Dear Editor,
My letting fall upon the counter in disgust, a package of 10 Peppermint tea bags, which in a few weeks, jumped from $1 to $1.75, even with some gook having dripped upon the packet, warranted my being threatened with violent eviction from On The Run on East Bay St. and Fowler St.
The manager, Miller, thought it unacceptable that I let drop upon the counter, this filthy packet of tea bags but thought it acceptable, appropriate for me to be thrown out disrespectfully after having returned money to me, thrown to me, thrown at me, for another item I did desire to purchase.
Thought it appropriate to evict me with his security assistant, who had been busy, with gloves on, preparing and serving up sandwiches and whatever else in the deli. Thought it acceptable, appropriate to throw my manuscripts and me outside if I didn’t vacate as readily - as quickly as he wished.
I am left to wonder about his sense of value – sense of worth: a customer with a large family and many friends who frequent this establishment, weighed against a soiled packet of tea bags – the price upon which leapt from $1 to $1.75 within a few weeks. All I’d done was to let it fall upon the counter from the bullet-proof glass I’d held it up to for scanning.
I write because I’m mystified by this response – by this reaction. I was humiliated. I am deeply offended. I am confused by this manager’s implication of impropriety on my part and yet on his own part, it was not unacceptable that my money was flung back to me – not inappropriate that I be picked up and thrown out. He threatened to do as much. Not inappropriate that my writing, my work, most precious to me, be flung outside. This he threatened also with his security officer removing his plastic gloves to assist in evicting who strives always to be the embodiment of peace.
The only sword I ever have or ever carry, besides prayer, is my pen which, oftentimes, these same persons managing this establishment, relieve me of, oftentimes in the middle of inspiration – in the middle of writing – needing to sign when some delivery or other is made in the middle of the night.
“Something is rotten in Denmark!” said Hamlet. I say the same of this establishment and what is rotten is not I who was threatened, asked offensively to leave, as if this deli were the White House and I some rodent. Something in there is rotten still and needs investigating by the appropriate authority.
I thought they loved, appreciated and respected me. I’d not patronize them as I do, as I have were I aware it was otherwise. I bring poetry down by taking it there. I thought with my presence and with my art, I raised them up to poetry. I know now it is not respected nor appreciated.
To find appropriate, all-night spots to hang out at – to create in, I suppose I must return to Paris of be off again to Montreal or Stockholm or Oslo – back to New York or Budapest. I write about Bahamians. I wanted to be home. I thought I was. There are elements among us though from elsewhere, wanting to dictate to who is native.
Who I thought were our guests, suggest that who is Bahamian is here or there or elsewhere in this land only if they say we are welcome. Who are our guests have turned the table and can decide upon a whim that I, that we are unwanted.
I might as well be elsewhere. Home is not home – is not mine – is not ours. I throw my hands up. I rest my case.
Obediah Michael Smith
4:58 a.m. May 27, 2006
My letting fall upon the counter in disgust, a package of 10 Peppermint tea bags, which in a few weeks, jumped from $1 to $1.75, even with some gook having dripped upon the packet, warranted my being threatened with violent eviction from On The Run on East Bay St. and Fowler St.
The manager, Miller, thought it unacceptable that I let drop upon the counter, this filthy packet of tea bags but thought it acceptable, appropriate for me to be thrown out disrespectfully after having returned money to me, thrown to me, thrown at me, for another item I did desire to purchase.
Thought it appropriate to evict me with his security assistant, who had been busy, with gloves on, preparing and serving up sandwiches and whatever else in the deli. Thought it acceptable, appropriate to throw my manuscripts and me outside if I didn’t vacate as readily - as quickly as he wished.
I am left to wonder about his sense of value – sense of worth: a customer with a large family and many friends who frequent this establishment, weighed against a soiled packet of tea bags – the price upon which leapt from $1 to $1.75 within a few weeks. All I’d done was to let it fall upon the counter from the bullet-proof glass I’d held it up to for scanning.
I write because I’m mystified by this response – by this reaction. I was humiliated. I am deeply offended. I am confused by this manager’s implication of impropriety on my part and yet on his own part, it was not unacceptable that my money was flung back to me – not inappropriate that I be picked up and thrown out. He threatened to do as much. Not inappropriate that my writing, my work, most precious to me, be flung outside. This he threatened also with his security officer removing his plastic gloves to assist in evicting who strives always to be the embodiment of peace.
