Opinion

Long-term resident

OUT OF BANYOLES

Book pro­grammes on TV usu­ally in­volve a jour­nal­ist putting on brainy frowns while talk­ing to an au­thor whose book hasn’t been read by most of the view­ers and per­haps not even by the jour­nal­ist him­self, which is prob­a­bly why such pro­grammes tend to have purely tes­ti­mo­nial view­ing fig­ures. Re­cently, how­ever, a new book pro­gramme called ’El Negre de Bany­oles’ ap­peared on TV3 Cata­lan pub­lic tele­vi­sion’s flag­ship chan­nel. The pre­sen­ter was orig­i­nal, witty, and knew his lit­er­ary onions. Even so, he had been given an all but im­pos­si­ble job: to make sev­eral 20th cen­tury Cata­lan lan­guage poets in­ter­est­ing – grip­ping, even – to a broad prime-time au­di­ence.

The man charged with this task was Daura Man­gara, a 30 year old Cata­lan rap­per and singer-song­writer from Bany­oles. Every week he would kick off his show in a the­atre in nearby Salt, the Cata­lan town with the high­est rate of im­mi­gra­tion (40%), with a phrase in Soninke (the mother tongue of his Gam­bian par­ents). Af­ter­wards he would tell a cou­ple of anec­dotes about him­self (some­times sur­re­ally, as when he rapped to the rhythm of his mother’s old wash­ing ma­chine, brought onto the set for the oc­ca­sion) and then launch into a pas­sion­ate ex­pla­na­tion of the poet se­lected for that week, recit­ing some key lines and giv­ing bi­o­graph­i­cal de­tails be­fore jour­ney­ing out to sig­nif­i­cant places in that poet’s life and talk­ing to that poet’s rel­a­tives or friends, all with a nat­u­ral­ness rarely seen on tele­vi­sion. The key to the show – which made it, in my un­hum­ble opin­ion, one of the best lit­er­ary pro­grammes I’ve ever seen any­where – is that Daura’s com­pletely per­sonal ap­proach elim­i­nated the usual dis­tance be­tween pre­sen­ter and view­ers, thus al­low­ing his en­thu­si­asm for that week’s poet to ef­fort­lessly rub off on them. Then on March the 8th last, In­ter­na­tional Women’s Day, the pro­gramme was can­celled. The of­fi­cial rea­son was that the rat­ings were low. But there were oth­ers: seven years ear­lier, Daura had gone through a rough patch, when he felt frus­trated and in­fu­ri­ated by his lack of an­chor­age in the coun­try he was born in. His mind ad­dled by al­co­hol and drugs (which he hadn’t used be­fore), he got into push and shove fights, in­clud­ing with the po­lice and on one oc­ca­sion with his then girl­friend, in front of oth­ers. That got him a dou­ble con­vic­tion for do­mes­tic vi­o­lence and as­sault­ing of­fi­cers of the law. He did prison time, three times over. He then ac­tively sought out the help of fem­i­nist friends and went into ther­apy (he also spoke pub­licly about what had hap­pened). By the time he went on TV, he was both re­ha­bil­i­tated and trusted, but a cou­ple of on­line mag­a­zines dredged up his past, lead­ing fem­i­nist crit­ics who didn’t know him per­son­ally to at­tack him on so­cial media: and off the screen he came. But he prob­a­bly would have done any­way, due to those low rat­ings: it would seem that a main­stream (e.g. white) Cata­lan au­di­ence sim­ply wasn’t ready to watch the ex­cep­tional and rev­e­la­tory spec­ta­cle of a young black fel­low coun­try­man telling them about some of their great­est poets. Daura, how­ever, is not fazed: he has re­cently been of­fered dozens of work­shops with prob­lem teenagers (’so­cially ex­cluded chil­dren’ in ped­a­gog­i­cal par­lance) to whom he ex­plains his ex­pe­ri­ences of prison life, among other things, while he teaches them how to rap and dance. Some of these often badly ne­glected kids start cry­ing dur­ing these work­shops, be­cause they feel that fi­nally, for the first time, there’s at least one adult who can un­der­stand them and re­ally help. And the hell with the telly.

OPIN­ION

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