My Thoughts, My Life: The Life of a Black Woman Living in a White World

By Deneace Green

This is Book One of a quartet that showcases the life of a typical Black woman living in a world where the colour of her skin determines every facet of her life.

As a child living on the island of Jamaica, in the 1970’s, she was exposed to the waning horrors of Black slavery. However, a year-and-a-half spent with her maternal grandmother enabled her to strengthen innate characteristics that would sustain her through a life of hostility that was waiting for her in Canada, a country that is politically, economically, socially, racially, and ideologically dominated by representative descendants of former “masters” of Black slaves.

At age eight, her parents moved her to live with them in Toronto where she grew up frequently defending herself in racially motivated conflicts. Not being able to find a niche in that society wherein she could feel a sense of belonging, she became a mother at fifteen years old and again at seventeen. Although she could not see a positive future for herself, she kept forging ahead through the life assigned to her—driven by a hereditary life-force inspired by her grandmother’s examples of dealing with adversity, while not always conscious of how much her grandmother had influenced her thoughts and her behaviour.

This first book of four begins the chronicle of her life. She uses her life story to show how, whether intentionally or not, Black people are kept in subjugation within the Canadian society. Drawing from her life experiences and observations in Canada and abroad, she shows how racial discrimination keeps Black people in relative poverty. The Canadian democratic society, in which the ideology and legality of social and racial equality are constantly stressed, still allows the descendants of another era’s slave “masters” to maintain their privileged position at the top of society.

She finally begins to break out of her cycle of poverty by stepping out of the known (the Canadian society) and into the unknown of a foreign culture where upon her arrival she knows no one, nor does she speak the language.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deneace Green
• Release date: Oct 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992108526

Deneace Green

The author was born in Green Park, Clarendon, Jamaica. For the last year of her eight years in Jamaica, she lived with her grandmother who greatly influenced her life. In January of 1975, she emigrated to Toronto, Canada, to join her parents. Raised in Toronto, contrary to the racism she was experiencing in her daily life, she was indoctrinated into the Canadian ideology of equality within the Canadian society. Thus, as a single teenage mother of two, she clung to the belief that a solid education would guarantee her a door out of poverty: only to find that, in Canada, her education meant nothing in the face of institutionalized racism and at times became a barrier out of poverty. Her anger and frustration at blatant racism, within a society that prides itself on equality, led her to start writing about her experiences of institutionalized racism within Canadian governmental organizations. She writes with the intention to mobilize people, particularly Black people, to start holding Canadian institutions accountable for their racist hiring practices: White people need to know that Black people are aware of their racist practices; and, Black people need to stop accepting such racist practices as “a part of life.”

Book preview

Also by Deneace Green

My Thoughts, My Life: Institutionalized Racism in Canada

My Thoughts, My Life:

The Life of a Black Woman Living in a White World

BOOK ONE

Green’s Publication House, Inc.

45 – 2000 Airport Road NE, Suite 160

Calgary, AB

Canada, T2E 6W5

Copyright © 2013 by Deneace Green.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916476

ISBN: Hardcover 978-0-9921085-1-9

Softcover 978-0-9921085-0-2

Ebook 978-0-9921085-2-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in Canada.

Rev. date: 11/15/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact Green’s Publication House, Inc.:

www.gphouse.ca

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Table of Contents

Part 1: Life in Jamaica

Chapter 1

Early Childhood

Earliest Memories

Name Changes

Chapter 2

In His Own Words

Chapter 3

Entertainment and Consequences

Chapter 4

Memorable Incidences

Alone Time with My Dad

Stones for the Tank

The Lie That Was Believed

My First Chore

Christmas Time

School Time

My First Lesson in Survival

Part 2: My Grandmother’s Influence

Chapter 5

To Grandmother’s House

Grandmother’s Kin

Our Cousins

Grandma’s Kin: The Sister and the Daughter

Upsetter and Dan Dan: The Son and His Son

Panansus-Wagon/Banana-Katie/Lemon-Bud

Whissy Maumy

Crime and Punishment

Chapter 6

New Experiences

Christmas

Going to Town

Reaping Yams

Funerals

My First Holiday

The Missionaries

Cruelty

Chapter 7

My Parents’ Return

Part 3: Arrival in Canada

Chapter 8

The First Days

Chapter 9

Starting School

Acting on Curiosity

New Experiences and Lessons

Chapter 10

The Days of Summer

Chapter 11

Grade Four

Chapter 12

Winter 1976

Chapter 13

Summer 1976

Part 4: Growing Up in Canada

Chapter 14

In the Neighbourhood

Chapter 15

Winter 1977

Chapter 16

Exposure to My Roots

Chapter 17

Summer 1977

Growing Pains

Paving the Way, Enjoying the Benefits

Chapter 18

Life at School

Chapter 19

Fall 1977

Chapter 20

Spring and Summer 1978

Discarded

A Cherished Birthday

A Memorable Friendship

June 1978: A Turning Point

Anger Brewing

My Return to Jamaica

Back in Toronto

Part 5: Late Adolescent and Early Teenage Years

Chapter 21

Fall 1978

Winter 1979

Summer 1979

Chapter 22

Grade Eight

September 1979

February 1980

Part 6: He Took My Life

Chapter 23

Winter 1980

March 1980

Chapter 24

Summer 1980

Chapter 25

Fall 1980

Chapter 26

Reaction to the Expected Addition

Chapter 27

The Birth

Chapter 28

Life at Home

Chapter 29

On My Own

Chapter 30

Moving On

Part 7: Travelling the Path

Chapter 31

The Path

Chapter 32

Back to School

Chapter 33

Summer 1984

Chapter 34

The Beginning of the End

Fall 1984: See-Saw

Winter and Summer 1985

Fall 1985

Summer 1986

Loneliness

Stepping Back to 1982

Christmas 1986

Chapter 35

Made it Through High School

Part 8: Replay

Chapter 36

June 1987

August 1987

September 1987

October 1987

November 1987

Winter 1988

Spring 1988

Summer 1988

August 1988

September 1988

January 1989

June 1989

August 1989

The Scar

Chapter 37

College

Chapter 38

The Split

Part 9: Settling In

Chapter 39

December 1989

January 1990

March 1990

May 1990

July 1990

August 1990

Fall 1990

The Challenge

The Attack

December 1990

The Dreams

The Counsellor

Spring 1991

A Blessing

Graduation Day

The Visit: Summer 1991

Home Again: Summer 1991

Forever Grateful to Randy and Heather

Finding Self-esteem

October 1991

November 1991

Part 10: Used

Chapter 40

The Years 1992-1994

Chapter 41

The Year 1995

July 1995

August 1995

September 1995

December 1995

January 1996

Chapter 42

Deneace Green, B.A.

