indian or Afro-Hispanic literatures in the Central American countries. The literature of Afro–Costa Ricans, in particular, deserves critical regard because of its distinct development as a literature of the 1. Jackson, Black Writers and the Hispanic Canon, 104.

1

2

Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature

descendants of West Indian immigrants who arrived at the end of the nineteenth century, the quantity of contemporary writers, and the quality of their production. It is an expression that has aesthetic and social value by presenting the specific reality and conditions of black West Indians in a Hispanic country and the tensions between these two cultural positions. The majority of the contemporary Afro–Costa Rican population can be traced to the West Indies when migrant laborers were contracted in the late nineteenth century to construct a transcontinental railroad from San José to Puerto Limón. These free laborers, who began arriving in large numbers in 1872, were principally from Jamaica. They settled on the “Atlantic coast” of the country in Limón Province, considered the heart of contemporary Afro–Costa Rican culture. The workers were required to fulfill the terms of their agreement with the British- and North American–owned Northern Railway Company, which in turn guaranteed the workers return passage to their places of origin. However, for lack of compliance on the part of the company and economic problems that plagued the venture, a significant portion of the population remained in Costa Rica. The Afro– West Indians generally maintained their ethnolinguistic and cultural difference from the Hispanic culture of Costa Rica until it became apparent after several generations and historical changes that the return “home” was impossible and that this “new” land was home. For the Afro–West Indian in Central America, the historical fact of migration has led to another dispersal and transformation of identity. The West Indian cultural identity (regardless of individual island nationalities) is positioned in relation to the Hispanic culture of the white-identified and mestizo population of Costa Rica.2 Ethnolinguistic difference for the first- and second-generation West Indians is an important marker of identity—whether the immigrants arriving to Costa Rica were from Jamaica, Trinidad, St. Kitts, or other Caribbean islands. However, with the upward mobility of the third generation and beyond, and internal migration to San José, the linguistic ties to the culture of their forebears are not as strong, but the ethnic difference remains. For the displaced Afro–West Indians who cannot return to their islands of origin and who decide to make the space of Costa Rica home, the separation— physical, psychological, and sociological—is a crisis in itself, but also leads to the reconstitution and reconceptualization of their identity. Therefore, as black Brit2. I use the terms white and white-identified to signal the self-identity of 96 percent of Costa Ricans and standards that privilege European physical features and the Spanish heritage. The term mestizo refers to a person of European and indigenous parentage.

Afro–Costa Rican Writing

3

ish cultural critic Stuart Hall asserts, “instead of thinking of identity as an already accomplished historical fact . . . we should think, instead, of identity as a ‘production,’ which is never complete, always in process, and always constituted within, not outside, representation.”3 The literature written by the Afro–Costa Ricans of West Indian descent is no mere reflection of a social reality, but helps us to understand how an identity is textually constructed and represented. In the configuration of the Afro–Costa Rican identity, attitudes toward the islands of family origin assume different positions depending on the subject’s generation and the external-internal historical forces (such as the United Fruit Company’s move to the Pacific coast; the racist administration of León Cortés; the 1948 Costa Rican civil war, also called the Revolution of 1948; the political movement for the enfranchisement of blacks in San José and Limón; and migration to San José, the United States, Canada, and Europe). The experience of exile in this context becomes the distance and cultural separation from the point of origin—whether real or imagined—and the subject’s location. The space of Jamaica, for example, is real for the first generation, but for the fourth generation the island occupies space in the imagination. The disconnect and the inability to return home force a change in identity, regardless of the unifying historical common ground or the essential “oneness” of the West Indian cultural identity. This present examination will focus on the literary contributions of Afro– Costa Rican writers and how their treatment of place, language, and nation configures a cultural identity that is no longer West Indian and is in contestation with the dominant Europeanized culture of Costa Rica. Cultural identity will be viewed as a “process” that is constituted not only by a collective experience, but also by historical and social circumstances. In this exploration, the works by Afro–Costa Rican writers of West Indian descent (such as Alderman Johnson Roden, Dolores Joseph, Eulalia Bernard, Quince Duncan, Shirley Campbell, and Delia McDonald) will be critically analyzed by tracing the literary transformation from particular West Indian nationalities (for example, Jamaican, Trinidadian, and Barbadian) to an Afro–Costa Rican identity. An emphasis will be placed on the writings of Quince Duncan, the country’s only known published black novelist, and the poetry of Eulalia Bernard, Shirley Campbell, and Delia McDonald. Their works will be read in relation to the literary development of black creative expression in Costa Rica and the constitution of cultural identity. At present there are numerous articles published on Duncan and a few on Afro– Costa Rican women poets Bernard and Campbell; however, no comprehensive 3. Hall, “Cultural Identity and Cinematic Representation,” 68.

4


study has been produced that not only emphasizes Afro–Costa Rican literature’s development, transformation, and literary value, but also examines its women writers and emerging young writers. I will address the issues of place, language, and identity from a postcolonial critical perspective. It must be made clear, however, that the use of the term postcolonial with respect to literature does not necessarily refer to the corresponding dates of political independence of American republics from their imperial powers. The term refers to the impact of the processes of political, economic, and cultural domination on the culture of the Other, an impact that creates preoccupations of cultural oppression, exile, displacement, and language. I shall apply the use of the term as Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin have employed it: “to cover all of the culture affected by the imperial process from the moment of colonization to the present day.”4 It is an especially appropriate perspective in this study, considering the history of European settlement in Costa Rica. The experience of colonization has formed the dominant national ideology of “whiteness” that renders invisible other ethnic groups in the country. Additionally, this critical approach is informed by feminist criticism and culturalist readings in order to reveal the operation of gender, as well as the significance of the sociocultural context of the works. Afro-Hispanists Richard Jackson and Ian Smart have included Quince Duncan and Eulalia Bernard in their research on black writing in Central America. However, neither critic has thoroughly traced Afro–Costa Rican literature from its origins in the late nineteenth century to the latter part of the twentieth century within a critical frame that explores the notions of place, language, and identity. These concepts articulate the problematic situation of Afro–Costa Rican identity. The critical works by Stuart Hall, Edward Kamau Brathwaite, Paul Gilroy, Abdul JanMohammed, Edward Said, Homi K. Bhabha, Miriam DeCosta-Willis, Richard Jackson, and Ian Smart will be read in conjunction with Afro–Costa Rican texts to understand the importance of cultural identity as it is configured by place and language. In Chapter One, “Roots and Routes: Foundations of Black Literature in Costa Rica,” I present a historical overview of the early development of Afro–Costa Rican literature in English and Spanish. Through this brief history I examine the literary precursors: the oral tradition of the African-derived trickster tales of 4. Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post-colonial Literature, 2.


5

Anancy, the English poetry of Alderman Johnson Roden, the ethnographic sketches of life in the province by Dolores Joseph, and a poem published in an early newspaper. This chapter of literary history establishes a frame from which to explore the second and third generations of Afro–Costa Rican writers in the second and third chapters. In Chapter Two, “Negotiating Home: The Poetry of Eulalia Bernard,” I analyze the concepts of home, language, and identity in the poet’s major works, whereas in Chapter Three, “Quince Duncan and the Development of Afro–Costa Rican Identity,” I examine the configuration of identity in three novels by the author. In Chapter Four, “To Be Young, Gifted, and Black: Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald,” I study cultural identity in works by the young poets in relation to their literary precursors. In the conclusion I summarize the challenges writers pose to the dominant culture’s perception of Afro– Costa Rican identity. By reviewing the prose of Joseph and Duncan and the poetry of Roden, Bernard, Campbell, and McDonald, these key concepts reveal the “process” of West Indian cultural identity and its transformation into Afro– Costa Rican and Afro-Hispanic identities. In my discussion of Afro–Costa Rican literature and identity, I prefer to use as a point of departure Stuart Hall’s theory of cultural identity, in which he identifies two tendencies in its examination. The first tendency is an essentialist position that proposes the existence of “the idea of one, shared culture, a sort of collective ‘one true self.’ . . . Within the terms of this definition, our cultural identities reflect the common historical experiences and shared cultural codes which provide us as ‘one people,’ with stable, unchanging and continuous frames of reference and meaning beneath the shifting divisions and vicissitudes of our actual history.” Instead of rooting cultural identity in a monolithic and absolute essentialism, Hall favors the deployment of the second perspective on cultural identity that is “a related but different view . . . which qualifies, even if it does not replace the first.” This view, which forms the basis of this study, asserts, “Cultural identity . . . is a matter of ‘becoming’ as well as of ‘being.’ It belongs to the future as much as the past. It is not something that already exists transcending place, time, history and culture. Cultural identities come from somewhere, have histories. But like everything which is historical, they undergo constant transformation.”5 We can better understand this identity “in process” through the examination of literature. In the specific case of Afro–Costa Rican literature, we can trace this 5. Hall, “Cultural Identity,” 69, 70.

6


transformation in works produced by writers of different generations. The cultural identity changes from one that is of a dislocated West Indian population to the development and expression of an Afro–Costa Rican one. This cultural identity did not emerge out of nowhere and in fact does have a history that we can observe in the views expressed by writers of different generations in their texts through their attitudes toward the West Indies and Costa Rica. Afro–Costa Rican identity did not suddenly emerge after the 1948 civil war, out of which the victory of the reform-minded Liberationists extended the enfranchisement of the black “native-born” Costa Rican population. Ronald Harpelle, in his dissertation, “West Indians in Costa Rica: Racism, Class, and Ethnicity in the Transformation of a Community,” supports this premise that 1948 is not the “magic year” it is purported to be. Actually, as Harpelle discusses, this process for citizenship existed long before the 1948 civil war with efforts from within the West Indian community during the 1930s and 1940s. He states, “[A] process of cultural transformation was initiated in the decades immediately prior to 1948. . . . It was the West Indian community itself that redefined its place in the Costa Rican polity and not the Junta Fundadora de la Segunda República [the post–civil war government].”6 Therefore, Afro–Costa Rican identity was already “in progress” before the incorporation of “new” black citizens into the Central American republic’s political system. My inquiry into Afro–Costa Rican cultural identity is limited to works by blacks of West Indian descent living and writing in Costa Rica and the literature of Afro–Costa Ricans of Anglophone Caribbean descent. At the present time, it is difficult to speak of the “indigenous” black literature from Costa Rica. The scholarship available is scarce on the lives and literary production of Costa Ricans of African descent during the colonial and postindependence periods that predate the mass immigration of West Indian workers. There is no historical “continuity” between the colonial blacks and the West Indian immigrants, as is the case in Panama.7 For reasons of history, economics, and social practices, the relatively small black population was “Hispanized” and absorbed into the national culture, leading some to assert that the population “disappeared.” The factors leading to this phenomenon of the disappearance of the colonial black population are the small numbers of slaves, the small quantity of cacao plantations, and the 6. Harpelle, “West Indians,” xiv–xv. 7. Michael D. Olien presents this idea in his thesis, “The Negro in Costa Rica: The Ethnohistory of an Ethnic Minority in a Complex Society.”


7

large population of female slaves in domestic service in the urban centers of the country. The indigenous black population, slavery in Costa Rica, and mestizaje (miscegenation) will be discussed briefly in the historical background of this Introduction. The present study is also limited to texts by the Anglophone immigrant population and their descendants. This is not an exercise in simplification to erase or ignore the writings by the Francophone immigrants and other ethnolinguistic populations known to have settled in Limón Province. However, like the literature of the colonial blacks of Costa Rica, these texts are not housed in public archives or are permanently lost or nonexistent. Their contributions are further problematized because of the imposition of Anglophone culture in the province. English was the language of business for the rail construction company and the United Fruit Company, and Jamaican Creole was the dominant popular language, reflecting the speech patterns of the dominant population. The overwhelming majority of texts that have been published or have circulated were authored by Afro–West Indians of Anglophone descent. The focus on texts written by English-speaking blacks and their descendants is not intended to be an intentional gloss over the literary production of other Caribbean linguistic groups in Costa Rica, but an unfortunate omission because of the lack of available texts. In Limón, there was no formal community support of literary endeavors. Occasionally, though, works appeared in the English-language newspapers, but even with those rare finds in the Searchlight, the Atlantic Voice, and the Atlantic Post, the ethnicity of the author is uncertain. Additional difficulty lies in the conditions and survival of these documents. All editions of every paper published in English on the coast are not readily available in Costa Rica; therefore, we do not know what was published or what has been lost in those missing documents. This also does not take into account the poems read at public meetings, in church services, or at school functions or other community events or the personal diaries and testimonies held privately or lost. Considering the multiple factors of history and culture that have given form to Afro–Costa Rican identity and creative expression, it is difficult to begin a project of this breadth without presenting a historical overview of the black presence in Costa Rica. The sociohistorical context is essential to an understanding of themes, issues, and attitudes exhibited in creative writing. Literature produced by black writers in the region is shaped by location, ethnolinguistic identity, and, most important, migration and its accompanying themes of conflict and integration into Costa Rican national life.

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Historical Foundations: Background on the Afro–West Indian Presence in Costa Rica He who feel it know it. —proverb from Limón Conflict, migration, resistance, and integration are defining themes of the Americas. Cultures encounter, cultures change. In Central America, this has been certain since the arrival of the Spanish conquistadores and the forced labor of the indigenous population, the importation of African slaves, and the later arrival of voluntary immigrant groups from Europe, Asia, and the Caribbean. The cause of these migrations and contacts is due to the initial project of empire in the Americas launched by the arrival of Columbus and continues to the present day with neocolonial, transnational business ventures emanating from the sites of the former empire. One of the predominant cultural features in the Caribbean subregion of Central America is the extension of West Indian culture along its coastal belt. From Belize to Panama, the irrefutable contemporary Afro-Caribbean cultural influence in the region can be attributed to the colonial and neocolonial processes, which have formed a West Indian cultural continuum in the region. The influence of British colonialism and later transnational enterprises brought a paid labor force from the Caribbean islands to the Central American coast. West Indian life was transported to the region by the immigrants who brought with them a distinct diet, customs, and worldview. The experiences of migration were reflected in their cultural products, among them music, visual arts, and oral and written literature. It is precisely the presence of the latter that will be examined in this study, focusing on identity in Afro–Costa Rican literary production in the twentieth century. Since the European conquest of the Americas, migration and transmigration have developed into defining characteristics of the Caribbean. Scholar of ethnic literature Ketu H. Katrak describes the pattern of migration to new territories and cultural impositions. She states, “[O]ur contemporary world has seen migrations of people on a scale as never seen before in human history. For colonized peoples, migrations by ‘choice’ and/or by economic necessity are rooted within a colonial and postcolonial history and within continuing imperialist dominations today.” The geographic situation and socioeconomic history of Costa Rica are not excluded from this pattern. In Costa Rica, as in other Central American republics, the wholesale importation of enslaved Africans never reached the great levels of the plantation economies in the insular Caribbean, Brazil, or the Unit-


9

ed States. Nevertheless, Africans and their descendants have been present in the region since the conquest. “Blacks arrived with the Spanish colonizers or the English mercenaries to work in the mines or in agricultural labor and mixed with the indigenous population. In other cases, they escaped from the English and Spanish slave ships and took refuge in these regions.”8 The small nation, however, has not fully recognized the presence of the black population that has been present in four significant migratory waves through the country’s history.9 The first of these is the population of enslaved blacks during the colonial period. Costa Rican historian Carlos Monge Alfaro claims in Historia de Costa Rica (History of Costa Rica), “Costa Rica was a country of peasants, owners of small parcels of land. In Costa Rica, there were no slaves or servants; all were persons whose worth was in their quality as human beings.”10 This text, used for several decades in secondary history classes, has been an important instrument in promoting the myth of a casteless, rural democracy in which all Costa Ricans were hemaniticos (brothers). Contrary to this historical myth popularized and advanced by Monge Alfaro, blacks from the insular Caribbean were not the first blacks to enter the country’s history. The official census data of 1801 report that of the population of 52,591, 9.5 percent were Spanish, 15.7 percent were Indians, 57.8 percent were mestizos, and 17 percent were blacks and mulattoes.11 Although the official abolition of slavery in 1824 freed fewer than one hundred blacks in Costa Rica, this proclamation does document the existence of slavery. Three significant historical works published in Costa Rica refute Monge Alfaro’s view that the country is a democracy based on a small population of subsistence farmers: El negro en Costa Rica (The black man in Costa Rica, 1972), an anthology by Carlos Meléndez and Quince Duncan; La esclavitud negra en Costa Rica: Orígenes de la oligarquía económica y política nacional (Black slavery in Costa Rica: Origins of the national economic and political oligarchy, 1997), by 8. Katrak, “Colonialism, Imperialism, and Imagined Homes,” 649; María Teresa Ruiz, Racismo: Algo más allá que la discriminación, 61. 9. Historians Carlos Meléndez (in El negro en Costa Rica) and Michael Olien (in his dissertation, “The Negro in Costa Rica: The Ethnohistory of an Ethnic Minority in a Complex Society”) point to three waves of migration. I would like to propose that there were four, in order to include those West Indian and Miskito immigrants who settled along the coast decades before the rail construction scheme. 10. Monge Alfaro, Historia de Costa Rica, 129. 11. Oscar Aguilar Bugarelli and Irene Alfaro Aguilar, La esclavitud negra en Costa Rica: Orígenes de la oligarquía económica y política nacional, 374; Carlos Meléndez and Quince Duncan, eds., El negro en Costa Rica, 48.

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Oscar Aguilar Bulgarelli and Irene Alfaro Aguilar; and Negros y blancos: Todo mezclado (Blacks and whites: All mixed up, 1997), by Mauricio Meléndez and Tatiana Lobo. The latter two studies illustrate that since colonization, Costa Rica’s oligarchy earned and consolidated much of its wealth through slave labor and has African blood in its veins. Two significant factors have led to the perceived “disappearance” of the colonial blacks in Costa Rica. First, to avoid paying taxes on their human chattel, slave owners reported that their black slaves were free mestizos in their employ. Second, there was a tendency among the largely urban, black female slave population to have conjugal relations with poor whites and mestizos, sometimes producing offspring. In this process to “improve the race” (mejorar la raza), the former black slave population “whitens” and becomes Hispanized, thus fueling the myth of a white peasant-class democracy in Costa Rica. As Aguilar Bulgarelli and Alfaro Aguilar observe in their study: “[T]he ethnic heritage of the black African slave who arrived in Costa Rica during the colonial period was lost through an intense process of miscegenation in which Indians, whites, blacks, mestizos, and mulattos together formed a society that through disinformation and lack of profundity in research permitted the Costa Rican to boast, for a long time, of a white skin that hid the reality of that process.”12 To foster upward social mobility, the colonial black population intermixed and intermarried with the white and mestizo populations at an accelerated rate, giving the impression that the majority of blacks “disappeared” by becoming mestizos. Occurring simultaneously in Costa Rica during the period of colonial slavery was the arrival of predatory bands of black Miskitos from Nicaragua, who allied with the British, attacked Caribbean cacao plantations, and engaged in contraband during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This group was followed by a third, the “coaster natives,” at the end of the eighteenth century and continuing into the nineteenth century. Small groups of turtle fishermen from the English-speaking Caribbean islands, particularly Providencia and San Andrés (now part of Colombia) and British Nicaragua, followed the migratory patterns of sea turtles and eventually built settlements of a few Afro-Caribbean families in the region, living with the indigenous population.13 The fourth wave was ushered in with the arrival at the end of the nineteenth century of West Indian immigrants. It was an odyssey that began in 1872 when the first group of voluntary 12. Aguilar Bugarelli and Alfaro Aguilar, La esclavitud negra, 379. 13. See Paula Palmer, “What Happen”: A Folk History of Costa Rica’s Talamanca Coast, for an extensive and unparalleled oral history of the early settlers of the region.


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migrant laborers arrived to Puerto Limón from the European colonial territories in the Caribbean region. The early arrivals were from nearby Belize (British Honduras), Surinam, and Curaçao, in addition to Panama and Jamaica. In December of the same year, the “bridge of direct contact was clearly established” when a ship carrying 123 passengers from Kingston arrived at Puerto Limón on the Caribbean shore of Costa Rica.14 In successive years, more immigrants from Jamaica arrived in Limón Province than from any other West Indian nation. The migrant laborers would eventually have an impact on the formation of modern Costa Rica, particularly the development of its economy. As today, a major export of nineteenth-century Costa Rica was coffee. During the nineteenth century, the only viable port was located on the Pacific coast. Before the 1914 opening of the Panama Canal, coffee was sent from the central highlands to the Pacific coast, whereupon it embarked on an arduous journey around the tip of South America to markets in Europe and North America. With the long journey, the quality of the product suffered; therefore, it was necessary for the country to construct a railroad from the highlands to the Caribbean coast in order to reach markets abroad and remain competitive. The Costa Rican economy required a large quantity of labor that the small rural population could not provide to build the country’s infrastructure in order to compete in the world market. María Teresa Ruiz, in her political-economic examination of the “pushpull factors” of West Indian migration to the peninsular Caribbean, observes: The young Central American states with a traditional agricultural economic structure increased their production for export to the world market. . . . The infrastructure that these countries required (construction of bridges, roads, ports, etc.) demanded a great quantity of labor that the sparse population of some Central American countries like Costa Rica and Panama could not satisfy. This situation parallels a crisis in the plantation system in the Caribbean, launching the migration of thousands of men in search of “better opportunities” in life.15

The emancipation of slaves in the British West Indies occurred in 1833, prompting an economic downturn in the plantation economy in the 1840s. With an 14. Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 71. Meléndez observes that prior to the 1872 initiation of mass migration, before independence, there were some Jamaican figures in the history of the country. He cites the participation of Jamaicans in “La Guerra de la Liga” in 1835 and against the 1860 attempt by North American Confederate-sympathizer William Walker to overtake Central America in the War of Nicaragua. 15. Ruiz, Racismo, 61.

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economic crisis in the islands and a labor surplus, black men, mostly from Jamaica, were hired as contract labor by the North American and British engineers charged with the construction of the transcontinental railroad to the sea. The West Indian men, some with their families, arrived in large numbers near the end of the nineteenth century, attracted by the promises of financial gain and pushed by growing economic insecurity. Conditions in Jamaica were particularly volatile due to the aftershocks of the 1865 Morant Bay Rebellion, a violent uprising incited by economic instability, the lack of employment, and civil unrest. The depressed conditions caused by the collapse of plantocracy in the British colonies fomented their dreams of prosperity and brought the foreign workers to Costa Rica’s shores. The immigrants were largely literate and skilled workers. Ronald Harpelle’s detailed research reveals, “The West Indians who went to Central America were the men and women who were in a position to migrate from their islands of origin. That is one of the reasons why literacy and skill levels were high among West Indian immigrants.” The immigrants “were primarily an urban proletariat looking for opportunities to secure a future for themselves and their families.” They came seeking economic improvement and held the bourgeois dream of returning to the West Indies with their fortunes to buy property, educate their children, and reap the fruits of material success. The West Indian workers never intended to stay in Central America, and a culture of temporality was constructed. Life in Limón for many West Indian workers and their families was founded on the impermanence of the situation. Quince Duncan explains that even the residential structures in the region were constructed not to ensure their longevity, but rather as temporary shelters in anticipation of the return to Jamaica: “The houses were not very good or, said in another way, not as good as the blacks could have constructed them, due to the sentiment of provisionality. . . . The idea was to return to Jamaica. For the most part, houses were built for the short-term. That affected the aesthetic aspect and the quality.”16 The transient condition and the sense of impermanence also led the West Indian immigrants to adhere tenaciously to their culture. There was no need to acquire the new tongue or to mix with the local population because doing so would plant roots in a land that was not their own and inhibit the ability to reintegrate into the culture upon their impending return to the islands. After all, “Why mix with the local population, learn the language, and burden yourself with Latino children who at best would not want to leave at the moment of repatriation?”17 16. Harpelle, “West Indians,” xxvii; Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 109.


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The contracts between the West Indian laborers and the Northern Railway Company expressly stated that the workers were to be provided with return passage to their places of origin. However, the repatriation clause in the contracts was not honored for financial reasons, and many workers were unable to return home and remained in Costa Rica. Many more West Indian workers came in succeeding years, and fewer returned to their islands of origin. Even during the many financial crises that plagued the construction of the railroad, the workers remained. To avoid losing their labor force, the workers were encouraged to settle along the lands adjacent to the railroad. Along the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica, West Indian culture and its colonial affiliation with the British empire were conserved, reconstructed, and perpetuated by the workers, the Northern Railway Company, and later the United Fruit Company. On foreign shores, the immigrants formed a culture based on the colonial values of the British West Indies. The West Indians formed lodges and burial societies, published English-language newspapers, and built Protestant churches and parochial “English schools” with pastors and teachers imported from Jamaica and England. The Daily Gleaner, a Jamaican newspaper, was read and circulated. Goods arrived in Puerto Limón from Jamaica, England, and other parts of the British empire. It is important to note that it was foreign capital, principally British and North American, that went toward the rail construction project and that English was the official language of the venture. Together, the West Indian immigrants and the foreign companies forged a miniature British colony with all of its accompanying pride and prejudices, including among the West Indians an anti-Hispanic attitude. The West Indians were British subjects and belonged to an empire that at the time of their arrival in Central America dominated a large part of the world. As Lorein Powell and Quince Duncan explain, this affinity for the metropolitan power was penetrating: “This reality, nevertheless, did not exhaust itself with mere sympathy for a world power. Its implications are more profound. Blacks in the Caribbean region of Central America belong culturally to the English world, and more specifically the Afro-Saxon world. This designation has serious implications because it means that many of their values not only do not coincide with the Latin mentality, but are even opposite in some cases.” British cultural values were superior to all others, and as a consequence, the native Hispanic population was considered inferior. In everything from construction of houses to religious practices, the paniah were considered undesirable, uncivilized, and ineffectual, as evidenced by the Costa Ricans’ inability to construct 17. Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 103.

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the rail with their own people.18 The national government of Costa Rica considered the largely black workforce on the coast as “foreign” and temporary labor. The blacks in Limón, prior to the civil war of 1948, were not fully integrated into the political life of the country. A few West Indians applied for and were granted citizenship; however, many resisted, conserving West Indian culture for the return that seemed less likely with the passage of time and the birth of children and grandchildren. The attitudes on both sides were mutual in their ethnocentrism and desire for exclusion. Prior to the 1948 civil war, discriminatory laws and practices promoted by the national government restricted property ownership by blacks in Limón Province. Also, massive migration of blacks to the Central Valley was prohibited through de facto discrimination, although a few black West Indians settled and worked in San José and the surrounding provinces. There is a widely circulated myth that blacks were legally barred from crossing into the Central Valley provinces (San José, Alajuela, Heredia, and Cartago). Turrialba was the train station where the black West Indian crew disembarked and the white Hispanic crew members boarded, marking a symbolic “border” between the “black coast” and the “white Central Valley.” The town of Turrialba reportedly marked the point of entry for the Central Valley, where blacks could not trespass for extended periods; the most commonly stated limit was seventy-two hours. However, as confirmed by the studies conducted by Carlos Meléndez and Quince Duncan and Ronald Harpelle, no such law has been found. Jeffrey Casey Gaspar also refutes the myth of the prohibition of movement of the black population: “Jamaicans were allowed to travel freely within and outside the banana zone. The national census and other ancillary information categorically refute the Costa Rican historical myth that blacks were not permitted to travel to the interior of the country, beyond the city of Turrialba.”19 Much of the lack of internal migration may have had to do with the immigrants’ desire to protect their Afro-Saxon heritage in the “comfort zone” of the enclave and because the West Indian blacks who were born and lived in Costa Rica were not considered citizens. For the immigrants, there was little need to learn Spanish and venture outside the familiar cultural setting created in the province. The immigrants discouraged the incorporation of the values and norms 18. Powell and Duncan, Teoría y práctica del racismo, 54. Paniah, also written as paña, is a term derived from España (Spain) and is used by the West Indian blacks to refer to the Spanish-speaking population. It is usually derogatory in usage. 19. Harpelle, “West Indians,” xviii; Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 88–89; Casey Gaspar, Limón, 1880 –1940: Un estudio de la industria bananera, 126–27.


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of the dominant culture, which were considered inferior to their British colonial heritage. According to Lorein Powell and Quince Duncan, “The Hispanics were considered members of a culturally inferior group, which increased disinterest among the Caribbean population in stimulating or participating in the process of assimilation or integration.”20 Equally, the white mestizos of the Central Valley considered their culture superior because of its possession of a “civilizing,” white-identified European identity. Anti-immigration laws were enacted without much effect to prevent the darkening of the national population, and prowhite movements vocalized their demands to repatriate the Afro–West Indians. Even if the Costa Rican nationals were hostile to their presence, the West Indian blacks in the security of a neocolonial enclave knew they were needed to fulfill a contract with the support of the colonial government. The solidarity the West Indian blacks formed with the British empire was also expressed through the relation between the workers in Limón and Minor C. Keith, the North American behind the construction of the railroad. He enjoyed great loyalty from the West Indian workers. According to Meléndez and Duncan, Keith “passed for English among the Jamaicans” and was able to take advantage of the “solidarity that the blacks had with respect to the British empire.”21 For several months during the project, West Indian men worked without pay because of their faith in Keith. Keith made significant gains from the railroad scheme. He received a ninetynine-year lease, use of the port, and ownership of thousands of acres of land adjacent to the rail in the negotiation of the 1884 contract with the national government. However, a series of financial crises plagued the construction project: “Toward the end of the rail construction, Minor Keith realized the impossibility of maintaining the operation of such a costly railroad as the one in the Atlantic zone solely on the coffee that Costa Rica had recently begun to export. It became necessary to find exportable resources that would demand the services of the railroad at a pace that would make it profitable, and recover the costly investment in as little time as possible.” When funds for the transcontinental railroad were depleted, Keith began the lucrative business of banana exportation, thus planting the seeds for the creation of the influential United Fruit Company in the region in 1899 when Keith merged his Tropical Trading and Transport Company with the Boston Fruit Company. The majority of workers remained, and the profits from the banana industry went to finance the railroad whose use was dedicated for that industry to transport bananas and equipment. When blight ru20. Powell and Duncan, Teoría y práctica, 55 – 56. 21. Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 103.

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ined the banana crop in the 1930s, the United Fruit plantations relocated to the Pacific coast; however, the racist government of President León Cortés in the Central Valley prohibited the Afro-Caribbeans from crossing to the Pacific to work for the company. The 1934 agreement between the Costa Rican government and the United Fruit Company explicitly stated, “It is prohibited, in the Pacific zone, the employment of persons of color in said jobs [of the banana industry].”22 With the subsequent depression in Limón caused by the loss of income related to banana work, many people went to Panama to find canalrelated employment, returned to the West Indies, or stayed and lived at a subsistence level—farming small plots, selling produce, or operating small local businesses. The coast was in a state of depression until the return of the banana industry many years later and the development of the port. It should be noted that it was not until the Revolution of 1948 in Costa Rica and the victory of José María Figueres and his Army of National Liberation that blacks in Limón were officially “welcomed” en masse. Many Costa Rican–born children of West Indians were in fact stateless. “By 1935 the majority of people of African descent born in Costa Rica was considered to be foreign nationals. Despite their parents’ claim to citizenship elsewhere, the generation of Costa-Ricanborn West Indians was not automatically considered British subjects because they were not born within the empire.”23 This generation was legally incorporated into the nation and had access to citizenship for the first time in their years of labor and settlement in the Caribbean coastal areas. The creation of the Second Republic of Costa Rica actively sought the integration of blacks into national life as a means of political expansion and consolidation of power for the new leadership. In the campaign for reconciliation, Figueres went to Limón as head of the governing junta and addressed the people in English to gain their support. He urged the Afro–West Indians to participate as citizens of Costa Rica, including learning Spanish. The new constitution in 1949 extended rights of citizenship and enfranchisement to blacks for the first time in Costa Rica’s history. These changes also caused increased internal migration from Limón to the interior of the country, as blacks went in search of better opportunities for work and education in the capital, San José, which, of course, created new challenges to cultural identity. Citizenship for the Costa Rican children of West Indians legalized their attachment to their native land but also “taught them that they had no choice but 22. Ibid., 104; Casey Gaspar, Limón, 1880 –1940, 131. 23. Harpelle, “West Indians,” 215.


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to conform to Hispanic ideals.” The government encouraged the assimilation of Afro–West Indians through a campaign to promote education in Spanish. Quince Duncan notes that the English education in parochial schools in Limón was imperialist in its transmission of British values through knowledge, and the Costa Rican educational system was equally damaging because it “substituted those values for others equally imperialistic, but was more totalizing including the prohibition of speaking English in the Spanish school.”24 With the increased pressure to integrate, the desire for upward mobility and “to get ahead in Hispanic society” for many Afro–Costa Ricans meant the exclusive use of Spanish, marrying into Hispanic families, the integration of Hispanic cultural practices, and distancing themselves from the West Indian culture of their forebears. The important event of enfranchisement marks the transition from West Indians who remained “foreigners” even after several generations in the country to Afro–Costa Ricans. The transition was both generational and cultural, with each generation experiencing its own conflicts and transformation of identity. The first and second generations remained Afro-Caribbean. Quince Duncan describes the second generation: “The second generation, born in Costa Rica or brought at a young age, does not know Jamaica, and little by little leaves the dream of ‘the return.’ But the process of socialization to which they have been subjected by their elders impedes their incorporation into national life. They continue to identify themselves as Jamaicans because that is the label to which they have become accustomed. And Costa Rica also labels them as Jamaicans.”25 The first and second generations worked to “civilize” the region through British–West Indian colonial values and to maintain those cultural values. The second generation, however, existed in a state of rootlessness because they were neither Costa Rican nor able to comply with the dream of the return to the West Indies of the first generation. The third and fourth generations possessed a different series of conflicts— their “navel-strings” were buried in Costa Rica—but they were not citizens of the country of their birth until the changes in the attitude of the national government and the constitution. The successive generations possessed the rights and privileges of citizenship and integration into Hispanic society, but as Afro-Hispanics of West Indian origin they were faced with the same racial discrimination as earlier generations because of their ethnic difference. Precisely, it is this historical trajectory and preoccupations of place, nation, and 24. Ibid., 252; Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 130. 25. Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 133.

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identity of the black immigrants and their descendants in Costa Rica that are presented in Afro–Costa Rican literature. The literature records a culture often neglected or misrepresented by the official discourse and presents an “intrahistory,” or the history of those who were marginalized by the hegemonic project of the dominant culture. This trajectory of Afro–Costa Ricans brings us back to the oral and written word. Afro–Costa Ricans have expressed themselves as subjects in oral tales, calypsonian lyrics, novels, short stories, essays, poetry, and theater. This body of literature explores themes related to the black experience in the Central American republic, including migration, socioeconomic conditions, religion, geography, location, language, national and ethnic identity, sexuality, and history. Images that reoccur in Afro–Costa Rican literary forms are the train, the sea, and artifacts from material culture that reflect a connection with the insular Caribbean: herbs, foods, and musical instruments. These images also include other cultural expressions such as music, Creole proverbs, and references to figures important to Caribbean history, such as Marcus Garvey of the Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA). The written and oral expression of the Afro–Costa Rican experience resists the dominant ideology of Costa Rican society, which often seeks to deny, ignore, or erase its existence. Frequently, black cultural resistance in the Americas is described as an act of “maroonage” that recalls the historical accounts of the Maroons, escaped slaves who formed communities outside the hegemonic structures of colonial society. Contemporary black writers engage in acts of maroonage that serve as postcolonial counternarratives to give voice to a denied subjectivity. Afro–Costa Rican literature is a form of cultural maroonage that “enabled the West Indians to maintain their special identity and establish a means of resisting exploitation and oppression.”26 Through literature, black Costa Ricans have examined their identity as Costa Ricans, the dominant Latin culture, and their historical relationship to the West Indies.

Central American Writers of West Indian Origin and the “Question of Names” The study that presents the greatest scope in the area of black writing from Costa Rica is Ian Smart’s Central American Writers of West Indian Origin: A New Hispanic Literature. Although the work is restricted to literature written in Spanish, it is indeed the “ground breaking enterprise” Smart declares his investigation 26. Paulette Ramsay, “The African Religious Heritage in Selected Works of Quince Duncan: An Expression of Cultural and Literary Maroonage,” 32.


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to be in the introduction (CAW, 5). It is the most significant and extensive research to date on literature by blacks of West Indian descent. Although Central American Writers of West Indian Origin almost exclusively focuses on Costa Rica and Panama, it does initiate critical discussion of Afro-Hispanic writing from the region. The work examines literature by canonized non–West Indian writers, such as Joaquín Beleño, Demetrio Aguilera Malta, Joaquín Gutiérrez, Carlos Luis Fallas, Fabián Dobles, and Abel Pacheco. These influential writers are considered predecessors of writers of West Indian descent. The non–West Indian writers introduced Afro–West Indian characters and themes to mainstream Central American letters during the middle and latter portions of the twentieth century. Smart then turns to the texts by writers of West Indian descent, with particular attention given to religion and interracial romance in Quince Duncan and history and identity in Panamanian writer Carlos “Cubena” Guillermo Wilson. Significantly, the only woman mentioned in this work is Eulalia Bernard of Costa Rica. Her work is not treated as extensively as Duncan’s prose or the poetry of Panama’s Gerardo Maloney, even though at the time of the publication of Central American Writers of West Indian Origin, Maloney’s work appeared in journals and newspapers, whereas Bernard had already published a volume of poetry, Ritmohéroe (Rhythmhero, 1982). The brief introduction of Central American Writers of West Indian Origin locates the cultural geographies of the Caribbean, surveying the historic and multicultural spaces of the area. It establishes a historic unity based on the colonial history of “sugar and slavery”—the plantation system that required mass numbers of African slaves for its labor-intensive production. In addition to sociohistoric commonalities, there are also connections between the peoples of the various parts of the insular and continental Caribbean. Therefore, in Smart’s assertion, the “Caribbean” is not restricted to the archipelago, but includes the coastal rim of Central, North, and South America. By bridging the geographic and cultural fragmentation of the Caribbean, caused by centuries of European colonialism, the study offers an ambitious proposition in favor of cultural unity in the divided region. Central American Writers of West Indian Origin introduces “the question of names”: what does it mean to call someone or something “West Indian” when situated outside the cultural geography of the islands? The term West Indian is frequently used to refer to the English-speaking Caribbean. According to Barbadian scholar and poet Edward Kamau Brathwaite, “When most of us speak of the ‘West Indian’ we think of someone of African descent.”27 Smart 27. Brathwaite, Roots, 40.

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declares that the term West Indian “appears to be based on a distinction that is posited solely on the basis of language of the colonial master and must then be considered ill advised, for it would ignore the common African cultural base as well as the common historical experience” (11). He proposes to eschew the “divisiveness imposed by the Euro-based fragmentation of the Caribbean” in support of a unifying term for all linguistic and cultural groups in the Caribbean basin (12). Smart attempts to destabilize the term West Indian from its affiliation with the Anglophone Caribbean and expand it to create new meaning interchangeable with Caribbean, a term that the author asserts has a connotation of “Latinness.” West Indian is removed from its cultural and geographic specificity in the Anglophone Caribbean to become a signifier of Caribbeanness, which has the “African cultural heritage” as “one of its defining features” (12). Therefore, West Indian is also a signifier of blackness, and the lines of colonial demarcation among West Indian, Afro-Antillian, and Caribbean are erased and become indistinguishable. However, this destabilization of the term West Indian creates a problem in his textual analysis of works by “non–West Indians” in the Central American Caribbean. Although Smart opens the possibilities of the term by erasing colonially imposed linguistic borders in the geographic space of the Caribbean, the ethnic borders are retained. Notably, this approach becomes questionable in categorizing the works of a “white” Costa Rican such as Abel Pacheco, who was born and raised in Limón and writes about West Indian culture of the province from an “insider” perspective. In spite of the “opening up” of the possibilities of the term West Indian, Smart reverts to the original significations attached to the word to imply not only blackness, but also English-speaking. West Indian again becomes an essentialized identity as Smart divides his study into works by those who are “neither biologically nor culturally ‘West Indian’” but “have been creatively influenced by the West Indian presence,” and those who are “authentic” members of this ethnolinguistic group (13). Smart does note, “Whereas Abel Pacheco can be considered ‘Caribbean’ or ‘West Indian’ in the broadest sense of the terms that was elaborated in our Introduction, he does not belong to the group of Central Americans of Anglophone Caribbean background,” thus signaling awareness of the contradictions of his destabilizing project (121 n. 21). Scholars and critics of African American and other ethnic literatures have emphasized that there is “an obstinate refusal to wholly give up on a kind of necessary essentialism, while nevertheless remaining fully aware of the treacheries of essentialism itself, ” because “abandoning essentialism becomes a kind of theoretical luxury or first world ex-


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travagance.”28 Nevertheless, with Smart’s strategy, it is a difficult task to take on a simultaneous project of de-essentialization of the term West Indian and a critical upholding of its essential significations (or “strategic essentialism,” according to Gayatri Spivak). In spite of the declaration of cultural and geographic unity, to be West Indian is to be Anglophone and black. This unsettled question of names will present a problem for later generations of Afro–Costa Rican writers in their deployment of cultural codes and the cultural significations of the term West Indian.29 The literary analysis in Central American Writers of West Indian Origin relies on an essentialized West Indian identity, in spite of attempts to remove it from its geographic and cultural specificity. This core identity becomes the originating point for all cultural expression among the descendants of Afro-Caribbean migrants from non-Hispanic areas of the Caribbean basin. Smart affirms that what distinguishes “non–West Indian” writers from “West Indian” writers from Central America is the level of “authenticity,” bilingualism and use of language, and use of West Indian “mascon” elements. Adopting the term from Stephen Henderson’s appropriation of “mass concentration” in NASA terminology, the word mascon describes artifacts that are intrinsically attached to a specific culture and known instinctively to the members of that cultural group. Quoting Henderson’s Understanding New Black Poetry, Smart presents “mascon” elements as “[c]ertain words and constructions [that] seem to carry an inordinate charge of emotional and psychological weight, so that whenever they are used they set off all kinds of bells ringing, all kinds of synapses snapping, on all kinds of levels” (41).30 Those who are part of a specific cultural group can readily identify these elements and identify with them. With the presence of West Indian and non–West Indian writers and readers, it is the use and interpretation of these “mascon” elements and language that differentiate the two groups. Those who are not a part of the group require guidance to interpret the Other and the glossing of terminology to access the levels of meaning. Language use is a marker of “authenticity” of the West Indian text 28. Christopher Wise, “The Dialectics of Négritude; or, The (Post)Colonial Subject in Contemporary African-American Literature,” 37; emphasis in the original. 29. If clarification is necessary to specify references to people of African descent in the Caribbean, I use the terms Afro–West Indian and Afro-Caribbean interchangeably to avoid similar pitfalls in the question of names. Additionally, I employ the term Afro-Antillian as a translation of the Spanish afro-antillano, which essentially means “Afro–West Indian.” 30. Henderson, Understanding New Black Poetry (New York: Morrow, 1973), 44.

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and cultural affinity. It is through the use of language that the “ultimate level of authenticity is achieved when not only the characters, but the authors themselves speak like West Indians” (CAW, 36). Smart’s assumptions can be applied only to writers of the first, second, and third generations of West Indian descendants in Central America who exhibit cultural and linguistic competency. His assertion does not take into consideration the problematic situation of later generations of Afro–Costa Ricans, those born in the 1960s and later, who are not bilingual and have a greater cultural distance from their West Indian ancestors. Some of these younger writers may not have the same “mascon” cultural elements as their predecessors and therefore cannot express themselves as “authentic” West Indians because they lack a command of English or Creole. To be of West Indian descent does not guarantee the uninterrupted and continued use of English or identity with the same “mascon” cultural elements as previous generations. Additionally in the textual analysis of “West Indian” texts from Central America, Smart presents linguistic models for dealing with literature from members of an ethnolinguistic minority: the “Conflict-Replacement” and “Flexibility-Synthesis” models. Neither approach is explained in great detail, although an attempt is made to add clarity: “It appears from the research published so far on the matter of their religion, education, economic, and political status that this ethnolinguistic minority group is faced almost exclusively with the Conflict-Replacement dilemma. In other words, the host societies’ reaction to them is one that is basically conflict inducing and conducive to the abdication of their cultural autonomy” (11). We are encouraged to read sociolinguistic studies listed in the chapter footnotes in order to appreciate these models. These two models are mentioned later in the text, but again are not developed: “Whether or not the solution followed the lines of the Flexibility-Synthesis or the Conflict-Replacement is a question that is of pivotal importance, but one that must be shelved in a study such as this” (40). This approach of such “pivotal importance” is consequently dropped from further exploration and evaluation. With the publication of Central American Writers of West Indian Origin: A New Hispanic Literature in 1984, Smart called forth a critical challenge to scholars to study “West Indian” literature in Central America. Smart establishes an early postcolonial approach through his considerations of place, language, exile, identity, and what he terms scatteration, or the dispersal of Caribbean peoples. Although acknowledging the limits of his “ground breaking enterprise,” he also sees the work as a model for future scholarship. Many of the issues Smart raises regarding “West Indianness” of Costa Rican literature will be addressed, questioned, and challenged throughout this study.


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The “Myth of Whiteness” Quince Duncan occupies a significant amount of critical discussion in Smart’s study of Central American writers of West Indian heritage. Although Duncan is not the only Afro–Costa Rican writer, his notable bibliography has made an impression, both inside and outside his native land. His considerable literary prominence draws attention to the social history of Costa Rica and challenges its national myths and cultural assumptions. Richard Jackson, in The Black Image in Latin American Literature, notes a persistent problem relating to Duncan and the perception of blacks in Costa Rica: These black descendants who have grown roots in their new environment which their labor has helped to construct, have been neglected, however, and their contributions minimized. Duncan deals with this problem of neglect as well as with the problem of identity, and his work is hailed by the Costa Rican national press as the product of a writer who is giving voice to a part of the country’s ethnic mosaic that has not always been favorably treated.31

A major factor in the reception of Afro–Costa Rican writing is the national myth of ethnic homogeneity in Costa Rican discourse. The Central American republic of Costa Rica is famous for its national myths: its natural tropical beauty, the mystical qualities of its coffee, the abolition of the armed forces, and its democratic stability in a region of political violence. These myths are difficult to ground, but form a norm that “defines tacit standards from which specific others can then be declared to deviate, and while that myth is perpetuated by those whose interests it serves, it can also be internalized by those who are oppressed by it.”32 Traditionally, a myth is a narrative that tells the story of a group’s venerated figures—its heroes or deities. Myth in this instance is not a compendium of tales of national origin, but rather a cultural fiction diffused and repeated to convey a set of cultural values. This set of beliefs is held by members of the nation and defines their identity as a people. These national myths are diffused throughout the culture in various oral, visual, and written forms. The construction, circulation, and perpetuation of these myths contribute to the production of national, cultural, and ethnic identity. The most “exported” myths from the “Switzerland of Central America” are of 31. Jackson, Black Image, 128. 32. Russell Ferguson, introduction to Out There: Marginalization and Contemporary Cultures, 9.

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its “whiteness” and “Europeanness.” The national discourse circulates and maintains these pervasive myths about Costa Rica’s ethnic, linguistic, and cultural homogeneity. However, echoing the observations of Dellita L. Martin-Ogunsola, “such is not evident to the eye of the casual observer.” Linguists R. B. LePage and Andrée Tabouret-Keller note that the black presence threatens the discourse of the dominant culture in the region: “Throughout Central America there is widespread fear among those who claim ‘Spanish descent’ and ‘white’ colour status (and this of course includes many Mestizos) of the ‘Blacks’—that is, the AfroCreoles who have established pockets of settlements right along the Caribbean from Belize to Panama, and in the off-shore islands.”33 This national myth of “whiteness” or “Europeanness” in Costa Rica has been perpetuated historically to give the country its sense of difference and identity amid the majority mestizo, indigenous, and Afro-Creole or Afro–West Indian cultures of its Central American neighbors by emphasizing its genetic and cultural proximity to the European conquerors. Black writers defy the notion that Costa Rica is a “white,” Latin, Hispanic country absent of ethnic diversity. The national myths that assert the dominance of the traditional Hispanic culture over that of the descendants of West Indians are tied to a need to consolidate a sense of nationhood and belonging, even if it means the exclusion and marginalization of immigrant identities. The origins of these myths have their foundation in the patterns of colonial rule and neocolonial ventures in investment capitalism. The relationship between Costa Rica and the West Indians requires a postcolonial analysis for this reason.

Postcolonial Theory and Afro–Costa Rican Literature The constitution of cultural identity in Afro–Costa Rican literature is deeply entrenched in the social history of blacks in Costa Rica. To understand Afro– Costa Rican writing, it must be studied from within its sociocultural context, as well as its situation in the Afro-Hispanic and Hispanic literary canons. Such research will command critical analysis of literatures by people of African descent in the Americas from a postcolonial theoretical approach. This critical framework 33. Martin-Ogunsola, ed. and trans., The Best Short Stories of Quince Duncan/Las mejores historias de Quince Duncan, 15; LePage and Tabouret-Keller, Acts of Identity: Creole-Based Approaches to Language and Ethnicity, 210.


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provides appropriate strategies for the study of literary and social issues of marginality, subjectivity, immigration, nation, language, and literary production of texts by Afro–Costa Rican writers. Additionally, this critical strategy will provide the proper tools for examining the uniqueness of Afro–Costa Rican literature, specifically the experience of West Indian migration, thematic repetitions, code switching (English, Spanish, and Creole-patois), notions of “Otherness,” and engagement with Afro-Caribbean and African folklore. Place, displacement, language, and nation are important notions expressed in Afro-Hispanic and other “New World” literatures because they link the subjectself to history, culture, and, ultimately, identity. In black writing from Costa Rica, this is particularly important due to the location of West Indian cultural practices in a Hispanic country. In accord with Rosemary Geisdorfer Feal, “The question of identity has been central to Afro-Hispanic literature, and indeed to all literatures in which a sense of individual and collective self must be constructed within a framework of oppositionality.” Because the West Indian immigrants did not or could not return home, they and their descendants, possessing an immigrant identity, recodified their concept of home and nation while attempting to retain ethnolinguistic difference. The blacks of West Indian descent in Costa Rica took on the task of “reconstructing old homes and imagining new ones,” which is reflected in the historical shifts in attitude toward place, language, and nation. These shifts mark transformative moments in the configuration of cultural identity in Afro–Costa Rican literature, particularly the destabilization of the naturalized homologous association of home and identity. The literary precursors writing in English (Alderman Johnson Roden and Dolores Joseph) reflect a British–West Indian immigrant identity situated in the islands of ancestral origin in spite of displacement in Costa Rica. Bilingual second- and third-generation writers Eulalia Bernard and Quince Duncan represent an ambiguous position between the islands of their parents and grandparents and the country of their birth. Like their predecessors in the first generation, they consider the questions of exile and the immigrant identity. However, their writing involves a continuous play of tensions between West Indian and Hispanic cultures. On the one hand, there is a desire to conserve the English language and cultural practices, but on the other, they express national allegiance to Costa Rica and use the Spanish language to talk about the “new” home. Duncan articulates this polemic: “Whose side would we be on if Costa Rica and Jamaica fought a war? . . . [I]t was never a problem for my mother, or my grandfather either. They would have sided with Jamaica, period. But for us [third-generation blacks] it really was a

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problem.”34 This perspective toward Costa Rica as home and as nation contrasts with younger writers Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald. Their writing no longer echoes an ambiguous location of home. In Spanish, they affirm that “home” is Costa Rica, and the West Indies becomes a mythic and imaginary ancestral place. Therefore, in the analysis of literature written by Afro–Costa Ricans, a strategy is required that foregrounds the specific cultural experience and cultural aesthetic of an ethnolinguistic “Other,” creating a literature that does not emerge from within the dominant cultural aesthetic and ideology. The study of Afro– Costa Rican literature, therefore, must be contextualized on its own terms of sociohistorical situation and not from the perspective of the dominant culture. As Cuban poet Nancy Morejón asserts in her approach to the application of European and North American theory to texts outside those cultures, “[I]t is not possible to apply mechanically to our literature categories that were shaped in relation to metropolitan literatures.” She warns, “One mistake . . . of literary criticism and research is that of attempting to isolate the text from its socio-historic milieu.” Therefore, in our reading and theorizing about texts, it is crucial to situate the text within its own sociocultural context, considering carefully the history and culture from which the texts emerge. Echoing Miriam DeCosta-Willis’s observations, “[T]here is a contextual relationship between the Word and the World, given that language is shaped by sociohistoric forces.”35 Thus in this study of Afro– Costa Rican literature, the cultural and historical links of blacks in Costa Rica with other Caribbean societies must be taken into consideration, particularly the effect of British colonialism on West Indian migration and the development of neocolonial enterprises in Central America. Of historic significance is the permanent imprint of the European colonial venture in the Americas and how this series of violent contacts finds itself as an aftershock in literary production. The violence of the African slave trade, the skewed relations of production, and the racialization of those contorted relations have left a legacy in the social structure and cultural products of the Americas. The Haitian poet and essayist René Depestre comments in his classic essay, “Hello and Goodbye to Negritude,” 34. Feal, “Reflections on the Obsidian Mirror: The Poetics of Afro-Hispanic Identity and the Gendered Body,” 26; Anindyo Roy, “Postcoloniality and the Politics of Identity in the Diaspora: Figuring ‘Home,’ Locating Histories,” 102; Duncan quoted in Martin-Ogunsola, Best Short Stories, 21. 35. All quotes in DeCosta-Willis, “Orishas Circling Her House: Race As (Con)Text in Morejón’s Poetic Discourse,” 98.


