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C R I M E , D E L I N Q U E N C Y A N D J U S T I C E
ii
iii
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Jamaica.
iv
Table of Contents
List of Figures / ix
List of Tables/ xi
Foreword/ xv
Preface / xvii
List of Acronyms and Abbreviations/ xxiii
vi
Contributors / 674
Index / 676
vii
viii
list of figures
Figure 3.1 Homicide in Selected Caribbean Nations and the US, 1977–93/ 49
Figure 3.2 Assault in Selected Caribbean Nations and the US, 1977–93 / 50
Figure 3.3 Burglary in Selected Caribbean Nations and the US, 1977–93 / 51
Figure 3.4 Percentage of Violent to Property Crime in Two Nations, 1977–93 / 52
Figure 5.1 Students’ Race by Social Class Distribution (%) / 104
Figure 5.2 School Type by Race (%) / 105
Figure 5.3 School Type by Social Class (%) / 106
Figure 5.4 Parental Structure by Race (%) / 107
Figure 5.5 Parental Structure by Social Class (%) / 108
Figure 5.6 Six Categories of Violence and Delinquency by Gender (Means and
Standard Deviations) / 114
Figure 5.7 The Pentagon Model: Configuring Strategic Partnerships / 124
Figure 8.1 Ethnic Background (%) of Youths in Juvenile Homes and General
Population in Trinidad and Tobago (10–19 Years) / 180
Figure 8.2 Educational Attainment (%) of Youths in Juvenile Homes and General
Population in Trinidad and Tobago (10–19 Years) / 181
Figure 8.3 Religious Background (%) of Youths in Juvenile Homes and General
Population in Trinidad and Tobago (10–19 Years) / 182
Figure 8.4 Serious Crimes, Minor Crimes and Offences Reported in 1980, 1985,
1990, 1996 / 184
Figure 8.5 Crime Reports, Prosecutions and Convictions: Average Figures for
1987–96 (Ten Year Period) / 185
Figure 11.1 Challenges for Community Policing in the Caribbean / 250
Figure 11.2 The Way Forward for Community Policing / 254
Figure 14.1 Expected and Actual Use of Force by Police Under Varying Levels of
Direct Threat / 315
Figure 14.2 An Interactionist Perspective on Use of Force / 316
Figure 17.1 Number of Persons Convicted and Sent to Prison by Sex, 1988–99/370
Figure 17.2 Number of Persons Convicted and Sent to Prison by Age Group, 1991–98 / 371
Figure 17.3 Number of Persons Convicted and Sent to Prison / 372
Figure 17.4 Number of Persons Convicted and Sent to Prison by Crime/Offence
Committed, 1990–99/ 373
Figure 17.5 Classification of Inmates (All Prisons)/ 379
Figure 17.6 Age of Inmates (All Prisons)/ 380
Figure 17.7 Ethnicity of Inmates (All prisons)/ 381
Figure 17.8 Religion of Inmates (All Prisons)/ 382
Figure 17.9 Major Crimes/Offences Committed by Inmates (All Prisons)/ 385
ix
list of tables
xi
xii
Table 30.8 Studies Comparing Subjective Risk and Subjective Fear/ 662
Table 30.9 Percentages of Each Type of Respondent at Each Wave/ 664
Table 30.10 Per cent Stability to Safety (17–20) and Fear (29–42) Questions
(Waves 1–3)/ 667
Table 30.11 Concealed Instability to Safety (17–20) and Fear (29–42) Questions
(Waves 1–3)/ 668
Table 30.12 Per cent Stability to Safety (17–20) and Fear (29–42) Questions
(Waves 1–2–3)/ 669
xiii
xiv
foreword
xv
September, 2006
xvi
preface
Ramesh Deosaran
The state of crime, delinquency and justice across the Caribbean has become
increasingly problematic in the last 20 years. Among the major reasons are
ineffective policing and judicial institutions, weak law enforcement, crimes and
violence driven by drug trafficking, technologically-driven crimes, poor
policymaking, lack of relevant research and analysis, low-control homes and
families, fragmented, uncivil communities, value conflict, socioeconomic
disparities, and for youths especially, an environment clouded by visions of hate,
conflict and violence.
Governments in the Caribbean, almost all now independent for 40 or so years,
are now in a tailspin. The widening option they now choose for rescue is to hire
police and security teams mainly from the United Kingdom and the United States.
Part of the irony in the current outsourcing of national security by Caribbean
governments is linked to the fact that during the negotiations with the British
government for political independence these governments, especially the Trinidad
and Tobago one, insisted on having executive control over the police service.
What all this essentially means is that the region was not well prepared for this
‘crime crisis.’ In fact, governments did respond, sporadically and briskly, but
mainly with short-term, quickened law enforcement measures, leaving behind
most of the fundamental reasons why crime, delinquency and violence have
occurred and why they will reoccur, and this at great cost, financially, socially
and psychologically. Public policy fell far short of the challenges.
What this Caribbean Reader seeks to do for the region is to create an opportunity
for reflection, a platform for further research and analysis, and a bridge to
policymakers. There are still some gaps we hope to fill soon in another publication.
Among these are white-collar crime, crime and the media, cyber-crime, deportees,
environmental crime and feminism and crime. The 30 papers in this Reader have
been selected from several sources, many of them from the fourth International
Conference on Crime and Justice in the Caribbean sponsored by the Centre for
Criminology and Criminal Justice at the St Augustine Campus, The University of
the West Indies, Trinidad. Some papers have been taken from the Caribbean Journal
of Criminology and Social Psychology. A few have been specially prepared for this
Reader.
From the search for indigenous explanations and solutions in the early papers
to some hard data in the later papers, the Reader goes as far back as l976 with the
late Ken Pryce paper on the outlines of what I will call ‘rebellious criminology.’
xvii
That is, passionately pointing to the relationship between the ‘social class struggle
and crime.’ This theme is handled empirically, to some extent, in the more recent
paper on school violence and delinquency and which throws a damper on the
social class-delinquency connection. The ideological dissonance created should
inspire a more refined conceptualisation of the social class-delinquency-crime
hypothesis in the Caribbean. In fact, the three other papers in Part One of this
Reader, two by Christopher Birkbeck and one by Richard R. Bennett and James P.
Lynch, skilfully attract us towards putting on the agenda the prospects for a
‘Caribbean Criminology.’
There is a great and obvious danger in a region having its youth population
intensely engaged in violence and delinquency, especially at school. It foretells a
grim future. The four papers in Part Two on Delinquency and Public Policy bring
some clarity to the youth violence and delinquency problem in the Caribbean.
My own paper begins with the traditional search for delinquency in the
controversial realm of social structure and demography. Race, age and family
structure, as the results show, do connect to school violence and delinquency,
but with social class, not so much. The connection between social structure and
the type of school a young person attends breeds social inequity. It is a painful
connection requiring urgent public policy attention.
