Trading Tears For Beers

Today has been a better day, a long day, but a better one. I'm sitting in my desk chair listening to thunder and drinking a beer, and can't help but feel like days are dragging into each other. I also kind of feel like sparing you my whining for a blog and have decided to interject an excerpt from my book into tonights blog. Sorry for the repeat for those of you long time readers, but I got an episode of CSI to watch and some warm potato salad I just made to indulge in.

Slipper Dub

When I was four my parents sent me to go live with a large Jamaican family in Hamilton Pines, a bit north from Sumptners Peak. My mother had explained that our cat was allergic to me and, that since it was there before me, it was only right that I be the one to go.

So my four year-old self packed my little four year-old suitcase and a school bus pulled in front of our house and I climbed in.

I was greeted very warmly with a glass of punch and felt at home instantly. The bus was cozy inside, with grass curtains and a very homey feel. I slid on to one of the bright green vinyl benches and tucked my suitcase under me. I was a bit nervous but was soon calmed by a mellow herbal scent. I relaxed and slumped down in the seat to nap a bit.

We drove and drove and no one really noticed my presence. In fact the whole 7 months that it took until my parents found out that our cat was in fact one of my father’s old slipper and that there was no longer a problem, not one of the Jamaicans ever even spoke to me. I think that there was just so many of them, that I was just a part of the heard.

Hamilton Pines was in the middle of no where, but the Jamaicans had found themselves a large clearing down by Jokalona Lake and had set up a make shift beach colony.

They lived in hut made from tin and grass, the kind you would think they would have lived in if they were still in their village out side Turtle Cove, on the east side of the island. It was colorful and warm, and my four year-old self liked it there. It was a bit weird because no one really said anything to me or noticed that I was the only white kid there, but I figured if it wasn’t a problem for them, then it wasn’t a problem for me, and continued to sip on my punch.

We went to bed late and we woke up whenever it felt right. It was an easy life. I started walking barefoot, and my curls started to dread from not washing it as often, and my four year-old self felt good.

The food sucked. They were devout Rastas and followed a strict Rastafarian diet. No coffee, no meat, and vegetables were cooked at low temperatures. Sugar was also rarely used, but on birthday’s they would bake brownies and we would dance late into the night. Most likely due to being high on sugar.

I loved the music, and still really enjoy good reggae. They were loving and generous, and although they never really seemed to see me, I felt like I was a part of them. I think back on those warm nights on Jokalona Lake often when I feel anxious or stressed. It reminds me that things work themselves out. To just sit back and let time do it’s thing.

Looking back, my four year-old self was pretty cool. I just can’t help but wonder what my life would have been like if my parents would have never picked me up. Would I be happier? Would I have the same outlook on things? Would I have been a totally different person? Would I have found what I look for already?