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The human essence of the Blacks, Whites, and Mulattos within the region of America . . . encompasses, historically, all of the social and racial interactions from the sixteenth century to our day. . . . This slave society “epidermized,” somatized, and deeply racialized the production interrelationships, thus adding to the innate contradictions and alienations of capitalism a new type of class conflict that acquired its own characteristics within the specific framework of the American colonies: namely passionate racial antagonism.

The descendants of the Africans in the Americas have survived as a marginalized, alienated, and denigrated Other on the shores of the conquered and colonized territories. The colonized New World developed a racial dogma whereby “[j]ust as money and skin color became an abstract, passionately powerful symbol, the color white became the universal symbol for wealth, political power, beauty, and social well-being. . . . [T]he color black, became a symbol for poverty, political impotence, physical and moral ugliness.”36 In the colonial scheme of the Americas, the descendants of Africans are tied to this legacy of forced servitude even after emancipation, and this relationship among “race,” history, and the effects of colonization is crucial to the reading of black literature of the Americas. Scholars of literary and cultural studies have been questioning critically in recent years the impact of colonialism and neocolonialism on cultural production from within the margins of cultures dominated politically, economically, and ideologically by another power. The tensions produced by the binaries margin-center and dominated-dominating become the focus of such an analysis needed to understand the cultural responses of the Other to the dynamic. The emphasis of this approach, termed postcolonial, privileges the margins. Postcolonial analyses of cultural production study counterdiscursive practices in cultures affected by the imperial enterprise, such as the legacy of subjugation and resistance of the black populations of the Americas. This type of analysis is prompted by the initial “export to the colonies of European language, literature, and learning as part of a civilizing mission which involved the suppression of a vast wealth of indigenous cultures beneath the weight of imperial control” and the counterdiscursive responses of the colonized in resistance to colonial domination.37 By privileging the margins, postcolonial theory addresses the critical issues of language, location, migration, exile and displacement, identity, history, hegemony, Creolization, and cultural hybridity, all of which have not been treated satisfactorily by 36. Depestre, “Hello and Goodbye,” 255 – 56; emphasis in the original. 37. Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, eds., The Post-colonial Studies Reader, 1.

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the major critical approaches to literature from the postcolonial world. From this critical perspective, the traditional Other speaks for itself as a subject on its own terms. Considering the themes of cultural oppression, exile and displacement, and language expressed, an immediate and logical response to this quandary would be to approach texts by Afro–Costa Ricans with a postcolonial reading. From a sociohistorical perspective, we can see that the postcolonial situation in Costa Rica is not unlike that of other American republics where the initial conquest left an ineffaceable mark in the subsequent history of the region. Moreover, the postcolonial situation of the West Indian immigrants and their Afro–Costa Rican descendants presents additional preoccupations. The (dis)location of the West Indian population on the Central American coast places Afro–Costa Rican literature in a special position. Afro–Costa Rican cultural production is inherently a product of both the colonial and the neocolonial processes, the first being the British colonization of the Caribbean and the forced migration of blacks to work on island plantations and the second being the voluntary, secondary migration of blacks from the West Indies to neocolonial operations—North American–, British-, and French-owned companies in Central America during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The rail construction and fruit exportation companies, owned by British and North Americans after the end of the official empire, became neocolonial powers continuing the dominant ideologies of the colonial metropoles. The companies exercised control over West Indian movement within Costa Rica, social relations between West Indian and non–West Indian workers, and political activities. An example of this neocolonial domination is the prohibition of political expression that runs counter to the ideology of center. The Pan-African leader Marcus Garvey worked as a timekeeper for United Fruit in Limón from 1910 to 1911. He was dismissed for publishing a prolabor tabloid that criticized the company’s labor practices. Later, during the height of Garvey’s UNIA campaign in the 1920s and 1930s, the United Fruit Company was again unsettled by the rhetoric of ethnic pride and self-reliance promoted by the movement. The company’s administration in the region threatened to dismiss workers who were members of the UNIA, prohibited the circulation of the Garveyite newspaper Negro World on plantations, and pressured foreign consulates to deny visas to UNIA representatives. Even though the UNIA flourished in Limón, the actions of United Fruit illustrate that efforts to repress are not necessarily those of a metropolitan state over a colony; they can also originate in the old dynamic of cultural hegemony within the new structure of neocolonial enterprises.


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With the eventual incorporation of the West Indians into the greater fabric of Costa Rican culture, the structures of cultural hegemony continued to be a factor. The transition from foreigner to citizen after the civil war of 1948 did not eradicate the margin-center binary between the Caribbean coast and the Central Valley. As referenced in the historical survey of this chapter, relations between the West Indian immigrants and the national government of Costa Rica before the civil war were generally antagonistic: “The elite in power of the young republics resist accepting [Afro–West Indians] as citizens of their countries, with the same rights as other dominant social groups. In a structure inherited from the colony, with a social stratification according to skin color, the dominant social classes could not ignore the color prejudice facing the black descendants of slaves.”38 In spite of the enfranchisement of blacks in Costa Rica, it did not eradicate the predominant beliefs emanating from the center of national culture. The existing dominant ideology in Costa Rica is a discourse inherited from the European conquest and colonization of the Americas. It is a discourse based on binary oppositions that favors those values most closely matching those from Europe and discounts, denies, and dismisses any expressions that do not reflect the Eurocentric standards. Thus, in addition to the cultural hegemony of neocolonialism in the region, margin-center tensions are again expressed between the cultural aesthetic of Afro–Costa Ricans and the norms established by the dominant Central Valley. The postcolonial reading operates on these different levels by addressing the disruption and displacements of the Africans in the Caribbean, the consequences of another disruption and deterritorialization caused by voluntary migration from the West Indies to the Central American coast, and the tensions of being Other. For the descendants of West Indians who migrate from the coastal province of Limón to the Central Valley, this set of tensions is replicated. Though the Afro–Costa Ricans are not foreigners, they are perceived as an ethnic and cultural Other. The migration of West Indians and their descendants has a significant bearing on the conception of identity, which is inextricably linked to place, as a real or imaginary site: “The dialectic of place and displacement is always a feature of post-colonial societies whether these have been created by a process of settlement or a mixture of the two. Beyond their historical and cultural differences, place, displacement, and a pervasive concern with the myths of identity and authenticity are a feature common to all post-colonial literatures in english [and other prestigious languages].” Although this citation refers to “Common38. Ruiz, Racismo, 66.

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wealth Literatures” in English, the situation is not unique to this particular postcolonial literature. There is a similar “concern with the development or recovery of an effective identifying relationship between self and place” in Afro–Costa Rican literature, particularly when there is no possibility of return to the place of ancestral origin and difficult acceptance into the “host” culture.39 The relations of the immigrant and host cultures also repeat, mimic, and imitate the patterns of colonial relations. The relations to empire and to the neocolonial powers exist on a continuum, “because there is a continuity of preoccupations throughout the historical process initiated by European aggression,” and this postcolonial condition leaves traces of tensions in the literature by Afro–Costa Ricans.40 The Afro–Costa Rican literature reflects the margin-center tensions of the postcolonial experience, though the historic situation is unique because it is neither an indigenous literature (African, South Asian, or first nation) nor exactly a “settler colony” literature (from Canada, the United States, or Australia). It has been shaped, as well as the other “West Indian” literatures in Central America, by the forces and facts of colonialism and neocolonialism, particularly the metropolitan cultures of Spain, Britain, France, and the United States. Although this study specifically addresses Afro– Costa Rican literature, it may be applied with some expected variations to other literatures in Central America by descendants of West Indians. The practice of postcolonial theory in the analysis of works by and about Afro– Costa Ricans is an appropriate strategy to examine the forces of hegemony and counterdiscourse in various texts. Much of the postcolonial literature involves “writing back” to the center of power to challenge universalizing assumptions. In the situation of the Afro–Costa Rican who is now established without the dream of a return to the “home” of his or her forebears, the center shifts from a British metropole to the actual geographical and political center of Costa Rica, the Central Valley and the capital city, San José. The capital establishes as the “universal” the norms and myths of the country: Spanish-speaking, white-mestizo, democratic, peaceful, and progressive. In these universalizing claims, “whenever a universal signification is claimed for a work, these white, Eurocentric norms and practices are being promoted by a sleight of hand to this elevated status, and all others correspondingly relegated to subsidiary, marginalized roles.”41 What black writing from Costa Rica and other postcolonial literatures from 39. Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, Empire Writes Back, 9. 40. Ibid., 2. 41. Peter Barry, Beginning Theory: An Introduction to Literary and Cultural Theory, 192.


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the Americas, Africa, Asia, Oceania, and Europe share is that “beyond their special and distinctive regional characteristics . . . they emerged in their present form out of the experience of colonization and asserted themselves by foregrounding the tension with the imperial power, and by emphasizing their differences from the assumptions of the imperial center. It is this which makes them distinctively post-colonial.” Afro–Costa Rican writing asserts difference from the “truth” of San José—the Central Valley—the center of power. By “employing Eurocentric standards of judgement” stemming from Costa Rica’s previous colonial relationship with Spain, “the center has sought to claim those works and writers of which it approves.”42 In the case of Costa Rica, the center approves the texts that fit within the accompanying discourse of the society’s goals and norms. Afro– Costa Rican writing writes back to the cultural hegemony and affirms its presence in a space where the Afro–Costa Ricans write in their own voices and shape their own images and representations. The unique historical, political, social, and cultural situation in the continental Caribbean lends itself to a postcolonial reading of Afro–Costa Rican literature, but these forces that have shaped the Afro–West Indian experience in Central America and the creation of black literature may also be regarded as “diasporic.” The initial dispersal of enslaved Africans in the Americas is complicated by the secondary migration of Afro–West Indians to other parts of the Western Hemisphere and the globe. The multiple separations from home for extended periods of time, “unbelongingness” in the host culture, and the desire to return are symptoms of exile. Because the return to ancestral homes in Africa or the West Indies is not possible, writers establish connections with the past and other peoples of the African and Caribbean diasporas in the Americas and elsewhere through a shared experience of cultural domination and the construction of racial ideologies. Through establishment of these creative connections, a community is invented or “imagined” in the discontinuity of the diaspora. Nevertheless, this “imagined community” of writers cannot sustain the tensions brought about by migration for a people who seek this experiential relationship, but also desire to feel as if they belong to another “imagined community” within their country’s borders and political body. The Afro–Costa Rican experience to affirm “belongingness” in their native land and assert a presence in the country’s national culture is still a dream deferred.

42. Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, Empire Writes Back, 2, 7.

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Roots and Routes Foundations of Black Literature in Costa Rica

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ocating the foundations of black writing in Costa Rica, like other emergent literatures, is a difficult task because of the lack of documentation that unequivocally signals an authentic originating point. The lack of written texts from the colonial blacks in Costa Rica and the newer arrivals from the West Indies makes any search of this nature incomplete. To best establish the literary antecedents of contemporary Afro–Costa Rican writers, it is then necessary to survey traditional themes and motifs that point to the foundations of black writing in Costa Rica. This involves a literary journey that follows the patterns of migration of the West Indian descendants in Central America, from Africa and the Middle Passage to the Caribbean, and finally to Costa Rica. We can search for the origins of Afro–Costa Rican writing through the multiple roots and routes of migration of people and their storytellers. We can trace the beginnings of Afro–Costa Rican literature to the oral traditions of western Africa. As a diaspora literature, the origins of this body of work have their roots in oral literature, particularly the animal tales of the African Ashanti involving the trickster spider Anancy. These stories were transported with enslaved Africans in the Middle Passage and were transplanted and transformed in the New World. In the Caribbean, these stories adapted to the new environment, but maintained their pedagogical and diversionary purpose. However, the oral tradition of the West Indies is not confined to tales about clever spiders, but also takes the form of the calypso, an oral tradition set to music that transmits the story and meaning of an event, the feats of an individual, or a social issue. Calypsos are structured rhythmically to be remembered and repeated—thus involving the receptors in the creative process, sometimes adding their own verses to the song. These two traditions of oral transmission, the Anancy stories and the calypso, 32

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lay the groundwork for storytellers of West Indian descent to put their stories into writing. These oral traditions have influenced the “foundational” writers of Afro–Costa Rican literature, Dolores Joseph and Alderman Johnson Roden. In Tres relatos del caribe costarricense (Three tales from the Costa Rican Caribbean, 1984), Dolores Joseph weaves the tradition of Anancy stories in his Englishlanguage fiction as a bridge between locations and generations.1 Likewise, in his poems, also written in English, Roden uses popular metrical cadences and incorporates the oral tradition with the retelling of a version of the legend of Joe Gordon, an Afro–Costa Rican labor hero of the early twentieth century. Though the publication dates for Roden and Joseph postdate the novels of Quince Duncan, who is considered the first Afro–Costa Rican writer, these two writers should be considered his literary predecessors. The dates of composition of much of their work are uncertain, but what is clear is that both Roden and Joseph produced texts much earlier than the actual dates of publication. Chronologically, thematically, and linguistically, they express a West Indian worldview. Unfortunately, because Roden and Joseph wrote in English, outlets for their works were limited. The case of Dolores Joseph is notable in this respect. Joseph published Tres relatos del caribe costarricense at the age of eighty as the result of winning a contest sponsored two years prior by the Costa Rican Ministry of Culture, Youth, and Sports. However, Joseph, according to the introductory biography written by his son, published poetry in English newspapers in Panama, where he worked from 1938 to 1955. His son, José Guillermo Joseph Wignal, asserts, “His literary production is great. . . . The majority of his poetry, short stories, novels and essays are unpublished,” which indicates that Joseph had been writing throughout the course of his life, but without the support of a publisher (TR, 12). Joseph Wignal also records an incident when the elder Joseph had an opportunity in 1975 to publish his life story as part of a contest on rural autobiography in Talamanca, Limón, but was denied the prize, allegedly because he wrote in English. The poetry of Alderman Johnson Roden, called by Donald K. Gordon the “Tailor-Poet,” also did not have the support of an interested publisher. Like Joseph, Roden published in English periodicals. Gordon presented an important article in 1983 in the Afro-Hispanic Review, “Alderman Johnson Roden: The TailorPoet,” that documented the efforts of the now deceased poet and his craft as a poet 1. Although the original title of the collection is in Spanish, Joseph’s short stories are actually published in English. Only the introduction by Roberto LeFranc and the biographical presentation by Joseph’s son, José Guillermo Joseph Wignal, are in Spanish.

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and as a tailor in Limón Province. Gordon’s research indicates that Roden printed and sold poems in Limón and published poetry between 1968 and 1971 in the American Advisor, a now defunct semiweekly Costa Rican periodical. Many of his poems are undated and were perhaps penned well before the 1960s and 1970s. The search for roots and origins is an important project for any “new” literature seeking to establish specificity and legitimacy. Canonical histories of Spanish American literature point to the “literariness” of documents such as Columbus’s diaries, Hernán Cortes’s letters to the Spanish crown, the memoirs of an old soldier seeking to establish a legacy for his heirs, or the record of creation myths and prophecy of indigenous groups. These documents are used to establish a beginning for their use of rhetorical devices and intertextual references to literary works. Foundational texts are often left open to much debate because of their lack of literariness or because their original purpose has become literary owing to the need to establish origins. The oral tradition in diaspora literature has met with similar debate as part of a new literature attempting to establish its origins, authenticity, and identity as a cultural product. Roden and Joseph as early writers connect the written word with the oral tradition and form the roots of black writing in Costa Rica.

Anancy Stories [I]n order to cope with an unstraight and crooked world one needs unstraight and crooked paths. —Rex Nettleford, “Jamaican Song and Story and the Theater” Jack Mandorra, me nuh chose none. —traditional ending of the Anancy tale As mentioned in the introduction to this chapter, the literature written by descendants of Afro–West Indians in Costa Rica has its foundations in the oral traditions brought to the Americas from West Africa during the slave trade from the sixteenth to the early nineteenth centuries. Oral tales traveled with the people who told them, surviving the Middle Passage from Africa, dispersal in the West Indies, and eventual migration to the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. These stories, often related to animals, like B’rer Rabbit in North American black folklore, not only were entertainment but also had a didactic purpose. During plantation slavery in the Caribbean, the stories were allegories of plantation life. They were used to transmit lessons of survival and resistance in a culture that systematized

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and institutionalized oppression. To survive as a descendant of Africans in the plantation system, one had to be astute and cunning. The oral tales taught those who listened: “The dim- witted always carry the burden (and this was the reality of the blacks; in the slave fields, the astute were the ones who managed to survive. Through their fables, the blacks taught their children—perhaps unconsciously—that astuteness is a virtue if one is black and if one lives in a racist, white, and oppressive society).”2 One of the most frequently retold African-derived oral traditions in Afro– Costa Rican literature is the Anancy story as it has taken shape from West Africa to the West Indies to Costa Rica. The Anancy stories, also called “Annancy,” “Ananse,” “Anansi,” or “Nancy” stories, are the best known of these orally transmitted tales and tell of the exploits of the cunning, crafty, and sometimes cruel spider of the same name.3 The Anancy tales have been passed from the Ashanti people of West Africa and diffused throughout the West Indies, becoming part of oral Caribbean culture during and after slavery. In the journey from Africa to Central America, Anancy transformed from a demigod to a symbol of cultural maroonage. The Anancy stories or tales of “Hermano Araña” (“Bredda Spider” in Creole, “Anancy” or “Brother Spider” in English) usually present the spider involved in some form of trickery. Anancy’s adventures reveal some truly human characteristics. He displays his intelligence, his cunning in spite of his small size, his ability to laugh at the expense of others, and his own defects. In the Anancy stories, the spider is usually accompanied in his tricks and adventures by other animal characters, such as Bredda Tiger (Hermano Tigre), Bredda Tacuma (Hermano Tacuma), Bredda Rabbit (Hermano Conejo), Bredda Monkey (Hermano Mono), Bredda Dog (Hermano Perro), or Bredda Goat (Hermano Cabra).4 According to Joyce Anglin, “In African folk literature the animal trickster is an important figure. He is highly humanized in his behavior and selfish in his outlook. His actions are dedicated to satisfying his own needs.” To achieve his goal, usually food or the sexual conquest of other creatures’ wives or daughters, the arachnoid trickster uses his cageyness to outsmart those physically stronger. Anglin comments, “The opponents of the trickster are generally chosen from those who supposedly are supreme in the forests: Tiger, Lion, Elephant. Their role in the story is that of animals that can be easily fooled. Trickster takes ad2. Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 126. 3. Anancy comes from the Ashanti word for spider. It is also important to note that many of the Africans transported to Jamaica during the slave trade were of Ashanti origin. For a more general treatment of Anancy in Costa Rica, consult Joyce Anglin Edward’s thesis, “Anancy in Limón.” 4. Giselle Chang Vargas et al., comps., Cuentos tradicionales afrolimonenses, 15.

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vantage of this weakness as often as he can.”5 An example of Anancy’s ability to “play fool fe ketch wise” or use his wit over a physically stronger character is the frequently compiled story of “Anancy and the Riding Horse,” which also appears in Tres relatos del caribe costarricense, by Dolores Joseph. In this tale, Anancy and Brother Tiger are vying for the attention of several young women. Brother Tiger has a clear advantage because of his handsome looks and powerful appearance. In order to eliminate his competition, Anancy falsely claims before the women not only that Brother Tiger is his father’s riding horse, but also that he will prove it. As the rumor circulates, Tiger becomes enraged and goes to Anancy to clear up the matter. Anancy denies that he is the source of the rumor and offers his support to discredit the gossip, but he feigns illness and claims he is too weak to walk. The foolish Tiger offers to carry Anancy to the young women with whom they were flirting to negate the rumor. Anancy accepts the offer, but not first without a saddle, stirrups, and reins so he will not fall and a whip to shoo away the flies. Once Anancy and Tiger reach their destination, Tiger is the object of ridicule because he confirms the rumor that he is Anancy’s “riding horse.” Anancy outsmarts his friend and meets his cruel goal. Tiger retreats in shame, and Anancy proves that intelligence overpowers physical strength—an important lesson for survival. In many of the stories, the spider can be outwitted by only his own cunning or another more astute creature. This more discerning creature usually takes the form of Bredda Tocuma (also Tucuma or Tacuma) in the Costa Rican Anancy tales. Tocuma usually “plays the important role of imparting justice. . . . He is usually the only one who knows Anancy well enough not to fall into his traps. He always discovers them and has Anancy caught.” In the Jamaican Anancy tales, though, Tocuma is usually “duped and victimized by Anancy, but occasionally he is the victor.”6 In the story “Anancy an de farchun,” which appears in the multilingual (Spanish, English, and Creole) collection of oral tales from Limón Cuentos tradicionales afrolimonenses (Traditional Afro-Limonese stories), Tocuma tricks Anancy out of a magic pot that cooks on demand. Tocuma in “El Hermano Tacuma y la trampa” (Brother Tacuma and the trap), from the same collection, tricks his friend Anancy, but also becomes the victim of his own cruelty by the even more astute Brother Cat. The human antics of the animal characters in the Anancy tales, though today they appear entertaining, served a function in the societies in which they were 5. Anglin, “Anancy in Limón,” 41. 6. Ibid., 77; Daryl C. Dance, Folklore from Contemporary Jamaicans, 13.

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originally related. Had they not served a purpose for previous generations of blacks in the Americas, the stories would not have survived. In the explicitly hostile and violent structure of the plantation system, cunning and astuteness were attributes to be valued and transmitted. As a necessary part of the adaptation of the tales to their new environment, under adverse circumstances, the “Africans who came to the West Indies soon learned that the only way out was to have new strategies that would help mitigate the power of the slave masters. Anancy was very important here. The stories helped in keeping them together, providing recreation, and at the same time taught them ways in which they could strike back at the masters without getting punished.” The order of the plantation is subverted in these stories, whereby the powerful master, represented by one of the physically strong creatures, is outdone by the small, simple spider or the plantation slave. Louise Bennett describes Anancy’s ability to “study up him brains fe work brains pon people,” which transmits the value of intelligence.7 The triumph of the trickster’s quick wit over physical limitations and the illusory dominance of supposedly physically superior creatures present the cultural resistance of the Afro–West Indians. The Anancy stories, then, perform an allegorical role in the double signification of the narrative. The story itself presents the antics of a personified spider, but the familiar human traits found in Anancy’s cunning exploits parallel life circumstances in a given historical location—a community celebration in Africa, a Caribbean plantation at the end of the workday, or an English schoolyard in Central America. When these tales arrived in Limón Province on the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica with West Indian laborers, they were retold as entertainment, to color conversation, to impart a moral lesson, to console grieving families during “Set Ups” and “Nine Nights,” and to maintain a psychic attachment to “home” and “place” in the insular Caribbean.8 They were also told to address feelings of alienation and displacement and the need to find liberation. These stories provided a reconnection with the culture of the island homes left behind in the process of migration to Costa Rica. The neocolonial conditions the West Indian workers encountered were not radically different from the colonial situation of the insular plantations. There existed within the international capitalist complex of the rail7. Anglin, “Anancy in Limón,” 43; Bennett, “Me and Annancy,” ix. 8. Set Ups and Nine Nights are traditional funeral celebrations of African descendants in the Americas. The Set Up involves the preparation of the body of the deceased for burial, and the Nine Night is a festive gathering for the spirit of the dead. Palmer’s “What Happen” has interesting details of the practice of Set Ups and Nine Nights and the telling of Anancy tales during these celebrations.

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road and banana companies a plantation-like system that maintained a hegemonic structure based on race and color. The mid-twentieth-century integration of blacks into Costa Rica’s national culture did not halt the denigration of Afro– West Indian heritage. To find oneself in opposition to the established norms of the dominant culture, be it the United Fruit Company or the Central Valley culture, is to also search for liberation from oppressive circumstances. Because of increased integration with the dominant Costa Rican culture emanating from the Central Valley, the stories are fading from oral culture. Anglin comments, “The stories are slowly disappearing. Only the older people remember them. The younger generations have been exposed to other customs and another language, Spanish.”9 The Anancy stories at present survive among the elder members of the black community and in the literary expressions of contemporary Afro–Costa Rican writers, with some cultural adaptations. The tales are presented in the context of twentieth-century Limón in “Nancy Stories” in Dolores Joseph’s Tres relatos del caribe costarricense and the calypso lyrics of Walter “Mr. Gavitt” Ferguson, another elder of the province. Costa Rica’s most prolific black author, Quince Duncan, has most notably presented the Anancy stories in his literary works, showing the important popular foundation of oral literature in contemporary Afro–Costa Rican expression. The Anancy motif appears in Duncan’s novels Hombres curtidos (Hardened men) and La paz del pueblo (The peace of the town). As Ian Smart acknowledges, the use of “this figure as a symbol and indicator of the West Indian presence” in Duncan’s narrative work where “the mythical aura of the folktale is incorporated into the narrative . . . adds to the magical effect of the work” (CAW, 44). Additionally, Duncan has collected and adapted the Anancy stories in his Cuentos de Hermano Araña (Anancy stories) and Cuentos de Jack Mantorra (The stories of Jack Mantorra). Establishing important links among Africa, the West Indies, and the Caribbean coast of Central America, the Anancy stories provide an essential and allegorical record of the beliefs, struggles, life lessons, and cultural transitions of a people through the tradition of oral literature. The immigrant-as-exile forms a link to home through the retelling of the Anancy tales, and the adaptation of the stories by their descendants to the local environment displays the retention of West Indian culture in the “new” home. Additionally, the bilingual versions of the stories that appear in written and oral forms reflect the wily spider’s changing role in the transformation of a cultural identity through the retention of what is useful and adjustment to the new environment. 9. Anglin, “Anancy in Limón,” 48.

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Calypso and the Tradition of Oral Literature What fi happen afti happen. —proverb from Limón The oral literary tradition of the West Indian immigrants in Costa Rica is an underresearched area. More general studies by Keith Q. Warner, Selwyn Cudjoe, Edward Kamau Brathwaite, and Louise Bennett have laid the groundwork in the study of Caribbean oral traditions that can be applied to the oral tradition in Costa Rica’s Afro–West Indian population. Brathwaite in “The African Presence in Caribbean Literature” affirms the significance of the oral folkloric tradition as an integral part of black literature in the Americas because it is an authentic expression of the black experience: [T]he African presence in Caribbean literature cannot be fully or easily perceived until we redefine the term “literature” to include the nonscribal material of the folk/oral tradition, which, on examination, turns out to have a much longer history than our scribal tradition, to have been more relevant to the majority of our people, and to have unquestionably wider provenance . . . while a significant corpus of “prose” and “poetry” has been created—and read—by a few persons in the major Antilles; folk song, folk tale, proverb, and chant are found everywhere without fear or favor and are enjoyed by all. . . . With this re/vision in mind, we see an African literature in the Caribbean beginning to reveal itself.10

The study of oral literature is not to be overlooked because it emerges from the voice and cultural experiences of the people. Efforts have been made to recover the Anancy stories in Costa Rica through the research of Joyce Anglin and in Cuentos tradicionales afrolimonenses, compiled by Giselle Chang Vargas et al. Work by Anita Herzfeld and Franklin Perry also recovers proverbs and folk sayings from the Caribbean region.11 However, little has been done on another major source of oral literature, the calypso in Limón. As a musical form, the calypso has its origins on the island of Trinidad and has 10. Brathwaite, “African Presence,” 109. See also Warner, Kaiso! the Trinidad Calypso: A Study of the Calypso As Oral Literature; Cudjoe, Resistance and Caribbean Literature; and Bennett, “Me and Annancy.” 11. See Anglin, “Anancy in Limón”; Chang Vargas et al., Cuentos tradicionales afrolimonenses; and Herzfeld and Perry, “Limonese Creole Proverbs and Sayings.”

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been dispersed throughout the West Indies through contact with other parts of the Anglophone Caribbean. The calypso is not “art for art’s sake”; it plays an important role in the lives of a people. According to Carole Boyce Davies, “The calypso . . . has a very important function in Caribbean society as commentary on social patterns, public and private issues, local political and international affairs.” In the Caribbean region of Costa Rica, the calypso has significant literary value as a recording of the stories of a people from within their own cultural context. In his landmark study of the Trinidadian calypso as oral literature, Kaiso! the Trinidad Calypso: A Study of the Calypso as Oral Literature, Keith Q. Warner affirms the calypso’s place as an oral literature because of its imaginative expression, use of folk material, orality, creative language, and form of traditional transmission, in addition to its social and political commentary. Brathwaite notes that the calypso and other popular West Indian musical expressions are “essentially collective forms, ridiculing individualism, singing the praises of eccentricity . . . more often celebrating their own peculiar notions of conformity.”12 The voices and lyrics of the calypsonians capture the sentiment of a people expressing themselves in their own language as their own subjects, unlike the portrayal of Costa Rican blacks in writings by non–West Indian Costa Ricans such as Joaquín Guitérrez, Abel Pacheco, and Carlos Luis Fallas. Locating calypso as an integral part of the oral tradition “not only provides an important bridge to the study of narrative strategies in written form, but it is elemental in the definition of a group’s aesthetic and psycho-social dynamics.”13 The calypso originating in Limón expresses the history and preoccupations of a group located outside the official discourse. The calypso, as part of the oral tradition, has literary value. Its structure, much like the traditional Western ballad, captures the most intense moment of an event, often beginning in media res. The verses of the calypso are short, with a choral repetition after each one. The compositions are formulaic in their form of storytelling. Unlike traditional oral poetry, the calypso generally has an identifiable author, although there are traditional popular calypsos of unknown origin. The calypso arrived on the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica through the waves of immigrants from the Antilles. Manuel Monestel, a Costa Rican composer and scholar of Afro-Caribbean music, comments:

12. Davies, “‘Woman Is a Nation . . .’ Women in Caribbean Oral Literature,” 175; Brathwaite, Roots, 59. 13. Davies, “Woman Is a Nation,” 165.

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From the migrations produced in distinct periods from the islands to the Central American coast and through the exchange between the different black communities already established on our shores, the calypso appears in Limón Province. The exchange with indigenous and Hispanic cultures and the new geographic context constituted the fertile terrain upon which the calypso has grown as an authentic form of popular song, with roots in West Indian song but with particularities that give it a characteristic AfroLimonese distinction.14

As a part of the oral culture of Limón, the calypsos originating in the region contain local themes about celebrations, social incursions from outside and resistance, personal and collective obstacles, and West Indian cultural traditions. The calypsos’ themes as oral literature reveal acts of cultural maroonage, affirming the survival of Afro-Caribbean culture in the province. Often these calypsos use humor to mask social protest and commentary against the status quo. Limonese calypsonians such as Edgar “Pitún” Hutchinson (also called Oyé), Calvin Maxwell, and Roberto “Buda” Kirlew performed their music before audiences in the region. One of the most impressive calypsonians is Walter “Mr. Gavitt” Ferguson, one of Limón Province’s surviving upholders of the oral art. Born in 1919 in Panama to Jamaican parents, Ferguson came to Cahuita, Limón, as a young child. There during the 1950s, he played with his calypso band, traveling the region. Though Ferguson no longer performs before the public, he continues to teach music and compose calypsos based on everyday life. Paula Palmer says of Ferguson in her impressive oral history project, “For him, everyday experiences and events in the town naturally become themes in his music.”15 Ferguson’s calypso lyrics are a departure from the more ribald, bawdy, and controversial calypsos from Trinidad by modern performers such as the Mighty Sparrow, Lord Kitchener, Chalkie, and Black Stalin. However, like the famous Trinidadian calypsonians, Ferguson’s lyrics present a keen awareness of the social and political situation of his community and a perspective of the people not found in the official history of Costa Rica. One such calypso is “Cabin in de Water,” written about a conflict between the government authorities of the Cahuita National Park and Bato, a resident of Cahuita. Bato was dislodged from the shack he occupied to make way for the National Park, which prohibited any structures from occupying the land. In an act of defiant genius, Bato rebuilt his home on 14. Monestel Ramírez, “La Costa Rica negra: Su historia a través del calypso,” 63. 15. Palmer, “Wa’apin man”: La historia de la costa talamanqueña de Costa Rica según sus protagonistas, 358.

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stilts “in the water” and off the shore of the park. Now forming part of the oral history of the region, this event, representative of the difficult process of change in Cahuita, is recorded as a calypso: This younger generation, Everyday de people getting smarter: Now they make me to understand Bato build a cabin in de water. : :  

Oh, de cabin in de water, Mister Bato as de author, I knew he was a diver, but I never knew De bugger was a builder.

The mistress of the National Park Bato told her it was a rumor; Lo and behold: a cabin in de water.  The Mistress was getting hot When she saw de cabin in de sea, Jumping like red beans in boiling pot, And she tell him must pull it down immediately.  The building was quite erect, Imagine it was standing in the sea! The lady called him an architect “But you going to pull it down immediately!”  Now they come to big dispute, Bato said, “Me born in Costa Rica.” “You could be born in Ethiopia Me no want no cabin in de water.”  Kiaky Brown was telling me About the cabin in the water: “Bato build something in de sea, Must be build it with de devil and he daughter.”16 16. Ferguson, “Cabin in de Water,” quoted in ibid., 364. Ferguson’s “Cabin in de Water,” “Everybody Running to the Carnival,” and “Mi rumba” can be found on the audiocassette Calipsos limonenses, along with selections by Roberto “Buda” Kirlew, Joseph “Tun” Darking, and Edgar “Pitún” Hutchinson. Ferguson’s compositions are also performed by the Costa Rican music group Cantoamérica.

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The calypso presents the postcolonial experience through the presentation of an “intrahistory.” “Cabin in de Water” retells and recasts an event in the history of the people not found in official texts from the perspective of the residents of Cahuita. Also of importance is the issue of language. The calypso is sung and recited not in standard English, but rather in Limonese Creole, the “nation language” of the West Indian descendants in the region. A “nation language,” based on Brathwaite’s definition, is the language of the people, which in the context of the English-speaking Caribbean “is the kind of English spoken by the people who were brought to the Caribbean, not the official English now, but the language of slaves and laborers, the servants who were brought here by the conquistadors.”17 By telling the story of Bato and his defiant move against authority in nation language, Ferguson gives voice to a community located outside the official discourse of Costa Rican history. As an oral art form, this story—in the nation language and set to calypso music—can be repeated and thus becomes recorded in the memory of the people. The song becomes a reminder of defiance, resistance, and West Indian cultural preservation because it is composed and sung in Creole and not the language of the dominant culture, Spanish. Bato, a living figure in the community, represents a hero to some and an annoyance to others. His confrontation is symbolic of resistance to outside authority, an independence enjoyed in the region for quite some time before its cultural integration with the rest of Costa Rica after the Revolution of 1948. “Cabin in de Water,” like most oral tales, has a linear structure with a distinct beginning, middle, and end. The chorus repeats the name of the protagonist and reinforces his defiant architectural feat. The “introduction,” in the first stanza of the calypso, presents the “narrator-observer,” his amazement at Bato’s actions, and how he came to understand an incredulous situation. Like a narrative, the first lines of the calypso establish the polemic of Bato and the cabin he constructed not on the land of the Cahuita National Park (which would be explicitly illegal), but on the water (technically not parkland). The following stanzas signal the development of the conflict between Bato and the park administrator with the discovery of the structure and the administrator’s reaction of disbelief and exasperation. The conflict comes to a definitive end when Bato retorts, “Me born in Costa Rica,” and the administrator has the last word, “You could be born in Ethiopia / Me no want no cabin in de water,” signaling the dislodging and dismantling of Bato and his structure off the shore of the area claimed for the Cahuita National Park. The narrator finishes the tale, not with a moral ending or a personal commentary, but with the voice of another 17. Brathwaite, Roots, 260.

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observer from the community. By stating, “Bato build something in de sea / Must be build it with de devil and he daughter,” the observer repeats the sense of disbelief at Bato’s individual feat. As a text, this calypso can be read metonymically, with Bato’s transgressive act as representative of the changes in the region over time. The Cahuita National Park sits on the site where West Indian farmers had small plots of land. Faced with the restriction against building in the park where previous generations had settled and planted coco and cacao, the story’s protagonist attempts to affront authority and claim his space.18 This construction and dismantling are symbolic of the old and new Cahuita—a town that was built and rebuilt. The conflict between Bato and the park administrator is also emblematic of the conflicts between residents of Cahuita and the central authority over jurisdiction of the park and tensions between Limón Province and the central power in San José. In another calypso by Ferguson, the characters from the Anancy stories come to life. “Tacuma and Anansi’s Party” recalls the tradition of oral tales that survived the Middle Passage and the Caribbean diaspora. The animal characters in this calypso, as in the traditional Anancy stories, take on human characteristics and human faults. This composition presents Brother Anancy and his companions gathering at a party, playing music, and enjoying the festivities; however, Ferguson also places himself in the realm of the fictitious personages: I was invited to a party And I was glad for de festival, It was Tacuma and Anansi You must imagine how de people was liberal. They kindly gave me a seat While they practiced a melody, The music was sounding sweet They were singing “Gal you want fi come kill me” (Singing:) :    

Fi fi a fa, fi fi a fa Gal you want fi come kill me, Fi fa a fa, fi fi a fa Gal you want fi come kill me. Monkey marry to Baboon daughter,

18. For additional information on the controversy surrounding the appropriation of land for the Cahuita National Park, see Palmer, “What Happen.” The volume is a slightly different version of her Spanish-language text, “Wa’apin Man.”

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 Gal you want fi come kill me;  Catch him little sister an’ dash her in de C atchwater, Gal you want fi come kill me. Anansi playing de fiddle Tacuma beating de drum, Breda Donkey giving a riddle Breda Monkey drinking rum (Hear them bawling:)  See me how me jumping out me seat And I running home like a jet, For the music was sounding sweet I went and bring out my clarinet (Hear me playing:) Lu lu lu, lu lu lu lu Lu lu lu lu lu lu lu  Now de crowd was getting bigger They come to join the festivity, Monkey into his liquor He start to shout out his melody (And he shout:) 19

Ferguson brings the listener into the realm of fantasy by imitating the sounds of Anancy’s fiddle and the croaking song of Breda Monkey in his drunkenness, and capturing the images of Breda Donkey spinning jokes and anecdotes to entertain the guests. He also privileges the listener to his emotions and his desire to become a participant in the band and run “home like a jet” to retrieve his instrument. He also imitates the sounds of his clarinet as he joins the group’s chorus. Ferguson performs a notable feat when he erases the borders between fiction and reality in this composition. He creates an imaginative space where humans are able to celebrate with their creations. The calypsonian invokes a solid Afro–West Indian oral tradition and places himself squarely within it as a participant. In the process of entering the fictitious party, Ferguson establishes these stories as part of his heritage. 19. Quoted in Palmer, “Wa’apin Man,” 370.

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The dramatic transition between fiction and reality and the creative manipulation of these icons of oral literature in Ferguson’s composition call to mind the project of “imaginative escape” in postcolonial Caribbean literatures proposed by Guyanese writer Wilson Harris. In black cultures in the Americas, this imaginative escape is “the ancient and only refuge of oppressed peoples, but the imagination also offers possibilities of escape from the politics of dominance and subservience.” When Ferguson moves from being the observer of Anancy’s gathering to a participant in the musical group, he launches into an imaginative escape from the circumstances of cultural marginalization and exile of Afro–West Indians in Costa Rica. The image of Anancy represents the continuing cultural struggle for survival. The folk character’s adventures are still used in this calypso to transmit strategies against the prevailing hegemony and to momentarily escape immediate oppression through the retelling of those imaginary tales. Harris considers the figure of Anancy symbolic of this imaginative escape because of the transformative nature of the character and his survival in the West Indies.20 Ferguson invokes the image of Anancy not as a trickster, but as a brother and member of the community. In the process, he is also transforming the schema of the traditional tales. He not only enters as a human into the realm of Anancy, but also extends a sense of “compatriotism” to the renowned trickster. This can be viewed as a unique movement of resolution between Anancy and blacks in the Americas who relied on the spider’s antics to consolidate the survival skills necessary for the oppressive conditions of the New World. This is a feat that can be accomplished only through psychic ties with the West Indies and manipulation of imaginative space. In Ferguson’s deceptively simple insertion of himself into the calypso lyrics, the new positioning of self also represents a bridge among the ancestral past, that heritage in the present, and the possibility of future transformation using the persistent presence of Anancy as the essential link. The Anancy tales then become an important connection with the past in a space where West Indian descendants in Costa Rica can celebrate convivially with the arachnoid protagonist who ensured their survival in another new land. In joining the two roots of Afro–West Indian oral culture in Costa Rica, the Anancy story and the calypso, Ferguson reconnects the routes of migration of the West Indian community and its descendants. These two oral traditions are given value and power, and they root West Indian identity in new soil by adapting themes to the local environment, but preserving the language, rhythms, and cadences of the island cultures in the written word and in the musical expressions of Limón. Ferguson, as one of the last traditional calypsonians in the province, 20. Harris quoted and discussed in Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, Empire Writes Back, 35.

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is a guardian of a folk tradition that has been ignored and devalued in Costa Rican national culture. The Limonese calypso is a local musical expression, but is West Indian in its spirit. Because he presents a vision of cultural reconnection, the use of the local English-based Creole, and themes of community, Ferguson presents in his calypso a West Indian cultural identity separated from its point of origin. This is a cultural stance that is continued in the poetry of Alderman Johnson Roden and in the short stories of Dolores Joseph.

Alderman Johnson Roden: Poet of the People When eighteen-year-old Alderman Johnson Roden arrived in Puerto Limón from Jamaica in 1911 to join his father, the province was at its peak and would provide the budding young poet with a source of inspiration. Roden was born in 1893 in Jamaica, and was educated there. Much of the information on Roden must be credited to the work of Donald K. Gordon, a scholar at the University of Manitoba. He presented Roden’s work for the first time in a North American journal in an article published in 1983 in the Afro-Hispanic Review, “Alderman Johnson Roden: The Tailor-Poet.” This important contribution to the study of Afro–Costa Rican literature was based on an interview the researcher conducted with Roden in 1976 in Limón Province. Roden’s arrival in Costa Rica in the early part of the twentieth century places him as an important literary precursor to late-twentieth-century Afro–Costa Rican writers. However, even more significant is that Roden composed in English, thus maintaining a linguistic and cultural connection to British–West Indian culture in the Costa Rican enclave. Even though Roden’s published work can be traced only to the late 1960s, he wrote most of his life but did not publish for a mass audience. Gordon also mentions Quince Duncan’s plan to publish a bilingual collection of Roden’s selected poems. Unfortunately, the volume was never produced because Roden destroyed his writings out of frustration. Thankfully, even without the collection, Gordon’s communication with the poet serves as an important literary historical record. The poems in this section are taken directly from Gordon’s article. During my research in Costa Rica, the only poems I managed to find by Roden are the same ones mentioned in Gordon’s work—a poem titled “Forget It” in the American Advisor and a privately held piece that was printed and sold by Roden titled “Forever Faithful—To My Wife.” These poems will not be analyzed here because of their themes on the temporality of life and romantic love. One of the poems by Roden that Gordon presents is titled “Nostalgia,” which according to the critic “reveals his feelings when he first arrived in Costa Rica in

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1911.”21 The poem presents a perspective on exile and its impact on the subject. Nostalgia itself becomes associated with the name of a place, its physical features, and the emotional significance of place (or loss of place) for the subject: Magic’s in the name of home! Power’s in its spell! How I miss my native land, I alone can tell. See the loved Blue Mountain— Every rill, each fountain— See the John-to-whit, Hear them chirp: “do it! do it!” Daily I am pining, Evermore am I sad. Oh, oh, I’m returning To the land of God.22

The title of the piece conveys a state of exile and alienation. The word nostalgia is derived from the Greek word nostos (return home), and means “the state of being homesick . . . a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition; . . . something that evokes nostalgia.”23 In this poem, home is Jamaica, the poet-narrator’s native land. Home is a fixed territory, and the subject is disconnected from that space and resorts to “nostalgia” as a means of reconciling the separation between himself and the land of his birth. In the declarations of the poet-narrator, Jamaica is remembered in stages. The poem ventures from the external intangible to the external tangible, and finally to the internal feelings of exile. The first stanza presents Jamaica as home, and the visible written sign “Jamaica” and its significations invoke the past. The second stanza presents Jamaica (home) in terms of its landscape and fauna, “the loved Blue Mountain,” “Every rill, each fountain,” “See the John-to-whit.” There is a relationship between these tangible aspects of Jamaica and their attachment to fixed physical space. The metonymic relationship between the poet-narrator and this place is broken by separation from the physical space of the island. Then, 21. Gordon, “Alderman Johnson Roden,” 9. 22. Roden, “Nostalgia,” quoted in ibid. 23. Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 10th ed., s.v. “nostalgia.”

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the third and final stanza presents the emotional alienation or nostalgia (homesickness) in the state of being separated from the fixed space of one’s native land. The poet-narrator is “pining” and “sad” as a result of this state of exile. The last two lines of the poem are slightly enigmatic with their declaration: “Oh, oh, I’m returning / To the land of God.” These lines may refer to an imaginary return or a return that is possible only in death because an actual physical return is not presented as a possibility. Moving away from the West Indies is “White Justice—Reality,” a bold statement against racism and racial violence. Roden states in his own words that he penned the poem “during Franklin Roosevelt’s regime.”24 The poet connects with North American blacks and their dehumanization in the years during the Great Depression and attempted reform. The poet-narrator reveals the contradictions of the United States in black and white: Tax the Negro, an’ kick him out! He’s a “beast,”—a “lazy lout” Fasten on him, ride him well— From the cradle down to hell. Cuff him, beat him, lynch the brute! Treat him to your number twelve boot. Hoist him to the nearest tree! Your’s the land that’s “brave and free.” Leave the Negro in the cold, Though he’s been a warrior bold. When he asks some paltry sum, Blast his soul to kingdom come! Snatch the bread from out his mouth, Sh, don’t breathe what you’re about, Grab the shirt from off his back Leave him stranded on life’s rack. Rape his women, black and white— This assuredly is your delight! Boldly fasten it on the fool, What’s the Negro but your tool?25 24. Gordon, “Alderman Johnson Roden,” 10. 25. Roden, “White Justice—Reality,” quoted in ibid.

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The black man is bestialized in U.S. society, according to the poet-narrator. He is exploited, brutalized, oppressed, and humiliated. The first two lines of the last stanza are quite interesting: “Rape his women, black and white—/ This assuredly is your delight!” Understanding the historical taboo forbidding interracial sex between black men and white women, these lines are ironic. Perhaps the poet-narrator is bringing to the fore sexual liaisons between black men and white women that did occur in spite of U.S. society’s prohibitions of such relationships. Another possibility is that the poet-narrator is signaling the violent irony of sexual attacks by white men against black women as a violation of the interracial sexual taboo. By inserting this reference, the poet-narrator challenges the effectiveness of such sexual prohibitions and in turn challenges the effectiveness of the oppressive structure of society. Along with a concern for the condition of blacks in the diaspora in the United States, one of Roden’s poems turns to a theme of struggle against repression from the oral lore of Afro–West Indians in Costa Rica. In the thirty-three-stanza poem “The Outlaw,” Roden presents a version of the legend of Joe Gordon. This legend also appears in narrative form in a short story by Quince Duncan, “La leyenda de José Gordon” (The legend of Joe Gordon), in the collection La rebelión pocomía (The Pocomania Rebellion) and in Dellita Martin-Ogunsola’s translation of Duncan’s short stories, The Best Short Stories of Quince Duncan/Las mejores historias de Quince Duncan. Joe Gordon is a working-class folk hero who embodies the struggle against exploitation, oppression, and imperialism in the enclave. In the various versions of the legend, he appears as a combination of Robin Hood, John Henry of the African American folkloric tradition, and Maroon heroes Makandal of Haiti and Nanny Grig of Jamaica. He is assigned power and insight as he demonstrates great strength, defends the working man, and steals from the United Fruit Company Store to give to the poor. According to the popular legend, Joe Gordon was a worker who faced dismissal from his job when he placed more value on the human life of a fellow worker than on a cart of bananas. After he was fired from his position at United Fruit Company, Joe Gordon avenged the loss of his job and the mistreatment of his fellow workers through carefully planned attacks on the plantation and against the company bosses. He robbed the exploiters to redistribute wealth to the neediest in the community, many of them families who had lost the breadwinner to a work-related accident. In Duncan’s version of the legend, Joe Gordon resists by claiming immortality, “I’m immortal. . . . I’m gonna die, it’s true,

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but I’ll rise again.”26 Like Alejo Carpentier’s Makandal in The Kingdom of This World, Duncan’s Joe Gordon does not perish in the collective memory but becomes a community legend and a popular symbol of resistance. In the few stanzas reproduced in Donald Gordon’s article from Roden’s handwritten manuscript of “The Outlaw,” the legend of Joe Gordon is kept alive: He had a grievance that he nursed Against the bad white man. He nurtured it until it worsened And grew clear out of hand. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thence Joe went on to plunder The Fruit Company’s store, With skill and without blunder He would “even the score.” And very many were the poor Who at morn did arise To find a fortune at their door And scarce could believe their eyes. It was a present from their “Joe” Left there during the night. Thus Joe stole from the hated foe To relieve the oppressed poor’s plight.27

These reproduced stanzas establish the beginning of Joe Gordon’s desire for revenge and detail his efforts to provide for the poor in his community. The local folk hero demonstrates heroism and a desire to heal the wounds created by the United Fruit Company’s exploitation of West Indian labor. Although much of Roden’s work is not widely available, he is an important literary figure in the history of black writing from Costa Rica. I concur with Donald Gordon’s assessment that Roden’s work is not the most sophisticated verse, but is nevertheless significant because of the time period in which he lived and wrote, his nostalgic and popular themes, his use of English, and his West Indian perspective. His work marks an early point in Afro–Costa Rican literary history. 26. Martin-Ogunsola, Best Short Stories, 235. 27. Roden, “The Outlaw,” quoted in Gordon, “Alderman Johnson Roden,” 10.

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Roden arrived to Costa Rica during a climactic historical period in Limón, the height of United Fruit’s presence in the region and the influence of British–West Indian culture in the province. His work, particularly “Nostalgia,” presents the vision of Limón of a first-generation arrival with memories of Jamaica and the sentiments of alienation from the homeland. In addition, his presentation of the poem “The Outlaw” expresses the condition of the Afro–West Indian in exile through the retelling of the legend about the folk hero Joe Gordon and his defiance of the authority of the omnipotent United Fruit Company. The hero’s resistance is symbolic of the cultural resistance of the first generation of West Indians in Limón. Roden chooses to use a standard form of English instead of the popular nation language preferred by Walter Ferguson and Dolores Joseph. Nevertheless, the preference for English and the choice of poetic themes display the experience of West Indian cultural identity in exile and attempt to preserve the culture although the community is separated from home.

Dolores Joseph Montout and Tres relatos del caribe costarricense Dis time nuttin like befo time. —proverb from Limón The three stories presented in English in Dolores Joseph Montout’s small collection Tres relatos del caribe costarricense are colorful portrayals of life on the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica and follow the vernacular style of the oral tradition in written form. The author of these tales, Dolores Joseph Montout (1904– 1991), was born in Limón to a Francophone St. Lucian mother and a Trinidadian father. He was educated at St. George’s College in Kingston, but spent the majority of his life along Central America’s Caribbean coast between Limón, Bocas del Toro, and the Panama Canal Zone. Tres relatos captures the community history as well as the everyday life and speech patterns of the black residents of Limón and their concerns. It is an important collection of short stories because it is one of the few literary works from the region published in English after the Revolution of 1948. Its publication was the result of a 1982 competition sponsored by the Ministry of Culture, Youth, and Sports for “Traditional Afrolimonese Stories.” The three stories, “Limon on the Raw,” “Nancy Stories,” and “Adina,” present the speech patterns of West Indian English and sometimes French patois in a cultural context that is Hispanic or neocolonial Caribbean.

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Joseph’s work, “[a]lthough marred by spelling and typographical errors,” repeating Donald Gordon’s observation, occupies an important position as a written text from an earlier generation of Afro–Costa Ricans of West Indian descent.28 By presenting themes of language, cultural contact and struggle, cultural transitions, and displacement, Joseph’s stories form an “intrahistory” from the perspective of the residents of Limón. He creates a counterdiscursive project as he gives voice to a people whose contributions to the formation of modern Costa Rica are overlooked. “Limon on the Raw” is an ethnographic portrait of the past, present, and future of the black residents of Limón, providing important details of language change, social history, and the communities’ changing cultural values. The second story, “Nancy Stories,” captures a tender moment in which a Jamaican grandfather shares his recollections of traditional animal tales with his brood of grandchildren and great-grandchildren in the province of Limón. These stories told by the grandfather represent the oral tales brought to Costa Rica by West Indian laborers, which until recently were not included within the cultural “patrimony” of the Central American nation. The last story in the collection, “Adina,” is a tragic tale narrating the oppressive working conditions of a domestic worker, a terrible accident, and her flight through Talamanca to Panama to elude her impending persecution. The stories in the collection provide an important perspective of life in the region by a longtime resident knowledgeable of its history and people. According to Donald Gordon, Joseph is a “cultural historiographer” whose “experiences exposed him to, and gave him a good eye for social detail.”29 As a native of the region and people about whom he wrote, Joseph was a native informant who transmitted his knowledge of the life and changing culture of Costa Rica’s Caribbean coast. Lamentably, like Alderman Johnson Roden, the majority of work by this longtime resident of Limón remains unpublished. Nevertheless, because of the chronological placement of the author and the content of and style employed in Tres relatos del caribe costarricense, I will place Joseph in the position of “trailblazer” who paved a path for the Afro–Costa Rican writers who come after him in spite of the late publication of his work. Although there is no explicit evidence to support the theory that Afro–Costa Rican prose writer Quince Duncan was directly influenced by Joseph, the popular novelist and short story writer share a 28. Gordon, “Expressions of the Costa Rican Black Experience: The Short Stories of Dolores Joseph and the Poetry of Shirley Campbell,” 21. 29. Ibid.

