A famous story is told wherein a journalist, British I think, once asked Mahatma Gandhi what he thought of Western civilization. The Mahatma’s response was, “I think it would be a good idea.”
In his characterizations and opinions of Marcus Canul, for example, the late Emory King revealed himself as a European who revered Western civilization and, because he did, regarded those Africans and Mayans who resisted Western civilization’s “blandishments” and “benefits” as scoundrels and villains.
White supremacy can have a benign countenance, and so it was with good ol’ boy, Emory. He was a really nice guy, may he rest in peace, but there is no way a man who publicly preaches that slavery was a “family affair” can be anything other than a white supremacist.
In the matter of “slavery as family affair” in Belize, Emory’s central thesis was that white Baymen were taking black and colored women and having children with them, some even raising families, so everything must have been “hunky dory.” King was just simply unable to see that a situation where white men can take black women, but black men cannot take white women, is inherently one-sided and unjust.
Of course, Mr. King’s apologists will argue that there were no white women in the settlement of Belize for black men to take, but all of us know that if there were, it would not have been permitted.
For decades, Emory King, who founded, and was president of, the Belize Historical Society, was single-minded in his depictions of a Superintendent in Belize during the late 1780’s and early 1790’s by the name of Marcus Despard. Despard was demonized in King’s writings. All other white Baymen were glorified in King’s publications, even those like Thomas Paslow who mutilated their slaves, but Despard was seriously condemned at every turn.
About three or four years ago, I ran across a book review in THE NEW YORK TIMES which mentioned that Despard, an Irishman who had revolutionary instincts and ended up hanged in England, was married to a black woman. Catherine Despard was, as they said in those days, “colored.”
I pointed this out to Emory in the hope that he would consider the possibility that Despard’s choice of a wife might have contributed to his unpopularity amongst the white Baymen in the settlement of Belize, but he ignored my discovery.
I had no choice but to go public with that discovery, and Emory’s response, or lack thereof. As you would expect, I also reprimanded Emory. The intensity of my criticism was too strong for other white Belizeans of foreign origin, like Cutlack and Merrill, who rushed to Emory’s defense. Their reaction was understandable to any reasonable man, and I am, more often than not, a reasonable man.
But as a reasonable man, I have to ask who was responsible for having my name printed Thursday in Emory’s funeral program as one of the “honorary pall bearers.” There were eight such persons mentioned, and the one who led the list was “Sir Michael Lord Ashcroft” – Emory’s great friend. Where Evan X Hyde fit into such a list, without his consultation, completely mystifies me.
As an educated black man, I have contact, from time to time, with individuals who are not part of my people, such as white men and white women. I am, in almost all such cases, courteous, civil and civilized. I liked Emory as a person. I did not like his spin on Belizean history, and as the years went by I become more and more convinced that he was a white supremacist. A benign one, mind you, but a white supremacist all the same.
Two or three weeks after we publicized the fact that Lord Ashcroft had launched a legal and financial attack upon Kremandala, Mr. King sent me a gift of a book with some of Damon Runyon’s works, along with a note. It was a nice gesture. Emory was a nice person. I never responded to his gift cum note. And I do not regret that I did not.
In the streets of the old capital, especially on the Southside, the situation has reached a point where the suffering is brutal amongst black people. I watch my eldest son on television weekday mornings, and I can see that what he is going through emotionally, is similar to what we went through in UBAD. These are things that Emory King could never understand, and it had reached a point where I could no longer pretend to be amused.
I will close with a poem I wrote in the middle 1970’s when eldest son was just a baby. We were physically separated from each other, but the words were prophetic, after a fashion.
Not as I did
Son, I do think that each family
should only be cursed
with one revolutionary,
which mostly
is one too many.
And that is why I say,
I do believe it’s better
for you,
son, do as I say,
and not as I did.
Maybe then you will be spared
the smell of fear’s rank breath
and the taste of bitter sour
powder of defeat.
I want you to walk
when they walk, my son.
Talk like they talk.
How they sing, you sing.
Run in the line and
stay in the grain.
Stay far away from controversy;
run when you hear debate.
Shy away from confrontation.
Speak low and confidentially,
and most of what you hear,
judge to be but lies.
Seek not too strenuously
for the butterfly of truth,
for truth will make you weep.
Put the bread on the table,
however you may.
Butter would be nice, also,
with tea for the children.
Don’t let me hear them say,
you is like your daddy, son.
That’s when they want to set you,
or paint you with the brush.
Still, if you find you pine,
and sorrow to be free;
and wish to challenge mankind,
and forge your destiny;
and if you break out burning
and raise hell for a while,
over there I won’t be mourning –
I’ll find time for a smile.