The other day as I drove along an unfamiliar road I came to a four way stop along with three other cars. Three of the vehicles got to the intersection at virtually the same time, with the fourth being way behind and the very last motorist to access the crossroads. Everyone was being very courteous, “you go”, “no you go,” “oh but I insist you go” gestures and facial expressions were exchanged by us three drivers who reached the intersection together, totally ignoring the fourth driver who just kind of languished there a teenager on her phone waiting for someone to make the first move.
Still the discourse in driving etiquette continued and no one moved. The teenager in her supped up coupe became livid. As we waited there not moving she gunned her gas pedal and sped off! We all looked at her disappearing wake in horror and superior disgust then we slowly dispersed from the intersection in an orderly fashion, giving the exhausted TEENAGERS, shake of the head.
We had not been at the crossroads longer than four minutes!
Monday, March 31, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Black Heart Man
Some time ago I attended a party and happened to be in the company of an elder statesman Jamaican politician. He commanded the centre of attention in the room and soon began to relate stories of his travels throughout the country during its early development years. He told of going to college in the United States and returning home to Jamaica and wanting reacclimatize himself with his homeland. Thus he went to live in Jamaica’s interior (which is very rural) and was gifted a little black car to move around with. As he sojourned he noticed the children happily playing and decided on befriending them to learn their traditions. He bought sweets to distribute hoping that by this kind gesture he would make friends and blend in.
Soon he noticed that as he drove around in his little black car, children were running for their lives, parents were dragging their youngsters inside homes and hastily closing doors behind them, his very appearance seemed to trigger streets teeming with playing children to resemble vast empty wastelands with not a child in sight instantaneously. He was perplexed until he was informed that his modus operandi was similar to the fabled Black Heart Man. But who was this, he had never heard of such a person. Apparently, Jamaicans believed that there was a fiendish character who roamed the country side stealing little boys and girls away from their parents, dressed in black and driving in a black car, the legend further made the stipulation that once the children were stolen they were never heard from again. Yes, he could have been mistaken for the Black Heart Man as the black suits that he wore were in vogue in the United States from where he had just newly arrived.
Of course that gentleman had to change his whole mode of dress to be accepted and later went on to become one of Jamaica’s most influential advocates. I tell this story because to this day communities and families have to remain continuously vigilant because of the real threat to children out there. Therefore, the question of how to keep kids aware of their surroundings and of such sensitive to potential danger without making them into paranoid little people, is real to all parents. Can the retelling of such fables help? Do you pass them on in their historically relevant context or do you change them up to suit your reality? I think both options can be exercised as long as the dialogue is open, children can be armed with realistic tools to assist them in protecting themselves. The prospect of having a communtiy of aware children presents a win win situation for all, in my estimation.
Soon he noticed that as he drove around in his little black car, children were running for their lives, parents were dragging their youngsters inside homes and hastily closing doors behind them, his very appearance seemed to trigger streets teeming with playing children to resemble vast empty wastelands with not a child in sight instantaneously. He was perplexed until he was informed that his modus operandi was similar to the fabled Black Heart Man. But who was this, he had never heard of such a person. Apparently, Jamaicans believed that there was a fiendish character who roamed the country side stealing little boys and girls away from their parents, dressed in black and driving in a black car, the legend further made the stipulation that once the children were stolen they were never heard from again. Yes, he could have been mistaken for the Black Heart Man as the black suits that he wore were in vogue in the United States from where he had just newly arrived.
Of course that gentleman had to change his whole mode of dress to be accepted and later went on to become one of Jamaica’s most influential advocates. I tell this story because to this day communities and families have to remain continuously vigilant because of the real threat to children out there. Therefore, the question of how to keep kids aware of their surroundings and of such sensitive to potential danger without making them into paranoid little people, is real to all parents. Can the retelling of such fables help? Do you pass them on in their historically relevant context or do you change them up to suit your reality? I think both options can be exercised as long as the dialogue is open, children can be armed with realistic tools to assist them in protecting themselves. The prospect of having a communtiy of aware children presents a win win situation for all, in my estimation.
Friday, March 28, 2008
The Incident
My daughter’s fifth birthday party was over and I was at the gate with a friend chatting before we said goodbye. As I remember it now, it was about six o’clock on a beautiful summer’s evening, some of the neighborhood children were moving around us as we exchanged views and I was tired but happy after the party, but everything was great. As we stood there, a little neighbor girl was riding her bicycle up and down the road in that carefree summer way. On about her third pass it happened.
I was standing facing the street while leaning into my friend’s car talking when out the corner of my eye I see another neighbor boy from behind his father’s car which was parked on the opposite side of the road, throw a stone. It was almost as if time stood still. I shouted out, “what is he doing” because as I stood there, I knew that stone was aimed at and was going to hit the cycling girl. I wrenched my body around just in time to see the little girl fall from her bike, blood beginning to flow from a fresh wound on her neck; all of a sudden I was in the middle of an incident.
