“A lot of people don’t know you can drive to Belize,” he says in one video. This is true. Belize is kind of tucked away under the Yucatán peninsula (see Cancun, Tulum) and may — still — be thought of by many as an island nation instead of on mainland Central America.

I think it’s great that Reynolds and his mother are doing this. And yet, I couldn’t help but think to myself: That’s cool, but could you do it without GPS and cell phones? Could you do it by carefully plotting out your route on a paper map — or three? What about finding hotels to stay at on the fly, without access to online reservations, let alone reviews from past guests?

My dad, Al Edgell, did the journey from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan not once — but at least four times, if I am remembering correctly.

On the first journey, it was our whole family: Mom, Dad, Randy (my brother) and Holly. We set off in 1981 in a Chevy Suburban laden with our luggage. I remember we crossed at Laredo-Nuevo Laredo and proceeded to Mexico City, stopping in San Luis Potosi along the way. In Mexico City, a cop threatened to give us a ticket for having the rear window obstructed. He accepted a mordida consisting of a handful of pesos, and we were on our way. I remember laying eyes on the Gulf of Mexico when we got to Veracruz before sunset. We stayed overnight in Villahermosa and Merida as well. There were other towns too, but those are the place names I remember.

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We couldn’t watch videos or play games on tablets or smart phones, of course. Instead, we played 20 questions, told jokes, read books and looked out of the windows. My brother and I got on each other’s nerves. We talked to each other. Rest stops — or anywhere to relieve oneself — were few and far between in Mexico. So, we availed ourselves of roadside shrubbery.

My father was in his element. He loved a long drive, a map and a good journey. Thank goodness my mom insisted on decent hotels every night, or he’d have had us camping.

The trip took us about ten days, largely because my parents agreed that only so many hours on the road would be feasible with two children in the back seat. Driving in daylight was also important. We had good dinners in nice restaurants and slept in (mostly) clean hotels.

Oddly, I don’t remember actually crossing the border into Belize. I do remember arriving at my grandparents’ house in Belize City in the early afternoon and being glad the trip was over. It was a diverting adventure, but ten days on the road was sufficient for me — and I am sure it was for my parents.

There are legions of people who have shared their good, bad and horrible experiences driving to Belize through Mexico. Many stress that, even with all the preparation you can think of, it’s a challenge. Much of the scary stuff is in the Mexico portion of the journey.

Here are a few reddit comments from a thread about driving to Belize through Mexico:

“I personally wouldn't drive a night even on the toll roads. Some states are extremely hot with cartel activities.”

“Don’t drive through Tamaulipas, especially through Nuevo Laredo, I promise you it’s not worth it. It is the only border state I have not been too, even Juarez is safer in my opinion because they don’t target civilians in the same way.”

“Southern Mexico (or at least the parts you’d be going through, avoiding Colima and Guerrero) isn’t quite as bad in terms of cartel problems but you may get stopped and have to give out a mordida or two.”

As far as I can tell, Reynolds and his mother have not run into cartels or other menaces, but he does mention checkpoints quite often. They loved the food and the scenery.

Why do we drive?

Like my dad, I like a good road trip. I once drove from Kent, Ohio to Grinnell, Iowa. By myself. In the winter. It was nothing to motor along for twelve hours to pick up my brother at college and then drive back to Ohio the next day. Randy and I drove together from Miami to Kent over two days, pulling a U-Haul trailer behind my Toyota Corolla. The West Virginia hills were no joke. When I lived in Cincinnati, I often drove more than six hours to St. Louis to visit my family for the weekend. Now about four hours is what I can tolerate.

The solo trip: The car can be a quiet space away from stressors. Or, you can choose your own tunes, podcast or audiobook. I like the movement. There’s a soothing cadence to driving. I like scenery. There’s ample time to think. Or just sing at the top of your lungs.

There’s a lot to be said about road trips with other people, too. Randy and I drove from St. Louis to my dad’s hometown of Menominee, Michigan a few summers ago (about eight hours). It was great to talk, listen to each other’s playlists and just sit in companionable silence.

Recently, on my trip to Puerto Rico, my friends and I drove from San Juan to the southern coast of the island. It might have taken us about 90 minutes. I’ll always remember the the laughter, a heated political debate, the shared experience of seeing the landscape change and singing to old school jams.

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I am not sure I would drive through Mexico today. In late 2023, I was part of a group tour that took us from Mexico City to Guadalajara. We spent several hours a day traveling by giant coach, and we passed several miltary-type armed patrol vehicles each on leg of the journey. These were big,armored pickup trucks with big mounted machine guns in their beds. Half a dozen soldiers to a truck. Keeping their eyes peeled for cartel members.

Song of the week

I chose Graceland by Paul Simon. It’s got nothing to do with Belize or Mexico, but it is a song about traveling, and it’s a great song period. Also, I heard a very cool segment on NPR recently about a book that examines his signature album, also called Graceland, on it 40th anniversary.

I'm going to Graceland
For reasons I cannot explain
There's some part of me wants to see
Graceland
And I may be obliged to defend
Every love, every ending
Or maybe there's no obligations now
Maybe I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland

The evidence was all around us. In Salinas we found a beach packed with families enjoying picnics, music, swimming and zipping around on jet skis. In Guavate, people lined up to buy food along la Ruta del Lechón (the Pork Highway). Spilling out of the lechoneras, folks exuded a joyous and friendly vibe. The pools at the Agua Termales de Coamo (hot springs) bubbled with conversation and laughter among people who had met minutes earlier. Playas and plazas around the island teemed with people of all ages. Some were enjoying piraguas (flavored shaved ice) bought from street vendors. We saw families flying kites in the fields adjacent to Castillo San Felipe del Morro (known locally as El Morro), the historic fort which sits at the tip of Old San Juan.

These scenes reminded me that many cultures have a talent for living in the moment and savoring free time with others in a way that just doesn’t seem very prevalent in the United States, where a Saturday finds many of us catching up on chores and errands or even doing work we brought home on Friday.

It’s not like Puerto Rico is bursting with ease and economic prosperity. I did some googling and came across dire phrases:

• sustained deterioration of economic activity

• severe and prolonged economic slump

• economic stagnation and large scale unemployment

Wages tend to be about half of those in the United States, even though Puerto Rico operates under U.S. legal, monetary, security and tariff systems.

And yet, many Puerto Ricans approach a normal Saturday with the joie de vivre — or alegría de vivir — that visitors like me find unusual, albeit refreshing.

Joie de vivre: An exuberant, conscious enjoyment of daily life, good food, and fine company.

All of this brought to mind the spirit of Camilo Cienfuegos, whom Raúl Castro once described as “always trying to improvise a kind of joy.” In Cuba, Cienfuegos is spoken of in the same breath as Fidel Castro and Che Guevara. Cuban-American historian Samuel Farber said Cienfuegos, "exemplified the quintessential native, male, urban Cuban with his sense of humor, great interest in dancing and baseball, good looks, love of women, and overall joie de vivre.”

Cubans, long-suffering from various privations, are the champions of improvisation. At present, they are facing possibly their most challenging era yet, an unprecedented energy crisis. The island was already struggling before the U.S. imposed a blockade in January.

And yet, the spirit of hay que inventar — you have to invent, improvise — remains. This article in The New York Times provides examples of improvising joy amid Cuba’s hard times: A family uses its natural gas-powered generator to play movies for neighborhood children who have no power at home. A man is powering small concerts with a single lithium battery he imported from Spain. I can picture groups of neighbors pulling up plastic chairs on the sidewalk on an electricity-less night to share a bottle of rum as they listen to music from an old-school boom box or a MacGyver’d device of some kind.

At what point does hay que inventar become simply tienes que sobrevivir — mere survival? Many Cubans are sleeping on the sidewalks outside their homes because, without electricity to power fans, it’s too hot to sleep inside.

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I suppose improvising joy can be seen as a survival mechanism. In the midst of strife, one shuts out the problems — they’ll still be there on another day — and exists in a grace period of enjoyment. Time, with its many tribulations, is suspended — allowing healing and the abatement of stress. You gather your loved ones around you and do something to savor the sweetness of life through conversation, sharing a meal or playing a game.

We mostly don’t subscribe to this practice in the U.S. Google’s AI overview pretty much nails it: “Americans tend to prioritize hard work and personal achievement over the unhurried, guilt-free enjoyment of life known as joie de vivre.”

“Self-doubt, insecurity, and uncertainty have been tightly woven into the narrative of happiness, a major source of frustration for those seeking to be happier people,” says Psychology Today.

We use the phrase “guilty pleasure” too much.

Camilo Cienfuegos died when the small plane he was traveling on simply vanished somewhere between Camagüey and Havana in October 1959. Theories about his demise abound — including one that Raúl Castro, seeing Cienfuegos as a rival, had him killed. He was only 27 years old.

I like to think of him, belted into his seat on that ill-fated Cessna, gazing down at his beloved Cuba, a nation brimming with possibility and the heady buzz of change. The sight would have brought him joy.

Readings about joie de vivre

• Pura Vida: Costa Rica’s uniquely positive outlook on life

• What African Countries Can Teach Everyone About Flourishing

• 6 things French people do differently than Americans to live long, happy lives

Songs of the week

I couldn’t pick just one, so here goes:

First, La Vida Es Un Carnaval (1998) by the legendary Celia Cruz of Cuba.

Next, Despacito (2017) by Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee, both of Puerto Rico. The sheer exuberance of the people in the video, plus the gorgeous scenes and evocative settings, get me every time.

