The Price of Fish

The Price of Fish by Rory Elliott

As a young boy being frightened was somewhat of a preoccupation. I learned later as an adult that the anxiety I had felt was directly related to the void created by the absence of a built-in mother and father which at the time was indicative of my circumstances. This caused me to be constantly on high alert, scanning the horizons for the dangers that typically plagued the mind of nervous little boys. As a result, despite being a happy child, I suffered quietly with this low-grade fever of fear. The pitch black of the nights in Trinidad offered no solace for those who suffered from this particular affliction. The darkness conspired with that man who stood quietly in the shadows of my bedroom during the night. It also brought to life the phantom owl that stared down at me in the corner of the ceiling, shifting menacingly the more I stared. It was this vivid imagination that darkened the many chilling accounts of folk lore that had been a celebrated fixture of the West Indian culture. I was too young and impressionable to remove the unreasonable elements of these stories that were shared and passed through the generations by word of mouth. Stories like the Obeah practices and Jumbee sightings were all quite entertaining by day but inevitably haunting to the mind of a little boy like me at night. Anecdotal instructions like turning around when entering in the house to prevent spirits from sneaking in behind you at night was one of the practices that I applied without shame. And to top it all off I was especially fearful of stray dogs. The streets of San Fernando were filled with these canine vagrants and I planned my route with keen vigilance so as to avoid any inescapable encounters. These were just some of the things that kept my feelings of vulnerability alive.

Hurricane Alma

It's said that children who experience trauma at an early age develop tendencies of being excessively fearful. On August 14th 1974 the trust I had in the caress of the warm island breeze and the sense of protection and safety it provided, suffered its first blow. On that morning, the heady smell of wet weather was in the air. I used to enjoy drifting into sleep while listening to the rain pelt the iron roofing, I was always safe under. But as the heavy rain steadily grew into violent winds that assailed the dining room windows, blowing them wide open one by one, I became concerned for the first time. After helping my grandmother frantically fasten and secure the latches on the windows, I watched as the rain blew horizontally carrying tree branches, dislodged sheets of galvanize and other loose debris as if they were paper. Worry changed to distress as I heard the impact of flying objects and the great force of the wind rushing uncompassionately through the streets. My grandmother, being the religious woman that she was, whispered prayers as we sat quietly downstairs. We listened to the powerful winds claw relentlessly at the aging roof and pummel the windows and doors.

I had heard many of the homes in our village lost some galvanize sheets that were later retrieved from other yards considerable distances from where they once were laid. Damage to our roof was so severe that it left a gaping hole in the ceiling of my grandmother's room, shamefully exposing it to the unrelenting rain and wind. I remember nervously watching in disbelief as the rainwater streamed down the wooden steps of the staircase that lead to the bedrooms upstairs. The eerie silence that followed due to the power outage was deafening. Long after the rain had subsided, the pangs of raindrops echoed loudly as they dripped from the old wooden joist beams left exposed. They reminded me of the rib cage of an animal left behind after being ravaged by some beastly predator. Outside, the treetops and plants sagged from the beating of wind and rain delivered by hurricane Alma. The feeling of helplessness and the shattered sense of safety left an indelible imprint on me that day.

Eventually, the angry grey clouds drifted off and the familiar warmth, humidity and sunny skies returned. Weeks after the damage from the strong winds of Hurricane Alma my grandmother finally arranged to have the roof repaired. My grandmother was not wealthy by any means but she made ends meet by doing work as a seamstress. The torrents of invading rain left in their wake fabrics of sewing material and clothing in her room mold-eaten and mildewed. The air upstairs was musty and dank. Fortunately, her prized Singer sewing machine was spared any damage. Thankfully she would be able to work to keep food on the table and the lights on. My grandmother Merl was a very proud woman. And at one point she enjoyed the notoriety of owning a house that was thought to be the pearl of Jones Street. Rising high on its peak with its Indian red, corrugated galvanize roof, it could be seen for miles. Only now with its unpainted patch work of roofing, its soffits swollen and bulging from rain water, the pearl was now the blight of the neighbourhood.