My friend jumped out of her car at the sound of my alarm and the child who was behind his father’s car turned took to his heel and beat a hasty retreat inside his house, slamming the front door behind him. It was on and I saw it all!! All I could think of was, supposed that was my child who got hit as I ran to assist the little girl. She was already crying as I dispatched her home and told her to go to her mother and show her the gash on her neck immediately, thinking that it did not seem so bad.
What followed was total melee. The father came down the road to speak to the parents of the errant boy. There was a shouting match, the mother of the boy swore that her son did nothing and encouraged the child to say that I, an adult, did not see anything and was lying, the father of the boy declared that his son played football and baseball and therefore was a child of integrity, but interestingly enough this was enough to attest to the accuracy of the boy’s aim. They blamed another little boy who was no where near when the incident occurred but more regrettable that that they did not allow the child to take responsibility for a momentary lapse in judgment. In their yen to protect him from any perceived legal consequences, they left him to live with his conscience an act which sometimes can be far more damning.
The neighborhood was never the same after that, the white elephant created looms large over our community. Children stopped interacting. The family of the little girl put their house up for sale. The boy’s family moved away. I still have occasion to see that little boy and when I do he slinks into a corner, his posture becomes all droopy and his eyes fall to the ground. It always makes me wonder what his self esteem is like. I also wonder, if his parents had let him admit to his error and deal with the fall out how different things would have been? Sadly we will never know.
I was standing facing the street while leaning into my friend’s car talking when out the corner of my eye I see another neighbor boy from behind his father’s car which was parked on the opposite side of the road, throw a stone. It was almost as if time stood still. I shouted out, “what is he doing” because as I stood there, I knew that stone was aimed at and was going to hit the cycling girl. I wrenched my body around just in time to see the little girl fall from her bike, blood beginning to flow from a fresh wound on her neck; all of a sudden I was in the middle of an incident.
My friend jumped out of her car at the sound of my alarm and the child who was behind his father’s car turned took to his heel and beat a hasty retreat inside his house, slamming the front door behind him. It was on and I saw it all!! All I could think of was, supposed that was my child who got hit as I ran to assist the little girl. She was already crying as I dispatched her home and told her to go to her mother and show her the gash on her neck immediately, thinking that it did not seem so bad.
What followed was total melee. The father came down the road to speak to the parents of the errant boy. There was a shouting match, the mother of the boy swore that her son did nothing and encouraged the child to say that I, an adult, did not see anything and was lying, the father of the boy declared that his son played football and baseball and therefore was a child of integrity, but interestingly enough this was enough to attest to the accuracy of the boy’s aim. They blamed another little boy who was no where near when the incident occurred but more regrettable that that they did not allow the child to take responsibility for a momentary lapse in judgment. In their yen to protect him from any perceived legal consequences, they left him to live with his conscience an act which sometimes can be far more damning.
The neighborhood was never the same after that, the white elephant created looms large over our community. Children stopped interacting. The family of the little girl put their house up for sale. The boy’s family moved away. I still have occasion to see that little boy and when I do he slinks into a corner, his posture becomes all droopy and his eyes fall to the ground. It always makes me wonder what his self esteem is like. I also wonder, if his parents had let him admit to his error and deal with the fall out how different things would have been? Sadly we will never know.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
It's Just like....
My computer has a chess game on it which I never dreamed of trying to play. My eldest saw it on my desktop and kept pleading with me to show her how to play the game, to which I would always respond, “ask your father.” Somehow that answer never satisfied her and inevitably she would always return to me, big brown eyes glassy and pouty peeved look in tow, armor donned to wear down her Mummy’s resistance. Conveniently, I would always have something else to do, I can admit that I was having a hard time letting her know that I could not play the game.
Finally, I declared that I could not play chess amidst my own concerns about the messages I would be sending to a little girl about gender capabilities – I just want these girls to see that nothing is beyond their reach and all they have to is try – but still paradoxically I could not face the chess game. So the other day when my eldest was done badgering me about the game I excused myself from the room and left her with permission to look at the premises of same on her own.
I was in the middle of a task in another room when she entered excitedly. “Mom, Mom” she exclaimed. “I know how to play that chess game it’s just like the Dora and Swiper game.” What did she say? Could she really have figured out how to play such a complex game in half an hour? Does she know that there are chess grandmasters out there who would cringe at the sound of Dora, Swiper and chess even being mentioned in the same breath, much less being likened to each other? Once again, I am floored by the innocence of children and their ability to simplify seemedly complex precepts into understandable terms.
When I checked the game that still lay open on the desktop I found that the computer had made the game so easy that a six year old could grasp it, Bravo. But what this taught me about myself is summed up in the old adage; “Never assume, because you make….” I hope my daughter will always remember this episode and continue to test her curious mind while refusing to accept no for an answer – when appropriate.
