Fathers Day

Yea! What a low-key day it always is. In Jamaica, anyway. No wide-scale ratings of the men from whose loins we came.

So, I went to church and even had the honour of reading a lesson.

And as the service came to a close, the Steel Band and the darlings from the Sunday School performed for all the Dads present. So the fathers were asked to stand.

Lo and behold, a few women got to their feet as well. I could not fathom why.

One woman standing behind me said she did because she was mother and father to her children. Wow, what a feat she managed! Mother and father, both, at the same time too. That’s incomprehensible.

For, I had the profound pleasure of raising a child myself. I was separated when my son was six (6) months old, was divorced by the time he was four (4) years old. My son has no connection with or to his father.

I was a single woman (and still am) for almost all his life. But I was NOT a “single parent”. My son was raised by myself, his grandmother, his grandaunt, his aunts and cousins. The extended family and friend all chipped in when they were needed. And he had a church community where he felt completely at home.

I raise my hat everyday to all the “single mothers”. These women who single-handedly and without any help whatsoever, raise their children. My question though is: Do they really exist?

But I digress...

While raising my SON, I recognized the lack of a ‘male figure’ in his life, and for that I felt helpless and and at one stage, I was sorry for him. Yes. Because I did not know how to be a male figure, how to do ‘fatherly’ things. I was never a sports enthusiast; have no interest in outdoor activities (except parties); cannot fish; don’t know where the engine of a car is (although my son was born seeing me around a steering wheel) and I have no clue how to put a condom on a penis.

So I leveled with my child from an early age: This is all you’ve got; I will be the best mother I can, but I cannot be a father neither can I provide you with one.

As my son went through puberty, he talked to me constantly about marrying again and having more children. Well, that did not materialize.

So, I indulged my son with music – from classical to dancehall; taught him the fine art of dining – from jerk chicken a street-side to formal restaurants; ingrained in him a sense of humour; taught him to be aware at all times of his surroundings; begged him to be sensitive of people’s feelings; taught him to ride a bicycle (although I have no sense of balance and cannot ride myself), and threatened to kill him when he breached the code of conduct.

All I wanted was for him to be a ‘decent’ human being. It mattered not to me that he could do ‘masculine’ things or was rough and tumble.

So far so good. He’s a pretty decent human being at the age of 21. I am proud of him.

And that – without me trying hard to be what I could not (a man/ his father); and without standing on Father’s Day to accept praise for someone I am not.

Edith Clarke sure fooled us with her book title: My Mother Who Fathered Me.

A mother, Mothers.

© SABa
June 21, 2007

Police Informer

I have now been labelled “Police Informer”. Where I come from, that’s no compliment. It means you are marked for death.

I live in what I would describe as a “semi-volatile” area. The place I occupy is at the back or to the edge of this particular community and directly behind me is a “volatile” area. I hear the sounds of volatility – the gunshots, disgraceful family and territorial fracas – from time to time. I have learned to ignore them. There is really is no “neighbourhood” of such – the houses far between, with a few unfinished buildings, shacks and poor living conditions in the immediate environs. Some people are truly, like myself, residents – we are planted here in houses we call homes. Others come and go. I can’t keep track of everyone. The ‘regulars’ I talk with or at least greet. Others I ignore. I do not know them. They seem unfriendly, rude even.

In the recent past, there has been a ‘flare up’ in the area. It started – to my mind – with the murder of a pastor close to the end of 2005, just chains from my home. Then there was the hold-up of a taxi driver at my gate on the eve of New Years’ Eve 2005. As the hold-up men (I saw 2) chased the driver as he sped away, the taller of the two fired a shot at the car. This was done as he ran past my gate. I saw his figure clearly. Face – no. From then, it’s been mayhem. More hold-ups. Robberies, rapes and murders.

By early 2006, the so-called Leader of the gang, “Teacher” – my cousin, who also lived in this area – was charged for firearm and ammunition possession. The policeman who charged him was one I knew well and had worked closely with for years. My cousin was tried and convicted. A few months later, he and “members of his gang” were ‘executed’ in Montego Bay. And over the year that all this transpired, the criminal acts in the community continued.

