Through the Rain

By Paul Richards

The news is often replete with horror stories of lost children, especially boys, who it seem are destined for failure by nothing more than the fact that they were born in an inner-city community. Through the Rain takes an open, honest look at an average boy from an average family who, in spite of the odds, makes it out of two such communities and makes a success of his life. The story is much about growing up as it is about family, friendship, and overcoming challenges in spite of the odds. However, it is mostly about hard work, perseverance, and what can happen when ordinary people choose to live lives of decency, courage, and faith. Told in a refreshingly candid and good-natured way, the author hopes his story will inspire those ordinary people whose stories unfortunately go untold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524538958

Paul Richards

Paul Richards was born in Brisbane and taught by an education system that ignored the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander history of Queensland.As a law student, he wrote and directed in radical amateur theatre, which led to a chance meeting in 1968 with a powerful Nunukul family who educated him in that hidden history of Queensland.Their revelations of the appalling treatment of Indigenous people caused him to engage in a career spanning half a century in the pursuit of their civil rights and land rights. Initially, he assisted the Brisbane Tribal Council, black theatre and the Black Panther Party. That led to an involvement in the foundation of the Aboriginal Legal Service in 1972.In the following years he provided legal advice and representation to Indigenous people throughout Queensland in many aspects of the legal system. The later years of his career involved the pursuit of native title rights, which gave some recognition and rights to the First Nations of Queensland.Retiring in 2015, he then began recording these significant stories of his experience in those battles.

Book preview

Through the Rain

It is my humble opinion that this desire most of us have to be famous is vastly overrated. Now, before you start to call me a hypocrite, notice I used the word us which includes me. If truth be told, I have sometimes harboured the thought of having my name out there as someone known to a lot of people. So there, I am not different from many of you. However, the point I am making is that we tend to focus on the famous ones, those who blaze a trail, do something extraordinary, or make a significant contribution to mankind. However, the question I wrestle with in my private moments is this: What about the countless others, the so-called average persons, who are toiling in the trenches, working honestly and assiduously to raise their families, contributing to their community, paying their taxes and helping to make this world a better place?

Of course, this leads me to my own story. I was born in a poor family, have been a Christian for many years, have pecked the cheek of Miss World, been in the presence of some important people, served as a youth representative to an international conference, taken on leadership roles while still young, been on the wrong end of situations, told I am a good role model, laughed at for how I look and walk, loved and have been loved, had triumphs and disappointments yet this is all nothing when it comes to a very important truth. This truth is: it does not matter whether one is rich or poor, famous or living in obscurity. What is more honourable is how one lives his or her life, that is, what is done with the limited time given to each of us on this planet and how much good is done in that short time. The rest really is fluff as a former boss of mine loved to put it.

I want to believe that this is why I have always lived my life the way I do: against a backdrop of self-effacing humour. Call it what you will, but I have found this perspective of not taking myself seriously all the time, and not taking life seriously some of the times, one of the reasons I can say I have lived a full life. Of course, the overarching reason - which makes the other wane into insignificance – is that I am a person of faith, who believes there is a higher power in control of my life and this blue planet I find myself on.

And so I have finally decided to tell my story, partly because I genuinely believe the ordinary person’s story should be part of the narrative which runs through the annals of history. Maybe it will be an inspiration to someone who may think his or her toiling is in vain. Of course, this takes me back to where I started. You see, the famous ones are able to be famous because of the framework of order, peace, stability and decency provided by the countless others who toil every day in the shadows and often through the rain.

Paul Richards

Part One

The Foundation Years

Chapter One

I was born almost two years after the assassination of John F. Kennedy, President of the United States. Man had not yet walked on the moon and the Jackson Five was a very new group. My mom seemed to have had a keen sense of history. She named three of her children after iconic figures. My sister, whom I follow, was named Jacqueline, since she was born in the year Jackie Kennedy became widowed. My younger brother received the middle name Nkrama, similar to a well-known leader from Africa and the first name Martin because he was born the same month and year Martin Luther King Jnr. died. Winston Churchill, the famous Prime Minister of Britain, died the year I was born, so my middle name is Winston.

According to my birth certificate, I was admitted into this world on October 19, 1965. When I was born, my family was living on Penwood Crescent in a community called Waterhouse. Shortly afterwards, we moved to another section of the same community. Our new abode was at 24 Malhotra Road. At that time, my native country, Jamaica, was using pounds, shillings and pence - the British currency, even though we had gained independence three years before my birth. In those days, things were cheap, but we were a poor family.

