Wrongs in the right

I am not an easy man to confuse. I have a coherent and rational understanding of the world and how it works. The only thing that confuses me is how reverends get their heads through that collar. But, last year, the foundations of my universe were terribly shaken. You see, I consider myself a pretty good psychologist. I can usually tell where a person is coming from (though I can never tell when a woman wants to sleep with me or when she just wants to borrow my books). But I believe in the principle that a leopard cannot change his spots, that the scorpion will always sting the helpful frog that carried him across the river, that National Security Minister Martin Joseph will continue making dotish excuses as the murder rate inexorably rises.

Because of this, I feel comfortable making metaphors out of certain public personalities. I have no personal grouse with Pastor Cuffie, but he is an apt representative of Christian fundamentalism, bogus doctorates, and truly awful architecture. Similarly, I have nothing personal against Professor Selwyn Cudjoe, for I have never been downwind of him, but his ideas have gained sufficient airing for my unvarnished mockery to warn against racial chauvinism and facial rictus. I don’t even dislike Sat Maharaj, but he is such an Indian stereotype that my pointing out his many contradictions undermines his racial ideology, promotes a Trini ethos and, most importantly, prevents me from getting jowls.

But, last year, three of my metaphors betrayed me. For a writer, this is not a happy experience. We scribes depend on metaphors to save ourselves from working too hard. Writers never admit this, of course. They give all kinds of fancy explanations about conveying the essence of meaning through metaphor, lending new perceptions to humanity, stretching the limits of language and so on. All bs, I’m afraid (sorry, this is a family newspaper so I can’t use the full metaphor). Truth is, writers are just lazy. We like to express ideas using short, colourful phrases because writing long analytical sentences takes up a lot more time at the keyboard. So when we use metaphors, we can knock off work early and go out to seduce women (and, since most writers resemble some species of fish, they need a lot of time for seductions).

This is why I became quite upset when Professor Courtenay Bartholomew publicly criticised the Medical Board and certain doctors. For years now, I have been attacking Bartholomew’s Catholic-based propaganda that promoting condom use promotes promiscuity: a position which, given his authority as a medical practitioner and AIDS expert, struck me as extremely irresponsible. Mind you, I am pretty sure Bartholomew didn’t see it this way. He probably felt that my barbs were motivated by envy of his close relationship with the Virgin Mary.  But I was convinced that Bartholomew was a negative exemplar for our society. Now, however, he has gone and pointed out that several doctors in this country practise in areas they are not qualified for. Some doctors denied Bartholomew’s accusations but none of them have been able to properly refute him. With the help of the MPATT leaders, doctors had already solidified their reputation as uncaring mercenaries: now they were shown to be damn liars as well.

By highlighting these traits, Bartholomew may have catalysed a public dissatisfaction with our medical professionals that could well pay useful dividends later on. But, with that act and a recent newspaper column where he made sure to refute the bogus claim by one Catholic doctor that the AIDS virus can penetrate condoms, Bartholomew has also made it impossible for me to use him as a clear metaphor. Frankly, I feel he should have been more considerate of my needs, but these are the kinds of travails a writer must undergo. Still, I was on my way to full recovery when I got another blow. The Maha Sabha filed a suit claiming discrimination in the Trinity Cross: and Catholic activist Leela Ramdeen, who heads the Catholic Commission for Social Justice, joined with Sat. This was when I really felt the foundations of my world-view shake with the greatest magnitude, throwing a tsunami of doubt across my rock-solid convictions. (Pardon my Pastor Dottinesque prose, but at that moment I truly felt like a self-aggrandising ignoramus.)

You see, I had devoted some effort to making Ramdeen into a metaphor for the worst kind of Catholic: completely conservative but hiding their essential backwardness under a veneer of intellectualism. This act didn’t substantially change my opinion, but it did mean that Ramdeen was capable of seeing beyond her own religious affiliation. So that was one metaphor I would have to abandon (except on the abortion issue where enlightenment for Ramdeen is as likely as Works Minister Franklin Khan stopping floods with a smile). My only comfort is that I can be sure that Catholic columnist Marion O’ Callaghan will never betray me by becoming morally progressive or intellectually honest.

But that comfort, alas, turned out to be thin padding against the next lash. For years now, I had been using Devant Parsuram Maharaj as a symbol of moral and intellectual and societal deficiency. Devant was my metaphor for all seasons, as it were. And then, in December last year, he went and won his case against the SASC and Prime Minister Patrick Manning. Devant was actually, incontrovertibly, on the right side of an issue! Needless to say, I was devastated. It wasn’t that I’d been wrong in my criticisms. But the case showed that I had definitely been wrong in my view of Manning, whom I had hitherto viewed as a common or garden idiot, instead of the superior jackass he truly is. So what am I to do? My only hope is to find new and better metaphors. And, in this regard, I am lent some hope by the younger generation who, to judge by those who write newspaper columns, are going to be just as dotish as their African, Indian, leftist and feminist predecessors.

E-mail:
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