My name is Cherry Brown. I am Ann’s baby sister who is helping her to write the story about “Jamaican Cherry Juice.” It is a child’s story.
I was brought up in rural Jamaica by hard working and loving parents but was exposed to sexual abuse; alcohol and drug abuse; and violence in my community from an early age. I also heard the cries of many children as they were beaten by their parents.
Over time, I have learned how to transform negative energy, think positively, dream, and enjoy the sweet scents just before dawn.
I hate to see children suffer and fail to realise their full potential. That is why I am here to tell you the story of “Jamaican Cherry Juice” and provide you with information on my blog so that you can make better choices.
I hope that when the “book” is published, good women will read it and then help me to nourish the men of Jamaica because we need them now more than ever.
I was still eating the leftovers of meat sauce and spaghetti Shirley gave me, when I was overcome with a deep sense of gratitude. I had taken a walk over to her home last Thursday to give her a copy of my recently published book of poems, even though I was very exhausted from all the years of poor sleep and everything else that was making my life unbearable. As I entered her home and was about to rest on her sofa, she asked me if I would like something to eat. After about an hour, she prepared a container filled with enough food to last me for the next four days. On returning home, I sent a message to her to let her know that the food was very good and that I was very thankful. I told her truthfully that it was a blessing to eat from her hands, literally and figuratively. I was not able to enjoy delicious foods anymore but I knew that it was enjoyable nevertheless. She had not only shared her meals with me but she had previously provided me with so many other services and valuable things that I could not have afford to pay her for. She was there for me in times when I least expected it with her generous hands and had become a close sister that I dreamed for.
As I completed the meal last Thursday evening, I wished so much that my life was in a better place. I was physically satisfied with the food and hoped for spiritual satisfaction as well. There were great aspirations beyond all that the food could do to nourish my body; I was desperate and prayed for holistic healing. After twelve years of suffering, I was hungry for the contentment and thirsty for the refreshment. This need was a state in my life that most people would never experience and without which they were so fortunate. Shirley had her own struggles with serious chronic illnesses, albeit not of the mental types I had, so she could empathize with my daily realities. While she never explicitly mentioned to me that she also sought healing, I knew that to be true. And so in sharing with me a generous meal, I believed that she had prayed over it quietly and hoped that we would be both healed and be brought to a better place.
Often in life, there were wrong assumptions that those who were physically disabled or challenged were in worse situations than others like myself with mental diagnoses. I have had several people tell me that I should be thankful that my mind was still intact, that I was not in a wheelchair, and that I was not in a hospital bed. These people failed to appreciate what catastrophic mental diseases did to my body, essentially reducing my capacity to function effectively. On the other hand, there were so many people that I knew with physical limitations and even paraplegia, who were fully capable of taking care of their needs independently. I recall a specific case of a young paraplegic woman who was able to babysit my son for hours when he was a toddler. Sandra was able to maneuver her wheelchair like an athlete with my son on her lap and overtime had developed shoulder muscles that were stronger than the average woman. Yet she was not the only one I remembered with that unbelievable ability. I once knew a young man with no legs who would frequently ride his wheelchair off the steep hills of Mount Rosser in St Catherine, Jamaica while he raced against the vehicular traffic, smiling from ear to ear. These two people might have lost the ability to walk but they were certainly not disabled in their ability to perform in life. I felt that they were in a much better place than I was mentally and I prayed earnestly for the deliverance through healing that would restore me.
I must have had Shirley’s food and her offerings of silent prayer on my mind when I went to bed last Thursday because I remembered feeling relaxed in a way that I had not been for a long time. I had become accustomed to only a few hours of nightly sleep and could only hope for better. That night I dreamt of a wide gushing river and I saw the faces of two old colleagues as they tried to help me cling on to the riverbank. The dream then moved me into a place that I could only describe as being holy. There I met the female Jamaican comedian Juliet Bodley (popularly known as Julie Mango), a formerly unknown survivor of mental illnesses herself, who informed me along with at least ten other women, to prepare for something never experienced before in this life.
We waited patiently for about fifteen minutes and then rain drops started to drizzle. From thence the water from the heavens became a steady easy downpour. We drank from our outstretched scooped hands and tasted what was like pure unfermented wine. I worshipped with Juliet in a new bond, with my lost friend Donna, and with Rose’s grown daughter who I never knew she had. While we were being filled with the communion wine that blessed us from the sky, we collected all that we could on a massive tarp-like vessel that was spread at our feet. I woke up feeling revitalized for a few seconds like the strong woman I once was.
