My Caribbean Agoodjié

Guadeloupe – any time between 1635 and 1946 (perhaps even 2024)

Picture a woman—a proud woman who stands tall and centers her values in every aspect of her life. Her elegance and her strength cannot be denied. In her presence, knees buckle and backs bend. Without ever uttering a single word, she calls for respect and special attentions. A silent look from her and everything falls into place. At times, she chooses to distill the entirety of her power in a simple throat clearing, which, in turn, can clear a table, empty a room or wipe out a workforce.

Now, zoom out. Avert your attention from this woman and look about three steps behind her. There… this is my biggest dragon: the woman whose presence is overshadowed by the first; the one no-one looks at, talks to or even acknowledges. She is the woman in the presence of whom others—of more importance—spill their vitriol, their darkest and most shameful secrets, as if she were not there, because… well, she does not truly count. She comes with the building and the furniture. Her flesh and bones only exist as material support for the services she provides; beyond that, what is she really? She acquiesces, performs and disappears. When she shows herself in public, eyes turn to avoid meeting hers and bile gathers in her betters’ throats. Her presence is consumed as an offering to the powerful; she gives them the proper latitude to feel the true measure of their might and authority.

My dragons are many and they do not have a face, a voice or even a name. They were shaped over centuries in the Guadeloupean clay of resilience and historical violence; hardened every hour of every day for strength but always walking along the precipice of weakness; because they strive not for the former and fear not the latter. Each of them has carved spaces for themselves in the great tradition of Caribbean cunning and resourcefulness. They are masters in the art of scraping and transforming. They make coffee with their tears and sweeten it with the daily assaults on their dignity. They have been systematically reduced to doing whatever it takes for their children to have food and for their husbands to not reduce them any further.

Their main concern is life; as in, the next breath. They are the dangerous, disrespected army of the toothless, who sometimes cackle with mouths wide open and the depths of their throats exposed. Rarely do they seek the shelter of respectability by covering their gums. Those at the top may find the sight grotesque but are envious of this freedom. After all, how dare they still exist after everything that was done to eliminate them? How dare they be so free?

Although they may be descendants of the fierce Dahomean Amazons—the Agoodjié—they have not inherited the warriors’ training and martial discipline. Instead, they have built their own training programs with the materials imposed to them: being exposed, for centuries, to the vilest behaviors from the vilest of men—and the women who benefit from those men’s dominance. They have honed their blades on the disdain and viciousness thrown their way and tempered the steel in the constant flow of venom spat in their faces. You could not dream of sharper edges than the blades of their joy—their weapon of choice: a smile as a dagger to slit the throat of despair; a joke followed by a loud belly laugh to crack the skull of the gloom that seeks to ensnare their children; a song, a sway of the hip to bulldoze over the sadness sawn by their oppressors.

Because victory looks different from the gutter and the bowels of society, many may consider that my dragons are not here to win. That is fair. However, their contribution is essential. They make it safer for me and their other daughters to simply be. They have built up our ability to metabolize so many social poisons, we are bound to be unstoppable. Just give us one more generation. Watch.