The Missouri and Mississippi Rivers form the longest river system in North America, with their most famous intersection located just north of St. Louis, where I live. That intersection is known as the confluence, a word that aptly evokes the meeting of two great powers.

Gazing at the Missouri River in St. Charles got me thinking about the Mississippi. A few weeks ago, I crossed the Mississippi and drove south through Illinois with the goal of taking the scenic route to the National Shrine of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal in Perryville, Missouri. I crossed the river back into Missouri at Chester and headed further south to my destination. (I recommend the shrine and the route. Perhaps an essay for another day).

The Mississippi plays a leading role in the The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, a book my mother Zee Edgell came across as a child and found enchanting. This may sound strange if you know that my mother grew up in Belize: The Mississippi River and my mother are connected.

Mark Twain’s 1876 novel sparked her lifelong love of reading and writing. In its pages she learned that children far away also had to do chores (to wit, whitewashing a fence) and got up to mischief instead of heeding parental instructions and following conventions. My mother did lots of chores and got up to lots mischief. Once, she told me, she threw a girl’s shoes into the canal near school. She endured whippings at home and at school. How she would have loved to run off to somewhere like Jackson's Island in the Mississippi River to become a pirate!

Later, my mother learned about Mark Twain and his upbringing in Hannibal, Missouri. I even took my parents on a day trip to Hannibal in the 2010s. We all enjoyed seeing the home of the boy Samuel Clemens and walking the red brick streets he must have scampered along as a youngster. And there was the mighty Mississippi.

It occurred to me yesterday that — in a way — the Mississippi carried my mother away from Belize and delivered her to a life of travel, adventure and learning. The work of Mark Twain was the first to spark her imagination about the wider world. During her childhood — in the early 1940s and 1950s — Belize (then British Honduras) was a sparsely populated colony of Great Britain which ranked quite low in the imperial hierarchy. It was somewhat isolated from the likes of the better-known Jamaica and Barbados, but my grandfather’s job at importer Santiago Castillo Ltd. brought books and magazines and other artifacts from abroad into the Tucker home on New Road in Belize City. For my mother, the idea of leaving Belize began as a seed planted by Mark Twain and other writers.

My mother’s fourth novel is titled Time and the River. This seems so apt to me now. A book in which a river played such an evocative role ignited her imagination. Time and the River weaves together fact and fiction and takes the reader on a journey through Belize’s slave economy, in which rivers played such a vital role.

Inspired

The day before my trip to St. Charles, I went to the St. Louis Art Museum to check out an exhibit by Anselm Kiefer. It’s a series of giant paintings inspired by the Mississippi and Rhine Rivers. During a 1991 visit to St. Louis, the German artist traveled in a small boat from the city to Alton, Illinois. The painting Missouri, Mississippi is apparently based on his impressions.

In 2022, Arundhati Roy came to town to accept the St. Louis Literary Award. She appeared as a guest STLPR’s St. Louis On The Air, so I actually got to see her when she arrived at the radio station for her interview. One of my co-workers told me that Roy had been keen to lay eyes on the Mississippi River, because it loomed so large in literature.

What is it about a river?

You can keep your mountains and canyons. My favorite view to gaze upon is a body of water. An ocean or sea is my first choice, but I am also very drawn to rivers. I suppose they evoke a sense of continuity as they wend their ways through changing (and unchanging) landscapes.

The Missouri River is more than 115,000 years old. The Mississippi is even older: It was formed more than 70 million years ago! These rivers have carried people and their dreams. They’ve run with blood. They’ve played leading roles in history.

Song of the week

Is there any better song about a river than Proud Mary? Here is my favorite version from the Ike & Tina Turner Revue when they performed on The Ed Sullivan Show. Fun fact: Ike and Tina found each other and got their start in St. Louis and East St. Louis. Their’s was a complicated and tumultuous confluence.

Founded in 1893, the Clayton Missionary Baptist Church stood resolute at 216 South Brentwood Boulevard as the neighborhood around it eventually changed. Starting in the early 1950s, Black families and business owners (and a few white ones) were selling up and moving out as new zoning laws brought higher property taxes. No one was exactly inviting them to stay in town.

The city’s goal: To develop the neighborhood as a commercial district for Clayton, which is the St. Louis County seat. The church, also known as First Baptist Church of Clayton, held out until 1961. It was erasure via urban renewal, not unique to Clayton by any means. There is no trace of the original Black community in Clayton today, save a series of commemorative markers around the city.

Today you would never know there used to be about 1,000 Black people living where you'll now find high rises and features of a business district. In fact, an 85-year-old white man I interviewed who grew up in the city did not know about them. There’s a carwash on Hanley Road that sits where a family home used to be. Black families owned the property now occupied by, and adjacent to, the Ritz-Carlton.

As a newcomer (in St. Louis area terms), the only reason I know any of this is that I was invited to write an article about this church. It lives on, albeit in a different place: Rev. W.L. Rhodes and his congregation moved to the city of St. Louis, where the church has been in continuous operation since. I thank Dick Weiss and River City Journalism Fund for commissioning the article.

Time travel

Being connected to history through the people who lived and/or are living it is a tremendous privilege. In my article you will meet Carmen Hill, who was five years old when the church moved. You will also meet Dr. L. James Tate, who is the latest in a line of six pastors dating back to the venerated Rev. Rhodes, who led the church for more than 60 years. At the plaque dedication on April 30, a woman who was baptized and married in the church shared her memories. It blows my mind to time travel in this wonderful way.

I learned from the incredible Donna Rogers-Beard, the leading custodian of Clayton’s Black history, that the erasure of Black Clayton was subtle but steady. By the end of the 1960s, however, it was more or less complete. An upscale senior living community nudged out the church, which was demolished a year after it closed.

Some observers question whether a commemorative marker like the one unveiled at the old site of the church on April 30, is really enough to make up for displacement, harm and injustice. The former and current mayor of Clayton even acknowledged that a plaque doesn’t go far enough. But, I interviewed Geoff Ward, a professor at Washington University, who said what scholars call “memory work” is an important part of reparations.

The only person in my article who stridently called for reparations was Jerry King, the aforementioned white man who grew up in Clayton. He said he’d pay extra taxes to fund scholarships and other programs in honor of the church and the erased Black community. This seems to be a sensible idea, but I don’t get the sense there’s a critical mass of current Clayton residents who would be on board.

The thing is, members of Clayton Missionary Baptist Church are not out here demanding reparations. My sense is they think it would be nice to have something more than a plaque that would make up for the past, but they’re doing just fine without it.

And they are. I’ve been to a Sunday service as well as a choir rehearsal (see the video above). Well aware of the history of their church, the congregants are living their faith in the here and now.

Here are two versions of the article I wrote:

1. Recognition or reparations: What does Clayton owe a historic Black church? (No paywall)

2. A church forced out of Clayton talks about reparations. Some in Clayton agree. (Paywall)

I hope you will check out both versions, as they feature different photographs made by the talented J.B. Forbes.

Song of the week

The song being rehearsed when I visited the church on Holy Saturday is called “He Decided To Die.” It was written by Margaret Pleasant Douroux, 85, who has penned about 200 gospel songs. I found this incredible version delivered by the Abyssinian Baptist Church in New York.

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Even then, however, I did not fancy living in that mighty metropolis if I was existing paycheck to paycheck. It did not seem like a good idea to just light out for the big city with nothing but a dream and a resume.

I’ve visited New York many times, and I am always humbled by the sheer effort and energy it must take to exist in such a place — not to mention the money one would have to earn to just get by. And who wants to just “get by” in New York? Broadway. Shopping. Dining. Museums. Concerts. Galleries.

The point of the above preamble is that I’ve been mildly obsessed with a series from in The New York Times called Affording New York. The life hacks. The tough choices. The justification. It’s New York or nothing.

Here’s part of the series description:

“We surveyed hundreds of New Yorkers about how they spend, splurge and save. We found that many people — rich, poor or somewhere in between — live life as a series of small calculations that add up to one big question: What makes living in New York worth it?”

So far, the articles have introduced us to people earning between $23,000 and $500,000 a year. The half-a-millionaires consider themselves “middle class” in their Upper West Side neighborhood.

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One woman opened her own floral business at age 44, and now takes home about $24,000 a year. Her residence is a room in a Brooklyn home for which she pays $600 a month. Her kitchen is “an induction burner, a sink and a microwave on a landing outside her bedroom,” the article reads.

I was struck by the family of five with an annual household income of $140,000. The mother says they can only afford after-school activities for one of the children and she feels guilty about that. She worries about affording food as her sons get bigger. She and her husband can’t go out much or take their children to the Museum of Ice Cream, even though they’d “love to go.”

Then there’s artist Gaya Palmer, 76, who lives on $36,000 a year on the Upper West Side. She carts her clothes and sheets to a laundromat. She sleeps in a loft. How much longer will she be able to do those things?

It seems like self-defeating kind of elitism to insist on the metropolis, even when you’re in your mid-seventies and carting your laundry down the street.

If you can make there….

If you can make it there — and I know a number of people who can and do — then you’ve found a spectacular place to live, a city to love that loves you back.

Otherwise, the reasons for staying in New York provided by the people in this series are unconvincing, at least to me.

The half-a-millionaires love their neighborhood — their building is across from Central Park — but live in an 800-square foot apartment and “dream of a second bathroom.”

The business owner: “Multiple things can be true at once: I love New York, I love my job and I wish rent was still at pre-pandemic levels. If the only people who can afford to pursue a dream are very wealthy, what does New York become?”