I have an older cousin who has an unmatched sense of humor. Recently, he has been sending me a variety of jokes that he draws from the internet. Sometimes they are quite funny but never enough for me to laugh out loud. A few minutes ago he sent me one about a man who was in a polygamous relationship with five women and was interviewing another woman who he wanted to be his sixth wife. I smiled to myself and then I replied to my wise cousin asking him, “What is the difference between polygamy and serial monogamy?” I waited for about an hour to hear a response from the man who took me down the aisle to meet my first husband forty two years ago. He was not only my big cousin but was also my “give away father” and recently a source of motivation. “Zero!!” He answered. In one word he told me exactly what he meant and also what I have believed to be true for years. To us, polygamy and serial monogamy were the same things when female spouses were added up over time but I never before had calculated the difference to be zero. Basically, it was one of those examples where as we would say in Jamaica, “six of one, half dozen of the other.” I had to wonder what exactly my octogenarian cousin meant by his answer. But I suspected that he was trying to tell me that in those types of relationships with so many women, the man was really often left with nothing at the end of the calculation. As much as I was so sick and not able to laugh the way I once did, I had to chuckle, put down my phone for a while, and wished for the days when I could throw back my head again and burst out in the type of cleansing laughter I once enjoyed.
It has been over twelve years since I have laughed deeply from my belly bottom like I did during my glory days. I remember as a teenager how I would laugh incessantly with my high school friends over the silliest things. I even recall laughing so hard during a singing performance at the Tryall Gold Club in Hanover, Jamaica that I literally wet myself with urine on the stage, unbeknownst to the other girls who were in the group. Later as I evolved into my thirties and early forties, working among the poor and downtrodden, I saw that many of them could still laugh, despite all their hardships. I continued to appreciate the value and benefits of laughter and the meaning of serious jokes, even laughing purposefully for years until I got so ill that I could not laugh anymore. That’s because chronic mental illnesses destroyed my ability to experience any pleasure causing me to loose my laugh and other things healthy people take for granted like a satisfying meal or fulfilling sex.
As I sat here alone wishing that I could laugh again like I did in my youth and during my prime, I could only be realistic about my current situation. There was not anything left to laugh about and more seriously, I did not have the capacity to laugh anymore, yet the people close to me did not understand that. They continued to send me jokes and my dear cousin even encouraged me to try laughing again as a form of therapy. I watched daily as their messages came in with various types of comedy, knowing that they were sincere in their efforts to help me laugh. A few persons including my dear cousin might have thought all this was strange on my part because they heard my voice over the phone sounding like a normal timely laugh when there was something to laugh about. They probably would never understand this terrible reality of a laugh coming from the surface and I expected them to keep trying to amuse me.
While I can no longer laugh when I hear jokes, I still appreciate comedy as much as I understand the importance of showing gratitude to those who are kind to me. Two days ago I received a package from Amazon with four copies of a book that I recently published. It was something I never dreamed that would have happened in my current state. After over twenty years, my poems were finally published as “Miss Lion” at a time when I never expected it to happen. I was too ill and lacked the resources that were required to do it but the Universe destined for it to materialize through a former colleague who made it possible. All this happening now was almost like a cosmic irony or a “sick joke” to me because the Universe had intervened at a time and in a way that directly contradicted my expectations. Oh, how I would have loved to see all of my books published when I was healthy and strong enough to market them and engage my readers in individual and focus group discussions. Whereas I could not enjoy the fruits of my labor as I would have liked, I valued my achievement in the impact that this book of poems would have on others and leaving behind a legacy. Moreover I am forever thankful to my former colleague and friend who was sent to me on a divine mission to finish a process that started way back in 2003 when I wrote my first poem
I am extremely humbled by all that has happened in less than a month and it is a reminder to me of why some people continue to believe in miracles. God gave Dr. Tazhmoye Crawford the gift of a brilliant mind and all that was required in terms of skills and abilities to convert the poems in my Word documents into a published book, all done within ten hours on a weekend when she could have been resting. I might never be able to fully understand why she did all this for me without charging me a penny but this was a perfect example of how the Universe rewarded us. She told me on numerous occasions that as a former team leader, I touched her life in a way that she would never forget. There was so much more that I could have said here about our brief professional relationship that only lasted about two years but the great Universe already knew everything.
Tazh, as she is affectionately called wanted to know how it felt when I held a copy of my book in my hands. I can tell you that it was a profound sense of fulfillment as I am sure to which she is accustomed, given her expansive repertoire of published scholarly research and books. Besides this sense of accomplishment, there was also my desire to laugh again with her like we did during those serious times in Jamaica when we last worked together. May she continue to have reasons to laugh in her personal and professional life and if it is in the will of the Universe we will do this again; in another book.
I was dancing from “my eyes were below my knees” when I did not even understand the words of the songs I was dancing to and certainly did not know what it was to truly dance my way through the world. Music was all around me as a child, from the only transistor radio we had, to the Reggae sounds coming from our neighbors homes, and the vibrations amplified across the hills of Cascade, music filled my soul. Its depths and rhythms were planted into my ears and sent through my brain early into my development giving me a lasting appreciation not only for music but for dancing that I took for granted for almost forty-five years. My mother was not someone who showed much emotion through love for music, dancing or anything else but my father whose alias was “Waters Time,” knew what it meant to dance, even though he probably did not have many reasons to do so.
