The house that Jack built

Been so busy I ain’t even had time to scratch me tail, as we does say. Chore chore after chore. Talkin’ about scratching…that remind me o’ the tale cha-cha…uncle…tell we when he been here.

I been to see he at cousin Analis home just after he come back from Abroad; was one o' them lazy, tree-rustling, tea-drinking afternoon, the only loud sound was the shaky old security guard sneeze-rattle-hawking at the empty house next-door, “Waaashooomb…hakgggahkkk.”

Cha-cha been so excited to be back in he homeland he talk like a engine on speed, rev up ‘bout he old village…then suddenly launch into the tale of Jack…

Jack had big land that he ain’t been using, land that cover up with tree and bush. He and he wife and one o’ he sons and son wife and they daughters did live in Jack house. He other sons live on the same land in houses nearby.

My grandmother, Ma, and she four children did live not far from Jack and he clan. Ma had big dreams. After she husband dead and left she with no real means to feed she children, she decide she gon try and save some money, buy land, work it. She ask Jack if he gon sell a portion o’ land. Jack say no way.

Ma continue with she rustic li’l sweets and cake shop, build up on it over time; she mind fowl that lay egg and she sell eggs too. Sometimes them fowl stray over to Jack land, scratch, scratch, peep peep cluck cluck round them bush. When Jack and he family see them fowl, they take up stick and lash them hard, badai, bash, and them fowl limp home with bruk foot, bruk back and wing.

Ma work away. Jack wife, daughters-in-law and granddaughters sit on they backdoor steps and comb hair.

They bring out a fine teeth comb…a comb with teeth very tight, all close together. They bring out a white sackcloth…a piece o’ calico that use to store flour. And they bring out a old lamanade…lemonade…bottle.

They lay the white cloth down on the ground and one girl sit on the bottom step near the cloth. She loose open she long, stale-coconut oily hair from the day-to-day plait.

Another person…the mother, grandmother or a sister sit behind with the comb.

Cha-cha say, “You see when they make so…” You see when they do so… Cha-cha raise he hand, hold it over he head and drag it down to show me and Analis the combing of the long, long hair.

“Louse! Oh me mamma, if you see louse…the whole cloth turn black black black,” cha cha say and laugh he wicked li’l laugh. “Then they take the lamanade bottle and roll it on them louse…prip prip prip, so they go.”

Me and Analis laugh ‘til we weep. Cha-cha say, “I only telling y’all this to show you how some people live, how some people never elevate theyself from where they start. They don’t have no ambition, nothing.”

Later on in life, Jack sell the house and land to a goldsmith. Jack say he sons wasn’t doing anything with the property, and he getting old so he might as well sell and use the money for he and he wife to live.

When the son who been living with Jack hear what the father do he pick up a big stick and holler, “Me go beat you rrrass with this stick.”

Jack shout back, “Beat me rrrrrass, me go knock you rrrrass back too.”

I don’t know where Jack and he wife go to live but he sons and they family move further down back dam, more south in the village.

Cha-cha say they build some li’l chook-a-ground huts, hovels make with wattle and daub…wattle with thick, thick mud daub on.

“To this day,” cha-cha say, “they life ain’t change. They still living in some bruk-uh-down homes in dirty yard with scruffy plants.”

A letter

Dear Car Manufacturers Abroad,

I notice in them ads on tee vee that when you test you cars you test them in very sterile conditions, in cool, spacious grey rooms and you have air bags and all sorts of unrealistic things.

Well Dear Car Manufacturers Abroad, I challenge you to come and test you cars in Real Life Conditions.

Come to a place what got potholes so huge that even if you gear down into first gear and go slow slow slow, you car rock up so much that all when you go to sleep that night you brain still a-knockin’ and a-shakin’ and you still hear clink clank clunk.

Yes, come to a place where potholes so wide they go on for big stretches ‘til they join up with other potholes. Some potholes so deep you can’t call them potholes, you got to call them cauldron holes.

