A Message to My Family: Believe in Yourself

By Ivy Thomas

February 2011
On December the 17th 2010 Tarek el-Tayeb Mohamed Bouazizi, a young street vendor from Tunisia, was so disheartened by The System that he took his own life, by setting himself on fire. I am witnessing the collective few become and overcome the collective many. A changing tide of humanity is sweeping across a region that will affect not only that region but the rest of the world also. How? I have my theories, but let the future answer that, and then let history question it.
My story is also of change. I wanted to change the person I had become; a tormented alcohol and drug addict.
Following a phone call to my father, my story continues on from my last book, Two Years: in the mind of a recovering alcoholic, from the last few months in prison to coming home, exploring and putting into practice all of those thoughts and insights I was having about life, the universe and how to live and get fulfilment from it. This has led me to become a better father and partner, an existence away from the turmoil and stress, a state of mind free of the demons that had troubled me for a lifetime. This has led to a platform of contentment, a budding sense of inner peace from where I can progress even further. This story is about how I initially created this new life through choices I had made with the help of the unknown-to some- and unexplored forces around us. So what more could I possibly give to my future generations than the key to how it all became so, the way of life, in A Message to my Family: Believe In Yourself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665596855

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© 2022 Ivy Thomas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   03/09/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9684-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9685-5 (e)

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CONTENTS

5th of January 2009

It’s March 08.

October 08.

4th January 2009

May 2009

11/11/09

2008-10

January....February2011

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5TH OF JANUARY 2009

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I am at home, sitting at my writing desk, mulling over the past two years. Yesterday I built up the courage to call my father. I have sent him a copy of Two Years: In the Mind of a Recovering Alcoholic, and I felt that the time had now come to hear a response from the horses’ mouth. I wished him a happy new year and told him of the new addition to the family, as far as I know I am his only child, but before I go on I would like to bring you up to date with my new beginning.

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I stopped writing Two Years, on the second of February 2007, while serving time in the Bordelais Correctional Facility on the island of St Lucia having been sentenced to two years for the possession of Cocaine.

What I had written has given me an insight to a new beginning. I had finally cleansed myself of my demons and that was not easy. What was happening to me had become a sad way of life and the only way out, as far as I was concerned, was to get myself banged up abroad and complete my sentence without booze.

After the first six months, once I had settled in, everything in that prison from the way I served my sentence to the way I, at most times, controlled my temper; the way I observed and analysed my feelings and chose the few I allowed to know a little more about me, other than my prison name of English, was all done in a way that would alleviate me from the confused state that I was in during and prior to being sentenced.

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With four months left of my sentence, I was in full control over the cell. My dreadlocks had started to take form again since being cut by an inmate at the order of a guard, and by slipping the right inmate a few cigarettes at dinner time I had added a few extra pounds to my tall slim frame. The regular exercising, combined with the heat, had left my body muscularly defined. And even though I was locked up, I had so much more confidence in myself and what I could achieve going forward.

During those last months there were five of us sharing the four bed cell; another from England who, looking back, really did get on my nerves with his complaints, negativity and silly behaviour which raised a few tempers from time to time although my way of dealing with issues, as a leader, prevailed. I explained to English, as anyone who came from England was called, that when I leave it should be he that takes the number one position in the cell but to be honest he was not really a leader of such men and at the risk of sounding like, what they call in St Lucia, a bad man, which I am certainly not, I did have what it takes and it was shown in the latter half of my sentence.

Another cellmate was a young lad of 17, Kevin. He had a job in the kitchen as a baker. As with all who took the scarcely offered jobs, he was out before sun rise and back late in the evening only Kevin came back with at least six warm fresh bread rolls with mouth watering fillings, like tinned tuna, which the other inmates could only dream of unless they paid their dues with cigarettes, or weed. So, with Kevin’s status in our society, good food and even ice water was not a problem for our cell. I did, however, have to remind him once that when he brought back food or drink, our cell gets first refusal. He would exchange the rest of his merchandise for marijuana which he always shared. Kevin was a funny lad and I wish him well.

Another of the inmates who shared the cell was Balboa. He was the kleptomaniac from a previous cell I was in. He and the others in that cell gave me the most trouble simply because I was English, and far from home with no support from anyone on the island. He, on the other hand, was a streetwise ghetto guy who knew everybody on the block and seemed to be related to most, but he was so paranoid, check this out; he would sit up on his bunk, late into the night, and you could hear him sharpening his plastic spoon on the grey blocks of the cell walls and muttering to himself about who is going to kill him tomorrow.

I had forgiven him for his previous misdemeanours and as the main man of the cell I took it upon myself to find out just who exactly was going to kill him. Not to my complete surprise, I found out on one of those occasions that it was actually me. I would often see Balboa cowering and whispering to other inmates around the block or in the rec yard. His words would always find their way back to me as a matter of respect; ‘Dat English man deh is going to kill me.’ I never did clarify that statement with him and it kept him on his toes for the rest of my stay. Previously those antics, of him muttering things to other inmates about me and the sharpening of his spoon, would have led to sleepless nights, but things had changed by then and I actually found it all quite amusing. Anyway, me apparently wanting to kill him, if I recall rightly, was down to the day he moved into my cell, which I had no choice in the matter, actually I think the guard may have put him in with me as a test of some sort, but I digress; on my return from a few hours in the rec-yard, I entered the cell to see him, arranging his belongings on the top bunk, bare chest, ribs on display and looking rather malnourished, although not as bad as some of the others in there.

