You’re mad! On Guyanese accent, rum’s reputation and ‘clinical depression’

I grew up in Guyana and the earliest memories of my childhood were that my family was rich! The standard I used was this:

• my now deceased Dad bought us every single piece of wearable merch from then hit song “We are the World”.
• we lived in a “big house” in what was then a fairly decent neighbourhood; and my parents always had lots of parties and friends over and travelled frequently, particularly to the US (that was a thing in Guyana in the early 80’s),
• we had housekeepers and drivers.

To be a child, oui. What a rude awakening I’d have not so long after—but that’s for another day. Wait! I have not introduced myself and I’m rambling.

I’m Charlene Stuart and I was born and raised in Guyana. I left for Trinidad when I was 23 years old and have made this beautiful country my new home.

I was a print journalist in Guyana and I got my big break in Trinidad when the then head of news at TV6, Natalie Williams, took a chance on me.

Funny enough when I was at the University of Guyana (UG), I thought that print was my thing. But as one of my assignment editors, Rosemarie Sant, once said to me: when the broadcast bug bites, that’s the end.

She wasn’t necessarily wrong. I loved reporting, fancied myself a local Christiane Amanpour (former colleague have a laugh) and I felt UG and Anand Persad, one of my first editors, had given me a strong foundation.

I just needed to learn the country, the lingo, and its politics—and boy did I throw myself into it. I listened to the BBC every chance I got, read all local newspapers, listened to newscasts and talk shows and, when I discovered the story of Sidney Poitier, worked even harder at my diction.

But I’m jumping ahead.

I was hired as a broadcast journalist by TV6 but never got on air until years later. The producer for the Morning Edition quit the day I started and I was it.

Andy Johnson was the then host of the show and he shared his Rolodex (homework and a laugh for Generation Alpha, Gen Z and Millennials). I don’t think there was a number for anyone in this country that Andy didn’t have, and he was always patient, pleasant and funny.

Moreso, he shared those numbers with this “newbie” without hesitation. Reporters’ numbers are their aces, so this wasn’t to be taken for granted.

The longer I stayed on the show and at TV6, the more I threw myself into reading about Trinidad (mostly), broadcast journalism and loving my new life and home.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have many tough times. There were people who made fun of my accent, and actually said hurtful things to my face about it, while two then popular morning hosts appealed to TV6 management to take me off air.

These incidents led me to an inner game of mental gymnastics. Should I lose my accent?

I eventually stopped trying to sound like someone else when I met the late beautiful Barbara Assoon. She told me the goal was not to sound like anyone else but to ensure I’m clear and that my accent doesn’t distract from what I am meant to be telling my viewers.

Best advice ever!

I also found myself a community of “ex-pats” (are we even allowed to call ourselves that if you’re not from North America or Europe) and we loved Trinidad.

Listen to me, during my early days in Trinidad my circle of friends looked like this: my roommate was from Guadeloupe, who introduced me to her Jamaican best friend, who introduced me to my Jamaican now ex-boyfriend, as well as others from Guadeloupe and Martinique…

We had this joke that despite being in Trinidad, we had one Trini in our group! He was a good sport and gave us lots of good advice to help us navigate and understand the country.

We stayed out late on Fridays, spoke and debated anything and everything; and I learnt to appreciate how gastronomy—nix that fancy word, how a good meal—with friends, can make a world of difference.

My first roommate from Guadeloupe taught me to appreciate all things Caribbean. She argued that someone did a great hatchet job on rum and it was our duty to undo that.

She sent me in search of material on Dr Eric Williams and Walter Rodney (one of my own, I knew so little about). Before my circle all fell out spectacularly, my ex often said we were like the Caribbean version of Friends.

Of course I believe we were much more diverse and would have aged better than the show. But why I’m telling you all of this?

As I walked with my psychiatric service dog on my back in South Trinidad this morning, I wondered how I got here. Where is here?

I am trying to hit a routine: get exercise, get sun, and plan what I can do with my limited mind space.

You see what I haven’t said is that I’m clinically depressed. I live with anxiety, I’m a suicide survivor and I must take medication every day to “keep my head straight”.

Don’t get me wrong. On some days I can write brilliant communications plan and a letter of complaint, if I feel wronged. But on other days, I can’t get off my bed—not even to look after my beautiful furry son, Oreo.

I have not worked for over two years and I often wondered whether I would have believed anyone who told me this would be my lot in life at 44 years old.

I was diagnosed during the pandemic and have been on medication since. My wonderful psychiatrist has been nothing short of a God send: explaining my memory loss, my cognitive decline, my unexplained tiredness, my inability to recall words, loss as of interest in anything, being flaky, and why so many people accuse me of “faking” my depression.

He said I am highly functioning depressive.

So here I am. Having just returned from Guyana where I hoped to decompress and maybe find answers—telling my story, on my terms, having supposedly outed myself on Facebook some time back and then panicked and retreated.

Today I am unemployed because I started the process of “looking for work” but before I was just hopeless and jobless.

As I write this, still a little panicky, I hope today is the beginning of a conversation we can have about being a black, Caribbean woman, living with the depression.

I chose those adjectives carefully because, my dear, there is so much Liz (Elizabeth Gilbert) and Glennon Doyle did not tell us in their memoirs when they talked about their experiences with depression.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not accusing them of lying—I love their books and their work. But nothing, absolutely nothing prepares you for the experience of being a black woman in the Caribbean struggling with the will to live and a now estranged family, while being unable to sustain a few hours of good work/ conversation/ positive thoughts.

How the mighty have fallen. I once worked 48 hours straight without going home. That project needed to be finished and I wasn’t leaving until it was done and handed in.

Anyhoo, I wish for this to be a safe space for people like me who are getting up or trying to get up every day and still live a full life (unemployed and all).

Thank you, Alisha. I don’t know how you do it.

I’m ending here today but before I go, I want to be clear that I don’t have the time or mind space for vitriol, rewriting of history and/or alternative facts.

This is my story. I will tell it on my terms. You can choose to let us build a community or you can see this and move on.

I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. That’s okay. I’ll leave you with a quote from Games of Thrones, which Tyrion Lannister gave to Jon Snow: “Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you.”

I intend to practice this. Until next time.

Love Charlene

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Charlene Stuart