Jerome De Lisle and his nine colleagues point to student attitudes as
dispositional factors towards violence. Their suggestions for violence-reduction
programmes are noteworthy. Peterson’s paper does a crisp review of juvenile
legislation and the kind of reforms needed to heal the several breaches which
now prevent more effective care for offending juveniles. We strongly support her
call for policies based on research and evidence, not on opinions and expediency.
The paper by Deosaran and Chadee shows how girls and boys from weak social
and academic backgrounds fill our juvenile homes.
Part Three really breaks new ground with two papers stretching from the role
of provocation as a legal defence in domestic violence by Trinidad and Tobago’s
Chief Justice Satnarine Sharma to a proposal to ‘end domestic violence’ by Della-
Giustina.
This latter paper gives us some useful insights towards reforming domestic
violence reduction programmes in the Caribbean. Sharma’s paper is particularly
useful in providing us with the agony which a judge likely endures in trials where
the allegation of violence clashes with the defence of justification, in this case,
provocation. This line of defence is increasingly being used in Caribbean
jurisdictions and so the Chief Justice’s contribution here is extremely timely and
useful for us.
Ineffective policing, police indiscipline and corruption, and weak law
enforcement have all unfortunately become part of the saddening drawback in
the ‘fight against crime’ in the Caribbean. Crime and criminals are in themselves
the problem, but when your crime-fighting agencies become part of the crime
problem, the public suffering is doubled, that is, double victimisation for the
xviii
public. Caribbean governments, some more than others, have been pressed by
their respective populations to treat more seriously with the problem, a pressure
which no doubt has contributed to their willingness to bring in ‘foreign police
officers’ at very great cost. This is particularly so with Jamaica, Barbados, Trinidad,
St. Kitts, St. Lucia to Guyana. The four papers in Part Four therefore contribute to
an understanding of the ‘police problem’ in the Caribbean and point the way
towards reforms and the evolution of an effective, accountable police culture in
the Caribbean.
The first paper in Part Four (Deosaran) examines community policing not so
much as ‘an alternative’ but more so as an embracing form of policing, with law
enforcement always remaining as a strategic, vitally necessary component. Joan
R. Mars and Anthony D. Harriott spread the net to include Guyanese and Jamaican
policing respectively. Mars examines the phenomena of police force in Guyana,
reminding us how very subversive such practice could become to an entire police
service which depends so much on information from a trusting citizenry. This is
a lesson echoed by the very first paper in this section which all Caribbean
governments and their respective police services should now take on board with
the utmost urgency. The tradition of ‘voluntariness’ and community service in
the Jamaican constabulary is discussed by Harriott but only to remind us how far
away from such early public respect Caribbean policing has now become, especially
with rising allegations of ‘police brutality.’ Given repeated public complaints in
recent times over the use of police force, the paper on “Use of Force by Police in
the Caribbean,” should suggest some directions for both research and public policy.
In Part Five, Marlyn Jones in a rather detailed manner exposes the stark
differences between what ‘prison officials’ tell us about prison conditions,
rehabilitation programmes, etc., and what the prisoners themselves tell us. Why
are the two groups, officials and prisoners, so far apart in their discourse? The
answer is certainly not confined to Jamaica but to all other Caribbean states,
some of which are now gradually experiencing more and more prisoner revolts of
one kind or another. It seems only a matter of time for things to get worse. This
Reader can be used to sound the required warnings for urgent and effective public
policy reforms much beyond what Jones called ‘the sanitisation of the penal
language.’ Through Christopher Birkbeck’s paper, Venezuela joins the Reader with
an analysis of the probation process in that country. Ian K. Ramdhanie’s paper
tells a very useful story of prisoner demography and social structure. In showing
a prisoner recidivism rate of almost 60 per cent in Trinidad and Tobago, the data
exposes the prison population as largely poor, of African descent, male and rather
young. The fact that so many offences are drug- and robbery-related helps explain
the nature and implications of crime in the Caribbean. That so many are in
crowded prisons for a few months and for relatively minor crimes should stimulate
reforms in both sentencing procedures and penal practices.
Part Six opens with a paper on crime and development where the traditional
explanatory model is seriously questioned, especially for application in the
xix
Caribbean. Using three Caribbean states — Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago and
Jamaica — Bennett, Shields and Daniels argue that the relationships between
developmental indicators and crime are not linear but have much more variability
especially when linked to specific crimes in the Caribbean. In fact, recent data
shows that the relationship between unemployment and serious crime, especially
murders and kidnappings, in Trinidad and Tobago is largely an inverse one; that
is, as unemployment goes down (from 18 to 8 per cent) the crime rate goes up.
And as GDP increases, serious crimes also increase. When such results are combined
with the fluctuating social class-crime relationships found in another paper in
this Reader, we see a clear and necessary duty for Caribbean scholars to re-examine
quite carefully the traditional research paradigms in criminology before applying
them on Caribbean soil. This is especially so for variables such as social class,
gender and ethnicity.
John King’s paper on ‘Paradise Lost’ fits the current mood in the Caribbean.
With crime, delinquency and the justice system, there is a state of gloom,
moderated only by patriotic hopes for a better tomorrow and wiser governments.
In comparing Barbados and Jamaica, King instructs us as to how much such tourist-
dependent countries can lose by failing to reduce their respective levels of crime
and incivility. Paradise will be lost to the criminals. Based on data from nine
Caribbean states, Albuquerque and McElroy’s paper inserts a very helpful
methodology, the longitudinal technique, to examine crime trends. It is worse
than it looks, they assert, and the future does not look quite bright if urgent
policy action is not taken. It is very instructive to note that in almost all papers,
the appeal for more thoughtful, data-driven public policies in the area of crime
and justice keeps being repeated.
Trial by jury is a critical pervasive judicial institution across the Commonwealth
Caribbean but very rarely subjected to scientific inquiry here. The major reasons
are jury secrecy and legal prohibitions. But at the same time, too many miscarriages
of justice and jury mistakes have been reaching public attention, many of such
concerns emanating from judges themselves. It has always been an intriguing
spectacle to see how the legal and judicial system sometimes protects itself from
scrutiny by putting up fences around its suspect practices. The jury system needs
a serious review in the Caribbean but like in its motherland itself, England, it
remains shrouded with so much tradition and myth that public opinion will
likely find any drastic change hard to bear. Two of the three papers in Part Seven
focuses on the jury. In the first paper, the author illustrates several weaknesses in
trial by jury, some procedural, some institutional. The second paper links public
opinion with jury behaviour in a widely publicised and very high-controversial
manslaughter trial where a senior police officer of African descent was alleged to
have killed a young man of East Indian descent. The data presented puts not only
the jury on trial but implicitly suggests that the jury itself may be guilty of injustices
and vulnerable to courtroom manipulations. But who will bell the cat? These two
papers provide a jumpstart for public policy review. The third paper deals with a
xx
comparison between two criminal justice systems (British and Dutch) by Caribbean
Court of Justice judges, Adrian Saunders and Jacob Wit. The time has certainly
come for us in the Caribbean to know more about the criminal justice systems of
other places and especially if they are working well in areas where we are weak.
