In his comment to my previous post about being international (or not) Harry said,
But Scavella, aren’t we all international really?
Of course Harry’s right. And that’s the right answer. But it doesn’t stop the phenomenon of what’s going on in Nalo’s post from having its own oddness.
For some reason that I’m too tired to dissect properly right now, it’s possible to live full-time in North America, to carry American/Canadian documentation, even to have been born there, and write your little ass off, and still be counted as a “Caribbean” writer. It doesn’t work so well for any other region to my knowledge, not even for Africa, and I’m not sure why that is.
But it is. And this makes it difficult for those of us who remain at home to join in these discussions, unless we want to travel long distances (as many of my friends do) to gathering of “Caribbean” writers, mostly at several hundreds of miles north of the Caribbean sea.
It’s an odd phenomenon, and probably worth discussing.
So yes, Harry, we are all international, or something. The odd thing about it though is that we get more international the longer we become someone else’s national. The rest of us who stay put — well, we’re simply invisible.