THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES.

There are many fic­tion­al nar­ra­tions which may ade­quate­ly depict my Country Jamaica none comes clos­er in my mind how­ev­er than the Hans Christian Andersen classic.
THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES.

Many years ago there was an Emperor so exceed­ing­ly fond of new clothes that he spent all his mon­ey on being well dressed. He cared noth­ing about review­ing his sol­diers, going to the the­atre, or going for a ride in his car­riage, except to show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day, and instead of say­ing, as one might, about any oth­er ruler, “The King’s in coun­cil,” here they always said. “The Emperor’s in his dress­ing room.” In the great city where he lived, life was always gay. Every day many strangers came to town, and among them one day came two swindlers. They let it be known they were weavers, and they said they could weave the most mag­nif­i­cent fab­rics imag­in­able. Not only were their col­ors and pat­terns uncom­mon­ly fine, but clothes made of this cloth had a won­der­ful way of becom­ing invis­i­ble to any­one who was unfit for his office, or who was unusu­al­ly stupid.

“Those would be just the clothes for me,” thought the Emperor. “If I wore them I would be able to dis­cov­er which men in my empire are unfit for their posts. And I could tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I cer­tain­ly must get some of the stuff woven for me right away.” He paid the two swindlers a large sum of mon­ey to start work at once. They set up two looms and pre­tend­ed to weave, though there was noth­ing on the looms. All the finest silk and the purest old thread which they demand­ed went into their trav­el­ing bags, while they worked the emp­ty looms far into the night. “I’d like to know how those weavers are get­ting on with the cloth,” the Emperor thought, but he felt slight­ly uncom­fort­able when he remem­bered that those who were unfit for their posi­tion would not be able to see the fab­ric. It could­n’t have been that he doubt­ed him­self, yet he thought he’d rather send some­one else to see how things were going. The whole town knew about the cloth’s pecu­liar pow­er, and all were impa­tient to find out how stu­pid their neigh­bors were.

“I’ll send my hon­est old min­is­ter to the weavers,” the Emperor decid­ed. “He’ll be the best one to tell me how the mate­r­i­al looks, for he’s a sen­si­ble man and no one does his duty bet­ter.” So the hon­est old min­is­ter went to the room where the two swindlers sat work­ing away at their emp­ty looms. “Heaven help me,” he thought as his eyes flew wide open, “I can’t see any­thing at all”. But he did not say so. Both the swindlers begged him to be so kind as to come near to approve the excel­lent pat­tern, the beau­ti­ful col­ors. They point­ed to the emp­ty looms, and the poor old min­is­ter stared as hard as he dared. He could­n’t see any­thing, because there was noth­ing to see. “Heaven have mer­cy,” he thought. “Can it be that I’m a fool? I’d have nev­er guessed it, and not a soul must know. Am I unfit to be the min­is­ter? It would nev­er do to let on that I can’t see the cloth.” “Don’t hes­i­tate to tell us what you think of it,” said one of the weavers. “Oh, it’s beau­ti­ful ‑it’s enchant­i­ng.” The old min­is­ter peered through his spec­ta­cles. “Such a pat­tern, what col­ors!” I’ll be sure to tell the Emperor how delight­ed I am with it.” “We’re pleased to hear that,” the swindlers said. They pro­ceed­ed to name all the col­ors and to explain the intri­cate pat­tern. The old min­is­ter paid the clos­est atten­tion, so that he could tell it all to the Emperor. And so he did.

