Elias was nearly fourteen, he saved money and bought a bicycle—the first one owned by a Joseph child. Elias chained and locked his precious silver and black bicycle so I could not ride it—but I was a little Houdini and found a way to unlock the bike and rode it all over the neighborhood when he was away. I loved riding that bike, it made me feel strong and free, like a boy. It was the only time I felt as free as my brothers. Trying to relock the bike the same way was impossible, so I inevitability got busted.
At first, I begged. “Could I just ride it from here to there? I promise I won’t scratch it.” Pointing to a short distance, “Just a tiny, little minute, please…?” His reply was always the same: “No!” My only option was to borrow it on the sly. In the beginning, I was careful about keeping it clean and scratch-free—but after making use of it a few times, I wasn’t as careful. I would ride farther and faster, and even race automobiles on the rugged unpaved roads. Riding this bike, I could feel the wind in my face and hair. It was the closest thing to having wings like a bird.
Freedom had a price though, when he returned home, Elias would make me pay. He loved punching me all over my body, and as soon as he discovered that girls’ developing breasts were sensitive and should never be hit, he aimed for them. I became adept at protecting myself by crossing my arms over my chest while keeping my head down. Regardless, Elias was nothing compared to the others.
I was the annoying, inquisitive one who “why” everything and everyone to death. I made frequent use of the wide mouth and thick lips that engulfed my face. I took things that did not belong to me. At first I had no problem asking and saying please, but when refused what I wanted, I would respond with an “in your face” manner. I didn’t have the physical strength to fight; but I had words and an attitude, which I amplified for maximum impact.
When my mother was lecturing about something she learned in church, I couldn’t help but remind her of something she had done recently.
“Mom isn’t giving Pastor Delease money and food, behind Daddy’s back, dishonest? He tells you not to do it all the time, but you do it anyway.”
“Shut your big mouth! I’m your mother, if I tell you to do something, you just do it!”
One day, the women from the various parishes came together to plan an upcoming social. My mother and some of the women were sitting on the floor chatting and laughing. I was sitting in the corner behind them, to the side of my mother. The conversation turned to adult relationships as they started discussing some woman’s husband. They were saying things like, “Well, aren’t all men the same?” and “Well you know it’s the women’s fault. If they did what they are supposed to at home, their husbands would behave.” The mature nature of their conversation grabbed my attention, and as I listened, the things they were saying got more idiotic. As usual, my thoughts popped out of my mouth! “Not every man would do things like that!” I blurted.
My interruption made everyone look back in shock; they had forgotten I was sitting there. My mother, without thinking or saying a word, just turned around and, with the back of her hand, smacked me so hard and loud across the face that silence filled the room.
Everyone quietly returned to her tasks in an uncomfortable hush. Marcella, a Sunday school teacher from our church, hesitantly broke the stillness with, “Sister Joseph, you’re really hard on that child that really wasn’t necessary.” That was only time I remember anyone standing up for me. Everything about me unnerved my mother. Perhaps, she wanted to protect me from the dangers she perceived my openness and outspokenness would bring “Why do you have to be different, why can’t you just be like your sisters?” was always her defense.
I was one more mouth to feed, and there were times when my mother actually forgot to feed me. At dinnertime, my father came first. After that, she served plate after plate, in order of importance. By plate number ten—mine—there usually wasn’t enough left. When she realized she had not fed me, she would splash water into the empty pot to loosen the scrapings from its bottom. When there was nothing left to scrape, she would pick bits of food from my siblings’ plates to concoct my dinner, annoying my hungry siblings in the process.
My mother was always telling me that bad girls like me went to hell when they died. She said that hell was a place where everyone was screaming and howling from constant pain and I did not want to go there. I kept thinking, “What’s the big deal about this hell place, anyway?” It sounded just like where I was already living.
All I wanted was for them to show me a little compassion. It would have been great if, by example, someone in the family would show me what being a good person was like. I was continuously being told to be good, but I didn’t have a clue what that meant. They were all acting evil. All I wanted was for them to love me for who I was. After all, I was part of the family, even though I was different and difficult.
Bloody Fridays
My father came from a family of alcoholics. I learned from my siblings that our paternal grandmother did her drinking at home, while our grandfather, his three sons, and two daughters were open, falling-in-the-gutter drunks. Alcohol was in my father’s blood.
I never met my grandfather; he died long before I was born. I did not really know my grandmother either, but she did come around occasionally to reprimand her son after someone was seriously hurt during one of the melees at my house. This mission took great effort on her part. She was frail and could not travel alone, so she was usually accompanied by one of her other grandchildren.
Her visits were a big deal for us on many levels. First, she cared enough to make the trip. We knew she was the only person who could talk to our father and he would sit and listen quietly. Her appearances were rare, and my oldest siblings were especially happy to see her. Perhaps they hoped that maybe, this time, she would say something to our father that would really touch him, possibly sink in and make a difference.
Ma Francis, as we called her, looked like a raisin with arms and legs. Her skin just hung off her as if she didn’t have bones to hold her together. She was toothless, so it was funny watching her eat. She was not sloppy though. She had mastered the art of chewing with her toughened gums and when she spoke, it was almost impossible to understand. But she’d rattle earnestly, “Sonny, what you doing to yourself? What’s the matter with you?” pointing to her head. “Stop this, my boy. You keep dragging your family through shame and misery. Son, people talk. You’re embarrassing yourself, me, the whole family!”
My father barely said a word. He would only respond with, “Yes, Ma.” or “No, Ma.” He would turn into a respectful subdued infant.
“Your children, look at them, they not kids anymore. They growing up fast and will turn their backs on you. Mark my words, you will be sorry!”
She left as quickly as she came and her appearances only made things worse. My father never appreciated that she had made a trip just to scold him. He never expressed his displeasure with words in her presence though, but the tightening of his jaw and the lowering of his eyes said it all - because even bullies respect their mothers. Maybe if she’d stuck around a little longer, he would have been tamer for longer periods, simply out of respect for his mommy.
My father usually started drinking on Friday evenings, but not exclusively. He went on drinking binges that lasted days. He made a living from whatever crops we harvested on our mother’s family properties. Most of the money came from large quantities of bananas he sold to the government for export, and other crops my mother sold in Castries outside market all day on Saturdays.
To cultivate the bananas and cut down the huge trees needed to make charcoal, we would leave the house before sunrise, and walk miles to another