I remember so many times when my father was drunk, that he would sit on the bench in my mother’s shop and stomp his feet to Bob’s music. He would smile and shout out, “Every day is a holiday,” expecting his “baby to come home.” My father, although a hopeless alcoholic for decades of his life, knew despite his lack of formal education, that to dance meant freedom and self expression in his own way. He would never experience dancing as it was defined in my view but that was enough for him. Dancing as I would know later in my life was that state of holistic “perfection” in a partnership on life’s dancefloor that brought people together to achieve maximum performance, satisfaction, and success. It was a state of harmonious release, spiritual unity, timed ease, and ultimate peace. My father would never understand the real meaning, dancing in his narrow world where he was limited by alcohol. However, he taught me soon that it was all right to dance at home and abroad, anytime, anywhere, anyhow. One day when I was only about seven or eight, I was walking through Cascade square and noticed that he was inside Dellly’s bar, drunk as usual. He called me into the building and asked me to dance with him. In front of at least five other drunkards and Joy, the bartender, I danced with my father freely to their applause. That was when I learned that dancing was a part of me and my embracing community. That day was to stay with me forever and would comfort me in the future at times when I would have no one to dance with.
I met my first boyfriend at a summer camp when I was only eleven year old. By that time I was already in puberty for two years and my body was excitable by external stimuli such as love songs, adult conversations which I should not have been exposed to, and books shared secretly. On the last day of the camp, there was a concert and I signed up to dance on stage. That was one of several things I thought I knew how to do well and I wanted the other children to notice me and cheer me on. I danced my little heart out that day to the beat of the popular MPLA rhythm that was dominateing dancehalls at the time. Later after marrying that boyfriend, I found out that he also loved to dance but like my father did not share my meaning of dancing. In his twenties and during the few years I lived with him, I realized that he was never prepared for all that dancing was meant to be.
Throughout my life, I never knew that anyone could be averse to dancing or could not appreciate it for its benefits. That was until I met my second husband who would not even tap his feet to any type of music that was playing. For years I asked him why he would not dance as I would often do. He never replied or provided any explanation but I later learned that it was not in keeping with the rules of his religion. Apparently, some religions including the Seventh-Day Adventists did not believe their members should dance and I recalled some of the “born again” types even saying that said that it was sinful. During my marriage, I was never able to understand why my husband was so stiff and inflexible when even the most soulful and energizing music was being played. I tried to accept his beliefs but still attempted to teach him what I had discovered to be one of the most beautiful and sacred things in life; dancing freely. After a couple sessions trying to sway his body with mine, I saw that it was awkward, uncomfortable, and was just not a part of his nature.
The universe taught me so many lessons in dancing, even using unlikely and unexpected instructors. It was in times of sadness and grief after the tragedies of the September 11th 2001 attack and the Haitian earthquake of 2010 when I felt some of the greatest meaning in dance. As I lived alone in my apartment as a graduate student in Decatur, Georgia, that week of September 11th, music with dance was the divine element that kept me grounded and focused, helping me to endure through the tumultuous nature of the times. I remembered blasting the music so loudly and jumping around, that the neighbors downstairs had to tell me to tone it down. Also, after the earthquake ten years later while volunteering with survivors who were flown to Atlanta for treatment, I was introduced to a new music and saw how people could dance above their rubble even after they were decimated and maimed by a force of nature. That was the type of dance that emerged when those who were given a second chance of life after a disaster; they would stand even in their weakness and move. It was a dance of gratitude to a mysterious Universe.
I have long had my last dance with any man and actually had forgotten what it felt like to be at one in a secure dance. Time had taught me that to be held in a tight, loving and supportive dance by someone sent by the universe was all that I could dream of now. I never knew that I could be so weak and still want to tell others that such a place existed for us. I had a brief taste of that place and wanted it again not just for me but for others. As I saw so many of my schoolmates and friends somehow reaching for life’s meaning, it was in my destiny to share with them that they should dream and aspire to that lovely place where they dance with abandon. I wanted to tell them that they should cast all their worries and their burdens aside and just dance without restraint. They needed to experience that one act of living that if done well, could transform them into earthly bliss.
Having experienced the temporary joy that “dancing” brought to my life during my midlife years, I knew that there was a higher and permanent place to dance in this life. That place required a deep spiritual loving connection and a sincere commitment bond between you and your partner. The universe revealed to me that this place was attainable for us and was indeed possible, yet most people would never reach there. I did not know how much I still wanted to have that divine and lasting dance until this morning when my old schoolmate Debbie, sent me the link to Lee Ann Womack’s song, “I Hope You Dance.” That oh so familiar song reminded me of the first person, a colleague, who sent it to me seventeen years ago when she saw that I needed to be filled. I have since learned through private and intimate conversations among intelligent women, that we all yearn for that special partner with whom we can dance uninhibited but guided.
