The Other Side of Tomorrow Book Two: Letters to My Daughter

By Bevin Sinclair Turnbull

Book Two is a continuation (from circa 1994) of an urban familys saga. Johnu Benin takes his mom to visit the Emerald Caribbean Isle of MONTSERRAT, where his family has deep roots. In spite of evil spiritual forces back in the States that might thwart his progress, separate him from his beloved daughter, and even threaten his life, Johnu Benin battles those forces with the prayers and love of his guardian angels, as well as his own steel determination and musical creativity.

Interspersed among the flashback-and-forth episodes in Book Two are Johnus lyrics, the music to which can be found at http://www.cdbaby.com/Artist/BevinTurnbull. In other words, the story can be heard and felt through its soundtrack as well as read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462888948

Bevin Sinclair Turnbull

The Author-- Composer, Pianist, Educator, native New Yorker, worked and studied with trumpeter, Dr. Donald Byrd. While at the Juilliard School and Lehman College, he recorded on Strata East and Nilva labels. He earned a B.A. in Education at Howard, later a Master’s degree from the State University of Pennsylvania and has begun a doctoral program at the University of Phoenix. He appeared at the Village Gate, broadcast live on WRVR-FM. His group--TRIAD appeared at NY clubs, ie. Mikell’s, Eric and Sweetwater’s. They opened at The Beacon Theater for Al Green; Trenton’s War Memorial Theater for Pieces of a Dream; did a seven-week Japanese tour. Bevin produced his first CD, BEVIN:NOW on TURN-TAY-BULL ENTERPRISES label in 1989; later--eight albums, including O.S.T. SOUNDTRACK on Cdbaby.com. Bevin worked with violinist Noel Pointer; flautist, Bobbi Humphrey; with Ralph Mac Donald; arranged/performed film and theater music for Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee; performed for Bill Cosby at the HUNDREDTH YEAR OF JELLO celebration. Bevin’s ballet -- TARA’S FIRST CHRISTMAS was performed at The Plaza Hotel, Manhattan. Currently, he is producing in his digital studio--TARAH/SARAH PRODUCTIONS. Bevin’s first novels--THE OTHER SIDE OF TOMORROW: Books 1-3 --he hopes to make into a screenplay(3) and compose the score. Artistic/Executive Director of BRONX RENAISSANCE COMMUNITY THEATER-- innovative, intergenerational not-for-profit - -Bevin’s engaged in school, community center; church, gigs, teaching privately-- piano, drums, violin, trumpet- expanding his catalog containing hundreds of pieces in various genres.

Book preview

CODA

I would like to acknowledge some of the individuals who inspired the writing of this book, as well as Book I.

They are:

My friend, former student, singer/entrepreneur, Cris Romano, who suggested that I write Book Two.

Mrs. Jean Rock, my mother’s sister, retired teacher and matriarch of our family.

My cousin and godmother, Mrs. Lovely Billups, also a retired teacher, who spurs and unites our family.

Father Franklin Reid, who has advised and guided me through life’s recent vicissitudes. He gave the final sermon my mom ever heard, as she sat up, miraculously alert—listening attentively.

Chapter One

TIME WARP

August, 2010

Few people, I imagine, have the opportunity to revisit the past as I have. Cherish met me at the AMTRAK station in the sleepy early morning, shortly before dawn. Amazingly, there she stood, about 30 years older, many pounds heavier, unadorned and unmade up, but still with a pretty-as-a-picture face; the face of someone I know better than perhaps than any other living. The ultra sweet demeanor was so familiar. It seemed that time had hardly passed, but it had been a remarkable 30 years—the kind of thing that dreams are made of—then you wake up.

My trip to Easy, North Carolina was just what was needed. Cherish has raised her two boys to be fine gentlemen—no minor miracle. Too many young men in her family were more familiar with prison than with school or work. Her two grandsons adore their animated and humor-loving grandmother.

