Online Magazine of the Visual Narrative - ISSN 1780-678X
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Online Magazine of the Visual Narrative - ISSN 1780-678X |
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Issue 10. The Visualization of the Subaltern in World Music. On Musical Contestation Strategies (Part 1) |
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"We Are Who We Believe Ourselves to Be": Curaçao Jazz and the Expression of Identity |
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Author: Nanette de Jong Abstract (E): The people of Curaçao (largest of the Netherlands Antilles) embrace numerous cultural identities and claim a variety of geographical origins. These diverse constructions of self illustrate the relish Curaçaoans take in their own diversity, countering the Western European concept that nations of people should necessarily embrace one single identity.
This approach to identity informs Curaçaoan jazz, with the musicians adapting individualized sense of self into a single eclectic style: one colored with elements perceived to reflect these chosen geographical regions of origin. Abstract (F): La population de Curaçao (Antilles néerlandaises) se réclame de plusieurs identités culturelles et de plusieurs origines géographiques en même temps. Cette pluralité consciemment recherchée et entretenue s'oppose clairement aux idées venues d'Europe occidentale qui prescrivent la coïncidence de l'Etat-nation et de l'identité culturelle. Dans cet article, on analyse les rapports étroits entre l'identité culturelle de Curaçao et la musique de jazz de l'île a travers l'exemple du Blue Apple Trio, un groupe de jazz très prisé par les habitants de l'île. keywords: Curacao, jazz, Blue Apple Trio, cultural identity |
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We are who we believe ourselves to be- not what someone thinks we should be -John Wout, Bass Player
Stepping onto the outdoor terrace, I seated myself at one of several umbrella-covered tables just outside the entrance to the Peperbus Café-one of Curaçao's few live jazz venues. That Monday evening, The Blue Apple Trio-one of Curaçao's most respected jazz groups-was scheduled to perform. Led by John Wout on electric bass, the group featured Arnell Salsbach on piano; John James Willekes on saxophone. After considerable set-up time, "Night in Tunisia" began filtering out onto the terrace from the café area. Though well-rehearsed, Blue Apple and other such groups on Curaçao approach jazz in a manner distinctly different from what most Americans are accustomed to hearing. The bass player's melodic lines were simple, his motives quite minimalist in character. The pianist's improvisational accompaniment was stylistically reminiscent of that of Thelonious Monk's, with percussive accents and angular phrasing, yet comprised unusual salsa montuno lines. The saxophone's rhythmic style, with unexpected high-register squeals, reminded me of avant-gardist Albert Ayler. As is common among the island's jazz groups, a drum machine occupies the place of a live drummer. Over the course of my stay on Curaçao, I made numerous such visits to the Peperbus and other similar local jazz clubs. By degrees I began to perceive that such stylistic elements both defined Curaçaoan jazz, and were a reflection of the island's cultural identity. Largest of the Netherlands Antilles, Curaçao is an island of considerable cultural diversity. Here a reported 45 nationalities and sub-nationalities co-exist within an area of just 171 square miles. [1] This rich diversity directly influences the way the people of Curaçao view themselves. Curaçaoans embrace numerous cultural identities, and claim a variety of geographical origins. By far, Cuba seems the most popular identity marker among Afro-Curaçaoans. This is attributable to the vast Afro-Curaçaoan migration to Cuba in the 1920s when the promise of available drew them there in droves (de Jong 2003). Other Afro-Curaçaoan identity sources include Brazil and the Netherlands; even the island's original inhabitants, the Arawak Amerindians, offer Afro-Curaçaoans a source of identity (de Jong 1997). Some Curaçaoans combine ethnicities to create individualized "hybrid" concepts of self: some colorful examples include Surinam Chinese-African, Curaçaoan-born authentic pure-blood Venezuelan, and African, Dutch, Sephardic Jewish / Native American. [2] For Afro-Curaçaoans, identity is seldom a fixed concept. It may, in fact, vary "subject to the continuous 'play' of history, culture and power" (Hall 1996: 4). Curaçaoan identity "evolves, transforms, disappears, and/or reemerges over time in relation to a changing context" (Nishida 2003: 1). The idea of unfixed identity illustrates the relish Curaçaoan people take in their own diversity, countering the Western European concept that nations of people should necessarily embrace one single identity. Reflecting Curaçaoan diversity musically, the island's jazz musicians blend individualized senses of self into a single eclectic style: one colored with elements perceived to reflect chosen geographical regions of origin. Such constructs of identity inform Curaçaoan jazz. In return, the music presents the ethnologist with valuable clues toward understanding Afro-Curaçaoan identity. By negotiating a balance between a diversity of perceived identity, the jazz musicians of Curaçao mirror the island's society at large.