The Case of Michael Jackson

Chapter 43

Marriage

December 1996

January 1997

February 1997

March 1997

April 1997

May 1997

Mid-to-Late Summer 1997

Fall 1997

The Year 1998

The Year 1999

February 1999

April 1999

May 1999

The Edge

June 1999

Part 11: When Terry Called

Chapter 44

July 1999

October 15, 1999

The End of the Millennium—1999

The Start of the Millennium—2000

Part 12

Chapter 45

The Step Out

Chapter 46

The Step Back

Part 13: The Break

Chapter 47

The Break

Comparing Airlines: Air Canada versus Korean Air

My Arrival

On the Job

Chapter 48

True Expressions

Culture Shock

Chapter 49

The Last Straw

Chapter 50

Thriving in Korea

Sunday, July 01, 2001 to Tuesday, December 25, 2001

Acknowledgements

People: A Partial List

Part 1: Life in Jamaica

Rudolph Green—my dad

Julia Green—my mother

Robin—my parents’ oldest child

Randy—my parents’ second child

Worrel—my parents’ third child

Arlene—my parents’ fourth child

Deneace—my parents’ fifth child

Lennox—my parents’ sixth child

Heather—my parents’ seventh child

Dorman—my parents’ youngest child

Sandra #1—my first friend

Part 2: My Grandmother’s Influence

Maternal grandmother (has four children)

Grandmother’s sister

Miss Dee—my grandmother’s youngest child

Upsetter—my grandmother’s only son

Miss White—my grandmother’s cousin

Sandra #2—my second friend

Dee—distant cousin

Part 3: Arrival in Canada

Maria—first friend in Canada

Mrs. Lambert—grade three teacher in Canada

Mrs. Bonus—grade three teacher in Canada

Part 4: Growing Up in Canada

Sandra #3—schoolmate

Dolly #1—my dear friend

Part 5: Late Adolescent and Early Teenage Years

Part 6: He Took My Life

Philip Smith—He took my life.

Denise #1—friend from school

Aldean—friend

Judy—friend

Beverly—Judy’s friend

Vivienne—her rented room was a hang-out joint.

Delroy—Vivienne’s boyfriend

Marie—my first roommate

Part 7: Travelling the Path

Alton Smith—replaced Philip Smith

Pearl—Alton’s mother

Cynthia—Alton’s older sister

Garfield—Alton’s younger brother

Brenda—Alton’s younger sister

Yone (Ionie)—a homeless girlfriend of Robin’s who stayed at my apartment

Teresa—Pearl’s friend who lived down the hall

Dolly #2—Marie’s friend

Andrea—my friend from the school for young mothers

Hope—my cousin

Dawna—schoolmate from junior high

Part 8: Replay

Darren—replaced Alton Smith

Mike—Darren’s older

Darren’s mother

Yone (Ionie)—ex-girlfriend of Robin’s who had stayed at my apartment in Toronto

Angela—neighbour who became Alton’s girlfriend

Ingrid—my friend from Florida

Lisa—Darren’s sister’s friend

Sophie—my college friend

Terry Alexander—my college friend

Quincy—friend of Ingrid’s husband whom I met in Florida

Part 9: Settling In

Winston—The Winstons

Quaison Paris—replaced Winston

Denise #2—Jilted Girlfriend

Uncle Ovid and Aunt Elsa—Quaison’s relatives

Aunt Jean—Quaison’s uncle’s (by father side) floozy

Auntie Lee—Quaison’s uncle (by father side) wife

Mrs. Henry—Quaison’s dad’s floozy

Mr. Henry—husband of Mrs. Henry

Seku—Quaison’s youngest brother

Part 10: Used

Olive—church sister

Yone (Ionie)—ex-girlfriend of Robin’s who had stayed with me in Toronto

Lloyd Davis—Husband #1

Jean—Lloyd’s ex-girlfriend

Sharon—Lloyd’s sister

Marcelle—Quaison’s friend

Mister Multilingual (Antonio)—met at Spanish club

Part 11: When Terry Called

Terry—school mate from Seneca College

Lisa—friend from ONESTEP

Arlene—one of my older sisters

Heather—my younger sister

Carlene—friend from Coca Cola

Annette—friend from Jewish Vocational Services of Toronto

Larry—co-worker from the call centre

Part 12: Stepping Out Into the World

Mike Lattimer—recruiter and counsellor at Three Springs

Lamar Mashburn—counsellors’ assistant

Chuck Courtright—drunkard

Linda Potzcif—neighbourly neighbour

Ann Shufelt—church sister

Gail and Paul—church brethren

Christine Zabal—fellow Canadian co-worker and friend

Part 13: The Break

Mr. Kim—the recruiter

Mr. Kim—the boss’ brother-in-law

Lana—roommate

Boss—primary shareholder of the school

Tammy—supervisor from the U.S.A.

Archie—supervisor from Canada

Gabriel—ESL teacher from the U.K.

Rachael—ESL teacher from the U.K.

Diane—ESL teacher from the U.S.A

Ben—ESL teacher married to Diane

Jolie—ESL teacher from New Zealand

Viska—tall ESL teacher from South Africa

Vinita—short ESL teacher from South Africa

Jonathan—Nigerian fellow

Steve—Taekwondo instructor

Ossie John—ESL teacher from Australia

Paul—ESL teacher from Ireland

John—Jonathan’s Nigerian friend

Florence—John’s Nigerian girlfriend

Pastor Emmanuel—Nigerian pastor

Sister Grace—Pastor Emmanuel’s wife

Helen—Sister Grace’s older sister

Part 1

Life in Jamaica

Chapter 1

Early Childhood

Before I came along, my parents had their children in the following order: Robin (boy), Randy (girl), Worrel (boy), and Arlene (girl). I came along and spoiled the pattern, making it Deneace (girl). After Deneace came Lennox (boy), Heather (girl), and Dorman (boy).

