outdoor kitchen, a crude, shaky structure, made of four thin posts holding up a few galvanized sheets that served as a roof had a fire pit made of three large stones, where a black cooking pot sat. Below the pot, large chunks of burning wood formed huge, smoky black flames that slow-cooked our ground provisions: speet potatoes, yams, green plantains, and bananas. My brothers were in charge of collecting, chopping, and feeding the wood to the fire while the women cooked. We also had a small indoor eating area, which had a charcoal pit, used on rainy days or to cook breakfast, meat, and fish—things easier and faster to cook.
On a regular day, if I’d looked towards that outdoor kitchen, only one fire pit would be going, if any; but on that Christmas morning, I gasped at the spectacular sight and smell of three big bubbling pots. Yum!
In addition to being rich and living in Castries, Saint Lucia’s capital and only city, my godparents were cool, always laughing and having a good time. Of Eastern Indian decent, my godfather was the handsomest man I knew, with perfect brown skin, wavy black hair, and trimmed sideburns. During his visits, he wore his shirt with too many top buttons undone. Our eyes were instantly drawn to the cross hanging from the gold chain nestled in the dark hairs on his chest. His shirt tucked into his trousers all held together with a shiny belt.
My godmother, Maylia, also of Eastern Indian decent, was pretty and petite. Her black hair was so long and straight she could wear it in three styles: pinned in a tight bun, ponytail or flowing loosely down to her butt. On that occasion, she wore it in a single braided ponytail. She was the only person I knew who wore high heels. The points of her heels were so sharp that they poked holes in my mother’s brand new carpets. After the celebration, my siblings and I would count all the holes her sharp heels had left behind. We could track her movements by following the holes. My mother would shake her head in wonder and ask, “How can she do it, how can she keep these things on all day and look so comfortable?” and did not mind that my godmother had damaged her new carpets.
Together with all the delicious food, drinks, and new decorations, my godparents were the best thing about Christmas. Their big car in front of our house told everyone the party is on, so our neighbors and friends, including Ms. Janie my mother’s best friend and her family, joined in. My godparents loved to dance—especially my godfather, who loved Merengue. He always started the party by dancing, usually with a drink in hand, he always danced with his wife first, spinning her around and planting exaggerated kisses on her cheek, impressing everyone with his fancy dance moves. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he would say.
As Maylia’s wide skirt billowed and swirled, my godfather would compliment her dancing and tell her how nice she looked. When she finally needed to rest her high-heeled feet, he’d ask the next available woman to dance. He would dance with my mother and sisters, saying nice things to each one, making them feel special too.
Not having a partner did not keep my godfather off the dance floor. He’d simply raise a hand above his head, wrap the other around his stomach, and did the Caribbean “wine and wiggle” with his waist and hips. When he got tired of dancing with himself, he would pull someone—anyone–onto the dance floor with him.
I cherished the moments he danced with me. “Come, princess!” he’d say, holding out his hand. Placing my small bare feet on his glossy shoes, he would hold me close as we twirled to the music. “My, my, you get prettier every time I set eyes on you, young lady, and so grown up too. I bet you are the smartest one in your class. Am I right?” I’d giggle with pride and delight. At the end of our dance, he always gave me money. That Christmas he gave me a lot. Five dollars! “Buy whatever you want,” he whispered with a wink. One day a year, I was a happy princess. Dancing on my godfather’s big strong feet was where my lifelong love for dance and music began.
I spent most of my days wishing my godparents were my real parents and wondering how people so different could be friends. Unlike my father, the more my godfather drank the livelier and more fun he became. He was never disrespectful, even in a drunken state. People gravitated towards him, while they simply tolerated my father.
I prayed often that someday my godparents would come take me away to live with them. I imagined myself running around their yard, eating delicious desserts from their ice cream maker, and sleeping in my own room in their huge house in the city. There, I would have beautiful things that belonged only to me, no hand-me-downs. I would not have to share a single thing with anyone. I knew that at my godparents’ house, every day would be like Christmas!
After the celebration and the last drunken, prolonged “bon fet, an nou fe anko lana pwochen” (Great party! Let’s do it again next year) echoed, came the part I dreaded. All day long, my father had been friendly—the perfect host—but as soon as the guests were gone and we were in bed, comatose and anxious for sleep, he became a different person. From our room, we could easily hear him nitpicking at everything he felt my mother had done incorrectly: a dish had not been prepared to his liking, or she had said something he felt was inappropriate, using them as reasons to start a fight with her. Usually it began with an inflated clearing of his throat, followed by a slight pause, and then his signature phrase, “yes…yes…yes…aha” “pou kisa ou vle fem mwan fasche? Gade mwan, gade!” (Why you want to make me angry? Look at me, look!) . Not a sound from my mother.
“I don’t want to be mad at you, but you make me. Why do you have to make me mad? Why? Why do you always do that? You make me look bad, with all my friends!” As he slapped his palms together, he’d reprimand. “You still don’t know how to stew meat? After all this time, you cannot do anything right! “Mova famn…malpwop madamn!” (“Bad wife…nasty woman!”)
The more he taunted, the angrier and louder he got, curse words shooting out like from the muzzle of a shotgun.
“You just can’t keep your frickin’ fat mouth shut. You go around telling the whole goddamn world how much this cost that costs. Salop! It’s my money, my business. Not yours, mine! You hear me?”
This would go on for hours, accompanied by a thumping chest, headboard, anything he could get his hands on. My mother would lie next to him, silent, hoping and praying I imagine that he’d fall asleep or keep the onslaught verbal. But, at some point during the night, he would start pounding on her too. Her screams would jolt us out of bed as he starts beating her mercilessly. My siblings would rush into their bedroom to help her, and the evening would turn into an all-night battle befpeen my father and siblings, ensuring that no one would be getting any sleep. Whether an ordinary day, holiday or family outing, whenever he was drank, my father would turn our days into nightmares that always ended in bloodshed as he tried to defend himself against the fury of his children.
One drizzling weekday morning, Elizabeth informed me that I would not be going to school that day. When I asked why, she merely said, “You won’t understand.”
I could tell that my mother had been crying and everyone was unusually quiet. A few neighbors, including Ms. Janie, dropped by, after brief exchanges they stood around in puzzled silence, as if there was something they too did not understand.
That afternoon, Elizabeth dressed me in my favorite outfit, a pink dress with a golden ribbon running down the front. I followed my parent’s example and remained silent throughout the long bus ride to the big stone church in the city square. Sadness was everywhere. Most people, especially my godmother, were sobbing and wailing nonstop. I wondered why people had to help her walk. It frightened me to see her so upset. I kept looking around for my godfather. I knew that as soon as he showed up, he would make her laugh and smile again, but he was gone.
I was about eight years old when my godfather passed away suddenly at the young age of forty. I never knew my godfather’s real name until recently; I found it on my birth certificate. To me, he was my Artoe. I still think of him, and cherish the memory of dancing on