Justices Saunders and Wit do us such a service, especially when we consider the
role of the jury under the British judicial system.
Part Eight brings us to the drug trade and public policy. First, King examines
the extent to which there could be cooperation between Caribbean states and
the United States particularly, especially when faced with such treaties as ‘the
Ship-Rider’ Agreement. Then, Horace A. Bartilow raises a very critical argument
about the extent to which current drug policies, especially by the United States in
the Caribbean and Latin America, are really worth it. His paper certainly does
not bring closure to this very important question but it does open the doors for
further examination and, hopefully, our eyes to a new way at looking at this
growing problem of drug trafficking and public policy.
Terrorism has not as yet hit the Caribbean in its more dastardly and virulent
forms such as the destruction of the World Trade Centre Towers or the train
bombings in London or Spain. But the Caribbean has had its share. We have had
two bouts of serious terrorism-type political violence. Among the conditions which
define terrorism are enforcing change through political violence and the
instigation of fear. The two papers in Part Nine remind us of these two episodes,
the first one in Grenada in l979 when the People’s Revolutionary Army staged a
coup against the government and the subsequent United States’ intervention
(also called ‘invasion’ by the antagonists) in Grenada in l983. In that paper
(Deosaran), the ‘Politics of a Caribbean Revolution’, the PRG’s justification and
the accompanying violence are reflected in the long battle between the
revolutionary government in Grenada (PRG) and the privately-owned Caribbean
media, a close ally of the United States. The second paper on the Muslimeen
insurrection in Trinidad examines how a culture of lawlessness and public policy
carelessness could unwittingly contribute, in fact, fuel, a violent insurrection
against the government. Lives were lost in Trinidad and many more in Grenada.
Both groups, Grenada’s PRG and Trinidad’s Muslimeen, have been described
as ‘terrorists’ by several sections of the Caribbean population, especially Caribbean
governments. But several other groups, especially some labour unions and
community-based organisations, saw them differently. Such distinction brings
to mind the saying that ‘one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.’
The interesting feature for Caribbean criminology in both violent episodes is the
justification provided by the rebels themselves. In both cases, they saw themselves
as ‘crusaders for the people,’ and not as architects of violence.
The last section in this Reader, Part Ten, throws a wide perspective on
victimisation in the Caribbean. We move from Joseph, Henriques and Morris’s
paper on the victimisation wrought by human trafficking in the Dominican
Republic, then an unusual look by Norris and Bergdahl at demography and ‘road
xxi
risks’ in Jamaica, to Chadee and Ditton’s paper on fear of crime as a form of crime
victimisation. These three papers, like many of the above ones, do point the way
towards a new look at some old problems in the Caribbean.
For university lecturers, researchers, policymakers, students, journalists and
concerned citizens, this Reader should stimulate not only fresh ways in
understanding and reducing crime, delinquency and violence in the Caribbean
but also encourage governments and policymakers to respond more thoughtfully
and urgently to the serious challenges now facing Caribbean people.
And of course, to all my professional colleagues near and far who so willingly
and dutifully supplied me with their papers for this Reader, I say thanks very
much. To my long-standing friend and well-respected colleague and criminologist,
Professor Todd Clear, I express my very warm appreciation for writing that all-
important Foreword to this historic publication for Caribbean Criminology.
Finally, I wish to express my deep appreciation to Ian Ramdhanie for the
consistently diligent and responsible manner in which he assisted me with this
compilation of papers. To Vidya Lall, for her ever-ready support and care in seeing
that this Reader is brought to successful completion, I express my deep gratitude.
I also wish to convey my appreciation to Kathy-Ann Belmar-Thomas and Toni
Hinds for their valuable administrative support. My thanks also go out to the
other members of our publication support staff, Nikita Dindial, Rainah Seepersad,
Petal Sampson and Tennille Fanovich.
August, 2006
xxii
xxiii
xxiv
xxv
xxvi
caribbean criminology
Theoretical Directions
One
INTRODUCTION
Towards a
The scientific study of crime and deviant
Caribbean behaviour in the Caribbean as an
Criminology1 independent field of inquiry in its own right
is long overdue. This absence in the
Kenneth Pryce
Caribbean of an intellectual tradition
concerned with systematic investigation into
the forces of law, disorder and social control
is conspicuous in view of the fact that
apparent in the Caribbean for a long time
now, have been all the anomic features of
the universally increasing crime rate, now
regarded as a world phenomenon, rather
than a problem peculiar only to more
developed metropolitan societies. As Dudley
Allen, Commissioner of the Jamaica
Department of Correctional Services has put
it:
persons and groups, on the one hand, and powerful, relatively organised propertied
social interests, on the other (e.g. the unemployed and weak minorities versus
business interests represented by the state). Powerful interests are in the
competition with weaker groups and express their will through the state and the
laws they enact to protect their interests.
Who wins in such conflicts are generally those on the side of those who have
the power and that means to stigmatise, to label and to successfully criminalise
behaviour as deviant.
The losers are those without power to enforce rules and so end up being the
victim of the labels and the whole criminalisation and stigmatisation process
determined by elite interests.
Criminality and deviance are not, therefore, determined by any intrinsic
qualities of the individual or of groups (e.g. blackness) but by their relative power
in the overall situation in which they interact and struggle.
It is evident from the delineation of the above two perspectives that the
macroscopic vision of the New Criminology has superior theoretical advantages
and that, as a basis for the development of a framework for the sociology of
crime, deviance and social control in the Caribbean, it is to be preferred to the
largely psychological, legalistic and positivistic orientation of the traditional
approach, for it argues for a theoretical understanding of man and criminal action
in which the meaning of crime and deviancy is depicted as arising out of the
broader context of society generally.
These laws…tended to sharpen the distinction between black and white and to
foster the notion of race as a determinant of status in West Indian society’ (Connell
1971).
Now despite the legal abolition of race-slavery in the Caribbean, the economic
and social status of blacks in the post emancipation period remained substantially
the same (Girvan 1975) and abolition brought with it no economic transformation
— only a change in the basis of exploiting black labour. The ex-slave population
now experienced dispossession through taxation and harassment which forced
them into a new situation where they were exploited as landless and wage-earning
labourers in a colonial economy still linked to the then industrialising world of
the capitalist North Atlantic countries. And once again, the laws governing the
masses reflected the economic interests of the colonial ruling class among whom
politico-economic power remained highly concentrated. In the social economy
of exploitation thus established, racism became further institutionalised and
continued to play an important function, not only in ideologically legitimising
the politico-economic hegemony of the whites and fragmenting the labour force
in the service of capitalist accumulation, but also in stigmatising the genetic.
