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I have no heart for Valentine’s

Feb 14, 2010 Features / Columnists, My Column

Today is Valentine’s Day and I am seeing a sea of red and white. There was a time when everyone was involved. Parents took special pleasure in dressing up their children in the colours of the day.
But even before the day, in schools, teachers lived out the fantasy. They had the children draw red hearts, make valentine cards and even sang songs about Valentine’s. The radios blared those crooning that spoke of love everlasting and there were special Valentine’s cakes and chocolates and things like that.
I couldn’t afford the cakes and the chocolates although I had friends who shared tidbits with me but I did make those hearts and wrote love words in them. I even had a girlfriend who might have suspected but then again, we were too young to think of love.
I remember slipping one of the cards in the girl’s exercise book when she wasn’t looking. I knew when she found it because I was sitting right behind her. She glanced at me and smiled. My heart soared until it was time for dismissal. The brat showed the card to her friends and I had no peace. I was the butt of jokes.
I didn’t know it then but there is a quotation, “There is none so cruel as a child.” These children made me a target and I was too ashamed to do anything about it. Boys don’t cry but the tears were never far away.
I suppose that is why to this day I never set much store by Valentine’s Day although I enjoy the spectacle. When I got married, for a few years I bought magical things for my spouse and indeed we tried to cook special dishes.
Long before that there were the Valentine’s parties, usually at a hall. Back in my youth there were no discotheques and night clubs. Parties were kept at community centres and village halls. The girls would spend hours at the hairdresser who was none other than a neighbour who had a pressing comb, some pomade and a curling iron.
For those too young to know, a pressing comb was a metal comb which was stuck in the fire until hot. The hair was then greased with pomade and the comb applied. Many a woman got burnt skulls. At the appointed hour they would leave for the party.
In my teenage years when I myself began to go to the Valentine’s parties, girls still resorted to the pressing comb, sometimes called the hot comb, and the curling iron. And when I danced with them (the dancing was so different from today) I smelt the burnt hair. That was a smell that stuck to the nostrils for a very long time. Sometimes I still smell it.
Valentine’s is a time for love but in our corner of the world, it is a time to “catch a thing” and profess our love for her only to move on not too long after. It is also the time when young girls go out looking for that Cupid.
It is also a time for big business. They offer all manner of things, including artificial roses which I notice do wonders for the recipients. It is a time for dreams and dreamers but more than anything, it is a time when the stores rush to sell everything red and white.
Yesterday, one day ahead of the big day I enjoyed the women who showed off. Some had red tops and white skirts or white jeans. Indeed, those who provided the greatest joy for me were those in jeans that had become too small and so had bellies floating around the top and butts struggling like the devil to escape the confinement.
I couldn’t remember hearing any new songs but I did hear some radio programmes offering all manner of incentives.
What astounds me, though, is the fact that people do have money to go out on Valentine’s. These are the people who complained about the hard January month and who are still waiting for the February pay packet. Such is the resilience of the Guyanese people.
But back to Valentine’s. It is one day when in my solitude I enjoy the love or what passes for love among young people. I tried to make my children appreciate everything that had to do with love and I suppose that they have.
So each year when Valentine’s Day comes around I do have something to look forward to, even if I fail to send a Valentine’s to any woman.

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