During the four days I stayed down there we talked and laughed as we always did. Church service we attended was held in what could best be compared to a high-ceilinged concert hall, with all the hi-tech stage lighting, cameras and huge screens. I had never experienced such a combination of Evangelical theology and 21st Century technology.

Through most of her adult life, Cherish has struggled mightily. Still, one would be hard pressed to argue against the fact that her dedicated religious life has truly saved her. She remains a most beautiful, loving soul; living simply, without things, without glamour and without a man in her life. Her light shines brightly, emitting laughter and encouragement to others while asking practically nothing in return.

As I sped northward along the rails, I reflected on how blessed I have been to know Cherish. The years recede into the distance like the train tracks, yet we remain friends. Yes, romance and physical relations are a thing of the past for us, but we have effectively transcended that stage. I return to New York satisfied. Admittedly, I was curious about how I would feel seeing her; whether I would be drawn and tortured by the same drives that I once felt for her. Now I can move on once more, reasonably assured that I can be happy with what we had and have today.

Cherish was a conscious or subconscious part of every relationship I have had with women after her. Often she was my rationalization or excuse why I had to free myself of others. It has taken all these years and this visit to convince myself that what endures between us is perfect as it is.

The chilly coach clangs into Penn Station. I disembark with full knowledge of my own feelings as well as new hope for the future. There will be new songs, new gigs, new girlfriends and challenges. One steady fact, however, is that Cherish remains a phone call away. Who knows, it may be many years again that I see her or maybe never again.

Chapter Two

TRIPOTAGE

Main Entry: tripotage

Part of Speech: n

Definition: underhanded plotting or scheming

Etymology: French ‘fiddle’

Dear Io:

I have labored over whether I should be open with you or circumvent as much raw truth that might further anger some people, including yourself. Well, I’ve decided to be myself and to call it as I see it and have lived it. I can’t imagine a situation in which there could be more hatred, regardless of how much I try to avoid the realities before us. Let’s begin with a little history lesson:

Proudly, Haiti was the world’s first independent black nation in modern times. In 1804 bands of slaves led by Tousaint L’overture expelled the French from that beautiful island in the Caribbean. So weary of fighting these rebellious slaves, the French all but vacated what is now the continental United States. The Louisiana Territory was practically given away. Why?

One of the reasons: possibly the most important reason was an ignominious import from Mother Africa—Voo-Doo. I was first introduced to this idea listening to the great saxophonist, Wayne Shorter on his Ju-Ju album. Mr. Shorter musically explored this subject with a power and seriousness that it has taken me years, and these current experiences to understand.

Voo-Doo—otherwise known as Ju-Ju, is one of the main reasons the French skedaddled. Voo-Doo can be defined as the unrelenting quest and thirst for revenge. They, the French, would have no part of it.

Additionally, one of the main reasons, despite its head start, that Haiti’s people are the most impoverished in this hemisphere, is a revolving pattern of retribution against one another. In other words, Voo-Doo is a reason for Haiti’s early success, on one hand, as well as its abysmal self destruction on the other.

Voo-doo is the religion of Haiti, along with it’s younger and wiser sister, Christianity. Obsessively compelled by invisible evil forces and hatred, the Voo-Doo princess attempts to destroy her enemies by using tripotage, along with whatever means she can devise in attempting to destroy the love, reputation and even the livelihood of her enemy target(s). Nothing short of exorcism can even begin to quell the tide of her wrath.

The weapons which can effectively counter such formidable forces are LOVE and FORGIVENESS. This is what your Daddy believes. This is what your Grandma believed. Yes, just as there are invisible electromagnetic forces and cosmic rays that are no doubt powerful forces in the universe, there are also invisible spiritual forces that we know little about, but we see their effects.

Although I am involved with the church and find refuge and comfort there, I am not a traditionalist parishioner. Much of the religious tradition found in the church’s rituals can be traced to medieval times when scientific and even progressive musical thinking were considered heresy. Nevertheless, certain eternal truths remain. LOVE and FORGIVENESS are the best weapons against unremitting hatred and vengefulness.