Finally, I declared that I could not play chess amidst my own concerns about the messages I would be sending to a little girl about gender capabilities – I just want these girls to see that nothing is beyond their reach and all they have to is try – but still paradoxically I could not face the chess game. So the other day when my eldest was done badgering me about the game I excused myself from the room and left her with permission to look at the premises of same on her own.
I was in the middle of a task in another room when she entered excitedly. “Mom, Mom” she exclaimed. “I know how to play that chess game it’s just like the Dora and Swiper game.” What did she say? Could she really have figured out how to play such a complex game in half an hour? Does she know that there are chess grandmasters out there who would cringe at the sound of Dora, Swiper and chess even being mentioned in the same breath, much less being likened to each other? Once again, I am floored by the innocence of children and their ability to simplify seemedly complex precepts into understandable terms.
When I checked the game that still lay open on the desktop I found that the computer had made the game so easy that a six year old could grasp it, Bravo. But what this taught me about myself is summed up in the old adage; “Never assume, because you make….” I hope my daughter will always remember this episode and continue to test her curious mind while refusing to accept no for an answer – when appropriate.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Holding My Heart
Years ago I learned a simple technique for centering and calming yourself when feeling nervous or anxious. It is called Holding Your Heart and simply involves placing your pointer fingers and thumbs together in a diamond shape (left pointer finger together with right pointer finger and left thumb with right thumb). If you move the thumbs out of the diamond shape into a relaxed v shape, the heart giving the formation its name becomes evident.
Now I do this without thinking, it is so relaxing that sometimes I am not aware that I am doing it until I see someone’s curious gaze fixed on my fingers. Then I watch the person’s reaction. Expressions range from amazed inquisitiveness to questioning horror as they allow their minds to leap to conclusions about a simple formation of my fingers. – Unreal!! Every once in a while though, I do come across the person who is bold enough to ask what I am doing with my fingers and I am immediately appreciative of that person’s candor because I know that their inquiry is coming from a good place and I gladly explain.
Over time I have come to realize that some are so superstitious that they instantaneously recoil in horror, from that person I realize that their intentions are not on the up and up hence their reaction is definitely based on where they are coming from. Case in point, I once had a co-worker that to look at that person, one would think that person glistened – always well put together, scrubbed and coordinated but serpentine in actions. I was called into that person’s office and as I always do I automatically put up my guard. On the other side of the desk the person squirmed and seemed so visibly affected by what my fingers had done it was if akin to slapping same in the face, it was as if that person was expecting I was releasing some Jamaican Obeah or something LOL!!!. The conversation which followed was not pleasant nor was my belief that I was taped without my consent but the moralistic high ground that the simple act of folding my fingers gave me was fantastic.
I highly recommend this practice to anyone.
Now I do this without thinking, it is so relaxing that sometimes I am not aware that I am doing it until I see someone’s curious gaze fixed on my fingers. Then I watch the person’s reaction. Expressions range from amazed inquisitiveness to questioning horror as they allow their minds to leap to conclusions about a simple formation of my fingers. – Unreal!! Every once in a while though, I do come across the person who is bold enough to ask what I am doing with my fingers and I am immediately appreciative of that person’s candor because I know that their inquiry is coming from a good place and I gladly explain.
Over time I have come to realize that some are so superstitious that they instantaneously recoil in horror, from that person I realize that their intentions are not on the up and up hence their reaction is definitely based on where they are coming from. Case in point, I once had a co-worker that to look at that person, one would think that person glistened – always well put together, scrubbed and coordinated but serpentine in actions. I was called into that person’s office and as I always do I automatically put up my guard. On the other side of the desk the person squirmed and seemed so visibly affected by what my fingers had done it was if akin to slapping same in the face, it was as if that person was expecting I was releasing some Jamaican Obeah or something LOL!!!. The conversation which followed was not pleasant nor was my belief that I was taped without my consent but the moralistic high ground that the simple act of folding my fingers gave me was fantastic.
I highly recommend this practice to anyone.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Where's the Easter Bunny?
A local congregation puts on the most fabulous Easter production ever. I mean really, with the beautiful lighting, phenomenal sets and detailed costumes to me it would rival any Broadway production!! The story is recounted with the strictest adherence to the scriptures as is possible (as a matter of fact I would say that the only facets of the play that are left to interpretation are how environments are conceived and perhaps how characters relate to each other). Of course given that it is the Easter story certain scenes can be quite overwhelming for the children’s sensibilities and prior to same scene being aired the production crew forewarns of the graphic content to follow. This is where my story begins.
