by Judy Powell
Christian drew in a sharp breath. He grabbed Robert’s arm. Heading in their direction were three rough-looking boys wearing red, green and gold arm bands.
“What?” Still grinning, Robert turned to Christian and stared at him quizzically
“It’s them,” Christian whispered. “The Black Star Crew.”
Robert’s smile disappeared and he turned in the direction of Christian’s stare. By this time the older boys had seen them and were walking purposefully towards them. Christian could feel his heart tighten and his palms get damp.
“Hey, black Chiney! Whe’ you a do pon de road dis time a day?”
The smaller boys were silent. They just stood there, looking down at the ground, avoiding eye contact with their tormentors.
“Hey, bwoy! You nuh hear big man a talk to you?” The boys were right in front of them now.
“And what ‘bout you, Piggy? Why you nuh stop eat?”
Robert’s light skin turned red but he remained silent. Christian could feel the sweat trickling from his armpits. It pricked the back of his neck.
He had been down this road many times before. Ever since he had entered high school this group of boys had targeted him. He was usually the brunt of their jokes. Robert was just a casualty because he was in Christian’s company.
Still staring at his feet, Christian mumbled, “Why don’t you leave us alone?”
“What?” The largest of the boys took a step forward. “You say something, worm?” Christian drew in a trembling breath. “I said, leave us alone.”
The bigger boy stared at Christian for a brief moment then burst out laughing.
“The mawga bwoy think him can give orders ‘round this place. You hear him, me brethren?”
They all laughed at the joke.
Suddenly the large boy grabbed Christian by the collar and dragged him up to his hairy face. “You think me romping with you, bwoy? You chat to big man with respect, you hear me?” He shoved Christian away from him, almost causing him to fall backwards. He shoved his fist in his pocket and rocked back and forth.
“Next time oonu see we,” he snarled, “oonu scatta!” Without a backward glance he sauntered off with his cronies in tow.
“Sheesh,” Robert whispered as he watched the boys depart, “one little misunderstanding and them have to carry on like that?”
“Yeah,” Christian said with a sigh. “It almost makes me wish I never met Shari. How I could know that big old Winston did like her? Him in the tenth grade! What him want with a ninth grader?”
“Probably the same thing you want with a ninth-grader,” Robert grinned.
“Cho, man, be serious.” Christian punched Robert on the shoulder. “She is just my friend and you know it.”
As soon as Christian got home from school he threw his school bag onto the sofa and headed towards the back door. He knew his father would be out there tinkering with the old van that was parked under the sweetsop tree.
“Christian.”
He stopped and turned towards the voice. “Yes, Ma,” he groaned, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
“Christian,” she called again, “come in here.”
With a heavy sigh and he dragged himself off to the kitchen. His mother stood at the kitchen sink, peeling green bananas.
As he approached, she turned enquiring eyes to him. “Why are you home so late? Did you have club meeting today?”
“No, Ma.” Christian flung himself down unto the nearest chair. “I went to the library to do some research.”
Princess dropped the knife into the pan of water and bananas and turned towards him.
“You could have called.”
“But I told you I have my project to work on.”
“Yes, but you didn’t mention that you were going to go to the library today.” She dried her hands on a nearby towel and there was a serious expression on her face. “Christian, I’m not trying to be a grump but if it gets late and you’re not home you know I’ll worry. Just let me know where you are, okay?”
“Alright, Ma.” Christian nodded then he sighed. “This assignment is so weird. I don’t know where this teacher gets her ideas from.”
“What’s the assignment about?”
“Jamaican heritage but…but we have to make it different. The teacher said we could tie it to family or culture or music or something. I got some notes at the library but I don’t know what to tie it to.”
His mother began peeling more bananas but she looked thoughtful. “Uhm, Jamaican heritage…sounds like fun.”
“Yeah, right.” Christian rolled his eyes at her.
“Just your cup of tea. You’re such a bookworm.” She grinned at him.
“I’m not.” He frowned. He hated it when she called him that. It made him feel like a nerd.
His mother smiled and pulled out a chair from around the kitchen table. She sat down beside him. “I like the idea of tying Jamaican heritage to our family. That would make your assignment even more interesting, don’t you think?”
“I guess. But I don’t want to talk about homework anymore, Ma. I’m going to go see Dad.”
“Alright, just make sure both of you get inside in another half hour for dinner.”
“Alright, Ma,” Christian yelled as he dashed out the back door.
“Hey, Dad!”
Kevin Lee pulled his body from under the open bonnet at the sound of his son’s greetings. He wiped greasy fingers on a chamois already black with oil and nodded solemnly at his son. He was a serious man. His smiles were rare and he always seemed to have more than his fair share of problems on his mind.
But Christian loved his quiet, reserved father. He enjoyed spending hours by his side tinkering with old cars, not saying much, but enjoying each other’s company. Christian’s father was the direct opposite of his mother, both in appearance as well as personality. Kevin Lee was dark, slim and small-bodied where she was big-boned and light-skinned. And she was the talker in the family.
