The Morning

In the dark watches of first morning

we wait

in hope.

Ancestral yearnings

our loins burning

copulating

gestating

anxious to bring forth

a day

from night.

Just say No

A time comes in our lives when we disentangle, when we recognize that others do not really need us; they simply have become accustomed to having us meet needs in their lives.

As the times become more difficult, ties that bind may strangle. It is then that we must ask, "What is it that I need to maintain a healthy life?" Even when we have inescapable obligations, we must learn how to care for ourselves before we can care for others. The Christ said we must love others AS we love ourselves.

The caregiver is increasingly an endangered specie in a culture where the pursuit of personal happiness is paramount. Too many people equate "love" with "how much you sacrifice your needs for mine."

The world, I suggest, is divided into two: caregivers and those who seek the care of others. Those who seek the care of others are not necessarily those who genuinely need care.

For those of us who are caregivers at heart, our challenge is this: identify those who genuinely NEED care; distinguish them from the self-absorbed who always know what others should be giving them.

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...

This Time Of Year-The Introvert Perspective

Christmas, as any reasonable person knows, is a state of mind. Except for unreasonably cold winds blowing into our sacred space here in the Caribbean, December is like any other month. The 25th of December is simply another day. Yet, as a I sit at my desk, scrolling through my email inbox, I notice that everyone is gone or has gone on leave in preparation for the mother of all holidays that rolls around next week.

People think there is something special about this time of year, so all the millions of "thoughts" actually produce a special time of year. Unfortunately, since these millions of thoughts are "out there" it produces millions of people scurrying around generating far too much anxiety and nervous energy.

The reader needs to understand that I am an introvert (according to Myers-Briggs typology). This means, apparently, that I don't appreciate the anxiety and nervous energy of millions of people. The introvert is never happier than when he or she is alone with a good book or sharing conversation with a few intimate friends. The introvert can tolerate crowds for only a few hours then he or she must retreat to some personal space to recharge.

I need ME time, not because I am anti-social, but because I need quiet space in much the same way in which a fish needs its fins. The introvert draws his or her energy from the internal world of thoughts, reflections, meditation. December, then, with its overflow of nervous energy and superfluous activities can pose a significant threat to the introvert. Let me be clear. An introvert is not necessarily a "scrooge." The introvert simply believes that Christmas is to be enjoyed quietly and retrospectively. One ought to reflect, meditate and share conversation with like minds and intimates...

Wishful thinking...

Christmas is the season of merriment despite the recession. You can go through an entire year without a party invitation and then December dumps forty of them in your lap and all of them will be happening on the same afternoon or evening as forty other social events which you simply must attend. Of course, you really don't have to attend most of them, but the introvert suffers a secret guilt. If you don't go to at least one of the events happening at the same time on the same evening, it feels as though you have committed a crime. The unhealthy introvert tells everyone he has an incurable disease and disappears until January. The healthy introvert knows you must put in an appearance at some social engagements even though the introvert's arch-enemy, the extreme extrovert, is definitely going to be there.

The extrovert is to the introvert what kryptonite is to superman. The extrovert draws his or her energy from the external world, from being among people, from getting out and about. Since the introvert lives in the "world" out there, we become part of the extrovert's world and the extrovert needs us as part of his/her world. The extrovert particularly delights in the introvert because we appear to leave so much space for the extrovert. Because introverts are so often in reflection, the extroverts mistakenly believes introverts are waiting for them to speak and they are happy to oblige with ramblings about their week's experiences, their thoughts on global warming, religion, the cost of bread, rice, milk, his dogs, her cats, their sex partners and their special brand of toothpaste.

If the introvert dislikes the extrovert, and if the introvert is not a "healthy" introvert, he or she imagines several painful ways of getting rid of the extrovert.

The extrovert sucks all the air out of the introvert's world and never seems to notice that you're turning blue and gagging for air. The unhealthy extroverts abhor a vacuum and seek to fill every available space with themselves.

Don't get me wrong. The world needs extroverts. The whole world would still be locked in the days of dinosaurs if it were left to us introverts. You see, we would invent things (because we are the thinkers and creators) but there would be nobody to implement, distribute and market the things we invent. There would be no leadership, organization and "drive" if the world were left to the introvert population.

If you are throwing a party this season, you need extroverts and a few socially mature introverts. The former will keep the dancing going, entertain strangers in the group and keep lively conversation going. The latter will keep conversation meaningful and away from banal driveling usually of interest only to the driveler.

Lets be clear...Many healthy extroverts are out there. These are those who understand that other people were not created simply to be audiences. The healthy extrovert wants to hear the introvert's opinions and thoughts because healthy extroverts have learnt that healthy introverts usually have novel and interesting perspectives on many things. Introverts spend time thinking, pondering the meaning of the world...and the meaning of Christmas.

The main reflection of the introvert at this time of year is, "What is all this about anyhow?" Most people celebrating Christmas don't really believe in Christ and those who don't believe in Christ still relish the idea of a day off from work in His name.

The introvert relishes, however, the hush that seems to fall over our world on the 25th of December. Uncanny, isn't it, that the madness of the pre-Christmas period seems to evaporate into a relative stillness on the Day. Even the introvert, however, enjoys the company of an intimate circle at this time. In that circle, even the most extreme introvert can appear extroverted and enjoy a good laugh, good music, good food and good conversation and, especially at Christmas, the introvert can extend good wishes to and share good will with even the most extreme extrovert...for a minute or two at least...