It was a quiet breezy Saturday morning. I sat on the living room couch twirling a string of fabric around my finger that had frayed loose from one of the old seat cushions. I watched the soft ebb and flow of the curtains as they receded and fluttered, dancing with the wind like the tide. They slowly swept in, and then sucked out of the window. Set just underneath the window sill was my grandmother’s red mahogany doily table. It was covered with several ceramic figurines, wood carvings and gold rimmed commemorative plates. The soft sheer fabric curtains brushed over these ornaments gently as they stood undisturbed. An old radio probably purchased in the 50’s, served as the center piece to the doily table. It was one of the remaining vestiges of a time before television surpassed radio as the medium of choice for news and scripted programming.
Above all the windows were small wooden columns and lacy wood work that allowed air to circulate through the house. Matching the side table was a dark red mahogany table and dining room cabinet. Two of the six chairs of the dining room set had broken chair legs. After many attempts at repairing those broken chairs by either gluing or nailing the joints together, the chairs were now too rickety to be sat upon. They were relegated to the untraveled area of the dining room, out of reach of any guest who was unwise to their disrepair. Their only purpose now were to serve as fruit sunning beds that were positioned to receive the warm sun light that stretched its rays through the window across the dining room area. The heat from them made the raisins and prunes soft and swollen - a tasty ingredient for my grandmother’s various Christmas cakes and breads. Resting on her mahogany china cabinet were many of her, glasses, cups and fine china. They remained dusty and untouched for years except for the few that were used daily, including my favorite white mug, decorated with the cartoon character The Pink Panther. It was stored among them, seemingly out of place from the other more delicate glasses and ceramic items that were part of fancy sets and rare collectibles.
I observed the wood-framed black and white pictures that decorated the adjoining walls. Hanging in plain view on the wall nearest the living room was a picture of my Uncle William as a young man. He had a handsome smile that shined with a bright promising exuberance. It was a picture to which my grandmother often commented on how well it captured the resemblance between him and me. Echoes of my grandmother speaking with familiar praise ran through my mind, as she regularly commented on his long sideburns and neatly trimmed mustache. She said they reminded her so much of my father. She held them both in high regard. Hanging over the window was a portrait of my mother. She had a slightly wry expression on her face. I was still unaccustomed to the freshly permed style of her hair, even though I saw her in this picture every day. She was pretty. Her eyes seemed to smirk as if she knew something we didn’t. Her eyebrows were plucked to a thin trail and the eyebrow pencil that was stylishly drawn over them disguised a smoldering unrest. My eyes followed the thin gold chain around her neck that led to a small pendant of a gold Saconia flower that hung over her flowered square-necked blouse.
Situated in the center of the main floor separating the living from the dining room was a large green and white sprawling Peperomia plant in a clay pot and plant saucer. The pot rested on a round wicker mat. A few feet away was a portable 19 inch, black and white pictured, Philco brand television, famous in the 1960s. It sat on a heavy iron framed stand. At that time television broadcasting in Trinidad only provided two channels. Its picture tube had burned out for over a year and like the old radio, was only used now for its sound, to which we listened to our favorite local and American programs. Every now and then the picture would return partially for a few minutes, offering moments of distorted grainy images, teasing us with a hope that it might magically restore itself. Sadly, just as we became absorbed by our favorite program it would suddenly plunge into darkness again without apology.
The main floor had three main doors that fed the living room and dining room spaces. The front door entrance was made of a set of white wooden doors with large etched glass windows. The opposing wall of the main floor had two doorways. One led to the bedroom staircase, bedrooms and back hall. The other door, lead to the kitchen at the other end. On the dining room wall, closest to the kitchen, hung the storied picture by Alfred Codallo called “Folklore”. Famously depicting an assembly of Trinidadian folklore characters, the painting was my imaginary window into a surreal underworld that was brought to life through the oral traditions that pervaded the spiritual minds of rural West Indian people. I was drawn to the collage of these ghostly motifs and its grim cast of characters. And while I was entranced by the powerful intensity of the painting I felt an eerie connection between myself and the dark secrets, imagination and consciousness of my ancestors.
I had asked my grandmother a hundred times about all its characters; each time she patiently described them all. This time I was curious about one character in particular. It was of a wiry Negro man, dark and naked, with long chains that wrapped around his waist that dragged behind him. In the picture, under a shadowed light, he approaches a crossroad set in front moonlit hills and a starry night sky. He was balancing a coffin on his head with three burning candles on top. “Mammy. Who is the one with the coffin?” I had asked. “Who? What coffin?” She asked in reply as she emerged from the kitchen drying her hands with a pantry towel. “...The man with the coffin and the chains.” I pointed. “Ohhh. That one is the Lagahoo!” She said, with her head tilted down, squinting over the frames of her glasses. “Who is in the coffin?” I asked. “The Lagohoo is an Obeah man. But sometimes he changes into animals. A werewolf too I think. They say he haunts the plantation’s graveyard. The Obeah man is a business man yuh see. They say he uses the coffin to transport his bush rum.” She said, talking with a smile. “Plantation?” I asked. What is a plantation?” I pressed on. “It’s land where they grow, cocoa and coffee and sugar cane.” She said as she surveyed the rest of picture seemingly to refresh her memory.