Within this scenario, blacks were viewed as innately criminal3 and their lower
class institutions vilified as ‘deviant’ and illegal, even though, in some instances,
as in the case of obeah and ganja use, such practices were, (and still are) ‘reinforced
by a great deal of positive ethical and religious sentiment’ (Thwaites 1971). For
instance, Lowenthal has commented with some alarm that: ‘What distinguishes
Caribbean legal systems is that those discriminated against constitute the great
majority’.3
Lowenthal further observed that:
The [West Indian] masses see formal law as an elite weapon and the police as
their natural enemies: the elite expect and get preferential treatment. When the
... offender against the law is black the police approach as rude; if he is white the
police approach, if they do at all, with trepidation and respect, and at times, even
with apology. Lower class blacks charged with an offence are assumed to be lying;
only white people do not lie.3
Viewing the law as an elite weapon, the poor in the Caribbean sometimes react
by not cooperating with the police, by seldom invoking legal processes and by
according prestige to individual members of their own working class communities
for their continuous success in circumventing the law also by mythicizing them
as “folk-heroes”.
Today, the socio-legal disabilities of the masses are also reflected in the many laws
(Public Order Acts, Labour Laws, Emergency Acts, Sedition Laws, Dangerous Drugs
Laws, etc.) designed to restrain the working class and coerce it into disobedience.
The current tendency of Caribbean governments to resort to provisions in the
law to restrain and crush popular discontent in the name of “law and order,” is
TABLE 1.1
UNEMPLOYMENT IN THE CARIBBEAN4
Antigua - official (1973) 45%
Aruba - official (1971) 16%
Barbados - official (1973) 13-15%
Bermuda - unofficial (1974) 10-12%
Cayenne - official (1974) 60%
Curacao - official (1971) 20%
- official (1974) 30%
Dominica
- unofficial (1974) 50%
Dominican - official (Balaguer 1971) 33%
Republic - unofficial (1973) 45%
Grenada - unofficial (1974) 50%
Guyana - unofficial (1974) 25%
-official (1974) 18%
Jamaica
-unofficial (1974) 25-30%
Martinique - official (1970) 50%
- official (1973) 11%
Puerto Rico
- unofficial (1973) 30-40%
St. Vincent - unofficial (1973) 40%
- official (1974) 30%
Suriname
- unofficial (1974) 30%
- official (1974) 15%
Trinidad
- unofficial (1974) 20-25%
10
CORRUPTION
Moreover, the criminal statistics also expose the class nature of apprehension
and punishment in our criminal justice system, for even though public knowledge
that graft corruption is commonplace among certain sections of the propertied
classes, in practice it is mainly proletarian crimes that are singled out for
punishment (as evidenced by the categories in the statistics), while middle class
deviants as a rule go undetected and unpunished. And as this bias exists despite
the fact that illicit gains appropriated through fraud, embezzlement and illegal
business practices far exceed those attributable to burglaries, larceny and petty
11
THE LUMPENPROLETARIAT
A further area that needs to be explored in developing a relevant criminology
is the growth of an ‘instutionalized lumpenproletariat’ in our cities due to massive
unemployment arising from capital-intensive industrialisation (as well as indirect
export of some of this problem through migration to the cities of the metropoles).
Manifestations of the growth of the lumpen stratum locally can be seen in the
fact that in the ranks of the urban dispossessed, the struggle for survival in recent
years has assumed very ferocious and violent dimensions. The most dramatic
instance of where this is happening in the Caribbean today (though not the only
one) is the urban slums of Kingston, Jamaica. Moreover, recent Caribbean history
has shown that the lumpenproletariat elements in our cities — our gangsters,
hustlers, bad johns and petty criminals — can no longer be regarded as totally
lacking in ‘political’ significance, some traditional Marxists would have it. For
nowadays they provide a crucial rank and file support for parliamentary political
parties and corrupt political leaders (e.g. Gairy’s mongoose gang) and, when armed,
are capable of wreaking havoc and destruction. In Jamaica in 1974, for instance,
‘shooting with intent’ increased by 1,900 per cent and murders went up by almost
400 per cent. Gun Murders accounted for at least 50 per cent of all murders, while
70 per cent of all murders were committed in Kingston2. In 1968, the Walter
Rodney affair triggered off looting and arson in Kingston which resulted in
12
£1,000,000 damage to property and the death of three persons (Monroe 1972,
119). The urban crisis in Jamaica had become so acute that the controversial Gun
Court Act was passed in March 1974 as a ‘shock technique’ to curb gun crimes and
maintain ‘law and order’. The sections of the Jamaican community that are now
armed include affluent middle class residents who live in constant fear of reprisals
from the dispossessed and the unemployed who are also armed. Between 1965
and now, a State of Emergency has been declared twice. Bob Marley, the
international famous Reggae singer, (the superstar of the Third World) was recently
shot down by gunmen in Kingston and some of his tunes, one of which predicts
‘war,’ have been banned by a radio station in Jamaica.
The lumpenproletariat has to be seen in the light of the controversy concerning
their role in the anti-capitalist and anti-colonial struggles. Some writers, including
many Marxists still fell that lumpens are little more than parasites, betraying
elements of instability, self–enrichment and greed, who prey on the ‘crumbs’
from the total distribution of the social product. No doubt the actions of lumpens
depend on the existing political situation — for example, whether or not a viable
revolutionary organisation exists that can effectively articulate the grievances
and constructively canalise their otherwise anarchic and nihilistic energies (Stone
1973, 149) after all, the experience of Cuba, Algeria and Black Power Movement
in the USA has shown that the lumpenproletariat is not inherently anti-
revolutionary8 (Lewis 1976, Worsely 1972). Among the writers who have been
concerned with rethinking9 the role of lumpens in Third World struggles, none
has been more positive and optimistic as Fanon who has gone as far as to suggest
that the lumpenproletariat constitutes one of the most militant elements among
the urban oppressed strata.
He wrote:
It is in this mass of humanity, this people of the shanty towns, at the core of the
lumpenproletariat, that the rebellion will find its urban spearhead. For the
lumpenproletariat, that horde of starving men, uprooted from their tribe and
from their clan, constitute one of the revolutionary forces of colonialized people.
