Seeing My Family in “The Dragon Can’t Dance”
This Earl Lovelace book is often described as a novel about identity and Carnival, and more specifically, resistance but when I read it, I saw my family. I saw the men who passed down their love for steelpan like a birthright. I saw sacrifice layered under celebration.
Pariag is an Indo-Trinidadian man who moves from the country to Calvary Hill, a predominantly Afro-Trinidadian community in east Port of Spain, with dreams of finding a place to belong. His journey isn’t just about physical movement, it’s about integration and the quiet desire for community. Reading his story reminded me of my great-grandfather, who made a similar move from rural Trinidad into an urban, mixed neighbourhood not far from Calvary Hill. Like Pariag, his life was marked by unspoken sacrifice that became the foundation for so much more. That community, modest and often overlooked, wasn’t a limitation–it was a springboard. From it, my family carved out many successes and meaningful contributions.
Then there’s steelpan. Lovelace writes about steelband culture with a reverence that affirms something I’ve always felt, but struggled to explain. It’s that in Trinidad, music is rarely just music. It's art born from adversity and transformed into joy. I’ve wondered why the sound of pan resonated so deeply with me and this book helped me make sense of it.
My introduction to pan came from my grandfathers and uncles, men who didn’t just love the music but lived it. Some played pan, others beat iron in rhythm sections, helped push instruments onto competition stages, or shared stories that carried the music’s deeper meaning. In our family, pan was never just background noise. My uncles still show their love for it in ways that feel small but significant—surprising me with ice cream runs at the pan yard and Trinidad All Stars t-shirts every year—but what I’ve come to value most are our conversations. Their stories, reflections on culture and politics, and quiet observations always stay with me long after we talk. Rhythm always seemed to live in them. Whether it was tapping beats on the steering wheel at red lights or pulling out African drums at family gatherings, music flowed naturally through them. It never felt like a performance but more so an instinct. That could be why I felt so connected to the story. Lovelace gives dignity to communities and characters that are often flattened into stereotypes.
Reading The Dragon Can’t Dance helped me better understand my foundation. I’ve always wanted to learn more about the Indo-Trinidadian experience but not just through the lens of indentureship. I wanted to know more about the nuances of everyday life, and migration, like the ways people moved from south to town seeking opportunity. My family came from people like Pariag, who made difficult moves so others could rise. Our story is one of duality; humble beginnings and bold accomplishments. So when I hear pan now, I hear the quiet choices that shaped my life before I was even here to witness them. That’s why I carry my culture with pride.