With me being just eight years old, she was probably reluctant to fully explain the ideas and feelings a word like plantation would evoke. Plantation in this particular case was synonymous with the wealthy and their colonial legacy while being firmly juxtaposed by vast disparity and the disenfranchised. She also skillfully avoided discussing what she meant by “Obeah man”. I would come to learn that in the West Indies “Obeah” is a term used to describe black magic, sorcery, and cult-like religious practices. They were developed among West Africans who were forced into slavery in the Americas and islands of the West Indies.
“Why does he use a coffin? I asked. Just before she could answer we were both startled by a sudden crash. Resting behind the wooden doily table was the picture of mother that once hung on the wall above the window. It had mysteriously fallen to the floor. The expression of my grandmother’s face changed as though she had come to some sobering realization. Without displaying any urgency she walked casually to the table and retrieved the picture and its cracked glass. “She go dead.” She said, in a deadpan tone, examining the picture in a matter of fact way. At the time I didn’t realize that my grandmother may have known something about Katherine's health that I did not. I sat quietly on the couch, twirling that loose thread, as she walked into the kitchen to dispose of the shards of glass.
There was something very convincing about how she said it. And in my own mind I adopted the same nonchalance, the same quiet acceptance to the idea that she would not only die one day, but on a day that was fast approaching. Even though she used no persuasive words or strong emotion I believed what she said. In fact I suddenly felt it in my heart that her death was imminent. Strangely, it hadn’t dawned on me that my reaction to my grandmother’s statement hardly elicited much grief. In fact, a sense of relief washed over me. I had always known my grandmother as my primary caretaker, despite the appearance of a loosely tethered connection we had as grandparent and grandchild. I was calmed by her relaxed parenting style that she imparted over the years and the graceful ease in how she applied her wisdom. I enjoyed the emotional bond we shared and how it mimicked so strongly the bond of mother and child. What endeared her to me was her unconditional love, her strong sense of pride and how she aroused my curiosity about life with her engaging and personal stories. The idea of losing my mother didn’t register as tragic as it should have - far from it, in fact. Instead, I remained comforted by an unshakable belief that I would never lose my grandmother.
Katherine was described as many things by different people. Accounts from my father and her siblings, aunts and uncles described her as being friendly, eccentric, fearlessly quirky and possessing a remarkable sense of humor. Conversely, I didn’t get to really know all these facets of who she was. As a young boy, if there was one thing I admired, it was her flare for telling stories; I found it captivating. I know she was a funny person, a master of bitter sarcasm, and capable of stinging ridicule, but most notably she possessed good-humored wit. She affected those around her with an infectious laugh, including me. With her blunt outspokenness and the unique and peculiar way in which she described the world around her, it was no surprise that people described her as an eccentric. She often delivered amusing quips that you couldn’t help but laugh at even when you didn’t understand their full meaning. I can recall when she got together with her sisters, sitting at her feet gazing up at her, waiting to be entertained. I giggled at how quickly she swung effortlessly between the characters she imitated. Even though I enjoyed just listening to her talk, I felt there was something special about her sense of presence and how she applied this effortless yet stony focus when telling her funny stories. Like her siblings, it was obvious she possessed an inherent talent for the arts which she drew from, masterfully utilizing inflexion and timing to beguile her audience. It was my most favorite place to be, sometimes resting my head, snuggled-up close, hearing and feeling the vibrations of her voice strumming through her body. At the end of long day at play I could easily be lulled to sleep on her lap, being soothed by the cadence of her voice. With my eyes closed, I would still smile even when she and others erupted into laughter around me as I floated into my dreams.
My mother and father never married. My father migrated to Canada like many other educated Trinidadians did right after the Canadian government made changes to their immigration policies in late 60s. I can only speculate on whether there was any tension surrounding my father’s decision to solely pursue brighter career opportunities that left my mother, a single parent. However, overtime I observed too many signs that convinced me that there was something wrong with the relationship my mother and I had, something born out of resentment and blame. Maybe I served as a reminder of the demise of their relationship or of career aspirations that were now grounded. Whatever the reason, as a result, the feelings of inadequacy I developed were undeniable. Inevitably, affection eroded and this gave way to feelings of pain, betrayal and abandonment. I became anxious. But most of all, I became ashamed and angry. In contrast to Katherine’s quirky personality and idiosyncrasies, she was a strict disciplinarian and frequently her well-intentioned parenting was short-circuited by an explosive temper. Discipline and rearing often bordered on abuse and neglect. And despite it all I still desperately sought out protective nurturance, approval and love in an attempt to mend any of my own perceived transgressions. However, the hope that those painful memories and the bewildering anxiety I felt could one day be pacified, was a relief I ambivalently sought after.