Huh, talkin’ about holes, I ain’t gon even tell you what ---holes we call them who drive mini-buses and taxis, no no, I can’t tell you, decent people like you might blush.

Dear Car Manufacturers Abroad, if I scare you off from coming here to test you cars, maybe you can send me a car? I gon test it for you.

A nice, zippy BIG red car gon do me just fine…big yes, can’t let it sink and stay in a cauldron hole…send a car with a really good A.C. unit to keep me cool ‘cause the place so hot I seeing mirage all over the place. Yes, mirage…I swear I see traffic lights not working. Not one, not one around town. And I swear I see vine growing on one light. Must be a mirage because the place so hot.

Okay Dear Car Manufacturers Abroad, I await your reply patiently.

Yours,

Thoroughly shook up after driving into town a while ago [my brain still going kadang kadang],

Guyana Gyal.

ignorance

Yesterday I been gyaffing…chatting…with a family friend, he phone to say hello then had to rush off to a meeting.

Meeting with Big Secret International Group that only had Men Members in the beginning. Now they got a Special Chapter for Women.

Oh brother, it don’t matter how I dig into we family friend brain, open he head and search, pull he teeth, this man refuse to give up the secrets 'bout what they does do at they meetings.

But that is alright, that is okay, I ain’t need to know. ‘Cause me and Neighbour got we theories.

“Neighbour,” I say, “You know they does strip off they clothes and lie nekkid in coffin at they meetings?”

”Oh, that’s not all,” Neighbour say. “After they strip they beat each other with branches.”

Who did say ignorance is a bad thing?

Walk the fine line

One morning, outside the electricity company, I catch a scene that make me freeze, not put the key in the ignition to drive away.

A girl, a pretty, pretty dark-brown girl with big, wet eyes ‘n’ lush, no-mascara lashes, a slim girl with curves and slinky long black hair, waiting for a bus. A stout, tough-ish looking fella approach she. I couldn’t hear everything he say, but I know the opening lines of the scene, it play out so many times around this land.

“Good morning,” he say.

“Good morning,” she answer, polite expression on she face.

Was all he need.

He sidle up close, close to she. She face turn uncomfortable. She shift away. He move in more, say something. She shake she head. He insist. She shift. He insisting, talking. A li’l fear creep over she face.

“Get the bugger away,” I want to holler. But I know better. I stay quiet and watch he insist, insist; she walk off two feet, he sidle up. At last, a bus come, she flag it down and jump in. I still remember the relief on she face.

As me friend Marie say, just a simple, polite good morning can bring on worse…hello sweets, what you name, where you live, where you going, you have a husband, boyfriend? Me like you, you look hot in them jeans…

Yet, if that gyal waiting for the bus did ignore the fella in the first instance, the consequences coulda been worse.

Rehana, we new cleaning-girl, tell me what happen to she standing at a bus stop. A group o’ fellas she know, grow up near, tell she ‘morning, meaning ‘good morning.’ She reply ‘morning in she soft voice.

They ain’t hear she. “Why you no answer, eh? You think you better than we?” they sneer. And they threaten she a threat that too vile to repeat.

Like Rehana, like the gyal waiting for the bus, like me friend Marie, like all them gyals in Guyana, I got to walk a fine line between polite-friendly and too friendly-friendly when it comes to dealing with some men here today…most o’ the good men migrate, them gyals say these days.

[What we find interesting though is that these kinda fellas never, ever behave badly with women from Abroad. As soon as they hear a accent from the Caribbean or from foreign, they manners, not amour, rise to the occasion.]

I ain’t into the man-bashing scene. I know too many nice men, good ones, kind, polite ones, considerate ones. If you struggling to reverse you car in a public place, instantly a knight or two appear to guide you out. If you car tyre puncture, a shining vehicle gon stop and a hero come to the rescue. [Of course, like anywhere else, common sense tell you don’t try this at night].

And I ain’t a snob, no no, not after the way we mother and father bring we up, teach we with they kindness towards the drunkies, the lazies, the knock-abouts; can’t be snobbish with parents who tell we, take this plate o’ food down to George [the straggly drunkie who did suppose to help my mother in the garden].

