Paternal Reflections

The first time I saw the film ‘Bullitt' I cried buckets, but I was the only one moved in this way. Apparently everyone else enjoyed the film! Even more strange, I did not discover the reason for this lachrymose flood until half-way through the movie, and the shock took some years to wear off.

Seeing Steve McQueen's face in close-up jolted the recognition that, even without being Black, he was the disturbing image of my father. The deep set eyes, high forehead, cheeky arrogance and the rugged good lucks which attracted women like bees to honey were all there; a dead man reincarnated in every line. The effect was cathartic, excavating painful memories better off buried. Being attracted to McQueen as an ardent fan as well, it was an ambiguous, odd sensation.

I loved my father intensely and, as far as I know, he loved me, too. But he seemed ashamed to acknowledge it and never ever said it. Worst of all, he touched me only once, to lift me up on the handlebar of his bike for a race against my sister and even that ended in tragedy. The race came to an abrupt halt when my foot was caught in the front wheel spokes and the pain shot through my leg. His regular words of encouragement were crystal clear. Girl children were useless. They would only grow up to get pregnant with lots of kids, never amounting to anything. He wanted only boys and my mother committed the cardinal sin of pleasing herself and supplied two girls. Disgusted and disappointed, he promptly left her for a stream of 18 year olds.

Yet this did not diminish our love for him. In fact we tried even harder to prove him wrong because, in his own way, he was someone to be admired. Ostracised for daring to be Black when he eloped with my fair-skinned mother as a 'penniless, good-for-nothing', he was a self-made man. Against the harsh backdrop of colonial Kingston, Jamaica, he carved out a niche for himself. First pushing a dray full of cold drinks and ice cubes to slake miles of dry thirst in the hot weather, then moving up to open a prime shop near the market place to satisfy the hunger of the weekly sellers. But he believed strongly in the old adage of 'do as I say, not as I do' and my sister and I felt the full brunt of his lop-sided philosophy.

Because we loved him, we spent our early life trying to please him. Even when he denied us basic maintenance because it would be 'wasted' on us (he said), we never gave up trying. No kids for me, I vowed, and school was my outlet; but my sister disagreed. The market place was her forte. With school also being important to my father, my status marginally climbed as hers rapidly declined. It mattered little that he was her role model. If my sister did not like school, she would go to the dogs

Yet she wanted to help him so much in his shop, to show him how clever and useful she was. Her bold, feisty exterior endeared her to many and sharpened her skill for making money, but he could not appreciate that. Blinded by his own fear of failure and intense desire to succeed, all he could see was school; that was our saving grace. If she missed school, especially when her younger sister was fanatic about attendance, she had to be punished and he would spend time looking for her which could have been used developing her talent. When he found her it was unforgettable.

The age of the belt was in and and was used to the fullest. My sister would be belted from here to eternity, but it did not diminish her resolve not to attend school. She started to take a delight in playing a cat and mouse game which almost proved fatal. Parental affection began to dry up. My mother hated the beatings but, powerless to act, blamed my sister instead. If she would only go to school, then her father would not treat her that way, Mom warned her. In the meantime my hapless sibling lurched from one reprimand to the next without ever being cuddled, cajoled or encouraged. Developing more lacerations than a slashed curtain, she grew to accept her situation, became bitter and resentful and baited our father even more.

For two whole weeks an empty chair stood in school where her person should have been. Exams were on the horizon and the teacher came personally to tell my mother who decided father shouldn't know. But not being able to find her daughter, who now stayed away some nights, she sought my father's help - a crucial mistake. Faced with the unpalatable image of her impending exit without a scrap of paper to her name, he scoured the streets for three days casing her favourite haunts until he finally found her. When he dragged her rebellious body back he was merciless.

The blows rained thick and hard until she wet herself in pain and agony. I stuck my fingers in my ears and hugged myself tightly, rocking back and forth in misery to blot out the screams, while my mother tried to hide her sobs. I was made to witness the scene because that was a lesson to me, too. Having been close to my sister I felt like a twin being pelted with unseen blows. At last when he thought she'd had enough he tied her hands together and strung her up in the outdoor bathroom like a piece of meat, with no thought for her feelings. No one could touch her that evening, not even to offer her water, and it was a landmark in her life.

I stood there, miserable and helpless wondering how cruel and powerful adult men were, as I watched her feet dangling weightlessly, so high above the floor, arms stretched taut with patches of red, and her face contorted with pain. She was 15 and I was only 10 and the experience was unbearable for both. It seemed like hours before she was released and he wrote her off from that moment. Unwanted floatsam to roam about, she was determined to flee the nest. Two days afterwards she hobbled off to the country. The next time she was seen some months later she had a huge stomach, no father to claim it, no money and no future. Her father's prediction had come true but, being a modest man, he would be the last person to take credit for this self-fulfilling prophecy.

Four years later he died of cancer. We could see it coming but it was still a shock when he was no longer there. He had been so robust and healthy, large as life, yet within months he was a matchstick man - and only 43 years old. The money we were deprived of was spent on seeking all sorts of cures for something he could not understand, fighting fiercely for the enlightenment which was denied him at the time. He grew irritable and resigned, attributing his unexpected misfortune and the increasing growth in his stomach to someone working black magic or 'obeah' on him. Finally he returned to his parents' home in Clarendon for comfort and peace. We all went to the funeral but I was conscious that people stared at me in wonderment and disbelief. Despite my tender years I never cried once. He wasn't such a terrible person, but what does one feel for another who lacked so much compassion, love and common humanity?

I finally proved him wrong, with my own resilience, independence and love of the printed word, but at a cost to my own person. I guess he would have been proud of me, too, because, in some respects, I’ve turned out to be the 'boy' he wanted: a determined, confident, successful, never-say-no pioneering type; hard in certain ways where a soft, feminine edge should be. My sister hasn't been so fortunate. In her search for love several children followed, sired by different men. She became a bitter, cynical woman, with little idea of how to love her own offspring. They were constantly told how ugly, stupid and terrible they were. With schooling the bane of her life, her hatred of it was not lost on them either. They enjoyed bunking off as much as they could, which made them even more worthless in her eyes.

She has been amazing at making friends and money, earning far more than I did sometimes, and a very proud woman at that; but she has lacked faith in herself and found it difficult to sustain any intimate relationship. Her desire to be wanted has propelled her ceaselessly towards an elusive love, the craving occasionally stemmed by an increasing dependence upon alcohol which brought her to the depths of despair at one point in her life. Taking their cue from their mother's addiction and helplessness, one of her children was jailed for a hit and run accident and a daughter was imprisoned for possession of drugs. The latter blamed her errant mother for the catalogue of pain.

My sister, who sorrowfully harks back to her past, constantly reliving her pain, hardly visited her children in custody. She cries a lot and blames our mother instead; she also blames me for being too 'goody goody', and herself for being so ‘worthless, stupid, good-for-nothing’ and loveless. ‘You are the one with the brains,' she fondly tells me, with sad, haunted eyes. 'I was last in the queue for it’, she adds, dismissing her own achievements with little rancour, while I fear for the worst each day.

Only one person escapes any blame in all this - our father. He certainly left his imprint on us in very different ways. But what is the use of blaming a dead man whose own inadequacy and cruelty left a lasting legacy that crushed your body, crushed your spirit, crushed your hopes and ultimately your ability to make a decent life for yourself and your children?

No earthly use at all.