Dirty Linen.

Dirty Linen


Mama I here in Canada
A Blessed land, where far
from the isles of sun and sea we stand
and sing oh Canada, oh Canada
we stand on guard for thee.
Land of DaCosta, Le Jeune and Hall
settlers, scholars and warriors
We inhabit, clear and till these lands
From sea to sea we stand on guard
as refugees of time we make unscented tracks
leaving behind the cotton trees and balls
and the Old Man River flowing south
We follow the pull of the Star shining bright
and the sound of the dogs fade in the night

In the mist of the morning
in Canada the sequoias trees stand
two hundred feet, and
the rings and bark of one thousand years
imprison the songs of Pierre Bonga
But from the cathedrals of the North
The voice of the wind and the fiddler
tap out the songs d'un Courier du Bois
And the strokes of the paddles
in the lakes at his feet count time
Count time, count time!

We land in this Montreal
Navigate Le fleuve St. Laurent
Work the trains
Police the locks
Marry the Natives, invent blood plasma
but die for the denying of it.
Yes mama. There is a story to be told:
Lots that glitter is fool's gold.

Amazing!
Mama oh! Look at de scene in ah de conference room
Police coming to talks in bullet proof vests!
But they say this is the land
where all men are free!
Free like John Crow

flying flip flop pun high
Free like eagle atop Appalachian mountain top.
Yes Mama! But sure as that winter sun
brings no warmth to thaw the frozen smile
This is a land of illusions
For them that poor
And them not White.
Mama, I discover new trues
me never know ah yard!
Me learn that Black is the negative to White;
That if yuh poor yuh na exist!
That plenty we starving:
Somalia, Sudan, Malawi
Pot belly children, dem
ooze pus for flies.
Here unemployment is the monopoly of Blacks.
But me, ah educated now. Me learn
Freedom is a figment of impossible democracy.
You could express yourself in your bedroom, freely
But oh so discretely.
So long as nobody see
And the majority nah hear you scream, dis or dat
in discord with the Nation,
it's alright for the few that shout
"Je me souviens"
but ask us to forget.

Yes Mama, this is a land of contradicting diversities
Where truth dances to the inconstant Aurora Borealis.
And I put foot to peddle to go West
While 'badBoy" reggae drive away monotony
that integrates our Prairie crossing.
Yes! Roy and I, we challenged and celebrated the majesty
of massive rock stones threatening the skies.
Them ah call them the Rocky Mountains!
We keep moving West cascading into frightened valleys
in search of answers
"What is Canada?'
"What does Canada want?"
Well Mama, we hear the winds fling back,
the cavernous bellies of the mountains
asking, "What does Quebec want?"

Is Bacchanal that, see!
We busy looking for a nOrth Star that lighted the way
of footsteps left in a Tundra wasteland
by Henson and his progeny
and hoping to plant a flag somewhere

but are arrested by the cries of a country
wanting to be born:
"one Land indivisible!"
"Je me souviens!"
"One Land indivisible!"
"Je me souviens!"
Then a voice from the tombs cried
"Nous sommes les Negres Blancs d'Amerique"
And from a gaping chasm in my mind I could hear

the voices of Black folk from graves
stretching out of Africa across the Atlantic
to the Caribbean, ths Southern states, Canada
"Let freedom ring! Let freedom ring!"
But no one is listening.
Beauty is no where found in these beholders eyes
The dogs tear flesh;
And the electric cattle prong. It hurts Mama!
It hurts! The billy stick strikes
The head, the face, the groin, the stomach
Again and again and again!
Oh God Mama! Oh God

These are the terrifying images that mock freedom
Invade our living rooms
Infest our dreams, awaking us
to landscapes dark with hanging trees
A horror that only Miss Bessie Smith blues bemoan:
"Southern trees bear strange fruit"

The countenance reflects tortured souls.
We are possessed by the "Man and the "Man" by us.
Locked in the dance of accusation and guilt
we sit on a see-saw in a Coney Island.
No plan. No action. Just blame.
Brothers walking round blaming the man for everything.
They blaming the man for losing his power!
For losing his grip
For sliding into Kondratatief Hell!

A calypsonian from Bequia sing out at Cariefesta
say, "The man can't fall
Ask fate what waiting for we
If the man does fall?"
Yes, self-preservation say,
"The Man can't fall."

Mama, we in a symbiotic trap
crabs in an existentialist bucket
dangling from the cusp of the see-saw
So we frighten
We frighten to talk
We frighten to love
We frighten to raise we hand

We frighten to go out in de sun
Secrecy dry up the juices
We are the maggots eating our insides
Crabs clawing at each other
Lest one reach the edge and fall to freedom
Listen ah dem claw and scratch
Them say Freedom is the Man on T.V.
Freedom is the Man cussing on the Hill:
"Boy, Is dem parliament and dem country, see."
"They could do what them so please"
"So it go!"
But make one crab with a crack back air him views
Man and bucket crab say we divided
"No bother 'bout truth and conscience.
Solidarity is all that matters,
We must pull together,"
So we in this trap Mama
Looking for one Master voice, Mama.
But not so on Capital Hill:
The Madonna cuss Charest
Say him too fool
Him lack wisdom and maturity
Then Charest posse went for cold steel.
Dem say the Madonna is barren
and cannot bear fruit.
Chretien stan pun TV. and say
"More of the same
No change my countrymen
Just the opposition divvying up thirty pieces of change"

Everybody say the debate nice
It heating up
They rate the speakers one, two, three
But in the hood,
let one Black man say:
Culture is nah a one day jump
but ah all year celebration
Tout Monde bagi la saying
Not, "good debate!" pas, "Bon tete a tete"
But, "Conflict in the Black Community"
How we hanging dirty linen out to dry
in the people land

In this country where skin teeth
not a smile: that sun don't always come
bring bright days to the silence within
Minorities exploit minorities
Individuals profit within communities

supporting the logic of a silent darkness
that makes evil
Mama, brass monkey can't live in this country
The extremes not good for him comfort

Clarence Bayne is an associate professor in the Department of Management Information and Decision Making Sciences, Concordia University. He is a founding member of the Black Theatre Workshop, member of the Board of Directors, Quebec Board of Black Educators. He is a prolific writer in drama and poetry and is for the first time presenting his writings for public scrutiny. He is dedicated to the literary, social and economic development of the Black Community.