Although my birth certificate reads April 16, 1966, my parents tell me that I was actually born on April 01, 1966. They also tell me that I was born on Good Friday. If I were indeed born on Good Friday, then I was actually born on Friday, April 08, 1966. To prevent bad-minded people from harming children by means of spiritual wickedness, it was a common practise in Jamaica for parents to conceal the exact date of birth and the official name of their children. While my exact date of birth may remains a mystery to me, what is certain is that I was born between early and mid-April 1966. Nonetheless, since I am the fifth of my mother’s eight children, I am certain my dad handled my delivery expertly because he had delivered the four who came before me (and as he would eventually deliver the three who came after me).

Robin would have cost my mother’s life had it not been for my father’s ability to think and act wisely in newly encountered situations. He also saved the child who did not want to leave the womb and whose delivery was a precursor to the trouble he would give my parents over the years. I, indeed, also gave my parents a multitude of troubles; but not quite in the same way.

My dad, Rudolph Green, was thirty-eight years old, and my mother, Julia Rebecca Green, was just about thirty when she gave birth to me. I was born healthy; however, by my third birthday, I had developed huge watery bumps under my skin. I was thin and sickly: absorbing very little amounts of nutrients from the morsels of food I was ingesting. The doctors had no explanation for my poor health. Like the doctors I am consulting today regarding my mouth pain, the doctors back then kept guessing until they ran out of guesses; yet, they kept prescribing medication that did not help.

In his seemingly infinite wisdom, my dad gave up on the doctors. Actually, the doctors gave up on me, just as they had done with Worrel: my second eldest brother, when they could not cure his whooping cough. Having no other recourse, my dad turned to his traditional bush medicine to save us. While he administered field-rat soup to cure my brother’s whooping cough, he used the plant Aloe Vera (or simply Aloes) to heal me. In his generation, the plant was known as Sinkle Bible.

My dad’s grandparents made pills from Sinkle Bible, which maintained their potency for years. I could not swallow those pills at such a tender age. Even if I could have swallowed Aloe pills, swallowing enough to make a meal would not have been prudent. Therefore, my dad fed me the Aloe plant itself. That was easy enough. All he had to do was break a few stalks from the abundance that grew near our house. He would rinse the fleshy stalks and scrape the jelly-like substance from them, mix it with sweetened condensed milk and feed the mixture to me. Most people find Aloe bitter tasting; but even to this day, I find it quite refreshing. Perhaps the bitterness of the Aloe plant was preparing me for the bitterness of my life.

Earliest Memories

Because I was so thin and weak, my parents were afraid that I might die in my sleep; as a result, they came into the children’s room at least three times every night. Every time I awoke, they were there; they were there to the point where I actually thought they did not sleep. My dad would give me something bitter to drink and tell my mom to hold a pail in front of me—to catch the vomit he was expecting. When I remind my parents of this, in my adult years, my dad always replies, And do you know, Neace [Deneace], you never vomited? He is right. I remember feeling weak, wishing they did not wake me, but I do not recall vomiting.

I could not have been more than two years old when my parents took me to a river. I believe the church had an overnight service before an early morning baptism ceremony in the river. I was in my mom’s arms in the water. I felt a kind of surreal peace: probably the feeling I had in the womb, floating in liquid. My dad reached out and took me. He brought me to another spot in the river, perhaps deeper, where the water continued to move at a rapid but peaceful pace. The water was clear and shiny. I could see every rock beneath that area of the water. I wanted to touch them, but what I felt was water flowing through my tiny fingers. I was really starting to feel that this was a permanent place for me, when my dad said to my mom, Okay, Julia. Take her out now. I still feel the disappointment, although I might have been even much younger than two; I am sure I did not yet have words. In any case, I believe this was the experience that taught me not to get too comfortable in any seemingly peaceful situation.

At home, that same day, while my mom changed my clothing, she clicked her tongue, Click, click, click. She shook me up and down gently and smiled as she spoke to me, You went to the river today, um? Click, click, click. You went to the river? That was how I knew that what I had experienced was being in a river, and all I could think was this: "Take me back." For what must have been weeks, I waited to go back to the river; I thought, "They (my parents) enjoyed it so much. Why are they not going back?"

I still could not have been more than two years old when, one afternoon, my mother was dressing me in a horizontally striped T-shirt. I remember her trying to get my hand through the quarter sleeve. She was always doing what seemed like ten things at once, and she could do them all without paying full attention to any of them. I knew my finger was caught in the sleeve. My speech had not developed to the point where I could verbalize my thoughts, and I was not feeling any pain that could have been associated with crying. I think I was too old to cry for having a need met, but not old enough to speak a sentence, or perhaps it all happened more quickly than I remember. Anyhow, my mom took her eyes off her other priorities and gently sorted out the matter with my finger: a baby finger had poked through the stitching in the hem of the sleeve. She reached into the sleeve and pulled out my tiny hand ever so gently; I felt special, loved. I remember this because, if she had forced the T-shirt onto my body without checking why my hand was resisting, it would have been painful enough to cause me eternal resentment towards her. Instead, it was in that moment that I developed the love for her that would overshadow all the anger that I would come to feel towards her.

The first song I remember my mother teaching me was one that encouraged me to clap my hands: Clap on; sing on. I hear the bands of the holy land. Clap on; sing on, a happy little one.

In the years to come, I would realize she was making a distinct effort to inject some happiness into my infancy.

• • •

My dad worked like a horse then, as he does today. Except, today he is busy burning tree stumps off his property and planting vegetation that he can market. Back then, he worked the land to support his family. He picked rocks for sale, burned wood to make charcoal for sale, harvested sugar cane for sale, raised goats for sale … only the chickens and eggs were not for sale. Today, he works the land just for the sheer pleasure of it.

His physical attributes were always pleasing to my eyes; I thought he was very handsome—an opinion shared by most women who crossed his path. He was not the least bit absorbed in his looks. Instead, without ever verbalizing it, he took pride in his physical labour. I was an adult before I realized that my dad was actually quite short in stature; although physically muscular, he could not have been very much bigger in his younger days.

His ability to carry three of his sleeping children at once—I being one of them—from nightly church services made me think that he could just as easily carry a house.

