A Small Place paints a detailed portrait of the tiny island nation of Antigua, which comprises a mere 108 square miles—an area roughly a third the size of New York City. Because the Caribbean Sea and Atlantic Ocean further isolate Antigua from other places, the book describes it as a veritable prison, enclosing its inhabitants literally and through the weight of its long and difficult history. People trapped in a small place, the book claims, lose their sense of perspective. They blow small events out of proportion yet fail to appreciate the meaning of major historical events. Likewise, tourists who escape their lives and countries for a short stay in Antigua all too often lose their global perspective while on the island.
But small places have advantages, and the book leverages Antigua as an example that unlocks important lessons about the long legacies of colonialism and slavery, the relation of wealthy places like North America and Europe to less wealthy nations in the global south (sometimes called the developing world), and the ways in which tourism and global travel bring both economic opportunity and social threats. One key to understanding the relationship of the local and particular with the global and universal lies in the way the book focuses on even smaller places within Antigua, such as the Barclay’s Bank, the Mill Reef Club, the library, to explore its themes. The Mill Reef Club residents isolate themselves from black Antiguans, demonstrating the perseverance of racism and white supremacy. The Barclay’s bank allows the book to point out the economic abuses of slavery in addition to its human abuses—the founding brothers made their fortune on the stolen labor of enslaved people. And the library demonstrates the ways in which the forced dehumanization of slavery informs modern Antiguans’ passive approach to their government—upset at its abuses yet unwilling to hold it accountable. Thus, the reader eventually realizes that the events in Antigua are anything but small, both for the island itself and in the broader context of world history. By focusing on the local and particular, then, the book draws attention to the urgent lessons of history and economics in ways that can help the reader understand the broader world.
Related Themes from Other Texts
The Local and The Global ThemeTracker
The Local and The Global Quotes in A Small Place
You must not wonder what exactly happened to the contents of your lavatory when you flushed it. You must not wonder where your bathwater went when you pulled out the stopper. You must not wonder what happened when you brushed your teeth. Oh, it might all end up in the water you are thinking of taking a swim in; the contents of your lavatory might, just might, graze gently against your ankle as you wade carefree in the water, for you see, in Antigua, there is no proper sewage-disposal system. But the Caribbean Sea as very big and the Atlantic Ocean is even bigger; it would amaze you to know the number of black slaves this ocean has swallowed up.
We thought these people were so ill-mannered and we were so surprised by this […] We thought they were un-Christian-like; we thought they were small-minded; we thought they were like animals, a bit below human standards as we understood those standards to be. We felt superior to all these people; we thought that perhaps the English among them who behaved this way weren’t English after all, for the English were supposed to be civilized, and this behaviour was so much like that of an animal, the thing we were before the English rescued us, that maybe they weren’t from the real England […] We felt superior, for we were so much better behaved […] (Of course, I now see that good behaviour is the proper posture of the weak, of children.)
But what I see is the millions of people, of whom I am just one, made orphans: no motherland, no fatherland, no gods, no mounds of earth for holy ground […] and worst and most painful of all, no tongue. (For isn’t it odd that the only language I have in which to speak of this crime is the language of the criminal who committed the crime? And what can that really mean? For the language of the criminal can contain only the goodness of the criminal’s deed. The language of the criminal can explain and express the deed only from the criminal’s point of view. It cannot contain the horror of the deed, the injustice of the deed, the agony, the humiliation inflicted upon me.
Have you ever wondered to yourself why it is that all people like me seem to have learned from you is how to imprison and murder each other, how to govern badly, and how to take the wealth of our country and place it in Swiss bank accounts? Have you ever wondered why it is that all we seem to have learned from you is how to corrupt our societies and how to be tyrants? You will have to accept that it is mostly your fault. Let me just show you how things looked to us. You came. You took things that were not yours, and you did not even, for appearances’ sake, ask first […] You murdered people. You imprisoned people. You robbed people. You opened your own banks and put our money in them. The accounts were in your name. The banks were in your name.
Countries with Ministers of Culture must be like countries with Liberty Weekend. Do you remember Liberty Weekend? In the week before Liberty Weekend, the United States Supreme Court ruled that ordinary grown-up people could not do as they pleased behind the locked doors of their own bedroom. I would have thought, then, that the people whose idea it was to have the Liberty Weekend business would have been so ashamed at such a repudiation of liberty that they would have cancelled the whole thing. But not at all; and so in a country that had less liberty than it used to have, Liberty Weekend was celebrated.
Once there was a scandal about stamps issued for Redonda. A lot of money was made on these stamps, but no one seems to know who got the money or where the stamps actually ended up. Where do all these stamps, in all their colourfulness, where do they come from? I mean, whose idea is it? I mean, Antigua has no stamp designer on the government payroll; there is no building that houses the dyes and the paper on which the stamps are printed; there is no Department of Printing. So who decides to print stamps celebrating the Queen of England’s birthday? Who decides to celebrate Mickey Mouse’s birthday? Who decides that stamps from this part of the world should be colourful and bright and not sedate and subdued, like, say, a stamp from Canada?
The people in a small place cannot give an exact account, a complete account, of themselves. This cannot be held against them; an exact account, a complete account, of anything, anywhere, is not possible. (The hour in the day, the day of the year some ships set sail is a small, small detail in any picture, any story; but the picture itself, the story itself depend on things that can never, ever be pinned down.) The people in a small place can have no interest in the exact, or in completeness, for that would demand a careful weighing, careful consideration, careful judging, careful questioning. It would demand the invention of a silence, inside of which these things could be done. It would demand a reconsideration, an adjustment in the way they understand the existence of Time. To the people in a small place, the division of Time into the Past, the Present, and the Future does not exist.
The people who go into running the government were not always such big thieves; nor have they always been so corrupt. They took things, but it was on a small scale. For instance, if the government built some new housing to be sold to people, then a minister or two would get a few of the houses for themselves […] Everybody knew about this. Some of the ministers were honest. One of them, a famous one in Antigua, a leader of the Trade and Labour Union movement, even died a pauper. Another minister, when his party lost power, had to drive a taxi. It is he, the taxi-driving ex-minister who taught the other ministers a lesson […] All the ministers have “green cards”—a document that makes them legal residents of the United States of America.
Antigua is too beautiful. Sometimes the beauty of it seems unreal. Sometimes the beauty of it seems as if it sets a stage for a play, for no real sunset could look like that; no real seawater could strike that many shades of blue at once; no real sky could be that shade of blue […] and no real cloud could be that white and float just that way in the sky […] And what might it do to ordinary people to live in this way every day? What might it do to them to live in such heightened, intense surroundings day after day? They have nothing to compare this incredible constant with, no big historical moment to compare the way they are now with the way they used to be […] Nothing, then, natural or unnatural, to leave a mark on their character. It is just a little island.
([A]ll masters of every stripe are rubbish, and all slaves of every stripe are noble and exalted; there can be no question about this) to satisfy their desire for wealth and power […]. Eventually, the masters left in a kind of way; eventually, the slaves were freed, in a kind of way. The people in Antigua now, the people who really think of themselves as Antiguans […] are descendants of those noble and exalted people, the slaves. Of course, the whole thing is, once you cease to be a master, once you throw off your master’s yoke, you are no longer human rubbish, you are just a human being, and all the things that adds up to. Once they are no longer slaves, once they are free, they are no longer noble and exalted; they are just human beings.