I can’t be a snob, not after we get to know some o’ them characters my father use to employ ‘cause he sorry for them, characters like Michael, the jailbird who end up dying in jail. Besides, I ain’t got blue blood running in me veins, only normal O positive red like most folks.

And too besides, as we does say…I so friendly I does talk to trees if them can talk back to me.

So when I grumble ‘bout them new staring-intimidating fellas next door I ain’t man-bashing; and I ain’t being snobbish.

Unanimously, all them women I talk to, they say the same thing that my instinct tell me. Don’t act too brigah-brigah...snobbish…with them. But don’t get too palsy-walsy either.

Take time to know them, understand them, listen to instinct, then we can know how to trod. Can’t walk too harsh or we can crush fragile, hostile macho egos. Can’t walk too sweet or we can invite unwanted amour. Yeh, got to trod that line with care when walking near some fellas here.

A little rant

I wish somebody would tell we new neighbours that it ain’t polite to stare like dawg focusing on bone.

A group o’ Guyanese fellas move into the house next door, the house where them Brazilians use to live. They don’t ever, never ever come out to show they face to say hello, but when I go through we back door I does feel them staring...and when I look, I see they shadow at they window, staring, staring from behind insect screen and iron grill, in between the louvre windows.

I don’t know if them is good boys who don’t know better...or they just plain bad...I don’t know if they do it to intimidate...

The only other time I experience this weird kinda staring was from a drug-addict down the street from me in Jamaica.

I don’t know how other women feel ‘bout men staring at them like that but it make me uncomfortable. I think I need a burka.

I don’t know what men think ‘bout other men behaving like that.

All I know is, if they show they face I would say hello. Just to be good neighbour. But they don’t ever show they face.

Hm, maybe they in purdah.

Family

My li’l cha-cha…my father young brother…been around here to say ‘bye last night. Gone back to America. This past week I been limin’…hanging out…with he, cousin Analis and other family from Abroad.

Last night after cha-cha leave I remember this: how people used to wail out they soul at we airport when the mass migration did just start. Them women used cry out as if somebody dead, and they holler, ‘'Ow son, me no know when me go see you again.” Fathers and brothers used to shed hot tears too.

Me and my cousins and siblings used to snicker and feel superior. We children had we parents and aunties and uncles and each other here, nobody ain’t going nowhere, not migrating, not my family.

But as circumstances change in this land, one by one we family…we blood…start to go too. One by one they drain away. Aunties, cousins, siblings, uncles…gone.

Last night when my cha-cha leave, I didn’t wail, I ain’t the wailing kind. I just sit in the living room and let the goodbye fall down on me like a dark, heavy stone. When the pain ease li’l bit, I think about what family mean to me.

Is more than shared memories and genes…I got people related to me that I would shame to call ‘family’ because of the way they treat other people.

Family is blood guiding, correcting. Family is worrying for each other. Is lecturing and nagging one another to do what we think is the right thing, and calling each other stubborn…oh, save me from these people I think, lemme get away far from them. But deep down I know I don’t want saving from them. And we encourage each other to do whatever we want to do anyway.

Family is blood thick with discussions…some disagreeable but you know that when them gritty words blow ‘way like dust you gon talk to one another with ease again.

Is blood flowing strong with affection; is all of we hanging on together when life start to crumble, when sickness and other problems tearing we down.

And yeah, is that weird humour that we believe outsiders can’t get and might even be shocked at because is irreverent.

Some folks tell me that friends can be like blood for them and that is good. I got some friends who feel like family too. But I know friends ain’t enough for me. Used to be a time I live far from home and had scores of friends surrounding me yet I did crave to be with family.

Them countries that got the best of my family...them countries just don't know how they lucky.

Goat-butt

Newspaperman greet me yesterday morning like he got halleluyah-gloria in he.

“You does watch football?” he ask.