He had a nervous looking grin on his drawn face. He knew I knew that it was him stealing my cigarettes, soaps, batteries and other sorts even if it was pressure from the other two idiots in the cell at the time-who, since my departure from their cell, stayed well out of my perimeter and it was they who then worried about me. Anyway, before he could get a chance to say anything, I told him, very sternly, Nothing has gone missing from this cell since I have moved in and if things start to disappear now I am going to blame you! And then me and you are going to have some serious problems because right now! I control this cell. Then, with Jamaican patois and attitude thrown in, I raised the tempo a bit Is you come and meet me here dis time, so don’t fuck yourself! I then quite calmly offered him a cigarette, which were low on the block that day, and continued We start fresh from now, don’t fuck it up. We were good for the rest of my stay, although every so often when his sentence got a bit too much for him, he would spark off a bit and the mumbling throughout the night, about who was going to kill him, would start again. But, A jail dat deh, which seemed to be the mantra for any discomfort, physical or mental, from guards and prisoners alike.

And then there was my second, he was cool; Mohican hair cut with a frail looking body but the face of a warrior. He actually reminded me of, Magua, one of the characters in the movie The Last of the Mohicans, even his smile looked serious.

He was a trouble maker but could never be proven to be the root cause. He was an instigator. He knew all of the guards and was one of the few lads on the block who was transferred in from the notorious HMP in the capitol Castries, which was closed down because, as my second claimed, with a mischievous smile and a guilty look, a mysterious fire raised it to the ground, English. Others, who had also spent time in that prison, credited the action to him and according to said inmates, who were never short of traumatic and violent stories from their previous dwelling, Yeah man, it’s true, and blood used to flow there every day. Anyway, one of the reasons why he was not running things in the cell was because of the unwritten laws; I had been in that cell the longest, and, I was capable. Although I would say that if tribal or gang related disputes impacted on our cell and seemed to be getting out of hand, I often sought his opinion. I guess you could say he was my Consigliere. We got on well together. He actually made a declaration to all in the cell one night stating that I will miss English when he is gone but when he goes I run things! Then he further declared English, I’m gonna get you high every day and night for the two weeks before you go. And do you know what?… he did. I smoked marijuana every day and night for two weeks. We stunk out the entire block and no one, including the guards, bothered us. And I am not ashamed to say, under those circumstances, it was a great leaving party. I was even smoking when they called my name out for my release and I was so stoned I didn’t even realise they were calling me. It was he, my Consigliere, who had to tell me English, it’s…

Leaving Time.

I had been told that I would be picked up by a police escort on the Friday and transferred to a police station in town. I was then to be taken to the airport and escorted onto the plane. But in true Caribbean style, nobody turned up, so we just carried on smoking. There was a lot of prison booze but I did not and have not had any since the day before I was incarcerated and that was the six ice cold Heinekens, from the arresting police officers believe it or not.

On the following Sunday afternoon, after being told that prisoners do not get released on Sundays, my Consigliere was building again. Two week finish today English he said, looking up at me from his bunk, with his Mohican style hair cut, and his frail bare chest pumping up and down with asthma apparent on each wheeze of breath.

So, he lights up this proper joint and we smoke. I was in a good zone. I had done my time the only way I knew how and it felt good. I overcame my enemies and met some good people. I walked tall and gained respect from inmates and guards alike so I had no problems with paranoia, anymore, while smoking. A few hours had passed and there I was, in the zone, and somewhere, just outside of that zone, almost in another realm, I was hearing English! English! But I was so relaxed and high, I didn’t even realise that it was me they were calling until my Consigliere leans over his bunk and says English, it’s you they are calling, it’s time to go man. English, it’s leaving time!

That was a good feeling, but I was cool, excited, but cool. I got up from my bunk for the last time and handed over my belongings to all in the cell. It was lock up time, so none of the other inmates could leave their cells to crowd mine and scrounge for the morsels I would be leaving behind. With the warden downstairs, standing by the gate of the block, screaming Come on, man! Hurry up! I loaded my pillow case with my sheets, said my goodbyes to my cell mates and headed out.

I had promised I Cry some cigarettes so I began to walk around the landing to his cell, to keep that promise, shake his hand and say goodbye. While I was walking, I began to hear English, English, softly at first and then growing into a crescendo, a racket that I believe only prisoners can make; cups running along the bars, banging on the metal stools with anything they could find, and once again anything that could make noise did make noise and it was all in a salute to me Respect! Nice one! You’re cool! Good on ya! Ye man! rang throughout the block. I was so caught up in the moment that I went around to every cell on my block, ignoring the persistent calls to Get a move on! and bade every single one of the one hundred and twenty plus prisoner’s farewell and good luck, even my enemies, for even though many deserve to be there, it was not a nice place to be. When I finally got to the gate the warden told me she had never seen a reception for someone leaving there such as the one she had just witnessed. We are criminals, but we are also human beings was my only response.

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After signing out of Bordelais, I was escorted off the estate in a black open back van, two long seats in the front with my suitcase in the back. We drove through the massive fortress type gates, up the winding road to a panoramic view overlooking the prison which appeared well kept and looked more like an army barracks than a prison and there seemed to be a lot more space from up on the hill than there actually was when I was locked away down there. I never actually noticed that view on the way in because I was so disorientated from the loss of booze in my system and pills they gave me to stop the withdrawal symptoms. Anyway, while I was absorbing the view of the estate and surrounding sea, I can remember thinking, what lovely view, from here, and recalling the feeling of that moment with freedom on the horizon, being vastly different from looking out at the surrounding sea view, from behind the perimeter fences.

So there I was, in a private police vehicle, being driven through the green mountainous twisting roads of St Lucia. About two hours into the journey the officer pulled off the road and drove into a rural shack of a police station. Without looking at me he said, with his deep St Lucian accent, You will be staying here for the night. We will pick you up in the morning. One policeman, who was standing beside me, took my cigarettes, another, who was sitting behind a wooden desk, recorded them being taken and then I was accompanied through the station and out the back to a single holding jail cell. It was in the bush, quite dense and