"I Can Be From Anywhere I Choose": An Introduction to Curaçaoan Identity
Explanations among Curaçaoans regarding their choice of identity are passionately expressed, as exemplified in comments by pianist Salsbach: "Look at me! Where do I belong? I can be from anywhere I choose. I think my history gives me that right. And I choose Cuba. It's as simple as that" (Salsbach 1997). The Curaçaoans' embrace of diversity assumes definition when examined within the context of the island's colonial and social history, to which this section addresses. Colonialism established a unique four-way social stratification on Curaçao. At the top of the list were the Dutch, who acquired Curaçao in 1684 from the Spanish, and Sephardic Jews who migrated to Curaçao from New Holland (an area of northeastern Brazil, including Recife and Pernambuco, that was ruled by the Dutch during the 17 th century). [3] At the bottom were Venezuelan nationals, mostly priests authorized by the Dutch to train enslaved Africans in the religious doctrines of Catholicism, who assumed permanent residence during the 1800s, presumably in order to serve committed converts; and the African slaves, of whom many were forced to serve all three higher culture groups. Curaçao's poor climatic conditions prohibited the island from becoming a plantation island. Instead, the Dutch-owned West Indies Company , with an eye towards Curaçao's accessible harbors, developed the island into one of the Caribbean's most lucrative slave depots. As a result of this role, there emerged two separate African communities on the island: one comprising Africans sold and transported to locations throughout the Caribbean and South America, most staying on Curaçao for only four to six months; and the second group, who, deemed unsaleable for a variety of reasons, remained on Curaçao. Over 500,000 Africans passed through Curaçao during the slave years, yet the number of slaves remaining on Curaçao was small, rarely exceeding 2,300 (Goslinga 1971). They worked in domestic positions and lived near proprietors' homes, which provided significant opportunity for intimate cultural contact. Afro-Curaçaoans gained their physical freedom when slavery was abolished in 1863, but the invisible bonds of social oppression remained equally (or more) difficult to shed. Ex-slaves were given small plots of land in Curaçao's most barren regions. Unable to survive on the allotted plots, most were forced to return to the plantations, where they resumed their positions of servitude for modest wages. Because Curaçao's economy revolved around the trading of slaves, an acute recession developed by the turn of the 20 th century. Many white Hollanders returned to the Netherlands, while most Afro-Curaçaoans traveled to nearby Caribbean islands or South American countries in search of meaningful employment. Cuba, with its profitable sugar industry, lured over half the male Afro-Curaçaoan workforce (Allen 1989). Decades later, the giant Dutch oil established refineries along Curaçao's harbors, creating the corresponding need for workers at all skill levels (Paula 1978). To meet these new employment demands, the Curaçaoan government began making arrangements during the late 1930s for the reparation of its emigrant workforce in Cuba, inviting them to come back, and holding out incentives for them to do so (van Soest 1977: 125; Römer 1977: 113-114). Scores of migrant workers returned to Curaçao, reentering now as a collective community, bringing with them revered memories of their Cuban experience, which they continued to recount and transform into a nostalgically-perceived mythology. Cuban music and dance emerged the primary vehicles by which Afro-Curaçaoans recreated and disseminated those memories, with the son [4], guaracha [5], guajira [6], and danzón [7] quickly integrated into Curaçao's social life. A unique Cuban-inspired identity emerged, with a special party, called Comback , invented as a venue for celebrating their new-found sense of cultural belonging. The Comback remains popular today, with bands or disc jockeys hired to play the 1920s hits of Cuba, or to play original, Curaçaoan-composed, songs written in the style of 1920s Cuba (de Jong 2003). Audiences flock to the parties, enthusiastically dancing out their connections to a perceived past. As one Curaçaoan explains it, "The island has no place for someone who doesn't know how to dance Cuban" (W. Wout 1998). While a Cuban-inspired identity seems oddly misplaced on the Dutch island of Curaçao, it should be noted that, prior to the Cuban migration, most Afro-Curaçaoans aligned their identities in relation to the Netherlands (Basilio interview, 1995). A Cuban nationhood, therefore, provided one of the initial outlets through which modern Afro-Curaçaoans challenged previous definitions of self. As more individuals adopted a