The swindlers at once asked for more mon­ey, more silk and gold thread, to get on with the weav­ing. But it all went into their pock­ets. Not a thread went into the looms, though they worked at their weav­ing as hard as ever. The Emperor present­ly sent anoth­er trust­wor­thy offi­cial to see how the work pro­gressed and how soon it would be ready. The same thing hap­pened to him that had hap­pened to the min­is­ter. He looked and he looked, but as there was noth­ing to see in the looms he could­n’t see any­thing. “Isn’t it a beau­ti­ful piece of goods?” the swindlers asked him, as they dis­played and described their imag­i­nary pat­tern. “I know I’m not stu­pid,” the man thought, “so it must be that I’m unwor­thy of my good office. That’s strange. I must­n’t let any­one find it out, though.” So he praised the mate­r­i­al he did not see. He declared he was delight­ed with the beau­ti­ful col­ors and the exquis­ite pat­tern. To the Emperor he said, “It held me spell­bound.” All the town was talk­ing of this splen­did cloth, and the Emperor want­ed to see it for him­self while it was still in the looms. Attended by a band of cho­sen men, among whom were his two old trust­ed offi­cials-the ones who had been to the weavers-he set out to see the two swindlers. He found them weav­ing with might and main, but with­out a thread in their looms. “Magnificent,” said the two offi­cials already duped. “Just look, Your Majesty, what col­ors! What a design!” They point­ed to the emp­ty looms, each sup­pos­ing that the oth­ers could see the stuff. “What’s this?” thought the Emperor. “I can’t see any­thing. This is ter­ri­ble! Am I a fool? Am I unfit to be the Emperor? What a thing to hap­pen to me of all peo­ple! — Oh! It’s very pret­ty,” he said. “It has my high­est approval.” And he nod­ded appro­ba­tion at the emp­ty loom. Nothing could make him say that he could­n’t see anything.

His whole ret­inue stared and stared. One saw no more than anoth­er, but they all joined the Emperor in exclaim­ing, “Oh! It’s very pret­ty,” and they advised him to wear clothes made of this won­der­ful cloth espe­cial­ly for the great pro­ces­sion he was soon to lead. “Magnificent! Excellent! Unsurpassed!” were bandied from mouth to mouth, and every­one did his best to seem well pleased. The Emperor gave each of the swindlers a cross to wear in his but­ton­hole, and the title of “Sir Weaver.” Before the pro­ces­sion the swindlers sat up all night and burned more than six can­dles, to show how busy they were fin­ish­ing the Emperor’s new clothes. They pre­tend­ed to take the cloth off the loom. They made cuts in the air with huge scis­sors. And at last they said, “Now the Emperor’s new clothes are ready for him.” Then the Emperor him­self came with his noblest noble­men, and the swindlers each raised an arm as if they were hold­ing some­thing. They said, “These are the trousers, here’s the coat, and this is the man­tle,” nam­ing each gar­ment. “All of them are as light as a spi­der web. One would almost think he had noth­ing on, but that’s what makes them so fine.” “Exactly,” all the noble­men agreed, though they could see noth­ing, for there was noth­ing to see.“If Your Imperial Majesty will con­de­scend to take your clothes off,” said the swindlers, “we will help you on with your new ones here in front of the long mirror.”

The Emperor undressed, and the swindlers pre­tend­ed to put his new clothes on him, one gar­ment after anoth­er. They took him around the waist and seemed to be fas­ten­ing some­thing — that was his train-as the Emperor turned round and round before the look­ing glass. “How well Your Majesty’s new clothes look. Aren’t they becom­ing!” He heard on all sides, “That pat­tern, so per­fect! Those col­ors, so suit­able! It is a mag­nif­i­cent out­fit.” Then the min­is­ter of pub­lic pro­ces­sions announced: “Your Majesty’s canopy is wait­ing out­side.” “Well, I’m sup­posed to be ready,” the Emperor said, and turned again for one last look in the mir­ror. “It is a remark­able fit, isn’t it?” He seemed to regard his cos­tume with the great­est inter­est. The noble­men who were to car­ry his train stooped low and reached for the floor as if they were pick­ing up his man­tle. Then they pre­tend­ed to lift and hold it high. They did­n’t dare admit they had noth­ing to hold. So off went the Emperor in pro­ces­sion under his splen­did canopy. Everyone in the streets and the win­dows said, “Oh, how fine are the Emperor’s new clothes! Don’t they fit him to per­fec­tion? And see his long train!” Nobody would con­fess that he could­n’t see any­thing, for that would prove him either unfit for his posi­tion, or a fool. No cos­tume the Emperor had worn before was ever such a com­plete suc­cess. “But he has­n’t got any­thing on,” a lit­tle child said. “Did you ever hear such inno­cent prat­tle?” said its father. And one per­son whis­pered to anoth­er what the child had said, “He has­n’t any­thing on. A child says he has­n’t any­thing on.” “But he has­n’t got any­thing on!” the whole town cried out at last.The Emperor shiv­ered, for he sus­pect­ed they were right. But he thought, “This pro­ces­sion has got to go on.” So he walked more proud­ly than ever, as his noble­men held high the train that was­n’t there at all. http://​ander​sen​.sdu​.dk/​v​a​e​r​k​/​h​e​r​s​h​o​l​t​/​T​h​e​E​m​p​e​r​o​r​s​N​e​w​C​l​o​t​h​e​s​_​e​.​h​tml

