Another “Our America”: Rooting a Caribbean Aesthetic in the Work of
José Martí, Kamau Brathwaite and Édouard Glissant
by Raphael Dalleo
Raphael Dalleo has taught and studied Caribbean literature at Amherst College, SUNY at Stony Brook, Florida Atlantic University and the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras. He recently completed a dissertation about the reconfiguration of the role of literature in Caribbean society during the 1950s and 1960s. His articles have appeared or will appear in ARIEL, the Atlantic Literary Review, Small Axe and the Journal of Caribbean Literatures. He is currently working on a book about the intersections of Caribbean and Postcolonial Studies.
If one were to name some of the characteristics of Caribbean literary history in the 1990s, a primary one would surely be the development of a broadly conceived “global Caribbean” literature, incorporating multiple language groups and a diaspora stretching to a number of different metropolitan locations. More specifically, one might remark on the widespread popularity of novels beginning with a diagram of a family tree, a technique used by Zadie Smith, Andrea Levy, Patricia Powell, Lawrence Scott, Robert Antoni, Julia Alvarez, Rosario Ferré, Cristina García, and Dionne Brand, among others. It seems notable that of the writers who use this family tree motif, not only have all of them lived outside of the Caribbean for much of their lives, but most were either born abroad or moved to a metropolitan location at an early age. While it is a commonplace that West Indian literature has always been written by writers abroad as well as at home, most of these earlier generations (McKay, Césaire, Lamming, Brathwaite, Naipaul, Selvon) spent their early lives in the Caribbean, before going abroad during their young adulthood, often for University, but almost never at a younger age. These family tree novels, as a result of a more foundational separation, aim to establish a rooted link to ancestors and ancestral space. Yet at the same time, most of these novels simultaneously complicate and question notions of rooted identity and inheritance through incest, illegitimacy, homosexuality, and diasporic movement.
It seems at once obvious and still controversial
to say that these novels in some way respond to the swelling tide
of what has come to be called postmodernity, postcoloniality, and
globalization. In other places, I have explored the possibility
of literary tradition amongst a group of writers of varied backgrounds
and locations, in a region that defies simple definition, and in
an era where anti-essentialism has become doctrine. This
paper continues to pursue these ideas, but expands the scope slightly.
Noting the family tree novels as one response to a world of flux
and fragmentation, I would like to reflect on how Caribbean culture
can be thought in light of the above factors.
To think through the interplay of movement and rootedness,
and subsequently of exile and commitment, I am opposing two moments
in Caribbean intellectual history which explore these entanglements
in great depth: from the end of the nineteenth century, José Martí,
and from the end of the twentieth, Kamau Brathwaite and Édouard
generations of writers represent different poles in these discussions.
The myth of Martí is that of the organic intellectual, committed
Marxist, and national hero, who died fighting for the freedom of
his island-nation. Brathwaite and Glissant, on the other hand,
represent a later, post-national, almost post-ideological generation.
Both Glissant and Brathwaite have been adopted, in various ways,
as Caribbean apostles of the post-structural and the postmodern;
their (somewhat different) concepts of “creolization” have
become precursors to constructions of hybridity central to a variety
of theorizations of the contemporary world. Although
he maintains a commitment to the autonomy movement in Martinique,
Glissant especially is associated with intellectual movements more
likely to seek their revolutions in poetics than in politics; he
readily acknowledges that he has been influenced deeply by French
post-structuralism, from Derrida and Foucault to Deleuze and Guattari.
By considering these two historical moments alongside one another,
by grounding Brathwaite and Glissant with Martí and delving
below the surface of their complicated essays to get at what Brathwaite
might call the “submerged” elements of their philosophies,
by unearthing the metaphors that root each of their corpora, I
suggest that both moments are integral parts of the Caribbean theoretical
tradition, and each speaks meaningfully to the pivotal question:
how do we construct a Caribbean discourse which does not lend itself
to essentialism and totalitarianism, but still can be wielded as
a weapon of cultural decolonization?
