Olga - A Daughter's Tale (5 page)

Life was hard then, but manageable, especially when you’re in love. Because of my marriage, I became infamous.

“You’re a notorious wanton woman now” Henry would say teasing me.

People would point at me or just stand and stare and many, including people I had once considered to be friends, would cross the road to avoid walking past me. White and coloured Jamaicans would spit at me and the name calling was endless; nigger-lover was the most common

I tried to understand how Jamaica’s Christian middle and upper classes, supposedly wise, intelligent and intellectual people, could treat others in such a cruel manner.

But these inconveniences, as I called them, were more than made up for by the charm, dignity and generosity of spirit I found among the black Jamaicans in spite of their circumstances. I smile inwardly when I read in the papers how the Government likes to promote the view overseas and, particularly to tourists who visit the island, that whites and blacks live side by side in perfect harmony. What rubbish, what lies! You would have to be blind not to notice that the majority of blacks are uneducated, poor and despised by both the middle and white upper class groups who never bother to disguise their contempt for them. They’re more concerned about their own status than those of the black masses.

The blacks live within the twin boundaries of poverty and unemployment and cannot step outside them unless they have education or money and if they can’t get those they will remain where they are. Jamaica opened my eyes to the frailties of human nature. Until I came here I hadn’t realised that humanity could come in varying degrees and that there could be such a dramatic class distinction in the social structure of one race of people.

Kingston is still an attractive city with wide streets and buildings painted in shades of pink, cream and blue, the gardens full of hibiscus and blood red poinsettias and rich purple splashes of gorgeous bougainvillea vines. But I prefer the old capital, Spanish Town, and even though it’s now shabby, neglected and damaged by earthquakes, there still remains some splendid Spanish architecture and the ancient cathedral.

There are shops of every kind in Kingston, but never the one I want when I need it.

There is an increase in motorcars now but I find them a nuisance because their motor horns are so loud and drivers use them constantly. And they are dangerous because of the “Blow and Go” war-cry of the drivers. If two cars are at a cross roads and both blow their horns simultaneously, each one hears only the sound of his own horn and if both “go”, which usually happens, there’s a crash. The utter and complete disregard of the speed limit by car drivers is only equalled by the utter and complete disregard of the police to enforce the speed limit in the city.

The side streets of Kingston are where the blacks live. Women wearing brightly coloured turbans gossip from the windows with neighbours on the pavement below and men standing in the shade discussing something in patois, a language I never learnt. Mangy dogs wandering the streets, full of fleas and with prominent ribs sticking out worry me as well as goats with their kids which amble through the city in search of grass. But my heart breaks for the poor little donkeys with their big gentle eyes, long ears and delicate tiny feet, heavily ladened down with goods strapped across their back and the owner perched on top smoking ganja and half asleep.

My marriage to Henry didn’t last but it did produce 11 beautiful children. Before we married I knew of his reputation for living a reckless life. Too much drinking, gambling and he had known plenty of women. But I loved him and I thought he would change, in fact, I thought I could change him. But the habits he had before we married continued during our marriage and caused me great pain. I would have put up with his peccadilloes, but not his drinking and gambling. When he drank, he gambled, when he gambled he usually lost all his money and then we had no food. I would have to go to the priest and beg for money to feed our children. That was too much. I couldn’t stand begging.

******

Fr Frank Butler, Holy Trinity Cathedral, Kingston,

to

His Lordship Bishop Robert Collins, London

Your Holiness

I, too, have seen the recent articles in the English Times, and share your concerns that Obeah is flourishing unchecked in Jamaica and that it would appear that the people are choosing it as their religion rather than Christianity.

It is an interesting view that The Times puts forward, that “Obeah is a spiritual disorder” but I tend to disagree and think that it is a “psychological disorder” as it seems to me to be based on suggestion. Startling effects can be produced by suggestion and drastic changes in personality. Two persons quarrel over some difference they might have. One throws out the suggestion that he is going to Obeah the other and, whether consciously or subconsciously, the victim accepts the evil threat planted into his mind. Obeah’s power lies in an Obeah man or woman working on the fears of people who are fundamentally superstitious to start with.

Most Jamaicans are Christian and are certainly aware that Obeah goes against the teachings of the Catholic Church; yet, you couldn’t miss seeing how important religion is to the people simply because of all the many churches and chapels of different denominations there are. Baptists, Methodists, Congregationalists and Presbyterians, a few Anglican as well as the Catholic Church.

In Jamaica it is believed by most that when a man dies, his body goes to the ground and his soul goes to God, but his spirit, is known as a duppy and stays for a while or even permanently. There are good duppies and bad ones, but all are feared because, apparently, one doesn’t know how they’re going to behave. They are deemed to be the instrument of the Obeah man or woman and do revengeful and malicious things.

Just about everywhere on this island any accident, misfortune, illness or death is attributed to the malign influence of the spirits of the dead either initiated by the duppy’s own wicked purpose or carried out through envy, or else by someone bent on revenge towards a perceived enemy of the sufferer. Here superstitious rites and practices are observed with regard to every phase of life from birth to death.