My highschool years were the best times of my young life. I remembered feeling confident about myself, eager to learn new subjects other than the English and Mathematics which were the foci in elementary school, and I had the freedom to explore new environments away from my home, especially the communities of my new found friends. I did not have to concern myself about all the responsibilities of life because all of my basic needs were met by my parents. It was in highschool where I found special friends and felt a sense of connection to over eight hundred other adolescents I encountered over the five years I spent there. After all these years, I still remembered the names of just about every schoolmate in my graduation class (GCO’81) even though I did not always remember their faces.
There were some of my fellow schoolmates who had lasting impressions on me. The ones like Head Boys who were leaders of student bodies, the formidable geniuses, the track and football athletes, and those involved in creative arts, as well as the male cadets, still stood out in my mind. While so many were popular on campus and so could not be mistaken or forgotten, there were a few who remained in the background hidden away from the spotlight and daily life. Those were among the group of quiet children and were the ones we often forgot about. We never really got to know anything about them throughout the years we spent together because they stayed in their private worlds. Hilka was one such schoolmate who was so reserved and introverted, that I had totally forgotten about her and could not even picture her face. However, as soon as I heard the news that she had died, I remembered her name.
Our names said so much about us and was the primary identifier of who we were from the day we were born and long before we received any type of identification number. Names seemed to determine how our parents raised us, how we were treated by our peers, and even how society judged us. As I reflected on how little I knew about Hilka during school days, I realized that her entire adult life was missing pages in our GCO’81 “book.” I suspected that she lived according to the definitions of her name; quiet, silent, and calm. Even my close old girlfriend who knew her as an adult, suggested that she lived a life that mirrored her name. Like so many others, she seemed to keep her health battles private and most would never know how much she suffered. She died seven days after the category 5 hurricane that devastated western Jamaica last year, an event which must have exacerbated her prevailing conditions. We did not know how long she fought her health battles or when her strength faltered but we knew that there were some diseases that were too much to bear and were overpowering. If she succomed to her illness, she was only human and was among many who had done so before her when the load became too heavy. I was once told of a former colleague in Jamaica who surrendered after years of health struggles with breast cancer and was left depleted financially and physically. She told someone who was visiting her during her last days that she was tired and was ready to go.
Humans have faced these hard realities forever and still do, yet we were never fully prepared when we were directly affected. In most instances we were expected to fight until the very end and we were often told that we should “never give up.” The truth was that we did not have the capacity to beat many of these catastrophic diseases, even if we had unlimited resources. Even with the best support systems, there came a time when the body lost the ability to regenerate and sustain itself. That was when we had to come to terms with our mortality, reviewed what quality of life we had left, and whether it was worth it to continue seeking treatment.
From what I remembered about living in Jamaica, the final stages of life were more natural than they were in a place like America. The average person there was not able to afford expensive life sustaining treatments for conditions like kidney failure and certain types of malignant conditions. Furthermore, the facilities and the expertise to prolong life under those circumstances either did not exist or were lacking. As a result, affected patients, instead of extending life with unsustainable treatments, would often chose to or be compelled to remain at home under the care of family and their community in dignity until their death.
As many of us dealt with our own morbidities and the frequent news that our peers were passing, we were confronted with certain uncomfortable truths. We saw reminders that we were already in our sixth decade and there were no guarantees about the future. Condolences were few and becoming more and more difficult to share especially for those we had forgotten, like Hilka. Some remembered the days when the church bell tolled on the hill but it was for those old people in our communities, not us. Life had changed so much since then because now many of those who were leaving us were our own age cohort. We felt particularly vulnerable as we were aging and many like myself were made powerless by disability. Lucky were those who were still healthy, could enjoy life and live purposefully according to the meaning of their names.
Last Sunday I received a phone call from a childhood friend who I had not heard from in almost forty-five years. The last time I saw him was at a graduation ceremony in Jamaica when we we still teenagers. I was surprised to get the call from him and at first I wondered why he was calling me. However, a few minutes into the call, I learned from him that he has a young son serving in the United States military who was recently deployed overseas. He was very concerned as a father about the latest war that had ensued, and rightly so because his son could be in imminent danger. As we talked, I thought I heard an emotional crack in his voice as he described how his son made the transition to military life. As he spoke, all I could think of was how young he was, at only twenty. He had barely completed his adolescent years and was already thrown into an assignment that could eventually lead him into this new war.