Unbeknownst to me, Kathleen and my father maintained correspondence through the years of his absence. It wasn’t until many years later I learned that in the last chapter of those correspondences, she composed an eloquent poem. On the surface, it captured beautifully the well wishes of an old flame lamenting about change and the passage of time. She was a skilled poet, elegant and simple. She entitled the poem “The Twentieth Century Fox”. At the time in the early 70s my father was a constable on the police force in Toronto. Coincidentally his nickname among his fellow officers was “The Fox”. In the poem she meanders delicately between flattery and cajolery; ironically the same way a moniker like “The Fox” would imply. It was a strange coincidence, as she would have had no knowledge of such a nickname, bestowed upon him from the exclusive bonds forged in the locker rooms of male camaraderie. If I were to guess she may have been inferring that my father was now a worldly man of experience and sophistication; a man who had outfoxed them all. My father seemed to find solace in focusing on its beautiful lyrics, narration and self deprecating themes. He felt, that if the poem had any edge to it at all it was all in fun and nothing more than good natured ribbing between two old friends. I on the other hand, could not ignore what I thought to be the hidden message. So seductively wrapped in a bouquet of rhymes and word play, it is easy to be distracted by its floweriness while cleverly, the subtle thorns of bitterness lay cloaked and woven in disguise. In part she wrote,
Pray tell me Do I detect in your ear A golden knob? Well I declare! It’s the ‘in-thing’ A real ‘dress-in’ I see too A golden bracelet – A woman’s do?! Well Marn You really change The boy I knew Is outta range And mind – I don’t mean In the haid Far from it Me thinks You’ve got it made!
It truly was an enchanting poem. Whether or not my mother had intensions of concealing a deeper heartfelt message we would never know. However, what was painfully obvious were my feelings towards my mother. Katherine had since remarried. And she had moved out of my grandmother’s home in Jones Street. I spent time, sporadically, living with her and my step father but I continued to live mainly with my grandmother – probably to continue my schooling at Mon Repos Roman Catholic Primary school. It took some time to recognise that my suppressed anger and shame informed so many aspects of my personality and how I lived the rest of my life. This started at a very young age. Plagued by chronic frustration, I didn’t know how to express my anger towards my mother and in turn my hurt and anger was mercilessly directed at those I found to be smaller and weaker than I was. Before I knew it these feelings began to manifest in ways that led to bullying at school, belligerence towards authority figures, theft, mischief, and acting out against society.
Life on Jones Street in Mon repos was quiet and peaceful. I was firmly immersed in the miscegenation of cultures and races. At that age, I wasn’t aware of the history of the island and its legacy of colonialism, indentured workers and slavery. These dynamics brought many groups of people to this warm island oasis, from the far corners of the world they originated from. Europeans, Africans, East Indians, Asians, South Americans and emigrants from the Middle East were a few of the pieces of the cultural mosaic that gave Trinidad its unique cultural and ethnic diversity. As agents of each demographic, I knew them more on a personal level.
Mr. Chan, a Chinese business owner, who ran the laundry mat on Royal Rd. and Mrs. Mendez, our boisterous neighbor who was famous for her Portuguese garlic pork. Mrs. Sooknanan an East Indian. She sold various goodies including my favorite red mango and Metai down the street. Mr. Kousa, a swarthy Syrian man of commerce who sat comfortably behind his grand office desk in his air-conditioned office at the local bank. His gold link bracelet and chain intertwined with his heavily matted body hair that puffed up from his chest and covered his fore arms. I always found his presence odd, overseeing the staff of mostly Negro and Indian workers at the local branch. Mr. Singh was an East Indian fisherman who sold fish from his bike and cold box on Jones Street. Mrs. Braithwaite a stout dark-skinned woman sold sweet bread, sugar cakes, drops and delicious coconut tarts on Navet Rd. Mr. Maduro was a Venezuelan man who ran a funeral home on High Street near San Fernando hill. In addition to this, I consciously took note of the visible and peculiar arrangement of class that permeated through these groups of people. Whether overt or subtle, they favored those with lighter skin and straighter hair. In whole or in part, bearing witness to these inequalities lay in stark contrast to the familiar line from the national anthem of Trinidad and Tobago that states, “Every color, creed and race, finds and equal place, and may god bless our nation”.