Now, I believe my dad was always gentle with me because of my illness. I did not know then that I must have been a repulsive sight. This was one of the benefits of having a huge yard in which to wander all day, without feeling bored or being exposed to strangers. My parents told me that they wrapped me with cotton cloth to prevent my fluid-filled bumps from spilling uncontrollably, though I do not remember. What I do remember, however, is that every time my dad lifted me into his arms, he would say, Come, Daddy’s Baby.

I was now about four years old. Early one night as my dad sat in his usual spot on the front verandah, my younger brother Lennox and I approached him for the usual comfort at that time—the gentle rubbing of our foreheads before he lifted us and rested us against his chest. Instead of lifting me, he lifted Lennox, saying, Come, Daddy’s Baby. I thought: Who told my dad to say that? He remained sitting on a verandah column, listening to the evening news, as usual, with Lennox perched on his leg (as though he belonged there) while I leaned against the same leg. I guess my dad figured I was close enough to him and contented to be leaning against him. How was I to know that a dad can have more than one baby?

Feeling secure in his parenting abilities, with the back of his left shoulder and the rear left side of his head resting against the wall after a long, hard day’s work, he relaxed to enjoy listening to the radio broadcast news.

Patience has never been one of my virtues, and speaking when I am angry is still not a skill I have mastered. It never even occurred to me to ask Lennox to give me a turn at sitting on my dad’s thigh. I stood there looking up at him: wishing him to vacate my spot. One push was enough to get him right out of my spot and onto the concrete floor. My dad jumped out of the news world in an effort to grab him before he reached the floor, but he was too late.

Only a mother could move as fast as my mother did in retrieving Lennox from the floor. While she examined and soothed him, I expected at least one slap on the back of my hand accompanied by the admonition, Rude! Instead, I heard my dad say, Neace, why did you do that? I think he knew the answer because when I started crying and explaining, "I’m Daddy’s Baby, he picked me up, put me in my rightful spot, and told me, Don’t do that again. He quickly checked to make sure I would comply, asking, Okay? Still crying, I agreed, Yes, Dieie. While rubbing the crown of my head, for me to stop crying, he said, Okay, Daddy’s Baby. Stop the crying now."

While my mother was comforting Lennox, it was obvious what she wanted to do to me; but I was sick—the bumps—or perhaps my dad had waved his hand in the form of a stop sign, something he did a significant number of times before and after this incident. After all the effort he had put into making me well, he was not about to let anyone damage his handiwork. Once her child had stopped crying, my mother handed him back to my dad. My dad perched him on the other thigh, making room for both of us, and explained to me that we were both Daddy’s Babies. I confess that I still have not totally grasped this concept.

After the evening news, but before his nightly radio soap opera, Dulcimina, my dad would entertain the whole family with his Brother Anansi (or Anancy or Ananse) stories and his harmonica. His parents and grandparents, whose ancestors had told Anansi stories to their children, back in West Africa, told Anansi stories to him. Anansi was a spider who was always trying to outsmart other people; but instead, most often, he was outsmarted. Anansi’s chief rival was Brother Tukuma—also a spider, according to the fabled tale. It was not until I went to Africa in my adult years, 2007, that I found out that Brother Anansi and Brother Tukuma were not human beings.

My dad could balance two or three of his children on his lap while he played the harmonica. That was how he kept up his harmonica practise for church services.

Most evenings, I wished Dulcimina would not start. We, the children, had to be quiet during the news; but during Dulcimina or another show called Miss Lou, we could not even yawn audibly, or else it was off to bed for the person yawning—and anyone younger. Even my mother, who was a seamstress, had to stop pedaling her sewing machine and take up her hand work when Dulcimina started. Even so, she looked forward to Dulcimina at least as much as did my dad.

Two or three dogs always patrolled the yard. The ones I remember clearly are Jack, Spot, and Pepper: Jack was a big, black, shaggy dog—the only one my siblings and I felt safe enough to attempt to ride; Spot was a much smaller, smooth, brown and white dog; Pepper, a smooth, solid tan, short and stocky, was my parents’ favourite because of his protective nature and his unrelenting willingness to obey every command. At our nightly gatherings on the verandah, the dogs would sit on the grass around the front of the verandah enjoying the happenings. Even they understood that no barking was allowed during the news and Dulcimina, unless a visitor approached the house.

I did not care for Dulcimina one bit: not only because the family fun of the evening ended, but also because a particular character, Cyclops, scared the daylights out of me. Cyclops spoke as though he had something squeezing his nostrils together. This was a voice my mother’s eldest child, Robin, exploited; he used that voice to scare all his younger siblings. This was because, in the show, Cyclops had the voice of a ghost. Every child in the family, except Robin, was deathly afraid of ghosts; at every opportunity, Robin used that fear to his advantage. Even after being spanked for trying to spook his siblings, he was not deterred. As we grew older, the belief in ghosts was a strong incentive for ensuring children had their outdoors baths well before dark.

Name Changes

Thanks to my dad’s homemade remedies, the watery bumps under my skin dried up within a year. My body was healing, and I was able to eat regular food; yet, I was not gaining any weight. One evening, during the hour before Dulcimina, with everyone gathered on the verandah, my dad mentioned to my mom that my name—Niecie for Deneace—was negatively affecting my physical well-being and suggested that we change it. He asked for name suggestions from the children, a name that would make me fat and healthy. Unlike my older siblings, who were full of suggestions, I had none. Being called Deneace by my siblings was not an option: too formal to be used at home.

Robin had met a, fat, pretty little girl named Bobsy. Hence, he decided that Bobsy would be perfectly suitable for me. My dad agreed with Robin’s recommendation and promptly informed the family, She is no longer to be called Niecie. From now on, call her Bobsy. From that evening, none of my siblings made the mistake of referring to me as Niecie. My name varied from Deneace to Bobsy to Bobs—even Barbara, when my mom was being endearing—but never again to Niecie. Oddly enough, my dad never once called me Bobsy nor Bobs, always Deneace or Neace.

According to what my parents would tell me many years into the future, within days, there were noticeable positive changes in my physical composition.

