Goans first? Are we kidding?

submitted by the author to TGF on May 13, 2003

I’m taking a deep breath, and another.

But I’m going to say it as it is. Without mincing words, or thought. Because that’s how it should be when one stands to defend one’s integrity. As a Goan. As we were taught to be by our parents.

This is not about showing your rebellion or frustration by pouring ink over a government official or a bureaucrat to tell him he sucks. This is not about demanding jobs for Goans first (an argument I don’t want to get into, but yes, I will support if he/she is equally qualified as the competitor but given second class treatment). Action like blackening someone’s face and to the chorus of flash bulbs is ill-founded and often targeted at the wrong people, while the real culprit is protected by clout or sheer intelligence of knowing when not to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. If we’re talking about Goans first, we have to talk in its totality. In spirit, employment and survival. Being selective about which Goan we want to promote or pull down defeats the very purpose of the concept.

I’m specifically talking here about Goans, who say Goans first, who go to great lengths to make visible their `Goanness’ in words, show and ego. Who use the grapevine to hard sell themselves as true blue Goans, whose hearts (we are led to believe) bleeds only for Goa (and how), so they eat, drink, breathe Goa, thank you. (And make a little money on the side commercialising this very same Goan essence, thank you again). So Goan as a thorough bred they are, that when the next Goan comes along and wants to do something for Goa, they will use every trick in the trade book to pull the carpet off underneath the other’s feet. So subtly, that if you’re dumb -- and believe me there are dumb people too whom I now term them as wimps for getting repeatedly used -- you won’t even know you’ve been sold to propagate their own interest, even as a friend. That’s a Goan alright. And they brush shoulders amongst you, me, Tom, Dick, Harry, Jane and the office file pusher.

Here’s pausing for another breath of air. And please believe me, no potshots at anybody here.

Like some women I know, Goans are their own worst enemies. Though I’m trying to figure out how they came to be that way. Is it genetically inherited, endowed by succession rights, learnt through imitation, environmentally controlled, culturally chipped into the hard disk, passed on through diet, water, the neighbourhood? What makes them so different from a Keralite, a Sardar, an Andhraite, or a Southee? A friend says it’s a four letter word. Interpret it as you may.

I’m a Goan. Proud to be one. Even if I’m often chided for not thinking like a typical, small town, my-universe-ends-with-Bombay native. I’m a global Goan who won’t think twice (or be self-conscious to see who’s watching me) go and help the beggar on the street to feed himself, or fend for his family. Help a woman being abused on the road by her drunk lover, to stand on her feet. Or, stand up for a friend who is in dire straits, or who’s going through a bad time. Or, be blunt with the truth when people would rather pop sugar coated pills. I’m sure all of us do this, and must, as often as we can as human beings. So, why do I feel that it is a Goan trait to capitalise on cunning to run a fellow Goan down, for a temporary gain. For a few bucks. For a piece of sunshine, when his space feels threatened, for a pound of flesh for securing that upper edge, when duty calls that we stand for our own, when we see them doing well (and take pride in their success) or stumbling down (and stand for their values). Not for a Goan this lofty quality. Though I have been slow to come to this conclusion out of sheer need to see for myself through time, places and spaces. Here or abroad. Goans take their crabs everywhere they go. No matter how successful they get materialistically. No matter how intellectually advanced they claim to be. No matter how grand their wardrobes look or how heavy their plastic. They will snub their brother who does not meet up to expectations. They will take potshots at the brother’s wife for not displaying enough taste in her choice of clothes or parties she may throw. They won’t reach out and help a struggling sister or a cousin who’s having a bad time in her marriage and whose kids need financial help to pull through school. They will flash enough money to buy them their designer brands, but still display crass when it comes to good taste in manner of dress, hair, shoes, make-up and let it not be said that I’m bitchy now (I can see the venom arrows in the post already). My stay in the US was full of anecdotes, watching Goans behave like fellow crabs with their fellow Goans. This after getting themselves into a tizzy – when word went round that I was visiting my sister on vacation – and each one trying to out-do the party invitation rounds, full of gossip about one another. I learn how the world recognises us now. Not by our skin or culture, but by the bickering that is synonymous with our lifestyle now.

In Goa, by sheer proximity to one another, observation is a favourite past time. But I don’t like what it does to my bile levels. Simply because by virtue of habit, I cannot get myself to be a silent, detached, non-involved, a cold observer. If you can’t feel, you’re good as a dead duck. Same, if you can’t bring yourself to say No! to the pushers, the climbers, the opportunists, the losers who don’t think twice whether you’re a Goan, whose worked hard to get somewhere, or a Goan leper. As long as you are seen suitably-possessing-clout- or -knowing-the-right-people man. That’s life. Fall for it, you’re doomed, stand your ground, you’re doomed further. They will say success has gone to your head, you know. `He’s/She’s become too big now.’ If you can live with it, and we do, take life as a learning experience. Without being sucked into scratching backs to survive.

I need to take another breather again. This is not doing any good for my heart either.

But let not some crabs, and may their tribe never multiply, get you to rethink that you need to change yourself. Or join fellow crabs to be one with the tribe for peace of mind. Or share the spoils of the booty they make off you. Let it not deter you from the path you set for yourself, and the arduous journey you would rather climb to get to your destination, even if you have to pick yourself up more often than you bargained for. Most of all, let not the crabs gnaw your spirit with their talk, deed or action. I know enough Goans who are spirited, who do things differently, have great ideas to share, who stop on their way to pick up the less fortunate, who get bitten but don’t get bitter. These are the Goans we must support. These are the Goans we have to learn to trust. These are the Goans we can vouch will make a difference in the long run. I can’t say I know many, but I’m beginning to think I will eventually, if I learn to control my bile more often, practice my breathing with concentration, channelise my energies into resourceful action and hope and pray that God takes care of the meek.

Did somebody say I needed to try yoga?

Ethel Da Costa
May13, 2003

Ethel Da Costa  is a senior Goan journalist and editor of Insight and Mirror, both magazines  of the Goa Herald.  She also covers Goa for  Femina, India's premier magazine for women produced by The Times of India. Ethel writes that she loves her work and finds it to be fun, writing about issues she believes in..

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