The artist: “If she were back in Ohio, where she grew up, she said: ‘I’d have a husband that I’d be divorced from by now, and I’d be mowing the lawn…. When I wake up, if I can stand up — and I’m standing up and I’m in New York City — that’s all that’s important.’”

What’s this about mowing the lawn in Ohio? I lived in Ohio and never mowed a lawn there.

An odd superiority complex seems to attach itself to New Yorkers who really can’t afford it.

The mom with the family of five: “I just like being in New York. There’s so much to do the second you step outside your door.”

There are other expensive cities around the country, of course. You will find people struggling, making sacrifices and trade-offs, or paying crazy money to live in a box in Los Angeles, Houston, Miami, Boston, etc.

They might consider following the lead of Tyson Watts, 28, who “spends every day trying to make enough money to eventually leave New York City.” He cleans homes for a living and splits the rent with his mother in Queens.

“I don’t think there’s anything left for me here,” he said.

Nice for a visit

Somewhere along the line, my desire to live in New York dwindled away. I began to joke I’d only live there if I were making “Oprah money.” It’s true, though. Life is stressful enough. Why not live somewhere affordable and just visit from time to time?

The great thing about New York City is that you don’t have to live there to enjoy it.

Last year, my brother and I decided to visit our cousins who live about 45 minutes outside of the big city. In just one day, three of us stumbled upon a great Italian restaurant for lunch, enjoyed the Whitney Museum of Art, ate dinner at Hudson Yards took in a Broadway show and walked through Times Square. It was thrilling and exhausting.

By the way, when New Yorkers say, “no one drives a car here,” they’re lying. Just try to get anywhere by taxi. And, the amount of time spent either in traffic or commuting (or waiting for a bus or train) boggles the mind. Out here in the hinterlands, I follow a strict policy of living within a 10-minute drive of my workplace.

Song of the Week

There’s a singer-songwriter called Freedy Johnston I really got into in the 1990s. His album, This Perfect World, is possibly the most melancholy record I’ve ever heard. It positively drips with the kind of loneliness and despair one can only feel when surrounded by millions of people. Perfect!

When I woke up
I was already evicted
And when you say lie
Do you think I believe anything?

Cold again
Cold again
Walking over Brooklyn bridge
Cold again
Cold again
Hey, Miss Liberty, where have you been?

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This may be the magic of being someone’s Valentine: Feeling seen, validated, marked as worthy of love. The flipside, of course, is not magical at all — colored as it can be by disappointment, longing, even resentment.

Perhaps this is why Valentine’s Day is so fraught for many people, including me. The day (more accurately, the meaning we place on it) may signal to a single person they have not been chosen; that they are somehow not fit for romantic love. It may show a coupled person their relationship is breaking or broken.

Later, I learned that — in true Belizean fashion — Alex gave another girl in our class a Valentine, too. But this does not diminish the sweetness of the memory. Alex died in a car accident in his early thirties. I wish I could know him now, and we could laugh about that Valentine.

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The Feb. 14 miracle

Over the years, the men who gave me tokens of their feelings on the big day were generally not the ones I wanted as Valentines. One year, in my early twenties, I received a huge bouquet on Valentine’s Day. I really believed it was from the problematic boyfriend I had at the time. A February 14 miracle! The little card revealed it was from another fellow, one I had long before decided was not my type. Instead of reconsidering my choices, I sank into a disappointed and resentful funk. Of course!

There were many Valentine’s Days when — single — I wished for the improbable: That someone I still held a candle for would realize the error of his ways and show up on my doorstep with roses — or just call me.

Valentine’s Day can be tough for longtime couples. Partner A, expected to rise the occasion, resents the expectation. Partner B, hoping this year will be different, is disappointed by Partner A’s grudging gesture — or lack of gesture. Heavy silences ensue.

One day on the calendar has such outsized importance for so many of us. It doubtful St. Valentine, living in the 3rd Century envisioned the way we celebrate his feast day in the 21st Century.

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No bed of roses

These days, it’s actually not bad to be single on Valentine’s Day.

There is no waiting for a man to present me with a gift so thoughtful that it puts to bed any doubts I may have about said his devotion. I no longer await a February 14 miracle: A certain person waking up and deciding to choose me.

Anything that arrives on Valentine’s Day is an unlooked-for delight: Flowers from my brother. Baked goods from a friend. Texts from loved ones. I have learned that giving people I care about something for Valentine's Day makes me feel good, so I’ve started doing that.

Saying “Happy Valentine’s Day” to someone usually elicits a smile. Uncomplicated emotions ensue.

Song of the week

Frank Sinatra may be the artist most associated with the song My Funny Valentine (Rodgers and Hart, 1937), but Ella Fitzgerald masters it. She delivers it wistfully. The romance is mournful, like this Valentine is more of a longed-for ideal than a real person. Perfect!

As my family moved from country to country, all of our stuff came along: Books, artifacts, artwork, furniture, toys, tools, clothes, sheets, dishes, silverware, photo albums. You name it. This carrying of our belongings from place to place provided continuity and comfort. I knew when we arrived at our new home, our family stuff would be there soon, arriving by ship in giant wooden crates.

Other third culture kids (now grown) got the memo much earlier than I did: That moving every two to three years is not in fact a way of life for most people. Even though I could see this for myself when visiting family members in Belize or Michigan as a child, I still had the impression that my manner of living was the norm. Or maybe it was more that the way my family lived suited me. It was what I knew.

I was restless for most of my adulthood, always seeking something undefined and then disappointed when I didn’t find “it” when I moved again. Of course, I brought my stuff with me to every new place. Books, furniture, artifacts (many that belonged to my parents), artwork, my coffee mugs, photo albums, etc.

It was baffling to me how some of my childhood friends managed to settle down in one place after college and stay there. I confess that I even felt a tinge of pity: Poor things, consigned to suburbia. Horrors!

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It’s taken me a very long time, but I am finally planted, albeit not in an anonymous subdivision split level or ranch. Through a lot of work and the late arrival of maturity, my itchy feet are soothed — now comfortably nestled in warm and comfy slippers. I still have “puppy foot,” as Belizeans describe the desire to explore and sniff out new things. However, I’ve learned I can “drift ‘bout” and come back to the same place.

As of Jan. 30, 2026, that place is a house in St. Louis. My stuff is here. The airport is only about 20 minutes away. Belize is just a half-day’s journey. This will do just fine.

Song of the week

I found this delightful cover of I’ve Been Everywhere (popularized by Hank Snow and Johnny Cash) a group called The Brothers In Black. As you can guess, they are a Johnny Cash tribute band.

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First of all, I love a good conversation: The give and take of ideas, opinions and experiences that amuse and stimulate the brain cells. In group settings, I am most comfortable when everyone around the table is contributing in a sort of raucous way; even if it means people talk over each other at times. Interestingly, several of my friends and family members communicate in this way. Whole phone calls or get-togethers can go by during which I don’t say much at all because a friend or loved one needs to share something. I just listen and—if asked—provide my opinions. This doesn’t bother me. I appreciate a good storyteller, so I am quite happy to be an appreciative audience.

In one-on-one conversations, I am most at ease with people who feed off of my sharing as I feed off of theirs. In other words, when I don’t have to probe deeply or ask just the right question to spark a dialogue.

Of course, not everyone is comfortable providing a full and detailed answer when asked: “So, how are you?” or “What’s going on?” This is true even when the two parties are very close. Perhaps, because my profession involves asking a lot of questions, I am disinclined to probe people when I am not working. I assume that your answer is your answer.

Even when I think the other person has something they want to share but needs some prompting to get down to the business of conversation, I tend not to push. As I wait, what better way to pass the time and fill the silence than talking more about myself? It’s a bad habit.

I also notice that I can fail to pick up on clues and hints. This is most often the case with people who are not voluble and talkative by nature. I may interpret a remark as off-the-cuff, funny or sarcastic and not engage them on it because I don’t read it as something important. To breeze past a remark without even asking for more information because it seems trivial to me? This is self-centered on my part.

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Here is what I learned

As is my habit, I went Googling for information about conversation and communication. I found an article that reminded me the basic “How are you?” is not always an effective conversation starter.

The article was written during the COVID times about how to have meaningful conversations and make genuine connections during that crisis period. Still, many of the prompts remain valid. I am mentally bookmarking this list for times when people are reticent.

I really like: “Tell me about a silver lining that happened this week” and “What’s been keeping you busy?” I will work on coming up with my own for specific people.

My research also brought me to cooperative overlap. It’s that thing where you cut others off near the end of what they’re saying to interject excitedly with your own take on what they’re saying. I do this, and I expect others to do it as well! The intent of cooperative overlap, according to a New York Times column, “isn’t to silence or disrespect your conversation partner. It’s to signal your enthusiasm and interest in what they’re saying.”

Not everyone is a fan, of course—especially turn-takers, who wait for pauses to weigh in and are frustrated by people who interrupt. In my work, I am definitely more of a turn-taker, whether interviewing someone for a story or simply in a meeting.

Imagine a turn-taker in conversation with a cooperative overlapper!

Of course, I had to check to see what my old standby Psychology Today had to say on this subject. This article lists four communicator types. Spoiler: I am “expressive” communicator to the letter: “Expressive communicators enjoy talking, especially about their own thoughts, feelings, and experiences…. If these typically good-hearted people have a challenge, it is to be attentive to their listeners, to ask questions of them, and to consider their answers. Ideally, conversation is a two-way street.” Yes!

No judgment: Are you a turn-taker or a cooperative overlapper? Do tell! Or share what really grinds your gears in conversation.

