the previous Prime Minister fromnAmerica. It was played a lot over ournradio station, but where is it now? Inhave never succeeded in acquiring anplate or tape of it anywhere. In a fewyears’ntime, Trinidadians will be askingnwho Gairy was. Great satire isnuniversal.nThen, Sparrow being too notoriouslynextra-insular. Bishop organized annindigenous pro-Jewel calypso from ournown Flying Turkey, a PRA (People’snRevolutionary Army) officer. Turkey’sncalypso provided a sense ofnimmediacy:nPeople want to hear you comenout in defense of thenRevolution, people want to •nhear you come out and ragenhostility upon Reagan andnAmerican interventionistnattitudes. . . . “The Lion”nfrom Carriacou, he came outnand he blaze imperialism.nSo Turkey concluded his lyrics withnthe refrain:nLet them come, let themncome.nWe will bury them in the sea.nSchoolchildren in Grenada werenmade to chant this. (It even got airtimenover WBAI-FM in America.) Butnwhen “they” came, and were not buriednin the sea by the PRA, anothernGrenadian produced a calypso incorporatingnthese lines, mocking themnand blessing America. Yet anothernwhich went the rounds after interventionnwas called (for some reason) Guadalajara;nit derided Cubans whonclaimed to have to come to Grenadanmerely to kill cockroaches. WhennPresident Reagan spoke at our Queen’snPark on February 20th, 1986, to anrapturously applauding crowd of nearlynhalf the island, he was greeted by ancalypso from Scaramouche whichnmimicked the rat-rat-rat of firing andnthe “music” of the intervention. Timencalled it “the country’s most popularnballad.” I’m afraid not. I doubt ifnmany remembered it or if you couldnbuy any of these songs anywherentoday. Art is not as fugitive as this.nBeeWee culture is social rather thannaesthetic. Jewel’s call for Negritude,nAfricanity, whatever, passed us by. Butnthe Naipauls are correct. There is anvoid in the islands. For recluses likenmyself, fleeing what Matthew Arnold’snscholar gypsy called “this strange diseasenof modern life / With its sicknhurry, its divided aims,” this is a veryngreat plus. But to lack a strong graphicnculture, as inherited by, say, China ornMexico, is to be extremely vulnerablento television as a replacement fornthought. The first dishes are dottingnthe islands. The first television programn1 saw in Grenada (apart fromnvideo cassettes) was an Americannnewscast. Its principal subjects werenthe proliferation of AIDS, excessive fatnin chickens, and a black riot in SouthnAfrica which the locals sitting alongnthe bar beside me assumed to be takingnplace in the United States. Kickingnand screaming, we are finally beingndragged into the global village.nA CCNY Emeritus Professor of English,nGeoffrey Wagner has a retirementnhome in Grenada from whichnhe watched events on that island atnclose hand.nLetter From thenHeartlandnby Jane GreernWill They Still Love Us Tomorrow?nL. and M. and their two blond preschoolnsons have escaped, after years ofnstealthy planning and saving andnmonths of waiting.nNot the gaunt East European urchinsnwe expect, they step off the planenas if from the pages of Family Gircle,nself-conscious in our applause, thenlittle boys in Velcro sneakers, M.nmovie-star pretty, L. grinning, gregarious,nprotective, dazzled. They wearntheir best for us; everything else isnstowed in one large suitcase, less thannI’d take myself for a weekend innMinneapolis.nTravehng light, they leave behind anwrenching trail of jetsam: family,nfriends, everyday familiarity. But theynare free and safe at last.nThrough an interpreter (in this case,nmy husband’s mother, who never toldnme she was fluent in her parents’nlanguage), L. and M. try to expressntheir wonder at everything that hasnbeen done for them, given to them. Ansmall basket of apples? Ah, they arennnrare and expensive hack home. Wouldnthe boys like coloring books and crayons?nPlease, the boys are fine, theynhave plenty. (But where is it all?) Anloaned sewing machine so that M. cannalter the clothes that have been givennto the family? Shy M. can only beamnand nod.nTwo days after their arrival, we sit inntheir hot, crowded living room onnfolding chairs. Jet-lagged and cultureshocked,nM. hovers, flits, brews coffee,nsets out saltines in a ceramicncandy dish—all we have stocked herncupboards with that might be remotelynsuitable for American guests. Anothernvisitor, Y., a.refugee who came herentwo years ago and acts as their appointedntranslator, says, “In Communistncountries, people have wrong ideanabout United States. All we hear isnCalifornia”—he pauses and looks atnus meaningfully; we catch his driftn—“New York, Detroit. They don’t tellnus that here is such a nice life, sonmany kind people.” (In spite of ournbad press abroad, we are still the bestnthere is; they are dying to come here.)nYes, all three of them are absolutelynfloored by American kindness, says Y.nL., who has understood a little of Y.’snspeech in English, nods his assent,nlooks around at his odds-and-ends furniturenfrom our basements and attics,nat his small sons whom we havenclothed in “Masters of the Universe”nsweatsuits from K-Mart, at us, hisnrefuge, new masters of his universe.nA man to my left—local son of OldnWorld parents who, with his equallynbilingual wife, came to welcome thennewcomers and act as translator (therenare now more translators in the roomnthan people to need them) — notesnhow charming it is to hear littie childrennspeaking the old language, somethingnonly grandparents do in privatenhere and now. My mother-in-lawnjokes to L. that she and my husband’snfather never taught the language tontheir children because they wanted tonuse it to keep secrets from the kids. L.nsmiles, only a little pensively, and saysnthat now he and his wife will be able tondo the same thing with their boys.nI can’t help myself—it must bendone, like tonguing a raw loose toothn—and Ihave someone ask L. what itnwas like in his country, how he managednto get out. He’s energetic in hisndescriphon, sits on the edge of hisnAUGUST 1986/4n