The Lifespan Movement

Chapter 1: Granny

I woke up on the left side of the bed. As I slowly blinked my eyes open, I immediately saw my grandmother’s straight, shoulder-length black hair beside me. My older brother lay sleeping – probably dreaming – on her right. My dolls, which I was only allowed to play with once per day, stared at me with jet-black eyes from the top of the closet.

“Granny?” I gently nudged her, excited to go to the farm with her.

“Oh, good morning, mi grand chile,” she said sleepily, rising up in her pink nightie.

As I laid in bed while she got dressed, I couldn’t wait for the aroma of hot chocolate boiled in fresh cow’s milk to fill the three-bedroom board house.

Twenty minutes later, my brother, Nicky, groggily woke up, and we both walked barefoot on the red, polished hardwood floors towards the delightful smell emanating from the detached kitchen.

“Breakfast is ready!” Granny called out.

My brother and I walked over to the small verandah, watching the waves form in the sea just a few

kilometers away. Just a year later, I would be swimming in those waves daily with my siblings, drinking coconut water and eating guavas.

As we sipped our hot chocolate sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg, we took bites of the roasted salt fish mixed with red pepper and garlic in coconut oil which was served with roasted breadfruit – my own little five-year-old heaven.

Granny finally settled into a chair and told us another one of her stories.

“As you know, chile, Maihi and Happa came to Jamaica in 1916 from a small rural village in India,” she explained. “My mother was originally from Delhi and my father was from a humble background in Madras, one of the untouchables, a low born, son of the caste system which existed in India. My mother ran away from her well-to-do home from a high-born family to be with my father who was the love of her life. My father, looking for a better life and wanting to raise a family, took my mother and boarded a ship to Jamaica. The passage to Jamaica was paid for by becoming indentured servants on the Grays Inn plantation in Annotto Bay, St, Mary which was owned by Charlie Pringle, a colonial who was originally from England. After seven years as indentured servants living on the plantation, they started getting paid two shillings per week, so Happa started saving and he purchased his first ten-acre block of land in Belfield, St. Mary for two pounds ten shillings and planted his own farm. He continued to save and gradually bought the adjoining lots and eventually accumulated fifty-eight acres of land. He farmed banana, cocoa, coffee, breadfruit, and other crops. He would sell the bananas to a co-op for export to England. The other crops were sold on the local market. They also raised cows and goats and sold meat on the local market.”

I listened to my grandmother intently as she told her story. My great grandfather, Happa, died at the age of one hundred and two years old, one week before I was born, while my great grandmother had died several years before. I was dazzled and in awe of my great grandparents, who barely had anything but decided to create a new life for themselves in a brand-new country. Their story inspired me throughout the years to one day build my own business, take chances, and believe in myself, just as they believed in a better future for themselves and their family.

Before we left for the farm, I put on a beautiful, flowery, cotton dress. At five years old, my favorite color was blue – I never liked red, and Granny knew that. All of my dresses were exquisite, and handmade by Granny.

On the hour-long walk, I told Granny, Big Papa, and my brother all about who I wanted to be when I grew up.

“Maybe I’ll be a doctor so I can make everyone get better!” I exclaimed.

“Sandy, last week you wanted to be a diplomat,” Granny reminded me. “And the week before that you said you wanted to be a lawyer!”

I giggled, remembering those conversations. Then everyone laughed with me. I really intended to be and pursue as many professions as I could.

“Sandy, you can be anything you want to be when you grow up,” Granny told me. “You don’t have to decide now. You’re only a child! Just don’t depend on your husband,” she whispered, and we laughed some more.

*

As we approached the farm, I happily scrambled down from Big Papa’s shoulder and smelled the fresh, warm dirt. April is usually the last hot, dry month before the rainy season begins in Jamaica. Temperatures can range between 75 degrees Fahrenheit and 85 degrees Fahrenheit. The following month of May is usually the crab season as the crab holes get filled with water from the excessive rain. The crabs are hunted at night by the locals, and they are usually boiled or curried down in coconut milk and served with boiled bananas. I would not be taken to the farm in May, as it would be too wet, and the farm would not be as frequented by the elders.

The grass needed to be cut, and since I was too short to walk through it myself, Big Papa and my brother usually took turns carrying me. We cut across the sugarcane fields and found the banana and plantain walk. Sampling ripened bananas at the farm was one of my favorite pastimes, while my brother loved to peel the fresh sugar cane using his teeth and I would patiently wait for him to give me a piece to chew on as the sweet and sticky juice dripped all over my hands.

