The rather confident "general assistant bot" on poe.com gives this account of the origin and definition of the word 'pree': "In Jamaican slang, the word 'pree' is derived from the English word 'peer' and is used to mean 'to look at' or 'to observe.' It is often used in the context of paying attention to or checking out something or someone. For example, 'Mi a pree di vibes' could translate to 'I'm checking out the vibes' or 'I'm observing the atmosphere.'"
The bot got the meaning of the word right, more or less. But the origin seems suspect. The Oxford Languages Dictionary defines 'peer' in this way: "look with difficulty or concentration at someone or something." The meaning of the English word 'peer' is not quite the same as the Jamaican 'pree.' Concentration, yes! Difficulty, no! Pree-ers find it quite easy to concentrate on the object of their attention.
Instead of depending on a foreign bot to give me an accurate explanation of the origin of 'pree,' I asked a human being, Dr Joseph Farquharson, head of the Jamaican Language Unit at The University of the West Indies (UWI), Mona. He speculates that, "Prii is most likely derived from English 'preview' and can probably be linked to television shows and movies which give viewers a taste of what is to come."
Yu see how Joseph a show off pon mi wid di prapa-prapa spelling of chaka-chaka 'pree'! Understandably so! He's a linguist, specialising in lexicography, the writing of dictionaries. Joseph is the Chief Editor of the Dictionary of the Jamaican Language which is in production. He explains that, "It will include all words and meanings Jamaicans use, regardless of their origin."
Unlike the know-it-all "general assistant bot," Joseph was quite cautious in his response to my question about 'prii.' "Most likely" and "probably" signal that he is not speaking definitively, despite his expertise. Sounds familiar? Foreigners – bots and all – have a way of presuming to define us and our culture with complete authority. Wid dem bright self!
CULTURAL POLITICS
In April 2018, the online literary magazine, PREE, was launched in Kingston. It was Dr Isis Semaj-Hall, a lecturer in the Department of Literatures in English at UWI, Mona, who dubbed the magazine with its artful name. A literary magazine that brands itself with a word that's popular in Jamaican dancehall culture is obviously making a profound statement about cultural politics.
The magazine was co-founded by Annie Paul, an editor by profession; Diana McCaulay, an award-winning novelist and environmentalist; Sharmaine Lovegrove, co-founder of Dialogue Books; and Isis Semaj-Hall. For the first issue, Isis wrote a most entertaining essay, "A Brief History of the Word 'Pree.'" The title seemed to pay ironic homage to Marlon James' 2014 novel, A Brief History of Seven Killings, which is anything but brief. Isis acknowledges the culture-specific roots of the word:
"Pree is a Jamaican word. Press play on any dancehall song and you'll hear a boastful deejay chatting about which 'hot gyal ah pree him' or how 'im a pree di money' or how 'im nuh pree badmind people.' . . . When someone says pree, it is not a request; it is a gentle command that the listener take notice of something or someone new, important, significant."
"POP VERBAL STYLE"
In the six years since the inception of PREE, the magazine has decidedly proven its importance and significance. It's a distinctive open access digital platform for new writing from the Caribbean. Many creatives have responded to PREE's engaging invitation: "If you want to flex your writing muscle on subjects ranging from literature, art and politics, to gender, technology, race and popular culture, PREE provides the space for it. If you want to pop verbal style, flip the script or boldly invent new metaphors whether in prose, drama or poetry this is where you do it."
From May 27-30, the PREE writing studio was hosted on the UWI campus. The tutors were the formidable Caribbean writers Garnette Cadogan, Ishion Hutchinson, Kei Miller, Ingrid Persaud, Shivanee Ramlochan and Leone Ross. Sharmaine Lovegrove tutored on publishing. On May 27 and 28, there were readings and discussions with these eminent writers at 10A West King's House Road, to which the public was invited. Admission was free.
In the good old days of the annual Calabash International Literary Festival, co-founded by Justine Henzell, Kwame Dawes and Colin Channer, many of us would have been in Treasure Beach the previous weekend for the final Sunday event. Thanks to PREE, we did not suffer from withdrawal symptoms this year when the now biennial festival was not on. The Calabash spirit came to town at 10A, the former home of the Henzells.
On Monday, at 7:00 p.m, Ingrid Persaud, in conversation with Diana McCaulay, celebrated the Jamaica launch of her novel, The Lost Love Songs of Boysie Singh, which tells the story of four women entangled with a notorious gangster and murderer. At 8:00, there were readings by Ishion Hutchinson, Kei Miller, Shivanee Ramlochan and Leone Ross.