This article made me consider communication style through a mental health framework. According to MentalHealthHotline.com, the way we express ourselves can affect how supported we feel, how well we set and maintain boundaries; how we handle conflict and stress; our sense of self-worth and connection with others. The four communications styles listed in this article seem rather limiting. Nevertheless, there is some value in understanding them.

Talk, talk, talk

I’ve already been trying to be more comfortable with pausing and giving others space to share. I will definitely use some of the prompts shared in the article I referenced above to gently nudge more reticent folks to share—if they want to. I will work harder to recognize the significance of what may seem like a throwaway line but is actually the start of a person’s trying to open up. Any other tips?

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Song of the week

Bear with me, but isn’t Escape/The Piña Colada Song (Rupert Holmes, 1979) essentially about the breakdown of communication?

A few days ago, someone I know posted on Facebook that she couldn’t wait to leave 2025 behind her. It’s been a terrible year, and she said she’s eager for a fresh start.

It’s fascinating to me that we imbue January 1 with such power. The countdown to midnight does not conclude with the eradication of our problems or immediate joy and prosperity. And yet, many of us rely on the idea of new beginnings.

Some of our New Year’s hopes and aspirations never come to fruition because they remain undefined and left to fate. Others do (or at least get underway), because we apply elbow grease to turn dreams into action.

The advent of a new year isn’t the only time we do this. Sunday nights may find us thinking about the week ahead with optimism and resolve about doing things differently, facing a challenge with an untried strategy or starting a new routine. The first day of a new month or one’s birthday may spark similar resolutions.

Believing in fresh starts based on temporal landmarks is a survival mechanism. Days on the calendar can prompt us to do better, live better, try harder, be different. Many a human being has quit a toxic habit, started a health and fitness journey, left a relationship or started saving money on January 1. Whether the resolution translates into action and eventual success or not, resolving is an act of determination to change our lives in a way that increases the odds of surviving.

“Temporal landmarks are days that ‘stand in marked contrast to the seemingly unending stream of trivial and ordinary occurrences.’” - Put Your Imperfections Behind You: Temporal Landmarks Spur Goal Initiation When They Signal New Beginnings (Psychological Science, December 2015)

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New Year, New You

Psychologists call all of this “the fresh start effect.” According to Psychology Today:

“Temporal landmarks serve as ‘interruptions’ in the continuity of time, prompting a moment of self-reflection and goal setting. By marking the passage from one phase to another, these landmarks encourage a perception of fresh opportunities and a renewed sense of control over our actions.”

Depending on our temperaments and circumstances, we become courageous and even bold—or at least cautiously optimistic. Thinking about a particular year as a chapter that has closed is a catalyst. We won’t repeat the mistakes of the previous year. We will be proactive in our own interests.

“By creating a mental distinction between the ‘old self’ and the ‘new self,’ we feel less burdened by previous failures,” reads Psychology Today. This articles includes practical strategies. The two that resonate with me are 1) setting specific and measurable goals 2) celebrating wins, even small ones.

6 fresh start traditions from around the world

Whether you believe in the power of a date on the calendar or not, isn’t January 1 as good a day as any to get a fresh start?

1. Cuba: Sloshing a bucket of water through a doorway cleanses the home and self of any negativity from the past year, preparing for a fresh start in the new year.

2. Scotland: “First footing” involves being the first to visit friends and neighbors.

3. The Philippines: Wearing round shapes (like polka dots ) promotes prosperity and good luck.

4. Russia: Taking 12 seconds of silence before the stroke of midnight to make wishes is a common custom.

5. Greece: Hanging onions on doors symbolizes fertility, rebirth, and good luck.

6. Brazil: Jump seven waves (or just get your feet wet in the ocean). One theory is that each wave represents an Orixá (or Orisha or other countries). Orixás/Orishas are deities worshipped by West Africans and people in the West African diaspora.

More inspo

I found this roundup of quotes about new years, fresh starts and the like on—on all places—the Good Housekeeping website. I like these:

• Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. - Albert Einstein

• I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring. - David Bowie

• In our perfect ways, in the ways we are beautiful, in the ways we are human — we are here. Happy New Year’s. Let’s make it ours. - Beyoncé

• And now we welcome the new year. Full of things that have never been. - Rainer Maria Rilke

Song of the week

Even with a fresh start, we carry pain, loss and lessons from the past. This version of Feeling Good, by Nina Simone (1965), carries that sense of gritty determination layered with poignancy. The video was produced in 2021.

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On Saturday, I woke up to a world covered in several inches of white. Of course, I wasn’t the only one, but the sensation of wonder felt very personal in a way that the magical often feels to a child: That it’s meant for her alone.

The arrival of snow, especially when there’s a lot of it, also feels like a time to pause—a reprieve from adulthood’s demands. This article from The Atlantic captures that vibe. Here’s an excerpt:

“Sometime around 3 a.m., tiny snowflakes began to appear, drifting slowly downward. Then, all at once, snow was pouring out of the sky, Christmas-card fluffy, in a torrent so thick that it wiped out my view of the buildings across the street. What a relief, I thought, and I didn’t know why I thought that. But it was a relief, like water, or sleep, or crying in a hot shower.”

My brother’s house has a four-seasons sunroom with a roof and walls comprised of glass. When it was my mother’s house—and I lived there, too—it was a wondrous thing to sit there in the dark watching the snow swirling down and around. I remember this experience as hopeful and calming amid our family’s shared caregiving duties, anxiety and stress as my mother battled cancer and COVID-19 stalked the world.

Enjoy this calming video clip from pexels.com.

Now that so many of us can do our jobs remotely, a snow day is license to spend another day at the home office desk or kitchen table, or ensconced in a comfy chair, laptop perched on knees. The world outside feels less hectic, even though that’s an illusion.

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That illusion dissipates the moment one considers the people for whom snow and winter in general are additional challenge to deal with in precarious and vulnerable times.

It probably wasn’t wise, but I took a drive around parts of North St. Louis as the snow was turning to rain under gray skies yesterday morning. So many streets I first visited in May after the tornado appear largely as they did then, only now the damaged homes and piles of rubble carry a couple of inches of snow.

The tornado recovery process is dragging along slowly with the baked in injustice and inequity that accompany almost every aspect of life in and around St. Louis. There are people living in damaged homes, staying in temporary housing, bunking with friends and family, sleeping in their cars. Snowflakes may not seem so magical in such circumstances, although maybe I am wrong and the impart a benevolent dusting of hope.

Songs of the week

1 of 2: I was searching my memory bank for a good snow song and “Let It Snow,” was the only thing that came up, so I turned to Google. Voila! Here comes “A Hazy Shade of Winter” (1966), both groovy and angsty, by Simon & Garfunkel.

2 of 2: I did Google “Let It Snow,” and I was delighted to find this gem by Boyz II Men and Brian McKnight from 1993. The video unfolds in a rustic cabin and features those early-1990s cozy sweaters (and matching cardigans), video vixens in sweet girlfriend mode, cracking fires and snowmen.

In my quest, I’ve become a devotee of Zillow, which provides a lot of useful information. And, most listings include at least twenty photos of rooms — either staged with simple, elegant furniture or completely empty.

One particular house caught my attention because it was a rare and affordable bungalow in a great neighborhood dominated by massive, expensive piles. The interior pictures showed a very lived-in 1950s home, but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when my brother and I walked through with a realtor.

First of all, the owners — a retired couple — still live there, along with at least one adult daughter and her child. All, except for the child, seemed low-spirited when we arrived. The place felt like the home of a family in distress, a family that had lost hope. The term "quiet desperation” came to mind.

The house — which looked great from the outside — was crammed with possessions: books, magazines, knick-knacks, outdated electronics, children’s toys, too much furniture in too little space. Paint was peeling off the walls. Baseboards were half stripped away in some rooms and gone in others, leaving only discoloration to show they’d even existed. The wood floors were gray after years of wear and tear.

The kitchen looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the 1970s, and not in a cool vintage way. The bathroom had a newer vanity, but the medicine cabinet mirror was unusable. Let’s just say the bathtub had seen better days.

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We found that part of the basement was being used as a bedroom, without any of insulation or sign that it could be kept warm in the winter. Hangars looped over various pipes held dozens of dusty and forlorn jerseys representing professional sports teams. A new washer and dryer sat next to their defunct counterparts.

The couple was using the garage as a storage space. It held an old stove, a bicycle, tools, broken furniture and — displayed on a large table — dozens of trophies. We found out later one of the couple’s daughters had been a star basketball player in middle and high school. Later, she was too short to make it on the college courts. There were no working lights in the garage, but our phones illuminated the collection of trophies. They gleamed at us, like messengers from happier times.

A contractor friend walked through the house with us on a second visit. He concluded that the place would need a new roof, new HVAC, new floors, and many more improvements and updates. Even if I got the sales price down, the cost to make all the repairs made the house a no-go for me.

According to a study from Harvard, about 11 million older Americans are cost-burdened, meaning more than mortgage payments or rent eat up 30% of their incomes. And, according to the report, housing that is both affordable and designed to support older people’s health and well-being is becoming harder to find. The internet tells me that there are an estimated 4.8 million households with three or more adult generations under one roof. There may be as many as 60 million people living in homes with two or more adult generations — like the family in this essay.

I know very little about this family. They bought their home decades ago, when the neighborhood was affordable. I don’t know why they didn’t do the maintenance necessary to keep the house up. I don’t know if and when they stopped caring or became overwhelmed by circumstances beyond their control.

