When I was living in Jamaica, I loved when school was out because it allotted me the freedom to do as I chose. I would find myself in a lot of trouble doing things that “a girl” had no business doing. I would often be ripping and running through the streets and gullies in Salts Spring (Mon.tego Bay, JA) and would often be reprimanded by my grandmother, aunts, mother and anyone else who knew my family. But there were many occasions as I was growing up during my free moments when I would just disappear.
My grandfather had a high love for education and the written word. He believed that every book should be treated with respect. When my mother and her siblings were growing up in order for her to get new books for the school year she had to surrender her books from the last school year in perfect condition. If she did not, she faced the wrath of Whiteside, my grandfather’s moniker. The reason for that was simple, growing up in my grandfather’s time they didn’t have the luxury of schooling, they were forced to work if they wanted to have their basic human needs of food and shelter met. My great-grandmother who was around for most of my life used to tell us that she never learned how to read and write and when she tried she got a beating to go back to work. She made sure her kids knew how and till the day she died, they read her all her correspondences from her family and wrote all her letters for her. In any case, these same rules were passed down to me and I obeyed them, quite simply because even I feared and respected my grandfather and I wasn’t about to try him. He kept all those books, along with others he brought “downstairs” in a cool dimly lit room that I called his office, the entire wall was filled with books and the ones with “questionable” material were kept on the top shelf, but never you fear I read those too. J
I would do into that room and take a book and disappear into the back and climb into a tree. There I would sit nestled in whatever crook I could find and I would stay until the book was finished. I would hear people calling for me but I seldom answered. More often than not I had smuggled some of my remaining breakfast of ackee and saltfish, or egg and callaloo and make mini sandwiches with the fried dumpling, mashed them up and stuffed them in my pockets or whatever way I could transport them and those provided food for the time that I spent outside. After awhile though I had read and re-read a lot of those books and took advantage of the book-mobile that came from the St. Ja.mes library. It was akin to the ice-cream truck, I heard the truck coming and I went a runnin’.
After we moved to the States, I still continued this ritual. It was slightly different though. Gone were the mashed breakfast remains, the library and the book truck. Instead during summer break I would get up and go to the library, waiting for them to open the doors. I selected my book choices and went right back home. There I sat in the living room on the “one-seater” couch, nestled myself into the crook and threw my dangling legs over the side and there I would sit for hours. I remember once I got 5 books and stayed up all night reading all 5 books, the next day I went back for more.
I started reading the Dav.inci Co.de on Tuesday on the way to work. I had been meaning to read it for some time and never could get started. I stayed up last night until 3:30 am reading that book barely able to put it down until I had read the last word. It was goooood. Ahhh it felt so good to be able to do that again, its been awhile and now I feel like my zest has returned. I am patiently waiting the arrival of some books that I ordered yesterday.
Kos.her Sex (thanks god’s child)
Opr.ahs Summer Reading of Fau.lkner which includes: As I Lay Dying, The Sound and the Fury, Light in August
Don’t Play in the Sun: One Woman’s Journey Through the Color Complex. by Marita Golden.
Dre.ams from my Fa.ther by Bar.ack Oba.ma
Ra.ce Mat.ters by Co.rnel W.est.
I suspect my love of the written word came from my grandfather. To me it takes such a great labor of love and dedication to piece together the words that float around in your head and share. It’s not easy to sit down and publish your thoughts and then have it sent out, not knowing. I know how anxious I get when people read my stuff. I’m an artist and I’m sensitive about my shit! Lol. It used to really bother me when I was in college when people jacked their books up, sold back classic pieces of work and just blatantly disrespected that labor of love. I already have a truckload of books such that I have no room for them and have to stack them horizontally for them to fit on my shelf. My home wherever it is will tout a whole wall filled with books and all the “questionable” material will go on the top shelf as well. I want my children to embrace the written word and understand that though now it’s their right, it wasn’t always. I want them to know that great mystery’s can be revealed between the lines on a page and that the journey to everything great begins in your mind. It’s a tribute to my grandfather who I loved more than cooked food. A tribute to the memory to the people who worked so hard to make sure that I had the “luxury” of being able to read afforded to me. How can I not carry it on?