Envy and jealousy are the fertile soil in which the Voo-Doo princess plants her seeds. With these she enjoys fomenting discord between sister and brother; father and daughter; anywhere there is profound and pure love. Herein lies danger, because people under her spell may not even realize what is influencing them. They may, however, notice the contorted face, the venomous words, the distorting and twisting of GOODNESS and TRUTH.

Ephesians 6:12 For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against the rulers of darkness of this world, against wickedness in high places . . .

Those high places exist within the realms of the unseen, beyond matter. The Voo-Doo princess operates in these realms. Notwithstanding her evil dealings, even she may be forgiven. But first she must be exorcized.

Therefore, exorcism must be interpreted as an act of LOVE. Perhaps our music can also help promote love and help heal her as time goes on. LOVE is the healing force of the universe.

Dad

Chapter Three

BACK TO THE FUTURE

Shortly after returning to New York from down South, I decided on having lunch with Cynthia, my first love, who really set the standard, early in life (13-14), for the kind of woman I’d always be attracted to: Extremely intelligent, if not intellectual; very pretty but not overly glamorous; athletic yet, acutely feminine. Okay, I could be accused of living too much in the past, but I could not allow myself to miss the chance to see her and speak to her.

Now a vivacious, voluptuous grandmother, Cynthia spent a pleasant four hours with me, as we overlooked the Hudson River from a verdant park called Wave Hill. She summarized for me her life and times, along with what she termed her errors in judgment. Through most of that time, she kept that beautiful impish smile I remember so well. We spoke mostly of spiritual things.

She often claimed that she did not remember most of the people and minute events I so eagerly recounted. I get the feeling that she rather suppressed certain memories because she did not care to remember them. Nevertheless, the writer in me insisted on exhuming our history, especially the most humorous parts.

At 13-14 I was scared to death of her and at the same time, head-over-heels enraptured with her. See, she had this voice and a double-jointed way of standing there with her hands on her lovely hips that drove me to distraction. Nonetheless, I had no idea what to say to her, much less what to do. Some strategic note passing by way of her friends and mine had arranged and declared that Cynthia and I were officially going steady.

Then came the perfect excuse for my inaction. I had an accident playing basketball. Really!! I broke my wrist. Hence, during the 4-6 weeks it took to heal, I could hardly be expected to romance her. Right?

Soon after my excuse had healed, I received a heartbreaking note by way of Cynthia’s friends to my friends, that it was quits because I was lame. Oo, that smarted!

Despite the so called breakup, there were two instances when I was playing ball in the grass across the street from my house I recall. Cynthia had come all the way from her side of town apparently to run into me, and I, wounded in pride, continued playing ball, pretending not to notice her. She stood there, legs back in that unintentionally seductive, double-jointed position; hands on hips. After patiently watching me—for about ten minutes-pretend I was Willie Mays or Mickey Mantle, she left without saying a word. Whew! I was relieved. This happened twice on different occasions.

I confessed all of this to her that day on Wave Hill. We laughed out loud. We enjoyed revisiting the innocent times. Looking back, I do believe that I did once hold her hand; carry her books; dance with her in my arms at a school party. I have such fond, wonderful memories of the young girl who at once charmed me to no end and frightened me half to death.

_____________________________________________

The very next day I felt kind of depressed. After the fanciful flight of a day out with another wonderful person from my past, I came crashing downward. This is rare for me these days, in contrast to the way I was as a young man, brooding regularly for no apparent reason. I can only guess that looking back over so great a span of time made me overly reflective. Also, when one soars as high as I did the day before, it only stands to reason that coming back down might take at least a few days to readjust.

I look around and I see far too many young men standing around with no productive direction—just taking up space. I see far too many young women, overweight with their butt crack tattoos bulging over their too tight jeans. Does anybody tell them how they look? Where is taste, intelligence; civility? Suppose I were