Gender politics is central to Leone Ross's This One Sky Day. She introduced the novel by paying her respects to Anthony Winkler, "the king of Jamaican mischief." Strange sexual happenings occur in the fiction of both writers. In Leone's novel, the private parts of the governor's daughter, Sonteine, magically fall off.
Shivanee Ramlochan opened with a startling admission. Since she was about eight years old she has been accused of being a witch. Her poem, "Witch Hindu," confronts that allegation. Addressing the exploitative males who raped her ancestors, she issues this warning: "witch hindu promises you will not be able to think of/sorries in the land where reparations are drawn first/ from the battlements of your thighs."
A CAUTIONARY TALE
The first poem Ishion Hutchinson read, "The Night Autobiographies of Leopold Dice," recounts the complexity of personal and national politics. The conflict between green and orange parties in Jamaica reflects the gender dynamic between Leopold, who became a farm worker in Florida, and Isabella Fernandez Garcia, the Cuban woman who "dredged all/ the money he made in those swamps."
On Leopold's return to Jamaica, with a lucky throw of the dice, he is redeemed by the baker May:
"her ginger beer so strong it burned
his throat for days,
purged him clean of wonder, rum,
and other women."
Kei Miller read from his collection in progress. His poem, "Between Here and Every Promised Land," documents the fleeting fame of Clifton Brown who was interviewed on Television Jamaica about the flooding of a river in his community. Clifton's words, "Nobody canna cross it (the bus can swim)," were transformed into a Refix video by DJ Powa. Kei turns Clifton's short-lived popularity into a cautionary tale of how quickly we move on to the "next and strange exciting episode of Jamaica."
On the second evening, the panel discussion on the tradition of essay writing in the Caribbean opened with a reading by journalist Garnette Cadogan about family in which he riffed on the various names by which he is called. Roland Watson-Grant, who is primarily a fiction writer, related how he gradually branched out into essay writing. He highlighted the intertwining of various narrative forms in his body of work. Roland, the son of an obeah man, wrote a brilliant essay for Afar magazine on the still outlawed practice: "In Jamaica, Obeah Is an Ancient Magic That's Rarely Discussed—Until Now".
AFAR MAGAZINE ILLUSTRATION OF ROLAND WATSON-GRANT'S ESSAY
"YOU PEOPLE SELL WI OUT"
For me, the most riveting of all the panels was the conversation between Erna Brodber and Kei Miller on "De-Slaving Information." Erna, a distinguished novelist, historical sociologist, essayist and cultural activist, brilliantly reflected on the urgent need for the Caribbean intellectual to take into account the perspective of those who are often dismissed as uneducated. Erna disclosed that she was chastised by one of the 100 people she interviewed for her acclaimed book, The Second Generation of Freemen in Jamaica, 1907-1944.
One of them said to her, words to this effect, "Yu know, you people sell wi out. Wi feel dat unu give up Emancipation. Unu give up August 1st an tek on di odder something. . . . Di old people don't like dat yu know." Erna was motivated to revive the celebration of Emancipation Day in her community. In addition, she was asked to do a review of the government's social development programmes. She recommended that Emancipation Day be put back on the national calendar.
Erna also meditated on the way schooling turned Emancipation into a joke. The curriculum reinforced negative perceptions of the capacity of Africans to fulfil their potential as free people. Furthermore, not all schools offered opportunities for academic excellence. Students often had to travel far from home. As Erna put it so wickedly, "Elementary school now is like obeah. The further you go to a obeah man, the better he is."
I recently recognised the truth of Erna's assertion. Last Wednesday, at approximately 5:30 a.m., I passed the Windward Road Primary and Junior High School on my way to the airport. I was shocked to see three children going into the schoolyard at that ungodly hour. On my way back, I stopped to look for the children. Mrs Andrea White-Green, security/watchwoman, told me that there were several children already at school.
The acting principal, Mrs Tanisha Montaque, confirmed that students come from far and wide: Portmore, Yallahs, Bull Bay, even Linstead! Children have to leave home very early with their parents who are going to work. Many teachers volunteer to come before the start of school to help take care of these students through a structured Early Work Programme.
At the end of the school day, some students often stay as late as 6 p.m. Children should not have to spend twelve hours at school. This is a vexatious matter we must address. If, as a society, we are truly committed to the development of all Jamaican children, we have to ensure that they can learn in circumstances that give them a fair chance at success. Pree dat!
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