The only sword I ever have or ever carry, besides prayer, is my pen which, oftentimes, these same persons managing this establishment, relieve me of, oftentimes in the middle of inspiration – in the middle of writing – needing to sign when some delivery or other is made in the middle of the night.
“Something is rotten in Denmark!” said Hamlet. I say the same of this establishment and what is rotten is not I who was threatened, asked offensively to leave, as if this deli were the White House and I some rodent. Something in there is rotten still and needs investigating by the appropriate authority.
I thought they loved, appreciated and respected me. I’d not patronize them as I do, as I have were I aware it was otherwise. I bring poetry down by taking it there. I thought with my presence and with my art, I raised them up to poetry. I know now it is not respected nor appreciated.
To find appropriate, all-night spots to hang out at – to create in, I suppose I must return to Paris of be off again to Montreal or Stockholm or Oslo – back to New York or Budapest. I write about Bahamians. I wanted to be home. I thought I was. There are elements among us though from elsewhere, wanting to dictate to who is native.
Who I thought were our guests, suggest that who is Bahamian is here or there or elsewhere in this land only if they say we are welcome. Who are our guests have turned the table and can decide upon a whim that I, that we are unwanted.
I might as well be elsewhere. Home is not home – is not mine – is not ours. I throw my hands up. I rest my case.
Obediah Michael Smith
4:58 a.m. May 27, 2006
posted by Obie Quiet at 3:40 AM
3 Comments:
Obie, do you think that the way you choose to dress has anything to do with it? That if you sat in On the Run in a shirt and tie, looking "like people", you might be treated with more respect?
We live in a hollow society, where for many people the surface is more important than what's under it.
Whited sepulchres, etc.
Thanks, Nico, love, for this advice. I suppose I can use a makeover but even when I take a bath though, I feel too clean for how dirty so many such spots are. With a makeover I'd want to be in Moscow. I tinkin' straight or what!
I'm so grateful to have your involvement in artistic concerns. Where though are there spaces in out community for art, for artists? Why can't creative people be comfortable in the whole country - in the whole world? I know a askin' too much. Look a what happen to our finest poet, Christ?
Dey taught he didn't fit, tried ta rub him our only ta have his perfume released to fill nearly all the universe. What we gur do? Nuttin' else to do, I suppose but keep on pushin'. Das what I gur do.
A can' stop or look back or turn back - not after what Clement and Meta and Poitier - James Weldon-Johnson, etc. dun do. I have my do ta do an' time so short. One minute sun up; nex' minute sun set. Gatta trow mur punches.
Is On The Run though and this incident, an expression of what is thought of art, of artist generally in [this] in [our] entire country only often veiled, not so aggressively expressed?
At best in this town, as elsewhere where I've lived in this country of ours, I feel but tolerated. Why else am I at present, thinking so very strongly of acquiring a Ph.D. in something or other if not for greater respect and appreciation? Why am I not valued sufficiently as I am - for what I give and have to give at present?
Politicians have OTHER things, other themes on their minds and on their agenda. We [artists] mussie gur count in 3000 after I dun reincarnated 10 times. A comin back den to see if my books still in print, to see if dey on der curriculum by den.
What though, at present, would be success for the writer? What would represent EMBRACE? Maybe the antithesis of abrasions I'm often accorded, rewarded as I go about.
They say we must suffer, must feel excluded to be inspired - this the medicine the artist needs, available around here in abundance.
Maybe we can begin a revolution with much much love and understanding from fellow artist in the Bahamas in every genre, in every field. This should give us flowers sufficient to fill our rooms and lives.
God bless you love, and Philip and the mission you spearhead.
31/may/2006 10:34 p.m.
June 1st, 2006, they all travelled to Mecca: to Bahamas Faith Ministry, Carmichael Road. In order to worship; in order to pay tribute, to pay homage to He and she.
Here poets spoke, musicians play and sang; all artists in the Bahamas sat and remember that a great one, a fellow artisan has journeyed to her King.
It seems as if there is a time and place where all artists go and let loose and blow their horns.
Kayla rest in peace!
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