15th
September 2012
Bringing
Up Baby
There
are countries in this world where people
profess themselves to be “advanced”
- more advanced than the rest of the world
- and show the technology and lifestyles
to support the theory.
Even we, who I suppose, could be classified
as being “some aboriginal villages
down under, or some deep-jungle African
tribal settlement; but we still look with
envy at the episodes of “The Bold
ad the Beautiful” and wistfully
dream of walking in their shoes some day
- agree that there may still be quite
a lot that we can learn from our “more
- developed” fellow-beings.
For
the purposes of this article, I am going
to focus on just one of the aspects in
which they differ from us, and in the
way they handle it.
Or
rather, I shall let those most affected
speak-out. They have sent a representative
body who, smarting from what they consider
the injustice of the system, want to make
their voices heard. In preparation for
a press conference which they are about
to have, they are meeting in a vacant
classroom at a neighbouring primary school,
having a small preparatory round-table
discussion, getting their heads together
so that they may properly present their
case.
I’ve
managed to find a way of eavesdropping
on their conversation, and you’re
lucky that I’ve been able to smuggle
you in. Don’t forget though, this
is not the press conference; it is a private
conversation, and you’re like the
unnoticed fly on the wall.
It
is 10:30 in the morning and we find Trevor,
three years old; Jasmine, four; and Sophie,
also four.
“Well,
what have we got to talk about?”
Although he’s the youngest of the
trio, Trevor has decided that he’s
going to take change of the proceedings.
After all, he is a “man”,
this is St. Lucia ... and it’s a
cultural thing.
“Yes,
we’ve got to get our act together
and know what we’re going to say
at this media conference,” Sophie
tosses her braided locks. “It’s
not often we get a chance to talk and
let the grownups know how we feel about
things. As a matter of fact, I believe
this is a first. So ...”
“O.K.,”
a frowning Jasmine cuts in, “in
the first place, we have to let them know
that we’re tired of being yelled
at, all the time, for things we don’t
even understand. And I wish they’d
stop giving such conflicting signals;
like, today if you’re not hungry
and don’t feel like eating all your
cereal, it’s ‘What do you
think? I’m made of money? I buy
you this good food and you refuse to eat
it all? Don’t you know there are
children starving in Africa, who would
give their eye teeth to get a little of
what you’re getting? Finish it all,
or else’; and tomorrow, if you’re
really rather peckish and wipe your plate
clean and ask for more, you get the Oliver
Twist treatment. And it’s ‘What
do you think, I’m made of money?
What are you, a pig? You’ve had
enough. Wash your dirty little face and
get to bed.’ I tell you, one really
doesn’t know what to do anymore,
to please them.”
“You
think that’s something?” asks
Sophie, “what about when they insist
on taking you to town with them? They
dress you up like a Barbie doll, wanting
to show you off to their friends; and
then it’s ‘Walk up! Stop lagging
behind!’ They change direction on
you without warning, and you were supposed
to pre-guess what they were going to do.
They pull you this way and that, until
your arm feels like it’s being torn
off at the roots.”
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