Christian was a miniature version of his father with his chocolate skin, slanted eyes, and wavy black hair. Sometimes, he wished he looked more like his mother. At least then he would not be the brunt of jokes. The way he saw it if he were going to be teased for having Chinese blood then he should at least look Chinese. What was the point of having Chinese eyes with black skin?
What made it worse, the children at school assumed his family had money because of his Chinese name. Did all Chinese people own restaurants, wholesale outlets or supermarkets? His father was a mechanic.
“Ma said dinner will be ready in half an hour.”
His father nodded again then turned and ducked back under the bonnet.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Come.” His father pulled out the oil dip stick. “Let me show you.”
******
Christian awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing right under his bedroom window. With a huge yawn he stretched and opened eyes still heavy with sleep. It was too dark to see clearly in the room so he closed his eyes again and snuggled further under the covers. The sun had just barely broken through the darkness so he knew it could not be later than five-thirty. As he lay enjoying the warmth of the blanket he heard his great grandmother begin to stir in the next room. ‘Why old people have to get up so early,’’ he thought, “and the bed feel so sweet?”
Although she was in her eighties his great-grandmother never lay in bed until the sun was warm in the sky. The rooster’s crow was her signal to start the day. The annoying thing was that, by the time she threw open the windows and put the kettle on, she would be pounding on his door. She held the firm belief that ‘early to bed, early to rise’ was the motto to live by. The way she followed it religiously you would think it was in the Bible.
Christian dug deeper under the toasty blankets and drifted into a comfortable doze.
“Christian! Chris, time for worship.”
He groaned as the gravelly voice dragged him out of his slumber. ‘Geez,’ he thought, ‘
why did she have to be so religious? It won’t kill us to go one day without worship.’ But he knew that if he did not stir within minutes she would come, bedroom slippers in hand, ready to slap him out of bed. With a groan he threw back the covers and climbed out of the bed.
Worship was thankfully brief this time so Christian was off to the yard shortly after six o’ clock. The air was crisp and countryside sweet and dew still covered the leaves and blades of grass. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils and he took a deep, refreshing breath. His mother had sent him to spend part of the summer holidays with his grandmother so that he could do just that - breathe in some freshness and fill his lungs with unpolluted air.
Ever since he had turned twelve his asthma seemed to have gotten worse and his mother constantly blamed Kingston’s polluted air. She said she had heard that smoke from the Riverton City Dump was causing respiratory illnesses in children in the Duhaney Park area. No matter that they lived all the way in Meadowbrook, the dump was to blame as far as she was concerned.
Every day she threatened to sue the government for Christian’s illness. But she never tried. Instead, she took every opportunity to ship him off to the country to stay with his great-granny. She was even contemplating enrolling him in school there.
No way, he had objected. He would do it for the summer but there was no way he was going to live in that Saint Mary bush for good. Did she want him to end up talking like those country people? His mother had smiled when he said that. She knew what he meant. She had often joked about country people’s patois herself.
This visit to Granny’s village was going to be different, though. He would be entering second form at the end of the holidays and all the students in his group had been instructed to work on a major project for presentation when they entered their new class.
Normally Christian did not even meet his new form teacher until the first day of school. Mrs. Preston had surprised the whole class when she showed up at their seventh grade class before the close of school in June and handed out assignment sheets. Of course, the general reaction had been a universal groan.
“Homework for the summer holidays? Cho!”
Strangely, Christian had been excited about the assignment: prepare a fifteen minute presentation on some aspect of Jamaican life, culture or heritage. They were supposed to research it during the summer holidays and have the presentation ready for the first week of school. He would be stuck in the country, anyway. The assignment would at least give him something to do on those long days.
When Granny Beth called him back into the house for breakfast he ran to wash his hands then sat down in front of a plate piled high with fried dumplings, fried plantains and red herring. A steaming mug of chocolate tea was beside the plate.
“Granny,” he groaned, “you know I can’t eat so much food.”
“Eat up what I give you, boy! You don’t see how you skinny? I want you to go back to Kingston with some flesh on your bones.”
“But you skinny, too, Granny.” Christian grinned at the old woman as she bent over him to place a dish of otaheiti apples and guavas on the table. “How come you don’t fatten up yourself?”
“Boy, the body get too old to fatten anymore. I just waiting on the Lord to call me home.”
“Granny,” Christian smiled, “you say that all the time.”
“Hush and eat your food.” She ruffled his wavy hair then turned back to the stove.
Christian dug into the food while he watched Granny at the sink as she washed the dishes. He took a sip of the hot tea then said, “Granny, can I…I mean, may I interview you today?”
“Interview me? Like one of them people on TV? What you goin’ interview me ‘bout?”
“About life in Bonny Gate, Granny, and about us.”
“Us?”
“Yeah, you and me. Teacher said we must do a project on Jamaican heritage or history or something like that and I was just thinking I could do our family tree. That is like history, right?”
