Remembering Daddy

It's been roughly a year and a half since my dad passed. That was after 4 months of end-stage cancer. I've had lots of time to analyse and bring closure to the wonderfully complex relationship I had with him.

I haven't.

Instead, I've been remembering the things I loved about Harold Walton.

• Daddy had a KILLER sense of humour. Whenever I remember him, I remember a broad grin and booming, roaring laughter... that usually followed some joke at someone's expense. His conversations with Mummy were a particularly rich source of entertainment. Here's one of my favourites:

Mummy: Harold, what time is it?

Daddy: Ten to!

Mummy: Ten to what?

Daddy: Tend to yuh own BUSINESS!!!

• Daddy had a BEAUTIFUL tenor voice. And he was ALWAYS singing - a real chirper. He could harmonize on a dime. In fact, when I was a little girl, we did that all the time... we'd sing all kinds of songs together, and take turns singing the harmony. He took pride in the fact that I could sing, and would often embarrass me by commanding me to sing the high notes of "Handel's Messiah" for visitors. And during the last year of his life, he fretted that his high notes weren't quite up to scratch.

• Daddy was a bookworm. If he was quiet, the most likely reason was that his nose was buried in a book. Whether political works written by Norman Manley, or gun-toting fiction by Louis L'Amour, or the latest issue of Reader's Digest... If it could be read, Daddy was reading it. That's where he got all his 3-syllable words from... and that's how he indulged his love of language. He would often throw out some fancy word in casual conversation... like "circumnavigate"... then pause, pat himself on the back, and say, "Big wud Harold, big wud."

• The second most likely reason for Daddy being quiet, would have been that he was plotting mischief. Daddy was a prankster, and my poor mother got the brunt of it. One of his most memorable pranks: Daddy's home sick, sleeping late, and Mummy's rushing off to work... but can't find her shoes. She searches everywhere to no avail. It suddenly strikes her that Daddy's snores sound slightly staged. She shakes him. He grunts sleepily. She pushes him away from his pillow, which she lifts off the bed... and there, wrapped in newspaper and plastic bags, are Mummy's shoes.

• This part of my Dad I know the least - he was a born leader. At home he was easygoing, laidback. At work, apparently, he was an innovator, a mentor, a leader who was always ready to teach and was un-selfconscious about his own brilliance. He was a career policeman, always stationed in rural parts, and I never saw Daddy in uniform, never experienced him at work. But at his memorial service, so many of his colleagues came forward to paint the picture of a man who was universally admired. I came away from that funeral with renewed respect for my father.

Dad, the memories of you are as brilliant today as they have ever been. You are, and always have been, loved.

Serious Business: Women Aren't ALWAYS Right

I don't think it's completely fair to say that it's a man's world. I believe there are issues in which men tend to get the shaft. At least, here in Jamaica. Discussions about men's and women's issues tend to be one-sided - from the woman's viewpoint.

Take for instance, domestic abuse. It is ALWAYS, ALWAYS wrong for a man to abuse a woman in any way, be it physical or emotional. It's never right to do something wrong.

I believe that if a man feels he is getting to a point in his relationship where he will have difficulty controlling his anger, he should walk away. Battering his partner CANNOT be the answer. A man should NOT hit a woman; and if he does, he should bear the consequences.

On the other hand, what we don't hear as much about, is the man's side of the story. I'm not talking about the man who is abusive and needs psychological help (that's another discussion). I'm talking about the fact that there are women out there who inflict emotional and yes, physical abuse on their men.

Many women think nothing of screaming at, swearing at, punching, kicking, throwing sharp objects at their man during an argument.

It's just as wrong for a woman to be abusive, as it is for a man.

There are other areas of inequity. How many men are out there who are unknowingly raising children who are not their own? Who are being denied access to their children as the spouse's means of retaliation for a broken relationship? Who are dragged into court for child support when they've lost their jobs, even though they had been faithfully providing for the child while employed?

We need to even out these discussions a bit. It's always wrong to do the wrong thing, whether it's a man doing wrong... or a woman.

Shooting Things of Beauty

I am trigger-happy. Yup, put a camera of any sort into my eager hands and I'll immediately point and shoot.

And, of course, post to Facebook. But that's another story...

Now I love to point & shoot people. Candid shots preferably. I am committed to immortalizing that moment you're cramming about 3 serving spoons' worth of food into your mouth at once. That's an event that should be preserved for posterity.

But what REALLY moves me, is beauty. I love beautiful old buildings and nature scenes: oceans, mountains, trees. I am moved by grand and and shabby bridges, stormy skies, cotton-candy clouds.