Mr. Baboolal was an East Indian man who owned a herd of goats. He regularly guided his herd of thirty or more goats up the street of Jones Street and down to a nearby field where he left them to graze for most of the day. He often wore a wide brimmed straw hat, knee high rubber boots and a white sleeveless undershirt that strained against his overhanging belly. With a long wooden stick in one hand and a sickle in the other, this goat herder lead these sleepy-eyed creatures with gentle taps and undecipherable verbal commands up the road. In his wake he ignored the garbage containers that were left capsized behind by the marauding goats. He disregarded the half eaten rubbish and debris that were left strewn on the streets and the damaged plants and trees that had their leaves and branches devoured along the herd's path. Worst of all, he was oblivious to the stench of dark brown pebbles of goat excrement that rolled like marbles behind the herd of goats, leaving pedestrians tip-toeing through a turd laden minefield. This weekly parade up Jones Street frustrated the property owners on the street yet the outcome was always the same.
One particular day, I watched helplessly from my grandmother’s gallery as the goats stampeded past our home. Within the herd I noticed a female goat whose two kids feverishly attempting to nurse from that mother’s swollen teats. The female goat fell behind the other members of the herd and trotted near my grandmother's gate where her rose plants grew through the wire fence. The two kids followed close as their mother ate her way down our front steps into the yard. The young goats ventured further into the yard now sampling whatever plants were within mouths' reach. I hid in the front porch and quietly observed these two kids hungrily snipping and tearing at the leaves in the garden. It wasn’t enough to simply scare the kids away. What should have evoked memories of nurturance and feelings of empathy that people normally embrace towards the innocence of young life was coldly hi-jacked by something sinister. The softness, dependence and purity of young goats should have warmed my heart. Instead, I was unusually frustrated and agitated by what I saw in these feeble little animals; enjoying that magnetic maternal bond, oblivious to danger and their own fragile mortality. How dare they be so naive? My own despise held me, seething in its depths. I unearthed a large stone from the garden and snuck close enough to unsuspectingly stone one of the kids - striking it in the head. I can still hear the blood curdling sound of the stone meeting the soft bone and fur of the young goat's temple. The goat screamed as it scampered out the yard, dazed and confused. As if suddenly released from a spell, feelings of guilt overwhelmed me. I stood there numb, contemplating the moment of my angry cataclysm. At the same time I heard the words of my god fearing grandmother in mind warning me that god sees all, and I felt naked knowing he was watching. The guilt I had associated with that moment slowly subsided and I was able to rationalize my response as the actions of a dutiful grandson protecting his grandmother’s property from this irresponsible man and his goats. However, the relief that these rationalizations provided became short-lived and diminished, becoming unpalatable excuses as my aggressive behaviour became more frequent and unpredictable.
Mornings at Mon Repos Roman Catholic School started the same way. The students were herded back outside to the back of the school yard to receive breakfast after morning announcements and inspection. In an effort to enrich leaning and improve the overall health and well-being of school age children, the government of Trinidad and Tobago had implemented a school nutrition program. It provided breakfast - milk and biscuits, and lunch for all the students. Class by class we lined up, jostling and teasing each other, all trying to gain a better view of the lady who mixed the powdered milk into the large aluminum cauldrons. I studied how she stirred these giant jugs with the long ladle, pushing the milky contents from side to side, assessing the consistency intermittently for lumps. Even though she prepared the milk the same way every day the milk would never tasted as it did the day before. It was sometimes watery, sometimes sweet and sometimes bland. Stacked on the table beside the milk were stacks of cups in various colors. They were blue, yellow, red, white, green, pink and brown. We made up little simple rhymes about the lottery of cups that each child was randomly served their milk. Affectionately spoken in our Trinidadian dialect, we recited them as, Blue, blue I love you. Yellow, yellow. Yous ah cool fellow. White, white. You alright. Green, green. You kissed the queen. Then there were the bad colours that we all tried to avoid. Red, red. Yuh pee de bed. Brown, brown. Yuh wear Nannie night gown. And Pink, pink. Yuh panty stink! Out of all the cups that were available, drawing a pink plastic milk cup would have invited a nightmare of viscous attacks on any unfortunate boy or girl. We would desperately gulp down our glasses so as to not prolong the mocking that would inevitably follow the disparaging association with the color pink and especially pink panties.
Troy Bernadie was a classmate that was always the focal point of our teasing and bullying. Troy was actually a bright and pleasant student who was shy, often soft-spoken yet polite. However, his fainthearted demeanor made him an easy target of relentlessly badgering and he seldom found the nerve to stand up for himself. Henceforth, I could not hide how much his timid energy and social awkwardness infuriated me. Troy was especially dark. So dark that in the right light his wrinkled skin would glisten with hints of purple and blue. His eyes were dark brown and seemed to droop as if he was sad and tired. On top of that, as a result of having an abundance of loose skin, folds of it lined his forehead and gave him the appearance of an old man. Possessing an unusually large protruding bottom jaw, there was just too much space for his tiny rat like teeth to fill out. This caused them to grow crookedly with many gaps in between. It gave him a space-ridden toothy smile. His meaty broad nose reminded me of the rubber bulb of a horn that I had a spiteful urge to squeeze. Strange to say, this was driven by an uncontrollable petulance I had towards him. Having large prominent ears and a large round head just added to the characteristics of someone who was intellectually slow and doltish. The un-ironed shirt, his crinkled khaki shorts, the dusty running shoes and un-kept hair only bloodied the water for a frenzy of taunts and ridicule.