I did not know my grandfather, having only met once in my life. I grew up familiar with the idea that my grandmother was a single woman. As a child it was not proper to ask questions about adult affairs like her age, where her husband lived and why he didn’t live with us. I later surmised that for whatever reason his absence coincided with the slow deterioration of the house on Jones Street. Since those days I had gotten used to the cracks that spread down the interior walls that formed like streaks of lightening did across the sky. Many of the light switch switches were broken and had exposed wiring. I learned that I could manipulate and jiggle them to make them work. I had grown accustomed to the old wooden cupboards in the kitchen with its flaking chips of paint and wood soft from rot and burrowing termites. Some floor boards in many areas of the dining room floor had succumbed to termite infestation as well. My grandmother positioned the furniture to hide the holes that riddled the floor that had grown brittle under the weight of furniture, foot traffic and the heat of the sun. Old appliances like washing machines and mixers remained in there designated spots despite being broken-down for decades. The second floor bathroom which once was a convenient amenity lay dormant and inoperative without having reliable plumbing for as long as I could remember. Despite our predicament, come what may, my hardworking Grandmother still adorned the house with newly sewn curtains, re-varnished floors and fresh laden paint for the gallery chairs and plant pots. Although she remained vigilant in her efforts to keep up appearances each year the house fell further into disrepair and dilapidation. She did this with my help without fail with unwavering pride.

Dexter

Dexter Greenridge was my first and closest friend. He was a short chubby brown-skinned boy with a navel that often protruded through the lower buttons of his shirts. He had bushy eyebrows and his short hair kinked into short sparse spiralling rows. Dexter owned a barrel of fish; literally and figuratively. He raised scores of tropical fish in an unusual contraption consisting of an old steel barrel, cinder blocks, wood and galvanize that made his aquarium one of a kind. The barrel held about 100 litres of water that sat in one half of the oil barrel that was skilfully cut from top to bottom. It rested on the ground, buttressed by the blocks and wood. Oh! How I gazed upon this. I had an ardent desire to one day own a similar collection of fish.

Dexter and his family resided behind us at the bottom of a sloping spacious lot that accommodated both homes. The lot rose on a slowly rolling incline from a sparse cane field that grew behind his house. It slanted up to where it met the house just underneath their front steps. It continued up through the yards and met our house the same way before reaching to its peak where it levelled off bordering onto Jones Street. They lived in a three-bedroom old wooden bungalow that was galvanized, with clapboard walls built on concrete pillars. The slope in between the lots was interrupted by a small 3-foot wall that adjoined a flat grassy area. This space separated 12 Jones Street, where I lived with my grandmother and my two uncles and 12 Jones Street B where the Greenridge's lived. The Greenridge's also utilized this area to park their family car. It was a 1972 Ford Cortina, a popular imported sedan to Trinidad at that time. Their dog Bingo was a light brown and white pot hound. He often lazed around belly-side up in the front just outside their broad porch. It was here Dexter and I spent most of our time playing together. The yard bore many fruits. Surrounding both houses was a plethora of shady Long mango trees that blossomed every season. Among them was a short stubborn avocado tree that sparingly bore fruit. The guava trees with their wide and short canopies had sturdy branches that were perfect for climbing and playing tree-house. Small green shrub-like Lime trees grew thorns as long as tooth picks. There were also many Banana trees with their broad, long, graceful leaves that flapped like flags as their baskets of green banana hung close to their trunks.