Similar to the method used for my name change was the method my dad used to stop my mom’s children from calling her Aun[t] Julie. The history behind the required name change was that my mom started having children after some of her older sister’s children were already grown. Those nieces and nephews correctly addressed my mom as Aunt Julie. By the time her oldest child, Robin, learned how to pronounce words, he simply addressed his mother in the same manner as his older cousins. All of us younger siblings also adopted the name he used.

At my mom’s suggestion, my dad decided to put an end to the use of the term Aun Julie by her children and replace it with Mama. He told all of us her new title. Then he sent Robin to the bottom of the hill at the front of the house and instructed my mother to call him.

Robin was aware that if he answered using any title other than Mama, there would be a beating in store for him. Sure enough, in response to my mom’s call, Robin impulsively answered, Yes, Aun Julie. This mistake was met with a strong caution from my dad, that Robin was being given a second chance to get it right; then he was sent to the bottom of the hill a second time. Again, he got it wrong and received his beating before being sent back to the bottom of the hill a third time. Being that he offered it correctly that third time, Mother’s new name had finally registered in his brain.

Randy got it correct on her first attempt. This cleared the way for us, the other siblings, to get it right the first time—or at least something similar. Mother is known as Maa to this day.

Chapter 2

In His Own Words

I was three years old when my dad started travelling overseas. His first trip, at forty years old, was to the Bahamas in 1969. Since he allowed me to tape record his reasons for travelling and the occurrences of the trip, I have decided to deliver the details to you as I recorded them during my visit to Jamaica the Christmas of 2005.

As usual, as from before I can remember, my dad was telling his children and his wife stories about his life. We (my mom, my dad, and I) were sitting in the dining area after dinner when he took a drink of his boiled tank-water—that is, rainwater he kept in a concrete tank and boiled before he drank it; he compared it to the water he had druk in the Bahamas, Green Park water. A-h-h-h-h.

He was mimicking a former employer for whom he worked in the Bahamas. Each time this employer took a drink of water, he would say, Bahamian wad[t]er, a-a-a-h. This caused me to ask, "What made you decide to go to the Bahamas? He paused. I could see that it was going to be the long version, so I asked if I could tape it—knowing that one day I would write about it. In his own words, here is some of what was going on in my dad’s life when I was three years old.

• • •

I was in Freeport, the second most populous city in the Bahamas. Nassau, the capital, is the most populous. What led me to Freeport? A short hum came from his nostrils.

I was doing irrigation work on a banana plantation for the McQuinie’s, at a place called Watercast, in a place called Vere. Each morning, at the start of each shift, I secured my bicycle in the same spot where it stayed until the end of my shift each evening. It happened that, one evening, just as I was getting ready to go home, I saw water spewing like a high waterfall in the area where I had secured my bicycle. I paused to ponder what water would be doing in that area and whether any damage was done to my bicycle. I noticed a tractor that had no business in the banana walk, unannounced to anyone, plowing away. Apparently, the tractor ran over my bicycle and damaged it beyond repair.

I protested the damage to my bicycle; it was destroyed. My employer, management, disregarded my claim. I had no source of getting to work, except by my bicycle. Walking that distance was out of the question. Since no one was concerned about my damaged bicycle, I went to the union branch located in Vere. One union delegate, Mr. Brown, responded in disbelief, saying, W-h-h-h-h-at? Within forty-eight hours, you must be compensated for your bicycle and any loss of pay [as a result of the damage to your bicycle]! I do not even remember how I got home that evening, but I went home feeling very hopeful that I would be compensated for my bicycle and loss of wages.

The next morning, I went back to the work site to investigate the issue of my bicycle. No one had any information about compensation for my bicycle, so I went home. The back and forth with no answers went on for quite some time after that forty-eight hours promise by the union representative. He paused. This is a long story. I quickly responded, I’ve got time. My dad continued.

It took me about six months, after ha-a-rd fighting, to be compensated for my bicycle. Now, how did I get compensated?

Despite building my hopes with his forty-eight hours promise, Mr. Brown was not at all being effective. As a result, I went to Lionel Town, to the head branch of the union, intending to take my case to the man-in-charge of the whole area. I spent the entire day’s business hours at the head branch waiting to speak with Mr. ——. Julia, what was that man’s name? No answer from my mom, who was in the kitchen. My dad continues. When I remember his name, I will tell you. However, I could not get to him at all; he did not consider me to be high enough [on the social hierarchy] to talk with me. The situation was getting from bad to worse: back and forth, back and forth, with no end in sight. Thus, I decided to go speak with someone at the union headquarters in Kingston. I was eventually assigned to someone at head office, the area advisor. My mother calls out from the kitchen, Area organizer. My dad continues: They connected me to the area organizer. That was Mr. ——. Julia, what was this man’s name, the area organizer? Julia answers, McKenley. My dad continues: Yeah. They put me in contact with Mr. McKenley. When I went into Mr. McKenley’s office and told him of my troubles, Mr. McKenley said, What! Remembering what Mr. Brown had said when he heard of my dad’s plight, I broke in, Again? My dad responds: Yeah, yeah. He said, "W-w-w-hat? Did you take this matter to Mr. ——, in Lionel Town?" I told him that Mr. Brown was the one responsible for my case, and he has been working on the case, and he is the one who told me that within forty-eight hours I would be compensated for my bicycle; and until this minute, there is still no compensation for my bicycle, and I cannot get to work. My dad suddenly remembers the name of the representative in Lionel Town: Paris! The guy in Lionel Town was named … Paris! He continued with his story. Mr. McKenley asked me, And did you take up this matter with Mr. Paris, in Lionel Town? I answered, No. He [Mr. McKenley] said, Well, all right. You go back to Lionel Town, and give Mr. Paris your statement.

Back then, there was a bus called the Romance Bus—coming from Kingston going directly to Lionel Town. I caught the Romance Bus and went directly to Lionel Town, to the union office. By the time I got to the union office in Lionel Town, Mr. McKenley was there. Luckily, both Brown and Paris were in the office. Mr. McKenley called them both up together, in my presence. Mr. Brown gave him a cock-and-bull story. Mr. McKenley looked at Brown; then he looked in my face and said, This man, this man is your key witness, and he has already let you down! As simply as that; he knew that Brown was lying. Apparently, McQuinie, the company, bought him out. Mr. McKenley continued, You have already been sold out! Just like that. Just … like … that. That is, there is no use in Mr. McKenley’s taking up the case with the McQuinies because Brown has the final say, and he had already been paid out by the company and kept the money—out of sheer covetousness.