There was a usual tension in the air this one school morning. Grey clouds had moved in and there was a threat of heavy rain. The wind had picked up and raced through the bamboo patch that grew sprawlingly behind the school. Our teacher, Mrs. Stoute anxiously ushered us in line to expedite the breakfast serving process before the rain fell. In his typical docile way, Troy asked if he could be excused from the line to use the bathroom. Failing to communicate the urgency of his situation Mrs. Stoute insisted he wait until he was served his milk and biscuit. Troy agreeably shrunk back into line, resigned in his reluctance to assert himself. I stood in line anxiously anticipating how the day’s batch of milk would taste. I was hoping to drink from a yellow or white cup. Valarie Samuels, Rene Charles, Kirk Maharaj and Troy were in line in front of me. They were assigned blue, yellow and green cups respectively. Troy, so distracted by nature’s calling and his nervous fidgeting, he hadn’t noticed that he was served with a red cup. Right on cue the line of students erupted in laughter all chanting in unison, “Red, red you pee the bed!”
“Enough!” Mrs. Stoute snapped immediately dissipating the laughter. Sheepishly, Troy took big gulps of his milk, teetering from side to side on his feet, noticeably suppressing the urge to go. I shook my head unsympathetically as I glared at him with narrowed eyes. In the midst of Mrs. Stoute trying to quiet the line nobody noticed I was issued a brown cup. Standing quietly, I envisioned of my grandmother’s night gown as the moment passed. Mrs. Stoute gave Troy the nod to go to the bathroom and he hastily crept off. I drained my glass of milk in one long gulp. It was especially watery that day. Shoving my biscuit in my front pocket I asked if I too could be excused to go to the washroom. I raced to intercept Troy at the door of the outdoor concrete structured latrine. I stood with my hands out stretched barring the door from the outside, wincing from the pungent smell of stale urine. Troy attempted to rush past but to his chagrin, I refused to let him through, squeezing him away with each attempt. Standing firm, my eyes probed fiercely into his eyes, unblinking. I grinned at him and waited, intoxicated with my own barbed power and bad intentions. Soon, his aggressiveness and will began to shrink in the face of my contempt for his weakness. As he danced and twisted, pleading for me to let him pass urine had already started streaming down his leg and I smiled in amusement. Moving aside I let him pass. He ran into one of the stalls in an attempt to hide. Refusing to relent, I climbed over the door and peered over the top, looking down at him. Without any regard for his privacy, I looked on spitefully, mocking him until, alas, he finally broke down into tears. Just then the angry clouds clapped over head, giving way to a deluge of heavy rainfall, quite emblematic of Troy’s bladder failure finding its release, his submissive tears and the flushing relief of my own pent up anger.
It is important to mention that these outbursts were supposed to be quite out of character for a kid like me. I was no bully. I was Melva's grandson, David from Jones Street. She did not raise me that way. I was obedient, shy, a rather diffident child. I felt I had a healthy sense of compassion, empathy and respect for people. When comfortable, I enjoyed social interaction among friends, classmates and family. As a student I was excellent. At an early age, I earned the admiration and respect of my teachers and peers. On countless occasions I ranked academically in the top three of my class on our interim report cards. With the aid of a good upbringing and my father’s good looks, I was chosen often to represent the class or school at special events and banquets. I was even chosen at the Kiddies’ Carnival as part of the King and Queen of a local Carnival band in Mon Repos. On the day my favourite teacher, Mrs. Stoute retired, I was chosen to present her with a parting gift - a fancy burlap handbag. I prepared a little speech that made her cry. Despite all these good things and positive influences from my grandmother and the like, there was a darkness residing within me that she had not known. Coincidentally as my school marks began to fall I grew further and further away from the child my grandmother raised. And for the first time, even she fell victim to my shenanigans and episodes of acting out.
It was an early evening in November, close to sunset. I had spent the weekend visiting with my cousins in Arima. My uncle Richard had just dropped me off at my grandmother’s place on Jones’ street. I was delighted to return to a street full of my friends gathered at the side of the road. There was electricity in the air and an excitement in their eyes. Like cannons in a fort the bamboo stalks were set up in preparation for the tradition that heralded the approach of the Divali and Christmas season. Using skillfully fashioned mature bamboo stalks they created booming explosions after a process of heating the bamboo and igniting a mixture of oxygen and kerosene with an open flame. Shattering the stillness of the evenings thunderous roars would be heard over the hills as teams of boys tried to outdo each other trying to achieve the loudest booms. The activity was also known as bursting carbide. Lost in my excitement I convinced myself that saying hello to my grandmother could wait. I left my belongings at the gate and rushed to participate in the activities on the road. What I thought would have been a few minutes of watching turned into hours. Perhaps I assumed my grandmother knew I was home or that I would surprise her with a late entrance. That aside, when I felt a hand snatch me abruptly by the corner of my ear and drag me out of my circle of friends, leaving them all with mouth’s hanging open, I knew right away who it was and why. I was mortified. Certainly, there was no shortage of blame on my part. And in all fairness, I knew better than to not greet my grandmother after being away from the house for a few days before going back outside. The message my grandmother tried to send was received loud and clear. Needless to say, it was an unfortunate lesson to learn about respect and consideration out in front of my friends and neighbors. And as we got inside I lost my wits. Fury took control of my better judgement and I snapped angrily back at my grandmother. It was the only time she had ever had to physically discipline me; and in front of all my friends to boot. She was not at all pleased with my response and was certain that the devil had got into me. “Who do you think you are talking to?” She retorted bending down to meet me face to face. “You came home all this time unannounced? You feel you are a big man?” She argued.