I was still thinking about my friend’s young son and his level of maturity and preparedness for war when the names of the first six United States service members killed in the latest “operation” were revealed. Among them was another twenty year old young man, Sgt. Declan Coady, who according to the internet had just graduated from high school a little over two years ago in 2023. While I valued every precious life that was lost, I felt a deep sadness for this young man and many others like him who never had the chance of living their lives beyond their twenties because of war. As a mother of two boys, I saw what their lives were like when they were in their early twenties and I questioned whether they would have been prepared for life as soldiers at war. As I wondered through all that was in front of me, I was reminded that this military life was the journey and the destiny for my friend’s young son as well as all those like him who were serving. They all enlisted for different reasons but were serving together although not knowing each other. Their individual goals in life had brought them all together for a greater purpose which so many people were grateful for and admired; that of military service.
I started to appreciate the value of military service members when I was a young child. While it was not the norm for my family members to serve in any of the armed forces, I remembered that I was told my granduncle Sam was a World War veteran, most probably in the second world war. I spent a few years of my life visiting the home he shared with his sister in Retrieve, Hanover but never heard any stories from him about his experiences in that war. He led a quiet life in his old age and the only thing he left with me was his interpretation of the meaning of my nick name, “Mar.” He lived a few years after his retirement and received a tiny pension every month that was probably just enough to pay for his groceries. I remember this because my mother, a shopkeeper, would ask me to collect it for him at the post office so that he could cover the cost for the items he had taken on loan from her the previous month. He died sometime before I reached sixteen and while most people did not know about his life as a soldier, I had never forgotten about my love and respect for him. And after all these years, I still ask myself though, why was he the only one in my community at the time who I knew to be an “old soldier.”
Over a decade later, I worked as a registered nurse at the veteran’s hospital in a New Jersey town and had the opportunity to serve and care for hundreds, if not thousands of United States veterans. In addition to the expected chronic cardiovascular diseases, they suffered greatly from head & neck cancers caused by heavy and prolonged smoking. Other forms of substance abuse like alcohol and heroin were so prevalent that a whole unit was dedicated for those treatments. By that time I realized that military service was a normal way of life for many Americans and was also their ticket to a good retirement and other benefits such as education and housing; at least that was what I was told. My everyday life as a nurse spent with those veterans and my familiarity with the veteran’s administration at the time motivated me to think seriously about applying to be a military nurse. As a young single mother, I was looking for security and in those days I felt that the military could provide it. I completed the application but never submitted it because I had no one to care for my young child who was about five years old at the time. In hindsight, it was a career move I was glad I did not make because I really had no idea what I was getting into and by nature I was not a soldier. I did not know then, even at twenty seven years old that many millions of lives were lost over the course of history in wars that were not mine.
So, as I lifted my hand in thanks to all those young soldiers who had served us and especially to those who had died, I wondered if they they believed that all those wars were theirs to fight? As young men and women, did they know what it was that they were fighting for and for whom? My guess was that young soldiers like my friend’s son and a few others who I had met over the course of my life, entered into the occupation, not as a generational tradition or because of the marketed “love for country” but as a way to “become men” and eventually support themselves and maybe a family. While it was not explicitly stated to me, many of these young men I knew did not want to have to depend on their parents beyond their eighteenth birthday. As a result, they chose the military out of necessity and not because of a common belief, a shared vision or even a certainty about their purpose. Those for whom they were fighting were clear about their personal and political objectives, even if the public remained ignorant. The truth as I had learned was that the brains of our young “green” soldiers were not yet fully developed to understand the makings and ramifications of war. Many would not know about the risks of high civilian casualties, massive infrastructure destruction, and the long-term psychological trauma until they lived through the experience in war while they were still becoming men.
Ever since I heard the news yesterday that the country was at an “unwanted” war again, I had been thinking about rats. I was not quite sure why I made the association between wars and rats because they initially seemed to be totally unrelated. However, as I thought more about what was happening in the world, I could not help but to see that this war, as well as others which had occured in my lifetime, were made possible by politicians who shared many features of rats. I knew this because I grew up as a child with unwelcomed rats in my home. I’ll never forget the day when I opened the drawer of our only China cabinet and saw a huge rat sitting there. I screamed like bloody hell while running outside to tell my parents what I had seen. They also lived in our ceilings and could often be heard running around at nights. As I recalled, the only way that we were able to chase them away was when we got a house cat.
Over fifty years later, I was forced to move to a city in America that was known to be dirty and infested with rats. I honestly had no idea the extent of the problem until I started walking on the streets and saw them running on the sidewalks during the daytime. There were evidence of them everywhere, from burrowed holes in the ground to their dead bodies after being hit by automobiles. Those creatures not only lived outside but caused great misery for many households, as I learned from some of my fellow seniors at the community center. So pervasive and incorporated they were in the city, that citizens accepted them.
I had never liked rats and while I was independent and productive, would have never chosen to live among them. But there were many lessons to be learned from them and many that were very similar to some of our “rodent politicians.” They were very adaptable and would survive in some of the most diverse and challenging environments. Adaptability was probably one of the key characteristics of long term politicians who were able to change their views and beliefs according to the current tide. Rats were also extremely opportunistic often foraging and exploiting others for their personal gain. Rats would bite through our food and clothes with a vengeance just like cutthroat politicians did, while only thinking about their own survival. Rats, like many politicians were very difficult to remove, especially after they had established themselves in a particular territory.