Mr. McKenley concluded, You will get your bicycle back with any loss of pay! You can count on that. After six months of more struggles and Mr. McKenley’s relentless efforts, Mr. McQuinie called me to his office and gave me a new bicycle—nothing for loss of pay.

I left the job and decided to start working the land that I was buying in Green Park. During the six months that I was battling with the union and my employer, I was planting my own cultivation: cane, cassava, beans, and stuff like that, and I was selling whatever I grew and living off of it. The cane grew very well that year, and I sold my crop. It was a pleasure planting my cane. So, I planted some more. Working my land was my only source of income. Growing crop depended on rainfall. It so happened that, a big drought set-in: big … drought … set-in. Even some of the companies in Vere that specialized in irrigation farming had to throw in their farms—no water in the wells. My cultivation went down as well: [It would be] six straight years with no adequate rainfall.

Scientists came down [from the United States and England] to determine why there was no water in the wells and concluded that there was no water because it was being pumped out, and the only way to amend the situation was to put water back in the well. Now, people wanted to know, from where was this water supposed to come? The scientists answered, From the rain. Needless to say, my dad and I both broke out into laughter. Further, the scientists concluded that, the absence of rainwater in the wells allowed seawater to seep-in as the sea level rose and seep-out as the sea retreated. That is, the spring water was pumped out, which caused the sea to move in under the springs. Therefore, when the irrigation companies in Vere drew water from the wells, they drew unusable muddy water—resulting in the closing of the pumps. I decided to leave the cultivating and do something else; go away.

I fought to find a way to go to the Bahamas because the Bahamas was the only outlet [out of my situation] I could get.

There was a lady named Miss Cindy who had a son in the Bahamas. The children in the family simply called her Anyouknowit because she started every sentence with, An[d] you know it … . She used to buy and sell charcoal. Her husband, Aubrey, used his little truck to deliver coal to a factory. We [my parents] were talking with Cindy one day when she came to buy coal, and she told us how we could get into the Bahamas.

• • •

I was supposed to visit Cindy’s son, Tim, who was living in the Bahamas. I had never met Tim; however, I was instructed to tell the Bahamian immigration that I knew him and that he would be meeting me at the airport. The Bahamian Immigration did not wait to see my host; they let me through. I had met a Jamaican fellow, Vernal, on the plane. We became travel companions, as we understood that we were both in the same situation. The two of us waited outside Freeport Airport for our hosts. While waiting, a Jamaican living in the Bahamas approached us and introduced himself as Glasses. He enquired as to whom we were there to see. We did not hesitate to tell him. He drove an unofficial taxi and offered his services to Eight Mile Rock: an island that is eight miles long and less than two miles wide, the closest island to Freeport. From where the sea separates Eight Mile Rock from Freeport, it extends eight miles into the sea and is easily accessible by bridge. One can literally run from one side of the island [Eight Mile Rock] to the other. For this reason, people refer to the trip, from one side of the island to the other, as from sea to sea.

We accepted the ride to Eight Mile Rock. When we got to our destination and asked for Tim, there was no such person to be found. Glasses drove us to another location called Pindas Point, still no Tim to be found. He drove us around for the whole evening, to no avail. He decided to take us to an inn and book us in for the night. He told us with confidence that he would find the elusive Tim.

The next morning, Glasses came to the hotel to see how we were doing. He was unable to find Tim.

• • •

My travel companion, Vernal, and I were getting comfortable in our new environment, thanks to Glasses’ hospitality. He found us a place to rent on a weekly basis. Vernal and I shared a room.

Since I had never traveled away from home, I brought food I knew would not easily perish—homemade cassava bammies are what I ate during meal times. Bammies are a type of flat bread made from cassava flour.

The first day, we unsuccessfully searched for work. The second evening, after our job search, Vernal and I stopped into a bar. This Bahamian promised to give me his job tomorrow because he is a Bahamian: They are lazy; they don’t want to work. In return, all he wanted from me was a drink. I gave [bought] him a drink. I was to meet him the next morning, at the bar, so that he could give me his job. I showed up; he did not. However, after about two days, both Vernal and I secured jobs.

My first job was to spread marl around newly constructed houses. Harris Russell, a Black, Jewish man, hired us. The majority of Eight Mile Rock land mass belonged to the Russell family. Mr. Russell liked the way Vernal and I worked.

Vernal ate at restaurants ev-ery-day. He had no idea that I had money because he never saw me buying anything. My lunches were bammies. I made it clear that I did not like eating out. In the evenings when I prepared my bammies for dinner, I always offered a portion to Vernal—which he never refused and ate with great delight. One evening when my bammies were all consumed, I said, My bammies are finished. He responded with a jolt, Your bammies are finished? He then looked at my face with great dismay and asked again, Your bammies are finished? How are you going to manage now? This is a man who never once offered me a biscuit from anything he ate, whether or not I wanted it; he never gave me a chance to say, No, but thanks for offering. Yet, he displayed such great concern about the end of my bammies and how I was going to manage in this strange land.

Our work for Russell came to an end. People had watched our work constantly. Everyone wanted to hire us because there was a lot of construction occurring, and the Bahamians did not want to work. Therefore, we could not handle all the job offers we received upon completing Russell’s project.

The Hawkoid family owned a masonry company. Their role in the construction projects was to do the block work around the buildings. Specialization in laying blocks enabled their employees to do the work very quickly. Both Vernal and I chose to work with the Hawkoid Company, all around Freeport. We stocked blocks, mixed mortar, sifted sand, etc. They loved the way Vernal and I worked—we really earned our pay, as we moved from project to project for various employers.

Despite regularly getting paid each Friday evening, Vernal could not keep any money. He could not even afford to buy lunch anymore. We had no stove in our room. What we had was an Etna burner. Vernal started waking up early in the mornings to knead flour into dumplings and roast them on the Etna burner. The smoke in the room was unbearable and the smell … repulsive. All the tenants could see the smoke. Other Jamaicans in the building laughed him to scorn. The dumplings burned without being roasted, but that was what he started bringing to work for lunch. This made him the laughing stock at work, too. Like everyone else, for lunch, I started buying a coffee and a doughnut.