“You are absolutely right,” she said. “You can learn a lot about a country by studying the people. And who better to study than your own family?” She sat down heavily in the chair beside him. “I only hope the old head can bear up to the strain of this work you giving me now. Is long time I don’t work the old brain, you know.”
“I know you can help me, Granny. You have to. I want to draw the family tree on cartridge paper and show it to the class for my presentation. Then I can tell everybody about the famous people who were in our family. We have some famous people, right, Granny?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know ‘bout famous but I know we have some God-fearing folks on our tree.”
“God-fearing? It’s famous people I want to talk about. We had any Prime Ministers? Or what about a prince? Or a pirate!”
“Lord, chile! Is where I goin’ to find prince and pirate in the family?”
“But, Granny, you have to, or else it won’t be any fun,” he said with a pout. “Then I would have to think up a whole new idea for my project.”
“Christian,” Granny put her hand on his shoulder, “this is a serious project, right?”
When she saw him nod she continued, “Then you can’t be looking for pirates and such
the like. If you really want to know your roots then you have to accept the facts as they are.”
Granny stared at him then a knowing look came into her eyes. “Christian Lee, I have a feeling there is more to this project than you are telling me. I know you all your life and I know when you are holding something back. You have that look on yuh face.”
“Granny, is just a school project.”
“I know…but why you pick a family tree to do?”
Christian was silent, filled with embarrassment. Finally, he said, “I want to know about me, Granny. Why I look so weird.”
“Weird? What you talking about, boy?”
His voice was little more than a whisper. “At school they call me ‘mongrel’.
Granny drew in her breath sharply then hissed, “What! Why in the world…”
“Look at me, Granny.” He cut her off. “My skin blacker than a lot of the children in my class but look how my hair stay. And look at my eyes!” He spat the words out as if they were a curse.
Granny Beth stared at Christian’s tear-filled eyes then gently pulled him into her arms. “Christian, listen to me. Your grandfather on your father’s side was Chinese. You know that. That’s where you get your small eyes. And of course, your Mummy’s father is an’ Indian, so that’s why your hair is so wavy. With all them nation mix with African, you bound to look different. But what wrong with that?”
“But they laugh at me, Granny!”
“And you think a family tree going to make them stop?”
“Well, if I show them how I come to look like this, maybe they won’t bother me anymore.”
“Christian, I know you young but you must have little more backbone that that, you know, pickney.” Granny Beth was frowning now. “You are a handsome and intelligent boy so don’t let anybody make you feel bad ‘bout who you are. Your mother love you and give you all that she can afford and before your Grandma Leonie died, God rest her soul, she showed you the same love, if not more. You mus’ listen to the people who love you, not them good-for-nutten idlers.”
She straightened her back and folded her arms across her chest. “If you goin’ to be a man worth him salt you have to be able to take a little ribbing sometimes and still stand up for yuhself. Anybody who call you names, jus’ tell dem check you in ten years time and see who is the mongrel and who the pedigree.”
Christian just sat there, still doubtful. Finally, he sighed. “Yes, Granny, I hear you… but I still want to do the family history. You goin’ help me?”
“Of course, chile. What you want to know?”
“I want to know the first person in the family you can remember.”
“Hmm, that is a hard one…but let me see if I can start at the very beginning. The firs
t person, you say…” She paused and knitted her forehead in deep thought. After a moment, she spoke haltingly. “Well, I never rightly know this man…but my grandfather used to tell me about a rich, rich man that was him grandfather.”
She paused again then continued slowly. “Him say that him never meet him because when him grandmother pregnant with him father she leave and go to some other parish. But him say she always tell him ‘bout dis big straptin’ white man, a plantation owner by the name of Adam Gordon…”
CHAPTER NINE
2005
The sky was gray on the day of the funeral. The dusky shroud hung heavy overhead. There was no sun but the air was still and the heat dropped its dead weight on the village.
Gloria was dead. Beth’s older sister had passed away in England. Before she died she had insisted on being laid to rest in the family plot in Bonny Gate. Her two older brothers were already gone so, of her mother’s five children, only Beth and her younger brother Frederick were left.
The relationship between them was little more than nonexistent, with Frederick sending her a Christmas card at year-end and with her replying when she felt like it, or not at all.
Fred had done well in England where he had worked with the railroad. He owned two homes in Jamaica as well as another in Birmingham. He had three children who had all gone to university and five of his grandchildren had done the same. His youngest grandchild was studying neurosurgery on a full merit scholarship.
‘Wonder if him would be so big and boasy if him did go through what me go through,’ Beth thought, as she yanked on the support stockings. ‘Wonder if him would own a home in Kingston as well as Bonny Gate, plus send pickney to teachers college then to university? And what ‘bout my business which thrive till me give it up when me turn seventy-five? How much of that him could do without the benefit of him fancy British education and a choicy job with the railroad?’
Now Fred was back in Jamaica at eighty-three years old, almost as old and withered as she was. In fact, she would say that at her eighty-five years she looked better than he did. One would think he was the one who had had a rough life. She snorted as she pulled on low-heeled black pumps. He did not know what rough life was.