On Culture

Just recently I had the pleasure of teaching a young man who proclaimed that Wendy’s is as Bahamian as the Bamboo Shack. The reaction I get when I tell people about him is the same every time: a look of disbelief, a laugh, a scornful comment along the lines of “He mussee ain know who he is.”

It’s obvious to those of us who know better. Our culture is unique! It’s conch, it’s fish-and-grits, it’s Junkanoo and rake ‘n’ scrape and steam pork chop on a Thursday afternoon when you hungry-hungry, and it’s dialect and straw work and beating a goombay drum. It’s peas-n-rice, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, fried chicken and Kool-Aid on Sunday. In the words of Ronnie Butler, it’s guinea corn hominy, yes indeed, stew shad and johnny cake, guinea corn hominy and lard. You must get some of that. It’s Blue Hill Water Dry, and ringplay, and Over-the-Hill, and up south, and Gussiemaes; it’s flour bag and George Symonette in wompas, Dr Offff and KB and Showtime in Rawson Square.

It sure isn’t Wendy’s. What! That boy jes ain know who he is.


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