"BUT THEY TOLD ME TO JUST DUMP IT IN THE DRIVEWAY!"
What Happens When Cultures Value Rank Over Rationality. Here's How it Happened to Me.
What Happens When Cultures Value Rank Over the Rational.
Yup, that’s my jeep. And that’s my driveway (quick cultural query: why do US-Americans park in a driveway, but drive on a parkway? But that’s another story for another time. For now, back to the driveway and the jeep): and that’s also my pile of gravel. The gravel and the driveway and the jeep are all on the little island of St Thomas, USVI, a uniquely Caribbean culture that only happens to technically — and tangentially — also be US-American. Lucky for me that I can split my home-base between Brooklyn, New York (home to the largest West Indian population on the US mainland, by the way) and an actual Caribbean island, so over time I’ve learned a bit about the differences — and similarities — between “mainland” US culture and the ways of the Caribbean. When on-island, just getting through the day is filled with constant reminders that this is a full-throttled, full-on Caribbean culture, the result of centuries of brutal colonialism, slavery, exploitation and piracy, as well as a joyful mix of mainly African and some western traditions. Of course, day-tripping tourists rarely see any of this, disembarking from their cruise ships for a day on the beach. But spend a little time away from the beaches and the hotels, go where the locals live, and the richness — and challenges — of island life will hit you like, well, a ton or two of gravel being dumped in your driveway.
“Whoa, wait a minute!”, I shouted as I heard the truck backing down into my driveway. Sipping my morning coffee, the soft morning chirp of the bananaquit was violently drowned-out by the roar of a diesel-belching dumptruck. 7 a.m., and still in boxers and a t-shirt, I am suddenly running outside, coffee cup flying, in desperate hopes of stopping the dumptruck from depositing several tons of gravel into my driveway that I ordered a few days before for the garden.
“This needs to go in the garden!”, I shouted as I ran. “Not here!” Eyes met. I know the driver saw me, and heard me, but too late. Work is done very early on the island (by 11a, it is often simply too hot, and then there’s lunch, and anytime after lunch is always referred to as “evening”, and there’s your day…so early morning is when everything happens, and it starts about as soon as the tropical sun comes up). Dumptrucks at 7am want to dump, load and move on to the next job as fast as they can. So, up went the back of the truck in a flash, and in one large whoosh, out came gravel mountain. Right in front of my jeep.
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