Truth to tell, I never ketch the fever yet but every now and then I did drop in on a match on tee-vee. I watch because I got two li’l, really li’l nephews in ‘merica who play soccer, and I want to be a cool auntie who can discuss these Highly Important Topics.

“Which side you backing?” I ask Newspaperman.

He say, “I backing France!” and he beam like I ain’t see he beam since he wife dead in December.

To make the fella keep on feeling nice I say, “France gon win.” And he buzz off on he bike happy. Poor fella. Everybody know what take place in the match.

As soon as I switch on the tee-vee to watch the match I get a feeling Italy gon win, don’t ask me how I get this feeling, I ain’t know Jack Sprat squat ‘bout good playing or superior team or what, I just get a strong vibe.

Match done. I phone Auntie A. friend, Indeera. Indeera got a French son-in-law; he and he wife and children live Abroad.

“You saw that?!?” I ask in my best ready-to-gossip voice. Right off, Indeera know what I talking ‘bout…that goat-butt the French guy give the Italian. Pow in he chest.

“Yes, I saw! My God. Why did he do that?” Indeera say. “What was wrong with him? And he’s been so good all along, and now he’s ended his career in disgrace.” [Indeera does speak propah English at all times].

“Is sad eh? That somebody can let they rage take over so and control them. Ow, I proper feel sorry for he though. He did look like he want to cry…” I say.

“Yes, I was so sorry for him afterwards,” Indeera say. “What on earth got into him?”

“I wonder if the Italian tell he something to rile he up?” I say. “Still, that ain’t give he the right to butt the man so. When the Aussie cricketer did say something to Sarwan, you think Sarwan clap he on he bahind with the bat? Nah, he fire off he mouth at the man and if you see spit fly.”

Indeera is sixty years old, got a slightly heavy voice and a lurid sense o’ humour. Suddenly she belt out a raucous laugh, loud and long. “Hahahaaa that was some butt…”

“Yeah, they should hire he here to fight crime,” I giggle.

Indeera laugh mo’ hard. “Oh boy, I can’t wait to call Son-in-law,” she say.

Oh boy, I can’t wait to preach to my two li’l nephews in ‘merica, teach them Highly Important Things they can learn from this match.

What’s the Moral of the story here, people?

Don’t goat-butt ‘til the match is over?

This he / she thing

I want to take that big hulk of a fridge in we kitchen and shy it…fling it…all the way to the moon.

It dripping, dripping, dripping like some leaky ol’ man.

Is my job to empty the pan that ketch the drip and if I fo’get to do it…water, water everywhere, and you bet is not for drinking.

Ooops.

I shoun’t say leaky ol’ man. That ain’t right.

I got to give women equal rights. Or they gon upbraid me and ask me hard, probing questions like do you think only men can be leaky? Don’t you think women can be leaky too? They might even insinuate that the fault is Islam, it taint my mind and mentality beyond repair. They gon accuse me of killing the cause for women.

But then if I say the fridge drippin’ like a leaky ol’ woman them men gon throw fire darts at me too. Accuse me that I leaving them out of the whole business.

Ah. I know wot to say.

The fridge dripping like a leaky ol’ person.

But that ain’t right either.

Can’t say ol’.

Them young people gon get vex that I leave them out.

Oh man…I mean…oh woman…I mean…oh person…I just don’t understand this he / she thing.

I know good manners. I got a li’l refine-ity somewhere in me bones. I treat every person with utmost politeness and respect.

But this he / she thing baffle me after a stranger ‘upbraid’ me on he blog because I refer to ‘advertising clients’ as ‘he.’

I shoulda just laugh hee hee. But that ain’t right either. Why we don’t laugh ‘shee-shee’?

I know, I know, I quibbling. But quibbling is good.

You can quibble you toes in the mud.
Quibble you nose when it itch.
You can quibble you cracker, not nibble.
Quibble a football.
Don’t giggle or wriggle or jiggle, just quibble.