As it turns out, someone made an offer on the house right after my brother and I visited. I really hope the couple gets their asking price, because they need the money to move into a wheelchair accessible home — for the husband — and enough room to accommodate their adult daughter and grandchild.

Song of the week

Our House, by Madness (1982), really captures the barely contained chaos and emotional soup of life in a home of a working class family. It’s tinged with the nostalgia many adults feel about a time that was far from perfect but seemed simpler — better somehow. Also, the video is a great example of the early MTV era, musical acts were discovering the artform.

Father wears his Sunday best
Mother’s tired, she needs a rest; the kids are playing up downstairs
Sister’s sighing in her sleep
Brother’s got a date to keep, he can’t hang around

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My family was living in East Africa as South Africa edged closer to change, although I did not know all that was unfolding a few countries away. As a boarding school student, my access to news was limited — although I do remember poring over news magazines (always a week or two behind) in the school library from time to time.

Anyway, the South African system that sanctioned racial segregation and political and economic discrimination against nonwhites seemed alive and well when I was a teenager. Then, in college, I watched it begin to dissolve. Nelson Mandela was freed in my senior year. The following year, he was the president of a new South Africa! Steve Biko and countless others with names unsung did not die in vain. In both the struggle and the triumph, Winnie Mandela was something like a first lady — even before Madiba became the leader of the nation. Other women that non-South Africans may not have heard of toiled in the trenches and savored the sweetness of victory.

My parents read many South African writers, so I did as well: Bessie Head, Doris Lessing and Nadine Gordimer were favorites. They all wrestled with their twisted society using realism, intensity and blunt styles. (I need to re-read them all). Other than Head, I wasn’t aware of many Black or coloured South African writers growing up; not surprising, since they were subject to strict censorship and persecution, their work was banned and they feared for their lives. Head herself emigrated to Botswana as a young woman.

It wasn’t until I read her obituary in the New York Times, that I learned of Zoë Wicomb, a South African writer who attended university in England and eventually settled in Scotland.

Wicomb was descended from the Griqua, described by Wikipedia as a subgroup of mixed-race “heterogeneous nations” in South Africa. She was part of the brain drain from the repressive regime. She left South Africa in 1970, she said, to put “the whole oppressiveness” behind her, according to the Times.

Of course, I immediately started one her novels, Playing In The Light, which I’m still reading. Its protagonist is a young-ish white (maybe) woman named Marion who owns a travel agency — but hates to travel — and considers herself a success story. She navigates post-apartheid 1990s South Africa by avoiding the news and banning talk of politics in the office.

Wicomb is incredibly deft at showing rather than telling how people danced around each other in the first decade or after apartheid. Marion employs a Brenda, who is Black, in a clerk-receptionist sort of role, because she can pay her less than her predecessor, a white woman who recently retired. Brenda withholds information about her education credentials in the application, believing a white person would not hire an over-qualified Black woman and decent jobs were hard to come by.

When Marion and her date see Brenda — celebrating her birthday — in a restaurant, the date suggests sending Brenda’s party a bottle of wine. Marion won’t do it, and this befuddles her more liberal, white boyfriend. She doesn’t see how her posture echoes her mother’s refusal to go to the funeral of a Black woman who practically raised her (the mother).

Marion believes herself to be non-political (i.e. not a racist), but is infuriated by poor Black people trying to make a few rands by washing windshields and keeping an eye on parked cars.

I am still reading this book, so no spoilers, please!

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In early 2023, I fulfilled a lifelong dream and visited South Africa. I found Cape Town absolutely captivating, visually astounding and socially welcoming. I was part of a tour group, but we had a couple of free days, so I explored the downtown area as well as the Woodstock neighborhood, where coloured people, Jews, immigrants, poor whites and a few Blacks lived cheek by jowl under apartheid. There was Robbin Island, so near yet unvisitable due to the extremely choppy waters while I was in Cape Town. I found my way to a delightful bookstore called The Book Lounge. Look up and there’s Table Mountain!

The book I bought at The Book Lounge is Cleaner’s Boy (2022), by Patric Tariq Mellet. It’s an evocative autobiography that covers South Africa’s arbitrary racial classification laws, life in District 6, political activism and exile. Recommended!

I’ve seen the gracious oceanside neighborhood where the fictional Marion lives. I remember people-watching the patrons of the Victoria & Albert Waterfront’s shops and restaurants strolling along in the sunshine: Many, many races and nationalities represented. Most of the workers in and around the vast area were non-whites. I wondered what was beneath the surface of the patrons and workers: Simmering resentment? Shoulders weighed down by invisible chips? Old wounds barely healed? Vestigial fear?

Our tour guide, a white South African in her fifties, pulled back the curtain during one of our group bus rides. Gripping the microphone at the front of the coach, she embarked on a rant about how South Africans were becoming nostalgic for the law and order of the apartheid days; for the economic stability and reliable power grid. She was completely oblivious to the driver, a coloured man around her age, steering our giant bus along the highway.

More to come once I finish “Playing In The Light.”

Song of the week:

This banger, by The Specials (1984), was a popular tune at my boarding school in Thika, Kenya.

“Free Nelson Mandela
Twenty-one years in captivity
Shoes too small to fit his feet
His body abused but his mind is still free
Are you so blind that you cannot see?
I said free Nelson Mandela
I’m begging you, free Nelson Mandela”

Storms are on my mind again. I am thinking about people in the Caribbean who are waking up to find everything gone and their worlds forever changed. Many of them never went to sleep — up all night worrying and waiting or holding onto each other for dear life as ferocious Hurricane Melissa charged across their islands.

Imagine living in a structure designed to maximize the flow of cooling breezes into your home. It may be made of cement and steel and have storm shutters to keep out hurricane force winds. It may be built of wood, sturdy enough in a normal storm, but not for a category five storm — even with the windows boarded up. Or, your dwelling may be little more than a lean-to, cobbled together with scraps of wood, a few cinder blocks and piece of corrugated metal for a roof.

Life in parts of Jamaica and Cuba is already hard enough for many people. Unless you live in a very strong structure (and sometimes that doesn’t matter), if you’re in the path of storm, you are vulnerable to catastrophic loss — of life, livelihood and shelter.

Affairs in Cuba are not in the headlines these days, but life there is dire. It’s suffering a economic severe crisis marked by low productivity, high inflation and shortages of goods. This has been more or less the case for a very long time. Even the famous Cuban entrepreneurship is pretty dispirited at the moment. The Index of Economic Freedom, which ranks the nations according to opportunities for economic advancement, places Cuba last among the 32 nations in the Americas. Cuba, labeled as “repressed” by the index, is wedged between Venezuela and North Korea in the global rankings.

Here’s a snapshot of the the state of things in Cuba, according to the 2025 index:

“Rigid state control has long shackled the private sector. Regulatory efficiency remains poor, and private entrepreneurship is limited. The application of regulations is inconsistent and nontransparent. The state-controlled labor market has resulted in a large informal sector. Monetary stability is vulnerable to state interference, and prices are subject to controls.”

By contrast, Jamaica is ranked sixth in the America’s region. The index labels the nation “moderately free,” placing it at number 38 (between Bulgaria and Croatia). Here’s a snippet of how the index describes Jamaica:

“Jamaica has taken steps to enhance regulatory efficiency and integrate its economy more thoroughly into the global marketplace. The economy performs relatively well in investment freedom and business freedom, but persistent corruption, relatively high government spending, the country’s bloated public sector, and the need to enforce expenditure restraint remain critical challenges.”

Both countries have their challenges, but one may be in a better position to rebuild — especially since it has a far more developed tourism sector that draws Americans by the millions.

I have not been to Jamaica, but I have been to Cuba — traveling there several times in the early 2000s, when — guess what — there was also low productivity, high inflation and shortages of goods. The clandestino market was the true economy, chugging away amid the rubble of decaying houses and bare pharmacy shelves.

Everyone was hustling, from the gas station manager who siphoned off fuel to sell her friends and neighbors to the family who ran a whole bakery behind closed doors and earned enough to hire lookouts. I met a Vietnamese refugee who lived in a grand old mansion and had access to a great deal of high-end imported liquor. One simply rolled up to his house and made one’s selections from the bottles lined up neatly on his living room floor. As long as one had U.S. dollars, of course.

My memories of Cuba include the conditions of people living in structures that might collapse at any moment — from fading architectural beauties in the cities to shacks in the countryside. There were plenty of sturdy buildings around as well — both new and time-tested.

It’s crazy to me that I have not been to Jamaica when I have been to Cuba — not to mention Barbados, Trinidad & Tobago, Antigua and The Bahamas. Belizeans and Jamaicans have strong ties — family to family as well as culturally. And, Belizeans know how what it’s like to feel exposed and vulnerable as a home — be it sturdy or unstable — shimmies and shakes around you for hours on end. People across the Caribbean share memories of fearing to look outside after the storm passes. Wading in contaminated water to get supplies. Wondering how one’s precarious life could possibly get worse.

Here’s a song

This week, I have chosen Chan Chan, by Compay Segundo, the great Cuban trovador. After ravaging Jamaica and dumping on the Dominican Republic, Melissa came ashore in the eastern part of Cuba, which is where Segundo (1907-2003) was from.

Things I’ve written about Cuba:

• Any day now: Reflections on Cuba and Cubans, 2002 to present (2014)

• Debating freedom with a Cuban (2017)

• 5 things I ate in Cuba (2017)

• The queen of Havana (2018, 2025)

There were two magazines that reached my family overseas when I was growing up: My mother had a subscription to Ms. Magazine, and my father got Newsweek. I thought of these periodicals when gazing at the shiny display of hundreds of magazines at a bookstore this weekend. People still buy them!

