Lineage: A History in Faith

By Michelle Thompson

"Lineage" is a story of Jamaican politics and history, a Jamaican family, and Jeddah. The book covers a century of nomadic, immigrant life that touches three states and Jamaica. The country typically known for tourism and Bob Marley is unveiled in its raw, truest form. Although the story is widely entangled in chaos, abuse, and neglect, "Lineage" is a memoir of liberation.

"Lineage" is an intricate walk through a historical perspective of Jamaican politics, the Adamson family tree, and how these worlds collide. Over the course of several lives the reader will see a powerful Jamaican family, crippled by the Cold War, begin to build a foundation in a new land.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098344740

Book preview

Conclusion

The Lion

As with all history, family or otherwise, the teller bears the burden of truth and can only tell it through their lens. So in telling this history, there may be philosophical differences among those affected by historical events, but the beauty is in the truth of the history, not the perspective of the teller.

The Lion—a strong, indomitable, moral, righteous man, born of dysfunction—began the Adamson line. His life choices, though he gave his best effort, led to havoc. His death and subsequent funeral wrought wreckage on one of the most promising of his line, who—like all displaced immigrants—searched through much turmoil in hopes of finding a connection; a place to which to belong. Only the strong do not bow to assimilation but choose to maintain their homelands wherever they find their residence, even if that place only lives safely within their hearts and souls.

This is a story true to all overachieving immigrants. To the children of immigrants who are outwardly perfect while hiding the physical and emotional scars of abuse at the adept hands of duplicitous abusers, parents, who are capable of appearing strong and shrouded in Godly sacrificial perfection in public. While you, the immigrant child, are ridiculed verbally and assaulted physically with impunity. You hide yourself in public buried deep within the shell of perfection. Trained in silence. Trained to be seen and not heard. A child broken to the will of the parent in visage only, not in truth.

Victim never was I. Victim never will I be. I, like you, hid my true self from my abusers to escape. I learned to hide in plain sight from true masters of the craft.

A precious few, to this point, have known my unambiguous story. With this telling, I pull back the veil and invite you to join me in liberation. Trust the wisdom of my countryman and fellow survivor, Bob Marley: Emancipate yourself from mental slavery. None but ourselves can free our minds. (Marley, Robert Nesta. Redemption Song, Uprising, Tuff Gong Studios, 1980)

Selah. Jah peace be with you always.

The Funeral

The tar-black runway of the Montego Bay Airport rose up from the crystal-blue Caribbean Sea as if summoned to meet her arrival. It was August 1988, and the Lion’ s females—Saraphina, his wife; Winola, his firstborn; and Lela, his soul daughter—returned to their earthly paradise to send him off on his celestial journey. Jeddah, Lela’s daughter, was just 12. The death of the Lion had called them back across countries and waters to the land of their births. The children of the Lion had returned to mourn, together with his country, the loss of a great and influential man.

Flying Air Jamaica was a grand experience in the 1980s, but the group was scarcely impressed because their journey was solemn. Under hooded, almond eyes, Jeddah spent the flight in constant observation of her mother, who clung to the fringes of sanity. Lela was racked with grief over the loss of her beloved father. The plane coasted onto the undulated tarmac so smoothly that Jeddah was unaware they’d landed until Lela, as was customary, nodded her head and lowered her long, thick black eyelashes in a gesture meant to convey assurance.

They deplaned. As always, Jeddah led the family procession. Down they went on the long steel staircase that had been rolled out to meet the colorful airplane, and brightly clad dark-skinned airport employees unfurled a red carpet. Jeddah held the sun-warmed steel banister as the bright, brilliant Jamaican sun loomed large overhead. Tall, thin palm trees danced and swayed in the pleasant, warm breeze. At the bottom of the staircase, Jeddah waited patiently for the rest to catch up to her. The tar was so hot it felt viscous beneath her feet. She tried her best to behave like an adult as Lela demanded, but her youthful restlessness was all the more obvious because she was the only child in this group of travelers. Together, they crossed the expanse to the airport entrance, holding hands to reassure one another.