I had been told of the nature of the production prior to going and repeatedly I had asked my sources whether it was okay for children and repeatedly I was told, “Yes man its fine, they’ll be fine.” So you can imagine my horror when a whip was thrown (historically accurate mind you, not hitting anyone but still hurled) and the actor playing Jesus gasping as if being hit and seeing realistic looking wounds on the Messiah’s body I even gasped – talk about graphic!! My youngest moaned “Mummy I don’t want to come back to this Church” but my eldest put the issue into perspective, she asked ”… Mummy I thought you said that the Easter Bunny was going to be in this play!”
Well that was a great jumping off point for my youngest who then also realized she too missed the presence of our fine, furry, bow-tied friend from earlier exploits and afterwards was less inclined to sit in the darkened auditorium. She claimed she was sleepy, she climbed behind me to get a better view, she leaned forward and was singing Dora the Explorer’s theme song into the people in front of us’ seats, she strewed paper napkins on the floor and then counted them, her pranks were endless. To tell you the truth save for my determination to see the play through to the end there should not have been enough fancy lights or beautiful voices in the world to keep us watching after that first fidget was launched; beautiful play though, absolutely beautiful.
I was relating our adventure to my friend when she told me of having a like experience with her daughter. And you know I took some solace in the nugget that she shared because it meant that the reaction of my girls was somewhat due to their socialization and any child would have been of like mind. I guess to little ones the concept of the Easter Bunny is always going to be a lot more palatable so maybe I was asking for too much in thinking that the grandiose production would have staved off the hebegeebies….Duuhh!!
When we got home that evening my eldest brought her picture bible to me and asked me to explain the story of Easter to her (even though she had heard it countless times before). I looked in her eyes and saw that she was really listening not simply hearing the story for the first time. Hmmmm, maybe the significance of that play was not lost.
Exit Easter bunny stage door left .......enter the story of Lent.
I had been told of the nature of the production prior to going and repeatedly I had asked my sources whether it was okay for children and repeatedly I was told, “Yes man its fine, they’ll be fine.” So you can imagine my horror when a whip was thrown (historically accurate mind you, not hitting anyone but still hurled) and the actor playing Jesus gasping as if being hit and seeing realistic looking wounds on the Messiah’s body I even gasped – talk about graphic!! My youngest moaned “Mummy I don’t want to come back to this Church” but my eldest put the issue into perspective, she asked ”… Mummy I thought you said that the Easter Bunny was going to be in this play!”
Well that was a great jumping off point for my youngest who then also realized she too missed the presence of our fine, furry, bow-tied friend from earlier exploits and afterwards was less inclined to sit in the darkened auditorium. She claimed she was sleepy, she climbed behind me to get a better view, she leaned forward and was singing Dora the Explorer’s theme song into the people in front of us’ seats, she strewed paper napkins on the floor and then counted them, her pranks were endless. To tell you the truth save for my determination to see the play through to the end there should not have been enough fancy lights or beautiful voices in the world to keep us watching after that first fidget was launched; beautiful play though, absolutely beautiful.
I was relating our adventure to my friend when she told me of having a like experience with her daughter. And you know I took some solace in the nugget that she shared because it meant that the reaction of my girls was somewhat due to their socialization and any child would have been of like mind. I guess to little ones the concept of the Easter Bunny is always going to be a lot more palatable so maybe I was asking for too much in thinking that the grandiose production would have staved off the hebegeebies….Duuhh!!
When we got home that evening my eldest brought her picture bible to me and asked me to explain the story of Easter to her (even though she had heard it countless times before). I looked in her eyes and saw that she was really listening not simply hearing the story for the first time. Hmmmm, maybe the significance of that play was not lost.
Exit Easter bunny stage door left .......enter the story of Lent.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Easter Egg Hunt Gone Wild
My eldest came home with a flyer on Thursday that proclaimed that the local mall would be hosting an Easter Egg Hunt for all the neighborhood children. The flyer further insisted that although the hunt itself would not start until 10:00 am, parents should come early as previously there was a long line to join the festivities. After much coaxing and cajoling I agreed that I would take the girls to partake in this spectacle. Now I must admit to being a bit of a scrooge where the Easter bunny is concerned, my initial response to that creature is to say bah humbug even though in spring, that saying is somewhat out of season. I know what’s going on, I am a keen observer of supermarket self stacking practices, when Christmas is done they move in Valentines Day stuff, after Valentines Day is done, clerks stack Easter commodities on the shelves closely followed by Mother’s Day goods, Fathers Day paraphernalia and fourth of July decorations after that everything is stocked up for Post Thanksgiving madness aptly given the ominous title of Black Friday then Christmas comes again, indebtedness continues.
Okay I so can understand Santa because that was based on an actual person that handed out gifts to children, but a bunny doling out eggs that he can’t even produce sounds like a bit of a stretch for me. I would even go out on a limb and say that the Easter bunny was dreamed up by some marketing executive to sell stuff and bravo, that’s what he does. Alright, so we get to this Easter egg hunt and true to form the place is already packed. Parents are psyching up their children while taking off the heavy winter garb, it seems strategy is everything. One Grandmother says “here’s what you do, run out in front and when you reach to that point (mapping out the track) sit down and gather in everything in front of you.” “Everyone will be running and bending down to pick up so that will give you the advantage cause you’re already down” she mused.