So, as many of us here were wondering yesterday “what’s going on” in the world, we should have looked at our political leaders. The same things that were happening hundreds of years ago remained the same because rulers may have died but their systems remained alive. Whether it was in Jamaica or here in America, their nature was the same. And I still believed the wise young man who told me many years ago that “it takes a certain type of human being to be a politician.” After analyzing many of his political leaders, he decided that there was no way that he could enter in such an occupation, especially as a career. And that was because politicians were generally just like rats, primarily opportunistic, destructive if not controlled, and even considered by many to be evil.
I was not surprised or even disappointed in the recent actions of the ruling government to enter a new war because I knew from experience that it was the nature of the game and probably was even a trademark for world dominance. Like rats, so many politicians would stop at nothing to preserve themselves and their parties. We had to come to the realization that voting often did not bring about lasting changes even for the issues that we cared deeply about. Regardless of the political party that was in power, there were going to be the same benefits that were up for grabs, such as lands at home or abroad. Those benefits would continue to cause wars and politicians and world leaders were going to continue to deceive voters that there would be no more wars. For all this, at the end of the day, it would be argued to be in the best interest of the American people, even though the reality was that the quality of life among the average people were declining rapidly.
A few days ago I received a message from the leader of our high school graduation class of 1981 (GCO’81) that Inel, another member of the group had died. As I watched the condolences coming in, I allowed the reality of her demise to pause in my mind for a day and then I asked the group sincerely, “Where is Inel’s story and what is her epitaph?” When I asked the question it probably sounded like a rhetorical one, but I was indeed wondering what her life’s journey was like and I wanted to know about her life after high school. I really wanted to know about her life because most likely I was not going to hear her obituary read and see it in any newspaper or online. I said that because we had lost so many people already (including scores of GCO’81 schoolmates) and all we had left of them was our memory from the long gone past and school days. Furthermore, obituaries were becoming less routine lately, apparently because of the increased costs associated with final expenses.
We should not have to be celebrities or notable figures before we get our citations and our recognition. We all had a story to tell and I believed that it should be written for us and for future generations to learn from. Some of us might have thought that our story was not worth mentioning or that it was boring and no one cared about it but I wanted to remind my schoolmates who were still alive that we were all special and were already authors in our own right. We were created for a purpose, and as Nathaniel, another member said, “Our success will be measured by how we positively impact others.” Some of us have impacted one person and others have impacted thousands; the numbers really did not matter. If we were able to change one life for the better, we would have fulfilled our purpose. I understood that some of us were very private and did not wish to tell others what we were doing. I understood that and knew that many of us were giving of ourselves without expecting any recognition or reward.
Nevertheless, I still believed we all deserved our completed pages in history. How was it that when we were in high school, we celebrated milestones with individual and class photographs, graduation certificates, and trophies? Those were not just simple gestures but were important validations of our personal development and achievements. As adults, we moved through life, obtaining higher education and participating in our professions, often with great challenges that others were not aware of. Sometimes not even our children knew what we endured or accomplished and so they often took us for granted. If they knew our stories, they could have learned lessons for their own lives and might had even been more appreciative of us.
As a culture, we did not have a history of documenting stories about our everyday lives. Instead, we tended to just talk among ourselves. But I learned along the way from my mentors and real life sources from people like American Judge Glenda Hatchett, that the written records of our lives were critical. We needed our pages, our chapters, and some of us needed our long books. I was certain that there were lessons to be taken from the lives of all those we had lost so far, but we would had never known because those pages were either blank or missing.
I can only imagine what Inel’s life was like after high school. If her adult life was like what I remembered about her, I suspected that she was a force to be reckoned with. She was always neat, bold, energetic, and talkative. While I did not recall being in the same class with her, I always could feel her strong presence around the campus and felt that she cared deeply about her friends. I say that because I had memories of her rounding up her fellow students in the evenings after school, boarding John’s bus to get to their homes. I would not be surprised if she took those same qualities into her adult life. The truth was that I would never know about that later part of her life.
I commended Garth again to have brought us together after over four decades and gave us the opportunity to reconnect and fill in the blank pages and find the missing ones from forgotten years. However, I asked again that more of us wrote and shared our stories so that in the end we would not only be a memory, but our spirits would come alive each time that someone read the pages from our story. For it was urgent and better that we told our own truth and epitaph, than have others said what was their impression about us. As unique authors, our written truths had the power to leave others in awe, brought them to tears, and even motivated them to help their fellowman in the ways God intended.