Cuban-inspired identity, Cuba emerged a culturally-conceived line of difference that Afro-Curaçaoans used to separate themselves from the island's white population (and vice versa). Oil revenues at Shell skyrocketed during the 60s. However, much to the discouragement of both Afro-Curaçaoans and their white counterparts, the numerous new positions to evolve were filled with imported Dutch-born civil servants. A deepening discontent among Curaçao's white and black population served to unite the two groups. Their relationship culminated on May 9, 1969, when they joined forces in a politically-charged riot, known today as "The May Movement" (Anderson 1975). Cuban music and culture became central to the struggle: activists wore sported the khaki military dress made famous by the Castro regime; and 1920s Cuban dance music became, again, a music of strength and unification (de Jong 2003). Although The May Movement may have resulted in only minor changes in the island's political system, [8] its impact on Curaçaoan culture was significant and long-lasting: it unified black and white Curaçaoans; it reaffirmed Cuba as a primary vehicle by which many expressed identity (an identity sought now by both white and black Curaçaoans); and it encouraged some Afro-Curaçaoans to explore other identity choices, besides the Netherlands and Cuba.
"Think of The Blue Apple Trio as a Miniature Curaçao": An Introduction to Curaçaoan Jazz
Curaçaoan jazz reflects a cultural practice, embodying a process of human interactions whereby certain values, meanings, or social realties are created and maintained as part of the culture. Jazz assumes meaning on Curaçao through the musicians' recognition of these symbols as reflections of identity. It is, says Wout, "a meeting place of ideas" (Interview 1995), "a mixture of identities," insists drummer Gilbert Braff (Interview 1995). Wout encourages new listeners to, "Think of The Blue Apple Trio as a miniature Curaçao" (Interview 1995). Each member, having made separate decisions regarding identity, relies on jazz to communicate their identities to the public. Wout aligns himself with Arawak Amerindian culture, with his performance style, in its use of small intervals and repeated motives, meant to "represent a Native American spirit" (Interview 1997). Pianist Salsbach, by combining stylistic features of Thelonious Monk with those of salsa, reveals his alliance to Cuba. Saxophonist Willekes, with his complex rhythmic solos, tells the world, "I'm an African who studied in the United States and lives on Curaçao" (Interview 1997). A detailed look at each musician, his approach to identity and its manifestation in jazz, follows.
John Wout, Electric Bass
The motivating force behind Wout's improvisations is a self-inscribed Arawak Indian philosophy. His great-grandmother, one of the most influential persons in his life, was Arawak. "One of the last remaining Arawak Indians on the island," he proudly confesses. Wout remembers stories and proverbs passed from his great-grandmother, and reinterpreted by his grandmother, known as Dang. Dang's stories helped strengthen Wout's own connection to Arawak culture. "She always taught me to be strong," Wout remembers. "The Arawaks have always been strong people. The Africans were strong, too. But the Arawaks managed to withstand the Dutch influences imposed upon them. And I greatly respect that." As Wout continues his response, he gradually beings replacing the word Arawak with his own voice, using instead "we" and "me" when describing the Arawaks. "We fought the physical oppression of the colonists and spiritual strength, creating spiritual unity among ourselves. We never gave in to foreign domination, preferring instead to lose our lives" (Interview 1997). Wout fondly recalls some of the stories his grandmother shared with him. "Her stories fueled power. Through storytelling, she taught me and my brothers and sisters about life. She used to say, 'If you plant pumpkin seeds, you can't expect watermelons.'" The moral of the story, he explains, "lies deep within Arawak philosophy. ...Everything you do has its consequences. And if there is a particular outcome you want, you've got to prepare for that outcome. So, make your decisions wisely. ...It is about action and reaction. Everything has its consequences" (Ibid.). Admittedly, Wout's transference of Arawak philosophy to jazz music is complex. The focal point lies in the "indestructible Arawak spirit" about which Wout speaks. Bringing one's inner creative spirit to the music, the performer "is able to let go of the inner self, and the spirit can finally take flight!" Flight, he contends, is central to both jazz improvisation and to Arawak philosophy, an aesthetic glue that enables him to integrate an Arawak identity into musical performance. "When you fly, you liberate yourself," he explains.