As one mourning body, they queued and went through the citizens line at customs. An overweight milk-chocolate–complexioned customs officer returned her passport and spoke the only words that had been able to comfort Jeddah since she’d received news of the Lion’s passing: Welcome home. Although the occasion was sobering and almost unbearable, Jeddah was again—as she only ever was here—at home. She had always felt a kindred spirit with this land. Jamaica had called to her across oceans, miles, and years from the time she’d departed 10 years earlier.

The group gathered their luggage and other family, who had arrived separately from near and fahrein. They were unified by grief and comforted by the presence of kin. Jamaica wrapped them all in her welcoming bosom. She held and rocked them until their pain was manageable. The group began their pilgrimage to the interior bush, from which the Lion and his line sprang. A menagerie of vehicles formed a convoy as they emerged from the Montego Bay Airport onto the poorly constructed, partially tarred, narrow-laned Jamaican highway and headed southeast toward Kingston.

A stop was necessary because the occasion called for Saraphina to be allowed to walk through her marital home like royalty returned from exile, despite the Lion’s second wife and their five-year-old son still being in residence. The entire party was paraded through the large, gleaming-white Victorian house. It was resplendent with freshly painted black shutters, a thick green lawn, and bountiful sprays of red roses framing the white-spindled, white-floored wraparound veranda. To the right of the wide, welcoming porch stairs stood a well-worn white wooden rocking chair on which the Lion had perched daily to receive visitors until the morning he, according to his current wife, decided to die.

On that typical morning, nothing with him or his routine had been out of the ordinary. He had taken his usual breakfast of plain, uncomplicated oatmeal at the broad kitchen table in the company of his young wife, youngest sister, and youngest son. After passing the time greeting passersby, he had announced he was going to rest. He had stood to his full six-foot height and walked through the screened door to his bedroom, which occupied the front room of the house to the immediate left of the solid-black double front door. The Lion had lain prone on top of his white cotton eyelet duvet, crossed his stockinged feet at his thin ankles, and—with his coffee-brown wrinkled hands intertwined on his chest—closed his eyes and gone to sleep, never to wake again.

Jeddah was only marginally acknowledging of the Lion’s second wife, though never disrespectful. She had been told for her entire 12 years that the Second and her offspring were beneath the Adamson clan. Jeddah had been given the impression that the Second was an ill-bred, ill-educated, classless woman whom the Lion had acquired in his dotage. She had been the Lion’s political secretary during his 72nd year of age and his 32nd year of tenure as a minister of Parliament, representing the parish of St. Ann. She had fallen for his vast influence and quiet power. The two had begun a purely sexual relationship until she had become pregnant when he was 76 and she 32. This relationship produced a second marriage in the Lion’s old age and a son who did not bear his name, following the precedent he had set with his older sons. Although the Lion was beloved and much admired by his countrymen and family, he had never been conceited enough to give any of his children any part of his name except the Adamson surname. However, he named this young son after his favorite biblical prophet. This decision caused much upset among the Lion’s three older sons, whom he’d had with Saraphina.

Despite the disruption among his daughters regarding the pregnancy begun out of wedlock and the many differences between the unlikely pair, the Lion had proven wise in

his choice of the Second. She had remained with him until his death as promised, unlike Saraphina, and doted on him more than his older children did. Moreover, she had taken care of his blind, elderly half-sister, the daughter of his white father and Jamaica white stepmother. She promised to continue to care for his sister, who had outlived the Lion primarily because of the Second’s exceptional and attentive care. She had also produced and trained well a son of good character and intelligence who made the Lion proud. Jeddah enjoyed playing with her young uncle, who, at six years her junior, was an annoying but amusing distraction from the grief.

