"You're Home Now"

Jame Joefield


In July of 1985, my father and I boarded a Pan-Am flight to visit the island of Trinidad and Tobago off the coast of Venezuela.
My father didn't plan this trip randomly; we were making the trip so I could meet the other his side of my family. My father
grew up in Trinidad, and I guess he thought it was an appropriate time for me to see where he came from. I don't remember much about
that trip except that I was away from my mother for the first time for more than a day, I spent my fifth birthday away from home,
and the food was horrible. I remember the ocean water being bathtub warm and crystal clear. Even at such a young age I was aware of
the fact that the people I lived with weren't the only black people in the neighborhood.

I would make several trips back to the island, but never with my father. About this time last year I was coming out of a rough patch, and
my father thought it a good time for the two of us to make the trip home, together again. In the time between visits to T&T together, my
father and I had been through a lot. Our relationship had strained through some struggles we had gone through. I think he wanted me
to get a look at his home from his point of view.

On the ride to Diego Martin from the airport my father sat in silence and just stared out the window. I was expecting him to be pointing
and narrating the ride home like a tour guide. I could sense there was something different for him this time. When we arrived in my
father's neighborhood he began to perk up a little, and the first thing he pointed out to me was the presence of street signs. He hadn't
been home in about seventeen years, and a lot had changed. As we turned on to the street he grew up on I heard a soft "wooah man they
pave de hill" come from the back seat. I looked back to see my father staring up the hill that he had zigzagged up for thirty years in
disbelief. It wasn't a dirt road with brush nearly encroaching on vehicles as they squeezed up the path. It was street. It even had
concrete drainage ditches like they do in big cities. Yes it is a street, a street with an eighty-degree incline. Just being there with my
father again brought me back to the first time I was there with him.

On one rainy night of many, my father and I were climbing the hill when my feet came out from underneath me and I slid halfway
down the hill in the mud. The only thing I remember hearing besides the pounding of the rain was my father's belly roll of a laugh
as I struggled to make it back to my feet, which proved to be no easy task. When my father and I made it to the house at the top of
the hill the rest of the family didn't need to be told what had happened. They knew from experience, and I could tell from their
laughs they weren't just laughing at me, they were laughing at their own tumbles down the hill as well.

When we arrived at the house I could tell they were expecting us. The strong smell of curry and cilantro was permeating the air.
They had cooked some local cuisine for my father's homecoming. I can remember being there as a child not being able to stand the
food only because it was "different." I would say I didn't like something even though I had never tried it. Now, having grown up
and wanting to experience more, I'm willing to try any food once. After a nice meal of curry chicken stewed with potatoes, chanal,
and peas wrapped in a skin called Roti, my father had a lot of catching up to do with his sister and her children who hadn't seen
him in about fifteen years.

My cousin Kwaze decided to take me out while dad caught up with the family. Kwaze wanted to show me the side of Trinidad
that most people don't get to see. The average person might think of Trinidad as something they would see on television with
beaches, bikinis, and beers, but there is another side to it. This is the real side, where people live day-to-day lives, and the corners
are filled with trouble, ranging from guns and violence to drugs and poverty. This was the side I'd been sheltered from on all my
previous trips. I don't think Kwaze was trying to scare me; he knows I've been in the streets from Roxbury to Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn.
I think he just wanted me to see the side most Americans don't see when they visit for Carnival.

Driving down into the city, we came to a heavily populated area and just as is seen in the ghetto in NY, it was the same here: groups
of young men huddled on corners, some crouched down with colorful money in their hands throwing dice on a piece of cardboard.
Others were just "limin," as they say, standing around drinking from a bottle or smoking grass. The only difference here is how these
men look. Most of these men have dark skin, some the locals call "Rastas," with their long dreadlocks either held up under a hat or
hanging down to their waists. Others had short cuts to keep cool in the heat. All were wearing clothes trying to imitate the styles of
urban America, some with New York Yankees hats and baggy jeans sagging off their waists. Others were wearing oversized Fubu
game jerseys or Sean John warm-up suits trying to emulate rap stars they see while watching music videos on BET or MTV. With their
beaten red eyes, most of these men look as if they hadn't been home to sleep in days, but I know from my own experience those red
eyes may or may not be from lack of sleep, but due to the use and abuse of alcohol and drugs. As we drove through these places,
Kwaze caught me looking intently at these men and warned me not to stare at people, because he didn't know anyone in these
neighborhoods and he didn't want any trouble so far from home. I joked around, asking what the big deal was, and he explained to
me how some people really have nothing to lose, living in these places. With minimal education, no jobs, a police force that turns the
other cheek, and a notoriously corrupt government, these men see no way out from underneath this mire that they call a life, and will
have no problem harming outsiders, which we are considered no matter our skin color.

On the ride back home the car was filled with an eerie silence, almost as if someone had pushed the mute button on our lives. I don't
think Kwaze was pondering any deep thoughts on the state of his countrymen, but I know I was trying to process the day's events
and trying to figure out how I fit into it.

When we arrived back home on the hill it was pretty late. The house was dark and empty so I took the opportunity to get to bed early.
That night I woke to laughter in another room. In the distance I could hear the sweet melodious sound of men banging away on their
finely tuned steel pans, practicing for the upcoming Panarama during Carnival.

Listening to the strong ting in my aunt's west-Indian accent and my father's New England/Trini mix made me realize how long my
father had been away from home. Hearing them talking quietly and bursting out laughing made me feel as if I were missing something
special in the next room. They spoke of carrying water up the hill, sharing sneakers, and wearing hand-me-down uniforms to school.
They also spoke about my father's life in the states and my mother and how they both loved her and missed her; they even joked about
me growing up for a while. Some things I heard my father say brought a lot of emotions to the surface. He mentioned things he's wanted
for me, and the sacrifices he's made, things he would disclose to me in the next year.

