The 'N' word and the Banana Boat.

The Lion's Roar

A weekly column by Lion Coore

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My journey with the 'N' word on the banana boat.

Lately, I find myself chronically observing people when I’m in social settings. I’ve become fascinated with the Jamaican class conflict and how it guides our behavior and ultimately our destinies. Oscar Wilde once wrote, “When I was young I thought that money was the most important thing in life; now that I am old, I know that it is” and I tend to agree with him.



I was recently at a high society bar among an army of young uptowners and I observed as they came in gracefully like a flock of sparrows, each joining their respective small groups. The prim and proper chatter buzzed over the clinking of wine glasses as they greeted their peers with smiles and smooches on the cheeks.

These beautiful people were mostly white or natural browning (i.e. light skinned not caused by cake soap usage) and they only wore the finest name brand clothing – none of which is made in Jamaica. I watched as they spoke and laughed with an air of confidence, sometimes even superiority and I reasoned that among this small crowd were many future business leaders and future politicians; still I got the distinct feeling that these people were as shallow as piss on concrete.


Omar Francis, a young Jamaican philosopher in his own right, said it best while I interviewed him for a documentary on how Jamaican young people viewed politics and social struggles. He said, “What I love about the generation below us (late teens to early twenties) is that they don’t care, but they don’t pretend to care.” He surmised that people our age are a bunch of hypocrites who only pretend to care.

On the flip side however, the rituals at a ghetto dance are a bit different but quite similar. For example, no one hugged or kissed when they greeted each other; instead they locked fingers in a weird handshake and did a clicking motion with their thumbs. The scene was less cosmopolitan and the people spoke patios, our native language. Weed and not cigarette smoke stained the air and the drink of choice was Guinness or Magnum tonic wine - the ghetto man's potion to reamain a ‘long distant Stulla’.

I noticed that a large number of the ghetto folks ran away from their blackness by bleaching their skin in what seemed like a desperate effort to look like the high society group. Also, like the uptowners, the clothes of the ghetto partygoers were name brands, or more precisely, knock off name brands - Armani was Armori, Guess was Guest and Dolce & Gabbana was Dolce & Bananna. 


It was clear to me that the only difference between the rich and the poor was that rich people had money. In a world where the wealthiest 10% of adults controls 85% of global assets, I got the distinct feeling that the poor man was not disgusted by the oppressive system; instead he was disgusted at his position in that system. I felt that if given the opportunity to climb the social ladder, he too would lose little sleep over the unequal distribution of wealth between the haves and the have nots.

Though internally classism and poverty seem to be one of our biggest social problems, outside of Jamaica racism becomes an even bigger monster lurking in the shadows.

I remember while studying in Wales, I sold telephone contracts at a store named ‘Phones 4 U’. When business was slow, the manager made us go outside the store to persuade passersby to come in. One day I tried to stop a scrawny white woman who was walking by the crowded plaza.


I said, “Excuse me mam, may I ask which service provider are you with?” I reeled off the memorized script with a thick Jamaican dialect – My manager in training urged me not to disguise my accent because he believed the ladies would find it intriguing.


Well apparently this one didn’t; she gave me the evil eye then walked off and when she was a few meters away, she shouted,

“Don’t ever talk to me you Nigger!

The word pierced through my heart like a sharp knife through my chest and the way she dragged and lengthened the word Niggeeeeer was like she was trying to transform the knife into a spear. “Why don’t you leave our country and go back on the banana boat that you sailed in on” she continued.

I just stood there speechless; nothing like this had ever happen to me before and I was unaware of protocol. Do I give chase then ‘trace’ her (i.e. argue with) like a Mama Lashy or do I try to reason with her intellectually.

I’d never advocate for a man to hit a female, but was this the one instance where a man was allowed to run after a woman and drop kick her in the ass? I knew I wasn’t capable of such a thing, but the thought did cross my mind; guess I’m not into equality as much as I’d hope, because admittedly the choices would’ve been much simpler if she was a scrawny white man.


The ‘N’ word was surprisingly hurtful and I was saddened by the thought that this was the last word many of my ancestors heard before they were sent screaming into the afterlife. For this very reason alone, in honor of dead slaves, I think the ‘N’ word deserves to be banished forever from both black and white lips.


Even my colleague who was standing next to me witnessed the incident and began turning red with embarrassment. He later told me that it was the first time he was ever ashamed to be white. Anyway, I was angry and hurt by the situation, but one good thing about the ordeal was that it happened in the midst of one of those long English winters when my skin color was getting pale due to the lack of sunlight, so I kinda appreciated that the racist woman had still recognized my blackness.


Another silver lining was that the white supremacist woman reminded me that there was a place that I truly belonged and that place was not the United Kingdom. So when the going gets rough in a foreign land, it comforts me to know that I can jump on the banana boat that the racist woman referred to and set sail back to Jam Rock, back to Yard, with the sun in my face and a smile in my heart.

You see, I’ve been to many places across the globe, but Jamaica is the only place that I feel a sense of belonging, a place where no one can tell me to pack up my things and leave. And though we’re known for silly stereotypes and social classification like uptown vs. downtown, Gully vs. Gaza, blacky vs. browning, Olint vs. Cashplus, PNP vs. JLP, Wifey vs. Matey, Bu-duf Baf vs. Ku-Kum Kum (i.e. fat women vs. the skinny ones) etc.; in the end, when in Jamaica, racism doesn’t exist, we truly live by our motto, which is – “Out of many, One people”.


So in times like these when the UN says food prices are at all time highs and food reserves at all time lows. When oil is at record levels, and economies are failing left right and center. When wars, unrest and revolutions seem to touch every point across of the globe. When there are frequent earthquakes flood and other natural disasters at every turn - when tsunami kills over 200 thousand people and volcanoes erupting that has been dormant for over 200 years.

When strange incidents like birds falling from the skies in droves, fishes dying off by the millions, whales committing suicide by throwing themselves onto the shore, bees disappearing and nobody can figure out where they’ve gone. When most First world countries around the world begin the trend of increasing their defense budgets while cutting social service programs – what are they preparing for, World War 3? .


I don’t know, but what I do know is, if the world gets crazy tomorrow, If World war 3 ensues, then most of us, even the ones that have green cards and citizenship will leave everything behind in our adopted land and feel a sense of solace that they can come back to the one place that they feel at home, the one place that we truly belong.

This is why I continually urge you my fellow Jamaicans to do your part to sort out 'di ting'. We have to try to fix our little paradise because when the world gets tired of us and start calling us names or when like Cassius Clay, we find our name listed on a draft for a war that we don’t believe in. At such time we can set sail or take flight to a place where we can always call home...  Welcome to Jamrock.

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