The week prior to the arrival of the females, the body of the Lion had been brought from Kingston to St. Ann, the parish of his birth and breeding ground of his illustrious political career. His body lay at rest in a funeral home refrigerator for 14 days, awaiting relatives from every continent to send him to his final home. Jeddah, steadfast in her roles of confidante, advisee, and adviser to Saraphina and Lela, was allowed underfoot as Saraphina, Lela, and Winola were given deference in the choice of the Lion’s home-going outfit. They chose his customary gray suit, accompanied by a white French cuff button-down shirt with black enamel and pewter cufflinks, a thin black tie, black stocking-thin socks, and black lace-up brogues that had been meticulously polished to a high shine by the yard boys each and every morning of the Lion’s adult life. After the clothes were chosen, carriage was provided for the Second, the Lion’s last son, and his sister in a separate vehicle. Saraphina, though magnanimous of heart, voiced her opinion that she would not travel in the same vehicle as that woman and her child.

Although Saraphina and the Lion had been divorced for more than 20 years, she, incredulously, did not find it proper that he he’d had a child with another woman. During the years of the Lion’s marriage, Saraphina had repeatedly expressed her belief that he was an old fool to have married and impregnated a woman 36 his junior and far beneath his station. She had expected, with no reliability or assurance, that neither of them would have children with anyone else. The birth of the Second’s son had been a breach of this unspoken pact. Having more children had been a real possibility for Saraphina because she was half his age, having married him at 18. Along with the divorce, there had been a tacit agreement that the Lion would never disrespect her because she was his first and chosen wife—the wife of his youth and the mother of his many children. The Second and her child were offensive to Saraphina because they symbolized the Lion’s show of utter impertinence and disregard for her.

Various thoughts plagued Jeddah’s young mind while she held her grandmother’s rough, wrinkled hand as the hired minivan began the second and final leg of the journey west into the interior of the island. The family drove along in companionable silence as the setting sun began its show, throwing the sky into a blaze of orange. Churches passed at regular intervals along the winding road that bordered high hill walls of rock, mud, and mangrove trees. These religious structures, ranging from simple stucco to elaborately ornate Anglican edifices, secured Jamaica’s status in Guinness World Records as the country with the greatest number of churches per square mile. They wound through the thick foliage, passing women and young men selling guineps, sugarcane, young coconut, pumpkin, cassava, and plantains along the roadside. Jeddah passed the time staring out of the sliding window and observing the scenery as it whizzed past. A variety of houses dotted the landscape, some built with textured stucco in vibrant colors and others constructed from painted zinc, most with zinc roofs. Wood smoke rose from backyard outdoor kitchens. Dark-skinned women of all shapes and sizes sat just outside the houses robed in soft, flowing, colorful cotton dresses drawn up to their well-oiled knees to accommodate aluminum wash basins filled to the brim with sudsy water. They manhandled dirty clothes—mostly school uniforms—across corrugated washboards. Wistful half smiles donned pleasant faces framed by headcloths wrapped around hair piled high like crowns. These simple activities were performed behind wrought-iron gates in dirt yards that more often than not featured obnoxiously loud fowl and the occasional braying donkey roaming freely. These were only two-room houses, Saraphina explained to Jeddah as they drove along.

The pedestrians they passed were mainly women carrying baskets filled to overflowing with laundry done for employers or themselves. Other baskets contained ripe ackees being transported to market. Most of the women possessed exceptionally straight posture as they carried their burdens atop their heads. These industrious women waved pleasantly as they passed. Little children finished with the school day walked home quickly, dressed neatly in uniforms of khaki and dark-blue jumpers with pleated skirts. The village’s meager dogs chased the wheels of the convoy. Few men could be seen on the road at this time of day, save the elderly or the youthful on their way to gainful employment and in need of the machetes that they wielded. Cars passed and overtook one another on the narrow, winding roads at breakneck speeds, as could only be expected in the face of no mandated limits.

The air that rushed in through the open windows was thick with the blended, heady smell burning wood and sea salt. They drove bumpily over rushing and feeble rivers on narrow bridges.