I'd like to share some of my beauty shots with you. Enjoy them with me and marvel at the creativity of God, and His generousity at sharing His creative genius with us mere mortals.

A Dog's Life

If I believed in reincarnation (and let me make it clear: I don't; I believe the Biblical statement "It is appointed unto man ONCE to die"... but I digress)...

...IF I believed in reincarnation, I would want to come back as my dog, Coco.

Now, Coco is a 6-yr-old Rotty mix. VERY mixed. I've had her since she was 6 weeks old. She's had me from 'Woof'. And we've been together long enough now for me to be slightly - but only slightly - envious of her.

First of all, Coco is a very happy person. Uhm... Dog. Sure, when she wakes up she's a little slow, but give her 30 seconds and WHAM! She's Happy Dog. Every day. If it's sunny or overcast, if she got less than her usual ration of food the night before - doesn't matter. That dog's got deep Inner Joy.

Me now? I have deep Inner Melancholy. I wake up with a sinking feeling in my stomach and spend minutes mentally fast-forwarding through my day, until I find a reason to be morose. And if I don't find it for that day, I mentally go through the whole week.

I want to be Coco.

The other thing about my doggie: she is very secure. Almost every morning when I open my door, she bounds inside to where I'm sitting and looks at me happily and intently. And if I don't pat her head right away, does she slink away feeling rejected? Nope. She KNOWS I love her, so she rests her head in my lap and waits patiently.

Very secure, very strong sense of self.

Me? Ignore me for 30 seconds and all my rejection issues are triggered and I begin to mope and sulk.

There are other traits of uprightness I admire in my dog:

• Keeping it simple. Coco ain't complex: she eats the same thing every day and is enthusiastic about it almost every time.

• Neighborly. Coco has made friends with several of the neighbours who regularly walk past my house. The fact that I acquired her to be a vicious guard dog has apparently eluded her. Or maybe it's that darn sense of self - she's secure in who she is, so she's not hampered by my ambitions for her.
  

• Straightforward. Coco doesn't DO hidden agendas (agendae? agendix?) There's no guile in this dog. She either likes you or she doesn't. She's hungry or she's not. And if she doesn't want to respond when you call her, she simply doesn't.

All these things, in addition to the fact that she's cute, pays no bills nor taxes, and doesn't struggle with her weight, makes me want to be Coco in my next life.

STOP! ENOUGH! (Gleaner Article - "Burnt Alive" - Click here)

I'm somewhere between numbness and heartbreak. A grandmother and her three young grandchildren in St. Thomas, were burned alive in the grandmother's home on Sunday night.

The children were 2, 3, and 5-years old. The grandmother was shot before the house was set afire. A mother is left mourning the loss of her 3 children AND her own mother, in one fell swoop.

The police suspect murder. Apparently the grandmother, a Ms. Lynch, was involved in a dispute.

There must be a better way. We can't continue to shoot and stab and burn and hack each other as a solution to disagreements. And those of us who are adults MUST lead the way, because our children are reaping the whirlwind from the wind we are sowing.

We MUST understand that in life, people will disagree with us. We will have conflict. That there are ways to resolve conflict that are constructive. We can attempt to explain our point of view. We can listen to the other person's perspective. We don't have to agree with it, but we can respect it. We can work towards a mutually beneficial solution if we talk, and listen, and figure out what the issue really is, and how best to deal with it.

We can agree to disagree. We can walk away if realize that the disagreement is fundamental, based on our own principles, our value system.

We can choose our battles.

We can choose peace. Not denial, but an adult decision to do what is necessary to preserve dignity, relationship, community.

With divine help, we can forgive. Forgiveness means letting go. Forgiveness means acknowledging that someone harmed us, but we will not take revenge. Forgiveness means we will acknowledge our hurt, but we will not keep stoking the flames of the pain.

I am saddened that, in a time when crime and violence have overtaken our beautiful country, there are increasingly fewer resources available to those agencies that can actually help us to figure out non-violent means of settling conflict.

I've been a part of PALS (Peace and Love in Society), training various groups of people in conflict management and resolution. The principles and skills I learned and taught, have actually been useful in my everyday life as I face conflict in interpersonal relationships as well as at the organizational level.

I'm rambling, because I'm hurt. I know there is a better way. I know that many of us are angry, and when our hearts bleed, we want someone else to physically bleed, to go through pain because they have made us feel pain.

But folks, there IS a better way. A divine way. A practical way. And we must, we MUST, take it.

Or else WE. WILL. ALL. DIE.

Why I Don't Go To The Market.