Are they kidding me? Bunny hunt strategy, I must be in some twisted egg hunts gone wild dimension or something! What happened to good old fun? Well when the countdown started and the egg hunt launched the parents stormed ahead and blocked children with their bulk. I mean literally dropping down and shielding eggs from kids while their little angels stood back shell shocked, gazing in disbelief at Mom or Dad’s snarling countenance, it was quite the sight. I don’t think I was as bad although I did follow behind my youngest pointing out egg finds, what can I say if you can’t beat them trump them.
When all the eggs were gone, one would think that’s where the madness ended, but no way! There were quite a few mothers roaming the aisles of the mall extolling the virtues of their children on the top of their lungs while lamenting the fact that their children didn’t pick up any eggs and drooling over my children’s gatherings. I in retrospect should offered for my girls to share some of their treats with those children but those mother’s were so rabid that I beat a hasty retreat out of that place because it seemed that soon they were going to riot, loot, pillage and burn for candy in the next instant!! Whew!! Give me my Jamaican bun and cheese and kite flying Easter traditions, far less possibilities of them exploding into maniacal contact sport type episodes.
Okay I so can understand Santa because that was based on an actual person that handed out gifts to children, but a bunny doling out eggs that he can’t even produce sounds like a bit of a stretch for me. I would even go out on a limb and say that the Easter bunny was dreamed up by some marketing executive to sell stuff and bravo, that’s what he does. Alright, so we get to this Easter egg hunt and true to form the place is already packed. Parents are psyching up their children while taking off the heavy winter garb, it seems strategy is everything. One Grandmother says “here’s what you do, run out in front and when you reach to that point (mapping out the track) sit down and gather in everything in front of you.” “Everyone will be running and bending down to pick up so that will give you the advantage cause you’re already down” she mused.
Are they kidding me? Bunny hunt strategy, I must be in some twisted egg hunts gone wild dimension or something! What happened to good old fun? Well when the countdown started and the egg hunt launched the parents stormed ahead and blocked children with their bulk. I mean literally dropping down and shielding eggs from kids while their little angels stood back shell shocked, gazing in disbelief at Mom or Dad’s snarling countenance, it was quite the sight. I don’t think I was as bad although I did follow behind my youngest pointing out egg finds, what can I say if you can’t beat them trump them.
When all the eggs were gone, one would think that’s where the madness ended, but no way! There were quite a few mothers roaming the aisles of the mall extolling the virtues of their children on the top of their lungs while lamenting the fact that their children didn’t pick up any eggs and drooling over my children’s gatherings. I in retrospect should offered for my girls to share some of their treats with those children but those mother’s were so rabid that I beat a hasty retreat out of that place because it seemed that soon they were going to riot, loot, pillage and burn for candy in the next instant!! Whew!! Give me my Jamaican bun and cheese and kite flying Easter traditions, far less possibilities of them exploding into maniacal contact sport type episodes.
Better Before You're Married
As a child I can recall that whenever I would get a cut or bruise I would run to my father. He would commiserate with me, register his displeasure with the object that caused my pain, clean and dress my wound and impart this single gem of wisdom, “Better before you’re married!” This would ignite a passionate denial on my part, usually qualified by a statement such as “boys are yucky,” or “I don’t even like any boys,” or dependant on my psyche on that given day I may even have blushed and hid my face. Whatever my reaction, the little adage served its purpose, by the time I left my father’s arms I would have stopped focusing on the hurt, replaced tears with smiles and would be ready also prepared to return to my days’ activities renewed, to play as robustly as I had done prior to infraction occurring.
It was only as I became an incredulous adult that the possibility of my Daddy’s healing words being slightly ambiguous crept into my mind. My sister and I would debate whether such rhetoric had implicit meaning or should be taken at face value. Anyway, now when my girls get boo-boos as they call them, I commiserate with them, register my displeasure with the object that caused their pain, clean and dress their wounds and I too impart that single gem of wisdom, “Better before you’re married!”
Their reaction is pretty much the same as mine was eons ago but as the children’s ages progress I have noticed that their reactions change, the toddler laughs and enjoys the thought, the maturing child is dismayed at the mere utterance, the tween is disgusted at the inference and wonders whether intrusion is intended and the young adult dreams of who that mate will be. I have even been in my sister’s household on occasion and have heard her girls lamenting the suggestion of marriage too but the little maxim is no less effective; for soon the children are back to “horse romping” and the household is once more in equilibrium...regardless of reaction the cycle remains unbroken. Perhaps our children will pass this gem on to their offspring as well.