The crystal-clear water ran freely, swirling and foaming over slick, glistening rocks. Although warm and humid, the air was not oppressive. The minivan lacked air conditioning, like most of the island’s vehicles and residences, with the exception of the spectacularly wealthy and the tourist resorts. The majority of the citizenry happily existed in the cool breezes that swept over the island from the Caribbean Sea. Rhythmic music floated on the moist air and seeped through the partially opened windows: strains of dancehall, reggae, soca, ska—the singing of a people endeavoring to survive in a beautiful Third World paradise. Although bereft, Jeddah felt a deep, satisfying peace. She felt a connection, which was rare for her.

The caravan came to a halt as the sun made its final descent. The group of weary travelers was grateful to put an end to an exceedingly long and eventful day. They disembarked slowly to then be separated and taken to the houses of the Lion’s relatives, who still lived in the village. It was dark, their way barely lit by a yellowing streetlight meant to light the entire village but providing nothing more than a weak spotlight.

Saraphina, Jeddah, Lela, and Winola were taken to the home of the Lion’s half-brother, made so by their common father. Jeddah, though she had returned to Jamaica often—traveling freely to visit the Lion; her father, Victor; and various extended family members who remained on the island—had never spent a significant amount of time in the bush. In her many visits, she had somehow managed not to experience the island’s disparate infrastructure and water system. She had seen short bouts of water and electrical outages in the cities, but she had never spent any time in the mountainous interior parishes. So it was with much excitement that she, after having been formally introduced to her great-uncle and shown her quarters, dashed from the house, bidden by the housekeepers, to fill an enormous blue-and-white Royal Doulton pitcher at the village’s communal watering hole. Jeddah ran to the spigot, the only object bathed in the light of the moon pon ’tic, and danced giddily with her young uncle, who had been sequestered in another house. They quickly got to the task at hand, filling their respective pitchers. The elders needed water so they could wash up after the journey. Jeddah, having the responsibility of Saraphina, filled her pitcher first. The task completed, she said goodbye to her uncle and shuffled along the red pressed-dirt path back to her great-uncle’s home.

His peaked roof house was the largest in the village. The exterior was painted light blue and trimmed with white shutters. A low, white wrought-iron fence stood atop a low, white cinder-block wall to provide height and increase privacy. Jeddah managed not to spill the precious water onto the cement driveway by moving at a snail’s pace. She passed her uncle’s black vehicle sheltered in the carport without spilling a drop and handed the pitcher to a dark-skinned, apron-clad helper who had anxiously awaited her return. Now unburdened, Jeddah went in search of Saraphina and Lela to assure them of her safe arrival. She found Lela wearily unpacking pajamas onto the light-blue chenille spread in the guest bedroom.

Jeddah was anxious about her mother. Lela’s body language was indicative of her weariness—a state that was typical for her. Lela had begun the trip frazzled from working overtime. She was stressed because, as Jeddah had overheard her tell Winola, she’d had to borrow money from a relative for plane tickets, funeral clothes, and her fifth of whatever funeral expenses were left owing. Jeddah listened from the doorway as Lela and Winola discussed rumors of her extracurricular activities with her wild and rebellious cousin that were in direct opposition to Lela’s strict rules. Jeddah held her breath so she could obtain as much information as possible. Lela continued to voice her stress about the likelihood that she would see Victor, her ex-husband, with whom she continued to be in love. Winola reminded her—and joked—about her chaste and celibate state since their international divorce seven years earlier, following a three-year separation. Lela explained to Winola that she was anticipating a meeting with him to discuss what she considered Jeddah’s hell-bent determination to become a rebellious American teenager. Jeddah’s only saving grace, according to Lela, was her academic prowess.

At the conclusion of her tirade, Lela bemoaned the grieving state in which she found herself. Despite her stress and grief, Jeddah intuited that Lela was happy to be in the company of her family, both immediate and extended, because it had been years since they had all been together. Lela’s happiness was made evident by her ability to set aside her other emotions to get barrels quickly filled with gifts and essentials for poor relations and village children. Jeddah was summoned from her hiding place to assist Lela and Winola, who had begun to separate the gifts. Much to-do was made over monetary-exchange rates. While the purchasers of the contents were thrilled at the paltry total sum spent in the States, they were distressed over the state of the Jamaican economy.