“And you must feel you are my mother!” I responded, secretly amused. My grandmother’s eye-brows rose in disbelief. “Lord help me with this child!” she prayed. My belligerence increased to a level of hot tempered, spitting incoherence. And much like the sounds of bamboo cracking in the streets I exploded in a fit of rage, knocking over my grandmother’s doily table, shattering several of her ceramic figurines and plates. With my hands tightly clenched and my chest heaving up and down, we stood facing each other in silence. My grandmother only shook her head as my Uncle Alfred who overheard the quarreling came to intervene. I could barely see her face through the beads of tears that welled up on my eye lids. As my dizzying fury washed away, I felt as though those evil spirits that temporarily possessed my mind now scurried off, snickering and scoffing at the predicament they led me into. After reclaiming my sanity, eyes slowly adjusting into clear focus, I observed just over my grandmother’s shoulder, the image of the Lagahoo carrying his mysterious coffin. What have I done? I thought. From that moment the innocence of our relationship would never be the same.
My Auntie Genevieve was very close with my mother they were both very much alike and their personalities meshed well together. Genny was an odd woman who never married. Small in stature with a quirky yet determined personality she was often mired in her paranoia of people and had a string of worries about life in general. She was a superstitious woman who often over analyzed the meaning of conversations, or chance occurrences and regular life. At times she was stubbornly resistant to logic and rational thought. If anyone was likely to knock on wood, avoid stepping on lines, black cats and reading horoscopes it was my aunt Jenny. My aunt probably suffered from obsessive compulsion disorder and possessed similar symptoms as those of superstitious people. Simply put, she was weird but not in an off-putting way. While we joked about her strange ways, it was hard to deny her warm heartedness and overall good intentions.
Over the next few months, there was a growing concern about my abrasive attitude, fits of temper, the decline in my performance in school and my general quarrelsome disposition. And my Aunt took it upon herself to attempt to step in get me some help. Without my mother’s permission my aunt Jenny had arranged for me to visit a professional – a doctor or counselor, I thought. I remember it was a sweltering morning and my aunt took me out of school so that we could travel by taxi to visit someone she kept describing as an old friend. The taxi dropped us off on the main road just outside the subdivision and we began to walk our way deeper into the neighborhood. My aunt walked with a quick pace that I could barely keep up with, more so because I was distracted by my own efforts to sight see and people watch in this new untraveled community. The neighborhood consisted of a mixture of residential and commercial properties. We passed auto-repair shops, scrap yards, rum shops, public stand pipes and mossy ravines that lined the roadways. Some of the homes were of the familiar two story variety. They consisted of concrete pillars that were constructed side by side crudely built shanty-type dwellings constructed of corrugated steel and plywood. There were lots overgrown with thick vegetation that camouflaged homes that were abandoned in mid-construction, leaving behind only concrete pillars and steel-rebar that rose through the wild foliage. In stark contrast, there were also elegant gated sprawling properties with clay-tile roof tops and stylishly painted concrete walls and stone balustrade balconies. We also passed grassy vacant lots littered with dilapidated vehicles and abandoned car parts. I saw no children as they were all in school - as they should have been. We finally arrived at a property with high concrete walls and a massive steel door that was the only entrance to this fortress. The top of the walls were crowned by make-shift burglar proofing that consisted of a colorful array of broken glass bottles, sharp edges up, permanently affixed in cement to the concrete. We could hear the sounds of dogs barking on the inside.
Before my aunt could knock on the massive metal door, it dragged open making a loud moan in the process. I followed close behind my aunt as we were greeted by a short woman and a pack of excited dogs jumping playfully on us as we walked in. The woman was tall, five feet 8 inches maybe. She had smooth brown skin and even with a dark scar under her eye, her pleasantly chiseled features were overwhelming. She wore a flower-patterned head tie that matched her square-necked dress. Behind the walls was the same two storied type concrete structure. Surrounding its foundation was concrete ground. The walls were simple, consisting of ventilation blocks embedded in the walls over louvered windows that were wound shut. A concrete stair case with an iron hand rail led upstairs on the far side. We were brought in through a wooden side door that had newspaper taped over the glass window. My suspicions grew as I took into account the high walls with the draconian broken glass decorations, and the windows with papers covering the glass. Clearly, the owner wanted to keep trespassers out and unaware of what went on inside.