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conscientious inclusion of social and historical events in their narrative fictions. Both writers present a purpose in storytelling directed toward preserving the past and recording the future of a community and culture in change and transition. Joseph and Duncan recover elements of West Indian folk culture, such as Anancy stories and the use of English and Creole (Duncan does not write in English, but transcribes words in dialogue). However, unlike Duncan, Joseph wrote from the position of a West Indian cultural identity that affirms and upholds the vision of the “old home” on new land. Joseph’s work recognizes the transformation of cultural identity in the province, but from a perspective that values the “strategic essence” of West Indianness in the region.

“Limon on the Raw”: A Study of Language, Transformation, and Intrahistory Tres relatos del caribe costarricense opens with “Limon on the Raw,” a sketch that addresses the contemporary concerns of the black community in Limón. The story recounts the persistent struggles of cultures in contact and the sociocultural transitions that relate to language, place, migration, and history in the region. “Limon on the Raw” takes place during the 1970s or early 1980s. This is a historical moment distanced from the Revolution of 1948 that significantly marks the greatest period of linguistic and cultural transition of the largely English-speaking second and third generations to the almost exclusive use of Spanish among the fourth and fifth generations. As ethnographic fiction, “Limon on the Raw” records the transformations of cultural identity of a particular ethnolinguistic community. The port town and the province embody change and the process of adaptation. The personages in the text are not fully developed individuals, but rather serve as character types representing the generations, history, and social concerns for the past, present, and future. Dolores Joseph conducts a project of cultural historiography in the text with two particular focal points: language and intrahistory. Language is one of the most notable examinations in “Limon on the Raw” because the text presents the different manifestations of standard English inherited from the British educational system, English-based Creoles, French patois, and Spanish. The introductory paragraphs introduce the cacophony of voices, languages, and accents to be heard in the story: This is a study of the mode of speaking, the everyday expressions of the man and woman of everyday life. . . . Attempting to bring forward the dif-

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ferent moods of the average people, the different expressions, the moods, the various accents, some typically Jamaican, some Barbadians, others descendents from the smaller island groups, Trinidad, St. Lucia, Antigua, St. Kitts, Nevis, Guadalupe [sic], Martinique and even the people from Curazao [sic], not to leave out people hailing from Bluefields, Nicaragua, and British Honduras. Group [sic] of the people from Grand and Lesser Cayman, St. Andres and Providence and a straggling of the people from Bocas del Toro make this story,    . (15)

Joseph continues in this same introduction: “Very rarely one would hear an attempt of correct speaking, and even those who have tried, very often would fall into the mode of speech of their ancestors, whether jamaicanism or French patois. Those who have travelled to the United States would very often fall in a mistaken grammar” (15). This preface appears not as an apology for this linguistic difference from the colonial and neocolonial metropolitan codes, but rather as an affirmation of the strength of the variants that emerged as a result of the history of British colonialism and neocolonial capitalist ventures in the region. Joseph’s introduction embraces the naturalness of the nation language, or the vernacular of the everyday people, and in the same instance announces the tension between the nation language and the standard, favoring the regional variety of English. The “correct speaking” that Dolores Joseph refers to is not only the norms of “standard English,” but also all the imperial cultural values associated with it. The English language, in the Caribbean and other areas of the globe colonized by the British, has been the instrument used to transmit the structures of power and English cultural norms and is used to submit groups and cultures to be dominated. Colonial language imposes a “standard” language and norms over preexisting ones and, as part of the hegemonic process, labels cultural deviations from this metropolitan standard as “marginal” or “peripheral.” This is a position that also judges English variants and the cultures in which they are spoken as inferior. Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin observe, “The language of these ‘peripheries’ was shaped by an oppressive discourse of power, yet they have been the site of some of the most exciting and innovative literatures of the modern period and this has . . . been the result of the energies uncovered by the political tension between the idea of a normative code and a variety of regional usages.”30 30. Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, Empire Writes Back, 38.

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Joseph affirms that the spoken language of the people in Limón is not an “inferior” code, but rather an expression of the old home on new land. It is not a language refined or polished for a standard English audience, but an effort, as Joseph asserts, “to bring out    .” Standard English instead of the regional variety would not accurately reflect the spirit of the Limonese community or its culture. To use regional English is to reject the standards and superstructures imposed by the cultural hegemony of an absent political power. The admixture of voices and language variants is established in the opening scene of the story. “Limon on the Raw” unfolds on a typical morning in the region, with people waiting for the bus to go to the central market to purchase provisions for the afternoon meal. Among the congregation of folk at the bus stop is Amanda Jackson, the story’s principal figure. The bus stop features a crosssection of Limón Province: blacks, mestizos, and white Americans. These groups are each chatting in their own language “and minding their own business” (16). The narrative, written in standard English, is interlaced with West Indian– accented dialogue in Creole between the characters, sometimes with Spanish and French patois added to the conversation. The separate groups perceive themselves as mutually unintelligible linguistically: “The small group of americans were [sic] conversing between themselves, and minding their own business. . . . Even though one would like to know what they were gabbing about, those standing near by could not understand one word, nor could they themselves understand what these negro [sic] women were gripeing [sic] about. It was a veritable bedlam of voices” (16). This grouping of languages and ethnicities highlights the separation among the different cultural spheres and reveals an ethnolinguistic divide. The failure of the Americans to understand the regional Creole also displays the extremes of the linguistic continuum; it is a failure to understand not just the language, but also the history of the different speakers. The mutual cultural and linguistic incomprehension between the American and Creole English speakers prompts Amanda Jackson to proclaim to her black neighbors about the Americans, “Dem white brutes cant lib in dem country, coming out here playing proso. Watch dem . . . talking up dem nose . . . cant anderstan one word dem ha say” (16). After saying this, Amanda “cut her eye,” a nonverbal expression of contempt. Amanda Jackson’s ironic gesture mirrors the anti-immigrant attitude of the “native” white and mestizo Costa Rican nationals toward the first generation of Afro–West Indian laborers. However, Jackson, as a second-generation descendant, feels her place is in the land of her birth, which needs to be protected from outsiders, foreign and domestic. Her statement is an assertion of place for Jackson and those of her gen-

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eration that home is Limón and that the island homeland of her forebears is a distant memory. Miss Amanda is one of the West Indian immigrants who, according to the narrator, “forgot the last moment’s promise to return home as soon as possible” (17). The detailed Afro-Caribbean linguistic continuum of “the various accents” that Dolores Joseph establishes in the preface to the story has already undergone a transformation. The language spoken by the majority of characters in “Limon on the Raw” is Limonese Creole, a local West Indian English-based Creole. According to a linguistic study of Central American English by Anita Herzfeld, Limonese Creole emerged during United Fruit’s dominance in Limón Province, and “Limón Blacks became a single speech community. From among the various kinds of West Indian Creole English spoken in Limón, the most widely spoken variety of Jamaican Creole emerged as the dominant language and became identified with that locality, developing its separate course as Limonese Creole.”31 Because a significant portion of Limonese Creole is attributed to Jamaican Creole, several Jamaican sayings appear in the text, which Joseph uses colorfully in dialogues. A character at the bus stop proclaims that she would rather wait for the slower, less expensive bus, stating, “me no have no dead fi go bury” (16). When asked where she is going, Amanda makes references to “John Crow,” scavenger birds, as she grumbles about the lack of provisions: “Guine market fi see if the jan crow dem leave anything” (21). Also dotting the narration are “borrowings” from Spanish and code mixing of the languages as a result of increased contact between Limonese Creole speakers and Spanish speakers. Herzfeld acknowledges these borrowings: “Limon Creole exhibits a great deal of variation. As might be expected there has been heavy borrowing of words and idioms from local Spanish, which in turn has been influenced by [Limon Creole].”32 An example of the use of this borrowing and code mixing occurs in “Limon on the Raw” when one of the characters complains of the shortage of provisions in the small neighborhood stores, saying, “Youh go fi buy rice, No hay, Sugar, No hay, Sweet ail. No hay, Nat eben camman salt. As fi cigaret . . . Don’t bather ask” (19). Another character voices her complaints at the negative attitudes of employees of the municipality: “Es que dis and es que dat, and dem doant wan fi ansar in english” (20). Miss Sue, a Jehovah’s Witness with a penchant for playing the lottery, observes that “even Panama ticket being sold in Harlem . . . que va, they can’t stop that” (30). Even the frequently employed 31. Herzfeld, “The Creoles of Costa Rica and Panama,” 133. 32. Ibid., 134.

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expression of surprise or disgust among the white natives and mestizos is borrowed by the Limonese Creole speakers: “‘Puta’ she shouted, ‘eben here dem raise the price,’” exclaims one character shocked at the rising costs to mail letters to relatives in the United States and Panama (25). Language in the text is a point of multicultural contact, going beyond a dialogue or interfacing of two ethnolinguistic groups. The mixture of the two languages is part of the cultural hybridity, a result of the encounter of distinct ethnolinguistic groups along the coast and emblematic of a changing sociocultural environment. However, this linguistic fusion is not limited to the English-speaking West Indians and the Spanish-speaking population. Migrants from the Francophone islands of the Caribbean—Martinique, Guadeloupe, Haiti, French Guiana, and St. Martin—also brought with them their patois. These French Creole–speaking immigrants living in Limón had to learn Limonese Creole, the dominant tongue of the region, just as non–West Indian managers and workers (Europeans, North Americans, and Costa Ricans) living in the region had to use English, the official language of the region at the peak of the United Fruit Company’s influence. The character Madame Met represents one of these Francophone immigrants from Martinique who speaks a mixture of English and French patois. After mounting the bus she groans, “Tanks, Du Du meh. Mi not feeling too gud today. . . . Cant move as I want. Go see docteaur” (20–21). Du-du or dou-dou is a common expression of affection in patois meaning “dear.” Andina Gourbourne is another patois-speaking character appearing in the text. She is a second-generation resident of Limón of Trinidadian and Haitian parentage: “Though she spoke patois learned from her parents, that habit is fast wearing out, and jamaicanism predominated. And Andina’s accent was less jamaican and more Trinidadian” (26). This less frequent use of patois and the increase in her speech of Jamaicanisms are also part of the phenomenon of cultural and linguistic hybridity in which the dominant parlance in the region, Jamaican English, is fused with other linguistic modes. Though her speech pattern is Trinidadian, Andina’s lexicon is based on the governing presence of Jamaican Creole in Limonese Creole. The situation of Adina Gourbourne illustrates that although Jamaicanisms predominate in Limonese Creole, other Caribbean Englishes are also present and influence the speech of the people. The acknowledgment of Caribbean Creole languages and cultures in Dolores Joseph’s preface to the story creates a gesture that situates this polyglossic community squarely within the Creole continuum. A polyglossic community occurs “where a multitude of dialects interweave to form a generally comprehensible linguistic continuum.” This continuum is the

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presence of mutually intelligible varieties of speech in the community. It is the linguistic chain that links speakers of standard English on one end with speakers of Limonese Creole on the other. The theory of the Creole continuum posits that “the Creole complex of the region is not simply an aggregation of discrete dialect forms but an overlapping of ways of speaking between which individual speakers may move with considerable ease. These overlapping ‘lects,’ or specific modes of language use, not only contain forms from the major languages ‘between’ which they come into being, but forms which are also functionally peculiar to themselves.”33 Though dialects, accents, and lexicon may differ, they are mutually intelligible. The polyglossic speech community expands to include the French patois speakers who use Limonese Creole as a lingua franca, forming part of the linguistic continuum. However, this polyglossic community in Limón also exists within an officially monolingual country where Spanish is the language of power and prestige of the dominant culture. The text also reveals tensions between Spanish and Limonese Creole, which are indicators of cultural contact and cultural change for the generations of Afro–West Indian descendants in the country. As the younger generation integrates into the dominant culture and becomes upwardly mobile, they prefer to use the official tongue to project their achievement. In the difficult integration of the second and third generations of Afro–West Indians into the Hispanic nation, Spanish was not always learned by those blacks who did not migrate to the capital, San José, nor was it always used with great facility by the older generations who remained in Limón. Miss Amanda is able to communicate in Spanish, although not as fluently as later generations. In her interaction with the lottery vendor, Doña Olga, Amanda has an awkward exchange: “Quiere tres pedacitos ciegos, Miss Olga,” she stated. “Como pedacitos ciegos?” Olga asked. “Para mi no puede saber,” she returned. “Ah, pedacitos tapados,” and she tore off three pieces, three different pieces, folded the pieces one by one and handed them to Amanda. (31)

Miss Amanda superimposes the syntax of Creole upon Spanish to negotiate meaning with a native Spanish speaker, which results in a type interlanguage. In Creole, Miss Amanda’s part of the dialogue is approximately, “Me want three little blind pieces” and “So me doan know.” Amanda’s inability to speak fluent 33. Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, Empire Writes Back, 39, 45.

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Spanish and the awkward negotiation of meaning with Doña Olga are contrasted by an earlier scene in which three young black women enter a bus. These young women, representing the fourth generation of blacks of West Indian descent in Limón, enter the bus and “were talking among themselves, not too loudly, but nevertheless their conversation could be heard by those standing nearby” (21). The narrator relates their discussion about their parents and siblings. One proclaims, “Papie, him is all right, nutting we does troubles him. . . . Him always sey, we is getting big now, and we must know rang fram right” (21). Only at the end of what appears to be a conversation in Limonese Creole is it revealed that the three young black women “converse in a flowing spanish [sic] so that the listeners [on the bus] were unable to follow what they were saying” (22). The fourth generation uses Spanish exclusively and is able to manipulate it with more ease than the language of their grandparents. Although the young women use Spanish as a “secret” language to conceal information from their Limonese Creole– speaking elders, the privileged narrator translates their conversation to convey the “everyday language of the everyday people” and perhaps to maintain continuity for his English-competent audience. Additionally, this late disclosure of the exclusive use of Spanish of the young women is also an indicator of the linguistic and cultural transition from Afro–West Indian to Afro–Costa Rican. The Spanish-speaking fourth generation interrupts the Creole continuum established at the beginning of the story. However, unlike their Limonese Creole–speaking grandparents and great-grandparents, they do not consider the weighty issue of the return to the West Indies. Their national identity is not in question, although they may not be embraced as full citizens by the majority population. Significant in the narrator’s delayed revelation is that he does not chastise this generation, but acknowledges them as part of the continuation of the community along with the other passengers on the bus. The linguistic transformation that Dolores Joseph presents in “Limon on the Raw” demonstrates a correlation between language and national identity. For the first generation, identity was aligned with their island homes as British subjects or French colonials. However, when it became apparent that the return home would be impossible to realize, the individual national identities, most united by British imperialism, formed a single community and a single-speech community around Limonese Creole. After the enfranchisement of West Indians, this older community of speakers, like Amanda Jackson, was incorporated into the political body of Costa Rica as citizens, but maintained distance from Hispanic culture. Language change again occurs in the appearance of the three young black women on the bus. The three speak Spanish fluently, the result of the efforts to

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educate younger generations and facilitate their cultural integration into the dominant society. The integration of this generation also adds to nationalistic notions cultural and linguistic unity; however, their skin color remains a signifier of their “foreign” origins. The cultural transitions of the various generations of Afro–Costa Ricans are also explored from a historical standpoint in this work. For all of the West Indian groups mentioned, migration, labor, and struggle are the predominant issues addressed in “Limon on the Raw.” By presenting themes of language, cultural contact and struggle, cultural transitions, and displacement, Joseph forms an intrahistory from the perspective of the residents of Limón, whereby he gives voice to a group marginalized by official discourse. To present this intrahistorical perspective, Joseph creates a work of ethnographic fiction through the portrayal of the daily experience of the black characters and the community history. As author-narrator, Joseph performs as “translator” and “transcriber” of experience in “Limon on the Raw.” Adding to the revealing dialogue of the characters, who appear more as “types,” the voice of the author-narrator frequently enters into the text to provide additional commentary on the formation of the region’s people and culture. He must explain to an audience not familiar with the speech and culture of the blacks in Limón, while authentically and accurately relaying the same experience to those of the culture about which he writes. The author-narrator serves often as a built-in gloss, one laden with the opinions of a native informant attempting to tell the “truth” of his people. These glosses within the text, sometimes distracting, provide essential information on the fact of migration. After her initial appearance at the bus stop at the beginning of “Limon on the Raw,” Miss Amanda is described, and her partial personal history related, by the narrator: “Amanda Jackson represented the second generation antillian [sic] immigrants, whose forbears anxious to better their economic conditions, harkened to the call to travel overseas, and to toil in the banana plantations of the powerful american [sic] companies. . . . Amanda Jackson’s forbears and thousands of other native borns’ forbears [worked on the plantations], with a firm intention of making ‘a raise’ to return home to the West Indies” (17). This is a historical annotation of West Indian immigration built into the frame of the text. Joseph uses Miss Amanda to represent the struggles of the second generation of Afro– West Indians in Costa Rica. Miss Amanda, and the other personages appearing in the story, cannot be considered characters because of their lack of development. Miss Amanda’s history is actually a collective one, representing the experience of all children of West Indians in her generation. So many others of the

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first generation, like her parents, “upon leaving the shores of their beloved homeland, and bidding a reluctant farewell, and a promise not to stay too long in [a] foreign land, . . . receive frustrations . . . succumb before the onslaught of the cruel malarial climate or the castigating lash of venemous [sic] serpents or the cruel rivalries of irate natives . . . forget the last farewell” (17). The first generation migrated to Costa Rica with the intention of making money and returning home. However, as the years and the dreams wore on and dissipated, many worked the plantations, following the company where it went and working the land when they could. Like it did Miss Amanda’s life and her parents’ lives, the company controlled the lives of Limón’s residents and determined their destiny: “[T]he first Jackson generation [moved], struggling in some of the Company’s plantations . . . trying here and trying there, Bananito, Zent, Siquirres, Guacimo, Guapiles, wherever and whenever the Company chose to move to new areas, Talamanca, Sixaola, Margarita, Olivia” (18). Some immigrants, like the rebellious workers from St. Kitts, were able to defy the control of the United Fruit Company and were repatriated. Mr. Mac, the reminiscing grandfather on the bus, relates to his grandson that the workers from St. Kitts resisted the conditions imposed upon them by the company. He explains that these men, mostly fishermen on their home island, provided United Fruit with cheap labor. However, the workers “did not stand for the robish [sic] that the company did to them,” and they all walked off the job until some were repatriated by the British government (34). The passing on of this memory from the old man to his grandson recalls the role of the oral tradition in recording the history of a people, which is overlooked by Costa Rica’s official history. Nevertheless, for those whose families remained in Costa Rica, particularly the second generation, the “wounded generation,” the most crucial issues were identity and language. The Costa Rican civil war changed the West Indian enclave in Costa Rica and the status of the “native-born” black children of West Indian parents. Before the civil strife in Costa Rica, this second generation was stateless. In El negro en Costa Rica, Costa Rican author Quince Duncan describes the situation as the following: “They are not Costa Rican. They are not Jamaicans. Great Britain does not recognize them as citizens because they were born in a foreign country. Costa Rica does not recognize them as citizens because they are black, children of Jamaicans. The blacks of the second generation are, for a long time, a people without a country, without a recognized identity. They vegetate in a country that suddenly becomes hostile, restricting them.”34 The second genera34. Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 134.

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tion, personified by Miss Amanda, witnessed the decay of the British colonial outpost forged along the Limón coast and the incursion of the Costa Rican national culture in the region. The second generation followed the United Fruit Company’s principle of “Give the workers enough to see, give the foreigners their own pastors, their own teachers, and give them a philosophy wherein they will consider themselves far above the average native” (TR, 19). With the departure of United Fruit from Limón in the late 1930s, the black residents were essentially abandoned by the company, lost the civil protection of the British government, and were ignored by Costa Rica. The narrator informs us that the identity of the second generation was left in a state of uncertainty until the watershed events of the 1948 civil war. The majority of black residents in Limón did not participate in the conflict, citing that it was not their war to fight. After the war, citizenship was extended to Costa Rican–born persons of Afro– West Indian descent, which obligated the immigrants to educate their children in Spanish to facilitate their integration into Hispanic society. The West Indian “English schools” were closed, and students were required to enroll in public “Spanish schools,” as blacks were now integrated into the country. The transition from the West Indian schools to the Costa Rican public school curriculum made integration a difficult process because the English schools “taught allegiance to the King of England, where black children were discouraged from attending native schools where integration would be possible, where native black kids were discouraged to love the country of their birth, where the respect due to the national emblem was discouraged” (19). For the earlier generations, the “English schools” in Limón provided a British colonial education to facilitate the return to the West Indies that for many never materialized. This education did not place importance on the development of an attachment or understanding of the national culture of Costa Rica because the majority of Afro–West Indians residing in Limón were not vested in the country. With the sweeping political and social changes after 1948, Amanda Jackson and the other “old types” of this “wounded” second generation had learned to love the country of their birth, but “not to love the people of [their] country” (19). The paniah or paña, the Spanish-speaking white-identified and mestizo Costa Ricans, were regarded as being culturally inferior, according to their received colonial education. In “Limon on the Raw,” there is an explicit criticism of the role of United Fruit in the education of the enclave’s children and the perpetuation of colonial models of dependence and exploitation. The narrator asserts, “[T]he first and second generation[s] [were] deprived of adequate educational facilities,” and they were subjugated by the United Fruit Company, “a company that created a spirit of sep-

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arationism, a philosophy of dividing the working people so as to rule the working people” (18). The company’s strategy of “divide and rule” is evident in the continued strained relations between the white-identified and mestizo Costa Ricans and the Afro–Costa Rican population in Limón. One of the black women on the bus says to Amanda that she is fortunate to have a good white neighbor because “rite now me hab two becinas libing, and me in the middle, libing hell me tell youh. Nat eben the fouwl can go in dem yard. Moreno dis and moreno dat, real showaff paniah. . . . Praying to God dem will move” (23). Amanda Jackson represents part of the linguistic transition of the second generation of West Indian blacks from one language to another: “Like hundreds of second generation creoles, Amanda could not ‘Pallais Pallais’ the spanish [sic], though she understood most of what her country folks would say to her” (19). As evidenced by her earlier conversation with Doña Olga, the lottery vendor, Amanda Jackson is uncomfortable with using the Spanish language. Miss Amanda received a standard English education and moves comfortably across the Creole continuum: “Amanda could read her English fluently, though [in] her everyday mode of expressions, she would revert to her vernacularism, the everyday English of the everyday people” (19). The significance of the intrahistorical project that Dolores Joseph presents in “Limon in the Raw” is the attention given to historical ellipses. When the black presence in Costa Rica is discussed, migration from Jamaica and other parts of the Anglophone Caribbean overshadows the experience of the Francophone immigrants such as Madame Met and the early “coaster natives.” This latter group was a migratory population with origins in Providencia and San Andrés, islands belonging to Colombia with Creole-speaking populations. These early AfroCaribbean settlers were turtle fishermen who eventually became small farmers. They arrived in a sparsely populated Limón Province at the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth centuries.35 Miss Sue, a vendor in the market, represents this group of blacks who came during the early days before the large waves of immigrants from the West Indies. Her “parents came and settled on the coast during the early days, dedicating themselves to the planting of ground food” (29). Joseph also includes the history of the Francophone workers in the text, which is frequently excluded from Costa Rican history and literature, including Afro– Costa Rican literature. Madame Met, the Martinican woman who makes her way 35. See Palmer, “What Happen,” for an extensive oral history of these settlers.

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onto the bus, “represented the type antillian [sic] who migrated from the Panama French Canal debacle” (20). Madame Met’s story is similar to the stories of the other immigrants in the region. Many were unable to accomplish the goal of returning home, and their children and grandchildren continued the cycle of migration, going to the United States, the Caribbean, South America, and Europe. Madame Met’s family “increased in numbers, up to the fifth generation scattering all over the central and south Americans [sic] territories, but Madam Met refused to leave this blessed shores, determined to rest pacifically beside her beloved husband” (21). This pattern of migration is also present in Miss Amanda, who sent letters, presumably to relatives in the United States and Panama, and in Mrs. Elena Buckley, who “was the mother of four children, all living abroad” (28). In addition to relating the overlooked history of the residents of the Caribbean coast, intrahistory is also a chronicle of the cultural values of a people. Community, social activities, foods, and generational distinctions are the principal recollections in the text. The character types representing different generations and West Indian groups come together in this portrait of a changing Limón. The province’s Afro-Caribbean culture is being transformed with the continuous waves of internal and external migration by the descendants of the West Indians and the influx of immigrants from the interior of Costa Rica and other countries. Some characters lament change, but nevertheless they look toward a hopeful future. Time, migration, and economics have changed the Limón of the past when the “United Fruit Company was lord and master of Limón, and rightful owner of all the black people who resided in this Atlantic region,” and the municipal leadership practiced a crude form of apartheid with exclusionary racist practices (38). Mrs. Mac, a rider on the bus, recounts “the cruelty of the Municipal fathers where the negro [sic] people of Limón were concerned, how after erecting an auspicious bathing pool and dance hall, a most insulting and heartles [sic] inscription was placed at the gate ‘   .’” There seems to have been an instance of divine intervention, for “the ire of Neptune sent the whole contraptions, barricade and dancehall to ,” when the complex was washed into the sea during a storm (37). It is the older black women in this brief narrative who attempt to conserve some of their inherited community values. Clarabelle, one of the women waiting at the bus stop, does not hesitate to reprimand a rock-toting child who is chasing a classmate. She threatens to tell the boy’s mother and instructs, “Get rite in back in class! Sonny, goan in and doant fite. Fite is nat gud. . . . Unu must learn fi love one anader” (17). The two boys, upon hearing Clarabelle’s orders,

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head back into class. This scene is a contrast to the appearance on the bus of the three young Spanish-speaking black women, representing the fourth generation. One of the young women talks about her brother, as the narrator “translates” from Spanish for us: “‘Mamie and Papie, dem is al-rite. But mi bredda is a pain in de neck. Want fi do as him like, stay out late nights, even now and den would come in drunk” (21). In the conversation, the rebelliousness of the brother, smoking marijuana and dropping out of school, also presents a change in attitude between the generations. Generational differences notwithstanding, it is this last generation that holds hope for the future. Throughout “Limon on the Raw,” there is concern for the progress of the fourth generation. This concern is particularly expressed through Miss Amanda at the beginning of the narrative and Mrs. Mac in her reflections from the bus window on the way back home from the market at the end of the story. The movement of the women through town to purchase the daily meal is constancy surrounded by change. Reflecting on the strength and struggles of the first and second generations, Miss Amanda herself “became the creative [power] for the third and fourth generation[s], a better time and a better outlook” (18). Looking at the three attractive young black women, Miss Amanda observes the positive changes, “Girls as these were fit subjects for some white woman’s kitchen or to be scrubbing at the wash basins behind the zone houses. . . . To obtain a little work in a store, girls looking such as these were given the cold shoulder” (22). The same sentiment echoes in Mrs. Mac’s silent thoughts as she peers at contemporary Limón and envisions the Limón of the past. Watching a group of children leaving school, the narrator articulates Mrs. Mac’s thoughts: “These kids, and especially the black ones, no more hewer of stones and carriers of water, no more useful subjects of a white woman’s scrubroom, or nursemaids to tend to little rude white brats. This emporium of learning, directed by none other than the children of these former immigrants black men and women teachers, proud and respectable, for now, yesterday was yesterday, only either a sad reminder or a pleasant reminder” (39). This last image ties the past with the present, a continuous history of the West Indians who settled in this region and their descendants. There is a sense of pride and hope in this last reflection, which is not a nostalgic desire but an acknowledgment of the effect of time on a community. The past is not mourned as a loss, but rather understood as part of the process to bring forth the future. In this densely packed text, “Limon on the Raw” provides an intrahistorical narrative that documents the preoccupations of a region and its cultural transformation.

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“Nancy Stories” Continuing with the literary project of ethnographic explorations contained in Tres relatos del caribe costarricense, the second story of the collection, “Nancy Stories,” features the West Indian oral tradition. The selection presents an example of intergenerational relationships in the Afro-Limonese family. Although cultural transformations have changed the appearance of the family, the setting focuses on family unity and heritage. Dolores Joseph sets this story on a finca, a small farm in the province, belonging to Joe Cummins, the family patriarch. On this day, Grandpa Joe mentally retraces the past in his beloved Jamaica. His thoughts then shift to the present as his grandchildren and great-grandchildren play about the house, including the “near whites” who “were a change in the family set up” (41). Grandpa Cummins is one of the first-generation Jamaicans who “was brought out to the tropics by Mr. Keith to work on the banana plantation” (41). Grandpa Joe admires his progeny running about, shouting in English and playing West Indian ring games such as “Ring around the Rosie,” “landan bridge,” and “There is a brown girl in the ring” (41). When they tire, they demand to hear Anancy stories from their grandfather and other older relatives, including their grandmother, uncle, and neighbor Mr. Jabez. Joseph uses the West Indian oral tradition to affirm linguistic, cultural, ancestral, and generational linkages. Through “Nancy Stories,” Joseph both tells us a story of an evening with the Cummins family and participates in the sharing of tales that have been transported from Africa to the Americas. By retelling the stories in this form, an oral art is retained as are the history and the survival tools of a people. On one level, important connections are made among West Africa, the West Indies, and the Caribbean diaspora in Central America, and on a more intimate level, the stories join the different generations of the Cummins family. As the multiple generations share in a tradition of telling stories, they are also sharing “narratives of astuteness for survival” as the stories are passed from one generation to the next.36 The adults, representing two generations, relate seven animal stories that offer more than entertainment: “Missa Chicken Hawk and Mr. Crow,” “Mother Hen and Chicken Hawk,” “Bredda Tiger Is Nancy’s Riding Horse,” “Mouse in the Porridge,” “Bredda Rabbit and Massa God,” “Mother Hen and the Harvest,” and “Bredda Tiger Seeks Revenge.” The Anancy stories are written in the vernacular that brings the animals’ adventures to life and mix 36. Gordon, “Expressions of the Black Experience,” 21.

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humor with survival skills to demonstrate life lessons and pass on cultural traditions. The first story told by the grandfather, “Missa Chicken Hawk and Mr. Crow,” speaks of two birds of prey looking for their next meal. Bredda Chicken Hawk declares, “Fren, John Crow, dat dey bird is my dinner today watch me” (42). Aiming at a woodpecker, he dives down to attack. Woodpecker, sensing Bredda Chicken Hawk’s aim, changes position, and Chicken Hawk crashes into the tree and falls to the ground. Then the Crow “just fly down to where Chicken Hawk ley down dead, and thank God for providing him his today’s meal” (42). Bredda Chicken Hawk’s misadventure warns of the necessity of forethought in selecting one’s goal; this is an important lesson for self-preservation. “Nancy Stories” has intrahistorical value for its presentation of an oral art in written form. Joseph relates stories that are an essential part of the West Indian culture that are not always treated as part of the Costa Rican national culture. Joseph also revisits the routes of the Anancy tales: how the tales were disseminated after arriving on the shores of Costa Rica, as a part of intergenerational communication. “Nancy Stories” portrays the stories as they are told, elders imparting the tales to younger members of the family to entertain and to teach. It also reveals the displacement and dislocated migrant identity of Joe Cummins, who is linked to Jamaica through only his memory. His thoughts of Jamaica are triggered by the folding chair, upon which he sits admiring his grandchildren. He remembers the times when he accompanied his wife to Jamaica to deliver their children, because he “could not allow her to deliver her kids in this barbarious climate. No sir, the doctors and nurses and midwives home were more responsible, and so his eight children saw the light of day, the first light of day in his beloved Jamaica” (41). For Joe Cummins, the stories become part of his psychological attachment to Jamaica. Although he has planted roots in Costa Rica with the ownership of land and the births of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, his vision still turns toward Jamaica. This attachment to Jamaica resists discarding the past in order to preserve part of the old home and pass on to the present and future generations traditions not embraced by the dominant culture.

“Adina” The final story in the collection is presented in the format of a conventional short story in the Western literary tradition with a well-laid-out plot and intrigue. “Adina,” set in Puerto Limón during the First World War, tells the tragic story of

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a black nursemaid and the death of a white child left in her care. The protagonist, Adina, has a romantic rendezvous with her boyfriend in Vargas Park, a seaside park in the town, while taking her charge for an outing. Adina, feeling the child is safe with all of the other black nursemaids and children in the park, lessens in her vigilance as she and her boyfriend embrace. The child of the United Fruit Company’s German doctor drowns in a manhole near the park’s seawall. Aided by her boyfriend, Willie, Adina flees the scene. She has no other option but to leave Limón and go to Panama because the consequences of a white child dying in her care would be dear. Adina and Willie hide in cacao farms and take refuge on a banana plantation on their way to the border in an escape with undertones of a flight from slavery. When they reach the Canal Zone, she and Willie separate, and Adina is left with memories and paranoia, “afraid of some impending danger, stopping now and then, . . . as if looking for someone” (68). “Adina” portrays the oppressive labor situation of black domestic workers in Limón and reveals the social stratification of the town during the First World War. Dolores Joseph continues his ethnographic fiction with the last story in the collection, disclosing much about the geography and the social dynamics of the region. The story takes the reader on an odyssey through Limón Province—from the center Puerto Limón to the Sixaola River crossing into Guabito, Panama. Joseph portrays a region economically dependent on foreign enterprise, but isolated from the events troubling Europe during the First World War. The social, economic, and political system of Limón is determined by a neocolonial, hegemonic structure imposed by the United Fruit Company. As Joseph plainly demonstrates, although blacks may have been the majority population in Limón during the First World War, they were not the group in power. The oppressive conditions mentioned in the conversations of the Afro–West Indian maids unveil the overwhelming fact that blacks in the region occupy the lowest stratum in the social structure during the time of the enclave. The maids congregate in Vargas Park because they seek an escape from the “naggings of miserable mistresses” in order to rendezvous with boyfriends or gossip with each other (55). Their gossip divulges “mean displays and treatments of these white and near white mistresses, even the Chinese woman, adopting the style of these others, these Chinese women, and these Syrian women, imitating the low dodges of these European and American mistresses” (56). Chinese and Middle Easterners arrived during the construction of the railroad, working as laborers, and later started businesses, thus forming the region’s merchant class. During their gossip “sessions,” the black women complain of low wages and the lack of pay equity in

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the dual-currency economy. They average sixty to seventy colones per month, and “what is senty colones whilst dem people getting dem hundred dollars, when de month come” (57). Among the maids, there is a generalized fear of their employers. It was difficult for Adina to meet with her boyfriend in a place other than the park because she “could not leave to come out, not even one night, except on Sundays, when she had to attend Night Service, and even then, she had to get back as soon as Service was over” (57). It is this fear that propels Adina from the scene of the young child’s accidental death. Understanding the consequences of the death of the white child left in her care and knowing there would be no impartial justice to exonerate her, the black maid flees to save her life. The social stratification based on color and ethnicity in this depiction of Puerto Limón is the same structure present in the operation of United Fruit—with the white directors/leading class from the United States and Europe utilizing a mass labor force of blacks and mestizos. This supports Jeffrey Casey Gaspar’s study of the banana industry in Costa Rica, in which he observes, “Black workers largely occupied non-specialist positions at the Company and tended to be proportionately greater than their numbers in the total population in Limón.”37 The company and its social influence in the region provide an essential backdrop to “Adina.” Without the prominence of the company, the highly stratified social structure would not be present, nor would there be ships “lifting anchors intending to reach the wharves, for the bananas were waiting to be loaded” (56). Whereas the social order imposed by the United Fruit Company creates an atmosphere of danger, the cacao and banana plantations of the company also provide Adina and her companion cover during their escape. They travel through towns on the Talamanca coast, including Penshurst, Cahuita, Hone Creek, Quabre Hill, Olivia, and Margarita. They both get work on the company plantation in Margarita with no questions asked because of the need for laborers. Some West Indian workers went on to more lucrative opportunities harvesting cane in Cuba or working in the Panama Canal Zone. Adina and Willie, as employees of the company, could pass freely from the Sixaola Division of United Fruit into the Bocas del Toro Division across the border in Panama without notice. The Caribbean Sea stands in the background as the antagonist in the story. From the beginning lines of the story, it has an eerie presence, with waves lashing “furiously, as if to dismantle the concrete seawall, dashing at times, as if ea37. Casey Gaspar, Limon, 1880 –1940, 125.

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ger to scale the height to destroy all that rested in its path” (55). The sea is not the peaceful, docile body of water that fuels the fantasies of tourists and fills volumes of landscape poetry. It is an angry sea, “furious and in bad temper, striking with wrath, striking to see whether the concrete seawall would topple over, angrily forcing through any and every [crevice]” (56). The calm of Vargas Park next to the turbulent sea foreshadows the tragedy of the little boy’s death. The sea also marks the bellicose situation on its other side. The First World War churns across the ocean like the roughness of the sea, whereas on the other side of the seawall, in Limón, life appears unaffected by world events: “And while these [are] turbulent times in Europe, here in the Park, running and screaming were the kids of the Steinworth, the Knorrs, the Baileys, the Turners, the Tai Ten Quis, Germans, English, French, Chinese all romping together, children of enemy countries, whilst Adina and the rest of the nurse-maids, offsprings of Caribeans [sic] were serving all these nationals, whether friends or enemies” (58). “Adina” concludes thirty years after the close of the Great War. At the end of the story, the narrator becomes a privileged informant with firsthand knowledge of Adina. The narrative voice establishes that during the Second World War, hard times hit Limón with the transfer of the plantations to the Pacific coast of Costa Rica where black labor was prohibited and Panama’s black population was persecuted by the Arnulfo Arias regime. The narrator states, “Lots and lots of us passed over to the Canal Zone, young women and old women, for work was plentiful” (67; emphasis added). The narrator informs the reader, “After eight hours of work, we would go visiting friends. Some young, some old-young friends, women and men, and one would visit a particular building, a building where a melancholy woman would always be seen washing her wares . . . for this melancholic woman was no other person than Miss Adina” (68; emphasis added). The narrator voices his personal knowledge with authority, suggesting that he is worthy of trust as a witness to authenticate the tragic tale of Adina. The stories in Tres relatos del caribe costarricense depend on the past—nostalgia, reminiscences, recollections, and memories—of a people not written in official history. Dolores Joseph’s small but important work records the local speech and community of the descendants of West Indians in Limón Province. He creates a cross-cultural, ethnographic text with the collection of these three stories. As a native of Limón and author of ethnographic fiction on the region, Joseph stands between subject and reader as an interpreter of experience. His “cultural location ‘creates’ two audiences and faces two directions, wishing to reconstitute experience through an act of writing which uses the tools of one culture or soci-

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ety and yet seeks to remain faithful to the experience of another.”38 Therefore, the three stories presented in Tres relatos are interpretations of the West Indian immigrant experience, which has been made invisible by the official discourse in Costa Rica.

Newspapers and the Tradition of Literacy in Limón Many of the West Indian workers who arrived in Costa Rica were literate, owing to a British basic literacy campaign in postemancipation Jamaica and a push for education. According to Carlos Meléndez, “The West Indian worker came with a cultural level of significant value, considering that the British government since 1865 demonstrated a considerable effort for education, above all for the literacy of rural blacks.” At the end of the nineteenth century, during the large-scale economic crisis in the English Caribbean, education was considered—as it is now—a means of achieving upward mobility. Therefore, when West Indian workers arrived, it is not surprising that several English-language newspapers were established to report news from back home, town events, and company mandates. Even Marcus Garvey, the famous Pan-African leader, established a tabloid for workers, La Nación, during his brief tenure in Limón as timekeeper for the United Fruit Company from 1910 to 1911. The publication of this paper was “a means of reaching the immigrants and getting them organized,” which precipitated Garvey’s dismissal from United Fruit and his rapid departure from Costa Rica.39 The major papers in English from Limón between 1880 and 1950 include: the Limón Weekly News, the Searchlight, the Atlantic Voice, the Atlantic Post, and the Atlantic (El Atlántico). Many of the papers existed for brief periods of time and then folded, whereas other papers’ existence depended on maintaining an amicable relationship with the railroad or the United Fruit Company. The Searchlight, with Samuel Nation at the editorial helm, served as an unofficial arm of the United Fruit Company because of its support of the company and its practices. Ronald N. Harpelle notes that the editors of the Searchlight, the Atlantic Voice, and the Atlantic Post were men “with very similar ideological, class, and ethnic orientations. Together they represented the interests of the United Fruit Company and 38. Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, Empire Writes Back, 61–62. 39. Meléndez and Duncan, El negro en Costa Rica, 65; Tony Martin, Marcus Garvey, Hero: A First Biography, 16.

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the local élite. Politically, they tended to support whichever government happened to be in power, and were always quick to silence radical members of the community.” Additionally, some papers such as the Atlantic Voice and the Atlantic Post published sections or a companion edition in Spanish for the Hispanic locals who also worked on the banana plantations of United Fruit. With these different language editions, “a single newspaper often presented two different points of view” that targeted different audiences—the workers and managers of United Fruit who spoke English and the Hispanic residents of the region.40 Occasionally, these newspapers did contain creative writing that ranged in themes such as commemorating the occasion of the “Golden Jubilee” of the United Kingdom’s Queen Victoria (1819–1901) in 1887 and her “Diamond Jubilee” in 1897, praise for the British empire, and commemorations of the abolition of slavery in the empire. These poems of varying quality address the British sovereigns as loyal subjects—Jamaican and British, though distant from the metropolitan center. The difficult task with these historic jewels is the determination of the authors’ ethnicities, as not all Jamaicans who ventured to Costa Rica were of African descent, particularly those who served in official capacities as representatives of the queen. One poem written by a Jamaican in 1903, which is also reprinted in Jeffrey Casey Gasper’s study Limón, 1880–1940: Un estudio de la industria bananera (Limón, 1880–1940: A study of the banana industry), is dedicated to the author’s host country on the occasion of its celebration of independence: ¡Viva Costa Rica!: Each heart rejoice to say; On this great and pleasant Fiesta September fifteenth day. ¡Viva Costa Rica! With wishes warm and true; As British subjects, in honour bound We hoist red, white, and blue. ¡Viva Costa Rica! God’s blessings on thee shower, ¡Viva for the President! ¡Viva for Limón’s Governor!41 40. Harpelle, “West Indians,” 307– 8, 306 –7. 41. “Viva Costa Rica,” Limón Weekly News, September 15, 1903, quoted in Casey Gaspar, Limón, 1880–1940, 143 – 44 n. 129.

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The author of the piece is identified as a resident of Guápiles, a town in the interior part of the province where many Afro–West Indians settled along the railroad tracks. In these bilingual phrases, the unnamed poet asserts a respect for Costa Rica, but also asserts his identity as a British subject, as did the majority of first-generation West Indians. The transformation from this undeniable proBritish colonial orientation to an Afro–Costa Rican identity, shaped by the West Indies and the Hispanic culture of their homeland, is evident in the literature by later writers. Additionally, I would like to note that newspapers from outside Limón, such as the Daily Gleaner from Jamaica and UNIA’s publication, Negro World, in combination with the lost editions of English-language newspapers from Limón, hold the key to filling in the literary historical gaps between the Afro–West Indian oral tradition and Quince Duncan’s first publication in 1969. Future research will uncover and identify more texts written by Afro–West Indians in Central America. The foundations of Afro–Costa Rican writing present the West Indian cultural identity “in process” in the retelling and adaptation of Anancy stories in Central America, the locally themed calypso, and the written works of Alderman Johnson Roden and Dolores Joseph that were inspired by the folk tradition. These early foundations of Afro–Costa Rican literature could easily be considered part of the greater body of West Indian literature because there is a clear and continuous link between the oral tradition in the Anglophone Caribbean in English and Creole. The storytellers and writers of the first generation found common ground in the orality of their expression and the intrinsic treatment of West Indian culture. The cultural practices of the English-speaking Caribbean and a West Indian identity were transplanted with the migration of West Indian people to Costa Rica. On the soil of the new land the exponents of this early period of black writing in Costa Rica maintained an identity still closely affiliated with the language, culture, and social history of the West Indies.

Two

Negotiating Home The Poetry of Eulalia Bernard I know how to say “sí,” I know how to say “yes.” I know how to say what I want In the languages that I prefer, with the speech of the drum. —Eulalia Bernard, “Tamborileo”

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s reflected in the “foundational” texts, the writing of the Afro–Costa Rican identity is founded on a sense of cultural belonging associated with the West Indian roots of Limón, the port charted by Columbus in the sixteenth century and later settled by black Anglophone peoples in the nineteenth century. Edward Said claims there is an important link between literature and national identity. He states, “Literature has played a crucial role in the re-establishment of a national cultural heritage, in the reinstatement of native idioms, in the reimagining and re-figuring of local histories, geographies, and communities.”1 The poetry of second-generation Afro–Costa Rican Eulalia Bernard expresses the refiguring and negotiation of cultural identity for blacks of West Indian descent. Her writing reflects the tensions associated with the new political status of blacks, post-1948, and the historical and social changes affecting West Indian cultural identity in Limón. There are tensions between the expressed desire to belong to a nation-state and the difficult realization of that desire. On the one hand, a “home” or fixed territory for the subject in exile is gained, and on the other hand, there are cultural losses. Ethnic, linguistic, and cultural conflicts arise between the Latin population and the descendants of West Indians in the process of “belonging” to this nation-state. These frictions created by increased contact and in1. Said, “Figures, Configurations, Transfigurations,” 3.

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tegration reveal an identity that is “in process,” as Stuart Hall claims, adapting, transforming, and defining itself as social and historical circumstances dictate. However, in the process of becoming Costa Rican, the ethnic marker of difference remains and stands in opposition to the prevailing national myths of the country. Ian Smart has observed these tensions between expectations and reality in the “confident statement of belonging” expressed in the dedication of Bernard’s first collection, Ritmohéroe (Rhythmhero) (CAW, 91): “To my ancestors and their descendants who have contributed to forging with love our country” (RH, 17; emphasis added). Smart finds that this statement “will contrast . . . with Bernard’s later poetic statements in which the confidence belonging to the new patria is more a desired goal than an achieved one” (CAW, 91). In Bernard’s poetry, the Afro–Costa Rican cultural identity is presented as an unstable entity and can be reconciled or “fixed” only through the embrace of a multicultural Costa Rica liberated from the national myths of ethnic homogeneity and democratic values. However, as Smart affirms, there remains a breach between this desired outcome and the actual state of belonging. Instead of being West Indian and localized on the Caribbean coast, Afro–Costa Rican identity now straddles the worlds of the dominant national culture and the West Indian heritage. There is a necessary negotiation in Bernard’s writing of this “new” identity to find a place for it in the nation without compromising subjective difference. Her writing favors a movement toward incorporation of the Afro–Costa Rican into national culture without abrogating West Indian cultural roots and in the process contests the prevailing national mythologies regarding the ethnic and linguistic homogeneity of the Costa Rican national population.

Eulalia Bernard The daughter of Jamaican immigrants, Eulalia Bernard Little was born in 1935 in Puerto Limón. Her work represents the historical trajectory of the experience of West Indian blacks in Costa Rica—from temporary “foreign” laborers, the extension of citizenship to blacks in 1948, to the struggles for visibility in the 1990s. Bernard is identified by Ian Smart as one of the principal figures in Central American West Indian literature, along with her compatriot Quince Duncan. Her poetry shows influences of the oral culture of the Caribbean, similar to the Creole verse and sketches by Jamaican dramatist and folklorist Louise Bennett. The orality of her poetry is defined by the presence of exclamations,

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marked rhythms, and wordplay in English, Spanish, and Limonese Creole. Bernard’s three collections of poetry, Ritmohéroe (1982), My Black King (1991), and Ciénaga (Marsh, 2001), together with her essay on political philosophy, emphasize the cultural connections between Africa and the Americas. Linguistically, her poems vary in language and register. Her first poetic contribution, Ritmohéroe, presents poems written in Spanish. Bernard’s last two collections, My Black King and Ciénaga, feature poems in Spanish, English, and Limonese Creole. The common thread uniting these multilingual works is themes that treat the reconciliation of West Indian and Costa Rican identities, political preoccupation with the poor and oppressed, black male-female relationships, West Indian cultural connections, the African diaspora and blackness, and childhood remembrances. There is an unquestionable Afrocentric position in Bernard’s poetry in English and Creole. She presents an acute awareness of the audience of these poems, other blacks of the Afro-Americas and particularly Afro–Costa Ricans. This is particularly present in My Black King, a collection that is dedicated to the men in the poet’s family. The poems celebrate black masculinity and recognize male historical personages such as Marcus Garvey, Martin Luther King Jr., and Louis Armstrong. Furthermore, ethnic consciousness seems to prevail over concerns of gender parity in the earlier collections. As the poet-narrator proclaims in “To Women’s Liberation” in My Black King, The Problem is not the Difference But the Interference . . . This is the way I see it. This is the way I see it.(n.p.)

Gender is an attribute that becomes problematized by the “interference” of Western feminist politics. Ian Smart describes the poet’s concerns as “not genderbased, but group—and race—based” and observes in Bernard’s writing, “The ‘tribe’ will only survive by pulling together, liberation is ‘black’ or ‘West Indian,’ not ‘woman’s.’”2 Although I find this to be an overstatement, especially examining the poet’s later work, Smart’s observation expresses Bernard’s personal assessment that slavery, colonization, and exploitative economics have emasculated the black man and that her verse is a means of restoring the black male figure. Cer2. Smart, “Eulalia Bernard: A Caribbean Woman Writer and the Dynamics of Liberation,” 81.

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tainly, in Ritmohéroe and My Black King when gender is invoked, it is usually in relation to either (hetero)sexuality, the outward physical admiration of the black man, or childhood memories associated with the black mother. Even the imagery of the poem “Paisanita” (My compatriot) in Ritmohéroe does not call for a womanist or feminist unity, but rather establishes the black patron saint as an ironic symbol of national unity between the poetic subject and the dark-skinned virgin. The poetic subject seeks to create a harmonious relationship with Costa Rica and challenge its myths of homogenous European origins through the black patron saint and national symbol, Nuestra Señora de Los Ángeles (Our Lady of the Angels). In the latest collection, Ciénaga, appear poems that place black women at the center of the poetic discourse. They speak of the celebration of women’s roles in liberation struggles, community building, and history and of women’s sexuality. “El siglo XXI se llama mujer” (The twenty-first century is called woman) is a three-part poem dedicated to the center of Afro–Costa Rican women and addresses the multiple facets and future hopes for women. In the second part of the poem, the poetic voice prophesizes about the twenty-first century: I predict that in the twenty-first century woman will be at the center of the planet, she will parade with the word and the sun full of the beauty of equilibrium I will be one more in this parade and you? (Yo prognostico que en el siglo XXI la mujer será centro del planeta, desfilará con la palabra y el sol llena de la belleza del equilibrio Yo seré una más de este desfile y tú? de este des(CN, 79)

The poem clearly honors the role of women as central to humanity and proclaims “equilibrium” between the sexes. Similarly in “We Have Always Been There” and “We Fear Not Your Gods,” there is a centering of the experience of black women in the universe. Bernard’s literary task is a “writing back” to the dominant culture and “writ-

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ing in” of the black experience in Costa Rica. She challenges the literature of previous generations of non–West Indian Costa Rican writers who inserted despicable images of blacks, and she fights for the incorporation of the descendants of Afro–West Indians into the fabric of Costa Rican society. In this examination of the poet’s work, the collection Ritmohéroe will be the primary focus because of its aesthetic quality and crucial development of themes of identity. The two later collections, My Black King and Ciénaga, will be examined in brief as continuations of some of the themes presented in Ritmohéroe.

Ritmohéroe (1982) This collection of forty poems in free verse is Eulalia Bernard’s first publication, although several of the poems were first presented as audio recordings in the late 1970s.3 In the prologue to Ritmohéroe, Quince Duncan describes Bernard’s work as having a testimonial function because it documents the story of a people. Duncan says of Bernard and her poetry, “She is like her people: a mixture of enervating realism and deist naturalism” (13). The poems touch on a variety of themes: heterosexual love, Limón, political and social preoccupations, West Indian cultural connections and identity, Costa Rican nationality, ethnic identity, and childhood memories. A powerful poem, representative of her testimony of Afro–West Indian contributions to the development of Costa Rica, is “Requiem a mi primo jamaiquino” (Requiem to my Jamaican cousin). This poem recalls the moment in Costa Rican history when blacks were denied citizenship and continued to be identified as “Jamaicans,” even after spending a lifetime living and working in the Central American republic. Being a native-born black Costa Rican did not erase the Jamaican identity or guarantee the rights and privileges of Costa Rican citizenship. For the person of West Indian origin, citizenship had to be proved and was not automatically granted upon birth. “Requiem a mi primo jamaiquino” is a poem of pain, strength, and defiant protest: Death protected him from disgrace and the mystery of his fate. 3. Bernard, “Costa Rican Poet Eulalia Bernard Reading and Commenting on Her Work on 2 June 1977.” She also produced an album, Negritud, in 1976.