Wout performs his improvisations with eyes closed, his bass generally held close to his body-a stance "that prepares me for flight." A basic rhythmic pattern dominates the rhythmic phrasing in his improvisations: "I can't say for sure that it's Arawak," he confesses, "but it resonates a feeling inside of me that is very Arawak." (The rhythm is transcribed in Figure 1.)
figure 1: Musical transcription of Arawak rhythm, as performed by John Wout.
The use of small intervals and repeated tones governs the melodies of his improvisations: "I listen to a lot of recordings of Native American music, and the intervals are always small, and notes are always repeated" (Interview, 1998). Wout admits that his enjoyment in playing jazz stems directly from his ability to integrate Arawak philosophies into his improvisations. Only in jazz does he feel his "spirit finally escape the body," and does he feel "truly Arawak." When the jazz performance finishes, his "journey" also ends, "not to be awakened again until the next jazz gig" (Interview, 1995).
Arnell Salsbach: Piano
Arnell Salsbach is one of Curaçao's finest salsa pianists and leads one of the island's most polished and successful salsa bands, Arnell y su Orkesta (a band that also performs frequently at Comback parties). His approach to jazz uniquely combines Thelonious Monk and Cuban salsa. His improvisational solos often begin with a left-hand stride technique, pitted against a melody jagged in contour, incorporating surprising dissonances and uneven rhythms-characteristically reminiscent of Monk's piano style. As the improvisation progresses, however, Salsbach's solos generally transform into salsa-inspired fantasies, the piano suddenly becoming a percussion instrument, offering short repetitions of accentuated chords reminiscent of salsa. The chords become more frequent and rhythmic, as Salsbach surprisingly overthrows the dictative drive of the drum machine to become the ensemble's new rhythmic commander. Occasionally, the saxophone player will lean over and turn off the drum machine during Salsbach's solos, giving the pianist complete rhythmic freedom. More often, however, the drum machine is left on, its prescribed rhythms falling subservient to Salsbach's control. The improvisation, now metamorphosed into a quasi-mambo, no longer adheres to the harmonic framework of the original jazz tune. Instead, harmony gives way to rhythmic supremacy. "I love salsa music," admits Salsbach. "I grew up hearing it from my father and mother. It's inside of me. It's a part of me, my soul, my being." Although no one in his immediate family has worked or traveled to Cuba during the migration, Salsbach "fell in great love with Cuban culture when I heard Cuban music." He marks the clave as the dominating force that drew him to Cuban culture. "The clave is so beautiful! And so powerful and strong. I feel it, you know? I can feel my heart beat within the clave, my brain thinks in clave. It has really captured me." Speaking about race and identity, Salsbach admits that, though he is of African origin, "Africa is just a word to me. I don't feel connected to it. But Cuba, Cuba for me is home. And the clave is the force that takes me home" (Interview, 1997). (A transcription of the Cuban clave rhythm may be found in Figure 2.)
Figure 2: Musical transcription of clave rhythm, as performed by Arnell Salsbach.