A few days ago one of my readers told me that I am “always on the ball.” Although familiar with the expression, I asked her to elaborate on her comment and give me some specifics about what she meant. Up to this morning she had not responded to my request and I was still curious to know exactly what she was implying, especially because she also asked me, “How do you do it?’ Suspecting that she was referring to my blog postings, I felt the need to explain to her: “I cannot describe to you how sick I am especially because of the severe insomnia. But each day I get up, I live it as if it is my last one on earth.” I have also asked myself how I was able to continue writing despite everything I had been through including brain diseases and all that surrounded me.
My only answer for her question about how I did it, was that my brain had learned how to tell and write stories after years of practice and so in spite of my weaknesses, the thoughts and the words continued to flow. I noticed also that my knowledge base across my two professions were pretty much intact. Much of my nursing expertise had become absolete but the basic elements remained. While there was no way that I could care for a patient in my current state, I was nevertheless able to recognize what was good nursing care and what was not. Similarly, my project management knowledge, skills and abilities were present even though I could no longer practice professionally at a full time job the way I once did.
I had learned at the peak of my project management profession that management strategies, policies and procedures were more effective when they were clearly documented and accessible for all members of staff. I kept all those principles with me and everytime I saw that someone was at risk or involved in a business transaction that could jeaoparize their well-being, I felt the need to intervene. I did not expect to be compensated for my advice or my recommendations but it was my duty to inform them of the correct principles.
Today I had one such situation occur and I saw the opportunity to educate someone on what I knew to be common business practice for traveling across the country to attend an expertise interview. It appeared that the person was shortlisted and was highly targeted for a specific position but lacked knowledge about what the potential employer should be offering or even if a contract was required to attend an interview. I had seen this happen before to eager young professionals who were inexperienced in contracts and negotiations, and it made me very uncomfortable knowing that the potential was there for a corporation, institution or agency to take advantage of such a situation and the individual. This happened to me during the course of my career and I did not want to sit by and watch a repeat of this kind of abuse by employers of naive job applicants.
I sent the young man a list of things he should expect from the employer/contractor which included a detailed contract and what should be included on that contract. That was going to be his first professional interview after he had spent many years honing his skills and achieving numerous milestones in his career. He had spent time building his own brand with his clientele but did not realize that his resume had been transformed from a novice to that of a professional. Deciding to upload what he thought was a simple resume on the internet, he was amazed at the response he got in a matter of days. And more astounding was that the resume he created did not capture all that he had accomplished over that last five years. I encouraged him to update the document to show his real value and his worth.
I hope and trust that he will follow my recommendations concerning a contract for his long flight over to the interview and that he took the time to revise his resume to demonstrate to them who he really was and what separated him from his competition. I had no doubt that the company already decided that they wanted to hire him and he was not just going there to see “if he was a good fit.” They knew about his outstanding performance in the state where he was working and they were willing to cover the expenses to meet him in person and compel him to relocate. I was not sure that he was convinced of that and so I had to tell him. I used to be in the position of management and hiring and know how much employers and contractors were willing to offer when they found the talent and expertise that they needed desperately.
Safe travels to you! As a maverick you earned your way and your place at the table to secure a deserved contract under yesterday’s stars.
It did not even feel like Valentine’s Day when I walked through the checkout line at the farmer’s market yesterday. People were just going about their businesses picking out fruits and vegetables and the environment was extremely and untypically quiet. There was no sound from the cash registers like days gone by and none of that familiar noise made by store scanners of the barcodes. In the unusual silence of the market, there was the sober reminder that life had become very expensive for many people, including those who wanted to show their love and appreciation on Valentine’s Day. Beautiful red and purple roses were on display for $44.99 per bouquet. Those were basic arrangements of twelve stems inside a farmer’s market, so I could only imagine that two dozen of the same flowers would cost at least $100 at the florist.
Many people were willing to spend hundreds of dollars on Valentine’s Day gifts to express to their loved ones how they felt about them. But there were also many who were giving to others out of duty or because of an expectation. For indeed love was not defined the same for everyone and love was no longer a prerequisite for giving. I had learned that it really did not matter if the giver was sincere or not, as long as the gesture of “love” was made.
Throughout my life I had heard about love and came to my own understanding of what the word meant. Probably the first reference to love in my psyche was that familiar verse from John Chapter 3. As children we all knew that Bible verse, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son…” I grew up thinking that God’s love was the greatest love even though I had never experienced it directly in any tangible way, except through the kindness of a few good people. The Bible which was our guide for living a good life, taught us that love was to be accompanied by giving.
Love was never openly discussed in my family when I was a child. I cannot even recall my own parents telling me that they loved me, but I treasured all the hugs my father gave me and all the wonderful meals my mother prepared for me. They might not have been able to say those three little words, “I love you,” but they gave me all that they could, given their limited resources. By their actions I knew that they cared for me and that mattered more than words and meaningless unactionable love.
