A High Wind in Jamaica

I read somewhere that A High Wind in Jamaica is the lovechild of Peter Pan and Lord of the Flies - which just about sums up how wonderfully odd, adventurous and philosophical this little book is. However, whilst the writing is undeniably gripping, it is also hard-to-read colonialist from the off. There is very little mention of Jamaican people, other than a short section where Emily discovers a ‘negro village’. As a white writer & reader, I struggle to know how best to approach literature of this era, especially if (removed from its context) it is well written. To be a published author in the early twentieth century, you almost certainly had to be white, male and economically privileged to boot; so it follows that fiction from this period will often enshrine outdated values and abhorrent ignorance. Does this mean that the books themselves should be disregarded, as the many statues of slave owners scattered across Britain certainly should be? I’m not sure. Elif Batuman wrote for the The New Yorker:

“How do you rehabilitate your love for art works based on expired and inhuman social values - and why bother? It’s easier to just discard the works that look as ungainly to us now as “The Octoroon.” But if you don’t throw out the past, or gloss it over, you can get something like “An Octoroon”: a work of joy and exasperation and anger that transmutes historical insult into artistic strength.”

Nick Cave has also broached this difficult topic in the context of music, specifically - if you discover something unsavoury about an artist, should you stop listening to their music? He writes in his website The Red Hand Files:

“I think perhaps it would be helpful to you if you saw the proprietorship of a song in a different way. Personally, when I write a song and release it to the public, I feel it stops being my song. It has been offered up to my audience and they, if they care to, take possession of that song and become its custodian. The integrity of the song now rests not with the artist, but with the listener.”

Maybe one of the most insightful articles I’ve read on the topic of racist literature, is by Jeremy Adam Smith. He uses psychological research to consider whether parents should read outdated books with racist snippets, but also excellent storytelling (Little House on the Prairie for example) to their children. Ultimately, his answer is yes - with appendices. A book that is explicitly racist throughout (The Story of Little Black Sambo) are obviously not going to make it to your bookshelf in this day and age, and nor should they. However, he believes that stories like Little House can be read, provided the parent does not take a colourblind approach. It is important to “openly identify and discuss feelings about people who are different from us, to make ourselves conscious of knee jerk responses so that our conscious brains can take over and regulate unconscious bias.” This also means incorporating books that are non-white, by non-white authors into your bookshelf. If he comes across a racist moment in a story whilst reading to his son, he writes “I stop, close the book, and tell him that image is a product of prejudice, and that I think prejudice is wrong. I try to answer any questions he has. Then I reopen the book… and keep reading.” Also important is to highlight to the young reader that what was acceptable historically, is not acceptable now.

Perhaps therefore, an amended version of A High Wind in Jamaica should be written. Perhaps a forward should be added to explain the complex socio-political context that brought a white family to be living in Jamaica in the first place. Or perhaps, as Nick suggests, readers should be encouraged to absorb with integrity - to research and learn after the fact. Maybe then, some tools to understand the books context would be a useful epilogue? Or, as suggested by Jeremy, readers should be trusted to stop and reflect on moments of racism - and hopefully learn and grow as a result.

Either way, an apology far too big for words, needs to start somewhere. The beginnings of reflection and rectification for the repugnant treatment of Jamaican people and culture, the mass exploitation of their resources, and the enslavement of an entire nation by the British. Whatever it is though, in relation to this story at least, it has to happen by white writers and artists - in recognition that this is a white problem.

I continue to wonder whether the rest of the novel should be reviewed in recognition of the above, however I have done so in the interest of perhaps moving forward constructively. Erasing our history is not the answer, and it is certainly not anti-racist to do so.

The novel is set around the (very) english Bas-Thornton children, who - following a hurricane which flattens their Jamaican home - are sent via ship to England to go to school. Enroute past Cuba however, the ship is captured by pirates. The story begins in an old plantation at some point following the emancipation of slavery. Hughes paints a picture of wildly exciting overgrown creepers and bushes, ruined buildings and bedrooms with hundreds of bats in the roof. It feels windswept, intensely hot and enticingly magical.

“For, only a few yards up, there was a Frangipan tree; a mass of brilliant blossom and no leaves, which was almost hidden in a cloud of humming-birds so vivid as much to outshine the flowers. Writers have often lost their way trying to explain how brilliant a jewel the humming-bird is: it cannot be done.”

It’s a child’s ultimate playground, where (white) girls and boys can play in equal measure - even their frocks had pockets. Everyone swims naked, rides horses, takes pleasure in setting up traps and chasing wild cats into the jungle. Then comes the great storm; tangible and terrifying. Hughes’ writing really blossoms here into great descriptive storytelling.

There are long, winding passages that follow ten year old Emily’s musings about dolls and games, which suddenly morph into a deep realisation that she is in fact a person in and of herself (and possibly also God?). These sections are comedic and dark and philosophical all at once. Intricate descriptions of group games played aboard the ship are interspersed with bursts of violence that sneak up on you, just as you were being lulled into an Enid Blyton type haze. It is funny and light hearted for the most part, with pirates who don’t carry weapons or (usually) hurt captives - and yet the deeper you look, the more disturbing the tale becomes (especially where Margaret is concerned). Similarly scattered are descriptive paragraphs of startling clarity and power that would easily be at home in The Heart of Darkness (another well written but racist ‘classic’).

“As he sank the sun grew even larger: and instead of red was now a sodden purple. Down he went, behind the western horn of the bay, which blackened till its water-line disappeared, and substance and reflection seemed one sharp symmetrical pattern.”

Told as it is from the young characters perspective’s, the reader is thrown straight into the consciousness of a child - full of whimsy, play and fleeting attachments. It’s a reminder of the parallel world inhabited by children, and how intrinsically different their perception of time and events can be from adults. It’s wacky and surprising, a rainy-day read that you can get through in no time at all. However if you do decide to give it a go, I’d urge you to consider the context in which it was written, and the obvious omissions by a white author of a nation brutalised by Britain.

SOURCES:

The Red Hand Files

Reading Racist Literature

How to Really Read Racist Books To Your Kids

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