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature Without knowing why he was never able to sing the National Anthem with his hand on his chest. His sweat germinated a small piece of this inhospitable and fertile tropical land that will never be the homeland since my Jamaican cousin could never obtain an identification card. Shuffling and more shuffling of white papers from white hands in order to simply say: “I am a black man from the country, from Star Valley. I am a black star on the resplendent white, blue, red of our flag.” (Lo protegió la muerte contra tanta infamia Y el misterio de su suerte. Sin saber por qué, nunca el Himno Nacional, llegó a cantar con la mano en la frente. Su sudor germinó un pedacito de esa tierra inhóspita y fértil del trópico, que no será nunca tierra patria pues cedularse jamás pudo mi primo Jamaiquino. Rodeos y más rodeos tuvo de blancos papeles de blancas manos para decir simplemente: “Soy negro del campo, del Valle La Estrella. Soy una estrella negra

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en el flamante blanco, azul, rojo de nuestra bandera.”) de nuestra bandera.”(RH, 29)

The poetic voice indicates in a personal and critical tone the sense of dislocation and rootlessness of West Indian blacks in Costa Rica in the years prior to and immediately following the reforms prompted by the 1948 civil war. The nation is represented by symbols: the national anthem sung in Spanish, the land, the cédula de identidad (identification card), the Costa Rican seal with its seven stars and the tricolor flag. These symbols of citizenship are denied to the Jamaican immigrants and their Costa Rican–born descendants who made the Caribbean coastal soil productive. Only death could protect the poetic (anti)hero from further humiliation and injustice—not the nation to which he wants to belong. The subject dies without understanding why Costa Rican nationality and citizenship were not natural rights for him. Citizenship represents the solidarity between a subject and a nation-state, which provides not only a sense of protection, but also a sense of belonging: [Citizenship] . . . since the eighteenth century has been one of the defining marks of modernity, functioning to establish the meaning of full membership in society. Thus what it means to be a member of society in many parts of the world has come to be understood, to a large degree, in terms of what it means to be a right-bearing citizen of a territorial nation-state, with the state determining the boundaries of that membership, specifying who does and does not belong.4

Costa Rica rejects the subject’s membership by establishing parameters of belonging to exclude those the state deems undesirable. His race, his ethnic origins, and his language do not coincide with the white-identified Hispanic nation. The hostile landscape the poetic subject made habitable will never become legally his. The nationality of “mi primo jamaiquino” is ambiguous, like the political status of blacks during the transition to the Second Republic. Although he is identified as “Jamaican,” it does not necessarily mean that he was born on the island. Thousands of blacks born in Costa Rica were labeled Jamaican because they were not considered legitimate citizens. The subject proclaims, “I am a black man from 4. Rodolfo Torres, Louis F. Mirón, Jonathan Xavier Inda, eds., Race, Identity, and Citizenship: A Reader, 13.

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the country, / from Star Valley,” which indicates Costa Rica is the land of his birth but not his country because the Jamaican is considered an outsider and a “foreigner.” He is denied access to the symbols of the nation-state. His petitions for an identity card, like his condition, remain in the shuffle of white bureaucratic hands, performing the function of an inhospitable government that denies the “Jamaican” cousin his place as a recognized part of the nation. His status as a noncitizen and outsider, invisible to the center of the country, leads him to simply name his place and finally to claim, I am a black star on the resplendent white, blue, red of our flag.

In accord with Kitzie McKinney in her article “Costa Rica’s Black Body: The Politics and Poetics of Difference in Eulalia Bernard’s Poetry,” this last image of the black star recalls two dialectical images: the shield of Costa Rica and the Black Star line of Marcus Garvey (1887–1940). McKinney acutely observes: The reconfiguration of the Costa Rican national flag with a “black star” in place of the traditional mountains and sailing ships again underscores parallel founding histories and unequal destinies. On the one hand, Europeans “discovered” the country, tilled the earth, put down roots, and became citizens of a new nation. On the other, Antillians also arrived by ship and transformed tropical jungle regions such as La Estrella with their labor. . . . Like Marcus Garvey’s ambitious but ill-fated plans for the Black Star steamship line, their hopes of returning home vanished along with their jobs and their savings.5

The mountains of the seal illustrate the enthnolinguistic and geographic separation of the West Indian and Hispanic populations. The blacks were in the majority on the Caribbean coast and did not cross over the Cordillera Central to settle. In comparison, the white Latin population by custom inhabited the fertile lands of the Central Valley. McKinney raises an interesting point that replaces the symbols of Costa Rica’s foundations on the shield with the black star of the poetic subject. However, my reading of “Requiem” presupposes that the poetic subject is a part of the shield: 5. McKinney, “Costa Rica’s Black Body,” 12–13.

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I am a black star on the resplendent white, blue, red of our flag. of our fla(emphasis added)

Contrary to McKinney’s analysis, the black star of the Jamaican cousin is already a part of the shield instead of a replacement for it and calls attention to the star’s sociohistoric symbolism. The shield of Costa Rica has seven stars, each representing one of the seven provinces (Alajuela, Cartago, Guanacaste, Heredia, Limón, Puntarenas, and San José). These white stars are contrasted by the poetic subject’s absence as a black star on the tricolor flag. The black star, which is not outwardly visible, contrasts with the white stars the nation displays to the exterior, thus maintaining and perpetuating the invisibility of blackness and the black population of Costa Rica and highlighting the conspicuous position of “whiteness.” The black star is the star that receives no apparent place among the national symbols, and the black Jamaican is denied space and citizenship in the nation-state through its symbols. The black star imagery also suggests the emblem of the Pan-Africanist movement led by Marcus Garvey, the Universal Negro Improvement Association and its Black Star–line project. The Garvey movement was strong among West Indians in the Caribbean islands, especially Jamaica, and in the Caribbean diaspora. The Jamaican labor leader championed the cause of black workers and their economic empowerment. He directed a labor strike and was forced to leave Jamaica to make a living. Garvey arrived in Costa Rica in 1910 as a young man to work as a timekeeper for United Fruit. According to Hollis R. Lynch in the preface to Philosophy and Opinions of Marcus Garvey, “During the next two years he worked in or visited seven Central American and South American states—Costa Rica, Panama, Ecuador, Nicaragua, Honduras, Colombia and Venezuela. In all these countries he was appalled by the exploitation of black workers, many of them Jamaican emigrants.”6 Garvey later returned to Costa Rica in 1921 to promote the UNIA and a “back to Africa” movement. The UNIA, with the aid of the Black Star line, a steamship corporation it hoped to operate, planned to transport passengers and goods between the Americas and Africa. Garvey used the star image to press for the visibility of Africa and African peoples all over the globe. During the 1920s and 1930s, Garvey, the UNIA, and the Black Star line symbolized resistance, black nationalism in the Americas, and Africa as homeland. 6. Garvey, Philosophy and Opinions, n.p.

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In Philosophy and Opinions, a collection of speeches, writings, and public declarations compiled by his second wife, Amy Jacques Garvey, the diaspora leader declares, “Wake up Ethiopia! Wake up Africa! Let us work together towards the one glorious end of a free, redeemed and mighty nation. Let Africa be a bright star among the constellation of nations.” He also announces, “Let Africa be our guiding Star—   .”7 In Garvey’s America, there is no “authentic” home for diaspora blacks outside of a reified Africa. The plan for repatriation of the homeland presented a hope for the children of Africa in exile in America. Garvey’s declaration, like the final image of Eulalia Bernard’s poem, stands for resistance and struggle against injustice. The black star in “Requiem” is invisible in the official discourse of Costa Rica, but is nevertheless present. The black star of the poem is part of the “constellation of nations” of the Garvey movement’s diaspora and not just the vanished hope that McKinney concludes in her analysis. “Nosotros” (We) is another poem that echoes the displacement of West Indians on the shores of the Central American Caribbean. Through the deceptively simple anaphora, assonant rhyme, and rhythmical alliteration of s, v, and o, “Nosotros” evokes the cyclical repetition of dreams deferred of migration and the search for home. Bernard captures the sense of displacement of the West Indians who left the islands for other shores, only to become “from neither here nor there,” to exist as subjects without a fixed territory and denied place in the new land: We who yearn for other seas We who dream of other forests We who feel other gods Here we are others There we are others. We are others. We who see other seas We who venerate other gods We who live in other forests Here we are alone There we are alone We are solitude. 7. Ibid., 5, 6.

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We who breathe other air We who intone other songs We who invoke other gods Here we are living dead There we are dying alive We are dead. (Nosotros los que añoramos otros mares Nosotros los que soñamos otros bosques Nosotros los que sentimos otros dioses Nosotros aquí somos otros Nosotros allá somos otros Nosotros somos otros. Nosotros que vemos otros mares Nosotros que veneramos otros dioses Nosotros que vivimos en otros bosques Nosotros aquí estamos solos Nosotros allá estamos solos Nosotros somos soledad. Nosotros que respiramos otros aires Nosotros que entonamos otros cantares Nosotros que invocamos otros dioses Nosotros aquí vivimos muertos Nosotros allá morimos vivos Nosotros somos muertos.) Nosotros somos muertos.)(95)

This poem announces the preoccupations of the multiple exiles of the Caribbean diaspora. There is a constant desire to change landscapes to search for a better life, in exchange for rootlessness and the label of “Other” in a new land. Even after migration and eventual settlement in a new land, there is still rootlessness, displacement, and solitude. There are tensions between aquí (here) and allá (there). In the desire to seek new migrations, the cycle of displacement persists regardless of the territory: Here we are the living dead There we are dying alive We are dead.

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Death at the end of this poem is not a literal death, but the state of being “nowhere”—without identity, without land, without place, without fixity, without consciousness. Significant in the poem is the repetition of nosotros (we) and the sense of otherness it displays in relation to the alienation it denotes. The word otros (others) is contained interestingly within the nosotros. Also notable is the repetition of otros throughout the three stanzas of the poem. An “us versus them” relationship is established, but “we are ‘them’” or the “others” in this paradigm. This other dimension of the us-them binary is not explicitly mentioned, but is an understood presence. “We, who are the Other,” are attached to three elements: the sea, the land, and the spirit. The sea and land are symbolic of the separation of here and there, home and the place now occupied, standing for the migration of peoples to other lands, represented by forests. In the third stanza, the elements of land and sea are replaced by air and song—but the spiritual element remains a constant in the poem: “We who feel other gods,” “We who venerate other gods,” and “We who invoke other gods.” In spite of the migration of people, the attachment to the spiritual is a consistent foundation or key to cultural survival. The rhythmical flow of the verses of varied meter has a structure based on the experience of being the “Other” and has sequential development in the three stanzas from exilic yearning to solitude and, eventually, death. Through the repetition of sounds (the alliteration of o and s), images (sea, land, gods), and the anaphora “We” at the beginning of each verse, the poetic voice expresses the angst and crisis of the diaspora subject. The alliteration of o and s gives the poem rhythm that reinforces the feeling of movement and changes the migrant identity. This rhythm is interrupted by the final d in the last verse of the second stanza, “Nosotros somos soledad” (We are solitude). It is the only verse that does not end with a final -es or -os. This final d causes a silence, a stop for reflection. This pause leads into the final stanza that ends with the finality of a living death. The lack of place with which to identify is a metaphoric death. In the homologous relationship between home and identity, there is no fixed place with which to identify. The poetic subject is destined to live in a perpetual state of exile. “Mi madre y el tajamar” (My mother and the seawall) is another poem that addresses the state of exile of West Indians and their descendants. It is the longest poem in Ritmohéroe, eight stanzas occupying two pages of text in the collection, but here I will analyze the last four. The poem depicts a tender portrait of mother and child and the lessons the now mature poetic voice remembers from this relationship:

Negotiating Home From there, on the sea wall, I learned from her lips the solemn truth about my ancestors abandoned on this land. From there, on the sea wall, I learned that I would be a soldier with the unsheathed word in my hand. She would show me imaginary points that I converted into stars. “There they are,” she used to say to me, “your Coromanti grandparents, your Fanti grandparents, who know nothing about identity cards, nor crucified Christs or about the railway to the docks, nor of deaf saints, nor of Black virgins.” The sea resounded (with her words), while she said all of this in a broken language and a look of distant pride. (While the . . . ) the waves bowed their heads. (Desde ahí, del tajamar, aprendí de los labios de ella la solemne verdad sobre mis antepasados abandonados en esta tierra. Desde ahí, del tajamar, aprendí que sería un soldado con la palabra desenvainada en la mano.

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature Ella me mostraba puntos imaginarios que yo convertía en estrellas. “Ahí están,” me decía, tus abuelos koromantí, tus abuelos fantí, que no saben nada de cédulas de identidad, ni de cristos crucificados sobre los rieles de los muelles, ni de santos sordos, ni de vírgenes pardas.” El mar retumbaba [con sus palabras], mientras ella decía todo esto en un lenguaje entrocortado [sic] y una mirada de orgullo lejano. [Mientras, las . . . ] las olas inclinaban sus cabezas.) las olas inclinaban sus cabeza(93–94)

The constant repetitions in the poem recall the ebb and flow of the sea that the mature poetic voice remembers from her childhood. The expansive sea is an image frequently appearing in Caribbean literature, symbolizing exile or the separation of “here” and “there.” Watching the sea, the mother shares with her daughter a “sea” of knowledge that is also limited, but seems vast in the eyes of a child. It is on the seawall, where the poet-narrator learns her history and her place in it: the solemn truth about my ancestors abandoned on this land.

The abandonment is a double exile—from Africa and from the Caribbean islands, both on the other side of the sea. The poetic voice is destined to become a “warrior-poet”: I learned that I would be a soldier with the unsheathed word in my hand.

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The poetic voice will fight with the pen instead of a sword. The warrior-poet is charged with the responsibility of retelling history as a griot of the ancestral past. The child is shown “imaginary points” that she “convert[s] into stars.” These stars then become African ancestors, much like the myths of the flying Africans who return to Africa after death in oral tales throughout the Americas. These ancestors transcend the domination of European cultures, particularly the reference to Costa Rican Hispanic culture with its railroad to the docks, the identification cards only for nationals, the pantheon of Catholic saints, bloody images of the Son of God in agony, and the black patron saint, Our Lady of the Angels. The ancestors did not have to worry about being or not being “nationalized” because they belonged to other tribes; they escaped the imagery of paradoxes and contradictions of the black virgin in a country that officially denies the presence of colonial and contemporary blacks. They escaped the suffering image of the venerated crucified Christ and the exploitation of the black workers. The mother’s words to the child blend the sounds of the sea “and a look of distant pride.” Home is elsewhere, even though they are “abandoned” in this land. The mixture of ancestral voices and the long history of the diaspora Africans are wrapped up in the crash of the sea. The sea is personified with a voice and several heads—the heads of the ancestors. The poet-narrator indicates that the “true” and “authentic” home is elsewhere, not in Costa Rica, according to her mother’s vision and knowledge of what is on the other side of the sea. With that vision in mind, there is an appeal to the Costa Ricans of West Indian descent to turn their collective attention away from the Europeanized myths of the Costa Rican nation and toward their cultural heritage of the New World. “Esencia antillana” (West Indian essence) addresses an identity in crisis, in a state of flux between cultures and in danger of being “less than authentic.” In a messianic tone that echoes the rhetoric of “race pride” in the tradition of Marcus Garvey and the UNIA, the poetic voice proclaims: No! West Indian, do not be dazzled by the lights of the Mediterranean; turn your gaze and grace your eyes with the Caribbean Sea. No! West Indian, your pedestal is

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature on the smooth beaches with the shades of Africa. No! West Indian. You are foolish if you prefer to bury your ethnicity your eyes, your hair, you, in essence, are West Indian. (¡No! Antillano, no te encandiles con las luces del Mediterráneo; vuelve tu mirada y brillen tus pupilas con el Mar Caribe. ¡No! Antillano, tu pedestal está en las playas llanas con matices africanos. ¡No! Antillano. Necio eres si enterrar tu etnia prefieres, que tus ojo, tu pelo, tú, en esencia, eres Antillano.) Antillano.(43)

The poetic voice decries the seductions of European culture represented by “the lights of the Mediterranean.” The apostrophe “No! West Indian” at the beginning of each stanza is directed to the West Indian living in the Caribbean diaspora. These glints of knowledge and material culture emanating from the centers of Western civilization (Greece and Rome) are attractive and appealing, but deceptive because they are not “home.” The poetic voice pleads to the West Indians to place their attention on Caribbean culture and the celebration of diaspora culture: your pedestal is on the smooth beaches with the shades of Africa.

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Culture is turned not toward Europe or Africa, but to the many shades of color of the Creole Caribbean. What dominates is not the European, but “Caribbean”—the hybrid culture of America founded on the European exploitation of black and indigenous labor. For aesthetic and cultural models, the AfroCaribbean or West Indian subject must assign value to the “native” culture— that which was born in the Caribbean. Appealing to a collective identity, the poet-narrator reaffirms the physical beauty of the black body and its cultural heritage of the West Indies. Kitzie McKinney observes the urgency of the poem’s message for the later generations: “[T]he poet-narrator acts as an intermediary and an outspoken prophet who will not let Black Costa Ricans forget their essential difference, particularly those of the third and fourth generation who communicate in Spanish rather than in English and who are most vulnerable to the seductions of Hispanic culture’s Eurocentrism.”8 Instead of hiding ethnicity, this difference should be embraced because it is physically inescapable. The poem asserts the need to maintain a cultural identity of difference and not fall into the pitfalls and traps of Costa Rica’s myths of a homogenous, Europeanized culture. There is, however, in several of Bernard’s poems an open embrace of Costa Rican national identity. Her frequently cited poem “Somos el país de tres” (We are the country of three) addresses division and unity in the nation by declaring: We are the country of three: of three mountain ranges; of three colors in the flag; of three races, intermixed of three languages of three powers; of three women for every man. (Somos el país de tres: de tres cordilleras; de tres colores en la bandera; de tres razas entremezcladas de tres lenguas de tres poderes; de tres mujeres para cada hombre.) de tres mujeres para cada homb(67)

8. McKinney, “Costa Rica’s Black Body,” 16.

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Bernard concludes the poem by saying, “We are the country of three and / of the Third World” (Somos el país de tres y / del tercer mundo, 67). There is an irony here with the repetition of the number three. In Western discourse, this number represents divine perfection and unity, particularly in reference to the Holy Trinity in Christian dogma. However, in this poem, “the country of three” contests this notion. Although it appears to be unifying, there are inherent contradictions. The number three does not signify divinity or perfection, but signals diversity. Once again, Bernard contests prevailing national myths of a white European country unified by the Spanish language and the Hispanic culture by drawing attention to the multiple ethnicities and origins of the Costa Rican nation. In “Paisanita” (My compatriot), Bernard explores the irony and paradox of the history of blacks in Costa Rica. She uses the country’s patron saint, Our Lady of the Angels, to expose Costa Rica’s racial ideologies in the construction of its national culture. According to the legend, a physical apparition of the Virgin appeared before a mulatto woman, Juana Pereira, in the city of Cartago in 1635. Pereira went daily from her home to collect firewood in an area known as Puebla de los Pardos, a segregated area of the colonial city inhabited by free blacks, mulattoes, and mestizos. During one of her outings, she found a small, black, intricately carved image of the Virgin Mary sitting on a rock. She brought the stone figure to her home, only to discover that it would disappear from her home and reappear on the rock where she had originally found it. This occurred several times before church officials declared the apparition a miracle and ordered the construction of a church on the spot where the black stone figure would reappear. Our Lady of the Angels was declared patron saint of Costa Rica in 1824, replacing the cult of a Spanish Virgin of Ujarrás from the colonial period. The Virgin is affectionately called “La Negrita,” or the Little Black Lady. The innocent, childlike tone of “Paisanita” is a device much like Jamaica Kincaid’s Small Place, which reveals urgent truths in a deceptively simple way through the use of a familiar, almost servile tone in the poetic voice speaking to the black-stone virgin: Hello! My little Virgin of Los Angeles, Is it okay if I call you my compatriot? You know, because of the black thing. Did you know that those who brought you to Cartago have contributed much to the world?; well, at least I, thank you one who at least now can go there

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and feel among brothers without pinches or scolding. You, have liberated us, your country folk from the strange responsibility of providing luck. You, now give it to those who through pinches, wrenched you from your black brothers. You have made a miracle, so that the pinches of the past could be transformed into a beautiful circle of multicolored hands. (¡Hola!, Virgencita de los Ángeles, ¿Me permites que te llame paisanita? Tú sabes, por aquello de negrita. ¿Sabes que han contribuido mucho al mundo quienes te trajeron a Cartago?; pues, al menos yo, te agradezco el que ahora pueda ir ahí y sentirme entre hermanos, sin pellizcos y regaños. Tú, nos has librado a los paisanos de la extraña responsabilidad de dar la suerte. Tú, la das ahora, a aquellos que, a pellizcos, la arrebataban de sus hermanos negros. Has hecho el milagro, de que los pellizcos de ataño se hayan transformado en hermosa ronda de multicolores manos.) en hermosa ronda de multicolores manos.)(65)

The struggles for nationhood or national identity are signaled in the ironies of “Paisanita.” There is a desire to belong, but it is fraught with difficulty. There is a desire to be part of the nation-state and to be recognized, but maintain the ethnic and cultural difference. The innocent tone of the poem is a strategy that performs a type of mimesis that reflects the dominant discourse about blacks in Costa Rica and serves as its

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Other to challenge and subvert that same discourse. The poem takes on the stereotyped “childishness” of the servile black figure in Western discourse to signal the degraded status of blacks in a white-identified country that venerates a black saint. The poet-narrator, in the direct address to the “paisanita,” is engaged in mimicry, a project that mocks, parodies, and challenges authority. Using the familiar diminutive -ita, the poetic voice brings the saint from the level of veneration of the sacred to the mundane and human level of interaction. This strategy of mimicry for the postcolonial writer, expressing herself in opposition, is one that both appropriates a dominant form and simultaneously subverts it to assert the voice of the Other. According to postcolonial theorist Homi K. Bhabha: “[Mimicry is] a complex strategy of reform, regulation, and discipline, which ‘appropriates’ the Other as it visualizes power. Mimicry is also the sign of the inappropriate, however a difference or recalcitrance which coheres the dominant strategic function of colonial power, intensifies surveillance, and poses an immanent threat to both ‘normalized’ knowledges and disciplinary powers.”9 Using the unifying image of Our Lady of the Angels as a point of departure, Bernard ironically uses the black patron saint of this “white” nation to signal its contradictions. She joins the colonial black presence in Costa Rica with contemporary issues and calls for tolerance and unity among all Costa Ricans. The image of the patron saint brings attention to color and ethnicity, and revisits the long-denied colonial black presence. The poetic voice addresses the patron saint in a familiar, intimate tone. She calls the Virgin “paisanita,” or compatriot. As Kitzie McKinney points out, the use of the word paisano in common usage in Costa Rica, and the word paisanita in the poem “brings to mind another constellation of popular stereotypes and assumptions held by whites who consider all Costa Rican blacks ‘paisanos’ and ‘chumecos’ (‘Jamaicans’ understood as ‘foreigners’).”10 The pinches the poetic voice mentions in the intimate conversation with “La Negrita” refer to the racist practice of pinching blacks who traveled to the Central Valley. Pinching something new to bring good luck was an act that was committed, albeit “innocently,” against blacks who entered the dominant culture of Costa Rica’s interior. Those hands in the poem that were part of the cruel and ironic twist of giving luck to those who scorned blacks are now transformed in a multicolored circle of humanity—a symbolic union of the nation’s heterogeneous present and reconciliation with the black past. 9. Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse,” 86. 10. McKinney, “Costa Rica’s Black Body,” 14.

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Along a similar theme of diversity, “Directorio telefónico” (Telephone directory) uses Costa Rica’s telephone book as the site of ethnic, social, and historical difference while affirming the multicultural unity of the nation. The poem presents an inherent criticism of the question of national identity through the national telephone company, the Instituto Costarricense de Electricidad. In an attempt to convince the bureaucratic state agent of the poet-narrator’s national identity as a Costa Rican, the poem illustrates the multiculturalism of Costa Rica that defies the myths of homogeneity that all Costa Ricans are of “pure” Spanish descent: Yes Sirree; I am Costa Rican, even though my last name ends with “insky,” “man,” or “Le.” (Sí Señó; soy costarricense, aunque apellidado esté con “insky,” “man,” o “Le.”) con “insky,” “man,” o “Le(71)

The poet-narrator uses a voice of the common people in the Costa Rican vernacular to affirm that although many last names in the telephone directory are not of Hispanic origin, they are nonetheless Costa Rican. She urges the agent to think of them not as foreign names, but as Costa Rican ones: Yes Sirree, I am authentically Costa Rican never mind the “Di” in front or the “ard” in back. (Sí, Señó, de puritica cepa soy no hagas caso del “Di” por delante o del “ard” por detrás.) por delante o del “ard” por detrás.(70)

With mounting frustration, the poetic voice lashes: How stubborn you are even though you don’t believe me, I am Costa Rican

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature Take away “Brown” and change it to “Moreno” and there you have part of the solution. (Qué jupón sos, que de tico soy, aunque no lo creas vos; Quíteme el “Brown,” cámbielo por “Moreno” y ¡ahí! tienes parte de la solución.) Quíteme el “Brown,” cámbielo por “Moren(71)

In a straightforward fashion, the poetic voice lists the prefixes or suffixes typically associated with Polish, Slavic, Jewish, German, Chinese, English, Italian, French, and Dutch names. The poem in its irony uses tiquismos (words unique to Costa Rica) to convey unity among the various origins of the last names in the phone book. The nationalism presented here does not parade Our Lady of the Angels, deride Central American neighbors, or wave the myths of Costa Rica like a flag. The poetic voice uses popular phrases typical of Costa Rican Spanish used by all speakers regardless of education—the use of the second-person familiar pronoun vos and the use of words such as jupón, and the diminutive suffix -ica common in Costa Rican Spanish, such as puritica. Through the use of these linguistic devices and artifacts of the country’s material culture (tortillas, queso Clachard, Café Dorado), the poetic voice affirms her “belonging” to the nation in which she is rooted, “de puritica cepa soy,” an authentic Costa Rican national. Continuing with preoccupations with nation and identity is also the importance of place. Place is a concept particularly important in literature of cultures shaped by migration. When there is separation from the point of origin, there is always a search for home, even if it is only a site fixed in the geography of the imagination. Eulalia Bernard situates Limón as home at the crux of her poetic explorations. As a city important to the history of West Indians in Central America, Limón is assigned legendary qualities in black Costa Rican writing. The town is homologous with Afro–Costa Rican identity. In other words, there is a direct correspondence made between Limón and black identity. Just as a myth was constructed on the ethnic and cultural homogeneity of Costa Rica, a myth about “the good old days” of Limón is also constructed that yearns for a time when there was not much contact with the national (Latin) population. Limón as a real and idealized site forms an important point for the examination of social change and progress in several poems in Ritmohéroe. “Carbunclo” (Carbuncle) is one such poem that expresses concern about place and transformation in the capital of the province. The concern for the place (pueblo) is exhibited through childhood memories and the present state of Limón:

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Firefly, of my childhood dreams how I loved you. Now you no longer light the sky of Jamaica Town and Cieneguita, with your great light. Is it that you are in mourning because of the voracious change to your sky? How yearning wraps my heart: to see you again in the marshes of Limón, although today they may be “Roosevelt” although today they may be “Cristóbal Colón.” (Luciérnaga, de mis sueños de niña que tanto quería. Ya no iluminas El cielo de “Jamaica Town,” y Cieneguita, con tus grandes faroles. ¿Es que enlutada estás por el cambio ¡voraz! de tu cielo? Cuánto anhelo abriga mi corazón: verte de nuevo en las ciénagas de Limón, aunque hoy sean “Roosevelt” aunque hoy sean “Cristóbal Colón.) aunque hoy sean “Cristóbal Colón.)(39)

The firefly is a childhood memory of life in Limón before its transformation into a place enshrouded in mourning like the absence of the creature from its former habitat. The now darkened firefly symbolizes the once vibrant culture that shaped

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the port city. The small insect that once brought “great light” to the nights of the town no longer has a home there and has disappeared like some of the Afro–West Indian cultural practices in the region. The poetic voice laments the changes that have occurred, but offers hope to see the creature again in spite of the changes in the town. The place-names “Jamaica Town” and “Cieneguita” have particular importance in this poem. They are the names of old neighborhoods to the north and south, respectively, of Puerto Limón and were named by their residents. Jamaica Town was populated by a majority of Jamaicans, and Cieneguita is derived from ciénaga, the Spanish word for “marsh,” a significant geographical feature of the locale.11 However, these two sectors of Limón underwent a name change that was not initiated by the residents, but rather reflects the imposition of the world outside the port city and the province after the number of “Latinos” increased in the coastal region. Jamaica Town was renamed Barrio Roosevelt, and Cieneguita was renamed Barrio Cristóbal Colón. The local West Indian names were replaced by ones assigned by the national government, portraying the encroachment of outside influences on Limón to the perceived loss of the authentic and the local. Barrio Cristóbal Colón was named to commemorate the brief arrival of Columbus in Costa Rica at the site of Puerto Limón in 1502. According to local lore, Jamaica Town was renamed Roosevelt when “Teddy Roosevelt, during one of his trips, heard about Jamaica Town, and donated a sum of money for neighborhood improvement. In reality, little or none of this money arrived in the neighborhood, but in honor of this man who was ‘so charitable,’ the name was changed to Barrio Roosevelt without the consent of the population.”12 As an allegory, “Carbunclo” speaks of the lost voice and cultural representation in what was the stronghold of West Indian culture in Costa Rica. The renaming process of the neighborhoods of Puerto Limón represents a loss of cultural determination for the descendants of West Indians in the town. The names assigned by English-speaking “foreign” blacks are now replaced by names that come not from the community, but rather from the outside. The nation within a nation has been altered by those who seek to change it, but are not native to it. Parallel to the “outside” naming of the neighborhoods, there are changes occurring as a result of increased contact with the Central Valley. The renaming of these parts of Limón symbolizes the passing of cultural and political influence, from Afro11. There is also a theory that Cieneguita is an Antillian derivation of the Spanish barrio de los cien negritos (neighborhood of the one hundred blacks). Bernard dismisses this theory of the naming of the neighborhood. 12. Kathleen Sawyers Royal, “Participación política del negro limonense: Un esbozo histórico,” 223.

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Saxon (British imperialism) to Hispanic (the Costa Rican national government). Both historical moments leave little room for self-determination with respect to place and nation. Limón also figures in Bernard’s poetry in a double discourse: on one discursive level, the immediate image presented also serves as a metaphor for the second discursive level of the poem. This dynamic takes the form of body and sex as a metaphor for a political or social issue affecting the state of Limón. Bernard has several internally driven poems about passionate relations between women and men. However, these images of male and female bodies, sexual desire and union, often invoke imagery of relationships between Afro–Costa Ricans and the nation or between the black residents of the Caribbean coast and the provincial capital, Limón. This body-sex and nation paradigm can be read in “Metamorfosis de tu recuerdo” (Metamorphosis of your memory), “Deseo” (Desire), and “Seamos libres” (Let’s be free). “Metamorfosis de tu recuerdo” describes the physical and internal strength of the foundation of Limón in the form of the black male body and its deterioration: I remember you so, dynamic, so, beautiful so, whole, and, mighty. I see you now, weak; now, deformed; now, broken and, meager. (Te recuerdo así, dinámico, así, hermoso, así, entero, y, caudaloso. Te veo ahora, débil; ahora, deforme; ahora, partido y, escaso.) ahora, partido(37)

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The body is placed on an axis between memory and its present state of decay. This body of a father, lover, or friend was once a symbol of strength and now is an image of weakness. When read as a double discourse, the literal reading of the black male body in the poem symbolizes the town of Limón—a town constructed and supported by the labor of the black male body. As the history of Limón shows, the region sank into a deep state of depression in the 1930s with the transfer of the United Fruit Company to the Pacific and the prohibition of black laborers to work there. Culturally and economically, the province fell into decline and continues to be neglected. The once magnificent and strong black male body–Limón has become weak and disjointed—no longer in its previous vibrant, virile state. “Deseo” is a poem that explicitly uses the black female body to express desire for the rebirth of Limón. Desire for social, political, and economic progress emerges from the cry of the female body: I have the sensation of a tormented womb when in my solitary nights I think about my battle, abandoned by my fragile body, stretched out in bed. I would desire to devour an ounce of Salmonic strength to continue the construction of the temple of redemption for my people: Limón. (Tengo la sensación de vientre atormentado cuando en mis noches solitarias pienso en mi lucha, abandonada por mi frágil cuerpo, en el lecho estirado. Desearía devorar una onza de fuerza salomónica para continuar la

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construcción del templo de rendición de mi pueblo: Limón.) construcción del tem(23)

Within the images of frustration, discouragement, insomnia, and personal angst, the female body battles abandonment and weakness to struggle for progress. The poetic voice seeks to unearth the strength to continue the battle. The black female body is offered as a sacrifice in the salvation of her pueblo (people and town). The erotic poetry in Eulalia Bernard’s first collection is founded upon the traditional paradigm of heterosexual unions. The poems in Ritmohéroe are not as sexually charged as those appearing in My Black King and Ciénaga, but do mark Bernard as an important composer of erotic poetry, like her fellow Costa Rican Ana Istaurú. Her erotic poems are driven toward the satisfaction of mutual desire. “Seamos libres” is another double-voiced poem, speaking at once of freedom in sexual and cultural politics. The poem begins with an emphatic “¡No!” Through this apostrophe, the poetic voice demands to be respected and asks her partner to reveal his hidden, absent body: No! don’t speak to me that way show your body. No! don’t look for excuses for your absence, your defects; let’s embrace like locks and let the displaced water run freely through the canal of life. Let’s be friends, let’s freely be friends. (¡No!, no me hables así desvela tu cuerpo. ¡No!, no busques excusas por tu ausencia, tus defectos; abracémonos como las esclusas y dejemos el agua expelida correr libremente por el canal de la vida.

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature ¡Seamos amigos, seamos libremente amigos!) abracémonos como las esclusa(19)

The voice seeks an intimate embrace, an embrace to release freedom—free expression of intimacy and union between bodies. The voice asks for full disclosure of the intimate self of the other. The body of the other can be viewed as a plea for intimacy between two individual bodies or between two political bodies. With a sociocultural contextual reading, the other body in question is the absent governmental body, and the union in question is between the Central Valley and the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. Such a reading is also open to the possibility of the union between the West Indies and the West Indian descendants in the diaspora, or even Costa Rica and Panama because of the canal imagery signaled by Ian Smart in “Eulalia Bernard: A Caribbean Woman Writer and the Dynamics of Liberation.”13

My Black King (1991) Published in the United States as part of Eulalia Bernard’s recognition by the World Peace University in 1991 for her political and social activism, My Black King resonates with influences from the West Indian oral tradition and performance. The collection, written in English, Limonese Creole, and Spanish, is divided into five “Acts,” a “Special” presentation, and an “Encore,” thus touching upon the performative aspect of poetry. The titles of the five acts are: “Recalling,” “Africa Soul,” “Creole Talk,” “Freedom,” and “Image.” Thematically, the poems differ from Ritmohéroe. There remains a preoccupation with the poor, as well as political, economic, and social injustice. However, in My Black King, Bernard’s poems in English and Creole treat themes specific to West Indian culture and the black diaspora, such as Marcus Garvey, the UNIA, Nelson Mandela, the role of the black male, neocolonialism, black musical traditions, obeah, cricket, criticism of Western feminism, and vignettes from Limón. The poems in My Black King, when compared with those of Ritmohéroe, appear more Afrocentric with a decidedly problack stance and contain less of the “all of we is one” rhetoric of the imagined vision of a tolerant, multicultural social utopia. My Black King, generally, turns away from the affirmations of the Afro–West Indian’s need for belonging to a nation-state, and turns toward the 13. Smart, “Eulalia Bernard,” 81.

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Afro–Costa Ricans’ part in the diaspora experience in the Americas and the specific experience of the black man. In act 3, titled “Creole Talk,” Bernard returns to West Indian themes. The poem “Obeah Woman” presents the ambiguous attitude toward this misunderstood personage of rural West Indian culture. Obeah varies in practice, but is essentially an African-derived belief system that uses the power of the supernatural and the occult to effect change in the life circumstances of an individual. Obeah work may be used to bring about fortuitous situations, such as financial success or a desired sexual partner, or it may be used to cause misfortune, such as injury or death to an enemy. Through the use of incantations, charms, herbs, and other spiritual work, obeah and its practitioners can exert enormous power over believers. In the community, the obeah woman possesses the power of the seen and the unseen worlds and wields control of life and death: She can do wonder The Obeah woman yonder She can lift you up And she can bring you down. She can make you run Whatever you beg for, son. Everybody like fi go Munty want fi know Them future. Obeah woman, jejé! Only know the past. Only know the past. (MBK, n.p.)14

Addressed to a familiar male interlocutor using an accessible Creole, the poetic voice presents an evident dialectic building on oppositions in the obeah woman’s ability to do good and to do evil. Using irregular assonant rhyme in certain consecutive verse pairs, the poet-narrator builds upon the mystery of the obeah woman’s powers. There is, however, a power that she does not yield—the ability to predict the future. The obeah woman is limited because she “[o]nly know the past,” which means she preserves traditional knowledge of a remote African past, but she 14. “Munty” is a Bantu word meaning “people.”

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is condemned to the earthly and mundane. Because the past is already known, there is nothing inherently mysterious, powerful, or spiritual about her abilities. The last stanza “undoes” the poem’s premise that establishes the “magic” of the obeah woman by stating her limitations. The exclamatory “jejé!” adds a knowing cackle to emphasize this undoing of the demystified West Indian obeah woman. Bernard’s display of Afrocentricity also includes poems in praise of black men, particularly leaders and working men. As in Ritmohéroe, feminist notions of gender parity are secondary to a vested interest in racial and ethnic liberation. The poetic vision expressed in this collection is concerned with the global oppression of blacks of the African diaspora. “Leaders! Emerge!” is a poem in the first “act” of the collection, titled “Recalling,” and it presents an urgent call for the cultivation and development of leadership in the tradition of Marcus Garvey’s PanAfricanist vision. Leaders! Emerge! Commit thyselves, With words, with actions, With prayers, with swords. Leaders! Emerge! Liberate yourselves Seek thy identity Follow the philosophy Of Garvey; . . . evoke his spirit . . . Day by day . . . in the immortal UNIA Leaders! Emerge! From the inlands From the shores; Be thou laborer or learned; The landscape is the same: Obliged we are, to secure a place For the furture [sic] emancipation Of our new generation. He! . . . has already led us A long way . . . through the UNIA. The UNIA. UNIA. The UNIA.(n.p.)

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The apostrophic commands take on a lofty, sermonic tone in beseeching the revival of the Pan-African struggle against oppression and the invocation of Garvey’s UNIA. The poetic voice places Garvey in a Christlike position as prophet and redeemer of black peoples. The repeated demand “Leaders! Emerge!” is like a cry to accelerate a type of Second Coming. The poet-narrator urges those leaders to come forward and “Follow the philosophy / Of Garvey; . . . evoke his spirit . . . ,” because “He! . . . has already led us / A long way. . . .” The emphatic “He!” at the beginning of the last stanza is significant because it stresses the singularity and import of Marcus Garvey, his historical legacy, and his vision. The poem “Dock Workers” appears in the same section as “Leaders! Emerge!” and presents a celebration of black masculinity and the labor of the black male. Inspired by her political involvement on the behalf of labor, Bernard pays homage to the builders and workers of the port city who form a significant part of the social and economic structure of Limón. In the cultural space of blacks of West Indian descent in the region, the poetic voice praises the black male body and intellect: Dock workers! Your backs, your shoulders Are technology, group dynamics Methodology. Dock workers! The roughness of the sea Has made you, . . . can’t you see? The backbone of your country. Dock workers! So passionate for love, For justice, for action A force so natural For holding the flag of Human Rights! Dock workers! Have you ever been to the United Nations? Studied the art of diplomacy? How come you are so international, Possess such a collective brain To restrain discrimination?

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature Dock workers! Boxing champions; football heroes, Carnival dancers, . . . rioters; Loaders of ships, lovers of sex, Port of hopes . . . You are strong, fertile, and free Like the sea, like the sea! Like the sea, like the se(n.p.)

The poet-narrator refers to the dock workers in terms of their bodies and actions in work, nation building, politics, sex, and play. The struggles of the dock workers in Puerto Limón are a motif of the region. Their frequent strikes and political actions have served as the conscience of the region in terms of the demand for services, equal treatment, and recognition for their contribution to the economic development of Costa Rica. The “backs” and “shoulders” of the first stanza set up the second stanza’s declaration: The roughness of the sea Has made you . . . The backbone of your country.

Through their physical labor, the dock workers also provide the principal support for the nation’s economy. Without this strong backbone, built on the dock workers’ labor, the nation could not stand erect. The poem turns from the physical strength of the masculine body to desires and needs present in those bodies, “So passionate for love, / For justice, for action,” in the third stanza and to the power of intellect and political action in the fourth stanza. The final stanza in the poem returns to the physical—bodies in motion and as objects of desire. The black male body in sport, leisure, work, and sex. In these “strong, fertile, and free” bodies that are “Like the sea, like the sea!” the poet-narrator invests hope. The black male body is connected to the sea through the initial migration of ancestors from Jamaica and other parts of the West Indies and later through its own labor on the docks shipping cargo to other seaports. The simile links the economic dependence on the port with the male body and what this work represents to the Puerto Limón community—the future of strength, economic growth, and justice for the workers and the region. This praise is continued in “My Black King.” The poetic voice seeks to unite

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with the black male and demonstrates appreciation for the male role in the collective struggle. The female poetic voice offers herself not as a sacrifice, but as a bride: Royalty is carved on your forehead, King of the Ashanties you shall be, In these far off lands overseas. I tremble with pride, when I see . . . , The look of power in your black eyes. Power to rule, power to love, Power to cry. I see your black body, blooming Every morning, with sweet sweat, From forced labor, to free labor; From boredom, to freedom. And I tremble again with pride And I cry . . . : “My Black King, Here is your bride!” Here is your bride!”(n.p.)

The poetic voice recognizes the diaspora history of the Middle Passage and slavery. She acknowledges this heritage and the state of ancestral exile as well. She turns her gaze onto the black male body and what that body culturally signifies in the diaspora, “Power to rule, power to love, / Power to cry”: leadership, patriarchy, sexuality, fertility, passion, and collective emotion. The black male body is then seen as an object of labor across the time of slavery to the present time. Eulalia Bernard emphasizes the black woman’s support and accompaniment in the journey from Jamaica to Costa Rica. Many of the Afro–West Indian women who migrated to Costa Rica were “sent for” by their spouses. Few women embarked on the journey during the initial waves of migration with their mates. The final declaration that “Here is your bride!” is an offering of the feminine presence of Afro–West Indian women in the historical struggle through colonialism and migration. Language is another significant exploration in this collection. There is a conscious use of Limonese Creole to capture the voice of the people and the rhythmic flow of oral quality in the poems. “Crocus” is a simple poem about a famous local cricket player that captures the unified voice of the stadium’s spectators:

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature  Said the voice from the stadium “Bat the fucking ball!” That’s “Bat th e the way “Bat the the way b we say “Bat the the way bwe saya

d

in “Bat the this “Bat the thisya land. “Bat the this ya land. (n.p.)

The crowd in the stadium speaks in unison to urge the player, Crocus, to get on with the match. The poetic voice affirms the linguistic difference of the people of Limón: “That’s the way we say  in this ya land.” Not only is the crowd yelling in English, but they are also yelling in a defiant tone, using a popular expletive at a cricket match—acts that mark difference from the Spanish linguistic code. The nation language is used in “What Fi Do?”—a poem about an excursion to the Portete, a beach in Limón. Bernard demonstrates the borrowings from Spanish displayed in Limonese Creole and the code mixing that occurs as a natural development in the language: What a molote! Look like a viaje to the moon, This paseo to Portete. Mary you ready ya? The rice and beans ya está? No forget the crocus bag; . . . you hear? Fi pick up basura, You understand . . . after The pachanga done. Hie-jie! . . . What a basilón! Me can’t wait fi the time to come. I hope the camión no broke down An lef ’ we pan the ground.

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That would be a big tirada. No sa! . . . What fi do?! We going have a real basilón Camión or no camión, . . . and done! Camión or no camión, . . . and done(n.p.)

This demonstration of nonstandard codes of English and Spanish is an assertion of the popular language of the region. “What Fi Do?” is an example of the cultural adaptation among the second and third generations of Costa Ricans of West Indian descent. They are able to maintain a foothold in the cultures of their forebears and their predominantly Hispanic homeland.

Ciénaga (2001) In this two-part collection, Eulalia Bernard again displays a mixture of voices, languages, and registers characteristic of her poetry. Ciénaga features some poems written for special events, such as ceremonies that recognize Bernard’s writing and political activism, or to commemorate the work of a community group. Some of the poems appeared previously in a small publication, Griot, produced by the Mount of Olives Seventh-Day Adventist Youth Society. The largely Afro– Costa Rican congregation in San José published Griot in recognition of Bernard’s life and creative work, particularly her endeavors “for the vindication of the black race, culture, and history, not only in Costa Rica but in the world,” which earned her the Griot Award (GR, 5). Bernard was awarded this honor in 1996 by the African American Caribbean Cultural Arts Council for “imparting African wisdom and vision to the world community and for perpetuating the memory of African ancestral knowledge.” In traditional African societies, the griot is charged with the responsibility of serving as the repository for the history, genealogy, myths, legends, and community rituals of a group of people. In Ciénaga, Bernard performs as griot for her community through her efforts to preserve English and Creole as markers of cultural memory and identity. She acutely manipulates standard English and Limonese Creole. Her deployment of these two languages contests the cultural, ethnic, and linguistic homogeneity of the Central American country. For example, in “Bilingual Economy,” Limonese Creole is the idiom of the poem with borrowings from the local Spanish, and the poem addresses the politics of cacao, one of the principal crops grown by Afro– Costa Rican farmers in Limón Province:

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature Bono fi café bono fi caña mi no se no where the bono fi cacao. Es que them say, the gente cacao no necesitao for peseta, only the gente from the meseta; so the man in the Banco Central think of we like animal. What a democracia “sa” todo para unos nothing para todos; and we tiene no diputao we cacao man . . . What a “democratic” land! What a “democratic” land!(CN, 91)

The poem, inspired by the poet’s political action in favor of the cacao growers, takes on a twofold task. First, it forms a social criticism of the unequal distribution of agricultural subsidies. Second, in this critique of unequal treatment, the poetic voice protests the official government through the use of an unofficial, peripheral tongue. The subsidies are normally given to planters in the Central Valley who grow coffee and sugar cane, “Bono fi café / bono fi caña” (Subsidies for coffee / subsidies for sugar cane), but not for cacao, a principal product of the Caribbean coast. The use of Limonese Creole captures the marginal position of the cacao growers as well as their cultural resistance to the dictates of the center, San José. The myth of Costa Rican democracy and economic equality is questioned with these lines: What a democracia “sa” todo para unos nothing para todos; and we no tiene diputao . . . . . . . . . . . . . What a “democratic” land!

In the shining example of Central American democracy and economic stability, there is no representation for this marginalized group. The farmers and workers challenge the disparity between Costa Rica’s presentation to the exterior and the

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reality of their peripheral situation in the “Bilingual Economy” that excludes Afro–Costa Ricans as full participants in the economic equation. In “We Have Always Been There,” the poet articulates the female condition, absent of explicit mention of the male subject as a reference point. The poem addresses the history of the black woman in the Americas: We have always been there. We are the miracle of survival. We have taken care of lands of people. We have dug up foolishness We have warred disguised poverty We are indomitable. Yes, you are beauty crossed with energy. Yes, you are queens, warriors, higglers, teachers, prostitutes and preachers. Yes, you are daughters of Isis Yes, you captured the sprouts of evil cooked, and crushed them to ashes. Yes, you are the architect of good gold. I have the infula to infuse justice. I am the archivolt of my spear; I erect it, and demand its inoculation to be powerful. I erect it, and demand its ino(85)

Bernard’s characteristic use of anaphora and alliteration emphasizes the rhythmic orality of the poem and also supports the opening premise of the poem, “We have always been there.” The repetitive and cyclical actions of black women give a sense of permanency. It is here where Bernarnd’s choice of theme and structure of the poem situates her in the company of other Afro-Caribbean poets who thematically evoke the historical and literary subjectivity of black women in the Caribbean, such as Marlene Nourbese Philip, Opal Palmer Adisa, Eintou Pearl Springer, Grace Nichols, Sherezada (Chiqui) Vicioso, and Aída Cartagena Portalatín. Fitting with the griot theme in the collection, “We Have Always Been There” appears as a retelling of the women’s presence in the African diaspora— women as workers who struggle and sacrifice in less than hospitable conditions, women as objects of beauty and strength. Eulalia Bernard cleverly uses the image of the traditional woman’s duty as preparer of food as a metaphor in com-

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bating negative forces: “Yes, you captured the sprouts of evil / cooked, and crushed them to ashes.” The black woman uses an everyday act of cooking to eschew the evil standing in the way of her progress and the progress of her people. The poetic voice, the three stanzas of the poem, moves from the pronoun of collectivity (“we,” the first-person plural) to the pronoun of individual specificity (“I,” the first-person singular). The poetic subject moves from addressing the collective (“we”), turns to face the group of women (“you”), and then locates herself in the history of black women in the diaspora. She also asserts her importance and strength in this position: I have the infula to infuse justice I am the archivolt of my spear; I erect it, and demand its inoculation to be powerful.

Bernard creates new meanings by altering the lexical usage of “infula,” “archivolt,” and “inoculation.” Through this act, she takes poetic license with the language, shaping it to suit her creative and social message. Bernard uses a similar collective-individual dynamic in “I and I Story” with the pronouns “I” and “you.” The poet-narrator proclaims: I am your story I am your goodstory I am your sadstory I am your badstory I am your laughstory I am your fightstory I am your loststory I am your winstory I am your wonderstory I am your newstory I am your lovestory You are I story. I am your lovestory(12)

The simply structured poem is framed by “I am your story” and “You are I story,” but addresses not the situation of self and other, but the collective “we,” though it appears as a poem focused on individualism. Part of the poet-narrator’s concern is with not only the individual condition, but also the collective story of

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a people and the shared experience of a common history. The title implies the pronoun “we.” In “dread talk,” or the language of the Jamaican Rastafarians, “I and I” is used to express the communal. When read as “we,” the poem may also become a poetic declaration with the story of a collective producing the subject and meaning of aesthetic expression. Ciénaga also turns toward the erotic with the presence of poems such as “Making ‘Fiesta’” and “Black Sexsense.” The former poem describes the preamble to a heterosexual couple’s lovemaking, playfully described as “making ‘fiesta.’” The poetic voice speaks of her partner and their mutual sexual desire: The man just stood there. He looked me up and he looked me down disire [sic] spilling from blooming high cheeks pouting from his pants encouraged by the sensous [sic] choir of cristal [sic] clear dark voices. I was announced I will be loved deeply, eternally . . . . . . . . . . Now there are two beautiful black bodies making “fiesta.” two beautiful black (CN, 98)

The second poem, “Black Sexsense” is also hinged on the satisfaction of sexual desire. The poetic voice declares in a stanza from the poem: Your sweet sweat is now dripping into my bosom running down craven navels then, as a disobedient river chooses its path to heaven. to heaven.(99)

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This poem contains more explicit descriptive images of the sexual act with liquid imagery as its focal point. The river metaphor represents male sexual potency and female fertility in the erotic discourse.

Place, Language, and Nation in the Poetry of Eulalia Bernard In the poetry of Eulalia Bernard, Afro–Costa Rican identity is rooted in Limón, a place that symbolically serves as a bridge between the cultures of Costa Rica and the West Indies, specifically Jamaica. Her choice of themes presents an identity proud to have a nation to call home, but also challenges the mythologies that the official discourse of Costa Rica has perpetuated about racial homogeneity, social equality, and democracy. Limón in her work represents two things: the “home” of West Indian culture in Costa Rica referenced through memory and a model for a contemporary multiethnic-multicultural society. Both representations pose a challenge to the national myths of Costa Rica. Bernard’s choice of language is another challenge to the country’s assertion that it is exclusively a Spanish-speaking society. In addition to the standard and local varieties of Spanish, her verses are also composed in standard English and Limonese Creole. The multiple languages and registers in her writing assert difference from the dominant culture of Costa Rica. Through her focus on Limón, the use of English and Spanish and their variants, and her challenges to the myths of Costa Rican nationalism through the affirmation of difference, Eulalia Bernard presents a secondgeneration Afro–Costa Rican identity. Identity in her work is connected to two places, one real (Costa Rica) and one in the imagination (Jamaica). Nevertheless, there is a homologous relationship between identity and place whereby Limón and Afro–Costa Rican identity come to represent each other. Ritmohéroe alone has eight poems that refer to the port city and the province of Limón in relation to Afro–West Indian culture. Place for Afro–Costa Ricans of Bernard’s generation is centered in Limón Province. It is a location constructed and configured as a space of cultural, linguistic, and ethnic difference in the country’s national territory and as a space caught between the past and the present. The West Indian Limón of the past is accessed through remembrances of life in the enclave. At present, the development of the port, international agribusiness, and tourism have attracted an influx of people from other provinces in Costa Rica, and other countries such as Nicaragua, Colombia, Italy, Germany, Canada, Mexico, and the United States. Limón is syncretic and

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muticultural, but it remains situated in difference and marginalized in relation to the rest of the national territory. There is a longing for the security and the glory of the past. However, this is juxtaposed with the sweeping changes and instability of the present. The West Indies and Costa Rica are reconciled in Limón. It is in Limón that the second generation learns that its identity is no longer Jamaican, Trinidadian, or Barbadian; all are known collectively as afro-antillanos, or Afro–West Indians. Although physically, home is now located in Limón, Bernard’s poems journey back to the West Indies, specifically Jamaica, creating an inextricable link between the Central American coast and Costa Rica. As a site at the crossroads of two cultures, the space of Limón is negotiated to make it a home space. Home is not somewhere else anymore, with the changes the second and third generations witness in the years leading up to 1948 and Afro–Costa Rican political enfranchisement. Limón is the renegotiated space of Afro–Costa Rican difference. The most central notion of this difference is the West Indian cultural contribution. Though Limón’s territory belongs to Costa Rica, its cultural influences belong elsewhere; they have their home in the West Indies. Jamaica, for example, is the cultural home for Bernard’s writing, but Limón, on the other hand, is the physical home. There is a tension between the cultural geographies of the two spaces: one is “authentic,” and the other is “syncretic.” Costa Rica is the long-fought-for home and at the same time the result of circumstances of history. The residents of Limón worked the land and worked to benefit their own survival, but also contributed to Costa Rica’s economic growth and development. However, the inability to return to the home space of the West Indies also contributed to the “nationalization” of the blacks in Limón. Eulalia Bernard favors in her poetry the multiplicity of cultures and voices in Costa Rica while maintaining a strong foothold in the world of West Indian cultural practices in a multiethnic Costa Rica. Her verse presents the conflicts and struggles of second-generation blacks born in Limón, who for the most part carried the culture of their West Indian–born parents, but neither had documentation of their British citizenship nor were considered Costa Rican nationals. They were in a situation of double exile from the old home and in the new. This second generation focused their lives and aspirations on Limón because it was all they knew. As Quince Duncan describes in the introduction to Ritmohéroe: “The second generation born and raised in Costa Rica, legally stateless, clung to the legend of a happy and idealized Jamaica. Identity was questioned, but still without a true crisis, they clung to a country that only existed in the world of dreams.

