When I was a child growing up I remember my father buying us to wear to school what we used to call in those days, “bush clarks.” Now for those of you who might be too young or have never heard of this fashionable wear before it was a brown never done pair of ‘yawtin’ boots virtually only worn by Amerindians in Guyana. How I hated those boots but there was nothing I could do to get rid of them unless I had chosen to go barefooted which I was not prepared to do regardless of my racial inferiority complex and unbearable embarrassment. The school I attended then was predominantly Chinese, most of whom were from the rich middle and upper classes. Being mixed with quarter Amerindian from my mother’s side and half Chinese from my father’s side, it was hard for other non-Chinese students to tell the difference. So we (me and an older brother) were often derogatively identified as “bucks,” especially as we were wearing those unmistakable marks of identification in our footwear. You have to understand too that in those days the Amerindians were at the bottom of the social ladder and even that is putting it mildly. Scum of the earth is perhaps a more accurate description. Later on as I became older and graduated into high school my Amerindian identity was soon replaced by my father’s roots. I was popularly nicknamed, “Arthur Chung,” the first President of Guyana. Then when while I was doing my National Service paramilitary training in the jungle near to the Venezuelan border I met a very good friend who left the name, “Chucka,” on me and still calls me by that name up to today. Chucka is really short for Chuck-a-Sang which incidentally happens to be the surname of relatives from my paternal side. No doubt with my head practically shaved and upper part of my body skeletal looking I couldn’t escape the Chinese features at all. Funny enough I was even taken for a Vietnamese in Russia after I visited the hair salon. This was what my wife was told after she came in and enquired if anyone had seen me. Nowadays, people ask me if I’m from the Philippines and, to my surprise more recently, if I’m from India or Bangladesh. Just who I am I guess is not so easy a question. From being awkwardly in denial of my indigenous heritage at a tender age and in the process of maturing throughout the years without being able to satisfyingly position myself among my other ethnic origins I gradually began to drift into a compromise where I pretended to be South American rather than anything else. To prove to myself I grew a thick moustache. However, during my attendance at an FAO conference in Rome to elect a new Director General for the organization I became shocking aware for the first time how condescendingly the Caribbean countries were treated by the Latinos who felt we were obliged to support a Latin American candidate. In Brussels the division between the Caribbean and the Latin Americans also became more pronounced for me as the Europeans politically manipulated both sides in the banana war at the WTO. All things said and admitted, I still love the salsa and have always admired the romantic beauty and passion of the Latinos. This, therefore, is my introduction to Amerindian Heritage month which is currently being celebrated in Guyana. Needless to say, how sad it was the other day to see pictures of the native Benab built by the Amerindians going up in flames. In my next posts before the end of the month I promise to talk more about the Amerindians than about myself. But before I do so please allow me to share with you this Saturday a poem that was specially written by one of our POTCarian writers who is no stranger to the Amerindians. It is a savagely brave, honest and raw tribute wittily put together in versatile language that informs what actually and realistically transpired in 1492.
Posted on: Sat, 13 Sep 2014 14:34:01 +0000
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