Here Today, Gone Now
The continuous fragmentation of history and the destruction of historical sites

Writing provides me with an escape to decipher my thoughts. After another piece of history is turned to rubble and its carcass is carted off. Such as the demolition of the house that has stood for decades at the corner of Carlos Street and Ariapita Avenue.




After posting a few images of the house being torn apart on Facebook, its algorithm showed me a quote from James Baldwin which was what I needed to hear at the moment.
“An artist is a sort of emotional or spiritual historian. His role is to make you realize the doom and glory of knowing who you are and what you are.”
James Baldwin
It’s my curiosity and curse of seeking out knowledge from reading the history of a Trinidad and Tobago I never knew. It is a lonely path at times being the one to witness and document the destruction of homes that stood against the test of time but at the end neglected. Knowing that the ever lingering ghost of progress will forever change these family-owned homes into bars and businesses, where parks which were the centre of such close-knit communities are now taken over by the inebriated and the homeless.
As Trinbagonians, we have difficulty in separating and reclaiming our history gain from our ancestor’s trials and tribulations. Is there still anything to reclaim? The colonial government tried to eradicate by implementing ordinances to suppress the outsider and their ‘barbaric’ cultures. All of this sewn the seeds of self-hatred as we were only by-products of the plantocracy and that is all we ever knew. As demonstrated after the Windrush Generation fiasco, where many from the Caribbean came between 1945 and 1970 to rebuild a battered England plagued with post-war labour shortages. With the 1971 Immigration Act, many were left in limbo as they were told were no longer legal British citizens. It is ironic to think that in England we are building walls while on the other side of the Atlantic we are breaking down those same walls.
The realisation that the history of the Caribbean is as fragmented as the islands themselves. Left with just scraps, we are forced to piece together haphazardly or make more scraps to add to the pile. Then it is not possible to define ourselves within this fragmented history if we do not find a resolution. It is something I struggle each time I visit demolition sites to salvage whatever memory I can.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZPYm01rNdc
On Saturday 28th 2018, this is exactly what I did when I was awakened to the endless pings from messages on my phone; friends sharing images and videos of the demolition of the house at the corner of Carlos Street and Ariapita Avenue. As usual I ran out of my house with my camera poised to witness the demolition first hand and to see what was left.

By the time I arrived, half of the house was already gone. It was here I was able to meet with Lisa Lee who great grandfather Matthew Lee and his wife Florence purchased the house in 1947/39. With her help I was able to find more information about the house and she was kind enough to share her images she had taken of the interior.






I proceeded to meet the contractors on site into allowing me to save a few of the fretwork, doors and windows but it all fell on deaf ears. The excavator was smashing everything. It was the workmen who were kind enough to retrieve a few pieces of the fretwork for me and allowed me on site to see what else I could have found. I only managed to find three bottles from the 1930’s under the original concrete stairs at the back of the house was covered over when that end of the house was extended to include a kitchen. I had also found more pieces of the original fretwork that was taken off the exterior of the home when it was renovated but was blasted by the contractor to put it back. To be placed at the back of the truck the next day I imagine.

The following week I made a small memorial dedicated in memory of the house. Made up of two concrete bricks, two candles, flowers, a Chinese cup with wine as an offering to the spirit of the house, a mango and most importantly a picture frame with an image of the house taken by Shaun Rambaran.
That evening my mango was gone and within a few days even my memorial was dismantled. Nothing remains.