We entered a room under the house where the floor was just dirt. My aunt and this woman spoke casually to each other as she locked the door behind her. In the centre of the room I observed cordoned off by hanging sheets that formed a smaller square room in the middle of this bigger space. It was dimly lit and cool. There was a strong scent of incense burning. The sheets hung close to the ground and I observed the soft light of candles burning behind the curtains. Moments later I heard the woman explain to my aunt that she should wait here and the lady found an opening in between the sheets and directed me inside. My aunt gave me a reassuring nod and explained that she is going to pray for me. Pray for me? I wondered. As I entered I observed about 10 to 15 candles on the ground around a small bucket in the middle of the room. The woman directed me towards the only stool in the room that was close to a bucket. She walked me towards the stool and gently rested her hands on my shoulders, guiding me to sit down. She removed a small dark bottle from her bosom and began to sprinkle its contents around the room. I was startled when this soft-spoken woman started chanting in this strange language, bellowing at times in a staccato type rhythm. She wiped dabs of an odorless liquid behind my ears, on my forehead and under my nose as she circled me slowly, chanting and singing. The rest of its contents were poured into the bucket. It was at that point I came to realize that this was a very strange ceremony. I made a decision that I would remain calm and endure this thing to be polite. Besides, I could add this to the funny story I had already began to put together about how my Aunt Jenny took me to visit one of her strange friends.
She then sprinkled something in my eyes that stung a little and I was forced to keep them closed. Circling me again, her chanting grew louder and she began to dust my arms, shoulders and head with what felt like dry leaves. As I sat in darkness, the stinging in my eyes started to fade but as a precaution I chose to keep them closed anyway. Strangely, I began to make out unusual colors and shapes that were unlike the visual noise one would normally see under closed eyelids. The randomness of blinking dots and fuzziness within the blackness took on a peculiar pattern. They started off as purple squares that multiplied and expanded, spreading further and further apart. This pattern repeated and began to accelerate faster and faster. I relied heavily on my sense of smell and my hearing. The woman’s chants now took on a rhythmic pattern and I felt as though I was being swept and pulled by the current of a dizzying, unexplainable force. My arms and legs felt heavy and my head hung with my chin against my chest. The purple squares I saw burst into a plethora of colorful shapes that floated randomly about, like living creatures would under water. Moments later, it was as if I was looking through a narrow cylinder with mirrors that contained a spectacular array of interlocking parts that I can only describe as a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors. The patterns shifted and moved to form new shapes and patterns. It was beautiful.
The sensations I felt and the images I saw seemed to dance in front of my eyes, keeping me in a trance for what felt like hours. As I regained a sense of the room and the space I was in, I noticed the familiar pattern of breathing on my neck. It was subtle at first, then frighteningly obvious. What made this more bizarre was that it was clear it was not the woman. She was now reciting these indecipherable words and from her audible lilting, I had a general idea of her location. This strange breathing sensation was labored, as if whoever or whatever it was, was breathing hard out of exhaustion or out of savage rage. If I had the courage to open my eyes, I am sure this entity would have been inches from my face. The presence lurked behind me, breathing as heavy as a stallion, dragging something with it along the dusty ground floor that sounded like a heavy chain. Was it my aunt? The petrifying suspense was interrupted when I felt the hands of the woman gently raise my feet out of my sandals, and one at a time she lowered them into the bucket that was filled with warm water. She washed my feet and said a short prayer. Breathing a sigh of relief I felt as though the healing ceremony was coming to an end. I struggled to make sense out of what was happening. As the brief flares of candle light registered dimly onto my now slowly widening eyes, I was shocked to observe several silhouettes standing side by side, seemingly shackled together by chains. In astonishment, I blinked to sharpen my focus and in that instant, these unspeakable entities were gone. My heart leapt. I let out a noticeable yelp at what I thought I saw. The woman however, remained inexplicably unfazed by my reaction and removed a bundle of safety pins that were in the bucket of water where I had my feet washed. “Did you see that?” I asked, stammering.
“You are safe,” she explained after a brief pause. “And if you are ever in danger, say Elohim three times and you will be protected.” She said firmly.
I interrupted. “Say what?”
“El-o-heem” She said, enunciating slowly with a carefully tempered intensity.
She placed the collection of safety pins in my palm and folded my palm closed firmly with both her hands. “Keep these under your pillow”. She said softly. I sat there for a moment struggling to absorb all that took place. I took slow measured movements, surveying the room, before I began to outstretch my legs and untangle myself from this ritual that I later learned was known as a ‘Bush bath’.