What I remember most about Ms. Magazine is the section called “Stories For Free Children,” which my mother always took care to share with me. They were short pieces: Stories, fables and fairy tales emphasizing non-sexist, multi-racial, multi-cultural themes. I can’t remember any single story, but they must have sunk in.

The idea of being a free child appealed to me: I could decide things about my life based on my talents, skills and values. My mother, who figured out how to be free (a hard-fought process) without the benefit of a magazine, wanted me to know that I did not have to live under the constraints of external forces. She was optimistic; this was the early seventies, after all. Of course there were constraints, some self-imposed and others set by society. Nevertheless, I saw myself as a free child — a person who should strive to live with integrity and do as little harm as possible. This strong sense of self-determination carried me into adulthood, mistakes and missteps and all.

I found an scholarly article called New Didacticism: Stories For Free Children, by someone called Margaret B. McDowell, who also write books about Edith Wharton and Carson McCullers, among other literary figures. In her article, dated 1977, McDowell writes that “the stories raise questions about controversial and complex social issues, such as racial and sexual inequity.” The writers of the stories, “help children to reject both social and literary conventions which have lost meaning for men and women.”

“New didacticism” refers to a contemporary form of instruction that uses complex narrative devices, like metafiction, to subtly and inescapably guide readers, particularly in popular children’s fiction. Google AI Overview

Ms. Magazine was not the only magazine that published stories of this genre, but it may have been the platform that gave these stories their widest exposure. It’s probable that the stories had a profound impact on Generation X.

Letty Cottin Pogrebin, a founding mother of Ms. Magazine, curated the children’s stories for the publication. She even published a book called Stories For Free Children in 1982. Someone sold a copy on Etsy for $25 at some point. There appear to be no copies available via Amazon. I wonder how many are extant.

A reviewer on Goodreads wrote this:

“This book spoke to my inner core of compassion as a very young child. It showed me that my inherent need for justice and equality was not unnatural. I found a copy for my children, so glad it exists!”

Another wrote:

“I read this to all three of my children, daughters and son. It led to great discussions and I hope a better, more balanced sense of self-identity. And the stories are interesting and good fun as well.”

Do any of my readers remember reading Stories For Free Children — either in Ms. Magazine or as a book? I’d love to hear your memories of the stories.

In addition to being the brains behind Stories For Free Children, Letty Cottin Pogrebin collaborated with Marlo Thomas on Free To Be… You And Me, a children’s entertainment project that included an album, a book and a TV special (circa 1972).

Check out the song, by the New Seekers. The album features some big names!

Coming next time: What Newsweek meant to me.

“Race” is really not a thing when it comes to differences in human beings, explained the professor. This revelation came in a required college science class. It was an amazing thing to hear at age 21. I wondered why no one had told me this before.

In June 2000, about a decade after the class, Craig Venter, a pioneer of DNA sequencing, confirmed what many scientists had long suspected: “The concept of race has no genetic or scientific basis.

Venter and others who mapped the human genome deliberately gathered DNA from people who self-identified as specific races. It turns out all human beings are closely related. Physical characteristics, language and cultural practices vary, but we all are part of the human race.

“Humans are not divided biologically into distinct continental types or racial genetic clusters,” reads a 1996 statement from the American Association of Biological Anthropologists. “Instead, the Western concept of race must be understood as a classification system that emerged from, and in support of, European colonialism, oppression, and discrimination. It thus does not have its roots in biological reality, but in policies of discrimination.”

And yet we persist in defining each other based on an assessment of physical characteristics. And, once we identify a person visually, we then go on to make a wide variety of assumptions.

In the United States, visual identification always been complicated, for different reasons. For example, if you look white you are accepted as white in the absence of contradictory evidence. I often wonder just how many people of color have “passed” for white in order to escape discrimination and racism. That’s an essay for another time.

Then there’s the one-drop rule, which decrees that even the most minute amount of African blood makes a person Black.

Many Americans proudly claim some degree of Native American heredity, while simultaneously describing themselves as white or Black.

Person A may look to Person B like they’re Black, but Person A may actually identify as Hispanic or Latino.

And so on.

People who complete U.S. Census surveys face a section in which they are asked to identify their race or races. Here’s how the U.S. Census Bureau explains the section:

“The racial categories included in the census questionnaire generally reflect a social definition of race recognized in this country and not an attempt to define race biologically, anthropologically, or genetically.”

Furthermore, says the Census Bureau:

“An individual’s response to the race question is based upon self-identification. The Census Bureau does not tell individuals which boxes to mark or what heritage to write in.”

Starting with the 2000 census, people had the option to self-identify with more than one race. I welcomed this change for obvious reasons. But many Americans — especially Generation X and older — were (and remain) uncomfortable with the concept biracialism or multiracialism. That’s also an essay for another time.

And what are we to make of people who want to be accepted as a certain “race” (or category of human, if you prefer) when there is little or nothing to support their claim?

In 2018, Elizabeth Warren, seeking to prove she does in fact have Native American roots, had her DNA tested. The results: “’strong evidence’ she had a Native American in her family tree dating back 6 to 10 generations.” If Warren was hoping to convince people, the secretary of state for the Cherokee nation had news for her:

Chuck Hoskin said “a DNA test showing that Sen. Elizabeth Warren has Native American ancestry is ‘completely irrelevant to the process’” of determining her tribal identity. The Cherokee Nation also said:

“Using a DNA test to lay claim to any connection to the Cherokee Nation or any tribal nation, even vaguely, is inappropriate and wrong. It makes a mockery out of DNA tests and its legitimate uses while also dishonoring legitimate tribal governments and their citizens, whose ancestors are well documented and whose heritage is proven. Senator Warren is undermining tribal interests with her continued claims of tribal heritage.”

You’ve probably never heard of Ralph Taylor. In 2014, he began to insist on his Blackness. Why? Simply put, he wanted to make money under a system designed to help minority- and woman-owned businesses win government contracts.

Taylor had his DNA tested to show how Black he was: About 4%, it turns out. That was not enough for government officials, who pointed out that he looks white. Also, they concluded, there was “little to no persuasive evidence that Mr. Taylor has personally suffered social and economic disadvantage by virtue of being a Black American.”

Hooray! Rooting for roots, DNA points to far-flung branches of my family tree

Remember Rachel Dolezal? She has lived as a Black woman for many years. She believes herself to be Black. To much skepticism and ridicule, “she is not only identifying with Black culture but also actually feels “trans-racial,” born with the wrong skin color as much as a transgender person feels born the wrong sex,” columnist Clarence Page of the Chicago Tribune wrote.

In 2015, Dolezal acknowledged that she was “born white to white parents,” but maintained that she self-identified as Black.

In his column, Page refers to the 2018 documentary about Dolezal in which her son asks her to drop the whole “I am Black” thing. Page responded:

“That’s too bad, since I find Dolezal’s challenge to America’s ancient racial conventions to be her most interesting narrative. This, after all, is the land of opportunity and reinvention, a place of unbridled ambition, except when it comes to our racial caste system.”

The book Passing Strange tells the story of James Todd, apparently a “light-skinned” Black man who worked as a Pullman Porter in 1880s New York City. As it turned out: “James Todd was really not black, he was not a Pullman porter, and he was not even James Todd,” author Martha Sandweiss told NPR’s Steve Inskeep. “He was in fact Clarence King, a very well-educated white explorer who was truly a famous man in late 19th century America.”

King passed for love, marrying a Black woman named Ada Copeland. They raised five children together as King lived a double life.

So, who gets to say who you are? I’m inclined to the view self-determination should carry the day. Even if some people have dubious, misguided or nefarious motives for claiming one identity or another, I’d rather live in a world where you get to say who you are.

And now for a relevant(ish ) pop culture reference…

You may have noticed I’ve been including song lyrics, music videos and/or poetry at the end of my essays. This one is no different! I stumbled across this music video from British, self-described “mixed race” comedian Steven Seller.

“Ethnicity is an immensely sensitive subject,” reads a note from Seller on the YouTube post. “So I made a song and dance about being mixed race.”

The words “Dear Diary” evoke intimacy. You are writing to your best friend, your mother, your god, a trusted aunt or uncle. You will confide secrets and feelings and chronicle the events of your life, both large and small.

Whether you call it a diary, a journal or something else, there is comfort and relief in putting the what’s weighing on your heart and mind in writing. How many millions of people have done this over the centuries?

I posted a question to my Facebook friends, asking who among them keeps or has kept a diary — and why. A few interesting answers:

• K.C. uses a journal app to document her travel, jot down “mundane” thoughts and save photos.

• L.J. completes a daily inventory that allows him to take note of gratitude and stay accountable to himself and his loved ones.

• M.F. uses diaries to document her art journey, making the notebooks themselves into works of art.

• G.H. says diaries “are as essential as breathing to me.”

• M.E. kept a diary for “childhood memories, prayers, life events, emotions at the time they occur, poems.” She is using the diaries to help her write her memoirs.

“I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.” Anne Frank

I have wondered about confidentiality pact that’s implicit with the diary. Does the writer really expect that no one will ever read it? Certainly, a teenager may go to great lengths to makes sure a parent does not stumble across their secrets. An adult may go to similar lengths to keep their private writings from a partner or child. And yet there are diarists whose work is so beautifully rendered that I wonder if writer hopes — even intends — that people will read their words after they are gone from this earth. Or even while still here. (See Anaïs Nin below).