The moral of the sto­ry could eas­i­ly be attrib­uted to the Emperor’s haugh­ti­ness only, but we squan­der the greater mes­sage of the hypocrisy of all of the play­ers except the inno­cent lit­tle child who was uncon­strained by pre­ten­tious idio­cy. “He has­n’t any­thing on” !
For years I have been writ­ing much like that lit­tle child uncon­strained by hyp­o­crit­i­cal idio­cy that the crime sit­u­a­tion in Jamaica is get­ting worse in all fair­ness there have been a few oth­er uncon­strained lit­tle chil­dren like myself who have been will­ing to take a chance and risk being labeled unfit for our posi­tions a down­right fool or both.

As the mur­ders become more grue­some the peo­ple dou­ble down in their idio­cy , after all no one wants to be seen as unwor­thy of the posi­tion they hold no one wants to dis­agree with the con-men/­women and hus­tlers that what Jamaica needs is a revised sense of com­mu­ni­ty and a respon­si­bil­i­ty of each and every Jamaican to look out for each oth­er by say­ing to crim­i­nals “no not in my com­mu­ni­ty”.
Instead they kow-tow to the con artistes from Jamaicans for Justice, the Peace Management Unit , Families against State Terrorism, The Bar Association, The Council for Human Rights and the pha­lanx of (weavers ), I mean con-artiste who teach them that all crim­i­nals are crim­i­nals because they can­not find work. That Gangsters stand­ing on the cor­ners are not Gangsters who belong in jail, they are mere­ly cor­ner-crews and the pre­ten­tious peo­ple pre­tend­ed acqui­esced , they went along with the lies , even though they knew that each and every one of those gang­sters stand­ing on the cor­ners were dan­ger­ous killers, rapists and extortionists.
They went ahead with it because the con-artistes con­vinced them that not believ­ing it made them unwor­thy, mere fools.

So while Carolyn Gomes stacked away inter­na­tion­al recog­ni­tion and copped the Order of the Nation for cre­at­ing more hatred for the police who make life liv­able in the King’s domain Her pro­tégée Horace Levy the oth­er weaver is pro­mot­ed to con­tin­ue the decep­tion which is the JFJ.
Why should we not believe the (weavers) whoops I meant con-men-women after all they are smart and we are smart . Why would we let on that we know that the demo­niz­ing of our police force was counter pro­duc­tive, That INDECOM is a farce and a crime enhance­ment unit designed so Terrence Williams and his band of weavers can eat a food too?

No we can’t do that because we would be looked at and labeled a fool or unworthy.
I am eter­nal­ly grate­ful for the hon­esty and the inno­cent nature of the lit­tle child who had no con­cept of pre­tense, who did not need to cur­ry favor with esteemed ego-mani­a­cal narcissists.

As the Emperor con­tin­ue in his naked­ness a Honover cou­ple was tak­en from their home along with a fam­i­ly mem­ber they were shot and dumped in bush­es the mur­der­ers drove their vehi­cle back to their home and ran­sacked it telling the cou­ple’s minor child that his par­ents would be home soon>
Neither 56-year-old Balfour ‘Fire Bird’ Gordon, a bus oper­a­tor , nor his wife Aleth Brown Gordon, 45, will ever be return­ing home to their son.
They are mere sta­tis­tics, just two more lives snuffed out as if they nev­er existed.

In the mean­time the Emperor(Jamaica) con­tin­ue on it’s mer­ry way because after all This pro­ces­sion has got to go on.” So Jamaica walk more proud­ly than ever, as it’s noble­men hold high the train that isn’t there at all.