It was common in Trinidad for young boys to participate in the hobby of raising fish. At that time I was around eight years old. Serious fish minders possessed several varieties and owned ingeniously built aquariums. However, among all the avant-garde, none were quite as novel as Dexter's. Popular amongst most fish hobbyists were wild guppies and goldfish. The more rare the collection of fish the more popular and respected the owner. It also afforded you the opportunity to trade as well as breed rare species of fish. Dexter boasted the largest assortment of fish in the area showcasing many exotic species of fish. He had Moon Platies which were small colourful fish known for their shiny metallic-like scales. Among those were Cichlid fish which were normally striped with puffy distended lips. Mollie fish, known for their long bodies and neat, paintbrush like tails also inhabited his aquarium. Other members of his marine family were Discus fish which were distinctly round in shape and Tetras that were tiny submarine shaped fish which were shiny and two-toned. These were my favourite because of their vibrant colors. He also had Barbs that were flat with pointy split tails, Angelfish, Fighters, Butterfly fish and many more. The aquarium was tucked safely under the house near the front steps covered by a sheet of galvanize. Plenty of the heavy maintenance on the aquarium was done by Dexter's older brother Brian who owned the tank before Dexter boastfully claimed them as his own. Since there was no glass on his aquarium, the dark green water created a marine mystery that enticed young fish enthusiasts curious about the creatures that lived under the floating lily pads. Many school mates and friends traveled far and wide to marvel at his prized collection of water dwellers. Dexter was lucky. His father worked at a major shipyard in Port of Spain and he knew many of the seaman and captains who worked on merchant ships. Mr. Greenridge was able to trade for many exotic South American species of fish that Dexter in turn added to his collection. Naturally, I was envious of Dexter and his fish collection and silently resented him for the relationship that he had with his father.

The first fish I ever owned were two Tetra fish that Dexter gave to me. We called them "Two-tones" because they were slender bodied fish with two tones color - a teal that ran along the upper dorsal side with bright orange that ran along on its belly. I would mistakenly boast that my fish were “so erotic”. My grandmother would swiftly respond, sometimes shouting from the next room the correct word, "Exotic!" I didn't have a fancy aquarium just a basic glass fish bowl with aquarium gravel and an artificial plant that my grandmother bought for me. I added drift wood, marbles and smooth stones that I brought back from the beach. I could not keep my hands out of the bowl. Constantly rearranging the ornaments, I strived for the coolest environment for my friends to behold. Tragically, my fish died two weeks later. In a mixture of panic and disbelief I quickly removed them and changed the water hoping for a miraculous revival. They remained afloat dead as ever. I was too ashamed to tell anyone about the fate of my fish especially Dexter. How could I explain that I killed two Tetra fish? I would surely be ridiculed for carelessly allowing these precious fish to perish.

Larry Blanchfield

Larry Blanchfield attended Mon Repos Roman Catholic, like me. We were both students in standard four. Larry was a big kid with a soft pudgy body. He had smooth dark brown skin with shiny black hair that glistened with pomade. His dark brown eyes were decorated with lashes that were unusually long for a boy. Larry did many things that contrasted the way most boys dressed and behaved. Larry's uniform was always neatly pressed. He wore his short sleeve shirts with the sleeves rolled up similar to the way some of the girls did. The folds were pressed perfectly and sat high on his upper arm. His khaki shorts were consistently clean with straight crisp creases. Larry's skin had an even sheen from the coconut oil that was generously applied to his legs, arms, face and hands. Most boys pulled their socks high to their knees emulating their favourite super heroes, and I - I was so distracted by how Larry wore his socks - rolled neatly down to his ankles - that I stared. I also couldn't help but notice that he kept long fingernails as he often gesticulated with his hands, waving them dangerously close to your face when he spoke. Despite the fact that he embodied some of these soft effeminate qualities they belied the predatory, bullying qualities that he used to patrol the schoolyard. While he socialized amicably with many of the girls at school, he made the school days for most of the boys a nightmare, including mine.