At age sixty after two failed marriages, having two grown children, and experiencing immense suffering from disease and other hardships, love took on a new meaning for me during the last decade. Love and the frivolous exhibits of Valentine’s Day meant absolutely nothing unless it was sincere, active, and unconditional. For what I once thought was love in my teenage age years and in my twenties was just my body responding in arousal and perhaps infatuation, as well as to other needs. The greatest love if it were present then, would have endured all of life’s tests. This type of love that only few experienced was honest, unconditional, and everlasting. It was the kind of love that Trudie described to me at the senior center on many occasions when she told me why the only person she really loved was her one daughter in whom she felt secure.
I never really understood what unconditional love was until I was in my late fifties when my children were already grown. Recognizing that I was far from being an ideal mother to them, I was not surprised by some of their behaviors towards me later on. I was hurt on more than one occasions during my illness and disability but I never once felt any animosity towards them nor ever wished them harm. Every indiscriminate word or deleterious action from either of them, resulted in me forgiving and accepting their realities while bestowing blessings on them. This unconditional love that I found from being a mother was not innate and not easily explained. Simply being a mother did not give me the ability to love in that way. That profound love was there when I was a young mother but took on a level of maturity that came with time and difficult tests. That developed unconditional love also existed among other groups such as dedicated spouses who cared for each other during sickness, into old age and until the end of their lives. It was the type of unconditional love I had for my own imperfect mother even after she told me at least one hurtful word when I was evolving at sixteen. Throughout her life, I knew she was my given mother, it was my duty to care for her when she was sick, and in my Jamaican culture it was expected.
That unconditional love we had for our parents and that which we had for our children did not have a price tag or could not be sufficiently expressed through flowers on Valentine’s Day. It was the ultimate test of who we really were as human beings when we could have turned away from our own blood and each other after trusts were broken. It was the only love that was of significance to us because it was the only one that was true and lasted when the flowers faded, it lingered when the love songs ended, and stayed when everyone else was gone. That was the choice of covenant love between us, unwavering, binding and sacred.
“Mi glad fi yuh Bad Bunny!” Those were the words I repeated to myself after watching video clips from last night’s Superbowl halftime show and then reading his impressive biography on Wikipedia. I was glad that another young man made it from humble beginnings in the Caribbean to the world’s stage. And I felt relieved and thankful again that Puerto Rico had an opportunity to showcase their talent and their legitimacy as a people.
Benito “Bad Bunny” Martinez Ocasio’s achievements reminded me that “you really cannot keep a good man down.” Excellence rose even amidst the most unfavorable circumstances. Ever since the announcement that he was going to headline America’s greatest halftime show, he came under public scrutiny and was ridiculed by many. His critics spoke about his incomprehensible native language Spanish, and questioned its use in America where most people would not understand what he was singing. Others speculated about his sexuality and expected him to perform in dresses. But the greatest pushback came when conservatives felt the need to create their own halftime show. Throughout all this, Bad Bunny maintained his composure as he accepted his Grammy award for the album of the year on February 1st and then delivered a top tier performance a week later sending messages of unity and love. He totally ignored all the negative background noise and was even able to lower the tone of the president’s hate for “others.”
As a Jamaican born woman I was proud of Bad Bunny as if he was my own son. As a mother of two enterprising boys in their thirties, I could relate to his hard work and for a few minutes I tasted with him what his success was. I understood fully how many young black men felt about establishing their own independent businesses and brands and how much they desired to achieve success. And so as I celebrated with Bad Bunny, I continued to encourage my own sons and all those other young men who were at various stages of their business and life ventures. This I hoped would motivate them to continue their projects regardless of how difficult the undertaking was, because soon their productions would be on display and people would feel them also.
This morning I was grateful to the Universe to remind me that music and dance were some of the few things that could be understood in any language. Millions of people understood the messages Bad Bunny shared last night without being Spanish speakers. He knew about his music, just like Bob Marley knew about Reggae, that music was about the feeling. The Universe also showed me how Caribbean music was all connected and how much we were influenced by each other. They felt us in Puerto Rico from Jamaica with Reggae music and the world’s children had started to appreciate the various blends.
It was a new day in America and the world, and the millennial generation knew it. They were not going to be manipulated by the stale politics of division and the confines of traditional labor practices. They understood their history, they saw that too many innocent lives were lost with no remorse from the administration, and that their immigrant families were not appreciated. Many were still protesting in the streets of America, others went about their businesses as usual, but the majority listened, sang and danced yesterday to a music that they recognized. They felt it and that was what mattered.
Emotions, connections, motivations, positive male energy, labour, release, clarity, anticipation.
These are only a few of the words that describe the series of events that took place in my life between May 6th, 2009 and July 26th, 2009.
I will continue to write as long as I am inspired and aroused by those sweet scents just before dawn and as long as there is a need to sow "Seeds of Insight" .
Seeds of Insight 