I wish I could go to the market. Coronation Market, specifically. It's so much cheaper to buy your fruits and vegetables there, rather than the supermarket.

But I can't go to the market. At least, not by myself. Because I simply do not speak the language necessary to get the market prices. I do not speak patois.

Now hear mi good: I LOVE Patois. It's just that I'm a HORRIBLE patois-speaker. I understand patois quite well - after all, I was born in Jamaica, raised in Jamaica. Never lived anywhere else but Yaad. But for some inexplicable reason, when I try to speak patois, I sound very... uhm... you know, wrong. No matter how hard I try to sound like what I am, a Yaadie, within 3 milliseconds of attempting to speak patois, I'm outed as the fake that I am.

Which is what happened on my very first trip to Coronation Market. I went with a good friend of mine, a seasoned Coronation-Market-Goer. I had dressed very carefully in my most raggedy pair of jeans, complete with strategically-placed holes and frayed hems; a t-shirt; white sneakers, which I stepped on for a bit to make them look less white.

My girlfriend, a seamstress and designer, was dressed in a outfit she'd made for herself that very morning. Coordinated shorts and blouse. Green piped with deep orange. Complementary shoes and bag.

So we hit the Market and began to shop. I was quite proud of myself, walking with my little crocus-bag thingy, asking market women for so many pounds of this and that, pulling the exact change from various pockets in my jeans.

Proud of myself... Until my girlfriend came to check on me. She didn't think I was doing so well. I was spending too much money. Then she heard me address a woman selling vegetables:

"Excuse me," I said politely. "How much a pound is it for your tomatoes?"

My friend immediately pushed me away from the scene of my crime, and took over the shopping process. "You hold the bag, Nicky. I will shop. Yuh nuh bodda talk. When yuh talk a beer tourist price yuh a go get."

Then she returned to the market lady.

"Mawnin'. How yuh ah sell di salad dem todeh?"

My friend bought my tomatoes at a much lower price than what I was quoted. I kid you not.

I've gone to the market on other occasions, but always with someone else. They do all the bargaining. I give them my list, I hold my bag, I hand them the money for each purchase. I follow backa dem as they push their way through the crowded market stalls. They shout, "Gimme way! Mi a pass! Oy deh!"

I barely manage to restrain myself from saying "Excuse me please... Sorry I stepped on your toe... Uhm, sir, your cart is in my way... Could you nudge it to the left just a touch, so I can pass?"

But now my Coronation Market-going friends have moved away. So... until someone else in my circle decides to start shopping at the market, I am doomed to paying higher prices in the supermarkets in Upper Senawndru (St. Andrew, in case that was too hard to read).

Sigh.

Smaddy help mi nuh. Do.

Obama and Other Heroes

O-BA-MA!!! O-BA-MA!!! O-BA-MA!!!

Tomorrow, the Lord willing, we will see history being made.

A Black Man will take the oath of office and will be sworn in as the 44th President of the United States of America.

What a suppm!!!

I must confess, I am one of the ones who never thought it would happen. And when I stayed up late, eschewing my beauty sleep (which really isn't working anyway) to follow the US election blow by nail-biting blow, I couldn't believe it when they declared that Obama Had Won.

The next morning I watched the re-runs of the Obamas taking the stage and waving to the throngs of excited fans - sorry, voters, supporters - who had gathered to celebrate the Obama victory. And as I watched Barack (yes, we're on first name terms; is mi bonafide) and Michelle (she's cool) walk hand-in-hand, with their children, my eyes misted over.

OK. I bawled. Snot and everything. I had lived to see the USA vote for a Black Man to become President.

I know that reality is already setting in. This is the worst possible time to become head-of-state of the most powerful nation in the world (that's what they say about themselves). Mr. Obama barely has a honeymoon period. Majorly serious tings a gwaan outta street. Personally I'm glad I don't have the kinds of ambitions he has. I can barely rule my doggie, much less an entire nation.

But I am still allowing myself to wallow in the euphoria of this moment. The word 'milestone' is almost inadequate. I'll be on Facebook and CNN. Hopefully I'll get some work done in between, cause, Obama or no Obama, I still got bills to pay.

But... what a day, what a day.

What will we learn from this as Jamaicans? Hopefully not just "Is black man time now!" Or, like I've heard secondhand: "Wi nuh need nuh visa fi go a farrin... Black man ova deh a run TINGS!"

Hopefully Jamaicans my age and younger will look on and understand that Obama and the black race in the USA are reaping today, what was sown in blood, sweat and a deluge of tears in years gone by. And the sowing and sacrifice must continue today if we - or more accurately, our children - are to reap tomorrow.