My mother hadn’t said a word the entire ride to the park. My Auntie Lynn had arranged for us to attend an amusement park that had newly opened in Trinidad called Sesame Street. As Katherine’s illness got worse my aunt became more invested with spending quality time, together as a family. Myself, my cousins, my mother and my Aunt piled into her car on our way to enjoy the rides, games and shows at the park. At this point I had hardly spent much time with my mother and at that time, was not fully informed on the severity of her condition. Having to spend so much time in and out of hospital for cancer treatment had quite a strain on her energy and our relationship. Needless to say, overcoming stage four of uterine cancer may have required all of the average person’s will and focus. Her smiles grew less and less frequent and it had been months since she told one of her funny stories. Despite expectations to the contrary, as the only child in my household, I was quite personable and was not aloof or anti-social. In fact, whenever I was around my cousins I became quite energetic and enjoyed being the center of attention, running, playing and roughhousing. My Aunt didn’t have to try hard to keep us kids upbeat and encouraged the laughter and merriment on our ride to the amusement park. She was hoping it would cheer up Katherine. However understandably, my mother was stoic and remained as she often was since her illness, staring straight ahead off into space. At one point my Aunt hit a pot hole in the road that made us all fly off our seats at the same time, with our heads bouncing off the ceiling of the car. We were quite surprised at the sudden jolt and all began to laugh nervously after we realized what had happened. My mother’s face did not change, sullen and remote, her eyes remained fixated forward. Quietly at that moment I realized the mother I had known was already gone and that my life was about to change forever.
The past few weeks of had been particularly humid. It was June 16th 1979, the day of her funeral. It was cool and overcast. Many worried if there would be rain later. I listened to mourners reflecting on the time they spent with my mother. There were many kind words, lamenting about her death on June 7th. There were also looks of sympathy, especially towards my younger half sister Sabina who they had quaintly seated beside me. I had overheard that Katherine died comfortably in bed, chewing on piece of stewed beef. She had chewed all the juice and nutrients from it before spitting out the chewy waste. Metaphorically the same way the cancer fed on her smile, her future and any zest for life that remained after her debilitating battle. Many assumed that I did not understand what was happening because I didn’t shed any tears as a result of her death. With my mother gone, I was left alone to answer so many questions; left alone to root out the seeds of broken promises, to prune the fibrous roots of neglect and the clinging vines of shame. And as I had anticipated my own pain to wilt away as she did, the pain only grew more entangled into my psyche. What good would tears do now? Instead, I quietly admired the church’s high ceilings and architecture at St. Paul’s Anglican Church. I appreciated how perfectly straight the embedded stained glass bricks at the center of the church wall formed to make the cross. Before the sound of the long and sustained notes of the pipe organ brought me back to my sobering reality, I had taken a particular interest in the decorated priest who led the procession. He swung a brass thurible that emitted bursts of aromatic smoke from incense that burned on bricks of charcoal inside. The smell was familiar and may have been the same fragrance that the woman had been burning inside room of hanging sheets under her house that day. Strangely, the familiar smell calmed me. It was the first time I had seen a coffin; except for those in the window at Mr. Maduro’s funeral home and the one that rested on the Lagahoo’s head in the picture in my grandmother’s dining room.
There was something foreboding about the image of the Lagahoo that I had always known, however subconsciously. As a result, I could now relate to the burdensome plight of this wiry Negro man known as the Lagahoo. He was trapped in a perpetual cycle of haunting, carrying with him his own demons, approaching a cross road that lead to the same place over and over again. I almost felt sympathy towards him, carrying this coffin and shackled by cuffs and chains before I stopped short. Despite the obvious association between what was now my mother’s coffin and the one he carried, it was now eerily symbolic of my own baggage; my own buried feelings and anguish stemming from my broken bond with my mother. Later in life, I buried those feelings, and with them inadvertently arrested my own development and delayed the process of healing.
The darkness that lived in me guided my actions and molded my psyche to be someone I hardly recognized and informed my worst instincts. It became my blind spot and it was so obvious now that the coffin in the picture represented the anger and shame I had towards my mother. Unlike my life as a child and later in early adulthood the dark side grew unrecognized and ignored. It led me to hurt others including myself. Early on, I was unable to identify the monster thriving in my blind spot that had set out to not only to destroy me but relationships around me. For the first time, I understood the Lagahoo, the Obeah man, pallbearing the coffin that was carrying his bush rum that he used as currency through the crossroads. Within the artist’s interpretation of this character, I saw myself. Misguided by an ego poisoned by the darkness, the bush rum was the Lagahoo’s fool’s gold; a by-product of suffering that guided us both on a path blindly away from discovering our true selves. Since then, I have sought out to acknowledge my shadow and develop a relationship with it, learning from it but not indulging in it and finding its silver lining. Bound and shackled to the darkness within are one’s richest qualities and the greatest talents. There, you will find not perfection but who you really are, what you are meant to be.
留言