Salsbach's specific jazz interests lie with pianist Thelonious Monk. Although, for the inexperienced jazz listener, Monk is considered avant-garde, Salsbach is drawn to Monk's unusual style, admiring Monk's musical technique, approach to composition, and conduct in performance. "I've always been attracted to strange things, you know? And Monk's style is very different. I appreciate that. His [use of] rhythm is so unusual and complex. I can always hear the clave in his playing" (Ibid.). Intermixing Monk and salsa "keeps me and my music close to Cuba," Salsbach explains (Ibid.). It is a unique style that Salsbach believes best portrays his identification with Cuba. Since Cuba dominates the choice of identity among the majority of Afro-Curaçaoans, most audience members delight in Salsbach's playing. His improvisations regularly ignite shouts of approval from the jazz crowds, excitement peaking when the tune transforms into a mambo-like fantasy. While some may nod their heads and clap, others participate in the performance, beating out the accompanying clave onto their chairs and tables. As one audience member explains it, "You know when I feel most Cuban? When I hear Arnell playing jazz!" (Interview 1995).
John James Willekes, Saxophone
On meeting saxophonist John James Willekes, it becomes quickly apparent he is devoted to promoting African thought and historical awareness among the Curaçaoan people. Not only determined to secure his own identification with that continent, Willekes also strives to establish "Mother Africa" as a quality choice of identity for other Curaçaoans, explaining, "Not enough Curaçaoans really understand that they are an offspring of Africa." Willekes' involvement with Africa began in childhood, with his grandmother sharing stories of the Africa she remembered hearing about from her ancestors. A descendant from Cuba, his grandmother, Willekes smiles, "she understood spirit" (Interview 1995). Unlike the majority of Curaçaoans who, if they attended college, traveled to the Netherlands, Willekes studied music at the University of Puerto Rico as well as the Manahattan School of Music in New York City. "I got to the States early [in] 1973," he offers as a reason why he identifies so strongly with Africa. "New York gave me my first opportunity to study Black history at an organized level. I went to African-organized meetings. I went to African parties, Pro-African organizations. I learned Africa from top to bottom." He met Louis Farrakhan and Stokely Carmichael; he studied Malcolm X and Medgar Evers. "It opened a lot for me," he confesses. "I discovered I come from an important race. That there are great people in my race." Willekes married an African American woman from Georgia, and, together, they returned to Curaçao, because, Willekes explains, "I had this elaborate idea that I could enlighten Curaçao about Africa; how freeing it is once we're connected with our roots" (Ibid.). Willekes' improvisations are very rhythmic in character. "Africa is rhythm," he explains, adding, with more precision, "My playing is rhythmic, because I am African." The rhythms Willekes integrates into his solos are often ones specific to Curaçao. One of his favorite rhythms to use in jazz is taken from a Curaçaoan slave harvest ritual, called Seú . The ritual utilizes one certain rhythm, which, also called seú , is played in recognition of the harvest gods, thanking them before and after planting season. (The basic seú rhythm is transcribed in Figure 3.)
Figure 3: Musical transcription of seú rhythm, as performed by John James Willekes.
Willekes turns to Curaçao's creole language, Papiamento , for rhythmic inspiration. Papiamento , when spoken, has certain vocal inflections that are, themselves, rhythmically syncopated. As such, Willekes suggests, Papiamento provides a useful "rhythmic base." Scat singing is "The African American concept of Africa," he explains. Papiamento , he adds, provides a Caribbean alternative. "I can't tell the story of the black man in America," Willekes reminds. "I've got to speak the story of the black man in Curaçao. That's why I use Papiamento and Seú " (Interview, 1997).