When we turn off our television sets tomorrow night, let's reflect on our own heroes, on whose backs this nation was built.

Nanny.
Paul Bogle.
Sam Sharpe.
George William Gordon.
Marcus Garvey.
Norman Manley.
Alexander Bustamante.

The unsung heroes living among us today. Are we fashioning a Jamaica that's worthy of them?

After We Pray... THEN What?

As I write this post, the National Leadership Prayer Breakfast is taking place.

As I write this post, the families of two young women in St. James, are grieving. The 29 and 25-year old women were shot, execution-style, at a business place yesterday. Their bodies were found at about 1:00 p.m.

I'm honestly not listening to the sermon being broadcast live from the Prayer Breakfast. I've been going to church since I was 5 years old. I have 33 years of sermons inside my cranium. With all due respect, I'm sure I've heard it before in some way, shape or form.

I want to know: what are we going to DO?

My finger is pointed at myself as I ask this question: after we pray, WHAT? Are we really prepared to make a difference in our families, in our workplaces, in our nation? Have we counted the personal cost of actually LIVING what we pray?

Or are we going to continue to remain safely within the four walls of the church, content to live a safe, private Christianity that doesn't challenge the status quo?

Let's think about it. After we pray, after we get up off our knees: if we are going to ACT based on what the Bible says, we're going to rock a lot of boats in this country. Including our personal boats.

It means that we're going to personally, individually, speak out against injustice when we see it, wherever we see it, despite the inconvenience to our comfort.

It means that we're going to personally, individually, live our integrity out loud, whenever and wherever, despite the inconvenience to our reputation.

It means that we're personally, individually, going to challenge the system when the system itself encourages corruption. Which means challenging the people who perpetuate this corruption. Whenever and wherever we encounter this.

So let's bring it home. When we rise from our knees after prayer, and we witness a crime, are we going to think of the cost to our lives, to the lives of our family members and then... speak out? Or are we going to remain silent?

When we become aware of fraudulent practices in our place of employment, after we have considered the implications for our own employment status, and its impact on our lives and the lives of our family members, are we going to speak out? Or are we going to remain silent?

When the state considers or even enacts legislation that is anti the law of God, that is burdensome to the people, that is unfair and unjust: after we think about the cost to our reputation and all that it means, are we going to speak out? Or are we going to remain silent?

If we're going to pray, then we need to be willing to take action after we pray. After all, God uses our hands, our feet, our minds, to do His work here on earth.

If we are not willing to make the personal sacrifices to make Jamaica, our own country, a better place for us, our children, and future generations... Who will be? Who else do we expect to stand up for us?

I speak to myself. The time for apathy, for standing on the sidelines, is over. Tings ah gwaan too bad now. I've got to pray more... then stand up, go outta street, and get my hands dirty.

After I've counted the cost.

God help me. God help us. God help our nation. Jamaica land we love.

Hippopotomonstro... WHA???

I learned a new word today. C-A-L-U-M-N-I-O-U-S. It means that a statement is "harmful and often untrue; tending to discredit or malign."

Some of the synonyms listed (dictionary.die.net) are equally yummy words: denigrating; libellous; inflammatory...

So now I can say, with a straight face: "She refused to refrain from uttering calumnious statements about my character." I'll let the four syllables roll smoothly off my tongue and watch my listeners wildly rack their brains before blurting, "Calumni-WHO?"

I've long had a love affair with words. I think it was bequeathed to me by my Dad, who would pop little treasures like "circumnavigate" and "transitory". I'd look on him questioningly, only to have him haul out the two massive tomes - Volumes I and II - of his ancient dictionary. "Look it up," he'd command me with a pseudo-stern tone and a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

So now I collect words. Calumnious. Perspicacious (discerning). Obfuscate (to bewilder... as in, "Nicky's pronouncements frequently leave her friends obfuscated.")

I also collect mixed metaphors. ALL my friends mix their metaphors, or just destroy them completely. Some of my favourite gems:

• "My life isn't constant - it just ebbs and bows."
• "You've GOT to get your act together, Nicky! It's time to put your head to the wheel!"
• "That cricket match was suspenseful... It had me on the edge of my feet..."
• "Talk is one thing... but when the rubber hits the tracks..."
  

I spend lots of time thinking about the strange-isms of the English language. For instance, why are the following words SPELLED the same way, but PRONOUNCED differently?

• Rough
• Cough
• Through
• Bough
• Tough

And, how about opposites? What's the opposite of INEPT? Is it EPT? Or APT? And, if it's APT - why???

