The Colour Orange

I think one of the colours that I remember most vividly from my early childhood was the colour orange. It was the colour of the shirts my father wore to his group meetings at night. It was the colour of the pamphlets and leaflets he had stacked on the shelves around his desk. Orange was the colour of the posters on which his picture appeared alongside that of Michael Manley, former Prime Minister and leader of the People's National Party.

Orange was the colour of the ribbons I wore in my hair to sing lustily at special party ceremonies...

"The trumpet is sounded my country men all, so wake from your slumber and answer the call. The torch has been lighted, the dawn is at hand, who joins in the fight for his own native land..."

My father was a comrade. The people who sat huddled around him at our dining table in the wee hours of the morning were comrades too. I learned that word early. I remember Mr. James, and Mr. Palmer. I remember Miss Creary. I remember Portia Simpson. She was the group secretary. One night my mother asked her, "Portia, I hope to see you in Parliament one day."

The diffident young woman in her early twenties smiled shyly, "Me Miss G?"

I remember sneaking out of bed in my nightie and slippers to squeeze between Portia and the notebook in which she was taking short-hand notes of the meeting. My father pretended not to notice that I was there, and not in bed as I should have been. There, with my chin on the table, I would hear about Comrade Leader's plans, the strategies for the elections and the needs of the constituency. South West St. Andrew had many needs. People needed work.

My father believed that everyone needed work, not just the comrades. Labourites needed work too.

In the mornings, before the sun rose, the constituents would arrive at our house. Men. Women. They sat on the porch. They leaned on the gate. They wanted to see Mr. Gordon. He was the PNP caretaker for the constituency. Although Wilton Hill was the MP, they came to see my father. They needed help. They needed work. They had children in trouble with the law. They had children who needed to go back to school.

We lived in Waltham Gardens, a small community off the Bay Farm Road. We were walking distance from the South West St. Andrew constituency. So, the constituents came.It seemed there was always someone waiting to talk to my father about getting a Crash Programme work, or recommendation for farm work...

They were usually people in distress, but they were generally peaceful, respectful, well-mannered...

Increasingly, my father spent more time with his constituents than he did with his furniture store on Spanish Town Road. Increasingly he left his store to "managers" and accountants while he organized himself for general and local government elections.

One evening I answered the telephone and the voice on the other end said they were going to kill us...

My father said the children should not answer the telephone anymore. My mother answered most of the calls. She would "suck her teeth" and hang up. She knew which God she served. She wasn't afraid.

One morning, in the dark of morning, I awoke to the scurrying of feet and the sound of familiar voices. My father and his group had held a meeting in the constituency. Shots had been fired. Miss Creary got a bullet in her leg. A bullet had miraculously whizzed past my father's face and broken one of his teeth. The "group" leaders who had escaped injury spent the night in our living room. They were obviously shaken.

My uncles came to the house and told my father, "Get out, Jason. Get out! Give up the damn politics. These people are serious. Is not like old time politics. They will kill you."

Men in cars came: they sat with my father and spoke in hushed tones. They encouraged him to "cut his losses" and leave. It wasn't worth his life. It wasn't worth his family's life.

He withdrew from active politics. He returned to his furniture store but the business was in shambles: money had been stolen by his managers and goods given out on unauthorized credit to their friends.

My father sank into depression, angry at himself, angry at the world....He said,"If I had served my God as diligently as I did my party, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs."

His blood-pressure spiralled. His heart failed. Not long after withdrawing from active politics, he died, bankrupt and broken.

The comrades turned out for the funeral: old men and women with orange banners and pennants. They hugged us, wept with us and assured us that Mr. Gordon had been good to them. They loved Mr. Gordon. Mr. Gordon treated comrade and labourite same way. Mr. Gordon was not into di violence like the "nowadays" politician dem....

The mourners dispersed, and the grave diggers sealed the vault. A small band of women lingered around the grave to sing, "The trumpet is sounded, my country men all..." with clenched fist and tear-stained faces as the sun set orange red on the memorial park...