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But they had a ‘little nation’: Limón, created in their own image and likeness, modeled by them, even on the margin of the terrible conditions of the enclave” (11). For the second generation, Limón was a “waiting” area for the exiles’ return home, until the return became an impossible dream. Limón is then forged into being their patria chica (little nation), and their cultural identity becomes intimately linked with this place. Eulalia Bernard creates a dichotomous subjectivity in her poetic work. There is the unresolved tension between the imagined community of West Indians in Limón as an extension of the Anglophone islands and the reality of that difficult cultural situation in Costa Rica. Bernard’s vision is like that of Abdul JanMohammed’s “specular border intellectual” for her inability to feel at “home” in either the cultural site of the West Indies or the Hispanic cultural setting of Costa Rica. Eulalia Bernard, like other diaspora and exilic writers, expresses the cultural difference of her pueblo (people or town): [C]lutching difference like a weapon to be used with stiffened will, the exile jealously insists on his or her right to refuse to belong. This usually translates into an intransigence that is not easily ignored. Willfulness, exaggeration, overstatement: these are characteristic styles of being an exile, methods for compelling the world to accept your vision—which make you more acceptable because you are in fact unwilling to have it accepted.15

Bernard’s different political and poetic positions in her collections are audiencebased. She is an exile because she is still fighting for home. Her poetry in English challenges monolingualism in Costa Rica. Her emphatic exclamatory and rhythmical metric patterns do not conform to the sedated tones and patterns of traditional poetry. Her verse refuses to be dismissed either by form or by content. Like other exilic and diaspora writers, she writes “clutching difference like a weapon,” whereupon she asserts her claim in a space of her own making. Bernard’s “unbelongingness,” or her proclamation of difference, is her use of language to punctuate her generation’s bilingual circumstances between West Indian culture and the dominant Hispanic society. Through the use of English and Creole, Bernard writes West Indian culture into the Costa Rican cultural patrimony. The poems also engage in wordplay, which is part of Bernard’s talent in presenting the playful aspects of language. For example, “Himno a Jamaica” mixes sounds of Creole and Spanish: 15. Edward Said, “Reflections on Exile,” 363.

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Jamaica “akee,” “akee,” aquí pa’ mi, “pattie,” “pattie,” allá pa’ ti. allá pa’ t(RH, 81).

“Ackee” is an edible fruit known as the “official fruit of Jamaica” and is frequently served with salted codfish. “Patty” is another common food from Jamaica and is a pastry traditionally filled with seasoned meat. The words for these foods in Creole are phonologically similar to words in Spanish, but with completely different meanings. The cultural difference of the Afro–West Indian is juxtaposed with Spanish as if to form an ironic statement to connect the two cultures—at once remembering the homeland of the past and transforming the new land of the present. Whether her verse is in Creole, English, or Spanish—or a combination of all three—Bernard paradoxically transmits cultural resistance and the need to belong to a nation-state. Her words and vision transmit defiance through parody, mimicry, and mocking tones and contain within them an implicit message of resistance and cultural preservation in the rhythm and improvised cadences of her use of nation language. There are obvious similarities with Jamaican writer and folklorist Louise Bennett, whom Bernard met in 1978 while serving as Costa Rica’s cultural attaché to Jamaica. In “Rice Gawn,” a political protest poem about the postindependence problems of scarcity of certain commodities due to price controls, Bennett says in the first verse of the poem, Authority control all price, Dem teck off and put awn; Authority go fas’ wid Rice An Rice get bex an gawn!16

Though much more developed in Bennett’s work, a similar protest is announced in Bernard’s “Bono fi café” in Ciénaga. Bernard also manages to capture the commotion and excitement of a moment, as does Bennett. The Jamaican folklorist’s poem “Excitement” is filled with the exclamations and rhythm of oral performance: 16. Bennett, Jamaica Labrish, 85.

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature Fling we de wash pan, drop de cloes! Put ahn yuh blue-boot, Fan! Bans of excitement outa street! Come march wid soja man! . . . . Is what Jamaica people wase time Go a movie fa When dem got nuff free excitement Outa street side yah?17

The hullabaloo and lively movement in the poem, in addition to its humor and orality, can be observed in Bernard’s “What Fi Do?” in My Black King. Both Bennett and Bernard employ the oral tradition in their Creole poetry and validate the use of the nation language, and both infuse their verse with humor to draw attention to more serious social and political issues. Like Louise Bennett, Eulalia Bernard embodies what Edward Kamau Brathwaite describes as literary improvisation because she incorporates folk forms and the oral tradition into her work. Improvisation occurs when “tone, rhythm, and image come together to create a certain kind of effect.” That “certain kind of effect” is the dramatic impact of the folk tradition and oral culture. In “Jazz and the West Indian Novel,” Brathwaite observes a correspondence between jazz improvisations and the orality of literature: “Each performance is different in some way because of its improvisational character; and each improvisation is a true creation and is an expression not only of individual artist or artists, but of the group of which the artists are part.”18 When related to literature, improvisation of the written text is based on the improvisational nature of the oral folk tradition. The rhythm, tone, and drama of the oral tradition in the written text are achieved through the retention of folk themes, use of folk speech (nation language), use of rhythm, performative repetition, and imagery in order to impart improvisation. Eulalia Bernard’s West Indian–influenced poetry explodes with the rhythms of the drum and the improvisational nature of the African-derived oral folk traditions in the Americas. However, her verse is “doubly Creolized” because it reflects a largely African-based culture from the West Indies, which has then been transformed by the Hispanic culture of Costa Rica. Out of this experience of multiple migrations and multiple cultural influences, Bernard retains the per17. Ibid., 34 – 35. 18. Brathwaite, Roots, 80 (emphasis added), 57.

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formance of the oral tradition in the written word and transmits this Creolized, “New World” folk experience to her public. In the poetry of Eulalia Bernard, Afro–Costa Rican identity bridges the dominant culture of Costa Rica and her West Indian heritage. Her choices of themes present an identity proud to have a nation to call home, but also challenge the mythologies that the official discourse of Costa Rica has perpetuated about ethnic and linguistic homogeneity, social equality, and democracy. She attempts to negotiate a difficult territory of the desire for the full acceptance of Afro–Costa Ricans into the nation-state by proposing an embrace of a multiethnic and multicultural society, which challenges those national myths. She asserts this embrace by calling the nation’s attention to the black presence in Costa Rica’s past through the venerated symbol of Our Lady of the Angels and Costa Rica’s black present. She poignantly presents the images of the West Indian descendants’ struggle to attain citizenship and become ticos de pura cepa (authentic Costa Ricans), but without erasing West Indian ethnolinguistic difference. Bernard’s deployment of language is another challenge to the country’s assertion that it is exclusively a Spanish-speaking society. The multiple languages and registers in her writing assert difference from the dominant culture of Costa Rica. Bernard places blackness at the center of many of her poems and makes no apology for her use of Limonese Creole and Spanish. Her work shows a deep love for her country, but also challenges the national myths of Costa Rica through the affirmation of difference. In this way, Eulalia Bernard presents a second-generation Afro–Costa Rican identity that has claimed Costa Rica as home, but rejects assimilation.

Three

Quince Duncan and the Development of Afro–Costa Rican Identity

Q

uince Duncan is one of Costa Rica’s most prolific writers. As a thirdgeneration Afro–Costa Rican, he is one of the most studied black writers from the Spanish-speaking world. Duncan, the grandson of Jamaican and Barbadian immigrants, was born in San José in 1940 and lived his formative years in Estrada, a small town in Limón Province. Duncan’s impressive bibliography includes four collections of short stories: El pozo y una carta (The well and a letter, 1969), Bronce (Bronze, 1970), Una canción en la madrugada (Dawn song, 1970), La rebelión pocomía y otros relatos (The pocomania and other stories, 1976); two collections of folktales: Los cuentos del hermano araña (Anancy stories, 1975) and Los cuentos de Jack Mantorra (The stories of Jack Mantorra, 1988); and two anthologies: El negro en Costa Rica (The black man in Costa Rica, 1970) in collaboration with historian Carlos Meléndez and El negro en la literatura costarricense (The black man in Costa Rican literature, 1975). Duncan has also produced to date five novels: Hombres curtidos (Hardened men, 1971), Los cuatro espejos (The four mirrors, 1973), La paz del pueblo (The peace of the town, 1976), Final de calle (End of the road, 1979), and Kimbo (1989). The author has also written a play, El trepasolo (The lone climber), and numerous newspaper and journal articles published in Costa Rica and abroad. Additionally, he has published texts on black religious expression and on racism in Costa Rica and Panama, in collaboration with Lorein Powell, and a collection of personal anecdotes in Un señor de chocolate (A chocolate man, 1996) and Contra el silencio: Afrodescendientes y racismo en el Caribe continental hispánico (Against silence: African descendants and racism in Spanish-speaking Central America, 2001). In Costa Rican letters, Duncan belongs to an important generation of

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writers that includes Alfonso Chase and Laureano Albán, who have changed the aesthetic and social direction of the nation’s literary production. Duncan could also be considered one of the “new novelists” omitted from the Latin American literary “boom.” His writing, like Afro-Colombian writer Manuel Zapata Olivella, surpasses that of many of his literary peers, but without the international acclaim garnered by figures such as Carlos Fuentes, Gabriel García Márquez, and Mario Vargas Llosa. Specifically addressing Duncan’s 1973 novel, Los cuatro espejos, Alan Persico states, “[L]ike some other works in the AfroHispanic tradition this novel too can be considered a ‘new novel,’ as other writers such as Juan Rulfo, García Márquez, Ernesto Sábato, Vargas Llosa, Alejo Carpentier, Roa Bastos, Ángel Asturias, to name a few.”1 Four of Duncan’s novels were published in 1971, 1973, 1976, and 1979. Chronologically and stylistically, these works coincide with the boom, if we consider the 1960s as the beginning of the short-lived event and its final stages as the 1970s. Duncan presents, like the writers of the Latin American boom, the postmodern strategies and techniques of the “new novel.” Donald Shaw notes a partnership between the new novel and the emergence of the boom. Some of the key characteristics that Shaw outlines include: (1) a tendency to abandon the linear structure and order of the traditional novel that is replaced by a structure centered on the spiritual evolution of the protagonist or with experimentation that reflects the multiplicity of reality; (2) a tendency to subvert chronological order; (3) a tendency to abandon realist scenes in favor of imaginary spaces; (4) a tendency to replace the omniscient narrator with multiple or ambiguous narrators; and (5) a great use of symbolic elements. Duncan’s novelistic endeavors into the “new novel” question realism and the construction of myths of national identity by moving his protagonists to an experimental plane of a multiperspectival and temporally altered world. Additionally, his fiction demonstrates a movement “toward ‘writerly’ rather than reader friendly fiction, often with the inclusion of a certain challenge to the reader.”2 Duncan achieves this through the alteration of time; the use of multiple voices, narrators, and perspectives; and an engagement with metafiction in the specific case of Hombres curtidos, where the protagonist is writing the narrative that we read. Raymond L. Williams in both The Postmodern Novel in Latin America (1995) and The Modern Latin American Novel (1998) omits in general a significant dis1. Persico, “Quince Duncan’s Los cuatro espejos: Time, History, and a New Novel,” 15. 2. Shaw, The Post-boom in Spanish American Fiction, 5.

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cussion of Afro-Hispanic novelists (though he graciously mentions Zapata Olivella in The Modern Latin American Novel as one of the “other” novelists of the boom) and notably excludes Duncan from the discussion of postmodern writers in Central America. The omission is lamentable because Duncan, informed of world literary movements, connects a technically inventive writing style with a serious treatment of ethnic and national identity. His innovative narrative experiments alter the logical order of time and space, frequently incorporating leaps between present and past, flashbacks, flash-forwards, and dreams. Unfortunately, there are three leading reasons for the exclusion of a talented writer such as Quince Duncan from the international literary scene. The first is the lack of access to the global market through translation in the principal languages of the world. Much of Duncan’s work remains unknown outside of Costa Rica, except to a few North American and Caribbean scholars, and his novels remain untranslated. To date, the only literary works that have been translated into English are his short story collections, which appear in the bilingual text The Best Short Stories of Quince Duncan/Las mejores historias de Quince Duncan, by Dellita Martin-Ogunsola. The second reason is the lack of revolutionary rhetoric that launched the major boom writers to unprecedented fame. Costa Rican writers, including Duncan, were aware of the impact of the Cuban Revolution on the aesthetic direction of Latin American literature. However, as Costa Rican writer and critic Alfonso Chase observes, “Costa Rica becomes the spokesperson against the installation of a Marxist-Leninist state in Latin America, being many times the vanguard on an international level against the ideas of the Cuban Revolution.”3 Finally, there is the matter of ethnic difference and the marketing of the Latin American novel. Novels of black identity by Afro-Hispanic authors do not make it to the forefront of national publishers’ catalogs and are pushed aside in favor of texts with more “universal” appeal. Texts are favored that explore issues of alienation, modern angst, historical revisionism, and national consciousness without the consideration of ethnic and cultural difference within the region. The focus of this chapter will be Duncan’s novels, specifically Hombres curtidos, Los cuatro espejos, and La paz del pueblo. These three “novels of identity” most profoundly address the issues of national identity and Afro–West Indian ethnicity in Costa Rica. The texts present themes of exile as it relates to the formation of identity and the conception of home. The first two novels, Hombres curtidos and Los cuatro espejos, feature male protagonists of Jamaican descent struggling internally with their Afro–West Indian heritage and their difficult “fit” 3. Chase, Narrativa contemporánea de Costa Rica, 98.


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in the dominant Hispanic culture. With the political battles won for the enfranchisement of blacks, the characters are searching within themselves for a sense of place within the nation-state. Both Clif Duke of Hombres curtidos and Charles McForbes of Los cuatro espejos make journeys from the capital back to Limón Province, their place of origin, to reconcile their national and ethnic identity. Through these two characters, the historical matter of West Indian migration is addressed along with inter- and intraracial dynamics of skin pigmentation and corresponding levels of privilege. Color stratification is also presented in La paz del pueblo; however, this work stands out from the novels of return by Duncan because it is focused on the uneasiness within the West Indian community in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Discord surfaces in a provincial town over the color line, Garveyism, and the legacy of British colonialism. The system of “divide and rule” creates antagonism between groups in the province, particularly the Afro–West Indians and the Hispanic population. La paz del pueblo presents a profound treatment of AfroCaribbean themes of history, social structure, religious practices, and customs in the enclave. Through the mysterious and entangled relationship of Pedro Dull and Sitaira, the novel unfolds against the backdrop of the United Fruit plantations. The novel also highlights conflicts between the elite and the working-class groups within the West Indian community and how both are affected by the dominant Hispanic culture of the country. These three novels, Hombres curtidos, Los cuatro espejos, and La paz del pueblo, have at their core issues of place, displacement, and exile. The history of the West Indian presence in Costa Rica is one of displacement by way of voluntary migration. This important fact in the sociocultural context inscribes the migrant identity of the characters and links them to West Indian culture. The dislocated West Indian subject then reconfigures his or her relationship between self and place, language and place, and identity. Additionally, there are matters of internal migration of the third generation—from the province, dominated by Afro– West Indian culture, to the capital, the center of the dominant Hispanic culture of the nation-state. Hombres curtidos and Los cuatro espejos raise questions whether the third-generation descendants of West Indians born in Costa Rica have reconciled their identity with respect to nation and home. For the third generation, home is (re)constructed with mixed results because of the question of cultural and national identity and the desire to fix these identities to a place. La paz del pueblo, in comparison with Duncan’s first two novels, presents an intrinsic point of view of a community in transformation. It is situated from within the Afro– West Indian culture with less engagement with the questions of nation. Because

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of the complex nature of this novel, it will be examined in thematic segments that relate to the overriding theme of cultural identity and exile.

Hombres curtidos (1971) Are you Costa Rican? —Are you really? This is your problem Clif, it’s your problem now. (HC, 99) For third-generation Afro–Costa Rican Clif Duke, the protagonist of Quince Duncan’s first novel, this question of national identity and finding “home” is of critical importance. Hombres curtidos examines the dilemma of this third generation caught between their ethnocultural affiliation with the West Indies and their Costa Rican citizenship by birth. This generation took great initiative during the 1950s to exploit the opportunities of recently granted citizenship by migrating to the Central Valley, particularly the capital, San José. After leaving Limón Province as a sixteen-year-old adolescent, Clif Duke makes a return home to his origins as a thirty-year-old man to write his grandfather’s history. In the course of writing to exculpate his deceased grandfather of accusations against him, the prodigal grandson revisits the past as a youth in Limón and claims both his West Indian cultural heritage and his rightful place on the Costa Rican land. However, through flashbacks and multiple narrative shifts, it becomes apparent that the narration is not only Duke’s individual story of finding and claiming place, but also the story of his collective ancestry—and all Afro–Costa Ricans of Afro–West Indian descent by extension. Hombres curtidos is a novel of ancestral exile as a result of the continuous pattern of separation of home and identity. The novel presents themes of land, inheritance, and citizenship as operatives to reconnect the subject self with a real or imaginary home. In the case of Clif Duke, his return is a turning away from the ancestral home of Jamaica to the “new” home of Costa Rica. He performs what Caribbean writer-critic Edouard Glissant calls “the impulse to revert” out of a “need to come to terms with the new land” for a transplanted people.4 While staking his claim, or his right to the new home, Duke conserves the memory of the old home by documenting the struggles of his grandparents to make a space in this new geography. Duke represents the reconciliation of West Indian and 4. Glissant, Caribbean Discourse: Selected Essays, 18.


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Costa Rican identities. He is able to claim a home within the national territory of Costa Rica and retains an imagined Jamaica as part of his cultural legacy, but not as his home. Duke’s reconciliation of identity and place is a symbolic integration of the ethnolinguistic nation-within-a-nation and the dominant Hispanic culture of Costa Rica. This impressive first novel discusses Afro–Costa Rican identity in terms of geography, place, and cultural difference. It details the attempt of a generation to integrate place and identity by resolving to remain in the country of their birth, not the islands of their ancestors, and to be “Costa Rican,” instead of maintaining the myth of return to an unfamiliar land. Duke’s acceptance of a Costa Rican national identity and his citizenship challenges the parameters of who is Costa Rican and the notions of ethnic homogeneity of Costa Rican national discourse. Additionally, instead of fruitlessly maintaining the myth of return to an unfamiliar land, the protagonist’s return home to the province is an attempt to transform the alienation of ancestral exile and displacement by accepting the land of his birth, where his forebears labored, as home. For this reason, it is important to return the protagonist to his place of origin—where his “navel-string is buried” to affirm that he has made this country his home. Duke returns to Limón, not to Jamaica or to Africa, the lands of his ancestors. Duke is a son of the displaced and dislocated. He seeks to reconnect the self to the past to make Costa Rica his “official” home. However, in spite of this reconfiguration of identity for thirdgeneration black Costa Ricans of West Indian descent, Duke remains a marginal figure in Costa Rican society. Nevertheless, Clif Duke is at home and not a “nowherean” as his mother and grandparents were.5 The twelve chapters of Hombres curtidos are divided into three parts that span several generations of the Duke family: Clif, his mother, his grandparents, and his great-grandparents. The protagonist as a third-generation descendant of black West Indian immigrants must determine how his “West Indianness” can be compatible with his “Costa Ricanness,” if at all. Clif Duke can be identified as the novel’s protagonist in Hombres curtidos because his return to Limón to write unites the work and his presence serves as a catalyst for the “rest of the story” to unfold. The first part reveals a personal history of the arrival of West Indian laborers to Costa Rica and the effect of displacement, diaspora, and marginalization. The problem of identity erupts into a heated discussion between Duke’s mother, 5. Nowherean is a word coined by Afro–Costa Rican professor Franklin Perry and appears in the entry for Costa Rica in Minority Rights Group, ed., No Longer Invisible: Afro-Latin Americans Today.

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Grace, and her beau, Clovis. They debate whether they should accept Costa Rica as home or return to Jamaica, a country they have never seen or cannot recall. The second part of the novel goes back to Clif ’s efforts to vindicate his grandfather’s reputation after false accusations over alleged misappropriation of a widow’s money. The stream-of-consciousness thoughts of Jake (or Jakel), Clif ’s grandfather, on his deathbed, initiates the second part of the novel.6 Jake’s random memories, reminiscent of the last agonizing moments of Carlos Fuentes’s title character in the Death of Artemio Cruz (1962), evoke the past. As Jake is dying, He heard the songs of nature’s voices, voices of toads and crickets, voices multiplying in the flux of time, voices of human history. The images of all of this flowed, flowed, in a prolonged chain, metamorphosis of time. (Percibía el canto de voces naturales, voces de sapos y grillos, voces multiplicándose en el devenir del tiempo, voces de la historia humana. Las imágenes de todo eso, fluían, fluían, en cadena prolongada, metamorfosis del tiempo.) (90)

He conjures the voice of his deceased wife, recalls the land they farmed and “civilized” in Costa Rica, and maintains the hope that his grandchild will embrace his native land that does not accept him because of his color, language, and ancestral origins: “For the last time he thought about Clif, the grandson he had released into the world to embrace his native land. The same land that never decided if it wanted to accept the blacks or not” (Por última vez pensó en Clif, el nieto que él había lanzado a abrazar la tierra natal. La misma tierra que nunca decidió si quería o no a los negros, 94). Jake remembers facing racism and racial prejudice during a visit to San José when he needed to use a toilet. He was humiliated with phrases such as “I can’t let you use it nigger, you’ll scare the children” (No puedo prestárselo Negro: se asustan los niños, 94) and finally humiliated by a police officer with a fine (or bribe) for urinating in public. In light of this historical experience of his grandfather and his own, Clif Duke’s “problema de ahora” is the question of whether he is a true Costa Rican national or something else. After observing his grandfather’s life, the land he inherited, the struggle of West Indians in Costa Rica (including his own), and the history of displacement, Clif Duke defines and affirms his national identity as Costa Rican. 6. Both spellings, Jake and Jakel, appear in the novel. For the sake of consistency, I will use Jake throughout, unless it appears in a direct quote, because it is the first spelling that appears in the novel.


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The final section brings the novel full circle, back to the beginning of the narrative. This portion of the novel repeats the beginning scene of Duke’s homecoming to Estrada with his wife and child. Instead of returning to childhood memories of life in Limón of the first part of Hombres curtidos, the protagonist revisits painful memories of the pejorative ethnic slurs, racist attitudes, stereotypes, and discrimination he faced when he first arrived in San José. This return to the memories of the past, fourteen years earlier, is made at the insistence of Duke’s wife, who presses him to tell her about this early period. Although he does not want to bring up these memories, he tells her about his experiences as a black man from the province in the capital and the discrimination he suffered. From this lack of comprehension, it can be deduced that the protagonist’s wife is not of Afro–West Indian origin or possibly a member of the few families of West Indian origin who settled in the Central Valley prior to the enfranchisement of blacks. However, these few families suffered just as much racism and discrimination as those migrating to the capital from Limón Province. She inquires, “why didn’t you continue the job” (¿por qué no seguiste? 127), after hearing Duke speak of the daily racial insults, racist epithets, and underhanded deeds of unscrupulous characters. She appears to be “out of the loop” of his experience because of her lack of awareness of Duke’s early struggles with racism in San José and her husband’s desire to return to his home in Limón. Clif Duke also tells of the distinct treatment of the Chinese and the blacks in the city; both are “foreign” elements. He addresses his own struggle to be Costa Rican while contemplating his grandfather’s assessment of Marcus Garvey, the “back to Africa” movement, and the postcolonial situation of diaspora subjects and their inability to return to Africa or to the Caribbean. Finally, Duke realizes that he needs to “reconcile with the mud,” an affirmation that he has decided to rejoin the long separation of identity and land with his generation (138). He begins to write the same lines that begin the novel, “The act of lifting the suitcase, holding the child, and exiting the train is just one motion . . . ” (El acto de levantar la valija, alzar al niño y bajarme del tren es uno solo . . . , 139). At the outset of the novel, Clif Duke faces opposing thoughts on his return. He left as a boy in search of educational and employment opportunities in the capital and returns as a writer. Upon his arrival in the province, the tensions of the “civilization” of the Hispanic culture of the capital versus the perceived “barbarism” of the coastal province become apparent. Duke observes: My friends in the capital will never forgive me for leaving the great city, the fast pace of the artistic elite that our generation tries to create. Discourses

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature on the latest literature, art, service to humanity, everything, all of this and other matters that involve urban life. (Los amigos de la capital no me perdonarán nunca el haber dejado la gran ciudad, la vida rápida de la elite artística que nuestra generación trata de crear. Los discursos sobre el ultra-literatura, arte, el servicio del hombre, todo, todo eso y las otras cosas que la vida urbana involucra.) (3)

The urban and urbane life of the capital city represents the center of the dominant culture. Duke faces questions from his incredulous acquaintances, “Why would you go and bury yourself in the bush” (Para qué te vas a encuevar allá en ese monte), but responds to this with an affirmation to find his roots, “But, I am searching for my own roots” (Pero busco mis propias raíces, 4). This return in search of his roots stimulates memories of the past. At various points in the novel, even he is unaware of his motives for returning to Estrada. Upon arrival, Clif Duke is reminded by his memories and by his interactions with others, “you are the heir” (vos sos el heredero, 6). Jake treated Duke more like a son than a grandchild. When Duke’s mother was pregnant, she refused to marry the father of her child, Clifton, who died before Clif’s birth. Grace wanted her son to bear her family’s last name because of an immense love for her family. Before Duke’s birth, the grandfather prayed for a male child to carry on the family name: “he felt proud, since the child would carry the Duke name, and he began to pray for it to be a male child” (él sentía orgullo, por cuanto el bebé llevaría el apellido Duke, y empezó a rogar para que naciese varón, 7). To continue the family’s bloodline and last name, Duke becomes the heir to his grandfather’s material and cultural legacy and the link between the West Indian past and the future in the new land. He is also heir to the legacy of centuries of displacement and the burden of history as one generation struggles for the next. Duke returns to Limón to write their story—the story of his ancestors. The concepts of “inheritance,” “heritage,” and ethnic identity unify the multiple generations of Duke men in the novel. “You are the heir” is a reminder that Clif is a part of a chain of diaspora subjects. This chain maintains its difficult continuity not only through the handing down of material possessions from one generation to the next, but also through the “inheritance” of ancestral blood and cultural practices. The family name, Duke, came not from a slave owner, but from the self-naming of a descendant of an African monarch after emancipation. Clif ’s grandfather desires the name and that the legacy continue in a male heir. He wishes to pass on the inheritance of culture and history through the family’s last name.


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As the novel continues backward through time in the male lineage of the Duke family, there is a repetition of the concept of inheritance that connects the generations. From Clif’s first-person account of memories of his grandfather, a thirdperson omniscient narrator then follows the story of Jake’s “inheritance” from his father, Jonás. The Jamaican great-grandfather goes to Panama to work in the Canal Zone with the hope of providing for his son’s education and perhaps a life different from his own. This dream never materializes in the way Jonás had envisioned it. He dies in Panama, leaving Jake with an inheritance: “Perhaps Jonás had left enough so that his son could attain the freedom that he never did” (Acaso Jonás había dejado lo suficiente para que su hijo alcanzase la libertad que él nunca logró, 14). Jake travels by banana boat from Jamaica to Panama to claim the inheritance and ponders his father’s migration to Panama as “an exchange of one type of onerous slavery . . . for another more refined type of slavery” (el cambio de una esclavitud onerosa . . . a otro tipo de esclavitud más refinado, 15). The ritual music of Pocomania, an Afro-syncretic religion that Jake hears during the sea voyage, stirs a collective memory of the Ashantis’ struggles against British attacks, their eventual submission, and the Middle Passage. As Jake reads the last letter from the dead man aboard the vessel, he remembers life with his father in Jamaica. He remembers a mysterious visit from a white man, Mistah Edwin, his great-uncle and the son of a plantation owner. The Scottish master fathered two children with his slave Nicky, who was sold to pay the Scotsman’s debts. As the legitimate heir, Mistah Edwin denies Jonás’s grandmother and her sister of their rightful share of the white master’s inheritance. In Jamaica, Jake’s family is dispossessed of their land and their birthright. Jake later undertakes efforts to ensure that his grandson, Clif, understands that this “natural right” of birth in a country is meaningless without struggle. Hard labor and struggle are the only legitimate ways to establish one’s right to land and home. The narrator returns to Jake, whose dreams are invested in the money left to him by his father. When Jake goes to claim his inheritance, he is disappointed to discover that the amount given to him by the executor is only a small sum, a fraction of what the man had actually left, “which was impossible to verify because it never occurred to Jonás to specify the amount in his last letter” (lo cual resultó imposible comprobar porque a Jonás no se le ocurrió especificar la suma en su postrera carta, 24). Jake decides to look for opportunities elsewhere and travels to Costa Rica to meet his “brother,” Walter, who was also raised by Jake’s grandmother, even though he was not her biological grandchild. In Costa Rica, Jake works the land with aspirations of returning home to Jamaica. However, he eventually reconsiders when he faces resistance from his wife,

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Gretl, who rejects the idea of returning to Jamaica. She claims that to return would be an insult to those who sacrificed to make the land hospitable—the land that the native white and mestizo Costa Ricans could not work. Even after Gretl’s death, Jake decides to stay in Costa Rica as a tribute to her. It is a way to honor the ultimate sacrifice made by those who died in the process of making a better life. As he lies in a hospital bed in San José in agony, he remembers Gretl’s words, “And your sweat, Jakel? The blood that has been spilled many times. The innumerable wounds that I healed with so much devotion” (¿Y tu sudor Jakel? La sangre derramada muchas veces. Las heridas innumerables que he curado con tanta devoción, 89 – 90). She reminds him of the importance of the physical struggle and the land they made productive, land abandoned by the majority of the highland-dwelling Costa Ricans for its hostile conditions: “No one apart from us can handle this land. If they could have, we would have been on our way back home a long time ago” (Nadie puede con esta tierra aparte de nosotros. Si hubiesen podido, hace rato estaríamos de vuelta, 90). Gretl explains, “Perhaps with all of the sacrifice and effort that it cost us, we have earned the right to the land for our children” (Tal vez con todo el sacrificio y el esfuerzo que nos ha costado, hayamos ganado le [sic] derecho a la tierra para nuestros hijos, 90). To return to Jamaica would be disrespectful to their own efforts and the efforts of other West Indian immigrants who arrived. Although he accumulates enough money to return to his home in St. James Parish, Jake decides to remain in Costa Rica because Gretl did not want to return. One of the explicit messages that Jake passes on to Clif is the inextricable link between home and identity through the possession of land. The old man passes to his only heir, his grandson, the family farm, which is called Buena Esperanza (Good Hope). He warns: It is not a fortune, I know that, but it is yours. Don’t receive it like those who put out their hand without having worked and who will never deserve their inheritance. Receive it knowing that the Lord provides your gifts. (No es una fortuna, lo reconozco, pero es tuya. No la recibas como hacen esos que ponen la mano sin haber trabajado y nunca llegan a merecer su herencia. Recíbela más bien, sabiendo que recibes talentos del Señor.) (8)

Through his own labor and his grandfather’s hard work, Duke should reap the benefits of the land that was passed to him. The memories of his grandfather give him an understanding that this gift of land is a message for Duke to claim the space as his home and his nation. Duke will have a greater claim to the land, cit-


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izenship, and home than those who assume these things are their birthright without having to manually sweat or toil for its frustrating realization. The name of the small family farm, Buena Esperanza, is symbolic. The small farm really is the only material item Clif inherits from his grandfather and represents the gift of hope for the future “at home” on Costa Rican soil. Jake Duke gives this inheritance to him as a part of this continual burden of one generation struggling for the next. Jake Duke declares: Those who have deeds to the land are just stewards, authorized to exploit it for collective benefit. And I would bequeath it to you on the condition that you come to deserve it through work. We have brought nothing to the world, Clif. And we can take nothing with us except—do you know what?—the little bit of experience that we gain. (Los que tienen títulos no son sino mayordomos, autorizados para explotarla en beneficio colectivo. Y yo te hubiera legado con la condición de que llegaras a merecerla mediante el trabajo. Nada hemos traído al mundo Clif. Y nada podemos llevar con nosotros salvo, ¿sabes qué? la poca experiencia que acumularemos.) (55)

The land Clif inherits is a legacy forged in blood, hard labor, and sweat and is not a natural right bestowed upon him by virtue of birth within a certain national territory. This also speaks to the hard-fought citizenship for the descendants of West Indians in Costa Rica. Blacks receive citizenship as a result of the efforts of individuals such as Alex Curling who seek recognition for the blacks who helped construct Costa Rica’s modern economy. Jake wants to stress that after the work of the first and second generations, “blood gives rights” (la sangre da derechos, 111). Jake’s initial desire to repatriate is transformed into his determination to leave his grandchild with a legacy of racial and ethnic history and a sense of belonging to the land. The land becomes an important marker of belonging to place and, consequently, identity. Jake’s conversion highlights the concern that there are those who inherit because of blood and birth and others who inherit through blood and sweat of labor. Jake’s legacy to Clif is work, land, and ancestry. In this, Jake makes a statement that being native to a place does not entitle blacks to it, but affirms that hard work should count for something to build a future home. The Hispanic population inherited Costa Rica by birthright, and the West Indian descendants inherited a right to a national identity through the labor of previous generations. When Clif’s grandfather queries, “Are you Costa Rican?” Clif

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must decide how much of his Jamaican heritage to conserve and how much to “integrate” into the customs of the national population. Clif is of the third generation—he inherited the legacy of work from the first generation and the second: The timeless echo of Grandfather’s voice came back from the forgotten tomb: blood, light emanating from yesterday and tomorrow, I, Clif Duke, descendent of Jamaicans. . . . Not through pity nor through the work of some benefactor, but as a right, earned, not by me or those of my generation, but rather by the older ones, and in a certain way also by the second generation together with the first. (El eco sin tiempo ya de la voz del abuelo, regresaba desde la tumba perdida: sangre luz emanente desde el ayer y el mañana, yo, Clif Duke, descendiente de jamaicanos. . . . No por misericordia ni por obra de benefactor alguno, por derecho propio, ganado, no por mí ni por los de mi generación, sino por los viejos, y en cierta forma también por la segunda generación contando la suya como primera.) (110)

To be Costa Rican is not an automatically inherited right by birth—it is a struggle. Clif Duke has to fight for his right to exist because the system itself is not set up to promote the national identity for blacks in Costa Rica. The need to unify home and identity leads to a discussion among members of the second generation of West Indian blacks in Costa Rica. Grace, Clif’s mother, debates with her friend Clovis, who wants to marry her and be a father to Clif. They argue about the future of blacks in Costa Rica. Grace, who was born in Limón, voices the opinion that the Afro–West Indians should learn Spanish and be at “home” in Costa Rica because this is where they are and Jamaica is an unfamiliar place. Clovis was born in Jamaica, but left as a young child. Although the island is a vague memory, he asserts that they must return to Jamaica because it is their legitimate home. Clovis proclaims, “What is really important is race, the blood entitlement that ties us to Jamaica as heirs” (Lo realmente importante es la raza, el derecho de sangre que nos liga a Jamaica como herederos, 65). He then draws a parallel between the Jewish and the African diasporas, declaring that “the Jews, dispersed all over the globe, have found unity in their race, in religion, and in their customs” (los judíos: dispersados por todo el orbe encuentran su unidad en la raza, en la religión y en las costumbres, 65). He claims that West Indians are losing their identity and must not become part of the paña’s country or assimilate any of their cultural practices. Clovis makes an essentialist claim by as-


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serting that West Indian cultural identity in Costa Rica is “one, shared culture . . . which people with a shared history and ancestry hold in common.”7 From a different point of view, Grace posits the construction of a new identity because of the separation from the Jamaican homeland and the reality of the inability to return. She claims they must “become” where they are positioned, and that position indicates a movement toward being Afro–Costa Rican and no longer Jamaican. Even Duke debates with his grandfather and within himself the implications of history and a Costa Rican identity. He is aware of the history of blacks in the region who passed from one form of colonization to another or, as Jake observes of his father’s experience on the Panama canal, in the exchange of one form of slavery for a more modern form of the peculiar institution. Like his mother, Duke feels that blacks of West Indian descent “have conquered the land, but have lost their culture, and today have none” (conquistaron la tierra, pero perdieron su cultura, y hoy no tiene ninguna, 114) because the Afro–West Indians have not defined their identity from where they are positioned. Jamaica is their distant referent for home. It seems that Clif Duke’s assertion that the Limonese have no culture does not necessarily mean the lack of a social order, customs, or an established way of life, but rather refers to the lack of a national identity with which to attach this series of cultural practices. To Duke, there is no culture without a country or fixed territory. In spite of his grandfather’s insistence on the logic of maintaining cultural difference (in language, religion, and social and domestic practices) to demonstrate their separate culture from that of the cholos (Spanishspeaking mestizos), Duke argues that they—his grandfather, his mother, as well as himself—are apátridos (people without a country). He states, “And you arrived to fulfill a contract. Then you cultivated the land and, in spite of all of the evils you had to put up with, you stayed here, and we are without a country” (Y ustedes llegaron para cumplir con un contrato. Luego cultivaron la tierra, y, a pesar de todos los males que hubieron de soportar, se quedaron aquí, y nosotros apátridos, 115). The cultural and territorial point of reference is Jamaica, and Clif seeks to bridge that physical displacement of his heritage. Displacement indicates that something is not in its “proper” place or that something is in disjunction. After abandoning Limón to search for his Costa Rican self, Clif Duke journeys back home to reconnect with his family roots and to comprehend his sense of displacement and unbelonging. This third-generation black Costa Rican has to define the connection between land and identity 7. Hall, “Cultural Identity,” 51.

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for his generation. He makes a type of “double journey” because he travels physically to the place of his origins, but also makes a historiographic journey through the writing and retelling of his grandfather’s story and family history. He must reconnect himself to the land of his birth and reconnect the ancestral routes— Africa, the West Indies, and Central America. The adherence to ancestry and blood(lines) is a constant and the only secure feature of identity for survival. There is a persistent remembrance of the past as a tool for the future. With echoes of “You are the heir” surrounding him, the question for Clif Duke is how to claim his Costa Rican identity while embracing the past of his ancestors, which is not easily forgotten. It is a challenge for Duke and other members of the third generation to continue the legacy of ethnic difference and integrate into the dominant culture without assimilating. He questions whether his generation has reconciled nation, home, and identity. The third generation reconfigures home, and the question posed by the protagonist’s grandfather, “Are you Costa Rican?” is pivotal in the inscription of identity because of the close association of land and place. Hombres curtidos is a novel of multiple displacements. At the outset of the novel, Clif Duke is a dislocated subject because of his choice of internal migration from the province to the capital. Jake Duke, the grandfather, is also dislocated because of the choice to emigrate for inheritance, and Clif’s great-grandfather Jonás also emigrated by choice to earn money for his son’s education. Both Jake and his great-grandfather present the loss of an inheritance, and Clif represents the salvation or the recovery of land and identity. These voluntary migrations contrast with the forced migration of the Ashanti ancestor, who was enslaved in the Americas during the slave trade. Although he was later freed, he could not return to his original home. These displacements ultimately seek to unify place and identity—physically or psychically. Clif Duke’s dilemma is to be a “nativeborn” Costa Rican of West Indian ancestry, which is contrary to the official national discourse and accompanying myths of ethnic and linguistic homogeneity. Duke’s generation must decide whether to assert their “belongingness” to Costa Rica or attach themselves to the land of their forebears, a land they have never seen before. Upon instruction from his mother and grandfather, Clif claims “ownership” of Costa Rica and joins his Costa Ricanness with his West Indianness. In spite of the fact that some white-identified Costa Ricans do not embrace the inclusion of black citizens, Duke embraces his country. The protagonist’s return to Limón marks the completion of the circle. His return may not conform to Joseph Campbell’s model of the hero’s reentry, but Clif Duke does attempt to


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vindicate his grandfather by writing his story—not just the individual story of a man, but the story of his ancestry as well.8 The journey back to the province in Hombres curtidos returns the protagonist to his origins after the trials and triumphs of his migration to the capital. Now returning to the place he initiated his journey situates Clif Duke in a powerful site. He is able to claim both his heritage and his country, as well as his ethnicity and his nationality. The novel’s presentation of Duke’s struggle to unite his ethnicity and his national identity is an exteriorization of the protagonist’s search. Duke constructs his ethnic and national self through the assemblage of memory, history, and experience. If Hombres curtidos is a novel of the exterior search, then Los cuatro espejos presents the return to origins from a profoundly interior point of view, as the protagonist searches for home in the master’s house, a process initiated by his own psychological dissonance.

Los cuatro espejos (1973) One morning, a black man in San José awakens next to his white wife, goes to the mirror, and discovers that he cannot see his reflection. This episode initiates the drama of identity of Charles McForbes, the protagonist in Los cuatro espejos. The very structure of this fragmented, nonlinear, and deeply interior novel mirrors, so to speak, the fragmentation of the protagonist himself. Where the protagonist should see his own image, he sees only blackness. This situation represents McForbes’s condition of exile, a physical and cultural displacement in which he is also caught between two cultures. He is a light-skinned black man of Afro–West Indian heritage from Limón who is deeply entrenched in the life of the Hispanic elite of San José. He occupies a “specular” site, described by Abdul JanMohammed as the interstitial space that exists between two cultures and the inability or unwillingness to be “at home” in either one. The specular subject is caught “between several cultures or groups. . . . [H]e or she utilizes his or her interstitial cultural space as a vantage point from which to define, implicitly or explicitly, other, utopian possibilities of group formation.”9 McForbes as a subject occupying the border spaces between the black West Indian culture of Costa 8. See Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972). Here Campbell presents the classic cycle of the hero. 9. JanMohammed, “Worldliness-without-World, Homelessness-as-Home: Toward a Definition of the Specular Border Intellectual,” 97.

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Rica’s Limón Province and white Latin culture of San José is in a position to forge an Afro–Costa Rican identity. This strategy presents a search for home in exile and a reconciliation of opposing subject positions to form this national and cultural identity. The articulation of Afro–Costa Rican identity in the novel is achieved by displacing the protagonist from black Limón to white San José and then returning him to his coastal roots. This dislocation and relocation force the protagonist to face his past actions and the irony of his reconstituted life among the white-identified elite in San José. Previous critics Richard Jackson, Dellita Martin-Ogunsola, Ian Smart, Donald Gordon, and Edwin Salas Zamora have addressed the important issues of the crisis of identity that the protagonist endures, but have not related the significance of this crisis to the formation of an Afro–Costa Rican identity. The discussion rarely goes beyond the individual breakdown to extend the crisis to an examination of ethnic and national identity. The ties have not been made that link the resolution of this crisis of identity to the formation of an Afro–Costa Rican identity, an identity that begins as British West Indian in “Spanish” territory, to deterritorialized exiles who are neither British nor Jamaican, and finally to formally becoming a part, albeit marginally, of Costa Rica’s political system. Quince Duncan’s novel is not just an individual crisis or a “return to origins,” as Richard Jackson describes, but rather Los cuatro espejos is a metaphor for the formation of a new cultural and national identity.10 The novel not only symbolically links the white dominant culture of the Central Valley and the marginalized West Indian culture of Limón, but also presents the reconciliation of this difference of two cultures (and ethnolinguistic groups) within the protagonist himself to form a new consciousness of a hybridized national and cultural identity. The novel begins with the turbulent dream-state of the protagonist. He awakens several times from sleep, only to reenter dreams that become more terrifying. In his subconscious mind, he feels that he is losing a grip on his own life and his own sense of being. Lying next to his sleeping wife, Charles McForbes acknowledges his sensation of feeling “unanchored” with a desire to “collect the loose ends of my existence and tie them; tie them to her [Ester], like how a sailor ties his boat to the pier” (recoger los cabos sueltos de mi existencia y atarlos; atarlos a ella [Ester], como el marinero ata el barco al malecón, CE, 9). When McForbes finally awakens, he ends his violent nocturnal unrest, only to discover that the reality he experiences is more frightening than his dreams. He comments, “Then 10. Jackson, Black Writers in Latin America, 171.


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I looked at myself in the mirror. A man with disheveled hair, dressed in blue pajamas, appeared before my eyes. Something was missing in the image” (Entonces me miré en el espejo. Un hombre de pelo desordenado, vestido de pijama azul, apareció frente mis ojos. Algo le faltaba a la imagen, 10). Charles McForbes discovers that he cannot see his own image in the mirror: “An inexplicable blackness concealed my face” (Una inexplicable negrura sepultaba mi rostro, 10). His interior monologue reveals that the night before, he and his wife, Ester, attended a lecture on minority groups in Costa Rica at the National Theater that they had organized. That night, McForbes radiates self-confidence and accomplishment as he displays his new luxury car and his elegant wife like bourgeois trophies to mark his achievement. Nevertheless, McForbes’s mind reverberates with the panelist’s negative comments on the marginalized condition of the Afro–West Indian population and stereotypes about the ethnolinguistic group. The thoughts of the lecture and his discomfort with the topic together with the image of his wife’s white body catalyze the protagonist’s crisis of identity. Although McForbes voices his opposition to the lecturer’s presentation, he fails to recognize his own internalized racism. When talking about the equality between people in the capital, he comments on a black woman he saw at a function at the capital’s renowned cultural institution, “La Casa Amarilla” (the Yellow House). He makes a point of describing her physical appearance and how well she danced with the white men in attendance and then adds that “the black woman was pretty in spite of her color” (la negra era linda a pesar de su color, 13). McForbes objectifies her, reducing her body to its parts—breasts and waist—then later comments, “And besides, she was good conversationalist” (Y, además era muy buena conversadora, 13). The crisis McForbes detects within sends him on a journey to resolve his inability to see himself and ultimately to confront his identity and his past. McForbes fears he is going blind and leaves the house without mentioning anything to Ester. On the way to find his associate Dr. Pineres, an ophthalmologist, he dialogues with himself and with his “readers” to reveal his past and his thoughts. He discloses the costs of social advancement at the expense of others through betrayal. He begins to think about racism in society, an issue that he has difficulty confronting. There is an incident on the bus that occurs when an obstinate Latina woman blocks the aisle of the bus after several requests for her to move to the back to accommodate more passengers. The driver, after these unsuccessful attempts, turns his commands to the black man standing next to her and orders him to move, even though the large woman also impedes his passage. The bus driver shouts, “Move back, Blackie” (Corrase, moreno), to the young

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black man who asserts, “Where do you want me to move? . . . Are you afraid of the woman?” (Pero, ¿adónde querés que me corra? . . . ¡Qué, ¿le tenés miedo a la señora? 20). One of the passengers expresses his surprise that the black man speaks Spanish so well and asks if he is from Panama. The passenger is shocked to hear that the young man is from Limón, which addresses the stereotype still present in Costa Rica that Costa Ricans of Afro–West Indian descent do not speak Spanish fluently. McForbes remains silent during the exchange, but expresses his dismay: The guy had made one of those great logical deductions: all Limonese because of their West Indian heritage speak poor Spanish. The words of the lecturer came back to my ears and this made me upset. “If a Latino person uses gender inaccurately, the audience understands that it was an insignificant error. If a black commits the same error, it will provoke the ironic smile of the public.” (El tipo había hecho una de esas grandes deducciones lógicas: todo limonense por ser de herencia antillana, habla mal el español. Las palabras del conferencista regresaron a mis oídos y eso me dio mucha rabia. “Si una persona latina emplea mal el género, la audiencia comprende que fue un error sin importancia. Si un negro comete la misma falta, provocará la sonrisa irónica del público.”) (20)

After McForbes arrives at Dr. Pineres’s house, the doctor performs an examination on him and finds that there he is neither blind nor losing his sight. He suggests that McForbes consult Dr. Díaz, a psychoanalyst. McForbes meets with Díaz, and as they travel to the psychoanalyst’s office, McForbes slowly becomes aware of Dr. Díaz’s racial double standard. First, the doctor brakes his car to allow a scantily clad young white woman to pass and then comments, “Look at that bon-bon” (Mirá qué copita de helados, 24). However, when a black nanny dressed in a miniskirt crosses the street holding the hand of her young white charge, Díaz declares, “What nerve that Black girl has. . . . They dress indecently as if they are in Limón. Only in Limón do people walk in the street like that” (Qué descaro de negra. . . . Se visten a lo velajo como si estuvieran en Limón. Sólo en Limón la gente camina por las calles, 24). Instead of becoming the sexualized object of desire like the young white woman, the black woman becomes the racialized object of disdain and Otherness. This second incident causes McForbes to be overcome with “heaviness”: The sensation of heaviness pounded me again in the back of my neck. The words of the lecturer returned to my memory: “There is a different treat-


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ment.” And the body of Ester, and the theater, and the dream of the night before, and the mirror . . . (La sensación de pesadez me golpeó de nuevo en la nuca. Las palabras del conferencista regresaron a mi memoria: “Hay un trato distinto.” Y la figura de Ester, y el teatro, y el sueño de la noche anterior y el espejo . . . ) (24)

These thoughts force Charles to reexamine his own condition and position in Costa Rican society and the “different” treatment received on the basis of color and origin. McForbes takes the exam given to him by Díaz, but promptly leaves the office without waiting for the results. He wanders the streets of downtown San José. As he passes several of the city’s landmarks, he tries to understand why he cannot see his face in the mirror. He buys a mirror from a street vendor and is shocked to find that the face staring back at his is that of a black man. Like José Pastrana in the classic novel El último río (Pastrana’s last river), by Afro-Ecuadorian writer Nelson Estupiñán Bass, Charles McForbes becomes so involved in gaining white privilege that he believes himself to be white, or at least not black. McForbes sinks deeper into despair. Although the color he sees is his natural color, he believes that he is the victim of a chemical process: “I have heard talk of some who managed to temporarily change the color of their skin, but those were experiments with chemical products” (Había oído hablar de algunos que lograron modificar temporalmente el color de su piel, pero fueron experimentos con productos químicos, 31). He lashes out at the “discovery” of his skin color and attacks a street vendor as he screams. Charles no longer passes as someone who has an identity other than black. The mirror leads Charles to confront, “head-on,” his ethnic and cultural past that has been buried by his ascendance to bourgeois respectability. Like the Limonese man on the bus, McForbes too is reduced to his color: “What’s going on, Blackie?” (Moreno, ¿qué te pasa?), “Black SOB” (Negro jijue), “That’s it, Casius, hit him hard” (Eso, Casius dele duro), “Wretched nigger” (Negro desgraciado, 31). These epithets refer to him now that his behavior represents the negative significations of blackness. He is no longer the “good” Negro who can pass in Latin society. After he injures his hand in the altercation with the vendor, he seeks medical attention in a pharmacy. He enters the business in front of a white woman, but is attended to after her. He questions, “and I didn’t know if it was because of her condition as a woman or the color of her skin” (y no supe si atribuir su privilegio a su condición de mujer o al color de su piel, 32). He is then greeted by the pharmacist with a brusque, unadorned, “And you, black man, what do you want?” (Y vos, moreno, ¿qué querés? 32).

