Opal Palmer Adisa, Ph.D — Editor of The Caribbean Writer
Diverse and multi-genre, Opal Palmer Adisa, is an exceptional talent, nurtured on cane-sap and the oceanic breeze of Jamaica.
The Editor of The Caribbean Writer, Adisa writes both poetry and prose; she is a photographer, professor, educator and cultural activist, as well. Adisa has lectured and read her work throughout the United States, South Africa, Ghana, Nigeria, Germany, England and Prague, and has performed in Italy and Bosnia.
An award-winning poet and prose writer Adisa has fourteen titles to her credit, including the novel, It Begins With Tears (1997), that Rick Ayers proclaimed as one of the most motivational works for young adults. She has been a resident artist in internationally acclaimed residencies such as El Gounda (Egypt), Sacatar Institute (Brazil) and Tryon Center, (North Carolina) and Headlines Center for the Arts (California, USA). Opal Palmer Adisa’s work has been reviewed by Ishmael Reed, Al Young, and Alice Walker (Color Purple), who described her work as “solid, visceral, important stories written with integrity and love.”
Some of her published works are: Caribbean Erotic, anthology (co-edited with Donna Aza Weir-Soley), 201o.
What A Woman Is, poetry and paintings(with Egyptian painter Shayma Kamel) 2010.
I Name Me Name (poetry collection), Peepal Tree Press, 2008.
Until Judgment Comes (short story collection), 2007.
Eros Muse (poetry and essays), Africa World Press, 2006.
The Caribbean Writer‘s 25th Anniversary bi-lingual issue focuses on Haiti. It includes writers such as Edwidge Danticat, Mirlande Jean-Gilles, Ibi Anu Zoboi, Evelyne Trouillot, Marilène Phipps-Kettlewell, Michelle Y. Remy, Wilna Julmiste, and many others.
A favorite song is like a soul mate: there can be only one. At any given moment, someone somewhere is crying out, “This is MY song!” 15,000 people could be making the same declaration at exactly the exact same time, but what does that matter?
All you know is that you heard the song once (or a thousand times), and there was a surge of something that felt a whole lot like entitlement. Ownership. You could have written the lyrics and the musical arrangement yourself.
Perhaps you were completely conscious of your surroundings at the time you fell for the song. Perhaps it is now a distant dot of some long-time-ago night when that song coincided with a dramatic moment. No matter. It happened.
You now own the rights to this song. You sing it in the shower, at the checkout line, any time you wish. You hum it unconsciously. You sing it when you’re happy and when tears start to pop out of your eyes. It’s your personal theme song.
You become protective of the song’s particular musical arrangement. If another artist hints at a remake, you’re offended. You feel infringed upon. The version you fell in love with must not be desecrated. You share your devotion with your e-friends. For proof, you even post a video of yourself singing your song with a wooden spoon for a microphone. And then you “Like! Like! Like!” it your darn self.
——
Long before ‘friend’ became a verb, I met a gem of a girl from Ireland who introduced me to a few of her favorite musicians: Bob Marley, U-2, B.B., David Bowie, Roxy Music.
Roxy Music?
Strange name for a man, I thought; but it turned out the singer’s name was (and still is) Bryan Ferry.
My Irish friend played her songs. There was a forbidden-fruit feel to the moment. These singers were not exactly angels. My traditional Haitian parents would not have approved of me going around the house singing “I shot the Sheriff. . .” or “. . .Your kisses drive me delirious. . .” or even Roxy Music’s ever so subtle little song: Avalon.
Bryan Ferry’s vocals are insistent, provocative, mysterious, breathy–the kind of voice that can get a girl into a whole lot of trouble. The lyrics barely hint at seduction, nothing blatant. It’s just a simple, harmless description of a romantic incident. The listener is the one adding the meaning and insinuations and whatever else he/she wants to add. The song is as innocent as loves songs can be.
When the party’s over
I’m so tired
Then I see you coming
Out of nowhere
Much Communication
In a motion
Without conversation
or a notion. . .
Bryan pauses here. The melody has to breathe. 8 counts later, he starts again. “When the samba takes you out of nowhere. And your destination. . .You don’t know it. . .”
His breath trembles as he sings. You can feel the longing. You start to add meaning of your own. Yes. Ooh. You can’t deny what the song is doing to you. Until he reaches the bridge. The unforgettable bridge comes and the world stands still.
Yanick Etienne appears out of nowhere. The spotlights focus on her. She will take over now. Thank you, Bryan. Yanick doesn’t mean to steal the show, but everyone in the house will stop whatever they’re doing. They don’t want to miss this experience.
Yanik Etienne sways a little, taking in the music until her part comes. She stands under the blinding light, seemingly alone.
“Avalon. Avalon. Avalon. . .” she begins in an entreating voice. “Avalon.”
You tell yourself that since no human being’s voice can be so powerful, Yanick must have back up; and these backup singers–hundreds of them–must be hiding backstage somewhere. Maybe those backup singers were like angels hovering above the stage, assisting Yanick through her song, making her sound like a legion of angels.
I recall the room becoming still. Time stopped. This was going to be my song—the one I would never forget. Luckily, there was no loss involved. No emotional trauma. No soap-opera goodbyes—just two girls listening to forbidden-fruit songs, which by today’s standards are like Gregorian chants.
There have been other favorite songs since I heard Yanick Etienne—songs that my parents forbade to hear simply because I was born female. Now, I can declare that I love those songs, too.
I like Tabou Combo, Bessie Smith, Charles Aznavour, Marta Jean-Claude, Celia “Azukar” Cruz, Manno Charlemagne, Jon Lucien, Emeline Michel; Beethoven, B. Obas singing “Ou fout dous; ou gou, ou bon, epi ou bòn ankò!” I like Nina Simone, Michael Jackson, Mahalia Jackson, Boukan Ginen, Ram, Coco Breeze, Grace Jones, Tiga, Pauline Jean, and Katia D. Ulysse;-) I Like, Like, Like many singers. But whenever I heard Yanick Etienne’s voice in Avalon, something inside always shouts: “That is MY Song!”
Yanick sang but a few words in the song, but critics worldwide agree hers is rare talent and a gift to every listener. Yanick is still holding those notes. The girl is amazing, and getting more fierce everyday. If you don’t believe in angels, listen Yanick Etienne’s voice just once. And then you will.
Rumor has it that Ms. Etienne’s new single will drop soon. Get ready for an exciting experience. I can’t wait.
Master percussionist and bona fide tanbourinè, Markus Schwartz, reflects on his own private Haiti and his relationship with “the oldest instrument after the human voice.”
Markus was born in Copenhagen, Denmark, but a part of him is deeply rooted in Haitian culture. In English or in impeccable Kreyòl, he is direct and unpretentious. He speaks with reverence for the instrument he spent the last two decades studying. Although he has performed and recorded with top Haitian artists Beethova Obas, Emeline Michel, and Wyclef Jean, Markus always refers to himself as a student.
Of his first introduction to the tanbou, Markus says: “I don’t think anything happens by chance. In West African tradition, they might call it Fa. Your life has a map. It’s not an unalterable course, but I do believe certain things are placed in your path either to help you achieve your goals or to help move you from one period of your life to another.”