This paper began as a presentation at the 2001 (Re)Thinking
Caribbean Culture conference in Barbados, as part of a panel entitled “The
Legacy of José Martí.” The conference organizers worked
admirably to make this conference international, multilingual,
and to incorporate as many diverse aspects of Caribbean culture
as three days could possibly hold. Yet this panel on Martí,
one of only two or three which concentrated on the Spanish-speaking
Caribbean, was attended by only four souls. As if this did not
say enough about the general opinion of the relevance of Martí to
the task of rethinking the contemporary Caribbean, during the
question and answer session afterwards, one of the panelists asserted
that Martí had nothing to say to the Caribbean as a whole,
that his work pertained only to Cuba, or at most, to parts of Latin
America. This paper, which looks at Martí from a Caribbeanist
perspective, argues that Martí, as a forerunner of modernismo,
asked many of the kinds of questions a century ago which Caribbeanists
today consider most pressing. Looking back at the end of the nineteenth
century through theoretical prisms created at the end of the twentieth
by Édouard Glissant and Kamau Brathwaite, we can see Martí’s
project as one way of navigating the webs of imperialism, capitalism,
and modernization that are woven around the Caribbean word
Caribbean Studies continues to look to Martí as a forefather
and an inspiration, although the Martí invoked is often
projected into a distant past and greatly simplified. Michael Dash’s
expansive literary history of the region cites Martí’s “audacious
and pathbreaking notion of Nuestra America,” calling it a “crucial
antecedent to the project of an Other America” (The Other
America 10), the project which names the vision of the Caribbean
that Dash adopts from Glissant. Yet reading only “Nuestra
América” allows Caribbeanists to assign a certain
role to Martí: this essay is one of Martí’s
most strident and defiant major works, but also perhaps the hardest
of Martí’s essays to reconcile with Glissant’s
vision of rhizomatic identity. Focusing exclusively on “Nuestra
América” allows Caribbeanists to produce a reading
of Martí as anti-colonial oracle, the man who managed to
unite writing and action; yet doing so ignores aspects of Martí’s
thought that can perhaps prove more valuable to a postcolonial
Caribbean Studies committed to re-affirming anti-colonialism’s
utopian dream of creating truly free and democratic Caribbean societies,
but going beyond the limitations of nationalist movements rooted
in modernist master narratives and streamlined constructions of “the
people” or “the folk” as a political subject.
It is in “Nuestra América” that Martí posits
most clearly a vision of an Americas unified against U.S. manifest
destiny; in order to demonstrate the strength of this unity, he
looks explicitly to the models of the family and the tree. “Nuestra
América” is replete with the language of an organic
wholeness tied to genealogy that can strike a contemporary reader
as exclusionary. Martí begins by pleading for the sons of
Our America to come to the aid of their sick mother. Elsewhere,
in an oft-cited line, he writes “Let the world be grafted
onto our republics; but the trunk must be our own” (114).
He concludes that “we can no longer be people of leaves,
living in the air; the trees must form ranks so the giant shall
not pass” (112). This evocative language condemns the uncommitted
wanderings of the intellectual, while extolling the organic naturalness
of the family tree. But eventually, the logic of the family tree
leads Martí to write that nations should live “always
with one heart and one mind” (118), for his hope is to “make
the natural blood of the nations course vigorously through the
veins” (118) of all Americans. In moments like these, Martí appears
dangerously close to asserting racial purity and advocating a national
unity based on bloodlines.
Glissant, in his collection of essays Poétique de la relation,
focuses especially on the assumptions behind what he calls “root-based” identity,
as opposed to a concept which he calls “errantry.” Glissant
associates the tree-root with fixed identity and racial purity,
tracing the origins of European nationhood and imperialism to this
The West, therefore, is where this movement becomes fixed and
nations declare themselves in preparation for their repercussions
in the world. This fixing, this declaration, all require that
the root take on the intolerant sense that Deleuze and Guattari
no doubt meant to challenge. The reason for our return to this
episode in Western history is that it spread throughout the world.