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This portion of the novel is told from the first-person perspective of McForbes in his state of crisis. Because the narrative technique presents McForbes’s mental condition and crisis, there is no physical description of the protagonist. This causes some anxiety in the reader, as we are unsure what is actually occurring— is Charles really changing color before our eyes, or is he losing his grip on reality? There are few indications at the beginning at the novel that would point to Charles’s ethnic background or his skin color, although through his own behavior he presents himself as someone not of African heritage or from Limón. Only when the narrative presents a retrospective of McForbes’s life in Limón do we learn of his background. As he navigates the capital’s narrow streets, his memory makes its own pilgrimage—retracing his Jamaican ancestry, Limonese origins, racial-cultural identity, sexuality, and masculinity. The narrative reverts to the past, which is plagued with tragic events. Charles McForbes is a twenty-four-year-old Anglican pastor who also has a small cacao farm in Estrada, a small town in Limón Province. As a young man, McForbes marries Lorena, a young black woman, in spite of messages of racial “improvement” received from his family. His Jamaican grandfather Saltiman McForbes dictates: I don’t want any of you to marry a black woman. You must improve the color in order to escape from this disgrace. . . . The black since Noah has been condemned by God to suffer. . . . [S]eparate yourselves from them as much as possible. You must whiten. (No quiero a ninguno de ustedes casado con una negra. Búsquese una mulata o una inglesa. Hay que subir el color para escapar de esta cochinada. . . . El negro desde Noé fue condenado por Dios a sufrir . . . [A]léjense de ellos lo más posible. Hay que ir blanqeando.) (130)

The marriage of Charles and Lorena is scarred by routine and Charles’s infidelity with several women, including Lorena’s best friend, Ruth. The third-person narrator then tells of the turning point in McForbes’s life when he discovers that Lorena is gravely ill. Charles rushes through the lush vegetation and smells of the country to attend to his wife. Ruth tells Charles that Lorena was attacked by a dopí, an evil spirit also called a “duppy” in Jamaican Creole. Nabe Bowman, the disturbed wife of Cristian Bowman, is the one responsible for the obeah unleashed upon Lorena. Although her husband brutally raped Lorena in a perverse act of vengeance against McForbes, Nabe refuses to see the act of sexual violence perpetrated by her husband. Nabe believes that Lorena seduced her husband.


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There is little hope that Lorena will survive; nevertheless, Charles, because of his education and position as a pastor, rejects superstition in favor of science and reason. In Clarita de Duke, the wife of his neighbor Clif Duke, he finds a kindred spirit in the fight against folk beliefs. He places Lorena under the care of a white physician from the Central Valley, Dr. Lucas Centeno. After Lorena’s death, McForbes abandons his land and Limón to go to San José to start a new life away from the tedium and the memories of the province. McForbes initially studies anthropology, but completes a doctorate in English. In spite of his achievement, Charles considers himself a failure because he is unable to completely escape his origins: “I have never been able to rid myself of my condition as a Limonese, in spite of it all” (nunca me había podido quitar del todo mi condición de limonense, a pesar de todo, 75). In the capital, he meets Ester Centeno, the daughter of the physician who had cared for Lorena. The Centeno family is part of the Costa Rican coffee elite. In her youth, Ester despised blacks, in spite of the fact that in her family’s past “flowed the blood of freed slaves” (fluía sangre de esclavos libertos, 129). After observing the special relationship between her father and McForbes, she begins to favor Charles. They fall in love and marry. McForbes climbs the social ladder as a result of his fortuitous union with the white Costa Rican bourgeoisie. In the midst of his crisis, he reflects on his relationships with Lorena, Ester, and other women. These thoughts, together with the words of the lecturer on the Afro–West Indian population of Limón, deepen McForbes’s state of self-alienation and send him further into the sordid nightlife of the capital, with its slick characters and tormented prostitutes. Between comments from a Nicaraguan prostitute about how “[b]lacks are passionate and good dancers” ([l]os negros son ardientes y bailan mucho), McForbes thinks of his condition as a black man as “a condition discovered or imposed, not provoked and not shared with anyone” (condición descubierta o impuesta de pronto, no provocada, ni compartida con nadie, 119). McForbes is unable to recognize or reconcile his own contradictions: his light skin color and his inescapable blackness, his desire for “home,” and his need to deny its possibility. After this dark night of the soul, McForbes decides to return to Limón as the solution to his crisis. On the train, he sits next to an old man who he learns is Clovis Linch, a familiar face from his past. They talk about Lorena and the evil done to her by Cristian and Nabe. When Clovis states that Cristian’s behavior reflects poorly “[o]n all of us blacks” ([a] todos nosotros: los negros, 128), McForbes realizes that he is a part of the group marked by difference and that he always has been. McForbes comments:

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature My walk through the city . . . seemed suddenly absurd. And the lecture I heard in the National Theater suddenly revealed to me its full meaning. At which precise moment did I lose my own identity? What accumulation of dreams put me in conflict with the culture suckled from the black breasts of my mother . . . ? (Mi paso por la ciudad . . . me pareció de pronto absurdo. Y la conferencia escuchada en el Teatro Nacional, de pronto me reveló su sentido pleno. ¿En qué momento preciso perdí mi propia identidad? ¿Qué cúmulo de sueños me pusieron el conflicto con la cultura mamada en los negruzcos pechos de mi madre . . . ?) (133)

Even after this epiphany, McForbes continues to deny his own blackness in spite of his phenotypical markers: “You all can see my skin, shoot, it’s not black. That is to say, if it weren’t for my hair and my features, I could pass anywhere as Latino” (Ustedes pueden ver mi piel: pucha, no es negra. Es decir, si no fuera por mi pelo y mis facciones yo podría pasar en cualquier parte como latino, 128). He soon realizes that he was born and raised in the black town of Limón and that he does not know what has happened to him to cause such a change in attitude. Perhaps McForbes feels he can set himself apart because of his Scottish heritage on his father’s side of the family, although his mother’s lineage “was lost in the Jamaican slave fields” (se perdía en los campos de la esclavitud jamaicana, 129). Charles McForbes also questions the trauma he suffered at the hands of his black brothers in the province, the benefits of his marriage to Ester, and his relationship with the Centeno family. Meditating on this past and his present, McForbes ponders, “Bowman destroyed Lorena. Bowman was black. Could that be it? And perhaps for that reason I fell in love with Ester’s white skin?” (Bowman destruyó a Lorena. Bowman era negro. ¿Será eso? ¿Y acaso por eso me fui enamorando de la blanca piel de Ester? 133). Only through his interior and exterior journey can he face his cultural displacement and duality in Costa Rican society and consolidate out of this a new identity. In Limón, McForbes reconnects with the women of his past, Ruth and another former lover, Victoria. He realizes too late that he has abandoned not only his town and its people, but also himself. McForbes affirms that “what I have found out is that one cannot run from oneself” (lo que sí he comprobado es que uno no puede huir de sí mismo, 146). After gaining the courage to face his own life, he returns to San José by plane. On board, he contemplates how he will ask Ester for a divorce in spite of his love for her. McForbes engages in conversation with a young woman on the plane and realizes the need to resolve his feelings of


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racial doubleness by looking for the humanity in the other—his fellow human being. Out of the exchange with the young woman, Charles discovers, “These simple things overpower one’s skin and reveal to us the humanity of everyone” (Esas cosas sencillas vencen la piel, y nos revelan la humanidad de todos, 153). He focuses on his struggle between two worlds—that of his black roots and the dominant culture of Costa Rica: “I was imprisoned by both worlds, trapped between two cultures, between black wooly hair and hair the color of maize; between the heat and the cold; in my terrible and unrealizable desire to possess both worlds” (Acabé preso de ambos mundos, atrapado entre dos culturas, entre el pelo negro algodonado y un pelo de maíz; entre el calor y el frío; en mi terrible e irrealizable deseo de poseer los dos mundos, 153). Meanwhile, in her husband’s unexplained absence, Ester also ponders their racial difference and the echoing words of the lecturer’s assessment of blacks in Costa Rica. Alone in the bathroom, as Ester observes in the mirror on the morning of McForbes’s abrupt departure “her paleness against the white wall in the background, she remembered the lecture of the night before. ‘And they look for a white woman, as white as possible’” (su palidez contra la blanca pared del fondo, recordó la charla de la noche anterior. “Y se buscan una mujer blanca, la más blanca posible,” 98). The words of the lecturer speaking about the Afro–West Indians of Limón force Ester to examine their difference; conversely, these words send McForbes into a state where he recognizes his negation of difference and his own exile. During his journey in the capital and later in Limón, McForbes is obsessed with his light complexion and his search for the meaning of blackness, a marker of “belonging” to Limón in the dominant Hispanic culture of San José. He is keenly aware of the dichotomy within himself, stating, “I figured the world as a planet trapped between two poles: frenzy on one side and quietism on the other. And the tension between them launches us into hope or frustration” (el mundo se me figura como un planeta atrapado entre dos polos: el frenesí por un lado y el quietismo por el otro. Y la tensión entre ambos nos lanza a la esperanza o a la frustración, 10). However, this situation is more complex than the plight of the “tragic mulatto.” McForbes is cognizant of his ethnic difference and realizes his uncomfortable fit in dominant society because of his skin color. His experience of exile is, as critic Abdul JanMohammed describes, the negative experience of border crossing wherein the subject experiences “an involuntary or enforced rupture between the collective subject of the original culture and the individual subject.”11 McForbes’s exile is his absence of home due to a sepa11. JanMohammed, “Worldliness-without-World,” 101.

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ration from his cultural “base” of Limón. As an exile, he loses the ability to identify himself and searches for a new home. Although the protagonist’s voyage to San José is voluntary, the loss of West Indian identity is an involuntary consequence. This experience of exile relates keenly to the identity politics of Costa Rica. The metaphoric use of exile articulates the alienation of not being at home either culturally or physically, or the drama of the “specular” subject, a situation configured on the borders of cultural encounter. McForbes himself represents the “specular”; he is the black provincial migrant who is in conflict with the capital’s dominant culture and simultaneously in awe of the white cosmopolitan capital. McForbes is a subject between cultures or, as Costa Rican critic Franklin Perry describes, a “nowherean” because he is not at home in Limón or San José. The movement of his culturally and racially inscribed body from Limón to San José and the ensuing crisis are the confrontation of cultural identities that must hybridize to form a new Afro–Costa Rican identity or continue to exist in disjunction. His wanderings eventually lead him back on the train to Limón, to his past, and finally back to San José, to his reflection in the mirror and his wife, Ester. It is precisely against Ester’s white body where he connects the loose vertices of race, class, caste, color, and sex in his experience of cultural displacement. The joining of his black body inscribed as Other and his wife’s body inscribed in white privilege announces the fissure, but then is brought together and reconciled in the end of the novel. The new possibility of group formation becomes evident. When McForbes rejoins Ester, after his “return to origins,” she flatly states, “If you have come for a divorce . . . forget it” (Si venís por el divorcio . . . olvidate, 163). McForbes does not leave Ester, but rather he remains connected to her. As Ester proclaims at the end of the novel, they are interminably joined: “Charles . . . we are all chained. They are chains of God” (Charles . . . todos estamos encadenados. Son cadenas de Dios, 163). Ester’s body is at once a symbol of oppositional conflict representing the dominant culture and also a reconciliation through integration, in the symbolic joining of race, culture, sex, and locations. McForbes’s interior crisis or inability to see himself and his consequent search for roots are a postmodern articulation of the development of the Afro–Costa Rican identity. The protagonist’s trajectory parallels that of the contemporary history of blacks in Costa Rica—from forming a part of the West Indian cultural continuum in the isolated Limón Province to migration to the cosmopolitan capital in search of opportunity. McForbes goes from the provincial land of the marginalized black descendants of West Indian migrant laborers to being an Afro– Costa Rican among the white elite.


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The question of belonging leads McForbes to journey into his past as an effort to reconcile his fragmented self. This crisis prompted by migration, integration, and the creation of a new home articulates the development, conflict, and potential of Afro–Costa Rican identity. In Los cuatro espejos, the process of new identity formation in the context of the incorporation of the black into the national fold symbolically takes McForbes from Limón to San José. He goes from the province to the capital, joins the dominant culture (albeit with internal dissonance), and through this contact is charged with the formation of a distinct Afro–Costa Rican identity—at once in harmony and in conflict. As Richard Jackson keenly interprets, “What Charles learns is that he could go home again but he does not have to stay; although he should not hide from himself, he also learns that life moves on and things change.”12 It is a change that forces the protagonist to confront the past, accept his present (which is still engaged with the past), and forge as a specular subject a national identity from the reconciliation of West Indian and Latin cultures. Charles McForbes feels disconnected from his sense of self and attempts to make an internal reconnection through a journey to his origins. He reconciles the dislocation via the acceptance of his blackness, his Limonese heritage, and his life in the dominant culture. By returning to his origins, he seeks an explanation of self and discovers a resolution to his crisis of identity.

La paz del pueblo (1976) This complex novel, composed of flashbacks, multiple perspectives, and interpolated poems, songs, and biblical sermons, reveals tensions within the West Indian community in Limón over the past and the future. The death of Sitaira, a young Afro–West Indian peasant, exposes the open wounds of class, caste, and color in the province. She is the only surviving child of Mariot Moody, an immigrant from Jamaica, and Cornelio Kenton, who is blind and impotent. Sitaira’s suitor, Pedro Dull, is the key to the restoration of peace in the midst of jealous accusations, lies, and political manipulation in Limón. He represents an AfroHispanic heroic figure because he affirms his connection with his ancestral past and attempts to pave a way for the future. He organizes a labor movement, inspired by the Pan-Africanist vision of Marcus Garvey, and encourages the workers to strike against exploitation. Pedro becomes a restorative figure, “[b]ecause he is responsible for it all. For coming when nobody called him, for being here, 12. Jackson, Black Writers and the Hispanic Canon, 78.

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for staying too long when everyone hoped he would go away” ([p]orque él es responsable de todo. De haber venido cuando nadie lo estaba llamando, de estar, de permanecer demasiado tiempo cuando todos esperaban que se fuera, PP, 19). The protagonist’s actions echo the tradition of Caribbean maroon figures and messianic deliverance. As Ian Smart notes in “Religious Elements in the Narrative of Quince Duncan,” Pedro is a syncretic figure because he represents the two religious traditions in Afro-Caribbean culture: the officially sanctioned Christianity as a Messiah and the “Afro American revolutionary religious tradition” of popular African-derived religious practices such as the West Indian Pocomania rituals presented in the novel.13 The circular structure of the novel revisits events in Jamaica and retraces the family origins of Mariot and Pedro. Mariot is the daughter of a disinherited white Jamaican woman and her Haitian lover. Similarly, Pedro is the product of an interracial tryst in Jamaica between the husband of Mariot’s white aunt, Margaret, and an unnamed black woman. La paz del pueblo is a novel that is not exclusively focused on the dialectic of San José–Limón (center-margin or civilization-barbarism) and the internal migration of black subjects and the resulting crisis in national identity. In this novel, Limón is not presented in relation to the Central Valley, but is turned onto itself to expose the conflicts produced after centuries of colonial and neocolonial relationships, domination, and ancestral exile. Like Hombres curtidos, La paz del pueblo explicitly presents a link between the black residents of Limón Province and West Indian culture (especially the oral tradition) and the importance of inheritance and the continuation of family bloodlines—as the next generation represents a link between the past and the future ancestors. The religious precepts of Pocomania and Cumina, Afro–West Indian religious practices, are highlighted. In La paz del pueblo, the death of Sitaira reveals fissures within the town as a community in transformation. Ironically, there is no peace in the pueblo. Sitaira represents the potential to produce heirs to continue her family’s bloodline and their history. Her potential fertility means that her parents will continue to be remembered and will continue to exist in their progeny. The mysterious newcomer to town, Pedro Dull, becomes Sitaira’s suitor. His presence in the town causes a stir because he lives with a paniah, whom he considers a father, even though he is the child of a black Jamaican woman and a white Englishman. He also causes a commotion because he is an agitator for social change. Inspired by Marcus Garvey, Pedro rallies support among the workers for better working conditions at the banana plantation. His actions seem to echo the events preceding 13. Smart, “Religious Elements,” 30.


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the banana strike years earlier in 1934. Pedro Dull’s passionate relationship with Sitaira gives Mariot and Cornelio hope that their only surviving child will give them heirs. However, Sitaira’s life is cut short when she is raped and murdered by the obsessive and mentally disturbed Cató Brown, the only son of a member of the town’s Afro–West Indian elite. Mr. Brown and his wife, Been, shelter their son from any possible prosecution for the crime. Cató is protected by his family’s wealth, their privilege, and their caste. The vultures present throughout the novel are both representative of the bad augury of death and the gossip of the rapacious townspeople who spread vicious stories about Sitaira and her family out of envy or the need to point out their nonconformity. The town mourns Sitaira’s death, but there are voices of the “vultures,” calumnious gossip that spreads from mouth to mouth, growing more exaggerated as the envious women in the town degrade the beauty and sexuality of Sitaira and accuse her mother of sexual perversions and witchcraft. The grand funeral procession brings together, at least momentarily, the various sectors of the town. The powerful elite of the town begin to rally their force against Pedro. He has now become a suspect in the death of Sitaira and is demonized for encouraging the workers to rise against the agents of their exploitation. One of the links in the chain of command between the workers and the white bosses of the fruit company is Mr. Brown, who receives a sizable salary from the company as a broker and earns substantial profits from his own farm. Pedro is detained by the town’s authorities. He goes peacefully without exterior resistance and becomes a martyr, sacrificing himself to restore peace, albeit temporarily, to the town. Pedro Dull has the support of a cross-section of people in the town—West Indian, Chinese, and Hispanic. The novel closes with the haunting and mysterious laugh of an unseen woman.

Ancestral Exile and Afro–West Indian Religious Expression Ancestral exile is the accumulation of centuries of displacement. This notion is repeated at various points in La paz del pueblo. Limón Province is a place settled by people from elsewhere—British, North Americans, Afro–West Indians, Nicaraguans, Miskitos, Chinese, and even white-identified and mestizo Costa Ricans who migrated from other provinces to take advantage of opportunities on the coast. Among the Afro–West Indians, Jamaica and the other islands are configured as the idealized or imagined home. The West Indies is a place remem-

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bered in its positive and negative aspects with a mixture of nostalgia and contempt, but not necessarily a place the characters in the novel desire to return. The characters in Jamaica tell their stories, and those situated in Costa Rica reveal the reasons for their migration and how they arrived in Central America, such as Mariot Moody’s departure from the island because of the cruel treatment suffered at the hands of her white aunt. She escaped captivity on the first ship she came upon in the harbor of Montego Bay. Ironically, a ship, which is the symbol of the transport of slaves in the past, becomes her ticket to freedom. Another perspective is presented as two grave diggers await the arrival of the funeral cortege to the cemetery. They talk about their tenuous status as immigrants, unable to go to the capital and unable to return home to Jamaica: “This bloody job provides nothing—only grief. I feel like leaving.” “And go where?” “To San José.” “To San José!” “Yes . . . why not? I have some cousins there.” “I don’t recommend that as long as León Cortés is president.” “Haven’t you noticed that all of the blacks are going to Panama?” “Logical, there’s no work. If the company goes to the Pacific, there’s no work.” “And why don’t all the blacks go to the Pacific?” “Over there they are going to plant bananas. Didn’t you know that? Do you want me to tell you why? Because there is a law that prohibits them. León Cortés has just fired all the blacks who were working at the Pacific Railway. Only one is left because he is a personal friend of his brother.” “But . . . are you sure?” “Of course, it never fails that there is some black idiot who isn’t aware of what’s going on. You can’t go to San José, Blackie. You have only two paths: Panama or stay here.” “I could go to Jamaica . . .” “Don’t be ridiculous. With what money? Let’s see, how much do you have, Mr. Brown?” “Don’t mock me. Damn country!” (—Este condenado oficio no deja nada. Solo congojas. Tengo ganas de irme. —¿Irte adónde? —A San José. —¡A San José!


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—Sí . . . ¿por qué no? Tengo unos primos allá. —Mientras León Cortés sea presidente no te lo aconsejo. —¿No te has dado cuenta que todos los negros se están yendo a Panamá? —Lógico, no hay trabajo. Si la Compañía se va al Pacífico, no hay trabajo. —¿Y por qué no se van al Pacífico todos los negros? Allá van a sembrar banano, ¿no lo sabías? ¿Querés que te diga por qué? Porque hay una ley que se los prohíbe. León Cortés acaba de despedir a todos los negros que estaban trabajando en el Ferrocarril al Pacífico. Solo dejó uno, porque es amigo personal de su hermano. —Pero . . . ¿estás seguro? —Pero claro: nunca falta un negro idiota que no se da cuenta de las cosas. No te podés ir a San José negrito. Tenés solo dos caminos: Panamá o quedarte aquí. —Podría irme a Jamaica . . . —No seas ridículo. ¿Con qué plata? a ver, ¿cuánto tenés señor Brown? —No me pongás apodos. ¡Puta país!) (74 –75)

They are unable to migrate to San José because of the racist government of León Cortés, and they are not permitted to relocate with the United Fruit Company to the Pacific coast during the banana blight on the Atlantic coast. The law passed by the Cortés administration prohibited the United Fruit Company from bringing the West Indian population to its plantations on the Pacific. To survive, many of the Afro–West Indians crossed over the border into Panama to work in the Canal Zone. The temporary departure of the banana company from the region caused an economic crisis, forcing many, such as the Kenton family, to harvest cacao, which was not affected by the blight. Many Afro–West Indians remained poor in Costa Rica because they had no other option available to them, and therefore remain displaced, dislocated, and without a country. In this state of exile, cultural practices from Jamaica take on new force, particularly Afro–West Indian religious practices. The religious themes of La paz del pueblo parallel the condition of Adamic exile from paradise and the exilic West Indian subject in Costa Rica. The novel’s two “Jamaica chapters” (chapter 2 and 6) display a circularity in the development of events that are repeated by other characters in Costa Rica. Additionally, these chapters disclose the racial dynamic and structure of postcolonial Jamaican society, which leads to the expulsion or exile in Costa Rica. The second “Jamaica chapter” provides background on the parentage of Mariot—her white mother, Elizabeth Moody, and her black father, Josué. Elizabeth is the daughter of a plantation owner, Kingsman Moody. Her

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father instructs her on the inferiority of blacks: “The blacks . . . even though they are free, are still blacks” (Los negros . . . aunque sean libres, son negros, 35). He also tells her that Josué, the new coachman, is “of an inferior caste, separated from hers forever by divine law, according to what she had been taught in Sunday school, separated since Noah, son of Ham, condemned forever” (de una casta inferior, separada de la suya para siempre por leyes divinas, según le había enseñado en la escuela dominical, separado desde Noé, hijo de Cam, condenado desde siempre, 35). However, Elizbeth’s sexual attraction for Josué puts this cultural ideology of race in flux. Elizabeth Moody, like her granddaughter, Sitaira, enjoyed walks in the forest with the scent of jasmine, the nude communion with nature—the female body and the natural environment as one. Brown, the family butler and Josué’s uncle, could not understand how the young woman could undress herself: “[S]he would stretch herself out on the grass, without taking into consideration that she was no longer a girl” ([T]enderse sobre la hierba, sin tomar en cuenta que la hacienda estaba cargada de hombres, de hombres negros, sobre todo tomando en cuenta que ya no era una niña, 49). Elizabeth’s granddaughter has a strikingly similar situation. During her nude bathing in the river, she felt “her life open like the corolla flower, she had forgotten it all, including the shame of feeling ashamed, and she enjoyed the magic of fresh water that silently advanced to the distant sea” (su vida abierta como corola se había olvidado de todo, incluso de la verguenza de sentir verguenza, y disfrutaba de la magia del agua fresca que silenciosamente avanzaba hacia el lejano mar, 62). Elizabeth walked her father’s plantation in Jamaica, and Sitaira worked on her family’s land in Costa Rica. There is repetition between the generations in this act. Sitaira falls for an “outsider” like her grandmother Elizabeth’s love for Josué, followed by a repetition of the Adamic exile from paradise. Elizabeth and Josué consummate their love without the impediment of concerns for social codes and cultural ideologies on race. Thinking they are alone on the plantation, the two lovers “recuperated Adamic purity, sowing intemporal pollen in the flower. Willows and whispers of wind; the ring of bells, and a dream without time, without thistles. The two smelled of sweat” (recuperaron la pureza adámica, sembrando en la flor el polen intemporal. Sauces y murmullos de viento; campanadas, y un sueño sin tiempo, sin cardos. Los dos olorosos a sudor, 53). This relationship between a black man and a white woman is not sanctioned by the social codes of the colonizer, and the couple receives severe punishment.14 Both are banished from the “plantation paradise”: 14. This is a significant contrast to the sex-power relationship between Mamy, the older black


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Elizabeth Moody lifted her lover from the mud and, dressing him the best way she could, left the big house with him, ignoring the insults from Miss Margaret and the clumsy barks of the dog. Her dry eyes carry her off into a total silence. The scene in the orchard ran through her veins, and suddenly the world became cold. (Elizabeth Moody levantó a su amante de entre el barro y vistiéndolo como pudo salió de la casona con él, ignorando los insultos de la señorita Margaret y los torpes ladridos del perro. Sus ojos secos, presa ella de un silencio total. Toda la escena del huerto corría por sus venas, y el mundo de pronto estaba lleno de frío.) (53)

Elizabeth and Josué are exiled from the plantation and the lush, green, fertile paradise of this isolated “idyllic” space. Their bodies are transformed from the sweat and heat of the sexual act into the coldness of the world outside the plantation, much like the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden. Like the original couple, Elizabeth and Josué soon realize after violating the norms of the Garden that they are in the world outside its protection; they are alone, naked, and cold. Another paradise is constructed in Costa Rica. Pedro and Sitaira are drawn to each other in the lush, green, fertile world of the coastal forest where both commune with nature in the naked state of Adam and Eve in Eden. She entered the cacao groves, trying not to step on the dry leaves, looking at the young man who was still asleep; she reached for her clothes and quickly dressed, intending to flee when she found herself before him, and neither one dared to speak. (Entró en el cacaotal, tratando de no pisar las hojas secas, mirando al muchacho que aún dormitaba; alcanzó su ropa y vistiéndose a prisa intentaba huir cuando se encontró con él de frente y ninguno de los dos se atrevía a hablar.) (63)

This paradise of Pedro and Sitaira is later violated through the violent struggle over the terrain with Cató Brown, also called “el Loco” (the Crazy Man) in the servant, and Kingsman Moody, the English master-landowner. They are involved in a sexual relationship; however, in spite of the double standard, the white male determines appropriate sexual behavior. As the white patriarch, Mamy and his daughter are his property and under his control. Mamy serves as the object of his sexual urges, and he depends on the sexual purity and chastity of his daughter to preserve the family’s color and lineage and to augment their wealth through marriage into a well-to-do English family.

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town. Watching Sitaira’s nude bathing, he creates his own perverse voyeuristic paradise. He fixes his gaze on Sitaira’s nude swims in the river: “[H]e said that the world was a paradise for him, because no one like him had such a matchless privilege” ([E]l decía para sí que el mundo era un paraíso, porque nadie como él con privilegio tan sin par, 81). He masturbates by the river as he watches Sitaira, and in the natural seclusion he believes he is the possessor of his own paradise. This natural scene becomes “His secret. His happiness. His destiny” (Su secreto. Su felicidad. Su destino, 82). Pedro’s masculine presence is an interruption of Cató’s fantastic moment: Pedro came, robbing the enchantment of his secret, prostituting it all: happiness became torment because of the damned man who won her heart and was sleeping with her in the presence of the Crazy Man, among the same thickets, and there had been times when he could have touched them by extending his hands only a little, and they did not tire from making love, of saying stupidities to each other, of breaking the virginal purity of the world with all their rubbish. (Pedro vino, robando el encanto de su secreto, prostituyéndolo todo: la felicidad se fue volviendo tormento por culpa del maldito que la enamoraba y se acostaba con ella en presencia del Loco, entre los mismos matorrales, y hubo veces en que él los hubiera podido tocar con solo extender un poco las manos, y no se cansaban de hacerse el amor, de decirse estupideces, de romper la pureza virginal del mundo con sus porquerías.) (83)

Even though Pedro and Sitaira have created their own Eden in the forest, Pedro’s presence is an intrusion in Cató’s paradise. His desire intensifies for Sitaira, and he develops an equally intense hatred of Pedro: “[H]e felt a nameless hate toward Pedro, and a desire, every day more uncontrollable, to take Sitaira into his arms, to feel her skin against his, to recuperate the usurped privilege” ([F]ue sintiendo un odio sin nombre hacia Pedro, y un deseo cada día más incontrolable de tener a Sitaira en sus brazos, de sentir su piel contra la suya, de recuperar el privilegio usurpado, 83). Even Cató’s fantasies are directed toward the reconquest of his terrain, as he remembers the tales of King Arthur and of knights dueling for the attention and kisses of the young maiden, “trusting the triumph of Sir Brown who inevitably at the end of all of the tournaments would emerge the victor” (confiando en el triunfo del caballero Brown que inevitablemente al final de todos los torneos salía vencedor, 84). Cató wants to expel his adversary from his paradise and replace him with his own desire for Sitaira. El Loco finally falls prey


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to his own obsession. In the middle of this paradise, he attacks and murders Sitaira. After the crime, Cató flees naked through the bush to the safety of his parents, who place the blame for their son’s mental disorders on Mariot’s reported abilities to work obeah. The violent “expulsion” of the two lovers from paradise also destroys a New World African belief in blood and lineage. With the union of Pedro and Sitaira and the anticipated birth of children, Mariot and Cornelio Kenton’s legacy would continue in their grandchildren. Cornelio’s blood would run with life and vigor instead of impotence. Pedro represents the potency the aged and crippled Cornelio no longer possesses. Mariot feels the significance of Pedro’s sexual potency: “After, she felt proud to have him as a son-in-law because she read in him an inexplicable force that she could not define” (Después se sentía orgullosa de tenerlo de yerno, porque adivinaba en él una fuerza inexplicable que ella no lograba definir, 18). She also fantasizes about her hope for many grandchildren through the sexual union of Pedro and Sitaira: “And when the young man [Pedro] began to work for Mr. Brown she was convinced that he would sit at the head of the town, and that she would have the enormous pleasure of seeing her grandchildren growing, running happily” (Y cuando el muchacho [Pedro] comenzó a trabajar para el señor Brown ella estaba convencida de que sentaría cabeza en el pueblo, y que podría tener enorme placer de ver a sus nietos creciendo, corriendo felices, 18). The ancestral link between Mariot and Cornelio with their future progeny is truncated by the earlier death of their son, Leonardo, which is followed by the death of their daughter, Sitaira. They have no future ancestors. Mariot is uprooted from her former home and is without progeny in the new land to continue her legacy. In the face of homelessness, exile, displacement, and dispossession, strength is gleaned from religious practices that survived multiple migrations. Religion plays an important role in cultural resistance, particularly in the syncretic expression of the Afro-Jamaican religious practices of Cumina and Pocomania, and belief in obeah and samamfo as an affirmation of identity and resistance. Cumina (cuminá) and Pocomania (pocomía) are mentioned frequently in the novel and are syncretic religious practices derived from West African religions and Christianity in contemporary culture. The practice of both religious expressions is fading into folklore. Although the author defines cuminá as a god in his glossary, Quince Duncan’s use of the term locates the foundation of the religion in ancestry and ritual. According to a study by George Eaton Simpson titled Religious Cults of the Caribbean: Trinidad, Jamaica, and Haiti, both Cumina and Pocomania are “revival cults” that use African-derived rituals with Christian practices and be-

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liefs.15 They share the use of drumming, dance, Christian hymns, and belief in spirit possession. A Cumina ceremony in the novel resonates with this significance of music, rhythm, and dance: They danced around the fire at night moved by a diaphanous rhythm that accelerated the pulse of men. Cumina in the fire. Cumina in the rhythm, in the hope and in revolt, in love and in dreams. . . . They died, Cumina in their chest to return at night to the dances in the town, in order to inspire rebellion and the defense of the sacred principles of samamfo. (Danzaban en torno al fuego por las noches movidos por un ritmo diáfano que aceleraba el pulso de los hombres. Cuminá en el fuego. Cuminá en el ritmo, en la esperanza y en la rebeldía, en el amor y en el sueño. . . . Morían, Cuminá en el pecho para volver por las noches a las danzas del pueblo, para inspirar rebelión y la defensa de los sagrados principios del samamfo.) (28)

The memory of the deceased comes to their progeny through spiritual possession, usually during ritual dance. To inspire resistance and rebellion, and to give religious sustenance, the ancestors return to dance with the living ancestors in order to inhabit their bodies and guide them to the afterlife. Ancestor reverence is particularly important in the practice of Cumina. “The religion of the African Cumina group . . . is primarily a family religion; much depends upon knowing where one’s flesh, blood, and spirit come from,” as well as who will join them in the afterlife.16 Mariot is a practitioner of Cumina and is devastated knowing that her spiritual line is broken upon the death of her last child, Sitaira. Cornelio is also aware in his blindness and poor health that after his death, there are no more in his small family. Mariot comments to her mute and blind husband, “Yes, you have noticed. No longer will there be anyone to claim your legacy. Cumina is gone; we are alone” (Sí, te has dado cuenta. Ya nadie habrá para recoger tu herencia. Cuminá se ha ido: estamos solos, 29). She says this to herself after witnessing tears well up in Cornelio as she dresses him for their daughter’s funeral. Their destiny has been taken from them. They are alone physically and spiritually. They no longer have a blissful spiritual home of the afterlife, and they have no heirs to pass on their inheritance. The inheritance Mariot mentions is not necessarily material possessions, but the entire collection of a cultural heritage that is passed from one generation to the next. Mariot pon15. Simpson, Religious Cults, 187. 16. Ibid., 191.


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ders what will happen to their spirits, as she and Cornelio no longer have any children surviving to pass on their blood, to pass on their religious and cultural heritage, or to remember them as ancestors: “Who will I pass over your body, Cornelio, when you decide to leave us? Who will inherit the force, the destiny, the sorrow and the glory of samamfo? Who will now learn the secrets of our past; who will make worthy on earth the rights of those who temporarily rest in the glory of the Lord?” (—¿A quién pasaré sobre tu cuerpo, Cornelio, cuando decidas alejarte? ¿Quién heredará la fuerza, el destino, la pena y la gloria del samamfo? ¿Quién sabría ahora los secretos de nuestro pasado; quién hará de valer sobre la tierra los derechos de los que descansan temporalmente en la gloria del Señor?) (28)

Mariot laments the end to this lineage—her blood and Cornelio’s blood. She addresses his blind, impotent, decaying body: “I know that you descend from a powerful lineage . . . [a] lineage of great virility” (Yo se que desciendes de un poderoso linaje . . . [l]inaje de denotada hombría, 28). Belief in the power of the spirits of one’s ancestors guarantees the practitioner an afterlife and earthly support. According to Quince Duncan’s glossary at the end of La paz del pueblo, the word samamfo is taken from the Ashanti and describes the concept of the afterlife connection of the recently deceased and the spirits of their ancestors (192). This concept is common in the West African religious cosmology. An inquisitive Pedro asked his grandfather to explain heaven and hell, which leads to an explanation of samamfo: “Grandfather . . . What is all of this heaven and hell stuff ?” “It’s when everything ends. At the end, after judgment. But for now no one dies, son, we simply return to samamfo.” “To samamfo? Grandpa, what is samamfo?” “One returns to the place where the ancestors are, that’s all. I don’t care what the pastor says—pastors nowadays don’t even read the Bible, and if they read it, they don’t understand anything.” (—Abuelo . . . ¿Cómo es eso del cielo y el infierno? —Eso es cuando termine todo. Al final, después del juicio. Pero por ahora nadie se muere, hijo: simplemente volvemos al samamfo. —¿Al samamfo? ¿Buelo, qué es el samamfo?

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature —Uno vuelve donde están los ancestros, eso es todo. Y no me importa lo que te haya dicho el pastor: los pastores de ahora ni siquiera leen la Biblia y si leen no entienden nada.) (24)

There is a religious dialectic presented in this conversation between an inquisitive Pedro and his wise grandfather. There is the official religion of the organized Christian church supported by the forces of imperial domination, and there are Africanist beliefs that resist the official colonialist doctrines. The grandfather urges his grandson not to accept the finality of death, but believe in the perpetual circularity of life in the hereafter, in the spiritual realm. Death is only a physical state and an illusion because it continues in samamfo, the spiritual meeting place of the ancestors after physical death.

The Color Line In the province, there are divisions along the lines of ethnicity, color, religion, and caste. The West Indians generally refuse to form intimate relations with the Latino population, whereas the Chinese remain on the peripheries of both groups. La paz del pueblo presents an environment where relationships between the Afro–West Indians and the Latin population are superficial; at best, both groups look upon each other with suspicion and disdain. On the surface, Sitaira’s funeral procession appears to bring together the many ethnic groups of the provincial community, “Indians . . . Spanish . . . blacks . . . even the Chinese lady goes there” (Indios . . . pañas . . . negros . . . hasta la china viene allí, 80). Mariot Moody Kenton holds “firmly the white hand of Pérez and the black hand of her husband” during the march to the cemetery (firmamente a la mano blanca de Pérez y a la mano negra de su marido, 80). She is inspired to bring her white neighbor, Pérez, to the head of the procession by religious verses: “When you were at a feast you did not sit in the place of honor, not that any would come with greater merits, and the master of the house made you give up your space” (Cuando fueses a un banquete procura no sentarte en el sitial de honor, no sea que venga otro de mayores méritos y el dueño de la casa te haga ceder el lugar, 72). However, Mariot’s display of unity and friendship disturbs the town gossips who whisper that Sitaira’s skin color was too light to be Cornelio’s child and insinuate that Pérez and Mariot are lovers: “Jesus! Did you see that? Miss Mariot hugging up on the Spanish man.” “Yes, how awful, not even at the burial of her daughter can that woman maintain a little respect.”


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“And with her husband on her arm . . .” “It has always been like that: he would go to work in the mornings and she would stay at home, and it was not uncommon for some man to pass by pretending and would enter the back of the house . . .” “Well, for that reason . . . What I don’t understand is that she would go to the extreme of embracing that Spanish man in the presence of her husband.” (—Jesús: ¿viste eso? La señora Mariot abrazada con el pañaman. —Sí, qué barbaridad ni en el entierro de su hija puede esa mujer guardar un poco de respeto. —Y con su marido del brazo . . . —Siempre fue así: él se iba a trabajar por las mañanas y ella se quedaba en la casa y no era raro que alguno pasaba por allí disimulando y se metía al patio . . . —Bueno, pero eso . . . Lo que no entiendo es que llegue al extremo de abrazar a ese paña en presencia de su marido.) (72)

The colonial pattern of color division is maintained in the British West Indian enclave of the Costa Rican province. Value is placed on material wealth and lighter skin color. Among the elite women in the community, Been Brown is highlighted for possessing “light skin, with money, even though her husband was quite black” (la piel ciarita, con dinero, aunque su marido sea tan negro, 77). The narrator adds, “Here on the plain, it was not like in Jamaica. . . . Miss Been had worth only because of her money, even though her skin color did not cease from being pleasing” (Acá en el llano no era como en Jamaica. . . . La señora Been valía solamente por su dinero, aunque no dejaba de agradar su color, 77). In the provincial town, money and skin color hold esteem. Furthermore, “It was the only hierarchy that the jungle permitted” (Era la única jerarquía que la selva le permitía, 77), indicating that this artificial social stratification erases the town’s residents’ common ground of migration and labor for the United Fruit Company. Skin color becomes an important marker of power and privilege in the community. Been Brown, the wife of the local agricultural broker for United Fruit, is regarded with great esteem in the community. She wishes for her mentally disturbed son, Cató, “to marry well,” which means into another light-complexioned family of their class. Been Brown accuses Mariot of using obeah to trap her son into marrying Sitaira so that the Kenton family would have access to the Brown family’s wealth and power in the town:

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature “It’s that wicked old woman, Sitaira’s mother, and I will not even mention her name. It’s her who has the boy like that.” “What I don’t understand is . . .” “It’s a question of money: she already had her eye on him. She wanted him for her daughter. She wants my husband’s money. How did it occur to her? Besides, we have Scottish blood, and we will not go mixing like that: I have said to my son with total clarity that he must marry someone with lighter skin to improve the color.” (—Es esa maldita vieja, la madre de Sitaira, y ni siquiera mencionaré su nombre. Es ella a que tiene a este muchacho así. —Lo que no entiendo es . . . —Es cuestión de dinero: ya le puso el ojo. Lo quiere para su hija. Anda detrás del dinero de mi marido. ¿Cómo se le ocurre? Además de que nosotros tenemos sangre escocesa y no nos vamos a estar mezclando así: a mi hijo le he dicho con toda claridad que debe casarse con alguien de piel más clara para levantar su color.) (85)

The discussion between Been Brown and her friend presents the colorist preference for lighter skin color in order to “improve the race.” The act of marrying their son to a woman of lighter skin signifies the Browns’ socioeconomic aspirations to approximate European standards. The gossip in the town discusses the motives and the suspects, Pedro and el Loco, of Sitaira’s murder. In one of the conversations, the ideology of “improving the race” surfaces. One of the townspeople contends that Sitaira’s death resulted from ending the relationship with Pedro: “It is not strange for her to have wanted to break up with him. Remember that she has light skin: a woman like her, besides being pretty, always looks for a man who is lighter and more educated than she” (No es nada raro que ella ahora haya querido romper con él. Acordate que tiene la piel más clara: una mujer como ella, que además es linda, siempre busca un hombre más clarito y más educado que ella, 92). The efforts to ascend the scale of color and privilege are attached to “marrying up” in terms of color and privilege. Even Mr. Brown feels a sense of superiority among the other hijos naturales (children born outside legal marriage) in the town because of his alleged Scottish blood. In spite of his miserable origins, he is now one of the members of the province’s elite, “with gaiters made in Cartago, the best brands of machete with long, elegant blades that would never get soiled with mud, pants from London, Caribbean shirts, and a delectable education acquired from his wife, Been” (con polainas fabricadas en Cartago, machete de las mejores marcas con cutachas elegantes, que jamás se manchaban de barro; pantalones londi-


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nenses, camisas caribeñas, y una deliciosa educación adquirida de su mujer, Been, 88). His social standing and “education” were improved by his wife’s social caste and light skin color. Been Brown herself is the recognized child of a Jamaican planter, and her light skin is the marker of her lineage.

“Nation Language” Language is an assertion of cultural maroonage in Quince Duncan’s novel, much like the project of Dolores Joseph’s “Limon on the Raw.” The language of La paz del pueblo is neither the “official” form of Spanish nor English, but the popular forms of both languages. There is a resistance against the imposition of the dominant Spanish language of the predominant cultural group in Costa Rica and that of the British colonizer. In Duncan’s text, this resistance takes the form of extensive borrowing of words from English and their transcription into Spanish. The author records in the Spanish language an attempt to subvert the standard codes of the language as a way of demonstrating linguistic play in the region and asserting the presence of “West Indianness” in the text. There is a significant amount of borrowing (changes in the semantic structure) and code switching (series of words in sentences where the semantic structure remains intact) in the text. Transforming the language is an act of resistance—using the master’s language to express reality—and presents a displacement of the tongue of the “homeland.” The nation language, or folk speech, in La paz del pueblo presents the everyday manner of speaking of the people in the province. The folk dialogues capture an authenticity of life in a small West Indian town. The interspersed dialogues mimic the conversation of the Jamaican “mouthamassy Liza” who cannot be trusted with secrets and spreads the business of others all over town. These conversational and often humorous breaks in the novel present how public opinion is generated and broadcast or, as we say in our contemporary language, “spun.” These voices of the pueblo are also cruel in their dissemination of malicious stories. The women and men comment on the behavior of others they label as strange, inexplicable, or inappropriate. When Pedro arrives in the provincial town and begins to court Sitaira, the jealous remarks express disapproval for Mariot’s sanction of their relationship: And the old women of the town commented that it was a terrible thing that was happening, that possibly she herself had brought the young man so that he could be her daughter’s lover, without considering the consent of Cornelio.

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature (Y las viejas del pueblo comentaban que era una barbaridad lo que estaba sucediendo, que posiblemente ella misma había traído al muchacho para que fuera amante de su hija, sin que mediara para nada el consentimiento de Cornelio.) (19)

These hints of perversion work against the idyllic romance of Pedro and Sitaira that is constructed on the harmonious perfection of earth and water—he is stone and she is water. The narration juxtaposes the childhood attachment of Pedro and Sitaira with nature. Their nude swims and their fascination with water, rocks, insects, and trees parallel, finally culminating in their encounter in the natural forest. The gossips of the town are described as “vultures” (buitres, zopilotes, aves de rapiña), scavengers that feed off the dead and decaying flesh of other creatures— and their reputations. At the wake for Sitaira, the townspeople gather, some sincere in their commiseration with Mariot and Cornelio Kenton, but most congregate to make a hypocritical appearance to feed off the miserable flesh of the dead woman and use her death as additional fuel to spread gossip and rumor: The vultures will come, like the vultures of last night, and they will leave only the hide, because no one will want to pass by that road during the nine days. The vultures of last night, eating with such tranquillity, without asking if after the wake the blind man and his wife would have bread for breakfast. (Ya vendrán los buitres, como los buitres de anoche y dejarán solo el cuero, porque nadie querrá pasar por ese camino durante nueve días. Los buitres de anoche, comiendo con tanta tranquilidad, sin preguntar si después de la vela el ciego y su mujer tendrán pan para el desayuno.) (23–24)

The folk who gather are called by the third-person narrator “indifferent,” “wretched,” “sly,” and “vicious” (24). Everyday folk speech is imbued with proverbial expressions that accentuate a point. Additionally, folklore plays a meaningful role in expression of nation language in La paz del pueblo. The gossipy conversation of two women, Señora Mantle and her daughter, is “dressed” with an Anancy story from the West Indian oral tradition: “Don’t you know the story about Tucumá and Anancy?” “Yes . . . I know which one it is. And if I were the daughter of that old woman [Mariot]—God save me—I would not be singing all the time.”


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(—¿No te sabes el cuento ese sobre Tucumá y el Hermano Araña? —Sí . . . ya sé cuál es. Y si yo fuera hija de esa vieja [Mariot]—me libre Dios—no estaría todo el tiempo cantando.) (58)

The story of Tucumá and Anancy emphasizes the ignorance of the blind and impotent Cornelio Kenton in the face of his wife’s alleged sexual adventures with other men—including Pedro, Sitaira’s companion. In the interpolated tale, Tucumá’s wife, Alicia, is visited by a female cousin, Evalinda, whom Alicia has never mentioned in previous conversation. The house is small, so the two women share the same bed. Tucumá’s son, being mischievous, tells his father that he witnessed the two women embracing, “like how you and Mommy embrace at night” (como cuando usted y mami se abrazan por las noches, 65). Tucumá threatens to kill the women. Realizing his error, the boy runs to his mother to tell her the truth of his deed. They invent a tale about how the women in their family turn into men. Tucumá takes pity on his wife, believing that this sex transformation is the result of obeah, and sends her to Anancy for a cure. The spider prescribes a remedy to cure the “problem,” and Alicia gives birth to a daughter “who looks very much like Anancy” (muy parecida al Hermano Araña, 67). In spite of the ineffective solution to an alleged problem, the cousin continues to visit. E. Kamau Brathwaite names the presence of folk culture in narrative fiction an act of “written improvisation” because it combines the oral tradition’s unifying force of tone, rhythm, and image as written text.17 The narration of this Anancy tale in the dialogue adds the theatricality and humor of the West Indian oral tradition with its popular speech and biting and vicious wit. The mother telling the story to the daughter craftily relates the deception of Tucumá to Cornelio’s ignorance of the supposed improprieties occurring right under his nose and the insinuation that Sitaira is probably not his biological daughter. Interestingly, there is a connection between Cornelio’s last memory before the train accident when he lost his vision and his potency and the story of Anancy and Tucumá. After the accident, “[h]is memory only hammered a story about Anancy and Tucumá that he told to some woman, a half-hour before the accident . . . [a]nd in his memory the story didn’t even have an ending” (s]olo martilleaba su memoria un cuento sobre el Hermano Araña y el Hermano Tucumá que le contó alguien, una mujer, media hora antes del accidente . . . [y] el cuento ni siquiera tenía en su memoria un final, 68). Duncan makes a stunning link between Cornelio and the gossiping women through the Anancy tale. The interpolation of religious hymns is an additional example of the use of the 17. Brathwaite, Roots, 81.

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West Indian oral tradition in La paz del pueblo. The narration alternates between the slow funeral procession as it follows the last steps Sitaira took in life to the river and the scandalous chatter of the gossips. One of the women ironically states at the end to her calumnious session, “Best not to judge, lest you be judged” (Mejor no juzgar: el que juzga será juzgado, 73), as the reader sits in judgment of the town gossips. It is important to note that the town’s women are not the only ones participating in the folk dialogues in the novel. The conversations between the two grave diggers in the cemetery as they await the cortege are comical interludes that speed up the flow of the novel after narration about the procession or the intense social dynamics of the town. One of the conversations between the two men appears after a brief narration about the social elite and three women of high social ranking in the community. The men contemplate the possibilities of returning to Jamaica: “Well . . . this matter that I can’t go to Jamaica without money isn’t really like that.” “No?” “No. With money one does not have everything. They can take away your house, land, money, and leave you the way God brought you into the world. What matters is that one has knowledge. They can’t take that away from you.” “Oh, really?” “In any case, you don’t have a house, or land, or money, and you’re an idiot.” “Cho . . . nobody can talk to you.” (—Bueno . . . eso de que no puedo irme a Jamaica sin dinero no es tan así. —¿No? —No. Con tener dinero uno no lo tiene todo. Le pueden quitar a uno la casa, la tierra, el dinero y dejarlo como Dios lo echó al mundo. Lo que importa es lo que uno sabe. Eso no se lo pueden quitar. —¿Ah sí? —De todos modos, vos no tenés casa, ni tierra, ni dinero y sos un ignorante. —Cho . . . no se puede hablar con vos.) (77)

The spontaneous and popular nature of the conversation is transmitted to the written word, which also coincides with the novel’s structure, as an expression of resistance.


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The novel follows some of the patterns of the “new novel.” The omniscient, privileged narrator takes us into the intimate thoughts of the characters and on a journey that leaps between the past and present. At the beginning of La paz del pueblo is the memory of Sitaira in Pedro’s head. She is an object that we see only from the exterior—from the point of view of Pedro, her suitor, and Cató, her murderer. The repetition and the circularity of the novel model the retelling of stories in the oral folk tradition. The reader must participate actively in the reconstruction of the events because there is no chronological order. The first chapter is the most difficult to capture because it establishes the pattern of the narration, which is perhaps the reason for the lack of intensive study of this novel among scholars in Costa Rica and North America. La paz del pueblo is about community formation by exilic subjects and the reconciliation of exile, place, and identity, which is a recurring theme in the novels of Quince Duncan. At the end of the novel, Pérez defends Pedro and declares his support for his defense. That act in itself is significant because it symbolically joins the Afro–West Indian and the white and mestizo populations in the town in a common effort to exonerate their hero. After that act, there is a strange harmony, followed by the enigmatic laugh of a woman. This laugh undoubtedly belongs to Sitaira. Her death fostered this atmosphere for Pedro’s impending martyrdom. The notion of exile plays an important role in La paz del pueblo. To be exiled from Africa, Jamaica, and the nation in which one resides also involves a search for a place to foster a sense of belonging. Exile and the diaspora condition in the narrative are related to biblical events, particularly the expulsion from Eden and the concept of martyrdom. Elizabeth Moody and her Haitian lover, Josué, are exiled from the “paradise” of the Jamaican plantation. Later, this scene is paralleled by the disruption of the provincial Eden by the violence of Cató Brown, who had his own perverse version of the Garden. To extend this allegory of the expulsion from paradise, there is the historical weight of the African and Caribbean diasporas with the forced exile from the “motherlands.” There is a memory of the Middle Passage, slavery in Jamaica, and exile to Costa Rica. Blackness is also depicted as a state of exile with references to the condemnation and consequential expulsion of Ham and his descendants by Noah. There is an attempt to seek salvation from this curse or punishment by searching for the homeland. The question of place is constant, and in exile culture is reconstructed. In the face of a dominant culture, there exists a form of resistance or maroonage as a means of cultural preservation in a hostile environment. In the novel, class, ethnicity, color, and caste are significant. There is a hierarchy of skin color. Blackness is a sig-

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nifier of barbarism, marginality, and the popular, whereas lighter hues indicate access to wealth, prestige, and proximity to the European model. The subjects in the town are constituted by multiple identities that are not always in harmony. Pedro is not the “universal” hero, and the culture must determine whether he is a hero. Pedro Dull makes a sacrifice to improve the conditions of the town. Pedro “es hombre” (he is a man) because he resists the situation. This leads to the irony of the title because there is no peace in the town: there are labor disputes and social problems in the community. Sitaira’s death exposes the tension between and within ethnic groups, and Pedro is not the interruption of this fictitious peace, but rather a martyr. The novel is composed of memory, dreams, and rememory. It is up to the active reader to consciously put the narration in order. The novel has echoes of Pedro Páramo, El Señor Presidente, and As I Lay Dying. Voices from the past initiate the novel with pieces of interior monologue, dialogue, and third-person omniscient narration and second-person address. The narrative structure imitates the cognitive process, which is not always linear in its development. The novel is not magical realism in the true sense because it is not an exaggeration of reality. Like Alejo Carpentier’s proposal of the marvelous real in 1949, the sociocultural context of the African experience in America provides sufficient material without hyperbole.18 This complex novel uses history as a backdrop for the development of the nontraditional protagonist, an antiheroic hero who offers self to restore peace that never really existed in the town. Pedro is a martyr, and Sitaira is the sacrifice. Both serve as catalysts to bring forth change. La paz del pueblo presents the struggles within the West Indian community. There is a clash of attitudes, economics, religion, social class, caste, color, and ideas about the future. The physical space of the town serves as a crossroads of dislocated persons. Everyone suffers from one form or another of displacement: the West Indian workers and Chinese merchants who cannot or do not return home, the British and North American expatriates who manage the United Fruit Company, and the paña who are separated from their homes and peasant culture even though they are in their own country. There is uneasiness about this state of living in-between. Pedro’s “martyrdom” adds to the restoration of peace—an alleviation of the tensions, albeit temporarily. It is expected at the end of the novel that he will rise to greatness because of his capacity to unite the workers. He, like Sitaira, will be converted into legend in the community. 18. See Carpentier, “Prólogo a la primera edición de El reino de este mundo,” in El reino de este mundo (1949; reprint, Rio Piedras: University of Puerto Rico, 1994).