From all accounts, I enjoyed a normal childhood. This involved giving my parents their fair share of headaches, squabbling from time to time with my siblings and running around the yard doing some naughty things little boys typically do. My mom told me that I was a chubby child with long, thick black hair which she parted down the centre, plaiting each section into braids. I had deep bow legs and was the favourite of several adult females. One of them – so I was told – was fond of taking me every Saturday to the Seventh-day Adventist Church just up the road from where we lived.

The property at Malhotra Road had a modest size house, surrounded by land of about a quarter of an acre. My dad loved gardening and so our yard was always cultivated with callaloo, corn, pigeon peas, yams, sugarcane and pumpkins. Outside our front fence, honey bees thrived in the buttercups which bloomed in profusion. I had a wild imagination as a child and it was not long before I learned that bees made honey. My brothers and I caught the bees and placed them in empty soft drink bottles along with petals from the buttercups. The bottles were then sealed, in the hope that the bees would make honey for us to enjoy. Of course, the hapless creatures died within a few days from a lack of oxygen. However, this did not deter us from trying to get the sweet stuff.

Catching the bees was quite another matter. In order to insulate ourselves from the sting of the critters, we made paper gloves, which essentially covered only the tips of our fingers. When this contraption was secured in its place, we sneaked upon the bees which were contentedly enjoying the nectar. Upon catching one of the insects, we placed it in a bottle. Of course, the operation sometimes went wrong. This resulted in one of us nursing a swollen finger or two, which our mother had to treat with home-made poultice.

As with any child, I had a fascination with fire, never mind the cajoling and threats from my dear mom. There was something about holding a box of Comet matches in my hand, taking out one of the tiny sticks with the sulphur at one end, striking it against the side of the box, and seeing the flame come alive, eating hungrily at the wood, while leaving ashes in its wake. I was always riveted by the spectacle. In this regard, I often stole into the kitchen with the intention of experimenting with a pack of matches.

Being the fourth child of six meant that as a youngster there were two other siblings after me. The last child, Janet, was still dependent on diapers. These diapers were unlike the disposable kinds we now have. They were actually thin, rectangular strips of cotton cloth with hems on all sides. They had to be washed after usage and my mother had a way of making them spotlessly white. She then hung them out to dry on the barbed wire which formed a part of the fencing between us and our neighbours.

On one occasion, boredom got the better of me and the urge to light a fire became overwhelming. On my first attempt to get the coveted box of matches, my mother, who was seated by the window, ordered me to return them to the kitchen.

My intention was to set fire to the rubbish bin which was placed against the fence. The first attempt to get the matches was a failure, but my persistence eventually paid off. My mom stepped away from her chore for a short while and quickly I slipped into the kitchen and was soon outside with the box of matches. The next thing my mom knew was that the garbage and several of my young sister’s crisp diapers were engulfed in flames.

Running outside, she quickly put out the fire and salvaged the rest of the clothing. Then she turned her attention to me. Grabbing me firmly by the arm, she plucked a small branch from a nearby tree and started raining blows on my legs. I do not recall lighting a fire without her permission after that.

Chapter Two

I had the pleasure of growing up in a stable family with my parents and five siblings. I never appreciated the significance then, but this contributed to my being a well-adjusted individual. My mother was always looking out for all six of her children. She had a fierce commitment to all of us.

For twenty years, between 1972 and 1992, she worked tirelessly as a cook at the Kingston School of Nursing, a premier training facility on Half-Way-Tree Road in another section of the parish we called home. Her work required her to be on shifts and sometimes, while we were sleeping, she was toiling away in the large kitchen, preparing meals for the scores of mostly females who passed through that noble institution. Often, when there was excess food, her supervisor allowed her to take it home for us children.

Over the years, she gained quite a reputation regarding the portions she brought. Her colleagues knew that if she could not get six servings of whatever she was accepting, she would graciously refuse it. That was how devoted she was to each of us getting a fair share. I remember looking forward to her arriving home after her shift. We children could not wait for her to unpack the ubiquitous bag she always carried. We were always delighted to find donuts, cakes and other goodies to enjoy. During those years, she honed her skills, eventually becoming an excellent cook and we became the beneficiaries of many fine home-cooked meals.

My mother was very industrious and hardworking. She never had much education, but over the years, she learned the art of survival which made her a very resilient person. She once had an old Singer sewing machine which was used to make many dresses for my sisters and even shirts for us boys to wear. During my formative years, the machine was a fixture at one of the side windows in the house. Positioned there gave my mom several advantages. Firstly, she could get some of the fresh air that kept her working for hours. More importantly however, she was able to keep a keen eye on us children, who were constantly busy in the yard outside.

Although my mother was the one who administered most of the discipline – and there was a lot to go around, what with six rambunctious children in the home - my father was not afraid to punish when necessary. He was a mason, which meant that his employment was sporadic. Sometimes he worked on a project for weeks at a time then he would be home for some time before starting another project. At times when anyone of us stepped out of line, mother would threaten that she was waiting until our daddy came home from work for him to rectify the situation. Such an utterance always struck fear in our hearts, since we knew the inevitable outcome.