My mother gave me my first diary, a brocade-covered book that looked destined to hold the details of my amazing life. I was nine years old. Words and writing were precious to my mother, and I remember the love with which she bestowed the beautiful little book. I think it was a reward for doing well in school, and perhaps I had written something in class that indicated my potential as a writer.

I wrote almost every day. Here’s an example from June 30, 1979:

Dear Diary:

Today nothing much happened, but I went to Kathy’s house. It was her father’s birthday. That’s all.

Even at a very young age, it seemed improbable that no one would ever read my words. With this in mind, I was careful with my handwriting, spelling and grammar!

I kept a diary through my high school and college years, when the missives became longer and fraught with angst and elation. The writing on the pages became messier as thoughts and ideas tumbled out of my brain and my hands struggled to keep up. At that point, I would have rather died than have anyone discover these scribblings.

Today, I write an (almost daily) note that combines happenings from the previous day with intentions for the current one. This includes fears, successes and things to be grateful for. I check to see if I have kept my commitments and log things I’ve struggled with. I don’t have the patience to write this out by hand. So, I email it to myself.

Famous diarists

As a pre-teen I read and reread “The Diary of a Young Girl” — better known as “The Diary of Anne Frank.”

Especially poignant to me is Anne Frank’s imaginary friend, whom she addressed as “Dear Kitty” in many diary entries. According to the website for Anne Frank House, Kitty started to appear in the diary in 1942. By then, Anne Frank (1929-1945) and her family had been hiding from the Nazis in Amsterdam for two months. It must have been comforting to have a friend she could rely on in baffling and frightening times.

“Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Not only because I’ve never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.” Anne Frank

Anne Frank never imagined her diary would be loved and studied by millions — probably forever. What would she think of how far her words have traveled? An entry from 1944:

“I’ve reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die. The world will keep on turning without me, and I can’t do anything to change events anyway. I’ll just let matters take their course and concentrate on studying and hope that everything will be all right in the end.”

My mother took great pleasure and amusement from “The Diary of Samuel Pepys.” Pepys (1663-1703) was a 17th Century English writer and politician who wrote in his diary religiously. My mother enjoyed his quotidian notes as much as his important duties and meetings as a member of parliament. Pepys begins many entries with the word “Up,” which made my mother laugh.

This Oct. 10, 1662 entry is very typical:

“Up, and between eight and nine mounted again; but my feet so swelled with yesterday’s pain, that I could not get on my boots, which vexed me to the blood, but was forced to pay 4s. for a pair of old shoes of my landlord’s, and so rid in shoes to Cambridge.”

Pepys was engaged with matters of home and hearths, as this entry from Oct. 5, 1662, shows:

“(Lord’s day). Lay long in bed talking with my wife, and among other things fell out about my maid Sarah, whom my wife would fain put away, when I think her as good a servant as ever came into a house, but it seems my wife would have one that would dress a head well, but we were friends at last.”

You can follow the Pepys diary online, day by day.

Anaïs Nin (1903-1977) famously started keeping a diary a child — some say as a letter to her father, who left the family. Many of Nin’s diaries were published during her lifetime, which must have been interesting (to say the least) as they dealt with very personal matters and private thoughts. Having discovered erotica in her late teens, Nin frankly explored the realm of erotic writing. NSFW! Nin feels deeply and observes keenly, as in this excerpt from Vol. II:

“I discover my own strength as an artist, for Henry and Durrell often ally themselves against me. Henry’s respect is also reawakened by Durrell’s admiration for me. My feeling for woman’s inarticulateness is reawakened by Nancy’s stutterings and stumblings, and her loyalty to me as the one who does not betray woman but seeks to speak for her.”

“One advantage in keeping a diary is that you become aware with reassuring clarity of the changes which you constantly suffer.” Franz Kafka

Have you heard of Alice Dunbar-Nelson? She was poet, journalist, and an activist for Black and women’s rights. She was one of the prominent figures of the Harlem Renaissance who appears to have lived life to the fullest for a woman of any era — let alone a Black woman of the 19th and early 20th Centuries.

Dunbar-Nelson (1875-1935) was born in New Orleans after the Civil War, and her diary provides a vivid account of her life as an educated Black woman of her times. Editor Gloria T. Hull published Dunbar-Nelson’s chronicles as “Give Us Each Day: The Diary of Alice Dunbar-Nelson.”

Here’s an evocative excerpt:

“Life, which had flowed smoothly and evenly, now sparkles and ripples…. Dancing at Ware’s—and then the glorious climax of my glorious four weeks—a midnight plunge in the stormy bay. Great, black, menacing clouds scurrying over a scared moon, blotting it out. Heavy, tormented waves, tossing in the rising tide and smashing on the beach in white surf and masses of phosphorous. The twilight of a dark night at sea. Vivid jags of lightening showing us to each other. Only five dared the midnight plunge.”

With writing like this, was Dunbar-Nelson considering the possibility that people would someday read her diaries?

You’re still alive!

I was thinking about diary-like songs, and Alanis Morissette’s work came to mind. The lyrics of “You Oughta Know” are exactly what a person with a broken and angry heart (and lacking a record deal) might write in their diary to get that feeling of futile fury off of their chest.

‘Cause the love that you gave that we made
Wasn’t able to make it enough for you to be open wide
No, and every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me
You’d hold me until you died?
‘Til you died, but you’re still alive.

I love, “but you’re still alive.” It’s kind of hilarious.

If you are interested in learning about other famous people who kept diaries, here’s a book I found on Amazon: A Brief History of Diaries: From Pepys to Blogs. The website Diaries of Note will take you on a fascinating journey into the hearts and minds of famous people and those you may never heard of.

I was tooling along Princess Margaret Drive in Belize City recently when I heard a repeated scraping sound as my little Nissan surmounted speed bump after speed bump.

Following the policy of “ignore it and it will stop,” I kept driving. Just as I passed the entrance to Marion Jones Stadium I heard a clanging, and glimpsed my muffler rolling to a stop on the road side.

Allow me to explain how you can handle this situation if it happens to you:

1. Pull over, get out of your car and retrieve said muffler when there is a break in traffic. Stow it in the trunk.

2. Drive to your mechanic George who, with a good-natured chuckle says, “You need a new muffler.”

3. Get referred by George to a “bally ‘pon Cran Street,” who does mufflers.

4. Crawl along Cran Street the next morning looking for signs of a mechanic. Because you have no muffler, the bally and his colleagues hear you coming and wave you down.

5. Show William and Jerome your defunct muffler, which William measures.

6. Learn you will need an 18-inch muffler from Westrac. Call ahead to find out if they have it and how much it costs: $58

7. Drive (loudly) to Westrac on your lunch break and buy the muffler.

8. Return to William’s place the next morning for the procedure.

9. Sit in waiting area to watch. There are a lot of sparks involved.

10. Pay William $35 (and a $5 tip).

TOTAL COST: Belize $98 (US $49)

Want more car advice? Vroom, Vroom: 5 automotive tips for Belize

I am trying to be less thin-skinned, and I knew my friend would have some very considered and specific things to say. Plus, it’s not every friend who will take the time to deconstruct and discuss one’s work. So, we talked.

Last week’s essay focused on the judgment inherent in taking on endeavors that may seem doomed to fail by some and full of exciting promise by others. My lens was that of a person who has gone contra la corriente (against the current) in many instances throughout my life, making decisions that landed me in deep waters I struggled to get out of. Don’t get me wrong; some decisions panned out well. We just don’t always know if we’re about to wade into a rip current or (add your favorite water metaphor here).

My friend pointed out a different way of thinking about swimming contra la corriente, which also resonates with me: The very human tendency to stick with a lost cause against evidence, common sense even our own instincts for self-preservation.

We swim against the current, believing that if we can just exert enough effort, we can reach the shore—a place where everything suddenly works and feels right.

My friend and I both used to work in jobs where we believed that dedication, being a team player, working harder for longer hours and winning awards would bring us to a place of achievement, peace and satisfaction. Thankfully, we have both landed in better places professionally since then. (In my case, I had to pull a George Costanza; i.e. do the opposite of what I kept trying).

Who hasn’t stuck with a partner or lover knowing the relationship isn’t working? When the confessions, apologies, deep talks, counseling and “fresh starts” are over you still keep swimming. You may be convinced that the power of your love can change the person’s behavior, make them love you more, etc. Talk about a lost cause.

Maybe you did everything right to prepare to open your own business, but forces beyond your control seem to conspire against you from opening day onward. Nothing you try works, but you keep cutting prices, tinkering with hours, adding and subtracting services, hiring and firing staff, taking out loans to keep you afloat. Your head tells you to cut bait and your heart tells you there’s more you can do. If only you could just…fill in the blank

What drives us onward? Is it narcissism as I discussed last week—the ego convincing us that we can achieve anything we set our minds to? Maybe the impulse has its roots in a kind of relentless optimism.

My friend reminded me of something important: When something is working, is right for you and aligns with your values and purpose, it doesn’t hurt. There will still be challenging times and hard work, but it doesn’t hurt.

I found a poem that considers the role of our own choices and actions in lives awash with tangible and intangible dynamics. It’s not exactly on point for this essay; I just really like it, especially the phrase, “the set of the soul.”

‘Tis The Set Of The Sail (or, One Ship Sails East) by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)

But to every mind there openeth,
A way, and way, and away,
A high soul climbs the highway,
And the low soul gropes the low,
And in between on the misty flats,
The rest drift to and fro.

But to every man there openeth,
A high way and a low,
And every mind decideth,
The way his soul shall go.

One ship sails East,
And another West,
By the self-same winds that blow,
‘Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales,
That tells the way we go.