The model came in handy. Most of the nations that gained freedom
from colonization have tended to form around an idea of power—the
totalitarian drive of a single, unique root—rather than
around a fundamental relationship with the Other. (Poetics
of Relation 14)
Glissant’s critique of the tree-root offers insight into
the language of “Nuestra América”: Martí’s
metaphors suggest the complicity between this brand of anti-colonial
nationalism with imperialism’s totalitarian logic of wholeness
and exclusion. The rhizome, a root which spreads out in a tangled
web, gives Glissant a way of imagining identity as both rooted
and in process, a way of resisting nationalism’s tendencies
to look to root itself in permanence and purity without surrendering
a rooted grounding in one’s place.
Reading “Nuestra América” through a relational,
Glissantian perspective uncovers Martí’s aspirations
towards an organic familial oneness as inevitably part of the same
discourse that makes him imagine the nation in terms of race
and the exclusion of difference. Yet the context of these words
cannot be forgotten: as Martí was writing these lines, the
United States was turning its expansionist vision towards Latin
America in general and Martí’s Cuba in particular.
In one newspaper report on the Pan-American Congress held in Washington,
D.C., in 1889, Martí urges his readers that “the time
has come for Spanish America to declare its second independence” (“Washington” 340),
Only a virile and unanimous response […] can free all the
Spanish American nations at one time from the anxiety and agitation-fatal
in a country’s hour of development-in which the secular
and admittedly predominant policy of a powerful and ambitious
neighbor, with the possible connivance of the weak and venal
republics, would forever hold them. (340)
This imminent threat explains why Martí deems manly action
so necessary; writing is not enough, without a “virile” response,
to ensure Latin American freedom from North American annexation.
His return to Cuba to fight for his island’s independence
exemplifies this conception of the writer as a man of action that
continues to be so seductive to intellectuals throughout the Caribbean.
Martí’s goal of defending his nation from an encroaching
North American threat, continues to be honored by a committed Caribbean
Studies today. At the same time, Martí’s work should
not be reduced to the privileging of heroic action; if anything,
Martí feared that a “virile response” might
be impossible in these “infamous times” (“Poem
of Niagara” 309). Indeed, placing another Martí essay
alongside “Nuestra América,” gives a more nuanced
appreciation of his thought, and demonstrates the relevance of
Martí’s thought to contemporary, postmodern Caribbean
Studies. In his prologue to Juan Antonio Pérez Bonalde’s Poema
del Niágara, Martí describes the work of art
in a world of flux, a world “of tumult and affliction” (310).
Modernity threatens to undermine the possibility of virile heroism
and manly greatness in literature unless the writer can find a
new basis for his activity: “men would look like weak females
[if] they devoted themselves to purifying the honeylike wine of
ancient Rome that seasoned the banquets of Horace” (310).
In these passages, Martí expresses his nostalgia for the
past and disdain for a present characterized by the loss of epic
wholeness, which means that there is now “no such thing as
a permanent work” (311). Instead of epic poetry, modern writers
must settle for an emasculated form of lyric poetry that confines
itself to the private and the personal and pursues beauty at the
expense of the “peaceful strength and laborious development” (312)
needed to represent truth.
At the same time that this prologue shows nostalgia for the
disappearance of the epic world; its extinction appears to be inevitable.
In this context, the poet wonders about ideas that can take root
without becoming the rigid and intractable edifices of exclusionary
thought. In this new world, tree-root based identity becomes untenable
as new technologies bring new realities: “railroads are knocking
down the forests,” he writes, and “newspapers are knocking
down the human forest” (313). Whereas, “formerly, ideas
would silently stand erect in the mind like strong towers” (314),
like Foucault’s Enlightenment panopticon, master of all it
surveys, “today ideas leave the lips in a shower, they burst,
take root, evaporate, come to nothing and vanish in burning sparks,
disintegrated” (314). Martí’s language in this
prologue emphasizes the energy of the ephemeral and the fluid,
the flux of modernity sweeping away all certainties.