In January 2007, I was told that I was targeted as someone who ‘pressured a youth’ in court (me, the Prosecutor). But someone sorted that out by explaining, they said, that that was my job; it was not personal. Frankly, I did not appreciate the manner in which this was communicated to me and saw it as a threat from the person who told me – he being the one to ‘explain’my role.

Over the Easter week-end of 2007, there were at least two incidents of taxi hold-ups at my gate (this could be seen as a crossroad where the taxis turn around). I was in my house when both incidents occurred and heard or saw narry a thing!

In my work, I cannot avoid the police. We interact. Having heard about the most recent hold-ups, I commented to a few officers that the area was just too “hot”. It’s not unusual for me to have conversations of the sort with them. My interaction with them continue through my work, both in court and at the cells where I meet clients in lock-up.

Now I hear I’m a police informer.

I don’t know if I should fear for my life, or just laugh my usual belly-bursting laugh. When ‘pea brains’ try to crack nuts, all sorts of things come forth. And when these same ‘pea brains’ hold a weapon, innocent lives are lost.

For years I have been trying to get it through to those I can, that when people are murdered in this my homeland of Jamaica, don’t look for a motive. It is seldom there and in some instances so flimsy it might as well be ignored.

See what I mean?

Mi Mad

I am really appalled and somewat nauseous by a video I received from my cousin today showing the beating of the cross-dresser in Falmouth last Saturday. Men with sticks, women with sticks. The words "Beat di blood klaat bwai", and as the woman beat him, the chant, "Yes, a 'oman fi beat him." And the mob continued. I can see the faces of the people. I can hear the words they shout. Somewhere in there a male voice says, "No, nuh do him dat; leff him." He ran the risk of being seen as an accomplice. But it was the one voice of decency in that mob. The young man was in blood on the street. WHO HAS BEEN CHARGED??? To date, I have not heard of any arrests. But that mob committed a crime - they wounded a defenceless young man. Where is the honour in that? I trust every police personnel in Trelawny sleeps well at night. A travesty in their parish and they rest easy. No sanctions by the police high command. Not an eyebrow raised.And as a colleague pointed out to me earlier this week, she is even more incensed that the media has photographs of the event for publication. How callous. We have adopted the US standards - photo for sale to the highest bidder, regardless of who or what it depicts. It is not about helping a victim, it's about making a buck from someone's misfortune.To set upon and beat, maim and kill a man who committed a crime is one thing (and very wrong too); but to set upon, beat and injure a man for dressing like a woman is downright criminal!!!!The gays all over the world now know about Jamaica and will use every power at their command to 'screw' us. (Memba seh wi depen' pon tourism fi survive!!!!!)I am ...human, woman, mother ... and definitely not homosexual.

BNS Blunder

The Bank of Nova Scotia Jamaica Limited now has an advertisement running on local (Jamaican) radio.

It says this is how ‘guy’ formerly picked up ‘girl’. Then comes the sound of what is clearly a bicycle bell. Short, sweet, shrill. Cute and sexy. I’d ride on that bike any day.

Then, the ad continues: This is how ‘guy’ picks up ‘girl’ since saving with Scotiabank. Then comes the long honk of a car horn (and believe me, I see BMW). The sound says: “Hurry up gyal; if yu evva mekk mi late fi Passa Passa, yu yei deh guh black an’ blue”.

I am incensed!!!

Is this the best that BNS can do with my advertising dollar?

I will say this: if ‘guy’ came to my gate in 1980 (when I was young, cute and sexy) and honked that BMW horn, my father would have put some caps in those fancy tires with his 9mm.

Jeezas, BNS. The society is hassled enough. Couldn’t you come up with a more pleasing way for ‘guy’ to use his savings to seek out ‘girl’?

Written April 26, 2007
©SABa

MEMOIRS

So here I am. Broke. Alone. Empty.

At the end of 2006 I said good-bye to formal employment and set out on my merry own – started my own Law Practice. Proud as a Peacock I was. Believed I would be an instant success. That I’d have a plethora of clients with a myriad of issues for which I could charge reasonable sums and live quite comfortably.