For many young children part of their morning routine included traipsing through Mrs. Sooknanan's gate. Swiping our way through the maze of hanging sheets and clothes on her laundry line, down through the concrete pillars under her house and around to the side we formed a neat line outside her small parlour shop. Here, she sold delicious snacks from the open upper half of a wooden set of Dutch doors. I would be salivating just looking at all the choices stored in glass jars on the shelves and counter tops behind her. I stared eagerly as she served confections with her spoon onto brown sheets of wax paper she handed to the students in line. For 25 cents you could buy one serving of many snacks like:

Sweet and Sour salted prunes

Chilli Bibi - grounded roast corn with sugar

Tamarind balls or sauce - a tangy mixture of sugar, tamarind pulp and flour

Toolum - molasses and coconut balls

Sour cherrie jam

Red mango - a mixture of pepper, salt, spice and sugar

Red plums preserved in pepper, food colouring and salt

Khurma - rolls of fried flour with sugar.

The street savvy among us made sure to enjoy Mrs. Sooknanan's goodies quickly right outside her yard. Too many boys made the mistake of trying to savour their favourite snacks for too long, all the way to the schoolyard. They all suffered the same fate at the hands of Larry who would stalk them like prey and violently snatch their snacks right out of their hands. He left them with scratches from his long nails and the embarrassment that often accompanied the state of helplessness.

Even though Larry and I had no negative interactions - as I always ate my Khurma immediately after buying it - I knew our lives would become more intricately intertwined. Although he had acquired a reputation as an antagonizer on school campus Larry was also quite an acclaimed fish minder. And he owned Tetra fish! The wheels in my head began to turn pondering a way to nonchalantly engage this dragon to discuss how he might donate a few coins from his gold treasure stores. Determined to devise a way to befriend him I quickly came up with a desperate plan to replenish my fish bank.

Ice Gems

The next morning I asked my grandmother for 50 cents so that I could buy an extra serving of Khurma. This was to be bait to lure Larry into my trap. Instead of devouring my snack right outside Mrs. Sooknanan's yard as I normally did, I walked with the group, with one bag of Khurma in my pocket and other in hand. As we approached the bottom of the school yard my school mates were now all precautiously empty handed. I on the other hand, strolled up the hill with a cocky smile, cool as a fan as I crunched on my first few sticks of Khurma. I paused momentarily to dust the sugar crumbs from my fingertips before looking down into my bag, making my movements as casual as possible. Pretending to be oblivious to the danger in my close surroundings, I fingered the brown paper bag and reached for another stick, eyes darting around inconspicuously scanning for Larry lurking in the weeds. My heart raced as I waited for Larry to pounce and to take the bait. My classmates were certain I had gone mad.

Minutes before the morning bell a skirmish broke out in the paved area where we assembled in rows for morning inspection. We made our way over to see what was happening among the pupils that started gathering and jeering. And of course, wrestling with a puny boy who was refusing to give up his bag of Ice Gems, I found Larry. Ice Gems, a tasty treat and well worth the 75 cents was a snack sold in small plastic bags that were filled with dime sized sweet biscuits topped with coloured icing, piped into hardened swirls. Larry had the boy clinched in a headlock in one hand, while struggling to grab the bag from him with the other. I admired the young boy's courage and his taste in snacks, but certainly I would have drawn the line at being choked to death in front of the whole school for them. I sifted my way through the mob and knelt down so that I could speak to the young boy. His face was partially buried in Larry's side. "If I were you I'd let go of the bag", I said tentatively, stirring a nervous chuckle from the crowd. "No!" He grunted as he swung the bag behind his back. Larry now reinforced his hold, locking his grip with both hands, pressing his forearm into his cheek. The boy's face turned red. Larry wrenched tighter and the sudden jolt of that motion sent them into a slow circling waltz. The bag of Ice Gems was still held high behind the boy's back and Larry's socks still lay, undisturbed, neatly rolled down around his ankles. "Rest down the bag," Larry said grimacing with his teeth clenched as he strengthened his grip. "No!" The boy replied in a muffled yet defiant tone. I repositioned myself again kneeling to get a better vantage point to reason with the helpless boy. "Give it up," I implored. "It's not worth it." Sounding more determined he barked, "It's mine!" The chatter from the crowd increased. Fully immersed in my mediator role, I said to Larry, "He's not going to let go." I eased the bag of Khurma from my pocket and shook the contents slightly to get his attention. Recognizing how beautifully this fell in-line with my plan as I presented a peace offering. "If I give you this Khurma will you let him go?" The crowd hushed awaiting his response. With the boy's head still firmly in his grasp he dragged him closer and looked the contents of the bag over. He paused. Then in an effort to preserve his Lion-of-the-Savannah image, he coaxed the boy to speak before letting him free, "You'd better say thanks to.....What's your name?", gesturing to me. "Rory," I responded quickly. "Thanks!" said the boy urgently. "Thanks who?" snarled Larry. "Rory! Thanks Rory!" he said, struggling to breathe now. Squeezing down harder a few more seconds for good measure Larry let go. With his wounded pride the boy scurried off still clutching to his bag of Ice Gems, avoiding eye contact with anyone. The crowd exhaled a sigh of relief.