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Diaspora, Exile, and Nation in Quince Duncan’s Novels of Identity Diaspora is a form of exile, and it is a condition that not only affects the firstgeneration immigrant, but is also a factor in the formation of successive generations. Exile of the diaspora subject is a project of sociohistoric recognition and reconciliation with the “new” home in the three novels of Afro–Costa Rican identity by Quince Duncan. The state of exile of the West Indians and their descendants in Costa Rica is not a result of forced or violent migration, but rather a part of voluntary emigration from the Caribbean as a result of international capitalism and neocolonial structures. With respect to national identity, exile and nation inform and constitute each other. Duncan seeks accommodation in the nation and to shed the burden of the exile; however, without giving up the fundamental constitution of difference (ethnicity, which is difficult to shed), [t]he writer is thus faced with a creative double bind: the need to lay claim to a place, joined with the need to resist being engulfed by a false identity, whether local or displaced. Origins, both historical and literary, thus become the focus for the postcolonial writer, who employs intertextual devices to rewrite the past, to restore a silenced story, and to “write in” the postcolonial subject as neither Anglocentered [or other metropolitan centered] or Other.19

Exile in postcolonial literatures can be internal to the subject. In the case of the three protagonists in Quince Duncan’s Hombres curtidos, Los cuatro espejos, and La paz del pueblo, exile is not the direct result of forced migration or colonial occupation, but rather the residual effect of a history of forced and voluntary migration. Clif Duke, Charles McForbes, and Pedro Dull all experience a form of internal exile—experiencing a need to reconnect and reconcile their alienated selves with their cultural origins. Charles McForbes returns to Limón to deal with the past so that he may be able to continue in the future. Clif Duke returns to Limón, but unlike McForbes, he makes a positive ancestral connection in the present in order to tell the story of the past and to (re)construct and (re)write history as an individual and for his ancestors. Pedro Dull, in contrast to both McForbes and Duke, makes a reconnection with his ancestral culture through the practice of Pocomania and belief in Cumina through ritual and Mariot’s belief in the continuation of the bloodline, samamfo. 19. Judie Newman, “The Colonial Voice in the Motherland,” 48.

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The British empire is no longer a direct imperial force, and these three novels address not the building of a people, but how to incorporate a nation into an alien (and alienating) nation-state and how to make into a home a place that is not always hospitable to its immigrants. The case is much more subtle in La paz del pueblo, but the argument can be made that Pedro refuses to be a fugitive and run off to Panama upon learning that the United Fruit authorities are after him for his prolabor activities. He remains even though he is threatened. Here, then, is a message to make this inhospitable place a home worth staying for, worth struggling for, and worth the liberation of the people. The three protagonists in Duncan’s novels of identity present an engagement between and within cultures, which ultimately exposes the process of how cultural identity is constructed in difference and how it transforms across generations. The initial condition of expatriation of the first generation creates the migrant identity that is in transformation in the new environment. Because of the multiple geographies of place associated with the settlement and this generation’s desire to return, place is situated in Costa Rica, but home is elsewhere. The interactions in these novels between members of the first generation with members of the second and third generations display a different set of concerns for the latter groups. Knowing that a return to their forebears’ islands of origin is an impossibility, they are charged, particularly the third generation, with the responsibility of negotiating the cultural terms and asserting Costa Rica as home. In this formation of an Afro–Costa Rican identity in the novels of Quince Duncan, the territory involves a compromise that supports the Afro–West Indians’ descendants’ integration into “mainstream” society in the nation-state, but equips them with an understanding of the historical and social importance of Afro–Costa Rican cultural roots. His construction of Afro–Costa Rican identity involves more than a backward glance at the historical past; he makes this past useful in the effort to “become” Costa Rican. Considering this legacy, the young poets Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald, who represent later generations of Afro–Costa Rican writers, accept this charge of understanding the past in order to add their literary perspective to the conversation on the configuration of Afro–Costa Rican identity.

Four

To Be Young, Gifted, and Black Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald I absolutely refuse to deny my voice my blood and my skin and I absolutely refuse to cease being me. —Shirley Campbell Barr, “Rotundamente negra” From being here I do not remember, when I began to see things that live with my spirit. —Delia McDonald Woolery, poem 27, in La illuvia es una piel

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he years after the Costa Rican civil war were fraught with many changes both politically and socially. No longer grouped as “Jamaican,” or afroantillano, blacks born in the national territory were legal, enfranchised citizens of Costa Rica after the political reforms of Costa Rica’s Second Republic in 1949. The new political strength garnered by the Liberationists under the leadership of José María Figueres promised to extend opportunities to the black population with the hopes of creating an electoral base for political support. There was the expectation that the “new” Costa Ricans would assimilate as much as possible into the fabric of the country’s social, political, and economic life. The Afro–West Indians, now officially Afro–Costa Ricans, who migrate from Limón to the capital city and the surrounding provinces of the Central Valley awaken to a new environment where they are no longer the majority population. In the 167

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process of becoming “Costa Rican,” some of the Afro–Costa Rican migrants also attempt to become “Hispanized” in an effort to learn the ways and the language of the once despised, “culturally inferior” paña. Blacks of West Indian descent arriving from the coastal province begin to adapt and adopt many of the Hispanic cultural practices rejected by their immigrant forebears, including educating their children exclusively in Spanish, marrying into Hispanic families, and sometimes converting to Catholicism. In spite of these efforts to foster a sense of belonging to the nation-state and its dominant culture, there is still an overwhelming marker of difference: skin color. Blackness is not congruent with the myth of European origin that has been central to Costa Rican national identity. For the fourth and later generations of Afro–Costa Ricans born in the Central Valley confronted with these national myths of “whiteness” and their own repudiated blackness, there is a dissonance between, as previously stated by Ian Smart in reference to Eulalia Bernard, the desire to belong and the failure of this desired outcome to materialize. Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald are poets of the fourth generation who attempt to call the attention of their compatriots and assert their undeniable blackness through a reconnection with history in order to affirm their sense of belonging to the nation. These two young poets have been “crowned” by the elder writer Quince Duncan as the future of Afro– Costa Rican letters and the continuation of his literary portrayal of the black presence in the Central American country.1

The Poetic Blackness of Shirley Campbell Shirley Campbell Barr was born in San José in 1965. She is the most renowned of the new generation of Afro–Costa Rican writers born after 1948. Her poetry expresses a black identity and a Costa Rican nationality and exposes the points of discord between the two cultural positions. Her connection to Limón as the center of Afro–Costa Rican culture differs from Eulalia Bernard’s because of differences in generation and location. Campbell, as part of Costa Rica’s “Generation X,” was born outside of Limón and was raised in the capital, surrounded by the country’s official Hispanic culture. Campbell was born just a little more than fifteen years after the enfranchisement of blacks and the waves of migration from West Indian Limón to the “white and mestizo” Central Valley in search of employment and educational opportunities. 1. Tomás Wayne Edison, “An Interview with Afro–Costa Rican Writer Quince Duncan,” 30.

To Be Young, Gifted, and Black

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Like Duncan, all of Campbell’s creative work is in Spanish. Unlike her literary predecessors, however, she does not incorporate English words or Creole expressions into her text like Eulalia Bernard, nor does she present Hispanicized English transcriptions such as “güelaibidam” for “well, I’ll be damned” like Duncan does in his prose. There is no longer the lingering question of whether blacks in Costa Rica are citizens or are capable of producing perfect Castilian, but there is a question of honoring cultural identity, particularly when cultural difference does not fit neatly into the unifying and exclusionary national myths of Costa Rica. There is a distance, a barrier, between her poetic reflections and that of second-generation Eulalia Bernard. Limón Province and the port city are symbolic in Campbell’s poetry as anchors of a concept of blackness and heritage. The West Indies is envisioned in the imagination, but is never explicitly named in her poetry. The poet’s exploration of history and heritage is focused on Limón as the cultural center and a point to affix her declaration of blackness. Campbell’s poetry seeks to understand what her skin color means in terms of claiming a place in her native country. Although these battles seem to be behind her post-1948 generation, there is still a struggle against dominant mythologies of European supremacy and racial ideologies in Costa Rican culture. Campbell fearlessly signals racism and contradictions in Costa Rica’s democracy with a verse that meditates on social inequalities as she “maternalizes” the nation through the imagery of innocence of children and motherhood. Campbell’s two collections of poetry, Naciendo (Being born, 1988) and Rotundamente negra (Absolutely black, 1994), turn from the West Indian orality of Bernard toward reflections on being “young, gifted, and black” in Costa Rica and asserting place and nation. As Janet Jones Hampton observes, Campbell’s poetry is characteristically prone to “understatement and allusion, economy of words, intimation and ellipsis, emotional detachment and multiple perspectives.”2 Naciendo is an impressive first publication of a talented poet. She begins the collection with traditional self-depreciating humility: “Here is my work that I define as a group of words that attempt to be poetry” (NC, 12). In the poems that follow, Shirley Campbell mediates the anger and frustration of youth with artistic wisdom attached to a profound connection with history and spirituality. Thematically, the collection is a type of poetic “return to origins” and struggles to look to Limón as the mythic center of Afro–Costa Rican existence. A stanza from “De frente” (Forward) that opens the collection resounds with the anticipation of return: 2. Hampton, “Portraits of a Diasporan People: The Poetry of Shirley Campbell and Rita Dove,” 33.

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature Today I return to wipe clean the knees of the past to give myself cleansed as if being born facing my own entrails. (Hoy regreso para limpiar las rodillas al pasado para entregarme limpia como naciendo frente a mis entrañas.) frente a mis entrañas.)(NC, 9)

The vision of rebirth and facing the past is born out of hope for deliverance to an imaginary promised land. However, this vision is in conflict with the reality of the difficult return. This return of the poet-narrator is not to the homeland of the first generation of immigrants in the West Indies, but to the land of her parents and grandparents. Many of the untitled free-verse poems in Naciendo venture from the exaltation of ethnic pride to the acceptance of the vicissitudes of history: we will be heroes without blood with children and with a country we believe in the humanity of this town ours that straddles the sea and falls in love with hope. and falls in lo(12)

The poetic voice attempts to claim ownership of Limón as a nation-within-anation, as she declares “this town / ours” and turns to hope in an attempt to come to terms with the history of dreams deferred and promises still unfulfilled. Campbell presents a vision of this Afro–West Indian nation that is at once a part of the history of the nation-state, but also distanced from it by time and


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space. The image of Limón as center of Afro–Costa Rican culture is tarnished in Campbell, like Bernard’s “Metamorfosis de tu recuerdo” (Metamorphosis of your memory), which describes the physical decay of Limón as the black male body: I remember you so, dynamic, so, beautiful so, whole, and, mighty. I see you now, weak; now, deformed; now, broken and, meager. (Te recuerdo así, dinámico, así, hermoso, así, entero, y, caudaloso. Te veo ahora, débil; ahora, deforme; ahora, partido y, escaso.) y, escaso.(RH, 37)

In Campbell’s brief poem, the poetic voice declares: We know your eyes sparkle more than the lights of all the railroads put together We know that your voice is higher than the summit of any mountain that your hand is greater than all hands together we know you are eternal and for that we will not allow them

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature to continue sullying your face. sullying your face.(NC, 14)

Although it is brilliant, great, strong, far-reaching, and eternal, the face of Limón has been stained. The repetition of “we know” speaks to history being passed on—we know what Limón was in the past, but its present is far from that proud image. The concept of nation in this collection places an emphasis on hope to reconcile history and ancestry in order to foster fraternity and self-love, but remains unfulfilled. The poetic voice of Rotundamente negra continues some of the preoccupations with history and articulates the place of the fourth and fifth generations of Afro– Costa Ricans in Naciendo, but these themes are brought to the concrete reality of maternity. Motherhood becomes an expression of history, creation, love, identity, and the need to belong. Through maternal love and self-love, there is an engagement with the continuum of time—bringing the past, present, and future together through children as products of hope for a new beginning and a new day. The vision of mother-force of the poetic voice awaits a utopia, as the opening poem of the collection proclaims: I swear not to stop until we find our promised land that must be somewhere hidden ................... I swear to give it to the hands and the eyes and to the dreams of the children. and to the dreams of the children.(13)

Instead of fixing identity to a place, Limón, as Bernard does in Ritmohéroe (Rhythmhero), children symbolically represent the future of the Costa Rican nation and Afro–Costa Rican identity, guided by the maternal hand. The deeply intimate, feminine subject declares of her daughter: It is next to my daughter that I build this, our everydayness


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of being black women like our grandmothers and our mothers these women the ones of history the ones that watered history with blackness and passion I refer to the same ones the ignored ones. I refer to the same ones(RN, 42)

As she looks to her children: I understand that this skin yours ours comes connected since when there was no history this skin has to do with hope with the sorrow of dreams. with the sorrow of dream s(RN, 43)

In the blackness of their skin, they carry the marker of identity in relation to Afro–West Indian history in Costa Rica. Black children as part of a new, reconstructed nation represent hope for the dream deferred and the unfulfilled covenant of the promised land.

Naciendo (1988) The poet’s first work is divided into four sections: the first two divisions are untitled and begin with epigraphs, the third section is titled “ . . . las mujeres . . . y los hombres” ( . . . the women . . . and the men), and the last section carries the title “Confesión” (Confession). The first section of the collection contains poems that present an abstract thought on the “return to origins.” The epigraphs that precede the poems are quotes from works by three canonical literary figures of the three major language areas of the Caribbean: Claude McKay of Jamaica, Nicolás Guillén of Cuba, and Aimé Césaire of Martinique. The second part of Naciendo, in contrast, begins with an epigraph from Costa Rica’s native son Quince Duncan, and further treats the theme of the “return to origins,” but with more approximations to the material culture of black Costa Rica. Campbell infuses the poems in this second section with images of the coastal land, the ubiq-

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uitous train, places in Limón Province, and the stench and debauchery of the October carnival. The poems in this second section present more of the tangible aspects of cultural survivals than the abstract reflections on exile and return in the first section. Like the majority of poems in Naciendo, many of the poems in these first two sections do not bear titles, nor are they numbered. The third section of Naciendo, “ . . . las mujeres . . . y los hombres,” presents intimate portraits of (hetero)sexuality and motherhood. (Hetero)sexual love, sexual pleasure, and reproduction form a frame for the images of children as building blocks of the nation. The use of the erotic is a truly powerful resource in Naciendo and expresses “an assertion of the life force of women; of that creative energy empowered, the knowledge and use of which we are reclaiming in our language, our history, our dancing, our loving, our work, our lives.”3 In accord with African-American poet Audre Lorde, Campbell uses the erotic power in her poetry to enrich her life and create greater possibilities for the lives of her children. In a turn from the erotic to the divine, the fourth section, “Confesión,” rounds out the collection with a spiritual and philosophical exploration that searches for God and sensuality and meditates on the construction of a belief system. There is a mystical tone of modern desire to unite with God, as the poet-narrator seeks love, sex, and divinity. This examination of Shirley Campbell’s poetry will focus on the poems in the first three sections because of their specific treatment of place, history, and national identity and the prominence of the “return to origins” theme. Campbell’s poems on the “return to origins” emerged out of a yearlong physical and poetic return to Limón from her life as a teacher and student in San José. It is an effort of a fourth-generation post-1948 Afro–Costa Rican born in the Central Valley to reconnect with her cultural roots in her native land. She does not seek to reconnect Costa Rica with the distant and hazy space of the West Indies, but rather reconnects the forces of internal migration to their origins. She links the Central Valley–born Afro–Costa Rican youth to their Afro-Limonese parents and grandparents who occupied their own Afro-Saxon cultural space. The poetic voice cannot return to the West Indies of her ancestors, but instead attempts to connect her nationality with her “nation” and to the place venerated as the center of her Afro–Costa Rican culture. In the presentation of Naciendo, the poet defends her return and her poetic claim to this ancestral cultural space: I think that this is only the beginning of the great poetry that I desire to create, and it is for my people, who still look at me with strange eyes asking 3. Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider, 55.


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me what right do I have to write about that which I have not lived, to which I respond that my poetry is only born of this urgent necessity to continue forward; of this necessity that history be justified before our untiring battle. It is this, my work, that seeks to settle in the memory of this people who do not lower their heads and who keep smiling. (Pienso que es solo el principio de la poesía grande que deseo llegar a hacer, y es para mi gente, la que aun me mira con ojos extraños preguntándome con qué derecho escribo lo que no he vivido, a lo que respondo que mi poesía solo nace de esta necesidad urgente de seguir andando; de esta necesidad de que la historia se justifique ante nuestra incansable batalla. Es este mi trabajo que pretende instalarse en la memoria de este pueblo que no baja el rostro y sigue sonriendo.) (5)

Like Quince Duncan novels Hombres curtidos (Hardened men) and Los cuatro espejos (The four mirrors), which examine the “return to origins” of Afro–Costa Rican male protagonists, Campbell’s Naciendo makes a difficult reconnection between her poetic voice’s national identity and her blackness. There is sometimes a sense of rejection experienced from both the dominant Hispanic culture of Costa Rica and the Afro–West Indian–influenced culture conserved in the port province. In this poetic “return to origins,” there is an incomplete fit in both cultural spaces and an uneven, slippery effort to straddle the two cultures. She is clearly not at home in either culture and truly negotiates the “third space” not only for her poetic subject, but also for her generation’s struggle with place, history, and identity. Afra-Hispanist Janet Jones Hampton notes in her comparative diaspora study of Shirley Campbell and the former poet laureate of the United States Rita Dove that the young Campbell’s declaration of art and identity “is born of a need to move forward, of a need for history to be vindicated.”4 Campbell’s Naciendo makes this return to connect the subject-self with her history, her pueblo (a nation-within-a-nation), and her blackness, that indelible marker of difference that prevents her from being fully embraced by her native land. The epigraphs from Caribbean poets Claude McKay, Nicolás Guillén, and Aimé Césaire at the beginning of the first part of the collection address distinct aspects of the common denominator of historical vindication, claiming place and asserting cultural identity. Donald K. Gordon claims that by quoting these three Caribbean poets, Campbell is “not only deliberately evoking the Black Diaspora, she is signaling the themes and symbols which preoccupy her: death and 4. Hampton, “Portraits,” 34. Afra-Hispanic is a term coined by scholar Miriam DeCosta-Willis that refers to the feminist-womanist study of black women writers in the Spanish-speaking world (see “Afra-Hispanic Writers and Feminist Discourse”).

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blood, fraternity, and rage.”5 Campbell presents a portion in Spanish translation of the Jamaican-born Claude McKay’s frequently recited poem “If We Must Die,” infamously borrowed by Great Britain’s Sir Winston Churchill: If we must die—oh, let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain.

This is followed by a brief citation from Cuba’s Guillén, “Well, comrades, here we are,” and a frequently recited quote from Césaire: “He who does not understand me, would not understand the roar of a tiger.” The drama of “If We Must Die,” the matter-of-fact statement of Guillén, and the resonating timbre of Césaire address Campbell’s call to revisit Caribbean culture and history and demand for social and cultural justice. In this return to her origins, her ancestral soil in Limón, the center of Afro–Costa Rican culture and history, the poet-narrator demands that her readers accompany her on this journey and participate in this process of discovery and vindication: Let us fill ourselves with victorious mornings let us dream men of stone and fire Let us cover ourselves with love and struggle let us discover our skin and history only then will we begin. (Llenémonos de mañanas victoriosas soñemos hombres de piedra y de fuego acribillémonos de amor y de luchas descubrámonos la piel y la historia solo entonces empecemos.) solo entonces empecemos.)(10)

Campbell opens this collection with the poem “De frente” (Forward), one of the few titled pieces. It marks the return of the poet-narrator to her cultural homeland, establishing a corporeal confrontation of the past (body as object) and 5. Gordon, “Expressions of the Black Experience,” 24.


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the present (the poet-narrator’s body as subject), which leads to a difficult process of rebirth: I have returned ready to scrub myself of caresses with time to reveal a life soaked in kisses and covered in misery I have returned through this narrow passage of hope for this tireless need to kiss the kisses on the back Today I return to wipe clean the knees of the past to give myself cleansed as if being born facing my own entrails. (He vuelto dispuesta a restregarme de caricias con el tiempo a descalzar la vida empapada en besos y calzada de miseria He vuelto por este pasillo estrecho de la esperanza por esta incansable necesidad de besar los besos por la espalda Hoy regreso para limpiar las rodillas al pasado para entregarme limpia como naciendo frente a mis entrañas.) para limpiar las rodillas(9)

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The return to origins is represented by the meeting of two bodies. This theme of the encounter of bodies and sensual experiences is present throughout the collection. The poet-narrator who represents the present meets the past, and the two bodies must continue forward, marching toward progress and rebirth. The poet-narrator uses her body and the physical act of embrace to meet the past in order to create a future. She is prepared “. . . to scrub myself / of caresses with time,” with . . . hope for this tireless need to kiss the kisses on the back.

The kisses on the back of time are part of this physical meeting with the past, with its back turned toward the progress of time, feeling the affection of the poetic subject. She returns not necessarily to lay claim to a glorified past, but meets the past body-to-body and lifts this past that has been subjugated and on her knees. The gesture of the poet-narrator is a restorative one that claims a history besmirched by time and indifference. The poetic subject in doing this act is “cleansed,” and she is reborn, facing her own entrails, or core self. “Nosotros creemos en la humanidad” (We believe in humanity), the first line of an untitled poem in the first section of Naciendo, appears as a continuation of the sentiments of struggle and resistance expressed in Claude McKay’s powerful “If We Must Die”: If we must die—let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot. If we must die—oh, let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; Though far outnumbered, let us show us brave, And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow! What though before us lies the open grave? Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!6 6. McKay, “If We Must Die,” 493 – 94.


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Instead of addressing a siege situation, Campbell portrays a situation where the subjects must be “on guard” like watchful sentinels in a resistance movement: We believe in humanity we are determined to be heroes one of these days by falling asleep standing to avoid having the moon pass without being understood we believe that we are gods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . we will be heroes without blood with children and with a country we believe in humanity in our town ours that straddles the sea and falls in love with hope We believe in humanity in our unclothed kisses and in man. (Nosotros creemos en la humanidad estamos empeñados en ser héroes alguno de estos días en dormirnos de pie para evitar que la luna pase sin ser comprendida creemos que somos dioses . . . . . . . . . . . . . seremos héroes sin sangre con hijos y con patria creemos en la humanidad en este pueblo el nuestro que cabalga sobre el mar y se enamora

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature de la esperanza Nosotros creemos en la humanidad en nuestros besos descalzos y en el hombre.) y en el hombre .(12)

Instead of establishing a set of conditions and possible responses, “If we must die—let it not be like hogs / . . . let us die nobly,” Campbell initiates her poem with a statement of faith, “We believe in humanity,” and a statement of intent, “we are determined to be heroes.” Although there is a belief or faith in the righteousness of humanity, there is an inherent contradiction in the need to be watchful and protective, “falling asleep standing.” In spite of a possible assault, as in McKay’s powerful verse, the poetic voice in Shirley Campbell’s poem maintains a belief in humanity and in this town ours that straddles the sea.

Interestingly, the dual meanings of the word pueblo, which means “people” or “nation” and “town,” are in operation in the poem. On one hand, the word pueblo refers to the Afro–Costa Rican people in the town Limón, and on the other hand, it refers to the town itself that sits on the Caribbean sea with its history of West Indian migration. Therefore, the people-nation as well as the town “[straddle] the sea.” The West Indies is a distant haze in Naciendo that is never fully or specifically discussed, but nevertheless articulated through certain images such as the sea, carnival, and reggae music, especially in the second and third parts of the collection. Many of these poems that speak of the West Indian cultural survivals use the train, a motif of the West Indian experience and history in Limón, or the powerful image of grandmothers and older women who serve as the backbone of family, spirituality, and community. Unlike the overt embrace of the masculine subject’s glory in the work of Eulalia Bernard, the male figure in Campbell’s work appears as an equal partner or a shadowy grandfather figure of the past. There is not an obvious, overt rejection or acceptance of feminism, but there is a definite valorization of the female body, control of sensuality and sexuality, and use of the erotic as power in poetic expression. Campbell makes connections with history, her people, and the land. She makes these links through the images of mothers, grandmothers, and children.


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Older women and grandmothers in particular provide a link to the past—their living bodies are both record and testimony to memory and history. They are the link to the ancestors, and these grandmothers share this heritage with their children and grandchildren: . . . . . . . . . The grandmothers with children full of children begin as one begins a dream to fill stories in the holes of our dense innocence they speak the music of the soul of buried gods and of truths that only we understand. At night these grandmothers wrap up our hearts with their old time they protect us from harsh truths their veins carrying us from their ancient mourning and their eyes handing out to us love in infinite portions. (. . . . . . Las abuelas con los hijos llenos de hijos empiezan como quien empieza un sueño a llenar los cuentos los hoyos de nuestra densa inocencia hablan de la música del alma de dioses enterrados y de verdades que solo nosotros entendemos. De noche esas abuelas

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature nos arropan el corazón con su viejo tiempo nos protegen de duras verdades cargándonos las venas de su antiguo luto y repartiéndonos sus ojos en porciones infinitas de amor.) en porcion(22–23)

The oral tradition of a people—the passing on of truth and life lessons—is the legacy handed down from one generation to the next. In the warmth and safety of their homes, the grandmothers protect their grandchildren from the cruel and unsafe world. They create a fortress of resistance and “. . . fill stories / in the holes of our dense innocence.” The grandmothers pass on stories of their ancestral past. With rhythmical speech, “the music of the soul,” these older women are the repositories of the past in their minds and bodies. The intergenerational contact joins the present, past, and future by linking the elders to the youth through storytelling. The poetic action takes place at night, which is the time for rest and vulnerability and the time for storytelling and where the spiritual and the supernatural awaken in the imagination. Grandmothers protect their progeny and “wrap up our hearts / with their old time.” They shield their vulnerable grandchildren from exposure to the world on the other side of the door, which is a world of “harsh truths,” with the cloth woven of their experience. Grandmotherly love supports, protects, and prepares the present—her children and grandchildren— for a difficult future outside of her protection. Their love is distributed equally with no favorites in her eyes. The grandmothers pass on an ancestral memory in their veins, “from their ancient mourning,” which is the burden of being black and the negative significations of blackness in a white-identified society. The old women and grandmothers who represent the past are not asexual, selfabnegating beings. They are sexual and spiritual in addition to being the incarnation of memories and remembrance. The grandmother connection in “A una abuela cualquiera” (To anybody’s grandmother) humanizes the life experiences and desires of an older woman in the community. Her connection to the past and her liveliness in the present dismantle the image of a frail and feeble old woman. This grandmother has the wisdom of experience, vitality, and a desire to continue to experience life in spite of its moments of loneliness and sadness:

To Be Young, Gifted, and Black The old woman picks up a piece of dreams in the course of the day a piece of melancholy that she still remembers She braids her hair like she did once with her life and begins to walk. . . . . . . . . . . She walks erect imprisoning kisses of all the necessary men she hits or caresses the children between her sadness and her happiness with limits she falls in love sometimes with some traveler to let life rest undressing dreams without possible truth. . . . . . . . . . . . . She has made an altar under the house where hope is not limited . . . . . . . She walks erect imprisoning kisses the necessary men and children so that her confined skin of a woman and others is eternal. (La vieja levanta un trozo de sueños en el caminar de día y un trozo de melancolía de la que aun recuerda Se trenza el pelo como hizo una vez

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature con su vida y empieza a caminar. . . . . . . . . . . Camina erguida aprisionando de los besos de todos los hombres necesarios golpea o acaricia a los hijos entre su llanto y su felicidad con límites se enamora a veces de algún viajero para descansar la vida desnudando los sueños sin verdad posible. . . . . . . . . . . Se ha fabricado un altar bajo la casa donde no le limiten la esperanza . . . . . . . Camina erguida aprisionando los besos los hombres y los hijos necesarios para que su piel cercada de mujer y de otros sea eternal.) para que su pie(40 – 41)

The subject in “A una abuela cualquiera” is the embodiment of memory in the form of dreams and melancholy. From the beginning of the poem, she is at the intersection of the past and the present moment as she begins her day. The old woman’s act of hair braiding itself is the weaving together of the three sacred vertices of time: the past, present and future. This symbolic linking of time joins the memory of the subject in the past, the present poetic moment of her walk, and the future revealed in the final stanza of the poem. The woman walks upright into the day, “imprisoning kisses / of all the necessary men.” The word imprisoning, in conjunction with kisses, is an odd union for this image of an old black woman during her walk. It is as if her flesh were


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holding captive these kisses to keep them alive in memory. The subject in the poem is also quite human, unlike the icons of the untouchable grandmother or the reproachable crone image. She has desires: between her sadness and her happiness with limits she falls in love sometimes with some traveler to let life rest undressing dreams without possible truth.

Her time on earth and her experience are circumscribed by her vision of spirituality, which is timeless and boundless. She is very much alive and defies the traditional imagery of geriatric fragility and feeblemindedness. Additionally, the connection between the terrestrial and the spiritual is evident in the altar constructed underneath the house. It is important to note here that many of the structures built by blacks of West Indian descent are constructed on poles so that the house is raised off the ground for improved circulation of air for cooling, pest prevention, and storage, and as a preventive measure against the effects of flooding during the rainy season. The older woman, by maintaining the pillars of her faith, beneath the pillars supporting her home, maintains hope and supports faith for the future. The final stanza of “A una abuela cualquiera” addresses a vision toward the future. The image of the subject as the “jailer” of love and affection has a purpose to ensure that her skin and that of others who came before her and will come after her may be eternal. They may live on in perpetuity and continue to propagate and grow with the faith. The poem is a tribute to the dedication of the grandmother figure. Instead of addressing a particular individual, as in “A Grany” (To granny), a poem that speaks to the individual impact of an older black woman on the course of nature, “A una abuela cualquiera” places value on the collective experience of the everyday black grandmother. In “A Grany,” the subject’s absence affects natural events. Elements of nature are personified, and because the grandmother figure is not present, these elements refuse to perform their expected duties: The force of wanting to hear her laugh the night was very late to arrive the sun was indecisive to rise.

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature (A fuerza de querer escucharla reír la noche tardó mucho en llegar el sol se mostró indeciso para amanecer.) el sol se mostró indeciso para amanecer(44)

In concurrence with Janet Jones Hampton, the grandmother figures in Naciendo “seem to be a composite of older people whose role is to pass on the legacy of truth. Indeed, the ‘abuelas’ of these poems are revered as the repositories and dispensers of the truths of the past.”7 The general cast of the poem addresses the life and achievements of the older black women and their importance as culturebearers, as women, and as figures who prepare the way for the future. Campbell pays tribute to nation-building and history in a poem that leads the second section. “Vinieron los hijos más fuertes” (The strongest sons came) gives utterance to the history of West Indian immigration to Costa Rica: The strongest sons came and the old mothers remained and the memories They came marking the trail of blood that would return them to the same house . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . They came many years ago and the baggage of hidden deaths became a cry and was buried faith was converted into children and into permanent houses the blood erased the trail in order to construct another story this one without mothers and all of this history made memory. (Vinieron los hijos más fuertes y quedaron las madres viejas 7. Hampton, “Portraits,” 37.


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y recuerdos Vinieron señalando el rastro de la sangre que los volvería a la misma casa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vinieron hace muchos años y el equipaje de las muertes ocultas se hizo llanto y fue sepultado la fe se convirtió en hijos y en casas para siempre la sangre se borró de rastro para construir otro cuento este sin madres y con toda esa historia hecha recuerdo.) y con toda esa histo(19)

The repetition of “they came” emphasizes the impulse of emigration from the islands of the Caribbean, indicating both the waves of arrival and the impact of these arrivals on the new land. This is Campbell’s most explicit poem dealing with West Indian migration in Naciendo. Though the West Indies remains unnamed, an omission that underscores the distance of time and space, the poetic voice covers the historical trajectory of the Afro–Costa Rican nation. She begins the discussion of the memory of what was left behind and the intention to return to the home place following . . . the trail of blood that would return them to the same house.

This arrival is marked with struggle and the presence of “hidden deaths,” which accompanied the brave migrant laborers. This odd pairing of death, the visible manifestation of lifelessness and that which is hidden, is a puzzling part of the poem and is repeated in the turning point in the lines: They came many years ago and the baggage

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature of hidden deaths became a cry and was buried faith was converted into children and into permanent houses.

The mystery of “hidden deaths” represents the “old” history of exploitation, struggles against injustice, and death associated with the dangerous conditions and intense labor that West Indian workers encountered in Central America. Upon deciding to make the foreign land to which they came their new home, a “new” history had to be formed through the symbolic burial of the dead weight of the past in order to settle and claim the new territory as home. This burial forges a new history and part of the history of the building of the Afro–Costa Rican nation. A connection to the land is important in establishing a sense of home in the works of writers in the postcolonial context. For the exile, recollections of the physical features of the homeland left behind, as in Alderman Johnson Roden’s “Nostalgia,” are important in forming a psychic reconnection to one’s origins. The poet-narrator in Campbell personifies stones beneath her feet in an effort to establish a connection to the land of arrival of her immigrant ancestors in Limón: In this town even the stones vibrate I have felt them dance beneath my feet I have felt them shout in anger and in happiness opening furrows in the earth stirring beneath history beneath firm skin beating. (En este pueblo hasta las piedras vibran las he sentido danzar bajo mis pies las he sentido gritar de ira


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y de felicidad abriendo surcos en la tierra hurgando bajo la historia bajo la piel firme latiendo.) latiendo.)(21)

Through the technique of anthropomorphism, the stones become witnesses to history as the poet-narrator walks across them, which leads to a contemplation of history. The earth is personified and comes alive. The land is made to come alive, and it is given human characteristics. The stones vibrate with a life force, dance beneath the poetic voice’s feet, and feel human emotions. Their ability to shout “in anger / and in happiness” suggests that these natural objects not only are alive, but also possess memory. Janet Jones Hampton asserts in her analysis of this poem that the “stones convey, through touch, sight and sound, the dynamism of the community. Both the pain and joy of the community are expressed through this element of nature.”8 However, there is also a metonymic association of the vibrating stones with the vitality and potential in the land itself, in addition to the community. There is vibrancy in the town constructed on top of the soil; there exists a life force beneath the soil as well. The life above and the life below have intricately related histories. The stones are symbolic witnesses to the change that pulsates with life underneath the “firm skin” of the land’s surface, forming part of the poet-narrator’s collective history and memory.

Rotundamente negra (1994) Rotundamente negra is Shirley Campbell’s second and most recent collection of poetry, and it contains intimate and subjective reflections on ethnicity, history, sexuality, love, and motherhood. The collection is divided into three parts with numbered poems: “La Tierra Prometida” (The Promised Land), ten poems dedicated to motherhood, children, and their creativity; “Ahora que puedo gritarlos” (Now that I can shout them), eleven poems that present the agony and ecstasy of sexuality and passion between lovers; and last, “Rotundamente negra” (Absolutely black), thirteen poems that are affirmations of ethnic difference with a maternal preoccupation for the continuation of Afro–Costa Rican cultural her8. Ibid., 35.

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itage and brotherhood and sisterhood for future generations. This final section reflects the range of emotions—pain, pride, and joy—associated with such an assertive subjective posture. Campbell dedicates the free-verse poems in Rotundamente negra to her children and “To my brothers and sisters in blood, in skin, and above all, in hope” (A mis hermanos y hermanas en la sangre, en la piel y sobre todo en la esperanza) and follows it with an epigraph from African American poet Nikki Giovanni: “We feed the children with our culture that they might understand our travail” (RN, 5). Campbell’s effort in this work is directed toward such an end, to impart an intimate understanding of culture, cultural difference, and intolerance through the lens of maternal nurturing and the passion of a lover. She also seeks to spread this message not only to her blood relations, but also to the people of color of the diaspora who can empathize with the experiences related to ethnic and cultural differences and intolerance. Additionally, she extends this message to include those of all colors who can relate to the notion of ushering in hope for the future. The foreword of the book is written by a young Costa Rican poet, Carlos Manuel Morera, who comments: [T]his book springs from the breasts of a woman who chose to face things. A woman who grew tired of listening to disparaging remarks to her face, to her skin, she grew tired of palming off abusive remarks. . . . Shirley has a dream that bleeds in her “that has to do with Martin Luther King,” it has to do with Angela Davis, because like her they decided to write history for their people, with hope that one day their children will live “with more certainty than we.” (8) ([E]ste libro brota de los pechos de una mujer que optó por dar la cara. Una mujer que se cansó de escuchar frases despreciativas a su rostro, a su piel, que se cansó de colgar improperios. . . . Shirley tiene un sueño desangrándosele “que tiene ver con Martin Luther King,” tiene ver con Angela Davis, porque como ella decidieron escribir su historia al lado de los suyos, con la esperanza de que undía sus hijos vivan “con más certeza que nosotros.”

This poetically describes Campbell’s effort to explain the world to herself, her community, and her children and to build the foundation of a new nation through the recovery of history. “La Tierra Prometida” opens with its own dedication to black parents who strive and sacrifice to make a better world for their children: “For those who tear themselves into bits in insomnia without finding the words or the pieces to construct better days that will permit our younger blacks to live with more certain-


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ty than we” (Para los que se despedazan en insomnios sin encontrar las palabras ni las piezas para construir días mejores que les permitan a nuestros pequeños negros vivir con más certeza que nosotros, 11). This poetic dedication initiates the examination of motherhood and children from the perspective of a young black mother’s internal struggle with the external world. She attempts to answer the questions that mothers of the black diaspora have struggled to answer for centuries when faced with racism and intolerance: how to teach her son and daughter about the cruelty of the world outside the comfort of their mother’s arms, how to equip them to handle racism and hate without the destruction of their innocence, and how to build a foundation of hope for the “promised land.” The pregnant poet-narrator asserts in poem 2: already today I feel you when my breasts are full and my hope is full and my dreams and God and the world demands that I curse you but I love you and I live you and I wait for you and I will teach you from now to walk with the steps of a hero through the world. (ya hoy te siento cuando mis senos tienen volumen y mi esperanza tiene volumen y mis sueños y Dios y el mundo me exige que te maldiga pero te amo y te vivo y te espero y te enseño desde ya a caminar con pasos de héroe por el mundo.) a caminar con pasos de héroe por el mu nd(17)

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With hope awaiting the birth of her son, the poetic voice is aware of the world that commands her to curse her blackness because of its negative social signification and the passing on of that unchangeable attribute to her child. However, with love, she waits and instructs the womb, the hope for triumph. The mother is the receiver of lessons, as well as the giver. Poem 3 in “La Tierra Prometida” discusses the poet-narrator’s daughter who has just learned to kiss and now wants to kiss everyone she encounters. The mother cautions: I explain to her that no kisses are not given like that, like one gives insults in a war. (yo le explico que no que los besos no se entregan así como quien entrega insultos en una Guerra.) en una Guerra.)(22)

She continues: . . . . . . . . . I explain to her that kisses can only be for those who have the virtue to receive them with clean hands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . probably, she doesn’t understand me then I love her more and I understand my existence more and my hands and my skin indissoluble on this journey where I find myself and I find you giving me toys and papers and broken ornaments and smiles and kisses I find myself suddenly telling you that we are black women


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and this is the task entrusted to us to the end of our journey. We are black women and while we try to understand it we will always have kisses to give and clean hands to be kissed. (. . . . . . . yo le explico que los besos son solamente para quienes tienen la virtud de recibirlos con manos limpias. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . es probablemente que no me entienda entonces la amo más y entiendo más mi existencia y mis manos y mi piel indisolubles de este camino en donde me encuentro y te encuentro dándome juguetes y papeles y adornos quebrados y sonrisas y besos me encuentro contándote de pronto que somos negras y esa es la tarea encomendada el fin de nuestro camino. Somos negras y mientras lo entendamos tendremos siempre besos para dar y las manos limpias para ser besadas.) y las manos limpias(22–23)

The lesson that the mother attempts to teach her daughter is a lesson that she learns for herself through the message of a kiss. The gesture of a kiss is an interaction between two bodies and is a form of communication. A kiss can represent

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an offering of a gift with the childlike innocence of the poetic voice’s daughter or the lustful entanglement of a pair of lovers. The poet-narrator tries to conserve her daughter’s innocence for as long as possible, stressing that a kiss is not to be taken lightly. The material effects associated with the innocence of childhood are evident in the items the daughter picks up to show her mother, “toys,” “papers,” and “broken ornaments,” in addition to the physical manifestation of the pleasures of this innocent period of life, “smiles” and innocent “kisses.” In her endeavor to make sense of the world for her daughter and build a strong foundation for the future of the nation, the mother learns from her daughter the need to maintain innocence in the world, to be worthy of both giving and receiving with clean hands, like a child before the world. In spite of this lesson, the mother still has fear for the future of her “pequeños negros” (little blacks), her children, and the future of the nation. The poetic voice in poem 5 attempts to calm her fears and places those apprehensions in the belief of a higher power, at least “the one to whom children pray”: Now I am sure that I do not feel fear it is only when it rains it soaks my face and I feel alone it happens while looking out the window and perceiving the days that have not come I wrap the children tightly and warn them that out there are those who do not understand the language of human beings In truth I will overcome the time of fear I will overcome the haste and the days of weeping I will overcome the blows to the chest and the fear of sin it is only that when one has one or two children with this color and with eyes open to heaven one cannot avoid being frank with hope and explain that my hands tremble at nightfall

To Be Young, Gifted, and Black one cannot avoid to command the dreams not to leave and beg Our Father the one to whom children pray please protect us. . . . . . . (Estoy segura ahora de que no siento temor es sólo cuando llueve se me moja el rostro y me siento sola sucede que al mirar la ventana y divisar los días que no han llegado arropo con fuerza a los niños y le advierto de allá fuera de los que no entienden el idioma de los seres humanos. Pero de verdad ya superé el tiempo del temor superé la prisa y los días de llanto superé los golpes de pecho y el temor al pecado es sólo que cuando se tiene uno o dos o más hijos de este color y con los ojos abiertos al cielo uno no puede evitar ser franco con la esperanza y explicarle que me tiemblan las manos cuando anochece uno no puede evitar exigirle a los sueños que no se marchen y rogarle al padre nuestro ese al que rezan los niños que por favor nos proteja. . . . . .) que por favor(29 – 30)

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The compassion, love, and other positive characteristics of humanity are present in the home environment and the mother shield that protects her black children from the insults of the world outside. The alliteration of s and t projects the rhythmical flow and the abrupt stop of the t of temor (fear) presents the apprehension and fear of the poetic voice. Poem 8, also in the first section of poetry, is a beautiful, long poem about the mother’s love for her two children. She loves them both, but loves them differently because she has different hopes for them both: Now I have two children . . . . . . . . . . . . who in spite of myself, I love them differently like one who recognizes their inability to love two beings the same way who affect your eyes and the yearnings beat you from two different hopes. (Ahora tengo dos hijos . . . . . . . . . . . . que a pesar de mí los amo diferencialmente como quién reconoce su incapacidad de amar de igual manera a dos seres que te afetan los ojos y te golpean las ansias desde dos esperanzas diferentes.) y te golpean las ansias desde dos esperanzas diferentes(41)

She claims that her daughter obliges her to understand the cultural art of the black woman’s survival and that her son calls her to a consciousness of a history denied by the conquerors of a close Africa beaten dusks next to the ignored next to the names that are not in books. (una África cercana atardeceres golpeados al lado de los ignorados al lado de los nombres que no están en los libros.) que no están en los libro(43)


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Both of these children give her hope and reaffirm the positive vision for the future and love of their skin color and what it symbolizes culturally and historically in her daughter and her son. The poetic observation may also serve as a metaphor for the postcolonial subject who is part of an ethnic minority within a country. The divided but equal parts of love articulate the nature of this relationship in the ability to love one’s cultural heritage and one’s country—loving and respecting their differences by loving them differently. The amorous poems of the second part of the collection, “Ahora que puedo gritarlos,” are dedicated “to you my companion in faith and desire” (a ti compañero en la fe y en los deseos, 63) and are charged with the erotic intimacy of the relationship between lovers. The eleven poems in this part speak of love and sexual desire, in addition to the absence and intimate trauma of love. Though not explicitly stated, the poems may also be seen in the context of an individual’s relationship with her country, characterized by the desire for the meeting of two distinct bodies, but resulting in a union that is not always harmonious. There exists, again returning to Ian Smart’s accurate assessment of Eulalia Bernard, a gap between the belonging and its difficult realization. In other words, there is a breach between the desired outcome of unconditional acceptance of the nation-state and the actual displays of intolerance, ignorance, and prejudice because of ethnic difference. For example, in poem 5, the poetic voice strives to communicate with a lover, but this effort also verbalizes the attempt to belong to an entity greater than oneself. This need to belong also helps to define the self, like a national identity: I try to understand you to put myself in bits of history that you carry in your bones to put myself in your body and in your feelings and know that your feelings suffer I try to live your life from the beginning of crying your tears from my solitude of feeling myself part of you but I must tell you that I find it difficult . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . it is a little difficult to be patient when one has their hands tied and dreams loose like prayers

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature but I try to understand you and feel you close even though you drift from my hands and my hands need you they look for you they miss you . . . . . . . . you cut the stems of my prayers and you are taking out little by little all this love you suddenly removed my hope and now trying to understand you I am patient and I wait I do not know for how long but I wait and I love you. (Trato de entenderte de meterme en los trozos de historia que cargas en los huesos de meterme en tu cuerpo en tus sentidos y saber que tus sentidos sufren trato de vivirte desde tu principio de llorar tus lágrimas desde mi soledad de sentirme como parte de ti pero debo decirte que me cuesta . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . cuesta un poco ser paciente cuando se tienen las manos atadas y los sueños sueltos como oraciones pero trato de entenderte y sentirte cerca aunque a veces te alejas de mis manos y mis manos te requieren y te buscan y te extrañan


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. . . . . . . le cortaste los pies a mis plegarias y estás sacando poco a poco todo este amor sacaste de golpe mi esperanza y ahora tratando de entenderte soy paciente y espero no se cuanto pero espero y te amo.) y te amo.)(75 –77)

The poem may be read as a poem of desire on two levels: as a poem of sentimental desire expressed by the poetic voice as she awaits her lover and as a poem of desire of the marginalized subject awaiting the opportunity to be recognized by the dominant culture. The struggle of the entangled dance between lovers is like that of a marginalized cultural group, living in the “belly of the beast,” that desires admittance into the mainstream. The poet-narrator explains her quest to understand an individual, but also the desire to be a part of a nation: I try to understand you to put myself in bits of history that you carry in your bones to put myself in your body and in your feelings . . . . . . . . . . . I try to live your life from the beginning.

This project, when expanded to a discourse on “belonging” to a nation-state, expresses the intimate knowledge that members of a subaltern possess of the dominant culture and the sentiment of rejection and “unbelonging.” The desire to belong is most strongly expressed in the final section, “Rotundamente negra,” which also provides the title for the collection. This section begins with another dedication, “To all of you, of whom I am certain, share these principles” (A todos ustedes, de quienes tengo la certeza, comparten estos principios, 99), an appropriate preamble to the thirteen poems that declare ethnic pride and vindication of a distorted history, decry social injustice, and announce

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a maternal preoccupation with the future. The last portion of Rotundamente negra also appears as a poetic response to the invisibility of Afro–Costa Rican history in the dominant discourse and to racial insults. Shirley Campbell leads with a personal plea from Afro–Costa Rican literary scholar Franklin Perry to forgive a white compatriot for his ignorance and insults: Forgive him, Shirley because he knows not what he does . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . what does he know of our experiences How does he know what it means to live day after day in this skin . . . . . . . . . . . to live with so many myths jokes and stereotypes to live under this hair that so many hate so much . . . . . . . . . . . . . . but that we love with so much passion. (Perdónale Shirley porque no sabe lo que hace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . qué sabe él de nuestras cosas Qué sabe él de lo que es vivir día tras día en esta piel . . . . . . . vivir con tantos mitos chistes y estereotipos vivir bajo este pelo que tantos odian tanto . . . . . . . . . . . . . pero que nosotros amamos con tanta pasión.) amamos con tanta pasión.)(101–2)

The poems that follow, including a selection dedicated to the memory of the mulatto Cuban poet Nicolás Guillén, do not apologize for blackness and ethnic dif-


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ference in Costa Rica. The poems provide a definitive declaration of the black presence in Costa Rica and the history of “las abuelas negras” (the black grandmothers) of the past and a concern for the future of brotherhood and sisterhood. The poetic voice places a literal “wake-up call,” a call to action in the first poem of “Rotundamente negra.” She announces: The truth of it all friends is that it has become for us a little late to awaken even though we are waiting for the dawn to come out alive from such a long night. (La verdad de todo compañeros es que se nos ha hecho un poco tarde para despertar aún estamos esperando al alba para salir con vida de esta noche tan larga.) de esta noche tan larga.)(103)

The images of day and night emphasize the need for transformation from the “darkness” of the past, ignorance, and despair into the “light” of a new day of knowledge and the realization of a future that is closer than “that house, or that bridge, or that mountain” (aquella casa, o aquel puente, o aquella montaña, 104). With urgency, she pleads the need to believe that the dawn “is closer than the night” (está más cerca que la noche, 104). The poetic voice prophesizes the empowerment of the collective with the result that: it will be enough then to make the sun sing to us a beautiful song of welcome to be able to believe in tomorrow. (bastará entonces con hacer que el sol nos cante una hermosa canción

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature de bienvenida para poder creer en el día siguiente.) en el día siguiente.(104)

Action promotes transformation, which also translates into a future and assurance for triumph over the night. However, sometimes collective action is not enough, and the help of a higher power is called upon. In poem 3, the poet-narrator sits and waits for God with all the misery and injustice around her. The poem concludes: I assure you my God that although I have died and my face is indecipherable that although your children today die to be equal that although I have blood in my eyes and a destroyed Bible at home and an unwritten poem and I would say to you that I don’t believe in you. I swear my God that in spite of it all I will be waiting for you. (Te aseguro Dios mío que aunque yo haya muerto y mi rostro sea indescifrable que aunque tus hijos como hoy mueran por ser iguales que aunque tenga sangre en los ojos y una biblia destrozada en la casa y un poema sin empezar que te quiera decir que no te creo.