Those men did not work late. Between 2:30 and 3:00 p.m., the workday was finished; but we still got paid for a full day’s work.

One evening, Vernal came home and started carrying-on with a lot of showing off: My name is Vernal! His attitude was exactly that of a Vernal I knew when I worked at Halse Hall in years past. I said to him, Do you know something? You bring to mind a guy I knew at Halse Hall named Vernal. He was a show-off just like you. And do you know something? He carried-on one time until I had to beat the shit out of him down there. He responded, "W-h-h-h-at? Mi [my] brother? You beat mi brother? I said, Yes, I had to give him a licking, at Halse Hall. Mind … or I will have to give you the same thing, too." I had to ask my dad, "Did you really beat the guy at Halse Hall? He answered, Yes, but at that time I had solid backing; my two big brothers were there. These brothers are actually younger than my dad but bigger in stature. We could have killed him if we wanted. I had to hear that story, too. Here it is.

• • •

As it turned out, the Vernal who had received the beating in Halse Hall was indeed a brother of the Vernal in the Bahamas. Both of their first names have slipped me. I was able to link them based on their nasty attitudes. Now, how I knew this brother at Halse Hall: We all worked together, long before I encountered the one in the Bahamas. Halse Hall had just gone into banana cultivation. We—my brothers, Doctor, Pum, and myself—were the manager’s right hand men. People knew us as the men responsible for watering the plants; however, as even the official night watchmen were thought to be involved in the theft of substantial amounts of bananas, we were also undercover watchmen. Vernal worked at one of the managers’ house.

This banana plantation encompassed hundreds of acres of land. Thus, watchmen were placed in various locations. On a particular night, nothing was stolen from our area; but the company suffered huge losses in other areas due to theft. The evidence of theft led to nearby Watercast, where tobacco was planted. The manager called in the police from May Pen. My brothers and I were on our way to Watercast to observe the bananas that were found in the tobacco walk. By this time, the police had arrived. One officer parked his vehicle a distance from the location of the abandoned evidence. The officer had left his gun shield in his vehicle and asked Vernal to retrieve it and bring it to him. This assignment made Vernal feel very important. We met him on his way back to the officer and asked him where exactly the manager could be found. He responded with a battery of profanities. I asked, Why are you carrying on like that? This gave him energy to carry on all the more. I paused and then walked up to him and waxed [punched] him. For God’s sake, I don’t know why I did it; but I just waxed him. I just slammed him with a right hand. After which, I immediately slammed him with a left. He could not hit back for fear of a worse beating. He started to cry while, walking back to the intended location. We followed him, not even thinking that we could be charged with assault. When we reached the location, the officer asked him why he was crying. He told the officer that we had beaten him. The officer questioningly looked at the manager; in turn, the manager looked at the officer and said, "These are my men." That was where any suspicion of theft on our part ended, as well as any dealing regarding the beating of Vernal.

Now, the Vernal in Freeport displayed such identical attitudes and mannerisms, there could be no mistake of their blood relations. Telling him about the incident with his brother caused his blood to run hot. Additionally, the threat of getting the same beating caused him to get more than angry; he got mad—mad to the point where he was ready to fight. I used a lot of mouth, and he did not know how much of it would be followed by action. So, he backed off. We continued to live and work together.

• • •

One evening, we were both sitting in the room while talking. I thought I had dozed off when Robin approached me; he showed me some pears and asked me if he could have them. I told him to take the pears and share them amongst himself and his siblings. As soon as I answered Robin, I jumped from what I thought was a nap. I said to Vernal, Look. My son just came and spoke to me. I started to cry. I mean really cry because I had never left my children before. The grieving was vigorous. Even Vernal started to feel sorry for me—not the kind of selfish pity he displayed upon learning that my bammies were all consumed. Luckily, I did not beat the shit out of him when he had gotten on my nerves in the not so distant past. I said to him, I think something is wrong with my children in Jamaica. My thoughts started seriously leading me to return to Jamaica, after only weeks into my intended six months stay in the Bahamas.

• • •

For days, I was not going to the toilet. On this particular night, my stomach would not give me a rest from the constant pain. I could not sleep. I felt and believed that I was going to die. Yet … I had every intention of going to work in the morning. Just before daylight, I dozed off. I may not even have been sleeping when a woman came into the room and said to me, Your wife is here. Your mother will take care of you. At first, the woman was your mother. She was supposed to take care of me. Afterwards, it appeared to be my mother. That is, his mother, who died when he was fifteen. She gave me something to drink. I really drank the stuff: when I woke up, I could still taste the stuff; I could smell it, and my stomach stopped hurting me. To beat all, immediately after I drank the stuff, the woman left the room. I mean, really … left … the room.

Everything had moved to the lower part of my stomach. The need to use the toilet was overwhelming. There was no toilet in my dwelling; thus, I had to go where we usually went—the swamp, even though it was raining slightly. Vernal and I could not afford a place with indoor toilet. I had a really good motion out in the swamp, accompanied by no pain. By morning, I was as strong as any other worker. I went to work.

Not too long after the sickness, I received a letter from your mother informing me that a large portion of my property was destroyed in a fire. I thought it was the house, but it was not. The same day I had left Jamaica, someone set fire to my cane field. All the cane was burned before your mother got back from the airport, after seeing me off.

The house was not damaged. Nonetheless, Robin and Randy were smart enough to remove important documents from the house and get the younger children to a safe place—you were the baby at that time. Actually, Lennox was the baby; but I guess I was my dad’s baby. Thinking that my wife and children were vulnerable, the letter made it easy for me to start preparing my return to Jamaica: just about five weeks after arriving in the Bahamas. What happened the following week was fate leading me home.

I must say, though, … I don’t know what he [Vernal] was doing or where he was this Friday night that caused the Bahamian Immigration to pick him up and bring him home. We had already overstayed the time allotted to us. At that time, I had given my passport to a man to work on some documents to get me into the United States. Immigration raided that agent’s place and collected a whole heap of passports, mine included. The police took us to the station and locked us up over the weekend, Friday night to Monday morning. We asked the police why we were being locked up, thinking we had not committed any crimes and not realizing that overstaying in another man’s country was illegal. The police started to enlighten us, In the first place, you have overstayed in the Bahamas. This agitated me into asking, What do you mean by ‘overstayed’? I acknowledged that the length of stay was stipulated, but who had time to worry about the length of stay when there was so much money to be earned?