Just then the bell sounded - instantaneously restoring order to the chaos that had become the school yard. Students suddenly ran in all directions to get in line for our morning roll-call. Larry gently removed the bag of Khurma from my hand and with an air of mistrust, he inspected it. Feeling a sense of urgency after the morning bell, I began to ramble. "So, I heard you raise fish?” After shoving a few sticks into his mouth his attention soon began to wander. "I have a few fish myself too you know. You want to trade? What kinds do you have? I love two-tones. You have those?" "How do you know that?" he asked, shifting his book bag strap higher up his shoulder. "I heard.....I just heard it from somewhere," I said, trying to sound convincing. "Five dollars," Larry blurts out cutting me off. "You have Two-tones?", I inquired. "You want to buy some? Bring five dollars Corey. “Larry turned his back and began to walk away, seemingly out of earshot. "Okay. I'll bring it tomorrow!" I stammered. "And my name is Rory!" I yelled.

Eight Dollars

I was very excited at the idea of getting my fish back, for the moment. I was delaying the stress and gravity that would come with figuring out where I would get five dollars to pay for these fish. I went into my grandmother's purse and to my delight counted $28. I ran downstairs and told her I saw some really special fish that would cost just five dollars. She tried to explain why there wasn't enough money to buy me my fish right now. She lost my attention right after I heard that her answer was no. That night I tossed and turned thinking about new fish. The next day right before leaving for school I paced back and forth in the front gallery contemplating what I was about to do. It was only five dollars, I reasoned, and she probably wouldn't miss it. She had been sewing often and would earn more soon. Besides, she always acknowledged how pretty the fish were. I stopped in my tracks spun around and crept upstairs to where my grandmother's purse was resting on top her bureau. Just before I twisted the brass plated clasp on her purse I thought, the living room could use those fish to beautify it some more. She'll see. I then removed eight single dollars that were rolled together from her purse and slid out the door.

It was Friday morning. Instantly I became quite popular with the morning group as I bought everyone their own servings of tamarind balls, mango-anchar and Toolum. After licking the confections off the wax paper and sucking the pulp dry off the mango seeds they celebrated my generosity with cheers and laughter parading down the street. The mood was especially cheerful for a Friday and yet I wasn't quite comfortable with it. I was hoping that being able to share my moment of irresponsible indulgence with them would dispel the feelings of guilt. It didn't. I tried to remain focused on the new fish but still I was distracted by all-consuming nervous energy. Larry took payment for the fish without incident and agreed to bring the fish for me at lunch time. Our house was a five minute walk from the school and if I could get them off Larry I would be able to run them home quickly and return in time for afternoon class. Surprisingly, Larry kept his word and the transaction went smoothly as planned.