The Martí of “Nuestra América” might
lament this moment of chaos and uncertainty, preferring the towering
oneness of tower or tree, reaching to the sky. In the prologue
to El Poema del Niágara, though, Martí tentatively
accepts this moment of “decentralization” (314) if
it means that, “man is losing for the benefit of men” 
(similar to what Glissant says about building the Tower of Babel
horizontally, in every language). “Intelligence,” which
is to say access to resources and reality, “has come to be
the beautiful domain of everyone” (314). In this transitional
moment, at the onset of modernity in Cuba, Martí feels both “nausea
from the dying day” and “delight from the dawn” (311).
He mourns what is lost as modernity sweeps away the epic world
of heroic action (and for Martí, heroic action is the only
thing that can save Cuba from Spanish or U.S. rule); yet he realizes
that the tides may also sweep away the injustices of nation, race,
class, and gender upon which the old world was based, that “neither
literary originality nor political freedom can exist as long as
there is no assurance of spiritual freedom” (317).
For Martí to position spiritual freedom as an equal
or even more pressing priority than political freedom seems surprising,
if we think only of the idea of Martí the nationalist warrior.
Yet as a poet, he realizes that physical force (which he obviously
supports) against the imperial power must be coupled with a decolonizing
of the mind as well. Even
while it threatens the viability of his nationalist oppositionality,
Martí welcomes the democratization of knowledge, a world
of “a kind of decentralization of the intelligence” (314).
As a man who spent much of his life in exile, moving between New
York, Europe, and the Caribbean, he describes an almost post-national
world when he writes: “men are beginning to walk the entire
earth without stumbling; before they had scarcely started walking
when they struck against the wall of a nobleman’s mansion
or the bastion of a monastery” (312). Martí looks
about him and sees a world free from the constraints of feudalism;
this world in flux can liberate men, even while it uproots them
and sends them wandering from their homes. Like much of Martí’s
writing, this essay relies on recurring imagery of landscape, and
of movement through that landscape. The poet is thus “walking
through the still smoking ruins” (316) of our times; elsewhere “life
gallops along the road like spirited chargers pursued by barking
Movement, which keeps the subject-in-process from hardening
into a fixed identity, has been a central concept in the recent
theory of both Brathwaite and Glissant. One of the central concepts
of The Poetics of Relation, according to his translator
Betsy Wing, is errantry, a kind of sacred movement that is neither
the aimed and conquering movement of arrow-like imperialism, nor
the idle roaming of circular nomadism. Simply by keeping in motion,
errantry resists the temptations of filiation, the European desire
for legitimacy rooted in the soil and in heredity. Errantry insists
on fragmentation rather than wholeness, relation rather than essence,
as it brings people into contact with one another, or with an Other.
In this context, identity can no longer be seen only as inheritance;
it is something always becoming, created through contact with Others.
In Brathwaite’s poetry and essays of the 1990s, the concept
of European culture as missile emerges as an analogy to what Glissant
dubs arrow-like movement. Describing the Middle Passage, for example,
Brathwaite writes: “We came across the Atlantic in this space
capsule within the missile of the Europeans” (“History” 33).
Brathwaite opposes a number of images to the missile, especially
the capsule, the womb, and the pebble, all of which share a concavity
and circularity similar to Glissant’s circular nomadism.
Whether movement is conceived as missile or arrow, it represents
a progress-driven movement foreign to the Caribbean reality of
what Brathwaite calls tidalectics,
and Glissant describes as the interplay of the beach and the ocean.
The image of movement based on ebb and flow emphasizes the circular
and repetitive, rather than the progressive and teleological. In
Martí, then, the desire for a return to a lost time of rooted
totality conflicts with his experience of exile as what we might
think of as a tidalectic errantry.