When we arrived home from the farm, Big Papa would make us special protein shakes using eggs, orange juice and aloe juice, which was his favorite, then we would all sit together and drink. My grandfather was a quiet, unassuming, and hardworking man. On Sunday mornings after returning from his fishing trips, he would sit and mend his fish pots and fishing nets. He would demonstrate how to use the wooden fishing net needle and I would sit and watch, fascinated. Sometimes I would walk with my granny to the seaside to meet the boat and Big Papa would take me for a short boat ride which would be the highlight of my entire day. As I grew older, I would go fishing with him, especially throughout high school. On Sunday afternoons, he bought everyone ice cream from the Krazy Jim ice cream truck and occasionally told us stories about his parents.

I didn’t know it then, but it would be the last time the four of us would be together at the farm. Several months later, my life would change drastically. My favorite person in the world – Granny – would pass away after surgery for cervical cancer, and my brother and I would move into my parents’ house with our younger siblings.

This was my first experience dealing with grief. I was only six years old by then, but I understood that my Granny was never coming back in the flesh. The bond I had with her couldn’t be recreated with anyone else in my family, despite my affection for my parents. The reality of Granny leaving me here alone impacted me greatly, as I always felt loved, protected, and cherished by her.

My mother, who was pregnant with her sixth child at the time, had her hands full with my younger siblings, and I was expected to help around the house. My toys were strewn about for everyone’s enjoyment. The routine I had set in stone with Granny and my brother was thrown out the window as quickly as a 100-metre dash sprinter.

The bed I once shared with Granny and my brother was no more. Instead, I was forced to sleep with all of my siblings in a single bedroom with just two double beds. My three brothers shared a bed sporting a soccer quilt that Granny had made years ago, and my sister and I slept underneath pink floral sheets. My baby sister had the fortune of sleeping in my parents’ bedroom.

The once quiet mornings I treasured became full of screaming matches, tantrums, and hair-pulling. In order to feel centered once again, I took refuge underneath the bed, where the pink sheets barely touched the blue rug covering a part of the spotless, terrazzo tiles. Books took up the majority of space under there, and I relished in the ability to take myself out of the present and into a brand-new world. And there were so many worlds to choose from. While my mother was cooking, cleaning, and tackling the piles of laundry, I chose to stay far away from the noise and let myself pretend I was a princess, or an emperor, or just a girl with big goals and dreams. Possibilities were endless when I picked up a book. By the time I was twelve years old, I had read the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, and the Hardy Boys series. As a teenager, I read every romance novel I could get my hands on. I needed to know that romance existed. The older I became, the more I read. My favorite authors included James Patterson, Sidney Sheldon, Sandra Brown, Nora Roberts, V.C. Andrews, and so many more. One character in Bloodline by Sidney Sheldon specifically resonated with me – Elizabeth Williams. I could see myself within her. Elizabeth would become my unseen mentor throughout my life. Whenever I had a dilemma, I would consider what Elizabeth would do in my exact situation. While she wasn’t perfect, she exhibited power and strength, which profoundly influenced my life. Due to my constant reading, I had also understood another fact about myself: I was a descendant of slaves and indentured servants brought to Jamaica from Africa and India. I considered myself lucky and fortunate to be where I was; I lived in a peaceful home by the sea and was loved by many family members, and I didn’t take these blessings in my life for granted.

Every morning, I frowned as I saw my mother working so hard to keep our house tidy, only to find cow’s milk and guava jam spread across the rug in mere seconds. It’s difficult to keep a clean house with six children under the age of seven, a feat my mother seemed to have mastered. I knew that when I grew up, I did not want to have to do all these domestic chores, as my mother seemed miserable. The combination of observing my mother’s emotions and deepening my knowledge of the world through books allowed me to see a bright future of limitless possibilities for myself. I was a dreamer and I had visions of conquering life and becoming everything I wanted to be, from a rock star to the leader of a business empire.

Chapter 2: A Cloudy Evening

At that time in my life, I turned six years old, I was told that I was like a bright shining star; I paraded around the house with the most beautiful smile, always jubilant, extremely inquisitive, and talkative. But in just one evening, my entire personality changed. It’s incredible to think that now, as an adult, I experienced so much love and happiness, yet the action of someone else's wrongdoing took my childhood innocence away from me.