Mr. Singh

For the moment I was excited to finally have my fish at home. They were two neon like fish that were both electric blue with bright red under bodies. They would rapidly jet around the fish bowl so fast they would stir up the gravel in the aquarium. They were pretty fish with remarkable colours but the thrill I had envisioned was subdued and paled into insignificance by mounting feelings of guilty agitation. On that night my grandmother found me with my chin resting on my hands as I stared aimlessly through the glass of the fish bowl. She commented on how pretty the new fish were and asked where I got them. I suddenly realized that I hadn't thought this plan all the way through and I wanted to cop to the whole story. I wanted to tell her how Dexter gave me these fish and that they died. I wanted to tell her that I stole money from her purse and paid a boy at school for these new fish. But I didn't. Instead making matters worse I lied and said Dexter gave me these fish as well too. As I followed her upstairs to bed she remarked, "Dexter gave you those fish? How nice!". My head heavy with wrong I wrestled with my pillow and turned restlessly for sometime before falling to sleep.

The next morning I woke to the sound of Mr Singh calling at the front gate. "Mrs. Elliott!" he called. "Mrs. Elliott!”. Mr. Singh was a fisherman who sold fish in Mon Repos on his bike. Affixed to the front fender and handle bars was a metal trimmed wooden box lined with styrofoam. It was packed with ice. From this make-shift thermal box, he sold many varieties of fresh fish. Attached to his neck, just under his left ear, was a massive goitre the size of a cricket ball. My grandmother always bought fresh King fish from him. There on top of his wooden cutting board he would clean, gut, chop and weigh pieces of fish for her. On his previous visits I would peer nervously from the porch mesmerized by his peculiar appendage. His gold fillings would shine between his front teeth as he smiled, and greeted my grandmother with respectful pleasantries. I could hear my grandmother running up and down the stairs stirring frantically as her bedroom slippers rubbed the floor with each chipping step. She greeted Mr. Singh outside and I heard her apologize for something that I couldn't quite make out. I got up and went to the front bedroom window to hear her better and to peep at this disfigured yet cheerful man. I heard my grandmother explain to him that she misplaced some of her money and could not afford her regular purchase today. Mr. Singh insisted that she pay him next time and gladly prepared her fish the way he normally did. My sinking feeling suddenly grated my stomach. I listened intently as my grandmother returned to the house. "Mario!" she called urgently. "Yes Mammie! Coming!" I replied. I was so certain that the jig was up that I tried to work up some tears to garner any sympathy I could to soften the punishment that was assuredly coming my way. As I came downstairs I found my grandmother standing beside my fish bowl with a pitying look on her face. I walked over to the fish bowl and realized my fish were dead. Again.

Sick Fish

Early Monday morning I bagged up the dead fish in a bag of water and stormed out the house. I marched past Mrs. Sooknanan's parlour. I left the morning crew behind. I marched up the hill through the skipping circles and past the ongoing games of catch. I scanned the busy school yard for any signs of Larry. I observed him standing in his regular hang-out among a brood of chatty girls snickering and whispering with each other. I ignored the intervening pleas of my friends who began trailing behind gravely concerned about my imminent death-wish. I approached the group and watched facial expressions change from amusement to puzzlement as they realized I was walking with dead fish in a bag. I spoke earnestly to Larry, "I don't want your fish anymore. There must have been something wrong with them, so I just want my money back. Please." There was a short pause just before the group erupted into laughter again. Feeling slightly humiliated I walked towards Larry and shoved the bag of dead fish into his belly. I slowly reiterated. "I just want my money back. You sold me sick fish". I was in the middle of a stand-off with the toughest kid in school. There was now no turning back. Fuelled by the sting of being seemingly bamboozled, the guilt of misleading my grandmother and the anger of wasting her hard earned money, I was prepared to set this ‘oaf’ straight!