The presence of these opposing demands produces Martí’s
ambivalence towards uprooting. Brathwaite and Glissant see in postmodernity
both the threat and liberatory potential which Martí, a
century before, saw in modernity. Their ultimate concern is to
map the postmodern moment, an epoch different from Martí’s
but once again characterized by discontinuity, in which the agents
of oppression are more difficult to identify than ever. As Glissant
points out, postmodern mystification works to the advantage of
the forces of imperialism:
In the shantytowns and ghettos of even the smallest cities
the same gears engage: the violence of poverty and mud but also
an unconscious and desperate rage at not ‘grasping’ [com-prendre]
the chaos of the world. Those who dominate benefit from the chaos.
Those who are oppressed are exasperated by it. (141)
For this reason, the chaos of postmodern global capitalism
must be understood as a process of grasping which North American
Marxist Fredric Jameson calls “cognitive mapping.” But
how can we conceive of the totality, as we must, without totalizing?
What makes this mapping difficult is the conscious recognition
that it cannot reproduce the European cartography that accompanied
territorial expansion. Because “generalization is totalitarian,” the
errant traveler “strives to know the totality of the world
yet already knows that he will never accomplish this” (20);
s/he “conceives of totality but willingly renounces any claims
to sum it up or possess it” (21).
For Martí as much as Glissant or Brathwaite, the chaos
brought on by economic and cultural exchange (what we might call
globalization) simultaneously threatens Caribbean identity and
cultural production, while highlighting its possibilities. As an
example of this dialectic, in a chapter of Poetics of Relation called “Concerning
the Poem’s Information” (presented as a lecture in
1984), Glissant discusses the role of the computer in freeing the
word from its scribal prison. Like Martí, Glissant avers
the importance of the poet in the (post) modern world, but admits
that, “the advent of computers has, nonetheless, thrown poetics
into reverse” (82). Speed and instantaneity, coupled with
the hierarchical separation of poetic and scientific knowledge,
have degraded writing poetry throughout the world. Glissant maintains
faith that the computer can eventually lead to a democratization
in the creation of poetry: “Though it does not create poetry,” he
writes, “it can ‘show the way’ to a poetics” (84)
informed by orality. This is because the computer has already begun
to undermine the association of writing as putting words onto paper
so important to elitist conceptions of literature meant to exclude
orality. Technological changes mean that “poetic knowledge
is no longer inseparable from writing” (84), an acknowledgement
by Glissant of the growing importance of audio-based poetic forms
such as dub poetry. The
mediation of the screen, separating the poet even further from
the written page, hints at a future in which texts will not be
produced solely on paper, but by other multimedia means.
These comments made by Glissant in 1984 correspond uncannily
to what Brathwaite would begin experimenting with in his own poetry
a few years later. In an interview with Stewart Brown published
in 1989, Brathwaite speculates that “the computer has moved
us away from scripture into some other dimension which is ‘writing
in light’ […] the computer is getting as close as
you can to the spoken word” (“Interview” 87). The
process of composing poetry on the computer, which Brathwaite calls “video
style,” involves the manipulating of fonts in order to evoke the oral; as Glissant
suggests this is less an imitation of orality than a way of deforming
the written word. In Brathwaite’s
most recent work, the computer becomes an almost holy instrument
of the process that he describes as Caliban’s channeling of
Sycorax, the otherwise inaccessible African womb from which he
Glissant’s ideas about “the poem’s information” and
Brathwaite’s video style are only two examples of how Caribbean
discourse is being imagined within the New World Order. As attentive
as Martí may have been to the impact of technologies on
the writer’s place in the public sphere, he could never have
imagined the new directions which poetry would take in what Brathwaite
playfully calls the “postmodem” era. Yet, Caribbean
literature and theory today are still working through the issues
of movement and rootedness that Martí raised over one hundred
years ago. Spiraling back to the point where this paper began,
Lawrence Scott’s novel Witchbroom opens with an
incomplete family tree, in which entire sections of the family
records have been “lost in the diaspora.” Similarly,
in Andrea Levy’s Fruit of the Lemon, the family-tree
does not appear as a given at the beginning; on the novel’s
first page, the tree lists only the protagonist’s immediate
family, but after she travels back to Jamaica, the tree steadily
grows in depth and complexity as she hears more and more stories
about her extended family. These
novels show how maintaining a sense of roots in the face of global
movement, without allowing those roots to become exclusionary,
remains a paramount concern for the people of the Caribbean. The
ongoing work of Glissant and Brathwaite, along with the spreading
proliferation of family tree obsessed novels, are evidence that
thinking about Martí’s insights into poetry, identity,
and modernity remains integral to any present attempt to (re)think
do not explicitly use the family-tree diagram, Maryse Condé (Tree
of Life), Fred D’Aguiar (Bloodlines), Pauline
Melville (The Ventriloquist’s Tale), Paule Marshall
(Daughters), and Jamaica Kincaid (Autobiography of
My Mother) are among this group of Caribbean writers who are producing novels equally obsessed with genealogy, movement and rootedness.