Is Obeah a sort of religion with Jamaicans? Instead of offering a prayer to heaven, a man will give three pounds to an Obeah man and then pray to heaven that the Obeah man is successful in what has been asked of him. The man says that Heaven keeps him waiting. The Obeah man does not because he settles matters satisfactorily and quickly.

Every parish in this island has its corners where the art of Obeah is practised and some localities have a particular reputation for it. An Obeah man’s influence is strong because the people believe that he cannot not be harmed by the law or any white person.

It seems to me that people of every calling in life, including well educated men and women, white, coloured or black depend upon it in some shape or form and there are certain people who openly condemn Obeah and yet, to my astonishment, I find them rushing at the first opportunity to consult with an Obeah man to fix something or other.

I realise that my report may sound pessimistic, but I am optimistic that the continued teaching of religious instruction and an essential understanding of the psychology of the people, is the answer to eradicating the belief in and practice of Obeah.

******

Olga’s Diary

Isn’t this beautiful? A lovely rich green leather 5-year diary that must have cost Vivie a fortune. I love the smell of the leather which is so soft touch to touch and it has the tiniest key to lock it. I’ll tie the key on some yellow ribbon and wear it round my neck so I don’t lose it. It is my most favourite possession and I shall take it with me everywhere I go.

I haven’t kept a diary before so I’m not sure what to write. Mammie and Aunt Lucy both like to write and they say, write from your heart, talk to your diary as if it’s your best friend, so here goes.

******

Dear Diary

My First Entry
: Jamaicans love big families and the Browneys are no exception. There are thirteen of us including Mammie and Pops. Now only my mother, Mammie, my brother Sydney, me and my sisters Ruby, Dolly and Pearl live in Mission House.

That’s what our house is called and it’s in the same grounds as the Wesleyan Church. It’s quite grand, imposing and very big. At the front of the house there’s a huge old cotton tree which always looks to me as if it is standing guard over us. But the tree does more than that, it keeps the house cool and dry protecting us from the heat and humidity in the summer. The house is red bricked and square, with green shutters at all the windows, which are kept open all the time, except when a hurricane is due.

Upstairs there are three very large bedrooms, one smaller one and a drawing room. I share one of the bedrooms with my sister, Ruby. Ruby is the most studious and brightest of the younger sisters and loves reading and writing. In secret she writes short stories which she reads to me when we are in bed. I feel very honoured because Ruby doesn’t read her stories to anyone else in the family, just me. Quite often they’re romances where the heroine is a simple country girl who falls in love with the son of a rich landowner and he loves her but his father forbids him to have anything to do with her because she’s not good enough for him, so they don’t see each other any more. But the son can’t bear it and they run off together, get married and live happily every after. That’s why I like Ruby’s stories, they always have a happy ending.

My two other sisters, Dolly and Pearl, share another bedroom. Dolly and Pearl couldn’t be more different. Pearl is quiet and thoughtful and very sweet, so is Dolly, but she is a younger version of my older sister, Vivie, lively and outspoken.

Sometimes I think Dolly is jealous of me. She says I’m Mammie’s favourite. Maybe. Then there’s my older brother, Sydney. Sydney is married but he and his wife, Janetha, have been separated for years and he lives with us now.

Everyone says the best thing about our house is the upstairs verandas at the front and back because from the front you can see the Caribbean Sea and from the back you can see the Blue Mountains.

Downstairs there is another drawing room, three more bedrooms, a dining room, the kitchen, a pantry and a storeroom. Outside a veranda made from cedar wood surrounds the entire ground floor of the house and out the back is a yard with a big cooking range under a lean to, a bath house, a water closet and, of course, our lovely garden.

I have another brother, Boysie, whom I adore because he is always laughing and is so much fun to be with. He’s happily married to Minah and even though he has his own family he still finds time to visit us. We all go to Boysie with our problems, never Sydney. I like Minah, she’s nice, but I must admit some of the family don’t like her because she’s Jewish. She’s very pretty with long black straight hair and is quite dark skinned. They have four children and have a very nice house nearby in Duke Street and we’re always in and out of each other’s homes.

One of my older sisters, Birdie, is in London at the moment studying dancing at Madame Verschuka’s School of Dance. This is her second trip to London and Vivie’s been as well and I’m hoping to go soon too. Mammie has a sister, Martha, who lives in Paddington and whenever any of the family goes to England, we stay with Aunt Martha. Birdie says she’s an old trout and doesn’t like her.

I have another older sister, Cissie, who is married to Dyke and they too have four children. They have a coffee plantation in Montego Bay and have been married for about five years. Dyke is lovely. Mammie calls him a gentle giant because he towers over everyone including Sydney. We don’t see much of them at all really, except at family gatherings at Christmas time, or when there’s an occasion, like a wedding or a funeral, or a family crisis.

My Pops doesn’t live with us now, so Sydney is head of the house and supports the family financially. At school I was always top of my class in arithmetic, and when I left school Sydney told Mammie he wanted me to work for him in the shop and keep the books in order. I didn’t want the job; what I wanted to do was go to England but Mammie asked me to take the job, so I did.