But the Stars had other plans for me. It’s been four (4) months. I cannot make my life-insurance payments. My mortgage is in arrears. I eat because I have a mother who is my lifeblood.

I am worried about my inability to meet my debts. I like to be able to pay bills on time. Mi feisty an’ nuh waa nobaddi fass wid mi.

I am concerned that my beautiful office, with an enviable view of the Caribbean Sea, is empty, bereft of clients. Bare. No-one to offer me work or even bask in the great atmosphere the space has to offer.

It’s strange. I am concerned for my debts, but nothing else. I am otherwise quite content. My son is fine and healthy. My mother – 74 years – is in perfect health. I like my ability to enter my office – my space – and enjoy it. It is desirable to earn and I am perturbed that I am so content. But I am. That’s it. Full stop.

I have a few clients, some I like, some I don’t. And I am a big ‘spirit-tekk’ smaddie – I believe in dealing with or being around those with whom my personality connects. I like the simple life.

Regrets, I’ve had a few; too few to mention. This is not one of them. This was the dream. The independence. The autonomy. That’s all I ever wanted.

But there’s an emptiness; one I cannot fathom.

Then just last week my son’s birthday present to me arrived a month early. In it, two books, one by Alice Walker made famous by The Color Purple. This book is We are the Ones we have been Waiting for: Inner light in a Time of Darkness, published this very year. And I am enthralled. It could not have arrived at a better time in my life. It is the writings of Ms. Walker – speeches she delivered and thoughts and poetry she has on different aspects of being.

In it, inter alia, she speaks to “the pause” so eloquently and beautifully. She advised not to fear it, for if we cannot give it to ourselves, the Universe will give it to us in illness; collapsing government or the unexpected breaking down of the car. She describes the pause as the Universal moment of reflection. And while this can be likened to ‘menopause’, I read Alice Walker’s words differently. I read ‘pause’ as a time when there’s nothing happening in your life. When there’s emptiness. “It isn’t easy,” she says, “to see that this is a good time.” And having read her words I am inspired to enjoy this time. To think. To imagine. To reach. To plan.

So, I will no longer panic that my practice is as slow as molasses (as I have oft described it to my friends). I will be thankful for this time. I will record this time. And later, when all is a hustle, I will reflect on it and bask in the glory of having experienced it.


© SABa
April 23, 2007

Mi Blagg

Mi mussi di furs smaddie fi try a blagg enna patois. Mi Jamaikan, so it real. Mi nuh know no odda way.
Crime big eena Jamaika, but as a smaddie wha meet offendas all di time, mi know fi real seh if nuff a dem did know how fi read an write; can tawk up fi demself (articulate); can reason and rationalise tings, dem would-a nevva tun to crime. Nuff a dem man ya smart; cute yu fart an know how fi get tings dun - know how fi execute tings. Dats why dem get eena trouble. When mi si a 15 year old bwai who mekk a gun wha can fyah deadly bullet, mi si a genius; mi si a yout who could-a mekk di next cyar wha run pon waata as fuel; mi si a yout who can change di worl'.
But chu dem poor, lack opportunity, hungry an cyaa learn or some a dem too brite fi di klass an di poor teecha nuh know how fi deal wid dat; dem en' up a use dem head fi figure out how fi do harm an bring destruction. It sad. Is nat dat dem nuh value life, is dat dem nuh even undastan' it. It nuh mean a damn to dem.
How wi can change di cycle? Teach. Tawk. Reason. Love. Mi touch a 16 ear old yout pan him han di odda day as him stan' up backka di bars, an' mi know seh a di firs expression a love him evva si. Poor ting. Yea, dem yout ya nuh ha no faddah, an dem maddah fool fool - mentally abused and battad. How dem ooman deh fi raise proppa pickney? Sad eeh!
Oprah Winfrey seh if yu educate di ooman dem, yu wi change di nation. Yea. But a long time now ooman eena jamaika more h'educated dan di man dem an tings a get worse. Mi seh, educate di yout amn dem; stop emasculate dem an' di difference will be immediate.
A so mi seh. But wha mi know?