Carolyn Cooper | Edward Baugh – The man and the mask

Just last month, I telephoned Eddie asking for permission to publish the talk he gave in 1994 to launch my book Noises in the Blood. The invitation to the event was a dancehall-style poster. Eddie mischievously embraced the identity I’d seduced him to accept. The opening paragraphs of his talk demonstrated his generosity, wit and flair for the dramatic:

“Let me begin with a confession. All my life I’ve dreamed of seeing my name on a poster that looks like this ... . Little did some of my friends guess the thrill I was enjoying when, after this poster began to sprout up all over the place, they would hail me in jest with a salutation that went something like this: ‘Ha! I see your name is now on trees in Papine!’ And there was I saying to myself gleefully, ‘Yes, and on street-light posts, and on zinc fences around building sites!’

“What all of this means is that at last my desire has coincided with Carolyn’s will; because for all of her life since she first met me – which is a good time now (emphasis on ‘good’) – she has been determined to change my image. Well, now is the hour. Perhaps how I should really put it is that Carolyn has always known the real me underneath what everybody else saw, or thought they saw. So, thanks to Carolyn, this evening I have come into my own; I is a DJ man now. Indeed, I should even like to think that when the real people looked at this poster and saw the word ‘Professor,’ (or ‘Prof.’ in some versions) they knew, they knew right away that that was really just a DJ nickname – ‘Chile, you hear the new DJ yet, Professor Edward Baugh?’”

TRAPPED IN THE JOB OF PUBLIC ORATOR

It is this skill at role play that made Eddie Baugh’s performance of citations such a high point of the graduation ceremonies on the Mona Campus of The University of the West Indies. In 1998, thirty-one of these brilliant citations were published in the volume, Chancellor, I Present . . . Outstanding Achievement & Excellence. Revealing the somewhat exasperated man behind the mask of compliant Public Orator, Eddie made this disclosure in the “Preface”:

“Little did I think then [in 1985] that I would still be at the job, trapped in it as it were, thirteen years later. Little did I think then how much hard work it would entail, not in the performance of the citations (although one has the sweats every time, especially while waiting to go on), but in the writing of them, with the research that that entailed. Little did I think then that I would come to be regarded by some as being generally and indiscriminately available to do citations, or that many people would seem to think, to occasional resentment on my part I must confess, that my substantive post in the University was that of Public Orator, rather than Professor of English.”

For years, I’d been urging Eddie to write a memoir that would show the world not the image, but the reality of a man who was son, brother, husband, father, grand-father, poet, scholar, teacher and actor. In this instance, Eddie’s desire did not coincide with my will. He kept brushing me off. I simply couldn’t understand his reticence.

COMPLEXITY OF MEMORY

I’ve recently had a revelation. Eddie’s memoir is already written. In the poem, “Sunday Afternoon Walks with My Father,” Eddie acknowledges “memory’s dark green opaque.” This enigmatic image evokes the complexity of memory. It’s not a straightforward narrative line. Eddie’s memoir is his poems that tell the story of nurturing family life and enduring friendship. It’s also his scholarship that documents the intellectual life of the Caribbean in the literature of the region. Eddie’s memoir is written in the accomplishments of the generations of students he has taught. I once told him – words to this effect – “Nuh bodder regret that you didn’t become a full-time poet like Derek Walcott. Your teaching is pure poetry.”

On the occasion of the emotional send-off that marked Eddie’s retirement from The University of the West Indies in 2001, he entertained the audience with a witty excerpt from his unscripted memoir: “One evening in 1965, or 1966, I walked into a lecture room at Cave Hill and before I could begin, the brightest young man in the class stuck up his hand and said, ‘The girls in the class would like to know if you’re married.’ I wasn’t married then. Three weeks ago, I walked into a lecture room here and was stopped dead in my tracks as I got through the door to see a huge potted plant, spathiphyllum, in cellophane with a ribbon.

“And the class representative got up and made a little speech. I mean, I was completely taken aback, pleasurably so. And then she gave me a card which fifteen of them, mostly girls, had written something in .... And the last of the fifteen said this: .... ‘I really enjoyed being in your class. You seem the type of person I would enjoy having as a granddad. Peace always!’ So between those two moments, framed by them, signified upon by them, is the trajectory of my life. I mean, granddad is reality enough. But when a young woman wishes me peace, and peace is spelled p-e-a-c-e, then, then I know that my number is up.” Twenty-two years later, Eddie’s number is only just up. Accepting the reality of passionate peace is his final act. The man and the mask are at one.

Carolyn Cooper, PhD, is a teacher of English language and literature and a specialist on culture and development. Email feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com and karokupa@gmail.com.