Jeddah observed Lela’s ardent stoicism during the rush of activities and throughout the sorrowful pomp and circumstance that had continued unabated since their arrival. She had yet to see Lela shed a single tear, but she could tell her mother was mentally and emotionally exhausted. Thankfully, before Jeddah was sent on another errand or given an additional task, the helper knocked and entered wordlessly with water warmed to boiling on the gas stove. From the pitcher delivered by Jeddah, the helper poured scalding, steamy water into a matching Royal Doulton bowl that rested on a cherrywood vanity. She filled the bowl, leaving space to accommodate the white washcloths she provided. Jeddah washed up, tiredly refused the food the helper offered, put on her pajamas, and climbed under the pilled lightweight chenille duvet and crisp white sheets tucked in with hospital corners. She breathed in deeply the smell of the house, whose interior was built with blue mahoe—wood native to the island that gave off a distinct, comforting, musky smell that filled Jeddah with feelings of peace and lulled her into a deep, black, bottomless, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, she awoke to birdsong and the smell of Jamaican breakfast. Ackee and saltfish, fried dumplings, green bananas, and Blue Mountain coffee were arranged on china serving platters, accompanied by cloth napkins, silver utensils, and crystal highball glasses. Over breakfast, which she devoured with much relish, Jeddah learned that while she had slept, Saraphina and the Lion’s children had been taken to visit him at the funeral home, where he was in residence. Saraphina had demanded time alone with her husband. It was at this time that Saraphina gave the caramel-skinned, effeminate funeral director the clothes she had chosen for the Lion and—with the help of her five children—approved the funeral program for his home-going services at the Anglican church to which he had belonged.

Jeddah was made to dress quickly after breakfast in preparation for the funeral. Saraphina’s timetable was simple. First, they would dress at the homes of the Lion’s relatives. Then, following the funeral, they would all gather at the home and on the land of the Lion’s birth. After hurriedly washing their faces and brushing their teeth, Jeddah and Lela donned matching dresses and black stockings. The only difference in their sameness was their footwear. Jeddah was the picture of reverence in low, black patent-leather Mary Janes, while Lela appeared resolute in Naturalizer pumps. Only Saraphina was allowed to wear a veil. Winola, Saraphina, Lela, and Jeddah rode in the black Bentley—the funeral procession’s lead car—heading to the church, where the Lion was awaiting their arrival. The Second and her son, all but forgotten and overshadowed by Saraphina and her children, brought up the rear in the final, less substantive family car.

Upon arriving at the enormous, ornate Anglican church, Saraphina, Winola, Jeddah, and Lela were escorted through the throngs that lined not only the pews but also all the walls of the stone, cement, and brick edifice erected in the shape of a cross. The Lion’s funeral was standing room only. Many of the attendees stood in the vestibule and courtyard. All four points of exit were blocked by members of the family, politicians, Jamaican nobility, and villagers who had come to see the Lion in his final performance. The air inside the old church was heavy with the fragrance of hundreds of birds of paradise.

The three women and Jeddah were deposited with much ceremony in the first pew, with Saraphina, heavily veiled, at its head. With all that was in her, Jeddah wanted to turn around in her seat to converse with her cousins, who had arrived from Atlanta the previous evening, but as she had been from her earliest recollection, she was flanked by adult handlers. In an effort to be obedient, revenant, and respectful but still get her way, Jeddah attempted her much-practiced parlor trick of sliding her pupils to the very edges of her almond eyes and capturing glimpses of people and objects in her periphery. However, the trick did not work as she had intended. Her eyes were misshapen—swollen from crying and red on the edges—so she had to abandon her efforts and remain stock still and ramrod straight in the pew, as was expected of her and the occasion.

