There were many pretenders this Valentine’s Day

Feb 15, 2009 Features / Columnists, My Column

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Yesterday was supposed to be the day for lovers and there appeared to be many. There were even people seeking lovers and there were the pretenders. Of course yesterday was Valentine’s Day, the day when many business places do brisk sales for those who want to show their partner that they really care.

On Friday, I walked the streets to see if there were many shoppers for that special gift. As a young man I remembered women talking about chocolates. Some talked about perfumes and still others talked about some dress or pair of shoes. More than a few talked about Valentine’s Night parties.

Things were different then. Every bottom house had a Valentine’s party and depending on the village and the popularity of the host, these parties were grand affairs. Some hosts rented community centres while others rented school rooms.

I had my share of Valentine’s parties and as it was this year, if the parties were held on the weekend then the sport was so much better.

I once had a girlfriend whose mother would not let her out of her sight so our love life was confined to the train that ran at the time. If I got there before her then I would keep a seat, ignoring the cussing from people who were forced to stand. If the person was big and strong or a woman then I would readily shift down and when the train reached the station where my girlfriend boarded I would be the perfect gentleman and get up so that she could rest her pretty legs.

There was no sitting on laps as is the case these days when young people triple-up in minibuses. For one, people would disrespect both you and the woman; secondly your mother would hear of your indiscretion. Heaven help the girl, who would be branded everything bad under the sun.

Make-up was not as sophisticated as it is these days. Hair straightener or hair relaxer was confined to a hot comb so when you danced with a girl you could smell the burnt hair and that smell remained with you all night. Not even the pomade they used could disguise that smell. Not that it mattered then.

Also at the Valentine’s party people like me went home with the telltale signs of pink powder splashed all over your shirt where the girl would rest her face. These days there is still the pink powder although I am tending to the view that there is so much more to do with make-up.

As a boy, the teachers taught me to make these cards and to write the name of the person I would wish to be my Valentine. I remember on one occasion writing the name of my mother only to be told that she couldn’t be. There was no explanation although this past week I encountered a man who would have taken his mother for his Valentine every time he got drunk. He is before the court and his community although I doubt very much that it means anything to him.

Just before my teen years when I began to notice girls and started to feel that little bit of discomfort in my stomach, there was a little girl and I wrote her name in one of the cards. Then I made the mistake of sending it to her. Instead of opening the card in private she opened it among her friends, then raised her head and saw me smiling.

She tore the card then came up to me and gave me a kick that I suppose I feel to this day although I do not know which part of the world she is. Perhaps that is why I never got caught up in Valentine’s exchanges.
Of course I had to be part of tradition so I would take my now ex-wife to dinner and perhaps a little shuffle. One year it was Xanadu on Vlissengen Road, a place that I still have fond memories of.

These days I wonder if there could be any shuffle. The other night I went to a club because some of the younger generation enticed me to visit this lovely place. No sooner had I entered than I thought it best to leave. The music was loud and blaring and the songs, or what passed for songs, were like the recitations of primary school children.

Of course the sight of acrobatic young men presenting their rear ends for a rub or a bump or a grind was amusing. Sexuality has come full circle, I thought.

The men appeared to be broke and so they would buy a beer for themselves and the woman must fend for herself. That reminded me of a story in Beterverwagting many moons ago.
This man went to a Valentine’s party with his girl and he left her on the bench, keeping an eye on her and waving from time to time. He had danced the first number with her but that was that.

He sponged some liquor from friends and she was capable enough to be offered some refreshments from another man who danced with her to her heart’s delight. Then came time to go home and her man decided that he should now take control.

The shopper became angry and for a while there was this tug of war. Some of us would cut our losses but this fellow was not so inclined. He picked up a bottle and parted her skull, sending blood to commingle with the burnt hair on her head.

I don’t remember if the police got involved but I doubt whether she ever went to another dance with her man again. In fact, if I am not mistaken, she left him because he failed to represent her.

These days I watch the pretenders in their red and white and I hear the shouts of ‘Happy Valentine’. I can’t make head or tail of the music which is a far cry from the days of the romantic ballads and crooning voices. I can’t handle the ‘bend down gyal’ or ‘roll yuh bumper’. Rolling the bumper is for the bed after the Valentine’s party as would be the bend down and things like that.

So I went to the calypso final and had a ball drinking some rum and paying precious little attention to the songs. I am now going to read the papers to determine who won and if the results are not there then I will call someone who was there.

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