I remember being born. At least I like to believe I do. I remember my childhood. I am stubborn in that way. I refuse to let anything related to nostalgia go. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not nostalgic in that romantic way, it’s more of a feature of a suite of characteristics geared towards self-protection that I began cultivating at a very young age. As I read over these preceding lines, my eyes well up. Wow, I have only just begun and eureka! A breakthrough. Self-protection is and has always been an undercurrent theme of my life.
I remember my childhood. The dirt in the yard at the end of Bishop Lane in Spanish Town where I would play, drawing in the sand with sticks. I never had toys, so I created my pastime with stones, dirt and sticks. I remember the bedroom at that tenement that I shared with my mother and her grandmother, my great grandma, who was my de facto second mom. I remember my mother’s love. I don’t remember its warmth, it is a deep and practical love. More on that later. In my family home, that bedroom, I would with pen and paper draw fantasy homes that I would one day build my mom. I remember my grandmother’s love, it can be summarized by the last thing she said to me before she died, “I love you, will always take care of you”. She did and she did.
I was extremely shy as a child. I loved being alone. Never yearned for companionship of other children. The truth was the thought of social interaction scared me. There were no play dates. I spent most of my time around adults. The rare times I was with other children at that young age I was quiet. I didn’t know how to interact. I sought solace in what books I could get my hands on. I read the books my mom read. At a young age I was reading novels by Sydney Sheldon and his contemporaries. To this day The Other Side of Midnight remains among my all time favorite books ever written. From a small bedroom abode, enriched by the dirt I played in, books and television shows like Falcon Crest, Dynasty, and Dallas helped to shape my view of the world. My take on villains and heroes, power and greed, class and shame. Kung Fu flicks at the local cinema over on Monk Street were awe inspiring and made me value the underdog. Taught me then that overcoming being beaten down was simply a matter of being passionate enough to become better. All these lessons would be invaluable to me later.
This was a time in my life where all I knew was my great grandmother and my mom. There were the peripheral relatives, grandfather, aunts, uncles, and cousins. However my great grandma, who I called Aunt Daisy, and my mother, Peggy, were my world. I was raised by two very strong, strict, smart, and capable women. Now that I’m an adult and I better understand the complexities of the world I have an even greater appreciation of these women. The first women and perhaps the only ones who have ever truly loved me. As a child I had no idea of their history, their struggles, the day to day difficulty of just being. I remember my mom often seemed angry. When I did anything she deemed wrong the belt of correction was applied with what I would call a malicious passion. She may tell you differently, she could be right, as I might be biased, but the punishment just never seemed to fit the crime. Curiosity was my vice, I questioned things, I questioned people, and I questioned my mom’s and grandma’s authority over me. I debunked their reasoning and told them point blank that they made no sense. My reward for my astute findings was quite often more than a strong rebuke, still I persevered. I learned to forgive, and never to forget.
My formative years sparked my resilience, natural defiance, and relentless curiosity. It is only fair to say, frolicking in the dirt made me.
