Rarely does my morning routine require much consideration when it comes to which outfit I wear. Like a contestant on The Prince is Right, I blindly reach into the orgy of clothes on my floor hoping to grab something to cover my torso and a lil’ something to cover my pelvis. A loose sock or two rounds out my ensemble. It’s hard not to go home a winner.
When I received news that my first film, ReleaseD, had been chosen as an official selection at the 2019 Trinidad and Tobago Film Festival CARIFESTA Edition I unexpectedly became extremely fashion conscious.
For the first time in a long time (read: ever), I would be traveling with a purpose. Throughout the entirety of my life, minus my travels as a Navy man, I glided into tropical locales without much of an agenda other than rascality.
When it came to how I would dress for my first film festival, I
wanted my attire to reflect the inner rebel; the outlaw storyteller, filmmaker,
and capturer of time, place, and soul that I so yearn to be.
I decided to take a page out of M.I.A’s handbook on righteous glam and went digging for my coveted green, camouflage t-shirt. As soon as I popped my big head through the shirt’s hole, the un-holy war against commercialism, in the name of rugged individualism, was on.
The immigration line at Trinidad’s Piarco International Airport crept along like a cumbersome python; one scale at a time. It was Trinidad, though, and I knew not to expect anything less than island time – my favorite kind of time. I waited for my turn at the immigration counter with my scraggly chin held high, projecting every ounce of my renegade nature through the forest green scheme on my form fitting t-shirt. (Nothing hides the imperfections of a 35-year old’s “dad-bod, but no kids” frame than Army issue camo.)
Although, it seemed as if my camo was working too well. No one was picking up on my artsy, sniper vibe. No curious onlookers. No small talk. No, “So, what brings you to Trini?”
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to find an airport attendant looking up at me.
“Sir, would you mind stepping out of line, please, so that I can talk to you privately,” the rail thin, male attendant said from behind a pair of glasses.
I obliged without question, hoping that maybe this would be my big moment. Maybe the airport staff had picked up on my aura of importance and decided to rush me through the line.
The attendant brought me around the corner, well away from curious ears.
“Well, Sir, you see, camouflage is illegal in Trinidad and Tobago.”
“What?” I asked, thinking I misheard him.
“Everything is okay, Sir, but the shirt is illegal. It’s not allowed here. Maybe the immigration agent will make you take it off at the counter when you get there,” the attendant said.
“Look, if there’s a bathroom around here I’ll gladly change into something else,” I said motioning to my suitcase.
“No, no, no, Sir. That is unnecessary. I’m sure everything will be okay,” the attendant said. He escorted me back to my spot in line.
My egocentric wish for attention was suddenly being fulfilled, but not for the reasons I hoped. Everyone around me was wondering why the bearded, tatted, ruffian-looking fellow in camo had been pulled out of line. Years of working as a seedy bouncer in seedier nightclubs didn’t exactly give me the look or feel of a doctor from Medicins Sans Frontieres. I’ve been told that I have a serious case of RBF (Resting Bouncer Face).
The immigration line moved a few inches. Yet again, I felt another gentle palm on my shoulder. This time it was a grandmotherly woman in the Navy blue uniform of the immigration authority.
She leaned in to whisper. “Sir, has anyone talked to you about your shirt?”
“Yes, actually,” I responded.
“You know, camouflage is illegal in Trinidad and Tobago. My God, why did you wear that shirt? They’re going to give you grief at the counter,” she imparted in strange rhythms.
“Is there a bathroom or a changing room I could duck into quickly? It’s no big deal. I can put on another shirt,” I said. I rolled my suitcase in between us.
“No, no – just stay in line. Maybe they won’t notice. If they do, they’ll confiscate it, surely. What are you doing here anyway?” She asked with a slight snarl on her face.
“I’m here for CARIFESTA. I’m a filmmaker,” I said just above a whisper, hoping someone might hear and actually care.
“You’re an artist? Why the hell are you dressed like a bank robber, then?” She wandered away shaking her head.
More eyes were on me now, and the stares were wrapped in gossipy chatter about what I might be guilty of. A fashion violation was the furthest thing from their minds.
Cocaine trafficker. Arms dealer. Male sex worker.
I continued to inch towards my impending showdown with an immigration agent who may or may not want me to take my shirt off; may or may not fine me for dressing like a criminal. A stern masculine voice cut through the line behind me.
“Sir! Sir!”
I looked back and saw a crew cut, chiseled, immigration officer motioning for me to leave the line.
“I know, I know, my shirt is illegal.” I stopped him in his tracks and continued in a tone that revealed my state of frustration. “Can I just change somewhere, please?”
“Sir, camouflage is prohibited in Trinidad and Tobago. People might think differently of you with that shirt on. Please go change. There’s a bathroom over there,” he said, pointing me in the right direction.
A few moments later, I returned to my spot in line dawning a plain, blue t-shirt. Tourists and returning citizens burned holes in me with their eyes.
“Made you change your shirt, huh?” The extremely perceptive woman behind me asked.
“Yeah,” I responded with a wry smile.
“That’s a shame. The other shirt looked a lot better on you,” she added.
