Report from the Bahamas, 1982

JUNE JORDAN Reportjrom the Bahamas, 10,82 I am staying in a hotel that calls itselfThe Sheraton British Colonial. One ofthe photographs advertising the place displays a middle-aged Black man in a waiter's tuxedo, smiling. What intrigues me most about the picture is just this: while the Black man bears a tray full of"colorful" drinks above his left shoulder, both ofhis feet, shoes and trouserlegs, up to ten inches above his ankles, stand in the also "colorful" Caribbean saltwater. He is so delighted to serve you he will wade into the water to bring you Banana Daiquiris while you float! More precisely, he will wade into the water, full clothed, oblivious to the ruin ofhis shoes, his trousers, his health, and he will do it with a smile. I am in the Bahamas. On the phone in my room, a spinning complement ofplastic pages offers handy index clues such as CARRENTAL and CASINOS. A message from the Ministry ofTourism appears among these travellers' tips. Openingwith a paragraph of"WELCOME," the message then proceeds to "A PAGE OF HISTORY," which reads as follows: NewWorld History begins on the same day that modern Bahamian history begins—October 12, 1492. That's when Columbus stepped ashore—British influence came first with the Eleutherian Adventurers of1647—After the Revolutions, American Loyalists fled from the newly independent states and settled in the Bahamas. Confederate blockade-runners used the island as a haven during the War between the States, and after the War, a number ofSoutherners moved to the Bahamas... There it is again. Something proclaims itselfa legitimate history and all it does is track white Mr. Columbus to the British Eleutherians through the Confederate Southerners as they barge into New World surf, land on New World turf, and nobody saying one word about the Bahamian people, the Black peoples, to whom the only thing new in Reprinted by the permission ofthe June M. Jordan Literary Estate. [Meridians:feminism, race, transnationalism 2003, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 6-16]©2003 by Wesleyan University Press. All rights reserved. their island world was this weird succession ofcrude intruders and its colonial consequences. This is my consciousness ofrace as I unpack my bathing suit in the Sheraton British Colonial. Neither this hotel nor the British nor the long ago Italians nor the white Delta airline pilots belong here, ofcourse. And every time I look at the photograph ofthat fool standing in the water with his shoes on I'm about to have a West Indian fit, even though I know he's no fool; he's a middle-aged Black man who needs a job and this is his job —pretending himselfa servile ancillary to the pleasures ofthe rich. (Compared to his options in life, I am a rich woman. Compared to most ofthe Black Americans arriving for this Easter weekend on a three nights four days' deal ofbargain rates, the middle-aged waiter is a poor Black man.) We will jostle along with the other (white) visitors and join them in the tee shirt shops or, laughing together, learn ruthless rules ofnegotiation as we, BlackAmericans as well as white, argue down the price ofhandwoven goods at the nearby straw marketwhile the merchants, frequently toothless Black women seated on the concrete in their only presentable dress, humble themselves to our careless games: "Yes? You like it? Eight dollar." "Five." "I give it to you. Seven." And so it continues, this weird succession ofcrude intruders that, now, includes me and my brothers and my sisters from the North. This is my consciousness ofclass as I try to decide how much money I can spend on Bahamian gifts for my family back in Brooklyn. No matter that these other Black women incessandyweave words and flowers into the straw hats and bags piled beside them on the burning dusty street. No matter that these other Black women must work their sense ofbeauty into these things that we will take away as cheaply as we dare, or they will do without food. We are not white, after all. The budget is limited. And we are harmlessly killing time between the poolside rum punch and "The Native Show on the Patio...