My Way But Not My Day

By Majorcene Occonor

The way is the direction in life. The day is we hope and wait for that to come while waiting let's choose the right way. Sometimes, thoughts can come to our mind to choose the wrong way. But let's give all the power to the right thoughts and ideas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781640282636

Book preview

My Way but Not My Day or

The Plane Is Going My Way but Today Is Not My Day

All the plane that pass, I would look at them until they were out of sight. Those were my words to the planes, for every one that I saw, Keep up the good work. This is not something I make up. It was reality; God bless you all.

The Plane Is Going

My Way but It Is Not My Day

God leads the way. As a small child, at the age of seven, when the planes were passing, I would always hold up my head and look at them until they were out of sight. I would repeat these words: The plane is going my way, but today is not my day.

I was born in Jamaica, in the Parish of St. Catherine in the district of Lemon Hall. I have eight brothers and one sister. My mother died when I was two years old. I was raised by my father and my grandmother and her husband.

The only thing I knew about my mother is how she writes. I saw her writing on my birth certificate. My mother died a few weeks after giving birth to her third daughter. The baby died soon after birth. Those days, babies were delivered at home. Midwives would attend to the mother. People rely on bush medicine. Going to the doctor would be their last resort.

My First School

I attended preschool at the age of four. Those days, we called it private school. My teacher’s name was Mr. D. He kept school at his home. My dad said that he had never been to a school door. Moreover to enter into a classroom. Those days, we used slate and chalk in school. When the slate was broken, we still have to carry that piece of slate to school.

Our dismissal song was Now the Day Is Over: Night is drawing nigh, shadows of the evening steal across the sky. I attended primary school at the age of six and a half. My teacher’s name was Ms. Lewis. She was a tall beautiful lady. Those days were first to six class. My teacher was very kind and gentle.

Those days, you have to be at school on time; as soon as the bell rings and you are not in line to enter the classroom, then you are late. The head teacher’s name was Teacher Harris. We have to call him Teacher Harris.

There were two roads that led to the school yard. He would stand in the middle of the school yard so whichever side you are coming from, he can see you. No one can hide their way into the school, if anyone late would be whipped; you can’t skip school either.

We have to wear uniform to school. It was a must. Only the children of middle-class parents wore shoes to school. They were only few. My parents were poor. I went to school barefeet. Although most of us were barefeet, we have to be very clean and well-groomed.

No matter how, the boy’s belt was old. Their shirts have to be tucked into their pants. Every buttonhole must have a button. Every morning, the teacher would check our nails. The boys wore Kahia and the girls wore blue and white. Mothers would wash that one white blouse. It would be ready for the next day. My blouse was white and my skirt was pleated nicely. Few children have more than one uniform.

The majority has only one. Thank God for those parents and teachers who prepared us. They taught me that I can be poor and still be very, very dignified. My grandmother washed and starched and ironed my clothes until I was able to do it myself. She taught me at a young age. Whenever I would go through the door, I was always well put together. Although I only had one set of uniform and was barefeet.

Sometimes I have to come home for lunch, walking one mile. Then sometimes I carry ground food or two pence—that’s two pennies. We were using pound shilling and pence. My country changed to dollars and cents in 1962. Sometimes when I don’t want to walk home for lunch, I would wash the dishes and get free lunch.

There were two teachers I was really afraid of—Teacher Harris, the principal for the school, and the third-class teacher. The other teachers were very strict. After a while, the government sent rolls of cloth to the school. We, the students who only had one pair of uniform would get a pair from the teachers.

The children who have two or more, they were cool. Then they would tease and call us free issue. You know the government uniform by the color. Although we were embarrassed, we have to wear it. It was a must that we wore uniform to school.

There were two teachers I was really and truly afraid of—the head master and third-class teacher. The others were very strict, but these two teachers, they specialize in strictness. Every child was afraid of going into Ms. Thompson’s class. We all know that if we misbehaved, we will face the principal. I never faced him for bad behavior.

The principal of the school really loved to whip children. The boys, he would have them lie down on the bench. The benches were different then. Four children would sit in one bench very comfortably. The teachers’ strap was a leather belt. We could not tell our parents that the teacher whipped us. Only stupid children would tell their parents, because they are certain to get another whipping.

When I was in fourth class, my teacher’s name was Ms. Carmen. She was teaching a new arithmetic today it is call math. She would show us how to do it over and over.

Then another day, she would give us a test. If we didn’t get it correctly, she would whip us. I got the sums correct. How I got it correct until today I can’t say how. I am very sure I did not copy from no one. Then she would call one of the students that got it correct to come to the board and show the class how they did it.

I was very nervous and sweating because although I got it correctly, I could not do it before the class. I have no idea how to do it fifty-four years later, but I still remembered it.

One morning, the principal told us that he have some cane juice for us. I thought it was the real cane juice. Then he showed us the cane that he will be using to whip all those who misbehaved. I didn’t want to taste that type of cane juice. I always behaved in school.

I didn’t look for trouble, but if you bring a fight to me, I am not going to run. There was this girl in my class; she was tall and strong. Children were always afraid of her because of her size. Then she would use that to bully us. One day, she brought fight to me; she thought I was going to run from her. I was also afraid of her too. She tried to bully everyone because of her size. We fought that day. We became good friends from that day.