It was only as I became an incredulous adult that the possibility of my Daddy’s healing words being slightly ambiguous crept into my mind. My sister and I would debate whether such rhetoric had implicit meaning or should be taken at face value. Anyway, now when my girls get boo-boos as they call them, I commiserate with them, register my displeasure with the object that caused their pain, clean and dress their wounds and I too impart that single gem of wisdom, “Better before you’re married!”
Their reaction is pretty much the same as mine was eons ago but as the children’s ages progress I have noticed that their reactions change, the toddler laughs and enjoys the thought, the maturing child is dismayed at the mere utterance, the tween is disgusted at the inference and wonders whether intrusion is intended and the young adult dreams of who that mate will be. I have even been in my sister’s household on occasion and have heard her girls lamenting the suggestion of marriage too but the little maxim is no less effective; for soon the children are back to “horse romping” and the household is once more in equilibrium...regardless of reaction the cycle remains unbroken. Perhaps our children will pass this gem on to their offspring as well.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Stronger Today
One year has passed since an angel drove out of our lives on her way to her destiny. Last year this time I admit to being a mess, today I am stronger. That does not mean that the heartbreak is any less intense, it simply means that we ( and I believe I speak for anyone who went there with me) have come from disbelief to acceptance via crying episodes aided by love and now healing. For months my eldest would break into tears at the sight of a burial ground but now she asks, "Is she there Mummy" to which I answer "No Honey, She is with God."
Rest In Peace: Tatiana Renee McIntosh - Gone but never forgotten.
Rest In Peace: Tatiana Renee McIntosh - Gone but never forgotten.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Rites of Passage
In Jamaica, at about age 10 or 11 a child could be eligible for and actually enters high school or the secondary education system. I suspect that this tradition is not peculiar to Yard alone, throughout the Caribbean there are territories whose educational systems have retained the British influence in the way they teach their young which adhere to same. Needless to say that because of the prevalence of this event, certain showings of “maturity” are also linked to that leap from childlike existence to budding young adulthood which I’m sure are uniform enough in their observance throughout the region, to make them rites of passage.
Enough big talk, in the Guys it’s the change from short pants to trousers and in the girls it’s when they get their hair “creamed”!! Because I can’t attest to the significance of the change to long pants although I’m sure its great, I’m going to speak about the “creaming” of the hair – so called in my day as a direct reference to that noxious vat begetting a white creamy mixture of stuff that goes on the hair of the woman of African descent in order to straighten it. - I have a whole other story of when I went away to college in D.C. and went into a foreign hairdresser’s salon for the first time and told her I wanted my hair creamed and hearing her say “permed” and being convinced that a perm was the stuff that was placed in the hair of the other folks to make it curly – insisting that my hair needed to be creamed - the hairdresser acceding to my demands charging me $15.00 more for what I now know is a perm – but I digress.
You know if you see a little girl on her last day of elementary school in Jamaica with her braids or plaits you would not dream that she would become this new person with vavoom hair at the end of summer. And rest assured that the do is not just decorative, but it serves as a transitionary bridge in that young lady’s household too, because hair that formerly needed a mother or someone else with an amount of manual dexterity to tame, could hence be handled by the owner and thus freeing up getting ready time for other tasks. Nary one mother in fact a generation of caregivers find themselves rejoicing on that first day of school after receiving the gift of some unaccustomed me time in the morning.
And then our girl goes to school and flashes. For the first time, the elements can actually move the hair, it blows in the wind, the texture is different, the color has changed, she wants to run and let it flow but since she has a modicum of decorum she resists the urge. However if anyone asks her to do anything she is going to run – because she got it like that!!! Curlers, hair spray, split ends and hair dryers now come into play. Our princess has to learn how to set her hair at night and sleep in torture devices that she only saw her mother use previously - through the night without having them arraying her pillow anon, she now knows that her head sweats at night, humidity becomes a much discussed element amongst her peers of hairdo getters, things change. She carries a comb, brush, hair pins and a mirror where formerly there was none, she goes to the hairdresser every six weeks or more often than that dependant on he whom doles out the cash for a touch up, lets not even mention the scabs in her head from where the stuff stayed too long!!!
Not everyone gets the new do at the beginning of the school year. Those poor souls are subject to the tittering amongst their friends and their mother saying, “if they really were your friends they would not laugh!” Yeah right mother your girl just missed the boat and the others will not let her forget it. But when that swan with the recalcitrant mother finally gets her do she has the most beautiful mane of them all and much to her glee she finds the painful wait on maturity had some benefits.
Reviewing all these traditions makes me wonder about my two girls and I know I am going to be a swan mother because I now know that the avoidance of the vat is best for our beautiful black tresses. But because I did not grow up in this system I am not certain when the onslaught of do requests will become an issue but I am prepared to dig my heels in. I know that if I can survive up to age sixteen with the hair undone, they will start to embrace their naturale beauty and appreciate it for itself not to mention harness creativity and ingenuity as they seek to find different ways of jazzing it up. Wish me luck!!! Maybe by that time I can begin a new rite of passage starting with my eldest and an afro comb!