makes a similar point in distinguishing between the earlier generations
(of mainly men) as exiles and the more recent generation (mainly
women) as immigrants. See Making Men.
See my essay “Tink
is you dawson dis yana? Imitation and Creation in Robert Antoni’s
Divina Trace” for a more explicit discussion of literary
tradition and the family tree.
The similar trajectories
of Brathwaite and Glissant’s work are striking, and have
only begun to be explored by Caribbean Studies; I can only point
to some of the correspondences here.
See chapter 6
of Mimi Sheller’s Consuming the Caribbean and Part 1
of Shalini Puri’s The Caribbean
Postcolonial for explanations of how Brathwaite and Glissant
have been incorporated into theories of postmodernism and globalization.
For further discussion
of the ambivalences of Martí’s nationalist discourse,
see the recently translated Divergent Modernities (originally
titled Desencuentros de la modernidad en América Latina) by Julio Ramos.
is difficult to ignore Martí’s obviously gendered
opposition between the “erect and strong” tower and
the empty and fluid “lips”. This opposition still
has currency in Caribbean discourse: Brathwaite’s phallic
missile and womb-like capsule, for example, configure the Caribbean
in similarly gender-coded terms. The introduction to Antonio
Benítez-Rojo’s The Repeating Island is
perhaps the most extreme example of this way of conceiving the
Caribbean: “The Atlantic is the Atlantic (with all its
port cities) because it was once engendered by the copulation
of Europe-that insatiable solar bull-with the Caribbean
archipelago […] because it was the painfully delivered
child of the Caribbean, whose vagina was stretched between continental
clamps” (5). Part of Martí’s project is to
recuperate poetry as a manly activity, a “battle with the
lyre” (“Poem of Niagara” 308) just as important
as any other battle.
history would prove that Martí’s heroic action was
not enough: he was killed in battle, and Cuba became a U.S. possession
more on movement as missile, see especially Brathwaite’s “History,
the Caribbean Writer, and X/Self” (33-34) and “Metaphors
of Underdevelopment” (250-251), both of which discuss
the poem “The Visibility Trigger.” For his explanation
of tidalectics, see Barabajan Poems.
obviously is aware of dub poetry, since he dedicates The Poetics
of Relation to Mikey Smith. In fact, one major subtext of
Glissant’s work is the relation of the oral to changing
Brathwaite’s own theorization of video style, see his interview
with Stewart Brown. Brown’s subsequent essay “‘Writin in light’: Orality-thru-typography, Kamau Brathwaite’s Sycorax Video Style” provides an
introduction to the concept. The style is first truly put into
action in book-form in Barabajan Poems; but it is perhaps
in “Namsetoura and the Companion Stranger,” published
in Anthurium on the web, that he most fully brings to the reader his vision
of poetry “written in light.”
Cobham explains: “Brathwaite also produces dramatic visual
effects on the page by making use of the full range of typefaces
to which his computers give him access. His video style layout,
as he names it, calls to mind the way in which Reggae and Hip
Hop musicians have foregrounded the technology of the studio
in their music by exploiting the acoustic possibilities of dubbing,
mixing and scratching , as well as the electronic distortion
of sound itself. Like these musicians, Brathwaite is interested
in breaking through the illusion of verisimilitude offered by
more conventional forms of production” (K/Ka/Ka/Kama/Kamau” 300).