My class was divided into three parts—A, B, C Thank God I was always into the A group. Those days, I would walk to school with my sister and friends. There were just us children walking to school. There were no adult walking with us. Those days, we were protected by every adult that we met. Whether they were family, friends, or strangers, we were safe.

We were only afraid of dead people. Those days, we have to give respect to our elders. Whether we know them or not. Respect was not a secondary thing. It was number one. You dare not pass an adult without saying hello—no matter how many times you pass that person. Good morning or evening or night was a must. If you don’t say it when you reach home, you are sure of a whipping.

You could leave your children with anyone and felt at peace knowing that they are safe. We cannot do it these days. We could walk day or night and feel safe. Those days, love and respect were like a very healthy dish of food; you could feel the love and taste the respect. Everywhere you went, love and respect were like your daily routine if you are passing on the road. I live in the country; there were no streets. People would call each little village a name; if you misbehave on the road and someone saw you, no questions asked, they are whipping you. Firstly, you have to stop crying before you reach home. If your parents saw you crying and you told them the reason, sure you will be getting one more. To avoid the second whipping, you have to act like nothing happen.

My Brothers Migrate to England

My father had three sons before he met my mother. She also had two sons before she met my father. Together they had six children. My father’s eldest son went to England when I was eight years old, fifty-eight years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Those days we were under England leadership. So it was very easy for Jamaican to go to England. All you need is your passport and your plane fare. We were living in the country. Our parish was St. Catherine. I can still see myself looking at my father, brothers, and other relatives and friends going down the road to go to the main road to take the truck to the airport.

I did not understand the meaning of traveling that time. When I got older, I understood. Those days, whenever someone was going to travel to foreign countries, the night before, family and friends would get together; we would kill a pig and a goat. We would cook and eat and drink and sing and pray together. We call that get-together send off.

Whenever people from the country are going to the airport, we would use a truck. We call our parish’s town or country. We call the American’s truck van.

My brother’s name was Dervin O’Connor. I have to call him brother Dervin. Then after a while my eldest brother by my mother went. His name was Joseph Blake. The three brothers went after each other. The third brother went; he was my mother’s second child. His name is Sylvester Anderson. The two went after; their names are Jeremiah O’Connor and Alvin O’Connor.

Every Jamaican does the same thing. Whenever there is a farewell, people have a send off for these love ones. I experienced a lot of farewells. I had a whole lot of cousins who also migrated to England. My five brothers migrated to England in the early fifties. Those days, whenever someone is preparing to travel, there is mixed feelings. We are glad and also sad.

Those days, when people are ready to travel, people cried as if there is death in the family. It is a very sad feeling. Your heart pains with grief. It is a very hard pain; it felt like you could hold unto it. Then after a while, it becomes less hurtful with more people were traveling.

My eldest brothers left Jamaica in the early fifties. They all left before I was nine years old. I grew up with my two youngest brothers, Neamiah O’Connor and Hylton O’Connor. I had one and only sister, Joyce O’Connor. We four were very close. We never had a fight. Praise be to God. We always live loving until today. My two eldest brothers died in England.

My Loving Parents Could Not Read

My loving parents could not read because they had never been to school. My father told me one day that when he was passing a building, he heard noise, like confusion. When he went home, he asked his parents what was going on in that building. They said it was a school. That’s all he knew about school.

He was the eldest, and he had to stay at home with his brothers and sisters while their parents worked in the field. My father’s name was Ezikel O’Connor. People called him Mass Ezikel or Harpa. My grandmother’s name was Teana Coleman. They were very, very affectionate people. My grandmother was a midwife and a farmer. Dad was a butcher and a farmer. They both were very hard workers. My grandmother’s husband was sick. They did not have any children. She was the one who had to go out to work on the farm.

My father and grandmother were not living at the same district. Sometimes, my sister and I had to stop from school to stay with my grandmother’s husband. His name was Thomas Coleman. We called him Uncle Tom. He was sick with his head. Sometimes he would just walk out of the house; we have to run to the field and tell Grandma. No one could get him to return home no matter how they beg him. The only one he would go with was Grandma. Thanks be to God, he was not violent.

My parents were very good providers. We were living with our father for a while. Then my sister and I went to live with our grandmother. We called our father Mass Ezikel and Grandma Mama. One thing for us every Friday, we are getting our food and money. Rain or shine, he would bring it or send it with one of our brothers.

Every Friday I would look to see who would be climbing up the hill. My dad would carry the bag of food at his side. We called that bag his side bag. He would leave money to buy meat of any kind. Back then, we called it salt thing.

Whenever he would send meat, my grandma’s refrigerator was over the fire. She would put the meat to dry or keep it into plenty salt. Back then, everybody lived as one family whether we were blood relatives or not. There were genuine love and respect for others.

Houses were not near each other. It is a good distance between where my father and where my grandma lived. So when rain would fall, my brothers would stop. Only one brother would come each time. Jamaicans, whenever food is ready, you have to eat with the people wherever