(9: 103)
13
who developed the ‘culture of poverty’ thesis (1976). The gist of this tradition of
theorisation is that lower class delinquent boys, far from being deviant in their
acts of maliciousness, vandalism, petty theft and drug use, are in fact acting in
conformity with the values of their own ‘lower class struggle’ which is a ‘long
established, distinctively patterned tradition with an integrity of its own’. In this
view, the values of delinquent boys do not necessarily oppose them to the
standards of the dominant culture; instead their behaviour is seen as normal in
terms of the milieu to which they are accustomed and in which they have been
reared, even though their behaviour conflicts with the official values of society. It
is also argued that delinquent boys are generally from female-dominated
households; therefore they are drawn to ‘street corner’ sociability which socialises
them in typical ghetto values of toughness, violence, ‘kicks’, drug use, sexual
prowess, smart talk, smart dress and excessive drinking, etc. Yet in maintaining
these ‘delinquent’ attitudes, street corner life provides opportunities for boys to
learn aspects of the male role which have been denied them by virtue of their
membership of households where men are either absent or frequent only
irregularly. Another writer, David Matza (1964) argues that delinquent boys merely
accentuates pleasure-loving attitudes of ‘kicks’ and thrilling-seeking, etc. which
are commonly held values even among the work-conscious bourgeois who however
differ in that they tend to confine their subterranean activities to special occasions
such as fetes and carnival etc., whereas delinquent boys practice them as a way of
life. They therefore suffer from ‘bad timing’ as they are impervious to the workday
rule that there is a time and place for everything. This is possible for them, Matza
points out, because juvenile delinquents justify their deviance by the use of verbal
techniques of neutralisation (‘I’m sick,’ ‘everybody uses drugs,’ ‘we weren’t hurting
anyone’), which neutralise and weaken the moral bind of the middle class ideology
on them. Such theories are obviously deficient in respect of their lack of
appreciation of the structural origins of delinquency and delinquent subcultures.
In contrast to these writers, Cohen (1955) and Cloward and Ohlin (1960)
come closer to outlining a view of delinquency which might be applicable to the
Caribbean environment, for they discuss the experience of delinquent subcultures
in terms of class situation of the working class boys, with reference to their restricted
life chances and the frustration attendant upon their inability to measure up to
the middle class aspirations, particularly in schools, which are run by middle
class teachers committed to conventional values of success and achievement. For
these writers, particularly Cloward and Ohlin, the delinquent solution is a
‘collective’ response and is only possible when lower class boys attain a
consciousness in which they blame the system for their failure rather than
themselves. These writers also tend to portray delinquent gangs as militant
opposition groups that are distinguishable by their apartness and the
distinctiveness in their way of life. Yet, however successful is the approach of
Cohen and Cloward and Ohlin in illuminating the problem of delinquency in
14
the US, they are often of limited theoretical utility when applied to the Caribbean,
because the disaffection and style of protest of the Caribbean lower class youth
cannot be adequately explained without an understanding of our experience of
racism and neo-colonial poverty and the situation of the ‘sufferer’ in contemporary
Caribbean society. In the Caribbean (and Afro-America) ‘street life’ and
delinquency are the products of a system that simultaneously deny men jobs and
stigmatise them racially, thereby defining them as outsiders not only to the system
as a whole but also in relation to their own families, since they are deprived of
the means to discharge their obligations as breadwinners10. But this entire
condition originated with race-slavery and has persisted to the present era of
mass unemployment. Thus in the Caribbean the subculture of the street has not
only given rise to values (delinquency) and institutions (‘groundings,’ ‘liming’
on the block) through which men and youths inarticulately try to regain their
manhood lost in ‘shitwork’ or through unemployment11, it also generated politico-
expressional idioms such as Calypso, Reggae, pan music and the millenarian
reaction of Rastafarian and ‘dreadness’ which have been more consciously
expressive of an ideology of resistance against the imperialist power structure12
(Nettleford 1970, Monroe 1972). Delinquency in the Caribbean then, is a
phenomenon of some complexity intimately fused with politics and liberation
struggles. To adopt foreign models, in which the phenomenon is either ‘de-
racialised’ or viewed in purely cultural terms, is merely to trivialise the problem
and divorce it from its structural and historical context.
CONCLUSION
In this paper, my purpose has been to show that Criminology as an academic
discipline is an undeveloped field of study in the Caribbean scholarship and it
has been noted that this is a curious state of affairs, given the rising crime rate in
the Third World generally and the escalating problems of violence, corruption
and petty criminality in territories of the Anglophone Caribbean in particular. A
brief sketch of the radical perspective in modern criminological thought is given
and counterposed to the traditionalist viewpoint, and it suggests that the former
approach holds out greater promise for the development of a criminology of
relevance to the Caribbean that can look at crime broadly, critically and
theoretically in terms of the overall historical, social and economic framework of
the region. In stating the case for a meaning full theory of deviance suitable to
the Caribbean experience, certain key areas (though by no means the only ones)
have been singled out for special attention to indicate the possible dimensions of
the field and the scope of the scholarship required.
15
REFERENCES
Albert, C. 1955. Delinquent Boys. Glencoe ICC: Free Press.
Anonymous. 1975. ‘Unemployment and the Unemployed – Part II: Unemployment in an
Appendage Economy’. Caribbean Dialogue 1, 11 (Oct.).
Association of Caribbean Universities and Research Institutes (UNICA). 1976. Crime and
Violence in the Caribbean. Committee Report. UNICA Social Development Project: P.O.
Box 12269, University Station, Gainsville, Florida 32604.
Cloward, R.A. and Ohlin, L.E. 1960. Delinquency and Opportunity: A Theory of Delinquent
Gangs. New York: The Free Press.
Connell, J.1971. ‘The Law and the Solution for Sociological Problems’. In Caribbean
Background III. Barbados: Centre for Multi-racial Studies.
Department of Correctional Services, Kingston Jamaica – Statistical Analysis of Crime for
Jamaica.
Eldridge, C. On Lumpen Ideology (n.d.)
Express December 29, 1976.
Fanon, F. 1965. The Wretched of the Earth. New York: Grove Press.
Forrester, K. 1976. ‘Why Isn’t There a Crime Problem in Tobago?’ Course Work, Sociology
Department, UWI, St Augustine.
Girvan, N. 1975. Aspects of the Political Economy of Race in the Caribbean and in the
Americas. Working Paper, No. 7. UWI, ISER, Mona, Jamaica.
Hannerz, U. 1969. Soulside – Inquiries in Ghetto Culture and Community. Colombia University
Press.
Lewis, O. 1976. La Vida. Culture of Poverty Thesis. Panther Books.
Loney, M.1973. ‘Social Control in Cuba’. In Politics and Deviance, Ian Taylor and Laurie
Taylor. Pelican Books.
Lowenthal, D. West Indian Societies.
Lowhar, S.1976. ‘Youth Revolt and Williams’ Tactics’. The Caribbean Contact: 8.
Marshall, B.C. and Abbott, J.D. 1973. Crime in Developing Countries – A Comparative
Perspective. John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
Matza, D. 1964. Delinquency and Drift. New York: Wiley.
Miller, W.1958. ‘Lower Class Culture as a Generating Milieu of Gang Delinquency’. Journal
of Social Issues 4, no.3.
Munroe, T.1972. The Politics of Constitutional Decolonization Jamaica, 1944–1962. UWI ISER,
Mona, Jamaica.