Needless to say, I’m ready to submit two films for TTFF20 consideration, and I already have my outfits laid out:
My humorous debacle at the airport was in no way foreshadowing for things to come that week. TTFF19 CARIFESTA Edition was an amazing experience for this first time filmmaker. It was an honor to sit amongst some of the most far reaching imaginations in the Caribbean film and art world, and I continue to be thankful for the response given to my film, “ReleaseD.” Aloha.
Words by Keoni K. Wright
www.keonikwright.com
I decided to take a page out of M.I.A’s handbook on righteous glam and went digging for my coveted green, camouflage t-shirt. As soon as I popped my big head through the shirt’s hole, the un-holy war against commercialism, in the name of rugged individualism, was on.
 |
| My affinity for rebel-artist M.I.A might be the genesis of this whole experience. |
The immigration line at Trinidad’s Piarco International Airport crept along like a cumbersome python; one scale at a time. It was Trinidad, though, and I knew not to expect anything less than island time – my favorite kind of time. I waited for my turn at the immigration counter with my scraggly chin held high, projecting every ounce of my renegade nature through the forest green scheme on my form fitting t-shirt. (Nothing hides the imperfections of a 35-year old’s “dad-bod, but no kids” frame than Army issue camo.)
Although, it seemed as if my camo was working too well. No one was picking up on my artsy, sniper vibe. No curious onlookers. No small talk. No, “So, what brings you to Trini?”
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to find an airport attendant looking up at me.
“Sir, would you mind stepping out of line, please, so that I can talk to you privately,” the rail thin, male attendant said from behind a pair of glasses.
I obliged without question, hoping that maybe this would be my big moment. Maybe the airport staff had picked up on my aura of importance and decided to rush me through the line.
The attendant brought me around the corner, well away from curious ears.
“Well, Sir, you see, camouflage is illegal in Trinidad and Tobago.”
“What?” I asked, thinking I misheard him.
“Everything is okay, Sir, but the shirt is illegal. It’s not allowed here. Maybe the immigration agent will make you take it off at the counter when you get there,” the attendant said.
“Look, if there’s a bathroom around here I’ll gladly change into something else,” I said motioning to my suitcase.
“No, no, no, Sir. That is unnecessary. I’m sure everything will be okay,” the attendant said. He escorted me back to my spot in line.
My egocentric wish for attention was suddenly being fulfilled, but not for the reasons I hoped. Everyone around me was wondering why the bearded, tatted, ruffian-looking fellow in camo had been pulled out of line. Years of working as a seedy bouncer in seedier nightclubs didn’t exactly give me the look or feel of a doctor from Medicins Sans Frontieres. I’ve been told that I have a serious case of RBF (Resting Bouncer Face).
The immigration line moved a few inches. Yet again, I felt another gentle palm on my shoulder. This time it was a grandmotherly woman in the Navy blue uniform of the immigration authority.
She leaned in to whisper. “Sir, has anyone talked to you about your shirt?”
“Yes, actually,” I responded.
“You know, camouflage is illegal in Trinidad and Tobago. My God, why did you wear that shirt? They’re going to give you grief at the counter,” she imparted in strange rhythms.
“Is there a bathroom or a changing room I could duck into quickly? It’s no big deal. I can put on another shirt,” I said. I rolled my suitcase in between us.
“No, no – just stay in line. Maybe they won’t notice. If they do, they’ll confiscate it, surely. What are you doing here anyway?” She asked with a slight snarl on her face.
“I’m here for CARIFESTA. I’m a filmmaker,” I said just above a whisper, hoping someone might hear and actually care.
“You’re an artist? Why the hell are you dressed like a bank robber, then?” She wandered away shaking her head.
More eyes were on me now, and the stares were wrapped in gossipy chatter about what I might be guilty of. A fashion violation was the furthest thing from their minds.
Cocaine trafficker. Arms dealer. Male sex worker.
I continued to inch towards my impending showdown with an immigration agent who may or may not want me to take my shirt off; may or may not fine me for dressing like a criminal. A stern masculine voice cut through the line behind me.
“Sir! Sir!”
I looked back and saw a crew cut, chiseled, immigration officer motioning for me to leave the line.
“I know, I know, my shirt is illegal.” I stopped him in his tracks and continued in a tone that revealed my state of frustration. “Can I just change somewhere, please?”
“Sir, camouflage is prohibited in Trinidad and Tobago. People might think differently of you with that shirt on. Please go change. There’s a bathroom over there,” he said, pointing me in the right direction.
A few moments later, I returned to my spot in line dawning a plain, blue t-shirt. Tourists and returning citizens burned holes in me with their eyes.
“Made you change your shirt, huh?” The extremely perceptive woman behind me asked.
“Yeah,” I responded with a wry smile.
“That’s a shame. The other shirt looked a lot better on you,” she added.
Needless to say, I’m ready to submit two films for TTFF20 consideration, and I already have my outfits laid out:
My humorous debacle at the airport was in no way foreshadowing for things to come that week. TTFF19 CARIFESTA Edition was an amazing experience for this first time filmmaker. It was an honor to sit amongst some of the most far reaching imaginations in the Caribbean film and art world, and I continue to be thankful for the response given to my film, “ReleaseD.” Aloha.
Words by Keoni K. Wright
www.keonikwright.com
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