What happened next took me by surprise. An aggressive gesture like shoving the bag into his stomach should have been just the right impetus to initiate the exchange that would have satisfied my anger. Instead Larry stood back in a half crouch and squinted discerningly as he looked into the bag that I kept holding up. "Yeah. They're dead for sure," he said while nodding. Wading boldly deeper into these adversarial waters, I continued. "I just want my money back, please." Larry seemed unfazed. "What were their names?" He asked sympathetically. "What?" I asked, growing impatient with his untimely clemency. "Their names. What were their names?" He tried to ask as I interrupted. "Just give me back my money!" Adjusting my tone to sound more firm. I sought to take full advantage of this compassionate moment which I perceived as weakness. I ramped up the browbeating. "You think I'm stupid?" I argued. And something told me to push Larry. As I drove both hands into his chest, one hand open flat and the other still holding the bag, the force of impact punctured the bag and its contents exploded on his clean crisp uniform. Before I knew what was happening I remember seeing blurry images of the sky, clouds and trees in motion, rushing past my field of view as I was swept swiftly off my feet. Some seconds later, I found myself out of breath on the ground, over powered, with Larry's knee firmly in my back. With my cheek now being shoved into the pavement, with one eye opened I noticed my own shoe that got twisted loose in the scrum lying pathetically, a few feet away. The crowded ring of school children roared with laughter. The resounding peal of the school bell served as reprieve from any further drubbing and mortification. Alas, I had finally hit rock bottom.

Jones Street

After we spent the morning in the headmaster's office, confessing both sides of our stories, Larry was allowed to return to class with a disciplinary warning. My previous visits to the principal's office were under more redeemable circumstances; either for assisting with morning announcements or as a courier for passing messages from my teachers. Now I sat alone, in purgatory, dishevelled, bruised and misunderstood as I awaited the consequences that were to be handed down by Mr. Redman. Headmaster Redman was a burly red-skinned man whose head mastering reign I likened to that of a military commander. He always wore green or brown short sleeve shirts with buttoned-down epaulets and matching pants that reminded me of army fatigues. He wiped away beads of sweat as he sat behind his office desk that seemed too small for such a gorilla like man. Even his gold watchband seemed to strain against the width of his massive wrist. He mumbled when he spoke and commented on how he was surprised to learn of my involvement in this melee. Mr. Redman lectured that bullying, fighting and theft was conduct unbecoming of a student like me. He then sent me home with a warning and a letter to my grandmother with details of the day's events and his concerns.

My grandmother was disappointed in me of course and I really felt badly about the things I did. I spent the next few days sunken in dejection around the house. I was banded from going outside and watching television for two weeks. My grandmother spoke to me about honesty and how God sees everything we do. She also explained to me that when money is scarce we have to prioritize between the things we want and the things we need. After having some time to think about the series of unfortunate events that lead me to this point I realized that this really wasn't all about my infatuation with minding fish. Even though my ego was bruised a little and I lost the fight, surprisingly I was enjoying the pride that facing my fears provided. It put me on the path to understanding that it may be smarter to acknowledge one's fears instead of trying to mindlessly confront them. There will always be things to fear but striving to understand those fears may prove to be more beneficial than simply putting on a brave face. These circumstances lead me to realize that in the space between your greatest desires and your deepest fears is where life's journey provides hard lessons, painful growth and its many blessings.

A week later on a Saturday morning while watering my grandmother's plants a car slowed to a halt on the road in front of our house. My grandmother came from the house to see who it was. I continued watering the plants although my curiosity kept me squinting through the palm trees to see who our visitors were. The door opened and the passenger emerged awkwardly struggling to push open the heavy car door. It took me a moment before I recognized who it was. The little Indian boy from the school yard who just wouldn't give up those Ice Gems walked towards the gate holding a plastic bag. I heard a voice that brought attention the driver, who I assumed was his father leaning towards the open passenger door, encouraging the boy to go ahead. I met the boy at the gate and in his hand was a bag of five orange coloured guppies darting about in a bag of water. The little boy wanted to thank me for helping him that day in the schoolyard and presented me with the fish as a token of his gratitude. His father called from the car and advised me to make sure I keep the fish in the same water that was in the bag. My grandmother smiled and I thanked him. We both waved as they continued on their way down Jones Street.