Whenever any of our parents reached for the dreaded strap to administer punishment, all six of us as children ran. This was because any child who happened to be in the way at the time was liable to receive several lashes. Never mind that he or she may not have been the offending party. In addition to this, our parents sometimes spanked us for past infractions, long forgotten by us. As a result of this, it was not unusual to see more than one child running around the yard with a parent in hot pursuit.

My dad did not have many presents to give us. However, he had a lot of presence in our home. And that was significant especially with a family having three boys. I took a number of things he did for granted, but it was not until I became an adult that I realized the significance of his actions or decisions. To begin with, my dad was never someone to be found outside of our home unless he was working. As soon as the sun began to disappear in the distant west, we were certain that he would be making his way home. Of course, this meant a number of things. Firstly, if we children were engaging in any inappropriate behaviour, all of that ceased as soon as we knew the time of his arrival was drawing near. Secondly, we could fall asleep at nights feeling secured in the knowledge that our daddy was always in the house to protect us from any danger.

Also, as children, we knew almost all of our father’s friends. This was because he never went to hang out with them. They always came to our house.

My dad once owned a bicycle. It was a sturdily built machine with metal fenders over both wheels. The single light in the centre of the handle was powered by a contraption resembling a miniature flask attached to the back of the bicycle frame. As the rear wheel rotated, the top of this device turned at rapid speed, thus providing enough electricity to power the tiny light bulb. In those days a bicycle had to be licensed, so my dad had to pay the fee then display the necessary paper work in a prominent place for the police to see. Years later, dad purchased a scooter, a small bike, with royal blue, black and white paintings.

There were some things in our house which became routine. For example, on Sundays we had rice and peas and fried chicken for dinner. However, the thing we children looked forward to the most was having a frozen treat late in the afternoon. In those days, vendors rode around the communities with bicycles, and later on motor bikes. Affixed to the back of the transportation was a square box, teeming with frozen novelties of all kinds. Our favourite was the fudge, essentially a serving of different flavoured ice cream attached to a stick.

There was one particular vendor – a male, who plied his ware for as long as I could remember. Affectionately called Fudgie, he usually passed by our yard as the sun began to sink towards the distant west. He had a horn attached to the handle of his bike. It made a squeaking sound which was music to the ears of many children. We only needed to hear it coming closer to our home, then all six of us would go running to our mother to alert her that he was on his way.

My favourite thing to do as a child was flying kites. My mom loved to tell stories of us going to the botanical gardens on Sundays, where I ran around with a string attached to my beloved kite. More often than not, the kite was dragging on the ground while I went, but that did not prevent me from having fun. As I grew older, I learned to make my own kites. I often toiled for hours, using the materials to make them as pretty as possible. By that time I had perfected the art of letting them soar on the strong winds which prevailed especially during those long, lazy summer days.

Since there was no money available from our meagre resources to buy toys, we children became creative in order to have fun and pass the time. The games we played included cricket and soccer. The former was played using milk or orange juice boxes stuffed with paper for a ball and pieces of wood or parts of the bough from the coconut tree for a bat. The stuffed boxes also doubled as a ball for playing soccer.

My brothers and I loved to play soccer, complete with bare feet, since using the shoes which doubled as footwear for both school and church was strictly prohibited. It was therefore not unusual for one or two of us to have the skin partly or fully severed from one of our big toes. Whenever this happened, the injured child tried to hide it from our mother – a futile attempt, since she always discovered something was wrong, what with the limp with which the injured child walked. Knowing that such an injury would lead to serious problems if left untreated, mom often took drastic action to speed up the healing process. No amount of screaming from a child prevented her from pouring on whichever antiseptic she could find to avert further infections.

There were two other activities I engaged in as a child that brought me much gratification. The first had to do with when the rain fell. Living on a mountainous island as we did, and hence being subject to relief rainfall, especially during the second and fourth quarters of the year, I always looked forward to the torrential showers that fell mainly during the months of May and October. After listening to the raindrops pounding on the zinc rooftop of our house, I impatiently waited for the showers to subside. When this happened I quickly donned a pair of my mom’s high heeled shoes, went outside, and with wild abandon made dozens of holes in the mud as I criss-crossed the yard. Grabbing one of my mother’s old dresses from the clothes barrel in her room and putting it on in order to get dry after a shower was the other thing I loved to do.

Not all routine activities in our household were pleasant to us children. One of these had to do with getting ready for the new school year after the summer holidays. There seemed to have been an unwritten rule that we had to have a ritual cleansing in order to flush our bodies of the impurities we had ingested during