Nettleford, R. 1970. ‘Mirror, Mirror – The Trinity of Race, Protest and Identity in Jamaica’.
Collins Stangster (Jamaica) Ltd.
Pryce, K. Forthcoming. ‘Endless Pressure – A Study of West Indian Life-styles’. In Bristol.
Penguin.
Richard, C. and Ohlin, L. 1960. Delinquency and Opportunity. New York: Free Press.
Stone, C. 1973. Class, Race and Political Behaviour in Urban Jamaica. UWI Mona, Jamaica:
ISER.
Stone, C. and Brown, A. 1976. Essays on Power and Change in Jamaica. UWI, Mona: Extra-
Mural Department and the Department of Government.
Taylor, I., Walton, P. and Young, J. 1973. Critical Criminology, R.K.P.
___.1973. ‘For a Social Theory of Deviance, R.K.P’ .The New Criminology.
16
Thwaites, R.1971. ‘Jamaica Dangerous Drugs Laws: In the Absence of a West Indian
Jurisprudence’. Jamaica Law Journal.
Time Magazine. 1973. The Big Pay Off. Lockheed Scandal: Graft around the Globe. February
23.
White, G. ‘Rudie, Oh Rudie’. Caribbean Quarterly 3, no. 3.
Wilson, P. 1969. ‘Reputation and Respectability: A Suggestion for Caribbean Ethnography’.
Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4, no.1.
Wolfgang, M. and Ferracuiti, F. 1967. Subculture of Violence. London: Tavistock.
Worsely, P.1972. ‘Frantz Fanon and the Lumpenproletariat’. Socialist Register.
NOTES
1. From Caribbean Issues, Volume 2, No. 2, Extra-Mural Unit (now School of Continuing
Studies), The University of the West Indies, St Augustine Campus, Trinidad and
Tobago, August, 1976, p. 3–21, with permission.
2. Association of Caribbean Universities and Research Institutes (UNICA): Crime and
Violence in the Caribbean. Committee Report of Workshop proceeding held Jan. 31–
Feb. 2, 1976, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, UNICA, Social Development
through Communication Projects. Published by UNICA Social Development Project,
P.O. Box 12269, University Station, Gainsville, Florida 32604.
3. David Lowenthal: West Indian Societies. (Section on Legal Institutions).
4. Caribbean Dialogue, Vol. 1, No. 2 October 1975. “Unemployment and the
Unemployed – Part II: Unemployment in an Appendage Economy” p.11
5. Express (Trinidad and Tobago), December 29, 1976.
6. Department of Correctional Services, Kingston Jamaica – Statistical Analysis of Crime
for Jamaica
7. “The Big Pay Off. Lockheed Scandal: Graft Around the Globe.” Time Magazine
February 23, 1973.
8. Eldridge Cleaver: On Lumpen Ideology (n.d.)
9. Fanon, Peter Worsely, Elridge Cleaver etc.
10. The point has been fully grasped by Eliot Liebow in his book, Tally’s Corner which is
a study of black American ghetto males in a Washington, D.C. community. Liebow
sees the problem of black street corner men as being primarily economic and was
sensitive enough to include in this book a chapter entitled “Men and Jobs”.
Liebow describes the effect on street corner men of inferior job roles in the following
way:
And the streetcorner man’s position in relation to the institution of marriage has
17
Liebow believes that if the problem represented by these men is to be solved; they
must be given economically valuable skills and full opportunity to use them. In the
appendage economies of the Caribbean (with the exception of Cuba), imperialist
domination and the resultant foreign-controlled nature of the industrialisation
process at present preclude any possibility of an effective amelioration of the
condition of the un-employed and under-employed along the lines suggested above by
Liebow — a realization which further increases the alienation of our delinquent
streetcorner youths and intensifies their demand for “revolution”.
11. Kenneth Pryce: Endless Pressure — A Study of West Indian Life-styles in Bristol. Penguin
(Forthcoming).
12. Garth White: “Rudie, Oh Rudie” in Caribbean Quarterly, Vol. 3. No. 3.
18
Two
By Your INTRODUCTION
Theories You In 1976, the late Ken Pryce wrote a
ground breaking article in which he called
Shall Be Known:
for the development of a Caribbean
Some Reflections criminology. In his view, the ‘intensification
on Caribbean of violence, lawlessness and “white collar”
Criminology1 corruption’ urgently required, ‘[t]he
scientific study of crime and deviant
behaviour in the Caribbean as an
Christopher Birkbeck independent field of inquiry in its own right’
(1976, 3). While applauding official concern
over the growing crime problem, Pryce
argued that academic research was also a
necessary part of the search for solutions.
Such research ‘should be the concern not
only of the politician, the jurist and the
policy-maker, but the sociologist and other
social scientists as well’ (1976, 3). As the core
of Caribbean criminology, Pryce proposed
the ‘New Criminology’ (see Taylor, Walton
and Young, 1973) that was attracting much
attention among researchers elsewhere,
because it offered ‘superior theoretical
advantages...as a basis for the development
of a framework for the sociology of crime,
deviance and social control in the Caribbean’
(1976, 7).
Twenty years later, other criminologists
took up the matter of a Caribbean
criminology. Richard Bennett and James
Lynch (1996) identified five characteristics
of Caribbean societies that, in their view,
rendered existing major theories of crime
inapplicable in the region. These were the
timing of the development process, the small
size of Caribbean nations, the salience of
tourism in many Caribbean economies, the
presence of the illegal drug trade, and the
19
It may well be that with sufficient attention and thought, existing theories can
be adapted to include more transparently the situations currently confronting
Caribbean nations. At present, they do not. We argue that this inability to account
for the five areas of uniqueness of the Caribbean constitutes a plausible argument,
on intellectual grounds, for the creation of a sub-discipline of criminology:
Caribbean criminology (1996, 15).
In the same year, Maureen Cain compiled a collection of essays on crime and
justice in the Caribbean with the title ‘For a Caribbean Criminology’ (Caribbean
Quarterly, 1996). In her introductory essay, she warned against, ‘that deferential
relationship with western theory which assumes it to be right even when it does
not fit local experiences, which presents it as received wisdom even when it has
no relevance’ (Cain, 1996a, ii). Citing examples from the research included in her
compilation, Cain argued that,
Finally, in 1997, Ramesh Deosaran and Derek Chadee offered some brief
comments on the nature of Caribbean criminology, with specific reference to the
study of juvenile delinquency. Noting that the empirical status of delinquency
theories developed outside the Caribbean is by no means unequivocal, Deosaran
and Chadee concluded that ‘whatever form or shape a “Caribbean Criminology”
eventually takes, it will not be entirely immune or so distinct from theory already
developed elsewhere. It will be more likely a matter of theoretical integration,
without reinventing the wheel’ (1997, 40–41).