Enough big talk, in the Guys it’s the change from short pants to trousers and in the girls it’s when they get their hair “creamed”!! Because I can’t attest to the significance of the change to long pants although I’m sure its great, I’m going to speak about the “creaming” of the hair – so called in my day as a direct reference to that noxious vat begetting a white creamy mixture of stuff that goes on the hair of the woman of African descent in order to straighten it. - I have a whole other story of when I went away to college in D.C. and went into a foreign hairdresser’s salon for the first time and told her I wanted my hair creamed and hearing her say “permed” and being convinced that a perm was the stuff that was placed in the hair of the other folks to make it curly – insisting that my hair needed to be creamed - the hairdresser acceding to my demands charging me $15.00 more for what I now know is a perm – but I digress.
You know if you see a little girl on her last day of elementary school in Jamaica with her braids or plaits you would not dream that she would become this new person with vavoom hair at the end of summer. And rest assured that the do is not just decorative, but it serves as a transitionary bridge in that young lady’s household too, because hair that formerly needed a mother or someone else with an amount of manual dexterity to tame, could hence be handled by the owner and thus freeing up getting ready time for other tasks. Nary one mother in fact a generation of caregivers find themselves rejoicing on that first day of school after receiving the gift of some unaccustomed me time in the morning.
And then our girl goes to school and flashes. For the first time, the elements can actually move the hair, it blows in the wind, the texture is different, the color has changed, she wants to run and let it flow but since she has a modicum of decorum she resists the urge. However if anyone asks her to do anything she is going to run – because she got it like that!!! Curlers, hair spray, split ends and hair dryers now come into play. Our princess has to learn how to set her hair at night and sleep in torture devices that she only saw her mother use previously - through the night without having them arraying her pillow anon, she now knows that her head sweats at night, humidity becomes a much discussed element amongst her peers of hairdo getters, things change. She carries a comb, brush, hair pins and a mirror where formerly there was none, she goes to the hairdresser every six weeks or more often than that dependant on he whom doles out the cash for a touch up, lets not even mention the scabs in her head from where the stuff stayed too long!!!
Not everyone gets the new do at the beginning of the school year. Those poor souls are subject to the tittering amongst their friends and their mother saying, “if they really were your friends they would not laugh!” Yeah right mother your girl just missed the boat and the others will not let her forget it. But when that swan with the recalcitrant mother finally gets her do she has the most beautiful mane of them all and much to her glee she finds the painful wait on maturity had some benefits.
Reviewing all these traditions makes me wonder about my two girls and I know I am going to be a swan mother because I now know that the avoidance of the vat is best for our beautiful black tresses. But because I did not grow up in this system I am not certain when the onslaught of do requests will become an issue but I am prepared to dig my heels in. I know that if I can survive up to age sixteen with the hair undone, they will start to embrace their naturale beauty and appreciate it for itself not to mention harness creativity and ingenuity as they seek to find different ways of jazzing it up. Wish me luck!!! Maybe by that time I can begin a new rite of passage starting with my eldest and an afro comb!
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Eeeeeeh?
Years ago my cousin - who must have been about four - came to Kingston with her parents from Westmoreland to stay at my family's home for the first time. (For those who are not too familiar with Jamaica, Kingston is the capital and therefore the big city so to speak, while Westmoreland which is considered to be rural Jamaica, is quieter and more laid back.) Oh she was excited about any and everything during her stay and as the days progressed, she developed a fondness and camaraderie with my mother. So that Saturday morning when my mother was leaving to go about her usual Saturday errands - or rounds as she called them, she was stopped by my cousin.
Perturbed that her buddy was going out without her, the following conversation ensued –
Cousin: Aunt ------, Ah whey yu ah go eh, eh? Ah whey yu ah go?
(Indignant!)
Cousin’s Mother: -----, You know you can speak better than that, say it properly!!
The little girl thought about what her mother had said and then began to rework her speech in her mind. As I stood there amused, I could literally see her little brain computing and fixing because she was determined that she would get it right the second time! After a pause of about two or three minutes well, my cousin redelivered her question to my mother and her anxiously awaiting mother slowly and more guardedly at first, but as she became more convinced of her correctness more quickly and with confidence because by golly she was correct!
Cousin: Aunt-----, Aaaah wheeeey yuuuuu aaaaahhhhh gooooo eeeeeehhh?
Isn’t the innocence of childhood too precious?
Perturbed that her buddy was going out without her, the following conversation ensued –
Cousin: Aunt ------, Ah whey yu ah go eh, eh? Ah whey yu ah go?
(Indignant!)
Cousin’s Mother: -----, You know you can speak better than that, say it properly!!