"Just Don't Expect Us to Play, or Think, or be Like You": Conclusions
Cultural identity is both maintained and enhanced through a number of symbolic communication systems. Language (in both its spoken and written form), for example, reflects cultural distinctiveness in that it represents a phenomenon taught rather than biologically inherited. Society, in assigning meaning to sounds and symbols, is able to enhance connotation through the sensory representation of physical form. Words (as combinations of sounds and symbols) are assigned specific symbolic meaning by language, and become extremely powerful thereby. Within the context of culture, language transcends the mere sequence of sounds and symbols to reflect social attitudes and values. Likewise, Curaçaoan jazz embodies a unique vocabulary of sounds and symbols, employed and manipulated by musicians as a means to communicate choices of identity. Musical rhythm emerges prominent, serving as "sign vehicles...[meant] to signal loyalty and solidarity to a particular community in a particular status domain...and communicate this 'situatedness' to others as relevant context for the interpretation of persons' motives and goals" (Shaw 1994: 84). Be it a self-defined Arawak rhythm, the clave, or the seú , musical rhythm becomes a code of belonging on Curaçao, embraced by the island's jazz musicians as a mechanism through which they may raise their identity choices to mythological status. They continue to celebrate the fountainheads of their senses of belonging through jazz performance, their choices of rhythms now serving as the aural explanations of their existence (Kammen 1991). Paul Berliner (1994)) and Ingrid Monson (1996) examine jazz as a conversation, pointing to the mechanics of improvisation as vital to the exchange. Curaçaoan jazz musicians, too, share a conversation during performance, adopting modes of interaction that, culturally specific to Curaçao, enable them to "say something" in ways that articulate personal and collective identities (Monson 1996). No matter how differently members of Curaçaoan jazz ensembles may approach identity, they still seem to present polished, well-connected musical styles. One quickly realizes that, despite the rhythmic confluences among the musicians, Curaçaoan jazz embodies certain rules. Like African American jazz, it, too, is "a very structured thing that comes down from a tradition and requires a lot of thought and study" (Wynton Marsalis, qutd. by Berliner 1994: 63). According to its rules of conversation: (1) participating musicians have made well thought-out choices regarding identity; (2) they choose to perform their identities through the medium of musical rhythm; and (3) they assume control during their individual solo improvisations, when each, in turn, is provided the freedom to express their individual rhythms/identities while others, consciously keeping their own "rhythms of identity" at bay, assume roles of support, careful to enhance (rather than detract from) the soloist. In this way, Curaçaoan jazz aims to unite the island's diversity of cultural voices in a dynamic yet continuous process of collective reinterpretation and reenactment; and, by negotiating balance between the divergence of perceived identity, Curaçaoan jazz mirrors the island's society at large. As Wout encouraged, before I took to the stage to sit-in as guest flutist with his band, "The Blue Apple Trio represents the great cultural mosaic of Curaçao. Yet we accept our differences and even appreciate our differences. And when another musician comes in to sit in with us, like yourself, who represents yet another very different cultural make-up, you're welcomed, as are your differences. Just don't expect us to play, or think, or be like you" (Interview 1995).
Postscript:
The research for this paper was collected during several visits to Curaçao over the course of three years (1995-1997). As a flautist, versed in jazz, I was fortunate to become a regular guest artist with The Blue Apple Trio, as well as several other jazz ensembles on the island. Through the bond of musical performance, I was able to connect with and gain the respect of Curaçaoan musicians in ways that would otherwise have been impossible. Many of the conversations I engaged with musicians occurred after gigs, when clubs and restaurants shut their doors to outside visitors, and offered drinks to the musicians and a few close friends. Without my flute-playing, these conversations would almost certainly have remained closed, and musicians likely would not have conversed so honestly and openly with me.
Interviews
Basilio, Gibi (anthropologist). 1995. Curaçao. Braff, Gilbert (drummer). 1995. Curaçao. Salsbach, Arnell (pianist and bandleader). 1995, 1997. Curaçao. Willekes, John James (saxophonist and bandleader). 1995, 1997. Curaçao. Wout, John (electric bass player and bandleader). 1995, 1997, 1998. Curaçao. Wout, Walter (pianist and bandleader). 1997. Curaçao.