The next day was the Carnival season's version of Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday as most know it as. The day before Ash Wednesday,
when every party going man and woman lets it all hang out. The steel pan band Kwaze is in would play the entire length of the parade
today. I walked the entire route with the band in all of the chaos and festivities of the day. Women were dressed in nothing more than
decorated bikinis and fancy head dresses, with music coming from walls of speakers on flatbed trucks, so loud I couldn't hear myself think
and bass so strong I had trouble breathing. A different beat came from every truck from either the banging of a steel drum or the fast beats
of a performer on their mobile stages, and combined with all the colors in the costumes or the various smells from the roadside vendors
with their home cooked Caribbean dishes, my senses were overloaded. All that combined with the blistering sun pounding down on me,
and I walked as if I were in a trance, wondering when this would all end.

When the sun went down I found myself in downtown Port of Spain at the Savannah. I sat for the first time in thirteen hours as Kwaze's
band passed the judges on the grandstand, and all the thoughts from the previous day were filed away nowhere to be found in the back
of my head. Just for that moment I was in paradise, watching something people travel far and wide just to see once in their lifetime.

The next morning, as most locals do, my family and I got on the catamaran ferry to cross over to Tobago to spend some time on some of
the world's most beautiful beaches. While the beaches were a good reason to go, my father had some other business to attend to.

While crossing to Tobago on the ferry I was reminded of the days growing up in Gloucester on whale watch boats, with sea sick passengers
and the horrible odor of vomit and burning diesel fuel mixed with that smell of the ocean. My father would look on with a Cheshire cat grin
as my aunt Marva and three of my cousins all bowed out and rushed to the restroom only to return with the all too familiar small seasickness
bag the ferry provides for those unlucky passengers that couldn't handle the motion of the high speed catamaran.

Three hours after boarding the big Cat we had reached our destination of Tobago, and it was a blessing indeed to get away from that terrible
smell. As we got off the landing there was a woman standing by an old Toyota Land Cruiser with a dark skinned ÒrastaÓ behind the wheel,
waving frantically trying to get our attention. As we got closer I heard my aunt whisper to my father that the woman was his cousin he hadn't
seen in thirty years, and he didn't recognize her. The last time he had seen her, she was ten years old. I could see my father blushing with
embarrassment.

After a brief introduction it was off to my great aunt's house in Scarborough in the hills of Tobago. As we drove into the neighborhood my
aunt lives in, Walter the "rasta" (who happened to be our tour guide and close friend of the family) asked if I felt at home. When I asked
why he explained that in almost every house on the street there was someone related to my family in some way. Being raised in the states,
I always thought my father and I were alone.

In the next few hours of walking up and down this road I met about fifteen different relatives from my father's family. Most looked at me
funny because of the size difference between my father and I but they all remembered my father as a young boy, always creating mischief
with the boys in the neighborhood.

Coming to my great aunt's house was just the same as going to Auntie Marva's. The homes were identical in color and design, with cinderblock
walls and a porch with several deck chairs just out of the sun's range. They had yard fowl there walking about and crowing now and again,
reminding me of the first two sleepless nights of every trip of mine to the islands. I always think back to when I was young and I would ask
why they had wild chickens running around the streets, and my uncle Hilton would correct me by telling me, "Boy, you eat chicken. You
don't eat yard fowl, boy."

The next morning it was time for us to take care of some family business, and after a good hour in the Land and Property Ministry trying to
sort out some back tax trouble on the family's land, we made our way out to the family property overlooking Ministers Bay. As we wound
our way up into some hills, auntie Marva started to talk to me about my grandparents and how they always wanted the family to come back
to Tobago to live out their days and raise their children. That was why the family always held on to this property out here.

On our way back we took a different way down, and as we made our way to a clearing I saw what looked like an old frame up of a house.
Not like the frames up here in New England, but the basic frame of almost every house in the Caribbean. There was a cinderblock outline of
a home equipped with the shape of a sun porch, only this one was missing the roof. It was as if someone had dismantled it to build it elsewhere,
and there is no doubt that this is what must have happened here, with this property not having been looked after for more than thirty years.
The remaining colors on the house made me think the people around here lacked an imagination. The lasting and outstanding colors on this
sixty-five year old shell of a house were the same red and white that can be seen down the mountain a bit on one of the houses built just
ten or fifteen years ago.

When I turned back, my father and aunt Marva were walking hand in hand. When I asked them what we were looking at, my aunt became
teary eyed and my father, biting his lower lip, explained to me that this where they had lived before they had made their way to the big island.

After my aunt had calmed down she proceeded to tell me about how they used to walk down the hillside to take water for cooking, and
how they would help my grandfather catch the chickens (not the yard fowl) from the coop and watch him clean them for dinner. She shared
with me about the days and nights that the girls in the house would pitch in by helping my grandmother with cutting and sewing material
for the school uniforms for classes starting in the next few months. She spoke of learning to cook from her mother and leaning to do all the
things she taught her daughter and still does today.

As we made our trip back to Trinidad on the ferry, the atmosphere was a lot different. The festive party vibe had passed into a slow, restful
period. Looking around, I could see the drawn faces of Carnival Revelers and aging natives, glad to be getting back to regular life on the island.

While I was packing for my return trip to the states, my father made his way around to say goodbye to everyone. I'm sure my father's
goodbyes were a little more heartfelt then my own. As for my farewells with my cousins and aunt, they were the same as usual: a handshake,
a hug and a promise to get back soon.

While my father and I were at the airport I told him, "It will be nice to get home." He turned to with his little smile and reminded me,
"don't you see boy? You're home now."


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