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Isaac No Go Jump February 28

“Isaac, spelled like the bible, I-s-a-a-c.“  Like the boy almost slaughtered by his father.  “Praise God,“ he says.  We talk about fishing and Isaac Newton and Galileo, then I show him my binoculars.  He has never held any before.  He reaches out to try and touch the stadium across the harbor.  He dresses as respectfully as he speaks, in pressed black with a buttoned Nehru collar, whispering his higher power with every breath.  I point out the cannons of Fort George on the hilltop, and he whistles at the marvel.  He has lived here all of his forty-something years, and yet he somehow has never been to the fort on the hill.  “God willin’,“ he hopes to visit it someday, but right now he contemplates his fate on the seawall.  His knees are weak at the prospect of stumbling.  Isaac cannot swim, and he considers the utility belt hanging from his baggy trousers to be an anchor.  But we can surprise ourselves when not given the choice, as Isaac’s famous father Abraham can attest.

“Yuh huv to go,“ Isaac insists, in support of Army Fete, the safest Carnival party of all on the Savannah, where revelers can wine under weight of the nation’s military might, or at least one regiment of it.  I reply that the fete sounds like a blast, which only causes the vet to grow concerned.  “Nah, no t’at,“ he reassures me, “just doh go by yuh self.“  Everyone here apparently sees me as a soft target—hell, I might rob me too if I did not know how worthless I am.

The final round of Panorama, and the crowning of Soca Monarch 2019, is slated for this weekend.  St. Lucia, Guyana, and Barbados also have competitions, but no one here cares about those.  Carnival is this country’s most important national holiday—it is all about home.  The personalities, the poetry, the inside references, the video imagery, the steel pans, the sticks, the mas’ and pranks and whole shebang all focus the lens on Trinidad and what it means to be Trini.  Carnival is essential to this island’s soul.  It was once postponed, in the ’70’s, when a polio scare took hold, but the May date proved cursed—the rainy season arrived early, and it poured for a straight week.  This is the stuff of Kaiso lore.  Last year, even credible terrorist threats were not enough to cancel Carnival.  When asked if there are similar threats for this year’s Mas, Minister of National Security Stuart Young smirks.  He has no comment, at least not until after Ash Wednesday.  He is sweating again.

Calypso Rose has returned to perform at the stadium event called Machel Monday.  She has a duet this year with reigning Soca Monarch Machel Montano, proving the silver-haired queen from Queens, New York, still has sauce, and the new song “Young Boy“ explains the recipe.  Rose’s ascendance from a 2-room house on Tobago to Kaiso royalty forty years ago is what caused the titles to change from King to gender-neutral Monarch.  Her Majesty’s confident wit and seductive voice led the way for Patrice, Nadia, and Nahlia. 

“Hookin’ Meh“ seemed like the most popular song in the universe only two weeks ago, but its overexposure in the Grandstands of Queen’s Park Savannah may hurt its prospects for gold, perhaps peaking too early.  These songs are like candy, creating binges followed by a slightly sick feeling.  It has not helped that op-eds continue to criticize the writer’s dim sense of relationship dynamics.  If there is any need to confirm Farmer Nappy’s callow sexism, simply consult his entire song catalog, or perhaps don’t.  

Hundreds of thousands of TT dollars are to be won this weekend, which is a considerable treasure.  The stakes are so high that a Trinidad Court had to issue a ruling last week, which allowed one of the steel bands to change its theme song, from “Hookin’ Meh“ to “Savannah Grass“ by Kes.  This Soca number is perfect for the occasion, with African electric guitar straight out of Talking Heads’ Fear of Music.  Moreover, the lyric recital is practically an instruction manual for how to experience dawn at J’ouvert, and it is positively primal:

“We all on de ground ya
We holding it down ya
We open history
It’s a band on J’ouvert morning
Everybody coming in ya
We ready to ready to go ya
We go make them jump
We go make them turn up
We go make them wine
We go make them free up
It’s de place of bacchanal
It’s de sweet botanical
This Carnival
I want yuh to find yuh way
Everybody on stage
Oh laad oh
If you comin’ down from de mountain
Oh gaad oh
When de riddim beatin’ it down
See me jumpin’ on de Savannah grass“

Isaac gushes nostalgically over J’ouvert, but he says he no longer “plays.“  He thinks he is too old for the bacchanal, which somehow makes me feel relieved.  He is a family man now—a time to settle down, on terra firma, and consider his future on this island.  From what I gather, swimming is not an option for young Isaac. 

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