The little girl thought about what her mother had said and then began to rework her speech in her mind. As I stood there amused, I could literally see her little brain computing and fixing because she was determined that she would get it right the second time! After a pause of about two or three minutes well, my cousin redelivered her question to my mother and her anxiously awaiting mother slowly and more guardedly at first, but as she became more convinced of her correctness more quickly and with confidence because by golly she was correct!
Cousin: Aunt-----, Aaaah wheeeey yuuuuu aaaaahhhhh gooooo eeeeeehhh?
Isn’t the innocence of childhood too precious?
Monday, March 3, 2008
Superdelegates
Who these nameless few? Friend or foe? Why are they super and when they rip open their shirts do their Clark Kent personas change to men or women of steel - all wielding S’s on their substantial chests? That could prove bothersome at the democratic convention, elbows smacking each other as they tear open their shirts while searching for a phone booth, an aspiration which could prove tricky even in Denver, Colorado. But my biggest question is how come I never heard of such a delegate before – were they there in Democratic party obscurity waiting patiently and just recently received their super powers? How did they get these powers - can regular folk get some powers too – do any of them have heat vision or the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Now that’s real super!!
My thoughts have turned to same given that the results of tomorrow’s showdown in Ohio and Texas could make these hidden figures the deciding vote and therefore the tweekers of history – so to speak. Do they take their responsibility seriously? Do they lie awake at night pondering the tremendous weight of the task ahead? Have they already made up their minds or are they leaving the decision to the convention voting day? Are they firmly in one camp or the other? I guess this is what makes them super – the super responsibility that confronts them in the future. To those whom much is given, much is expected. I guess that the world will just have to wait and see how the superdelegates exercise their super powers - should be interesting!!
My thoughts have turned to same given that the results of tomorrow’s showdown in Ohio and Texas could make these hidden figures the deciding vote and therefore the tweekers of history – so to speak. Do they take their responsibility seriously? Do they lie awake at night pondering the tremendous weight of the task ahead? Have they already made up their minds or are they leaving the decision to the convention voting day? Are they firmly in one camp or the other? I guess this is what makes them super – the super responsibility that confronts them in the future. To those whom much is given, much is expected. I guess that the world will just have to wait and see how the superdelegates exercise their super powers - should be interesting!!
Saturday, March 1, 2008
A Very Powerful Seven Year Old
My oldest is a very imaginative, expressive and competitive little girl. She gives her hardest try to everything she attempts – a trait that I admire but am a bit mystified as to its origins. Over the weekends she always gives herself a project to complete. One weekend she constructed a “doctor bag” – complete with Red Cross emblem emblazoned on the side, intrigued with the intricacy given the project, I had to add cotton swabs, cotton balls and bandages – after all every physician needs the correct tools. On another occasion she constructed a water lily, complete with lily pad and water surround, she didn’t even know the name of the flower, just that she saw it on TV and as per usual she happily took it to school on Monday morning.
I thought that her motivation was simply a need to make material the workings of her little mind but how far from truth was I. You see last week no project went to school. It was either that she was unable to complete her latest endeavor – a jewelry box- or she was dissatisfied with its construct or so I thought. Thus I enquired and was told “Mom, it was not good enough to beat -------.” I furthered, “who is that Honey?” She sighed dramatically (believe me I was expecting to see the child throw her hand up to her brow and swoon next) her eyes wide with conviction, “------- is a very powerful seven year old.”
Immediately my mind conjured up images of a godfather type seven year old puffing a Cuban while ordering her six year old hench people to make my daughter’s projects sleep with the fishes – we are in Jersey after all; or a seven year old in a wall street power suit with a strange comb over hairdo telling my daughter’s projects from her comfy leather seat over a rather large boardroom table – “you’re fired.” I had to ask…
I thought that her motivation was simply a need to make material the workings of her little mind but how far from truth was I. You see last week no project went to school. It was either that she was unable to complete her latest endeavor – a jewelry box- or she was dissatisfied with its construct or so I thought. Thus I enquired and was told “Mom, it was not good enough to beat -------.” I furthered, “who is that Honey?” She sighed dramatically (believe me I was expecting to see the child throw her hand up to her brow and swoon next) her eyes wide with conviction, “------- is a very powerful seven year old.”
Immediately my mind conjured up images of a godfather type seven year old puffing a Cuban while ordering her six year old hench people to make my daughter’s projects sleep with the fishes – we are in Jersey after all; or a seven year old in a wall street power suit with a strange comb over hairdo telling my daughter’s projects from her comfy leather seat over a rather large boardroom table – “you’re fired.” I had to ask…
What else could I say? I think,...I’m sure glad,... Maybe, we got that settled. Did we?What makes her so powerful Honey?
She always trys to beat me at everything I do and on Monday mornings she always says her project is better than mine and she’s seven, I‘m six.
Oh. Well keep up the good work!
Daddy, your sister and I think your projects are just great!
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