Sources Cited
Allen, Rose Mary (1989) "Ta Cuba Mi Ke Bai." Afhankelijheid en Dominantie in de Antilles , Amsterdam: Caraïbsche Werkgroep. Anderson, William Averette (1975) Social Movements, Violence, and Change: The May Movement in Curaçao . Columbus: Ohio State University Press. Benjamin, Alan F. (2002) Jews of the Dutch Caribbean: Exploring Ethnic Identity on Curaçao . London: Routledge. Berliner, Paul (1994) Thinking in Jazz: The Infinite Art of Improvisation . Chicago : University of Chicago Press. de Jong, Nanette (1997) Chosen Identities and Musical Symbols: The Curaçaoan Jazz Community and The Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians . Ph.D. Diss.: University of Michigan. de Jong, Nanette (2003) "Forgotten Histories and (Mis)Remembered Cultures: The Comback Party of Curaçao," British Journal of Ethnomusicology . Fall/Winter, 12:2, 135-151. Goslinga, Cornelis Charles (1971) The Dutch in the Caribbean and on the Wild Coast, 1580-1680 . Gainesville: University of Florida Press. Hall, Stuart (1996) "Introduction: Who Needs 'Identity'?" Questions of Cultural Identity . Eds. Stuart Hall and Paul de Gay. London: Sage Publications, 1-17. Kammen, Michael (1991) Mystic Chords of Memory: The Transformation of Tradition in American Culture , New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Nishida, Mieko (2003) Slavery and Identity: Ethnicity, Gender, and Race in Salvador, Brazil, 1808-1888 . Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Monson, Ingrid (1996) Saying Something: Jazz Improvisation and Interaction . Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Paula, A.F. (1978) Problemen Rondom de Emigratie van Arbeiders uit de Kolonie Curaçao naar Cuba, 1917-1937 , Curaçao. Römer, Rene (1977) Un Pueblo na Kaminda: Een Sociologisch Historische Schets van de Curaçaose Samenleving , Leiden: Shaw, Thomas (1994) "The Semiotic Mediation of Identity." Ethos 22:1, 81-119. Soest, J. van (1977) "The World on an Island: The International Labour Force of Shell in Curaçao, 1915-1960," !977 Conference Papers , Cave Hill, Barbados.
Notes
[1] This number is taken from findings documented by the 1995 Curaçao Census Board. [2] These ethnic classifications come from an advertisement for Rudy's Grocery Store , taken from local newspaper, Bala (October 23, 1992), as cited by Alan Benjamin (2002: 52). "Suriname Chinese-African" was the identity claimed by Curaçaoan Ewald Onga Kwie; "Curaçaoan-born authentic pure-blood Venezuelan" was the identity claimed by Curaçaoan Errol Cova; and "African, Dutch, Sephardi Jew-Native American" was the identity claimed by Rudy Plaate, the owner of the store. The stated intent of the advertisement was Plaate's desire that "all ethnic identities...feel welcome at his store" (Benjamin 2002: 52). The advertisement also serves as written testimony to the wide-ranging identities existing on Curaçao, as well as the people's own acceptance of those differences. [3] It is estimated that, between 1725 and 1770, Sephardics actually outnumbered the Dutch on Curaçao. [4] The Afro-Cuban son utilized lyrics and instrumentation to demonstrate the fusion of things African and European. [5] The guaracha , a working-class Afro-Cuban vocal/dance genre repressed in the 19th century, similarly reemerged in Cuba during the early 20th century. [6] The guajira (subgenre of the son ) combined Spanish traditions with Hispanic melodies to create a new syncretized form that celebrated rural life and the Cuban countryside with romanticized nostalgia . [7] The danzón became an important national symbol during Cuba's war against Spain (1898), reemerging to express the depth of artistic possibilities available within Cuba's Creole culture. [8] Following the May Movement, Afro-Curaçaoans, for the first time, were considered for employment in certain governmental positions: in 1970, the first black Governor was appointed; in 1973, the first black Prime Minister was elected. Internal conflicts ensued, however, with the Dutch government soon regaining its political stronghold. For more information, see William Averette Anderson's Social Movements, Violence, and Change: The May Movement in Curaçao. |
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Nanette de Jong received her Ph.D. from the University of Michigan, and is currently an assistant professor at Mason Gross School of the Arts, Rutgers University, New Brunswick, New Jersey, where she teaches ethnomusicology and flute performance, and conducts the Rutgers University Salsa Band. Her research broadly focuses on the music and rituals of the African diaspora, emphasizing their role in the establishment of collective memory. Her articles on the Netherlands Antilles and on the Chicago-based Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians have been published in such journals as Ethnomusicology, British Journal of Ethnomusicology, and Jazzforschung/Jazz Research. |
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