The choir, clad in flowing green and black gowns, sang the Lion’s favorite hymns: Just a Closer Walk with Thee, His Eye Is on the Sparrow, and How Great Thou Art. The songs were accompanied by the sounds of weeping in various decibels and octaves. Crying climaxed in wailing and pleas of Lawd among the family members. The Lion’s many brothers, sisters, grandchildren, and children—John in particular, who, according to family legend, was the Lion’s favorite—led the crescendo. The inconsolable weeping of the Lion’s family—his 26 half-siblings and their children, along with his six children, two wives, and 13 grandchildren—rocked the church and the people within it. The central pews of the largest, most elaborate church in the village were filled with mayors representing each of the island’s parishes, ministers of Parliament past and present, and current and past prime ministers and their families, all of whom shed quiet tears. If he could, the Lion would have reminded his family that he was now in paradise, admonished their anguish, and demanded that they rejoice. Their grief did not allow them to meet his exacting standards.

The priest delivered a short homily before doing his best to address all the

Lion’s history. He punctuated his long-winded oration with the Lion’s accomplishments and rise to greatness from humble beginnings. Thankfully, he made a valiant effort to be Spartan with his words as the heat in the church became oppressive, amplified by the large assemblage packed to capacity. This was despite the fact that the windows, stained and otherwise, had been thrown wide. Then the eulogies began with much program waving, spoken from the ornately scrolled dark wooden pulpit from which the Lion had presided as a deacon and under which he now rested peacefully on white satin pillows. Those called to speak were blinded by tears and choked with sobs. All the Lion’s children eulogized him with the exception of John, whose remarkable distress had rendered him speechless.

Jeddah, the eldest grandchild at the funeral, was chosen to represent the Lion’s grandchildren and given the task of speaking about him from their perspective. She spoke of his love because that was all that mattered to her, tantamount to all that she knew of his legacy and what he meant to the citizens and government of Jamaica. It was not necessary to reiterate what her elder family members or the priest had said.

The assembled politicians and nobility followed Jeddah’s conclusion with their own illustrious stories from the pulpit. The eulogies provided such a thorough examination of the Lion and his life that it felt as though he were still among them, not taking his final rest at the altar of his home church.

After the final, heartfelt funeral dirge, the coffin was carried to the hearse on the shoulders of the Lion’s older sons with the assistance of a lanky Michael Manley. The family dispersed in an orderly fashion, leading those assembled in a slow, tearful exit. Jeddah stood, as she was instructed, on the fringes of the chaos. She tried her best to stay out of trouble while simultaneously trying to find new cousins to meet and play with. This endeavor proved to be short lived and futile because she had to keep up with Saraphina, who was making her way quickly to the lead car to avoid mingling with sadness and grief longer than was necessary. The black car and its passengers followed closely behind the hearse, which led the way to the Lion’s birth home.

Funeral revelers followed the final car in the procession as it made its way from the churchyard. Flatbed and pickup trucks in every color and state of repair shone brightly in the sunny bush-country afternoon. Each vehicle was filled to the brim with villagers. The drivers honked their horns, while the passengers fired guns into the air and made announcements and proclamations about the Lion’s passing. They screamed his campaign slogan, "Di Mountain Lion deh yah!" at the top of their lungs and through bullhorns. Neither the somber state of affairs nor the presence of dignitaries was going to quiet them. They blared their horns at a 4/4 tempo, and dancehall music thundered from enormous speakers wired through stereo systems mounted in the truck beds. The celebratory pomp and circumstance was deafening as the cars snaked their way through the bush of Brown’s Town and up the hill toward the house of the Lion’s birth. Villagers on foot crowded the road’s edge and ascended the mountainous terrain from the valley in single file to allow the passage of the vehicles.

The lesser women of the family, which included the helpers and those too feeble to attend the funeral, had been left at the house to make preparations for the funeral-goers. The women there who were related to the Lion left their supervisory positions to watch as the hearse and its attendants came up the gravel drive. The hired women continued unfailingly in their preparation of a feast big enough to feed the village. Goats, the main protein of the meal, were awaiting their fate, bleating unaware in the side yard. Upon arrival and her dismissal by Saraphina and Lela, respectively, Jeddah and one of her young male cousins watched in awe as