Machado Sáez explores Fruit of the Lemon from
a Glissantian perspective in her doctoral thesis, “Going
Global in a Caribbean Locale: Returning Home in the Works of
Paule Marshall, Cristina García, Andrea Levy and Caryl Phillips.”
Benítez-Rojo, Antonio. The Repeating Island: The
Caribbean and the Postmodern Perspective. Trans. James Maraniss.
Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1996.
Brathwaite, Kamau. “History, the Caribbean Writer, and X/Self.” Crisis
and Creativity in the New Literatures in English. Ed. Geoffrey
Davies and Hena Maes-Jelinek. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1990. 23-45.
—. Barabajan Poems. New York: Savacou North, 1994.
—. “Metaphors of Underdevelopment: A Proem for Hernan
Cortez.” The Art of Kamau Brathwaite. Ed. Stewart
Brown. Seren: Wales, 1995.
—. “Namsetoura and the Companion Stranger.” Anthurium:
A Caribbean Studies Journal. 1.1 (Fall 2003): http://scholar.library.miami.edu/anthurium/volume_1/issue_1/brathwaite_namsetoura.pdf
Brown, Stewart. “Interview with Edward Kamau Brathwaite.” Kyk-over-al 40
(December 1989): 84-93.
—. “‘Writin in Light’: Orality-thru-typography,
Kamau Brathwaite’s Sycorax Video Style.” The Pressures
of the Text: Orality, Texts, and the Telling of Tales. Ed.
Stewart Brown. Birmingham: Centre of West African Studies, 1995.
Cobham, Rhonda. “K/Ka/Kam/Kama/Kamau: Brathwaite’s
Project of Self-Naming in Barabajan Poems.” For
the Geography of a Soul: Emerging Perspectives on Kamau Brathwaite.
Ed. Timothy Reiss. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, 2001. 297-317.
Dalleo, Raphael. “Tink is you dawson dis yana? Imitation
and Creation in Robert Antoni’s Divina Trace.” A
Review of International English Literature 32.4 (October 2001):
Dash, Michael. The Other America: Caribbean Literature in
a New World Context. Charlottesville, VA: University of
Virginia Press, 1998.
Edmondson, Belinda. Making Men: Gender, Literary Authority,
and Women’s Writing in Caribbean Narrative. Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 1999.
Glissant, Edouard. Poetique de la relation. Paris: Gallimard,
—. Poetics of Relation. Trans. Betsy Wing. Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 1997.
Jameson, Fredric. “Cognitive Mapping.” Marxism
and the Interpretation of Culture. Ed. Nelson and Grossberg.
Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1988. 347-357.
Machado Sáez, Elena. “Going Global in a Caribbean
Locale: Returning Home in the Works of Paule Marshall, Cristina
Garcia, Andrea Levy and Caryl Phillips.” Diss. SUNY at Stony
Martí, José. “ Del prólogo a ‘El
Poema del Niágara’ de J.A. Pérez Bonalde.”  La
prosa modernista hispanoamericana: Introducción crítica
y antología. Ed. Jiménez and Morales. Madrid:
Alianza Editorial, 1998. 60-66.
—. “Nuestra América.”  Páginas
escogidas. Bogotá: Editorial Norma, 1994. 63-77.
—. “The Poem of Niagara.” On Art and Literature.
Ed. Philip Foner. Trans. Elinor Randall. New York: Monthly Review
Press, 1982. 308-327.
—. “Our America.” Writings on the Americas.
Ed. Deberah Shnookal and Mirta Muñiz. New York: Ocean Press,
Puri, Shalini. The Caribbean Postcolonial: Social Equality,
Post-Nationalism, and Cultural Hybridity. New York: Palgrave
Ramos, Julio. Divergent Modernities: Culture and Politics
in 19th Century Latin America. Trans. John D. Blanco. Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 2001.
Sheller, Mimi. Consuming the Caribbean: From Arawaks to Zombies.
New York: Routledge, 2003.