I refused to eat the food they gave me the first morning, although it was good food, the same food they ate: eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, etc. I did not eat any because I was not … supposed … to be … there. Besides, I don’t eat from people. Vernal, however, ate his [breakfast] like there would be no tomorrow; then, he promptly consumed mine.

We were the only two in our cell—protective custody—containing a verandah with bars. Considering how appreciative Mr. Russell was of our work, we were expecting him to come bail us. We had visitors from work, but no bail. By mid-day Saturday, a man—based on the questions he asked and his accent, I believe to be the High Commissioner of Jamaica—came to investigate why we were being held. I told the commissioner exactly what I had told the police: I have done nothing wrong; I was in my bed sleeping when I was disturbed by the police. And still they have not charged me with anything. I was not accepting overstaying as a valid reason for being locked up. I believe someone reported something. We were required to stay in jail.

• • •

Someone secured bail for us: My guess is he was the high commissioner. However, we had to deposit our own bail bond. Yes, I had my money on me. We were allowed to stay in our own clothing. In fact, before I was taken from Eight Mile Rock, I went into my grip [suitcase], removed my money, and left the grip open on my room floor with the room door unlocked; I had believed I would have returned very shortly. Luckily, I had gone rummaging through my grip to retrieve my money. This made the officers waiting for me to prepare myself very impatient. Had I not accessed my own hiding spot at the moment I did, I probably would have ended up leaving my money behind—in response to the officers’ telling me, Come on. Hurry up.

• • •

Sunday evening, dinner came in the form of rice and peas and meat. As the first meal offered to us prisoners, this meal was no different from that offered to the officers. It was the first time I had eaten since I had been incarcerated, and I should thank Vernal who urged and coaxed, "You need to e-a-t. E-a-t ma-n. E-a-t, or you will die of hunger." I ate a bit of the rice and peas; he ate the meat.

Monday morning, we were required to attend court for a bail hearing. I had to take the role of a lawyer for both Vernal and myself; I did all the talking with no fear. We placed our bail bond and were instructed not to do any more work. We were going to stay in the Bahamas until Friday when the first flight leaves for Jamaica.

While we were incarcerated, a Jamaican neighbour, Mr. Savoury, a church-going man, took care of our belongings; he made sure our room was locked and stayed secured. We were grateful to him for that.

Tuesday morning, we were back on the job. Mr. Russell’s men came back for us to work because the Bahamians did not want to work. We worked until half day Friday. We got paid.

Immigration had our passports. On our own recognizance, we were to report at the airport at a specific time. Mr. Russell drove us to the airport himself in his super stretch green car—p-r-r-r-e-t-t-y? He escorted us inside and ensured that we were treated as respectfully as everyone else. Until boarding time, we waited in the waiting room along with all the other travellers.

We flew into Kingston, Jamaica, Friday evening. We took a cab from the airport, and I let him [Vernal] stay the night at my home. I actually remember my siblings and myself standing in front of the verandah while watching my parents saying goodbye to the stranger I had accepted as my dad’s friend.

By the time he reached the main road the next morning, he informed the shopkeeper, who was also one of the news carriers and originally from his district, that we had been in jail in the Bahamas. Not only does he eat too much, but he also uses his mouth too much. The way I found out about Vernal’s inability to keep his mouth shut was when [the battle-axe and number one news carrier of the community] Miss Claris announced, "When they are in their own country, they don’t go to prison; but as soon as they reach foreign, they end up in prison."

A problem with Jamaican people is that once you have been to jail, whether or not you have committed an offence, you are a criminal of the worst sort—a person to be shunned; generations to come will know that you have been to prison; you are a prison bud [bird]—a bird that perches on the windowsill of a jail and, thereby, makes the jail its home.

• • •

I can still see Miss Claris with her makeshift walking stick—nothing more than a dried tree branch against which she leaned her crocked body—at the side of the compacted gravel road. As she shamelessly watched people going about their business, she did not give a hoot (did not care) about her grey and black braids sticking out from under her black and red, checkered, askew head-tie.

• • •

No one told me that my dad had left for the Bahamas. Of course, that was to protect me—keep me from crying. In this culture, young children were not included in adult conversations and adult decisions; thus, for me to be uninformed was the norm. Did they think I would not notice? I must have noticed because my mom would always say to me, Daddy will be back soon. This gave me a constant feeling that he would be home any moment. Thank goodness he missed us at least as much as we missed him. The fire and fate forced him to return to Jamaica before the time he had intended. My mother could have been clearer in her letter, by noting that the children were okay and that the house was not damaged. She could have at least encouraged him to stay six months. This is easy for me to say since I was not in her shoes. I cannot know the struggles of raising six children by myself in an isolated area with wicked men in the world. Had I been in her situation, I probably would not have lasted six weeks. It was not long before my dad was off travelling again. He continues in his own words.

• • •

About a month after I had returned home, to Jamaica, I made a second voyage to the Bahamas. By the time I got there, Vernal was already there. This time I did not live with him. He was working in the funeral industry for a different Russell brother—a job in which I had absolutely no interest. I resumed my position in construction with Harris Russell: the first employer Vernal and I had in the Bahamas. This time, I stayed for about three months. During this time, without my knowledge, your mother booked her flight to join me. She would stay there for three weeks. I had been sending money to Jamaica on a regular basis, plus she had the goats and stuff, so it was easy for her to put money together for her plane fare. Her arrival seemed surreal to me because each night that I went to bed, I dreamt that she had come or we were home in Jamaica. In the dreams, we would be talking; but by the time I awoke, she was gone.

I was working on a two-story house for Mr. Russell, near a club which also belonged to him. Mr. Russell was an architect and a builder. He worked for two or three hours per day and then left to relax at his club. On this job, I was working directly with him. Most often, in his high-pitched, nasal voice, he would say, Green. Green. Come to the club. I always refused because I was being paid to work. Moreover, the club was not a place I wanted to spend my time. He respected me for my work ethic and would, in a strong voice, often praise me to his friends, Green! Green is a man! Green … is … a man! His statements were in response to the pleasure he received with the progress of my work each time he returned from his club. For this reason, he did