It is interesting that these authors discussed the identity of Caribbean
criminology in relation to theory. Such a strategy for the examination of identity
is, perhaps, not surprising. Theories represent the most general statements about
the subject we are studying, capable (hopefully) of subsuming multiple and diverse
sets of empirical circumstances. They also express the analytical orientation of a
discipline through the explanations — or linkages between variables — that they
propose. The facts of crime and criminal justice can be studied from different
viewpoints — for example, the aesthetics of crimes, the budgetary procedures of
criminal justice — but criminology has carved out its identity in relation to the
causes of crime, and the causes of social control (Black 1983). As a discipline,
criminology gains identity through its theories.
It is therefore reasonable to expect that discussions about the nature and
rationale for sub disciplines — whether cast in terms of a substantive or geographic
20
focus (Bennett and Lynch, 1996, 8) — centre on theory. And the key question for
researchers interested in Caribbean criminology concerns the appropriate content
and direction of theoretical work among scholars working in and on the Caribbean.
As my review of prior opinions reveals, there is no consensus regarding this
question. Pryce advocated the adoption of an existing theoretical framework
(critical criminology), whereas Bennett and Lynch felt that existing theories do
not fit. Cain, and Deosaran and Chadee, took intermediate positions, thinking
that some existing theories might be relevant and some might not.
In this paper, I address the possibilities awaiting theoretical criminology in
the Caribbean. In so doing, I attempt to clarify and answer some of the points
raised by the authors that have gone before me, and also add a proposal for
theoretical analysis that has not been mentioned by others. Beyond an ongoing
interest in the development of regional criminologies (see, for example, Birkbeck,
1985, 1993) my participation in this debate, and my attempt to help move it
forward, is based on two sets of circumstances. First, Caribbean citizens (see, for
example, Moser and Holland 1997), scholars (e.g., Griffith 1997) and policymakers
(e.g., Gentles 1988) all comment on the magnitude and urgency of the crime
problem in the region. Governments and non-governmental agencies face the
challenge of doing something immediately and effectively to ameliorate the
problem. In the search for solutions, particularly long term solutions, our approach
to the crime problem (and the criminal justice problem) will be greatly aided by
understanding. And understanding is developed and advanced primarily through
theories. Policymakers are likely to ask, ‘Which theories should we study?’ ‘Which
theories should we apply?’ Caribbean criminology would play an extremely useful
practical role in the region if it can provide both initial and ongoing answers to
those questions.
Second, my reading of the literature on crime and social control in the
Caribbean leads me to conclude that generally, most scholars have not, so far,
engaged in truly theoretical work. By ‘theoretical work’ I mean the formulation,
or empirical testing, of a set of general statements that offer an explanation for a
given phenomenon (see Rudner 1966, Birkbeck 1985). Almost all of the studies I
consulted are arguably of significance for theory building. These range from
descriptive research on crime or social control (e.g., Dodd and Parris 1977, Lieber
1981; Ramoutar 1996), through studies identifying variables associated with aspects
of crime or social control (e.g., Brathwaite 1996, King 1997), to studies that refer
more directly to explanation (e.g., Headley 1996) or to theories (e.g., Bennett,
Shields and Daniels 1997, Deosaran and Chadee 1997, Pacheco Maldonado 1989).
However, none of these studies represent theoretical work as I have just defined
it, the kind of work that — to take but one example — is exemplified internationally
by Braithwaite’s (1989) book on reintegrative shaming, and subsequent tests of
his theory (e.g., Makkai and Braithwaite 1994, Vagg 1998).2 Indeed, Caribbean
criminology could be considered to exist at a pre-theoretical level, formulating
21
questions, collecting basic descriptive data, making the first contacts with
established theoretical perspectives. The time is ripe for continued reflection on
the possibilities for theoretical criminology in the Caribbean.
In what follows, I first take up the question raised by previous authors, namely,
the extent to which Caribbean criminological theory is likely to be unique. Based
on my conception of theory and my understanding of geography, I do not find
support for the scenarios offered by Pryce or Bennett and Lynch. Instead, I try to
show why the intuitive conclusions of Cain, and Deosaran and Chadee are likely
to be correct. Following that, I identify and discuss three ways in which theoretical
criminology can develop in the Caribbean.
22
research. Moreover, these domains are not necessarily expressed in spatial terms.4
With these general principles in mind, we return to a more detailed consideration
of the three assumptions outlined above.
Regarding Assumption one, we must note that when criminologists develop
theories, they are only partly thinking about specific places. For example, Hirschi
(1969) proposed his well known control theory of crime while working in
California. But although Hirschi tested his theory with data from the Richmond
Youth Project, there is no way that we can conclude that he was thinking only of
California youth. He may have drawn part of his theoretical inspiration from
preliminary contacts with local juveniles, but his theory contains general concepts
(such as ‘social bonds’, and ‘attachment’) that imply a potential testable domain
that extends well beyond the boundaries of California. Where the spatial
boundaries of that domain lie (if they exist) could only be specified after careful
geographic sampling from different parts of the world, something that has not
been done. Kempf (1993) identified 71 tests of Hirschi’s theory published between
1970 and 1991. The majority (62) were conducted in the United States, with only
nine located elsewhere (seven in Canada, and one each in Australia and Sweden).5
The second assumption — that theories have received substantial empirical
support in the places with reference to which they were formulated — is equally
problematic. Not only is it difficult to specify the places for which a theory was
formulated, but the relevance of a theory is often partial and always provisional.
Continuing with the example of Hirschi’s theory, Kempf (1993, p. 164) concluded
— largely, as we have seen, on the basis of tests in the United States — that
‘different, and sometimes contrary, results were found.’ Indeed, the final pages of
Kempf’s review leave the reader with the strong impression that careful, systematic,
testing of Hirschi’s theory has hardly begun. The control theory of crime is
therefore anchored very weakly in empirical studies, even within the region to
which it is supposedly most applicable.
Regarding Assumption three, the use of everyday regional terminology to
assess the relevance of theories is problematic. Regions are the end product of a
process of classification, in which places are grouped together on the basis of
their similarity to each other and their differences from other places (Grigg 1965,
1967). One problem inherent to regionalisation is the fuzziness of our
classifications: it is often difficult to determine where one region ends and another
begins. For example, Mintz and Price (1985) defined the Caribbean in terms of a
political history of conquest and an economic system based on plantations and
slavery, which (with the exceptions of Belize and Guianas) were confined mainly
to the islands bordering the Caribbean Sea. However, they also recognised that,
‘In terms of topography, rainfall, soil, terrain, and the nature of post Conquest
occupation...a thin coastal strip of the mainland...belongs with the islands’ (1985,
4). Therefore, how should criminologists treat, for example, crime and social
control in coastal Venezuela? Are they studying part of Latin America, or part of
the Caribbean?
23
SCENA III.
GIULIA e FAUSTINA.
Faustina
Ma che cos'è? Vi fa il cane di guardia?
