OK, so if you’ve been following my other social networks, you’ll have heard somewhere, somehow, that Derek Walcott’s in town. (If you’re not sure where “town” is, it’s Nassau, Bahamas, where I am too). He’s got here through the actions of two groups, one of which happens to be the School of English Studies at the College of The Bahamas, where I also am. I used to be in the School of English, but now I’m where I figure I actually belong according to my terminal degrees, in the School of Social Sciences. But the School of English still treats me like I’m with them, and I don’t mind. I pinch-hit some of the courses on that side every now and then and still enjoy myself.
So yesterday I got a phonecall from the Chair to invite me to dinner with Walcott. I’d already been invited to lunch today, which I can’t attend because I have a class to teach (not an English class, or else I could actually slip out, legitimately, but a Sociology class. Long story.) The Chair called yesterday to say that Walcott wanted to go to the Fish Fry, a local waterfront line of restaurants that serve what we call “native food” at very reasonable prices.
I thought about it. I thought about going for quite a while, but didn’t in the end. Maybe I should’ve; the occasion was informal, the company was going to be excellent, and the food was going to be good too. But I didn’t go. Why?
Well, probably because of that Nobel.
The more I think about it, the more I know that had it been almost any other Caribbean writer, I’d've been there. With bells on. But it isn’t; it’s Walcott, and he’s got that Nobel.
More on this later. Off to ponder this revelation. Cheers.