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Yo te juro Dios mío que a pesar de todo he de estarte esperando.) he de estarte esperando.)(109)

In spite of the images of blood and death and a crumbling faith, the poetic voice continues to wait for God and hope for the beginning of social equality—even in the face of no answers for unsaid prayers that appear in poem 5: I do not deny my eyes or my lips or the unsaid prayers and never answered. I do not come to deny God or the failures I am clear that it is not worth to regret the bad one has done in error. (no reniego de mis ojos ni de mis labios ni de las oraciones no dichas y jamás contestdas. No vengo de renegar de Dios ni de los fracasos Yo tengo claro que no vale la pena arrepentirse de lo que se hizo mal por error.) arrepentirse de(113)

The poetic voice maintains faith in the struggle for her people and the forgiveness of the actions of others, even if God does not appear on the forefront of the struggle for tolerance and liberation with her. Often in contemporary discourse, a nation is described in terms of its status as the “motherland.” The land becomes personified and takes on the role of nurturer of a people, establishing a connection between it and its inhabitants. In Rotundamente negra, the “motherland” is relandscaped and is reinscribed as “mother.” This figure of “mother of the nation” forms a new bond, not between a

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territory and a people, but between a cultural identity and a people. This relationship of the mother and her nation-children builds and sustains a culture through a process that resembles the nurturing and difficult bond of mother and children. The maternal vision of the future of the nation appears in several poems in this last section of the collection. The poetic voice in these selections views the future of blackness and ethnic concerns in the children still shielded and protected from the corruptive and harsh reality of intolerance, injustice, and racism. Poem 6 is dedicated to the children and the poet’s colleagues who participated in a workshop: “Because little by little we are repairing dreams and history” (porque poco a poco estamos reparando los sueños y la historia, 119). Dreams of a new day and a new world are a constant motif in Rotundamente negra, and children are the embodiment of those dreams. The poet-narrator tells of a child named Shamara who clasps her hands around her neck: and she asks me without words what will we do later? what will happen when I grow up? (y me pregunta sin palabras ¿qué vamos a hacer después? ¿qué pasará cuando crezca?) ¿qué pasará cuando crezca(119)

She ponders Shamara’s future children and a time when Shamara may tell them of a new history perhaps then she will tell them about her full name the truth about the place of origin of our grandmothers who never cried and were mothers their whole lives. (de una historia nueva tal vez entonces ella pueda responderles acerca de su nombre completo el verdadero de su lugar de origen de nuestras abuelas


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que nunca lloraron que fueron mujeres desde toda la vida.) que fueron mujeres desde toda la vi(119–20)

The poet-narrator, though she refers to a lineage of black women “of our grandmothers,” also becomes one of these cultural guardians by positing herself in this line of women and by her concern for the passing on of information of their shared Afro–Costa Rican heritage. The poet-narrator asserts her purpose: we are here making fresh an old history making ours a legend that until today we believed foreign making ours the distant cries. (estamos aquí haciendo fresca una historia vieja haciendo nuestra una leyenda que hasta hoy creímos ajena haciendo nuestros los gritos lejanos.) haciendo nuestros los gritos lejano(120)

She is determined to put forth the effort to ensure the realization of this dream for a “new day” and the control over the revitalization of history. The history of the people is moved from a distant legend to living in the present day. The poetnarrator and the other educators are concerned for the future of black children and hope for the moment when they may be the center of a history they have written: Now I think in the end Betty or Michell or I would have given anything for a word of advice or a teacher or a song or a story where we would be the protagonists

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature where no one will take away our right to be owners of our own history. Today we are here teaching our children to walk without falling to smile with certainty. They, like us, know how difficult it is to be a minority among the rest. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (Ahora pienso que a la larga Betty o Michell o yo hubiésemos dado cualquier cosa por tener una palabra de consuelo o una maestra o una canción o un cuento en donde fuésemos nosotras las protagonistas en donde nadie nos quitara el derecho de ser dueñas de nuestra propia historia. Hoy estamos aquí enseñando a nuestros niños a caminar sin caerse a sonreír con certeza. Ellos saben como nosotras lo difícil que a veces resulta ser minoría ante los demás. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ) ............. (121–22)

Empowerment is the key to realizing the dreams of the future and the ownership of history of a people through education of the future, the children, to bring their dreams into fruition in spite of the barriers and ignorance. Fatigued by struggle, insults, and voicelessness, the poet-narrator turns to herself for the strength to continue the battle to vindicate the history of her people. In poem 9, she proclaims:


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I am tired of crying so much I am tired of feeling my back broken and my lips mute I am tired of gulping curses and clatter that come from other mouths. (Ya me cansé de tanto llorar me cansé de sentir la espalda rota y los labios mudos me cansé de beberme a tragos cortos maldiciones o estruendos que salen de otras bocas.) que salen de otras bocas.(131)

She becomes transformed into “mother of her people” through a return to history. She is charged with their protection from insults “that come from other mouths”: So I embrace myself tightly I caress myself with tenderness I return to my history a thousand times told I lift my children from ignorance and I tell them the story of a mother who besides being mother concubine and tears is also a woman. (Me abrazo entonces con fuerza me acaricio con ternura me devuelvo en mi historia mil veces contada recojo a mis hijos de la ignorancia y les cuento el cuento de una mamá que además de mamá concubina y lágrima es también mujer.) concubina y lágrima es también muje(131)

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Behind these feminine roles, pain, and exploitation is the indomitable presence of woman. History is a woman, and so is the redeemer of that history: the image of a mother that lifts up her people through self-love and mother-love to deliver the truth in the form of a woman. The female strength and power in Shirley Campbell reveal a feminist consciousness that is sometimes veiled in the sensuality of her verse or the maternal imagery. This consciousness is tied to a womanist perspective for the issues of gender parity, but also racial ethnic equality. Her awareness and concern manifest through a sexual equality in the use of the erotic as a source of power, empowerment in the various social roles of women as transmitters of culture, and an engagement with a historical lineage of women. In poem 8, the poet-narrator locates herself in the history of black women who inspire change and progress in their society: I looked at my skin with a dark tone an immense tone I suddenly discovered in my blood a grandmother a woman and a long row of mothers singing and a black land sown by them and I grew and I became big like the stars I became long like the roads I understood myself as a woman a black woman. (me miré la piel con un tono oscuro con un tono inmenso descubrí en mi sangre de pronto una abuela a una hembra y una hilera larga de madres cantando y una tierra negra sembrada por ellas


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y me crecí y me hice grande como las estrellas me hice larga como los caminos me entendí mujer una mujer negra.) una mujer negra(128 –29)

The poetic voice locates herself in a great lineage of generations of black women and becomes empowered. By understanding her femaleness and her blackness, she also brings awareness to the intersection of history, gender, and ethnicity. With this clear vision of herself and her place, she is empowered to take the next revolutionary step toward liberation.

The Poetry of Delia McDonald Delia McDonald Woolery was born in 1965 in Colón, Panama. Her family soon relocated to San José. She spent her formative years in the capital, completing primary, secondary, and eventually university studies in San José and the surrounding Central Valley region. McDonald has made a recent impact on the Costa Rican literary scene through her public readings and participation and leadership in poetry workshops. Her publications include El séptimo círculo del obelisco (The seventh circle of the obelisk, 1994), Sangre de madera (Wood blood, 1995), and La lluvia es una piel (The rain is a skin, 1999). Her first two collections were self-published with the assistance of her colleagues from a poetry workshop in San José, and the latest volume was published by the Ministry of Culture, Youth, and Sports. In contrast with Shirley Campbell and Eulalia Bernard, McDonald’s poetry is characteristically brief. Because of its brevity, her poetry appears deceptively simple, but actually is quite hermetic. For example, poem 8 in El séptimo círculo del obelisco presents a challenge to interpretation: I : eyes of seed the weeping of a cart fingers of the fire tree, to burn hate. (: ojos de semilla

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature llanto de carreta dedos de árbol-fuego, para quemar los odios.) para quemar los odios.) (12)

Some of her selections can easily be compared to African American poet June Jordan’s Haruko/Love Poems with well-worked dense verses that imitate the precision of haiku. McDonald’s publications offer the potential for future growth as a young, developing poet. Her first two collections will be examined in brief, and a more profound analysis will be dedicated to La lluvia es una piel because of its more extensive treatment and development of themes of identity.

El séptimo círculo del obelisco (1994) El séptimo círculo del obelisco, the poet’s first effort, is a collection of twentyeight short poems of various themes, from an homage to Nicolás Guillén to history and philosophy. In the prologue to the collection, poetry-workshop organizer Cristián Marcelo describes McDonald’s brief poems as “short, but not simple.” She expresses a diaspora consciousness that transcends Costa Rica’s borders. In a poem on the mulatto Cuban poet Nicolás Guillén, she uses poetry to signal commonalities in experience of the diaspora: Black I say the way Guillén said it because he in his Cuba and I in mine we look the same in the nose like the bongo, and in the lost heritage. But he in his Cuba and I in mine we are voices of the shadows who never crossed the sea. (Digo negro Como lo dijo Guillén,


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porque él en su Cuba, y yo en la mía nos parecemos en la nariz de bongó, y en la herencia perdida. Pero él en su Cuba y yo en la mía somos las voces de las sombras que no cruzaron el mar.) br as que no cruz aron el mar.) (SCO, 8)

Guillén is positioned in his land, Cuba, and the poet-narrator is positioned in her land, her own parallel site of African displacement, her own version of the great poet’s Cuba. The poetic voice also forms a link between these parts of the African diaspora by connecting physical features, “we look the same in the nose / like the bongo,” and a common history, “the lost heritage.” These two bodies, separated by space, also share a figural location in transatlantic fiction. They “are voices / of the shadows who never crossed the sea.” From their location in the Americas, this metaphorically indicates a spiritual and creative communication with an imagined Africa. Instead of a physical journey to Africa, they reverse the path of the Middle Passage through poetic expression. Additionally, there is an implication that they are giving voice to the voiceless spirits who did not cross over, and the poetry of the two New World Afro–Latin American poets serves as a medium for these lost voices. This diaspora consciousness appears again in poem 13, but takes notice of the trauma of displacement and exile. The poetic narrator declares: Before time my ancestors had spears painted faces of earth and oblivion, fistfuls of misery . . . they look at me and I only see that my skin is not the same:

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature I am America! and they have no country.

(Ante el tiempo mis antepasados muestran lanzas, caras pintadas de tierra y olvido, puños de miseria . . . me miran y solo percibo que mi piel no es la misma: ¡Yo soy América! y ellos ya no tienen patria.) y ellos ya no tienen patria.) (17)

With the image of spears and painted faces, the poem hovers toward the negrista portrayal of the African past, or what E. Kamau Brathwaite has termed a “rhetorical” depiction: “The writer uses Africa as a mask, signal or nomen. [She] doesn’t know very much about Africa necessarily, although [s]he reflects a deep desire to make connection.”9 Nevertheless, upon subsequent readings, the poem presents in a dramatic fashion the separation of peoples by the Middle Passage and the process of transculturation of Africans in the Americas. When the poetic voice glances at her skin as a product of centuries of transformations and the “original” culture of her ancestors, she claims her attachment to the New World by announcing, “I am America!” Delia McDonald continues her consciousness of blackness, history, and gender in “Soy una mujer negra” (I am a black woman), in which the poet-narrator describes her strength and permanency: I am a black woman so strong like a cedar as strong as the sun but even more, I am the sea and I must write my name 9. Brathwaite, Roots, 190.


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in the sand unending forever, always. (Soy una mujer negra tan fuerte como un cedro tan fuerte como el sol pero aún más, soy el mar y habré de escribir mi nombre en las arenas interminables por siempre, siempre.) siemp(10)

The immense power and creativity of the sea become a metaphor for black womanhood of the poetic voice. The comparisons move the poem beyond a reductive simile and build more imaginative force in declaring, “but even more, / I am the sea.” In proclaiming this bold metaphor, “I am the sea,” the voice of the poem moves beyond human constraints. In this escapist mode, the poetic voice gains freedom to create and to be immortal. The alliteration of s in the final lines of the poem culminates in the repetition of “por siempre, siempre” (forever, always). With this repetition, the final verses mimic the ebb and flow of the sea meeting the shore where the poet-narrator inscribes her name—an authoritative act of writing herself.

Sangre de madera (1995) Published a year after her first effort, Delia McDonald’s second collection, Sangre de madera, presents thirty-four selections. The collection opens with another presentation by her colleague Cristián Marcelo, who describes the hermeticism in some of McDonald’s poems as “an act against that which is simple.” This second publication shows a development of the poet’s themes and ability. Sangre de madera presents poems about the environment, philosophy, rebellion, spiritual introspection, and creativity, including a poem dedicated to Agatha Christie’s detective Hercule Poirot. In contrast to El séptimo círculo del obelisco,

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Sangre de madera is much more personal and reflective, blending the voices of the poet and her poetry. In “De pequeña” (When I was small), the poet-narrator explores her identity in relation to the Afro–West Indian heritage displayed by a female lineage: When I was a little girl, mothers and grandmothers unleashed rituals of death, order and chastity, and while they murmured Jamaican tongues —old tongues of honor and respect— they dish up rice and peas. Aunts and cousins cleanse the birthing ground and burn seeds congregated on the land, with prophecies of noise and sadness. When I was a little girl, I was used to the symbolism of spheres: colors marked by the sun and many times, song was just an errant memory. When I was a little girl, I prayed: Lord, if you love me so much take this bitter chalice from me . . . and the prophecy continues transmigrating. (De pequeña, madres y abuelas desataban rituales


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de muerte, orden y castidad, y mientras murmuraban lenguas jamaicanas —lenguas antiguas de honor y respeto— recetan el rice and beans. Tías y primas limpian la tierra de partos y encienden semillas congregadas en tierra, con profecías de ruido y tristeza. De pequeña, me acostumbré al simbolismo de esferas: colores marcados con sol y muchas veces, la canción solo fue una memoria errante. De pequeña, recé: Señor, si es que tanto me amas, aparta este cáliz amargo de mí . . . y la profecía sigue transmigrando.) sigue transmigrando(SM, n.p.)

As a young girl, the poet-narrator remembers the Afro–West Indian cultural practices of her female relations—mother, aunts, grandmothers. These women, as guardians of culture, control the order of everyday life, the social mores, and the rituals of death. By recalling their use of Creole, foods, songs, and religious folk practices, McDonald documents these cultural survivals, but also marks her own place in this continuum. She is part of this lineage and envisions the gift of prophecy that “continues transmigrating,” as it is passed from one generation of black women to the next. There is also an awareness of the importance of language in the continuum. The poetic voice states:

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature and while they murmured Jamaican tongues —old tongues of honor and respect.

She venerates the Creole, mother tongue of her female lineage. However, the practice of religion appears as a familial conflict in “Rebeldía en crisis” (Rebellion in crisis). The poetic voice turns against her sister’s attempts to lead her to salvation through more traditional religion and embraces an alternative spirituality: : I want to talk to you, so that you will convert. —Enough! I have left God, I will only say to you that sometimes I have prayed so much that the words become joined to my hands, and in this way I have left God and his mysteries closed-off in each step. For that reason, I kick saints, destroy and rip Bibles and until it appears to me that praying I have created Genesis and replaced the world with faith. Is that so vast that it does not fit into your religion? Now, leave me, I want the demons to show me the truth.


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(: Quiero hablar con usted, para que se convierta. —¡Basta! He dejado a Dios, solo le diré que a veces he rezado tanto que las palabras se acoplan a mis dedos, y así he dejado a Dios y sus misterios encerrados en cada paso. Por eso, es que pateo santos, destruyo y rompo biblias y hasta me parece que rezando he creado el Génesis y reemplazado al mundo con fe. ¿Es eso tan extenso que no cabe en su religión? Ahora Déjeme, Quiero que los demonios Me muestren la verdad.) Me muestren la verda(n.p.)

The poetic voice rebels against the imposition of her sister’s official and fundamental religion in favor of one that embraces spirituality without religiosity: . . . it appears to me that praying I have created Genesis and replaced the world with faith.

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The poetic voice continues in a sardonic tone, “I want the demons / to show me the truth,” addressing attacks of the practitioners of the official religion against the perceived demonic worship in popular rituals of folk practices embraced in the previous poem.

La lluvia es una piel (1999) This collection marks the expansion of Delia McDonald’s earlier themes and delivers the lyrical promise of her growth as a poet that was exhibited in El séptimo círculo del obelisco and Sangre de madera. La lluvia es una piel features seventyone untitled numbered poems. In the collection, McDonald develops and explores the issues of identity and history that were hinted at in her earlier texts with an intimate, conversational style, as if constructing some of these poems directly from memory. In fact, memories of painful and powerful moments of an individual past and the collective past of peoples of Afro–West Indian descent in Central America figure prominently in this collection of poetry. McDonald successfully shuns some of the brevity and hermeticism displayed in earlier work to reveal an open, honest engagement with the representation of identity and the search for its meaning. In poem 13, the poetic voice tackles the confrontation of ethnic difference and location. From the memory of her family’s arrival in San José, the poetic voice reconstructs the sentiments and the “snapshots” of the moment: We arrived in San José burdened with ceremonies and silences and we went to live in a neighborhood. My neighborhood was called México. Barrio México. And it is an avenue with plazas and whispers and a great “X” that crosses the Paso de la Vaca and the area of the market “El Libano” and a row of multicolored houses, equally silent. My house is downtown. It’s the house of the “colored folk,” the neighbors say, at the end of Sixteenth Street, Eighth Avenue,


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diagonal to Abonos Agro and 25 meters from Don Chalo’s corner store. (Nosotros llegamos a San José cargados de ceremonias y silencios y nos fuimos a vivir a un barrio. Mi barrio se llama México. Barrio México. Y es una avenida con plazas y murmullos y una gran equis que atraviesa el Paso de la Vaca y los alrededores del mercado, el Líbano y una fila de casitas multicolores igualmente silenciosas. Mi casa está en el centro. Es la casa de los “morenos de raza,” dicen los vecinos, a la salida de la calle 16, avenida ocho, diagonal a Abonos Agro y a 25 metros de la pulpería de don Chalo.) de la pulpería de don Chalo.)(LP, 29)

The poet-narrator begins the reconstruction of this memory by mapping and then plotting the details. She first announces the family’s arrival in San José, and then names the neighborhood in the city and its borders and landmarks. The poet-narrator then stakes her location in Barrio México, San José. To the poetnarrator, her house is downtown, but to her white-identified and mestizo neighbors, it is the house of the “colored folks.” In this cleverly designed poem, the poet-narrator addresses her part of the capital by naming her place, her location within it. As she names her place and her integration into the seat of the dominant culture of Costa Rica, she also announces her sense of marginalization and isolation within this cartographic portrait. She and her family are noticed for their difference, located in the heart of the capital. Poem 25 also follows the family’s arrival in San José and further touches on the awareness difference. The poet-narrator states: At home, we are black of paper and hallelujahs,

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature and we hold onto voodoo and make’a’telyu in a basket with a top, scared to listen to the calls of the rest . . . (En casa, los negros somos de papel y aleluyas, y guardamos el vudú y el make’a’telyu, en una canasta con sombrero, con miedo de escuchar los llamados de los demás . . . ) con miedo de escuchar los llamados de los demás . . . ) (43)

In contrast to the neighbors who call her family “colored folks,” they call themselves black. However, instead of the African-derived religion voodoo being proudly displayed, as well as the ethnolinguistic difference of “make’a’telyu,” an expression from Limonese Creole meaning “make I tell you,” it is hidden and guarded out of fear of what “they” will say—the members of the dominant culture. Memories of growing up and living in the capital are sometimes depicted with much pain, particularly the experience of being the only black child in a school with a staff burdened with stereotypes of blacks and blackness. Poem 17 indicates the poet-narrator’s recollection of a troubling event when her mother was received by officials when she took her child to school: The mother of the girl is a black woman with skin like a nocturnal rain of firewater and cinnamon. She came today and left her As if there weren’t places for those people? (La madre de la niña es una negra con la piel como una lluvia nocturna de aguardiente y canela. Vino hoy y la dejó ¿Cómo si no existieran lugares para esa gente? . . . ) para esa gente? . . . ) (33)

The verses serve as a testimony to the treatment of difference in the capital and the devaluation of blackness. The teacher affirms the need for a separate space


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for “those people,” that there is no place for them in school or perhaps anywhere—another expression of unbelonging. The additional memories of school are not positive ones, but those negative experiences provide fodder for a young poet’s creativity: At six years old, I found myself in school: A howling prison, white and blue, blue and gray, stairs and mosaics. My teacher is a sugar bowl —round and white— dressed always in green and red flowers above her ears. She . . . sat me in a corner and it has a cat with golden suns on her back, (since then I hate them) And in my corner far from her white daughters always in rebellion and of course, I was already good collecting words. (A los seis años, me encontró la escuela: Una galera aullante, blanca y azul, azul y gris, escaleras y mosaicos. Mi maestra es una azucarera —redonda y blanca— vestida siempre de verde y florecitas rojas sobre las orejas, Ella . . . me sentaba en una esquina y tiene un gato con soles dorados sobre el lomo.

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature (desde entonces los odio) Y en mi rincón lejos de sus hijas blancas yo siempre en rebeldía y por supuesto, ya era buena coleccionando palabras.) coleccionando palabras.)(130)

The white teacher with a grotesquely round body, “a sugar bowl,” separates the poet-narrator in a corner “far from her white daughters.” The use of the possessive emphasizes the racial segregation in the classroom. Out of this, the subject begins her experimentation with words and with rebellion to address inequality. In other poems in the collection, there is a deep sense of connection between a continuum of black women and spiritual contact with the unseen world. As McDonald displays in “De pequeña” from her previous effort, Sangre de madera, the poetic voice also connects with a female lineage and their legacy of popular religious beliefs. In poem 24, the poetic voice announces: Like all black women my aunts know how to sew. In the afternoons, After work they would make dresses and illusions from the pieces of bedspread and sometimes, like me they hear voices: It is a thread with which they sew their lives. (Como todas las negras mis tías saben coser. Por las tardes, Después del trabajo construyen vestidos e ilusiones de los retablos de las colchas y a veces, igual que yo oyen voces: Es el hilo con que tejieron sus vidas.) con que tejieron sus vidas.)(41)


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The everyday act of sewing symbolically creates images of women joining generations to one another like pieces of cloth and by passing on their cultural knowledge as a life skill, like the art of sewing is passed from one generation to the next. However, underlying these metaphors is also the passing on of spiritual knowledge and contact with the invisible world, “like me / they hear voices.” The poet-narrator is able to position herself in this continuum, which serves as thread joining cloth and generations. The intergenerational link among daughter, mother, and grandmother is brought up again in poem 18: Mama . . . ? she knew journeys and ports, of very black friends from Panama and from Limón. Sometimes, she forgets the solitary corner where her memories would get entangled and she tells me of a good mother, with white hair and deep-red skin with eyes of fire, wise and Jamaican wise and woman. (¿Mamá . . . ? conocía de viajes y de puertos, de amigos —muy negros— de Panamá y de Limón. A veces, (. . .) olvida el rincón solitario donde embrollaba sus memorias y me habla de una mamá buena, con cabello blanco y piel de achiote con ojos de candela, sabia y jamaicana sabia y señora.) sabia y señora.(34)

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Like many poems in this collection, the poetic voice returns to the significance of memory to join generations and the passing on of cultural identity. This poem adds the dimension of storytelling, which like sewing is a practice that is passed on from one generation to the next and joins generations. The act of storytelling also informs the poetic voice of her ancestral past. Through her mother’s stories, she learns about her grandmother and her character “wise and Jamaican / wise and woman.” Among the three published Afro–Costa Rican poets discussed here, Delia McDonald is the only one who introduces the father image. The father presented is not an absent or distant figure. He is not presented like the unavailable grandfather in Shirley Campbell’s “Abuelo” (Grandfather): Grandfather You did not tell us stories nor did you cradle us in your arms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . you did not put us to sleep singing nor did you kiss our foreheads when there was someone who would remind us of the color of our skin. (Abuelo usted no nos contó historias ni nos acuñó en sus brazos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . no nos durmió cantando ni nos besó la frente cuando hubo quien nos recordara el color de la pie.) nos recordara el color de la pie.)(NC, 42)

In a two-part poem dedicated “To him, my progenitor” (A él, mi progenitor, 36), the poet-narrator reconstructs fond memories of her father. In the first poem, she states: My father . . . was a builder of paper money boats navigators in his dock of red playing cards he looked at the world through his lenses


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—broken in half— and the lottery in his fingers. (Mi padre . . . era constructor de barcos de papel moneda, navegantes de su muelle de naipes colorados miraba al mundo por sus lentes —rotos a la mitad— y la lotería en los dedos.) miraba al mundo por sus lentes(36)

The father is depicted as gentle and playful with the imaginary sea of paper boats and as a present figure. In another poem, the poet-narrator recalls the moment of his death: The day he went away . . . he did not return from the hospital, until I saw him in an ash-colored box (El día que se fue . . . no volvió del hospital, hasta que lo vi en una caja color ceniza.) he did not return from the hospital,(37)

However, in spite of being told to forget his death, she clings to memory. The poet-narrator states: Those charged with guiding his soul, told me that I must say good-bye and forget . . . . . . every once in a while, I close the curtain and open the windows to remember him a little more human. (Los encargados de guiar su alma, me dijeron que debía despedirlo y olvidar . . . . . . de vez en cuando,

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature cierro la cortina y abro las ventanas para recordarlo un poco más humano.) un poco más humano.)(37)

The presence of her father lives on in the act of remembering and reliving memories and not in the final death image of a coffin. Unlike her previous two works, a poetic connection is made with Limón Province, its culture and its people. McDonald invokes memories through the childhood and adult recollections of the image of the sea, the train, the geography of the coastal region, and its places—Limón, Siquirres, Turrialba, Puerto Vargas, Matina, and Puerto Viejo. There is a clear effort to link her generation with its cultural roots. Poem 56, dedicated to “sistá Ethell,” provides perspectives on life in the small provincial town of Siquirres, Limón: A bunch of blacks in church and the organ singing gospels and hallelujahs and the guavas in their laps while everyone sings . . . The street dressed with kites and the lightbulbs of fireflies . . . The little girls have bows in their hair freshly pressed and white handkerchiefs fanning the heat . . . . . . . . . . . . (Un racimo de negros en la iglesia y el órgano cantando gospels y aleluyas y las guayabas en el regazo mientras todos cantan . . . La calle vestida con vuelos y bombillas de luciérnagas . . . Las niñas tienen cintas en el pelo recién planchado y los pañuelos blancos abanicando el calor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .) abanicando el calor . . (79–80)


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The poet-narrator functions as an observer capturing on a rhetorical level some of the Afro–West Indian presence in the province. She brings us from the interior of a church to the surrounding environment outside. The poetic voice begins by describing a church scene with a “bunch of blacks,” relating the fertility of the culture to its agricultural base in the interior part of the coastal region where bananas and cacao are grown. The gospel music of the church then leads to the fruit trees and to the street with kites flying. She captures a scene, repeated in various parts of Afro-America on a Sunday, with black girls sporting beribboned, freshly pressed hair amid the colors and sounds of a typical afternoon. The train imagery portrays a sense of immensity and power, as well as nostalgia, in McDonald’s regional poetry. In a brief poem, the poetic voice announces: The train is an eclipse loooong and black, that comes cutting the clouds to keep for itself a space between heaven and earth. (El tren es un eclipse laaaargo y negro, que viene recortando las nubes para guardarse un espacio entre el cielo y la tierra.) el cielo y la tierra(52)

The great size of the train casts a forbidding shadow as it rolls across the landscape. From a child’s perspective, watching it pass by gives the illusion that it cuts the clouds as it is suspended above the rails and between the earth and sky. McDonald’s contemporary Shirley Campbell also uses a similar train imagery in “El tren” (The train), a melancholic poem that relates the hopes of the Limonese who left the province for the Central Valley but who return home. Her poem describes: The train the same one dressed in mourning traveling through Christmases without gifts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . burdened with broken hands and dreams torn to pieces.

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Place, Language, and Identity in Afro–Costa Rican Literature (El tren el mismo que vistió luto recorriendo navidades sin regalos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . cargado de rotas manos y sueños despedazados.) y sueños despedazados.) (NC, 25)

The train has great importance in Afro–Costa Rican history and culture because of its connection to the movement of people and their dreams. The train represents the opportunities for the West Indian immigrants, and later it represents the new series of migrations of their descendants from their old home, the coastal province, to their new home, Central Valley. The train for later generations of Afro–Costa Ricans was the link to family in Limón Province and to Afro–West Indian cultural roots. In a poem dedicated to Sonia Jones, a professor of literature at the University of Costa Rica from Limón Province, McDonald explores the more lighthearted side of the return to the coast from San José, known affectionately as “Chepe” and its residents as “chepines”: Each stop is a calypso dance. The blacks from San José we are happy with our party of smiles, and onto the train board black vendors hustling their goods: “pan bon . . . pan booon, I’ve got pan bon . . . fish . . . , fresh fish . . . fish and run down . . . 15 cents and you eat the best run down of the port . . . 15 cents and you ain’t had better . . . salt fish, salt fish 15 cents awith akee and coconut oil, . . . salt fish . . . breadfruit have some breadfruit? roasted . . . or fried . . . patty? Pattypattypatty . . .” and the let’s goooooooooo long, hanging of the conductor. (Cada parada es un baile de calipsos. Los negros chepines estamos alegres con nuestra


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fiesta de sonrisas, y al tren suben los negros vendedores atropellando los anuncios: “pan bon, . . . Pan booon, llevalleva pan bon . . . pescao, . . . pescao fresco, . . . pescao y rondon . . . 15 cents y usted comer el mejor rondon del puerto . . . 15 cents y no haber mejor . . . bacalao, bacalao con akee y aceite de coco, . . . bacalao . . . fruta e’pan . . . ¿llevar fruta’e pan? asao . . . o frita . . . ¿pati? Patipatipati . . .” Y el vamonoooooos largo, tendido del conductor.) del conductor.)(58)

The poetic voice associates the return to Limón with its foods. The voice imitates the shouts of the vendors at one of the train’s stops and the regional dialect associated with the first generation’s use of the infinitive with personal pronouns, “usted comer.” The vendors are selling foods associated with the West Indian culture of the coast: pan bon (a sweet bun), fish, rondon (a derivation of the Jamaican dish run down—made of whatever the cook could “run down”), bacalao (dried, salted cod fish), akee (a Jamaican fruit), coconut oil, breadfruit (a starchy fruit that resembles bread when baked, common in the West Indies), and pati (Jamaican patties, baked turnovers with a spicy meat filling). These foods signify home to the black chepines (residents of San José returning to the province). In McDonald’s poem, the vendors’ presence means the passengers are close to their destination, and the foods evoke memories for the anticipated return.

Two Generations of Home and Nation: Eulalia Bernard, Shirley Campbell, and Delia McDonald Comparing the two generations of women poets in this study, the notion of place in second-generation Eulalia Bernard and fourth-generation Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald is an important concept as it relates to the construction of a national and cultural identity. Bernard places Limón at the center of much of her poetry, and it serves as the focal point for the articulation of Afro– Costa Rican identity. Limón is the patria chica, that is, the home of the West Indian heritage, considered a sacred place. Although her poetry recognizes cultur-

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al changes and transformations in the region, Limón remains the site of ancestral memory and is identified closely with Afro–West Indian culture, which is significant in Bernard’s work. She seeks unity with the rest of the country in order to forge a multicultural Costa Rica, but cautions against the loss of the connection with the Caribbean past. The second-generation poet also expresses Limón as the “nation-within-a-nation” in the form of the masculine body. On the other hand, the younger writers Campbell and McDonald present Limón as a mythic or idealized site that operates from an extrinsic, rather than intrinsic, perspective. They take a backward glace at Limón and the past and make poetic efforts to connect to the place considered the epicenter of black culture in the country. However, Campbell and McDonald do not look to Limón as an anchor to which to affix their national and cultural identity. In Campbell’s “return to origins” poems in Naciendo, the reconnection is necessary to claim Limón as a valued cultural space, but not explicitly home. Similar to Bernard, Campbell seeks a harmonious unity among all Costa Ricans within the borders of the country. However, she forms her concept of nation not by claiming a geographic space or her West Indian roots, but rather by claiming blackness and the consciousness of ethnic difference highlighted by maternity. Campbell privileges the feminine through motherhood—mothering the nation. Motherhood and the task of instructing the next generation bring greater attention to the absurdity of prejudice and the need to build a sense of pride. The maternalization of the nation-pueblo in Campbell’s work also expresses the lack of comprehension and represents the efforts of the Afro-Hispanic–Afro–Costa Rican nation to join the dominant culture of Costa Rica. There is difficulty reaching harmony in the relationship that results in a gap between what is desired and the actual outcome. For Delia McDonald, the coastal region remains an important cultural space and site of memory in McDonald’s work, particularly La lluvia es una piel; however, San José is positioned as home. Like her contemporary Shirley Campbell, McDonald also privileges the feminine experience. Her poetry values an intergenerational and spiritual continuum of black women; she creates a black female genealogy. The postures of Campbell and McDonald toward Limón add to the cultural debate about the younger generations of blacks of West Indian descent and the extent of their attachment to or detachment from the culture of their Afro–West Indian forebears. The West Indies figures as a hazy and distant aura around a more immediate focal point: Limón. The “original” island homes of the West Indian immigrants do not enter as a feature in the poetry of the fourth-generation


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writers as more than a passing reference to a Jamaican grandparent or greatgrandparent. The West Indies as the ancestral home appears with much less frequency than does the image of an imagined Africa, which is a common motif in black writing in the Americas. Also absent in both Campbell’s and McDonald’s work is the oral tradition, along with the rhythms and intrinsic cultural references associated with Afro–West Indian culture that are prominent in secondand third-generation writers Eulalia Bernard and Quince Duncan. The differences among Eulalia Bernard, Shirley Campbell, and Delia McDonald foreground questions on the unstable construction of national and cultural identity from one generation to another. Bernard follows a black nationalist discourse and is intricately connected to expressions of West Indian culture in the formation of her cultural identity. Campbell turns to the matrix of national unity in the maternal embrace between the black subject and Costa Rica that is hoped for in Bernard’s work, only to discover that her blackness, not her West Indianness, prevents her from being seen for her Costa Ricanness. McDonald acknowledges her West Indian past through memory, but like Campbell, her blackness and her Costa Rican national identity are perceived as mutually exclusive. The verse of the three Afro–Costa Rican women poets examined in this work presents two different perspectives on the gendered subject and nation, with location and generation as a dividing line. This fact positions Eulalia Bernard on one side and Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald on the other. The delineation is set between lived historical experience, location, and generation. Eulalia Bernard’s poetic vision of the nation is firmly grounded in the culture of the West Indian enclave in Limón, whereas Shirley Campbell’s and Delia McDonald’s work reflects the idealized, mythic memory of a glorified ancestral past. This vision of a nation is difficult to maintain because of their location outside of it. Campbell’s work turns inward toward the maternalization of the nation, the embrace that depends not on a place, but rather on bonds of love and connection among all members of the nation—inside and outside Limón. McDonald, on the other hand, explores identity and cultural difference through memories as a child and memories associated with the coastal region. In the articulation of place for Campbell and McDonald, Costa Rica is home and Limón is the ancestral “homeland” where a spiritual reconnection is made. Costa Rica forms their present, and the West Indies is a place on a distant map of an imagined and mythic past. Notably, both younger writers value bonds between generations of women. In Campbell’s writing, the grandmother figure emerges as the transmitter of heritage and cultural traditions and as the intersection of the past and the present, a figure of living history. Likewise, McDonald

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presents a lineage of women who pass down spirituality, as well as culture. Their language is Spanish and is symbolic of the cultural integration of Afro–Costa Ricans into the dominant Hispanic culture of Costa Rica. Language choice is not the same linguistic minefield where Eulalia Bernard strategically plays her language games, nor do these poets bend it to mimic or parody the practices of the dominant culture; rather, they subversively attack the dominant discourse from within. Campbell’s poems have themes such as brotherhood among people of different colors, the return to the past, the history of Limón, the black grandmother and her connection between the past and the future, the train, love, blackness and spirituality, and spiritual sexuality. McDonald’s poems bring to the fore intimate images of family, of childhood memories, and recollections and portraits of Limón. Campbell’s poems are sober, compelling, and meditative; McDonald’s are sometimes hermetic and sometimes deeply intimate. Both of the younger poets present a departure from the oral tradition on which Eulalia Bernard relies in her verse. Their poems generally display a search for a recoverable and usable past as a tool to equip the future.

Conclusion

Becoming Costa Rican

F

rom the literary contributions of black writers of Afro–West Indian descent in Costa Rica, it becomes clear that the expression of cultural identity is constituted by the convergence of history, political and social movements, and location. The generations of writers who witnessed the post1948 political interest in the enfranchisement of the Afro–West Indian population articulate a common concern, as do the generations born well after the event. The unifying conflict for all black writers studied in this volume is the great tension regarding the expressed desire to belong to Costa Rica, which often becomes, as Ian Smart asserts, “more of a desired goal than an achieved one” (CAW, 41). Certainly, this tension between cultural difference and prevailing national ideologies is not unique to Afro–Costa Rican writing. Most notably, this “doubleconsciousness” has been explored by several generations of black writers in different locations in the African diaspora. First articulated by African American intellectual W. E. B. DuBois in The Souls of Black Folk, double-consciousness describes the condition of U.S. blacks in the post-Reconstruction period. DuBois claims, “One ever feels his two-ness—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in dark body.” British cultural critic Paul Gilroy examines DuBois’s ideas as a response to modernity and deploys the concept of double-consciousness to verbalize the complex of nation, “race,” ethnicity, and language in the black (North) Atlantic. In The Black Atlantic, Gilroy observes: “Striving to be both European and black requires some specific forms of double consciousness . . . where, racist, nationalist, or ethnically absolutist discourses orchestrate political relationships so that these identities appear to be mutually exclusive, occupying the space between them or trying to demonstrate their continuity has been viewed as a provocative and even oppositional act of political insubordination.”1 In spite of Gilroy’s geographic concen1. DuBois, Souls of Black Folk, 5; Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Conscious-

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tration on transatlantic movements and communication among diaspora blacks in England, the United States, and the Anglophone Caribbean (particularly Jamaica and Guyana), the concepts he explores may be applied to the “Other America” in the black South Atlantic and to migrations to nonmetropolitan centers such as Costa Rica, Panama, and Nicaragua. The settlement of migrant subjects in nonmetropolitan sites presents an oppositional engagement with a national discourse that negates the possibility of being black and a citizen of the nation-state. This is even more pronounced for the fourth generation that has no old home in the West Indies or Limón to which to anchor their cultural identity; Costa Rica is their only home. Double-consciousness in Afro–Costa Rican writing reveals this struggle to be Costa Rican and black, which is characterized by a difficult negotiation of difference and national identity. However, Afro–Costa Rican writing stands not only between “two great cultural assemblages” of ethnic identity and national identity as an expression of diaspora double-consciousness, but also between other cultural sites.2 It is the product of complex migrations and transmigrations: the transatlantic passage of African slaves to the West Indies and the dispersal of Caribbean peoples all over the world. Afro–Costa Rican identity emerges as the result of migration of a colonized population who were once the ethnic majority at “home” to a situation as a neocolonized, ethnic minority population in a country with its own distinct cultural identity. These multiple dispersals constitute and inform the expression of this identity in literature. In the case of works by writers of Afro–West Indian descent, the desire to be Costa Rican and express ethnic difference figures prominently in the literature. Revisiting the Limonese Creole saying “me navel-string bury dere,” we can observe that this is not an easy proclamation or a simple symbolic gesture for the generations of blacks of West Indian descent born in Costa Rica. As presented in the literature by several generations of writers, the struggle to declare that their “navel-string is buried there” is an act that sets in motion the emergence of an Afro–Costa Rican cultural identity by claiming home for a former immigrant ness, 1. I agree with the pitfalls of Gilroy’s study addressed by Lourdes Martínez-Echázabal. She asserts that Gilroy’s “Anglocentric gaze” in The Black Atlantic should have prompted him to name his book The Black North Atlantic. She accurately observes, “Gilroy, like other British and US cultural critics, seems only to pay lip service to African Latin America. . . . [T]his oversight is due to a metonymic reading of the Americas, one that privileges some places (the US and Jamaica), and treats them as if they constitute and, consequently could stand for the whole of the Americas” (“Hybridity and Diasporization in the ‘Black Atlantic’: The Cases of Chombo,” 121). 2. Gilroy, Black Atlantic, 1.


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identity. Home is refigured and reimagined from the memory of what was in the West Indies of the first generation, the bridging of two worlds in the second and third generations, and eventually the hope of the future offered by the fourth generation. The literature written by blacks of West Indian descent demonstrates that cultural identity transforms over time and “is a matter of ‘becoming’ as well as ‘being’” and that it “belongs to the future as much as the past.”3 In the process of becoming Afro–Costa Rican, which is also a process of being ethnically and culturally different while being “at home,” the concepts of home and nation are recodified over time. Black writers in Costa Rica articulate the ability of a people to configure their cultural identity by “reconstructing old homes and imagining new ones.”4 This practice is reflected in the historical shifts in attitude toward place, language, and nation. These shifts mark transformative moments in the configuration of cultural identity in Afro–Costa Rican literature, particularly the destabilization of the naturalized homologous association of home and identity. The first generation as literary precursors (including storytellers, calypsonians, Alderman Johnson Roden, and Dolores Joseph) demonstrates a British West Indian immigrant identity situated in the islands of origin in spite of displacement in Costa Rica. Bilingual second- and third-generation writers Eulalia Bernard and Quince Duncan represent an ambiguous position between the islands of their parents and grandparents and the country of their birth. Like their predecessors of the first generation, there are “reflections” on the condition of exile of the immigrant identity. However, Bernard and Duncan reveal a continuous play of tensions between an affinity for West Indian culture and their national allegiance to Costa Rica. Both writers display these tensions through the incorporation of ancestral history and the English language in their texts— either in its entirety, in the case of Bernard, or as phonetically transcribed phrases, in the work of Duncan. Both Bernard and Duncan use Spanish and English to talk about the “new” home. Eulalia Bernard negotiates between the cultural spaces of the West Indies and Jamaica and supports an embrace of both worlds by challenging the latter to accommodate the former. She holds the myths and contradictions of Costa Rica before her nation like a mirror. She subversively addresses the polemic by turning those same myths of ethnic homogeneity and erasure of blackness (both in the present and in the colonial past) against themselves. In her poetry, she explores language and how it shapes and constructs cultural identity through a mix3. Hall, “Cultural Identity,” 70. 4. Roy, “Postcoloniality and Politics of Identity,” 102.

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ture of languages, registers, humor, protest, West Indian cultural traditions, mimicry, and parody. She assaults traditional constructs of poetry through a valorization of the Afro–West Indian oral tradition and “playing” with the limits of language. Bernard and other Afra-Hispanic writers “deal seriously and imaginatively with linguistic, ontological, and epistemical issues.”5 Quince Duncan values his West Indian heritage and cultural difference. He proposes a position that can be described as integrationist, but like Bernard is not assimilationist. Duncan negotiates the so-called third space or in-between space where two cultures meet. Like Eulalia Bernard, whose poetry straddles the desired outcome of her vision of a harmonious multiculturalism and the reality impeding this utopian desire, Duncan presents in his narrative a negotiation that is “neither assimilation nor collaboration” that “makes possible the emergence of an ‘interstitial’ agency that refuses the binary representation of social antagonism.”6 The perspectives of Bernard and Duncan on Costa Rica as home and nation contrast with younger writers Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald. Their poetry does not resonate with the echoes of the preoccupations of locating and claiming home of the immigrant identity. In Spanish, they affirm “home” is Costa Rica, and their culture is a not-so-harmonious integration of the West Indian past and the dominant Hispanic culture. They explore the difficulty of affirming their blackness in a country that clings to the national myths of homogeneity, where blackness still denotes an element of “foreignness.” The two younger poets present a shift in the Afro–Costa Rican cultural identity by representing a movement away from a West Indian cultural identity toward one that can be termed as more Afro-Hispanic or Afro–Latin American with a diaspora consciousness. This shift can be described as such because determining the location “home” is not an issue for this generation of writers; their concern is with making the land of their birth recognize their two-ness—their blackness and their Costa Ricanness. The literary preoccupations of Campbell and McDonald are rooted in a difference that no longer adheres to their ancestors’ islands of origins. Although acknowledging certain West Indian cultural retentions (such as foods, carnival, and obeah) and the history of the earlier West Indian immigrants through the motifs of the train and the imagery of plantations, their concern is not finding and claiming place—rather, they want to assert it. As part of a new generation, their concern is with how to be black and Costa Rican when the na5. DeCosta-Willis, “Afra-Hispanic Writers,” 215. 6. Homi K. Bhabha, “Culture’s In-Between,” 58.


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tional dominant discourse signals that the two positions are mutually exclusive. In their poetic vision, the West Indies as well as Africa are mythic and imagined places. The poets lack the intensity of a cultural affinity with the West Indies that is present in the works of Alderman Johnson Roden, Dolores Joseph, Eulalia Bernard, and Quince Duncan. Nor do they demonstrate the problematic “mascon” elements that Ian Smart (via Stephen Henderson) describes as terms that “evoke with naked directness the primordial sense of belonging to the ethnolinguistic minority group” (CAW, 42). It is evident from such a reductive view that Smart did not take into consideration the possibility of the transformation of cultural identity over time. He did not factor in the possibility of writers such as Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald. He did not examine the possibility of change owing to the increased cultural contact and integration into the dominant culture or the preference of the younger generations of Afro–Costa Ricans for Spanish—not only for commercial reasons (work, education, and publication), but also because it is their first and sometimes only language. The fourth generation is distanced from the West Indies and assimilated into Hispanic culture in childhood. They speak Spanish as their first language, and it is their language of choice; therefore, they can no longer be identified by the “mascon” elements they are able to recognize. Although the fourth generation is a minority, it is no longer part of a separate ethnolinguistic group. In comparison to Eulalia Bernard and Quince Duncan, Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald do not adhere to an imaginary psychic attachment to the West Indies. They turn away from the islands of their forebears and look inward to the place they call home and attempt to force it to face their blackness and accept difference. More so in Campbell, there is an effort to bridge to the wider community of blacks in the Americas and the diaspora. Both Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald honor this diaspora consciousness by recalling historical and literary figures (such as Nicolás Guillén, Aimé Césaire, and Claude McKay) and through the images of a continuum of black women as givers of life and guardians of culture. Instead of seeking a home or forging in the imagination a connection to the now distant West Indies, the later generation of writers seeks a cultural citizenship and not the political citizenship of previous generations. According to Aihwa Ong, “[C]ultural citizenship is the demand of disadvantaged subjects for full citizenship in spite of their cultural differences from mainstream society.”7 The younger writers define a new history and a new landscape without returning to the West Indies, but make a link with their foremothers and the motherland, Costa Rica. 7. Aihwa Ong, “Cultural Citizenship,” 264.

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Afro–Costa Rican cultural identity has transformed over time as a result of social, historical, and political events and contact with dominant society, and this transformation is articulated in the literature. Generations of writers express different sentiments of belonging to Costa Rica as a part of this cultural identity. For the generations that witnessed the post–civil war enfranchisement of the Afro–West Indian population, citizenship was granted by the governing junta. However, from the legal act of “nationalizing” the Afro–West Indians, questions emerged, particularly in works by Eulalia Bernard and Quince Duncan, about the struggle to find meaning in “belonging” to the nation-state that previously excluded their forebears. However, these expressions and dilemmas of belonging to Costa Rica are addressed in the writings of all generations. Cultural identity is rooted in a territory, but needs to foster a sense of belonging in an alien culture. This difficult negotiation raises issues of ethnicity and language in the process of affirming place and nation. In the process of combating imagery that blacks in Costa Rica are “foreign,” Afro–Costa Rican writers refute myths of ethnic and linguistic homogeneity through the expression of their cultural identity in literature. There remains much work to be done in the recovery of texts written by blacks of West Indian descent, particularly the older “foundational” texts. As Miriam DeCosta-Willis affirms, “[I]t is possible that the recovery of lost and forgotten texts will permit the archeological reconstruction of a discursive tradition, however fragmentary and discontinuous.”8 Though this comment specifically refers to the situation of a tradition of women’s writing in Afra-Hispanic literary studies, it can be applied to the general situation of “emerging” literatures. This study has attempted to establish a context and a frame to build a more complete literary history of Afro–Costa Rican writing in English, Creole, and Spanish. In the field of Afro–Costa Rican literary criticism, Ian Smart, Richard Jackson, Donald Gordon, Janet Jones Hampton, and Paulette Ramsay have done important and pioneering work, and Dellita Martin-Ogunsola added the important translation of Duncan’s short stories. Whereas these and other scholars have made significant contributions, which serve as a foundation for this investigation, I have attempted here to expand the scope and depth of Afro–Costa Rican literary studies.

8. DeCosta-Willis, “Afra-Hispanic Writers,” 204.

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Index

Afro-Hispanic literature, 1; and postcolonial theory, 25 Anancy stories, ix, 4–5, 32, 34 – 38; in calypso, 38, 44–46; in work by Dolores Joseph, 36, 67–68; in work by Quince Duncan, 38, 160 – 61 Anglin Edwards, Joyce: on Anancy stories, 35 – 36, 35n3, 39 Ashcroft, Bill, et al.: on postcolonial theory, 4 Bellamy, Prudence, ix Belonging, ix, x, 24, 31, 238; in work by Eulalia Bernard, 75–76, 81, 96, 102, 116; in work by Quince Duncan, 134, 143; in work by Shirley Campbell, 199 Bennett, Louise: comparison with Eulalia Bernard, 76, 117–18 Bernard Little, Eulalia, ix, 3, 5, 25, 75 –119, 169, 235–36, 237, 238; and language, 77, 102, 107– 9, 113, 116 –19; and black masculinity and gender, 77, 78, 100, 107, 111– 12; and national identity, 81, 91, 93, 95, 114 –19; Ritmohéroe, 76, 77, 78, 79 –102; My Black King, 77, 79, 101, 102– 9; Ciénaga, 77, 78, 79, 101, 109 –14; comparison with Shirley Campbell and Delia McDonald, 229–32 Bhabha, Homi K., 4, 94 Brathwaite, E. Kamau, 4; on nation language, 43; on literary improvisation, 118; on the portrayal of the African past, 212 Calypso: as oral literature, ix, 32, 39– 47; as intrahistory, 43 Campbell Barr, Shirley, ix, 3, 5, 26, 166, 168 – 209, 236 – 37, 238; themes, 169 –73; Naciendo, 169, 173–89, 230; comparison with Eulalia Bernard, 169, 171, 172, 180; Rotundamente negra, 169, 189 –209; comparison with Eulalia Bernard and Delia McDonald 229–32 Césaire, Aimé: and poetry of Shirley Campbell, 173, 175, 176, 237 Citizenship, 6, 14, 16–17, 131; parameters of, 81–82; Ong on cultural citizenship, 237 Curling, Alex, 131

DeCosta-Willis, Miriam, 4, 26, 238 Double-consciousness: defined, 233; examination by Paul Gilroy, 233–34. See also Identity Duncan Moodie, Quince, ix, 3, 5, 25, 33, 76, 79, 120–66, 236, 237, 238; “La leyenda de José Gordon,” 50–51; Hombres curtidos, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124–35, 146, 165, 175; Los cuatro espejos, 120, 122, 123, 135– 45, 165; La paz del pueblo, 120, 122, 123, 145 – 64, 165, 166; and the Boom, 121– 22; themes, 122–24 Exile, 3, 4, 23, 25, 27, 28, 31, 38, 188, 235; in work by Alderman Johnson Roden, 46, 48, 52; in work by Eulalia Bernard, 76, 85, 86, 88, 115, 116; in work by Quince Duncan, 122, 124, 135-36, 143–44, 146, 147– 56, 163, 165–66; in work by Delia McDonald, 211 Ferguson, Walter “Mr. Gavitt,” 41–47 Figueres, José María, 16, 167 Foster, Alonso, ix Garvey, Marcus, 18, 28; in work by Eulalia Bernard, 77, 83–84, 89, 102, 104–5; in work by Quince Duncan, 127, 145, 146 Gilroy, Paul, 4; on double-consciousness, 233 – 34 Glissant, Edoard, 124 Gordon, Donald K., 136, 238; on Alderman Johnson Roden, 33–34, 47, 51; on Shirley Campbell, 175–76 Guillén, Nicolás: in poetry of Shirley Campbell, 173, 175, 176, 200, 237; in poetry of Delia McDonald, 210–11 Hall, Stuart: on cultural identity, x, 3, 4, 5, 76 Hampton, Janet Jones, 238; on Shirley Campbell, 169, 175 Harris, Wilson: the imaginative escape in postcolonial literatures, 46 Identity: West Indian cultural identity and Hispanic culture, x, 2–3; and its transfor-

247

248

Index

mation in Afro–Costa Rican literature, 2 – 4, 5–7; white identity and whiteness, 2n2, 4, 23 –24, 168; as a process, 3, 5 – 6; problems with the term West Indian, 19–22; relation to home and place, 25 –26; and migration to San José, 167– 68; in two generations of poets, 229–32; transformation of, 233–38. See also Belonging Intrahistory, ix, 18; and Dolores Joseph 53, 61– 66 Jackson, Richard L., 1, 4, 136, 145, 238 JanMohammed, Abdul, 4; on difference, 116; on the specular subject, 135; on exile, 143 Joseph Montout, Dolores, ix, 3, 5, 25, 38, 52–72; Tres relatos del caribe costarricense, 33, 38, 52–72; “Nancy Stories,” 38, 52, 53, 67–68; “Limon on the Raw,” 52, 53, 54 – 66, 159; “Adina,” 52, 53, 68 –71 Language, 4, 17, 21–22, 25; Jamaican Creole, 7, 57; Limonese Creole, 43, 57–58, 60, 108, 109; language change in “Limon on the Raw,” 54–61; Creole continuum, 58 – 59. See also Nation language Limón: in work of Eulalia Bernard, 96 –102, 114–16; in work of Delia McDonald, 226 –29 Martin-Ogunsola, Dellita, 24, 50, 136, 238 McDonald Woolery, Delia, ix, 3, 5, 26, 166, 168, 209 –29, 236 – 37, 238; Sangre de madera, 208, 213 –18; El séptimo círculo del obelisco, 209, 210 –13, 218; La lluvia es una piel, 209, 210, 218 –29, 230; compared with Shirley Campbell, 224, 227; compared with Shirley Campbell and Eulalia Bernard, 229 – 32 McKay, Claude: in poetry of Shirley Campbell, 173, 175, 176, 178, 237 McKinney, Kitzie: on Eulalia Bernard, 82– 83, 91, 94 Morejón, Nancy: on literary theory, 26 Nation language: defined, 43; in work of Eulalia Bernard, 108, 117, 118; in work of Quince Duncan, 159-63 New novel: characteristics according to Donald Shaw, 121; and Quince Duncan, 121, 163

Newspapers: in Limón, 7, 72–74 Nuestra Señora de Los Ángeles. See Our Lady of the Angels Oral literature: as foundation of Afro–Costa Rican literature, 32–33; and performance in poetry of Eulalia Bernard, 102, 117–18; tradition present in work of Quince Duncan, 160–63 Our Lady of the Angels: in poetry of Eulalia Bernard, 78, 89, 92–94, 119; history of, 92 Perry, Franklin, x, 39, 144, 200 Place, ix, x, 4, 17, 22, 24, 25, 37, 48, 54, 56; relationship to identity, 29–30 Postcolonial theory: defined, 4; as theoretical approach, 24–31 Puerto Limón. See Limón Reid, Marcia, ix Reid Brown, Claudio, ix Religion: Pocomania and Cumina, 153–55, 165 Roden, Alderman Johnson, ix, 3, 5, 25, 33, 47– 52, 53; “Nostalgia,” 47–49, 52, 188; “White Justice—Reality,” 49–50; “The Outlaw,” 50–51, 52 Said, Edward, 4, 75 Smart, Ian, 1, 4, 237, 238; Central American Writers of West Indian Origin: A New Hispanic Literature, 1, 18–22; on Eulalia Bernard, 76, 77, 102, 197, 233, 238; on religion in work by Quince Duncan, 146 United Fruit Company, 3, 7, 15–16, 100; in work by Alderman Johnson Roden, 50, 51; in work by Dolores Joseph, 57, 62, 63–64, 69, 70 West Indian immigrants: as labor, ix, x, 2, 10– 17; literacy and skills of, 12; attitudes toward Hispanic population, 12, 13, 14–15; British cultural heritage of, 13, 15; migration and identity, 29; Francophone immigrants, 7, 58, 64–65. See also Identity Zapata Olivella, Manuel: and the Boom, 121, 122

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