Giulia
(con bontà e mestizia) Poverino! È stato abituato a volermi bene
così.
Faustina
Un bene da far mancare il respiro!
Giulia
(mutando — con vivacità affettuosa) E tu?... Dimmi di te, dimmi di
te, Faustina. Se tu sapessi che piacere il rivederti! Da dieci minuti in
qua mi pare di essere meno sola, e anche meno infelice. La tua cara
parlantina di brontolona allegra mi fa un po' rivivere la mia
fanciullezza. Ah, che beneficio ne sento! Parla, parla, Faustina!
Perchè sei scomparsa? Come te la sei cavata tutto questo tempo?
Che hai fatto? Dove sei stata?
Faustina
In America sono stata!
Giulia
Ma brava!
Faustina
Si, si, un bell'affare! Mi avevano dato ad intendere che laggiù le
monete d'oro venissero fuori come i funghi....
Giulia
(animandosi e interessandosi) E invece?
Faustina
Ho lasciato il paese dell'oro con quindici soldi in saccoccia.
Giulia
(guardandola graziosamente da capo a piedi) Però... però... sei tutta
elegante, oggi.
Faustina
E vi pare che questi paramenti siano roba di mia proprietà? Me li son
presi a prestito per fare un po' di festa a voi. Ma la faccenda, cara la
mia bambola, è molto seria. Sono agli estremi!
Giulia
(con un lampo di giocondità) Faustina!... Di': ti piacerebbe di tornare
con me?
Faustina
E non l'avevate ancora capito che per questo sono qui?
Giulia
Io mi ti piglio a braccia aperte.
Faustina
Sono piuttosto sconquassata, è vero, ma per lavorare....
Giulia
Al posto che ti darò io non farai nessuna fatica. Ti darò nientedimeno
che il posto di portinaia nel mio ospizio.
Faustina
Nel vostro ospizio?!
Giulia
Sicuro! Sarà inaugurato ben presto. Vedrai che cosa bella.... Io fondo
un ospizio, Faustina. Col patrimonio che m'ha lasciato il povero
Raimondo, io istituisco un ricovero per le vedove indigenti. Capisci
ora? Parlo di quelle, naturalmente, che per la loro condizione sociale
non possono guadagnarsi da vivere. Ma, spieghiamoci: bisogna,
soprattutto, che non abbiano l'intenzione di rimaritarsi; bisogna che
si propongano di fare una vita modesta, rassegnata, tranquilla,
umile; quasi monastica, insomma.
Faustina
(attonita e compiaciuta) Oh, guarda, guarda, guarda!... E voi?
Giulia
Io starò nel ritiro come le altre. Sarò la sorella maggiore, sarò la
direttrice....
Faustina
Una specie di madre badessa?
Giulia
(con gaiezza) Precisamente: una specie di madre badessa!
Faustina
Ed io la guardiana?
Giulia
E tu la guardiana.
Faustina
(giubilante) Ma questa dell'ospizio è stata un'idea coi fiocchi!
Giulia
Ci vieni?
Faustina
Mi spetta di diritto. Più indigente e più vedova di me, dove la
trovate?
Giulia
(sempre più animandosi alle celie della buona donna e
secondandola) Hai l'intenzione di rimaritarti tu, Faustina?
Faustina
Neanche se torno a nascere!
Giulia
Quand'è così, non c'è nulla in contrario!
Faustina
Voto di castità e posto di portinaia!
(Ridono un poco tutte e due.)
Giulia
Ed ora, fila, fila, fila, vecchia mia. Tu ti pigli tutto il mio tempo, ed io
ho ancora da pettinarmi e da vestirmi.
Faustina
A pettinarvi e a vestirvi, almeno fino a che non entro in carica, ci
penso io, perbacco!
Giulia
Non te ne vuoi andare?
Faustina
Fossi pazza! Provvisoriamente, io mi pianto in casa vostra.
Giulia
(con una piccola esultanza infantile) E oggi mi pettini proprio tu?
Proprio tu, come una volta?
Faustina
Come una volta, non so, perchè, allora, dei vostri capelli ero io la
padrona.
Giulia
È vero, Faustina. E nelle tue mani diventavano più lucidi, più folti....
Faustina
Di questo non ce n'era bisogno, perchè avevate in testa una massa
di seta così!
Giulia
Che belle treccie, Faustina, mi lasciavi cadere sulle spalle!
Faustina
E avete dimenticato quando di nascosto ne tagliai una ciocchetta per
darla allo studente che mi rompeva le scatole?
Giulia
Ah, furfante! Me lo dicesti dopo di avergliela data, e mi facesti
piangere.
Faustina
Evvia che non mi rimproveraste poi molto!
Giulia
E pensare che continueranno a passar gli anni come tanti ne sono
passati e quel coso lì, per colpa tua, possederà sempre una ciocca
dei miei capelli!
Faustina
E di che vi preoccupate? Potete essere sicura che quelli non
imbiancheranno mai.
Giulia
Non tocchiamo questo tasto, Faustina. Sai che comincio ad averne
dei capelli bianchi? Ne ho già trovati quattro o cinque.
Faustina
(con un gesto comico di spavento) Misericordia! (Per chiasso le
guarda i capelli sulla fronte e sulla nuca.)
Giulia
A prima vista non si scorgono, ma chi sa che non siano di più.
Faustina
(sciogliendole ad un tratto i capelli) Aspettate un momento che
Faustina vi dirà con precisione a che ne siamo.
Giulia
(scansandosi e irritandosi un poco con una specie di pudore
ingenuamente civettuolo) No! No!... Che fai?...
Faustina
(in tono d'allarme burlesco) Uh, quanti!
Giulia
(sùbito, con dolorosa meraviglia) Davvero!?
Faustina
(tutta festosa, allargandole quasi con orgoglio il manto dei capelli
sulle spalle) Ma che! Neppure uno bianco... e neppure uno di meno!
La stessa ricchezza, lo stesso tesoro d'una volta!
Giulia
(sfuggendola col viso tutto rilucente di soddisfazione femminile)
Niente! Niente! Non ti credo.... Non ti credo....
SCENA IV.
SCENA V.
SCENA VI.
SCENA VII.
GIULIA e GIUSEPPE.
Giuseppe
(tutto vestito a lutto, con l'abito abbottonato, portando in una mano
un cappello col velo nero, nell'altra, col braccio quasi penzoloni, il
piccolo mazzo di fiori, comparisce in fondo, compunto e austero.
Vedendo che Giulia non si accorge di lui, annunzia con voce poca e
grave:) Signora Giulia, la carrozza del Comitato è venuta.
Giulia
(ha un piccolo soprassalto. — Rabbrividisce.) (Pausa.) (La sua
fisonomia si muta.) (Ella cala la veletta sul viso e si leva.) Eccomi,
Giuseppe.... Sono pronta. (Quindi si avvia.)
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