Like the winds of the sea
Are the waves of time,
As we journey along through life,
‘Tis the set of the soul,
That determines the goal,
And not the calm or the strife.

On Sunday, a good friend of mine and I were catching up across the miles between Missouri and California by phone. Our conversations tend to blend the here and now with reflections on our respective life journeys and what we’ve learned along the way.

During our most recent chat, we mused on the very human tendency to fight like hell for people, jobs, causes—you name it—in the face of red flags, setbacks and even damage.

This is not surprising. No matter your cultural background, I’ll wager that you grew up with narratives (family lore, societal expectations, popular culture, history class) about overcoming obstacles, prevailing against the odds, proving oneself, hard work paying off and love conquering all.

In some cases the drive to triumph makes absolute sense: A child with promising athletic ability can become an Olympic athlete. A retiree who never got the chance to finish college can earn a doctorate. A person who faced discrimination throughout their career can climb the corporate ladder and land in the CEO’s corner office. An ardent suitor can persuade a lover who swears they’ll never marry to say, “yes.”

So what drives us to take on endeavors with no guarantee of success? How do we know what’s doomed or not? I can point to several cases in which I chose to follow hubris into the fray, telling myself I could make fate do my bidding. At the time, these quests seemed perfectly achievable, even necessary. Some worked out, many did not.

It can be hard to distinguish between lost causes and efforts worth our time and effort. For me, an exciting feeling of recklessness and giddy optimism gets tangled up with the happy ending/against all odds narratives and a “I’ll prove them wrong” approach. This messy soup of motivations can prove quite damaging, not to mention expensive. The endeavors that end well tend to arrive from a different place, where pros and cons are weighed and costs are carefully calculated. But not always.

Is a good idea to marry someone you met on vacation and hardly know? Is it is a good idea to quit your job to move overseas without a plan? What about moving across the country on the hope that a doctor in another state can save your life? How about starting your own business? Changing careers? Climbing Mt. Everest? Going on a hunger strike for a righteous cause? Some will view these quests as romantic, daring, laudable and even reasonable. Others will see lost causes.

I consulted the internet to find out more about why human beings persist and found an article in Psychology Today that says, “there’s a whole world of people who refuse to give up on lost causes.” Noted with relief.

The same article cites Angela Duckworth of the University of Pennsylvania, who studies the traits that lead to success: “Geniuses and catastrophic failures share many of the same characteristics, including determination, intense concentration, passion, and a disregard for conventional wisdom. ‘And both are willing to persist when everyone else thinks it’s a ridiculously low-probability idea,’ she says.”

This also resonates with me from the PT article: “(Lost causes) are double-edged, blending psychic rewards with the guarantee of defeat. Whether through the roiled-up hormonal chemistry of an unrequited romance, the passion for a struggling sports team, or the reinforcing ties of a community of fellow believers, devotion to the cause brings pride, joy, and deep gratification along with frustration.”

It all smacks a bit of narcissism, does it not? To believe we can overcome, bend others to our will, win and thrive.

Recently a very smart person told me that all of us contain a degree of narcissism—call it self-interest if you prefer. We need some degree of narcissism to to protect ourselves and make good choices for survival. Psychology Today tells me that while the word narcissism carries negative connotations, “narcissism itself is not positive or negative—there is a continuum from healthy to pathological.”

At any rate, the friend I started this essay with and I agreed that maturity and lessons learned mitigate the lost causes drive—to a degree. Over time, one may come to recognize when it’s time to stop trying to swim against the current—and when to keep striving.

SONG: Contra la corriente (Against the current), by Marc Anthony (1997)

Lo pongo todo de mi parte/I do everything in my power
Y no es suficiente/And it’s not enough
Es como seguir nadando/It’s like continuing to swim
Contra la corriente/Against the current

Published in 1982, there is Beka Lamb on the promotion poster (scroll down to see it) for the Caribbean Writers Series from Heinemann, her first publisher. The book cover sits between two novels by Trinidadian author Michael Anthony. Also on the poster are V.S. Naipaul and Merle Hodge and Roger Mais. Not bad for a breakout writer with her debut set in Belize, which many in the Caribbean still considered a backwater at that time.

One of the perks of being part of the canon was that my mother got invited to literature conferences, festivals and other similar gatherings around the world. When I could get time off from work, I would travel with her. Once, she was invited to visit and speak at a university outside Paris where a class of graduate students had focused an entire research project around my mother’s novels. I made sure to go on that trip.

Attending the Bocas Lit Fest in Trinidad and Tobago in 2014 was one of our very best outings, so I was dismayed to hear that its title sponsor was pulling out, putting the entire festival on shaky footing. I remember thinking that the National Gas Company was an interesting fit for arts funding, but so be it! Good on NGC for celebrating recognizing the value of Caribbean literature, I thought. Now, NGC is apparently moving onto other priorities. I only learned about this a few days ago.

The annual gathering in and around Port-of-Spain, launched in 2011, brings together established and up-and-coming writers across genres and includes a prestigious prize (for which my mother was a judge in 2014). Belize’s own Godfrey Smith won the Bocas Prize for Nonfiction in 2012 for The Assassination of Maurice Bishop.

The countries of the Caribbean are small in population and mighty in stories, scenes and sounds. Bocas is a venue where one can find living legends and nascent geniuses mingling with each other and with lovers of the region’s literature.

Here’s an excerpt from a column penned by the founder and president of Bocas Lit Fest, Marina Salandy-Brown, for Trinidad and Tobago’s Daily Express on Sept. 17:

“Known as the NGC Bocas Lit Fest, it caused a seismic shift in the world of Caribbean literature as well as for NGC, which garnered vast amounts of goodwill and additional promotion of its brand and logo at home and abroad.”

I remember watching my mother read from her work in a room packed with peers, students and fans. We met up with Belizean students studying at the University of the West Indies. I sat next to John Agard, the celebrated Guyanese-born poet and playwright, on a shuttle bus from the hotel to a party. I laid eyes on Nobel laureate Derek Walcott, of St. Lucia, in person. I can picture my mother huddled over a cafe table with Bernardine Evaristo, the British author and creative writing professor.

My mother and I attended the soiree marking the start of Bocas Lit Festival at the residence of the British High Commissioner. Agard read a poem, and we hobnobbed the Caribbean intelligentsia to the sounds of steel pan music.

We got to know Gaiutra Bahadur, the Guyanese author of the outstanding Coolie Woman: The Odyssey of Indenture. The poet Lauren K. Alleyne hosted a group of Bocas attendees at her family home in McBean Village. That was unforgettable. Hanging out with author Robert Antoni, a native of Trinidad and Tobago, was a treat. Check out his novel, As Flies to Whatless Boys, which won the overall Bocas Prize for Literature in 2014, the year my mother and I attended Bocas.

There were, of course, the many serendipitous meetings and encounters that make Bocas very special.

In her Daily Express column, Salandy-Brown says the 2025 Bocas Lit Fest was produced “on a shoe string.” The festival has only one partial sponsor confirmed for 2026 as of the column’s publication.

“If the various funding proposals now sitting with the marketing departments of various companies fail to appeal to the decision-makers, we will need to seriously rethink the scale and format of the 2026 festival,” Salandy-Brown writes.

The larger theme of Salandy-Brown’s column is that Trinidad and Tobago lacks an overarching framework for consistently and substantially supporting the arts. The country has a Ministry of Culture which awards small grants, Salandy-Brown writes, earmarking the lion’s share of funding for that country’s world-renowned carnival and steel pan initiatives.

Trinidad and Tobago has a national cultural policy, which “stands on the fundamental belief that the country’s reservoir of creativity and cultural expressions is as vital to national development and prosperity as its energy, financial and manufacturing sectors. Therefore the same level of attention and enabling infrastructure is needed to realise the overall growth and profitability of the cultural sector as a matter of urgency.”

Urgency notwithstanding, “We have never been properly taught to cherish, nurture or preserve that talent, nor have we sought to align cultural development with national priorities in any serious way,” Salandy-Brown writes.

Belize also has a national cultural policy. The executive summary begins:

“The National Cultural Policy provides the policy framework for the safeguarding of Belize’s tangible and intangible cultural heritage; the promotion of cultural expression and creativity; the development of cultural and creative industries and the wise management of Belize’s cultural resources.”

Much of the work of executing the policy falls to the National Institute of Culture and History, which is funded by the Belize government as well as friendly nations, donors and grants. Having worked for NICH for about six months in 2016, I can attest that it is not perfect; some say it tries to do too much (embodying everything from Maya architectural site stewardship to a children’s art festival) and aims to set a cultural agenda that leaves some people out. Nevertheless, NICH and its many divisions are visible in cultural activities year-round and its representatives shine in venues both local and international. Founded in 2003, NICH awards grants and also co-sponsors programs with corporate partners.

Not bad for a one-time backwater!

As far as I can tell, Trinidad and Tobago does not have a similar cultural organization. In fact, Salandy-Brown says it’s “time for the State and the private sector, together, to establish an arts-funding agency.” Interestingly, according to Salandy-Brown’s column, the organization that runs the national lottery is mandated to support cultural programming. She says, however, that how the National Lotteries Control Board operates this arm of it remit is a “a mystery.”

It may seem unusual for the government to have a major role in preserving and promoting a nation’s culture, but for nations that lack a tradition of philanthropic giving, it is probably a necessary mechanism for doing this work.

There is now a donate button on the Bocas Lit Fest homepage. If you at all interested in literature, please consider what is at stake for Caribbean culture.