Everybody talks about "illicit relationships". Have you ever heard anyone say that their relationship was "perfectly licit"? I hear the word actually exists - I've seen it in the dictionary - but who says "licit"? Maybe I will begin. Tomorrow.

I never say my favourite word, though. Simply because... I can't. But I absolutely LOVE this word:

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.

Look it up. Very useful piece of vocabulary. It means... drum roll please...

Fear of long words.

There's A Mouse In The House

I may very well sleep with the door to my room open tonight.

You see, I saw a mouse in my room.

First it was an almost imperceptible movement, just at the corner of my right eye. I froze, and waited, and... Yes! There it was! A mouse, scurrying across the floor, in front of the tv, under my bed.

I kicked my bed, then climbed on top of it. Kneeling down, I peered cautiously over the edge. No mouse.

I bounced up and down on the bed, quite vigourously, on my knees, hoping the sound would frighten the mouse and he would scurry out of my room (that's what mice do, right? Scurry?)

No luck.

So I'm going to sleep with my room door open. I have no intentions of being locked up in my room with a mouse for company.

You know, I think I saw this mouse last week. He was scurrying across a piece of furniture in another room. So I rushed and set two glue traps. Mouse fi dead.

Two mornings later, I was about to go into the kitchen to make my morning coffee... a religious ritual for me... when I heard sounds that can only be described as frustrated scurrying. Sure enough, the mouse had been caught on the glue trap, and was trying desperately to escape.

I froze. Then I did the the most logical thing.

I ran screaming into my mother's room. (Yes, I am 38 years old, but I'm not perfect, ok?!)

"Mummy! Mummy!"

My mother immediately sprang into emergency mode. "What happen?! What happen?!"

"A mouse! A mouse! Amousegotcaughtinthetrapinthekitchen!"

Mummy unsuccessfully tried to hide a smile. "Alright Nicky. Calm down. I'll deal with it."

"I'm calm! I just cant! Deal! With! It!" And I turned on my heel and went to my room, avoiding the kitchen, calmly slamming every door on the way.

Safely ensconced in my room, I listened to my mother, the Intrepid Mouse Destroyer. Bang! Whack! Thud! Scrape scrape scrape! More Bangs! More Whacks and Thuds!

Then... silence.

Figuring it was safe, I emerged from my room. My mother was already on her way to me. She was panting, sweating, tired. Boy, that mouse must have really gotten it, I thought.

"The rat got away," my mother announced flatly.

What???!!!

"Only the tail was caught in the trap, and it escaped and ran that way." She pointed vaguely towards the back door.

We stared at each other, then she returned to her room, and I went and made my coffee.

I think the mouse is back.

Survival of the Meanest

Driving in Kingston, Jamaica is a perilous activity for the sane, undertaken only out of necessity - to go to work, run errands, and so forth.

Driving in Kingston, Jamaica is a contact sport for the insane, undertaken only out of the driving need (forgive the pun) to add to the chaos that is Jamaican life, and to raise the blood pressure of the few sane drivers who do exist.

How else can you explain the taxi drivers who turn left from a right-turning lane (or right from a left turning lane)? The bus drivers who stop in the middle of the road to drop off and pick up passengers? The SUV drivers who blithely park across the last 2 spaces left in the supermarket parking lot?

How about everybody else who turns without using an indicator or a hand signal?

That's my favourite beef, actually. I'm convinced that 50% of Jamaican drivers believe that their vehicles will explode if they switch on their indicators. Another 30% believe that using an indicator will decrease their manhood.

I actually have anecdotal proof of this. I was in a taxi one day and I noticed the driver was making turns with no signals whatsoever. I asked him why he was doing this. His response?

"Bad man nuh use indicator."

See? Signalling that you're going to turn or switch lanes, just isn't sexy anymore.

If signalling reduces a man's machismo, then overtaking certainly builds it right back up. That's right, sir, go ahead and overtake a line of 6 cars, while going around a corner. And when you see the oncoming truck, make sure to jus' jook the front of your vehicle right in front of mine. It's just what I needed to make sure I don't fall asleep at the wheel.

Oh, and then there are those drivers who think that red lights are... you know... just suggestions. Maybe you should stop... But only if you feel like, or if another vehicle is nearby, or if you're not in a rush. But please don't feel pressured to pay any attention to traffic lights of any colour.

Sigh. It's crazy. I used to love to drive. It used to be my escape, a chance to think. Me, the vehicle and the open road.

Forget that. It's me with all my frayed, jangled nerves, eyes darting left and right, muttering half-sentences of prayer in between gasping for air... the vehicle... and the open road now jammed with insane drivers intent on proving their machismo.

I have issues with women drivers too... but nex' time.