I overheard my mother talking to another family member about our dog, Big Head. He ran into the street and was hit by a car and died. No one mentioned this to me directly, and as I listened, I felt hot tears sprinkle down my already burning cheeks. I had a fever which had risen significantly that evening, and I had been drifting in and out of sleep for hours at that point, cozying up in my parents’ bed. It was only a few weeks earlier that my granny had passed as well.

During that fuzzy night, I opened my eyes and saw one of my adult male cousins standing over me. I had never been particularly close with him. I was just aware that he visited my grandfather regularly. He lived some distance away in another parish and was staying longer than usual with other relatives who were also visiting. He was quite rotund and had beady eyes and an oversized stomach. At the time, I wasn’t quite sure it was even him, since I was still dizzy with a high fever. I had never spent any alone time with him, so I was immediately confused as to why he would be standing over me, especially in my parents’ bedroom.

I attempted to call out, “Mummy!” yet when I tried, my throat became drier; I felt thirsty and weak. I had fallen back asleep, and when I awoke, I was being carried by this same cousin from the bathroom and into my parents’ room once again. I could hear my mother’s voice from the verandah, and I tried to call out to her, but I was too weak.

“Shhh,” he whispered to me. “This’ll be our little secret.”

I could barely understand what he was saying or what he meant; his presence just felt unnatural and disturbing. I became frightened as I started to be aware of my surroundings. My head throbbed, I could feel the heat of the fever on my skin, yet I was cold and shivering and there was a slight burning sensation between my thighs as if my skin was rubbed raw. The next thing I remember was my mother sponging me down as though I were an infant again and I fell asleep. I woke up the next morning with flashbacks of the night before haunting me, and I became both fearful and sad that my dog had died, my grandma had died, and that I felt like I was no longer sure who I could trust in my own home, besides my older brother. But he was away, meeting his biological mother; we were half-siblings, yet he was my ultimate protector in childhood.

The magnitude of this loss of innocence set in, and in order to cope with my loss, I buried this memory deep inside of myself for years and years. Though I did try to tell a couple of relatives, the words just wouldn’t come out in a way that made sense, as I did not really understand what had happened.

At six years old, you do not think about the possibility of a known relative hurting you. You are entirely focused on your childish endeavors, feeling safe without a care in the world. At least, that’s how I was before this horrendous night. There was a feeling of loneliness, as though I could never fully trust anyone ever again, which ultimately led me to become quieter and more reserved in any social setting. My parents had made sure that I was a strong girl from a young age, teaching me to love and respect myself. I felt my self-esteem completely dissipate within one night. Many years later, I realized that the secret was that my adult cousin had molested me and the feeling I felt for so long was that of being violated. Luckily, he had never tried again, maybe because I made sure I was never alone in his presence. I hid myself from the world by becoming extremely reserved and shy. I felt like there was something wrong with me. My parents had taught my siblings and I to always be kind to others, especially older relatives. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to be kind to someone who had breached my innocence and changed the way I viewed the world. I soon developed a hatred towards him, and whenever I would see him at a family function, I would immediately go the other direction to avoid being in his presence even for a moment. When I became a teenager, I never saw this cousin again and I later learned he had died of an obesity-related disease. I felt a sense of relief that I would never have to encounter him again; it also allowed me to release the hatred I felt towards him.

Growing up, I stayed away from boys until I met my husband. There were various reasons for this, one of those reasons was what happened to me that particular night. Yet I was only able to come to this realization years later. After I had my first child, I became aware that I was overly protective of her to the point where I was uncomfortable leaving her in the presence of any male besides her father. I came to understand that a part of my life, and my personality, was partially stolen away from me. As I gradually began to understand what had happened to me, another incident occurred when I was a teenager – a female cousin’s husband fondled my breasts when I sat in a car next to him, while his wife was driving the car. I boxed his hand away, but I told no one. Devastation and shock flooded my mind during and after this incident, and I avoided him like the plague. As an adult, I realized I did not want to hold onto these negative emotions any longer. Being a victim of one, or in my case, two, sexual assaults was dreadful enough, but I chose to let go and forgive the wrong that was done to me. I have not forgotten what these people did to me, but in order to move my life forward in a positive direction, I needed to be able to look back on these experiences and accept that they happened to me, while also acknowledging that I was not at fault.