Anyway people, come quibble with me…tell me, this whole affair of saying ‘he’ instead of ‘she / he,’ what it mean? It mean I ‘sexist’? What sexist mean? Sexy with a twist? I ask this Person who get accused of being ‘sexist’ [Thursday, July 06, 2006: Sarcasm at it's best] if ‘sexist’ mean anti-male or anti-female. But all she / he say is, “GG, you asking ME?”

Stchuup. Y'know wot? I blame the leaky fridge.

Just a li'l update 'til later...

Ah deed it. Ah do it. Ah done it pheww.

Ah finish writing chapter 18 for The Great Blog Story that plenty other bloggers take part in.

Last night, to relax I watch America’s Got Talent...I hoot, I holla, I laff, I clap ‘n’ cheer.

Got plenty o' links to add today after chores and s'wan and so forth.

Then.

Then I can write more true, true stories. Ahhh boy, the things I does see an' hear here.

Old eyes, new eyes

Waiting for Cousin Analis and my cha-cha [my father brother] to go with them into town. I going to buy beads. Now that my eyes doing well again I can finish this wall hanging and start another.

This eye business make me remember the visit to the eye-doctor around the time the computer had the nervous breakdown.

Was a quiet afternoon in the waiting room. Just me and the receptionist. In step a middle-age Amerindian couple. He short and broad and he skin leathery and tan. She shorter than he; she plump and pink and she hair pull back in a long ponytail. But she look ollllld. She look like a olllld, dowdy owl. ‘Cause on she face was the goggliest of all goggle glasses. Big, thick, heavy pink rim glasses covering she whole face.

She tell the receptionist she come to pick up she new glasses. The receptionist hand them to she. She put them on. Was as if a fairy godmother wave a wand.

Pi-ling.

Transformation!

The new glasses still thick but the frame was thin, black wire and small, small, just covering she eyes.

She face show up pink and smooth. She eyebrows, plucked and shapely. She eyes light brown.

I couldn’t help it. I burst out. “Wow. Look at you. You are so pretty. These glasses suit you. I bet they feel lighter too. I bet they don’t weigh down on your nose like the last ones.”

She smile shy, shy and she say, “Thank you. Is like the whole world get light now.” She circle she hand in front of she face to show “the whole world.”

I say, “I bet them old ones used to burn you skin.” I know this based on what folks who wear heavy glasses did tell me.

She raise the new glasses slightly. The place where the old glasses used to rest on she nose bruise bad, bad. Them old glasses did brutalise she skin.

I exclaim in horror and say, “Never, ever put those heavy things on your face again…”

Suddenly, she husband say, “These still good.” He holding out them old heavyweight goggles and looking at them. “She can wear them at home and wear the new ones when she go out.”

“No way,” I say. “You can’t do that to she. No way.” I turn to she, “Don’t listen to he, that heavy old t’ing gon murder you face. Wear your new ones all the time. Don’t even bother with him.”

Was light-hearted banter yeah, and all o’ we laughing, but I did serious, and I insisting to she that she must refuse to wear them old glasses and how she mustn’t listen to he.

Out of the blue sky the husband then announce, “I got nine wives.”

Me and the receptionist buss out laughing. I say to the wife, “You hear what he say?”

She say, “Don’t worry with he. If he had nine wives I wouldn’t be with he.”

The husband laugh and he teeth flash and shine…he top and bottom teeth in front capped with gold.

They leave and I laugh and tell she, “Don’t let he boss you. You wear your new glasses at home too.”

She smile and say, “I gon wear them all the time.”

When I come home, I grumble to my mother.

She say, “He behaving so because he paying for them. That is why women must always have something for themselves. Always have a li’l job bringing in they own income.”

I say, “He behaving as if she glasses is like clothes. You wear old clothes at home and you good clothes when you go out. I sorry I didn’t tell he this. I sorry I didn’t think to tell he that her glasses are her eyes. You don’t wear old eyes at home and new eyes when you go out. Y’know, I wish I did think of telling he this…that he should try taking off the gold from he teeth when he at home.”