PST & St. Mary
It is the start of mango season in Jamaica. That is how I shall refer to time from now on- how it revolves around the mango. The trees are fat and laden with spotted golden fruit. It is as if the island is host to some ripe sweet plague. The Stringy, Bluie, East Indian, Bombay, Blackie, Number 11, and the beloved Julie mango litter the ground, stain our hands, and leave golden fibers between our teeth. My brother can spot a ripe mango from anywhere. Even when the skin is green and I am convinced it is not ready, I hoist him over my head until his hand can reach the object of our debate, in which I am always proved wrong. Since the time is mango season- it is hot. Temperatures settle in the low 90s and climb as we make our way deeper into the mango’s fruiting peak. My favorite place to find mangoes is the Bush. My eyes see the Bush differently depending on who I enter with. When I run along these paths with my brother it’s imaginative exploration and laugher that gets swept up in hillside wind. When I enter the bush with granny I see things that I hadn’t noticed before like okra and newly planted corn. Each time I enter this space it’s like I see it through the eyes of the one who is with me. I’ve never left the Bush empty handed. It’s less a practice of gathering as it is receiving. The difference is that I am being given something. I mean this in both the sense of being presented with a gift, as well as being received as a form of welcome or greeting.
I’m reflecting on some of my memories here in St. Mary as I am to leave this community for my 2 year site tomorrow. I haven’t lived in the same place for over 6 months since my senior year in high school. I try to gain as much as I can from these experiences of setting down light roots and then moving forward, but it can honestly be a little painful at times. I think this is a good thing though. At least I tell myself that when feelings of discomfort or nostalgia set in as I move on again. However, I’ve come to realize that at the heart of life is a transaction; you can be able to get what you want from life, but you have to be able to give something that the world wants, and you need to give it first. So as much as I yearn for my site location and the security it will bring me, I am also sad to depart from my family, especially my brother. My first timid days in a new home were broken in by his laughter, fearlessness, and energy for life. He introduces me as his sister and is proud to do so. He likes having a sister to play with and learn from. I like having a brother to play with and learn from. He has been the best teacher I’ve had since being in Jamaica. As much as he believes me to be a good presence in his life, he is a more forceful one in mine.
My first months in this community have made me feel like a child again, whether we’re playing limbo between banana trees, or filling our pockets with so many mangoes that we have to hold onto our pants to keep them from falling down. I even feel child-like because I am learning for the first time how to hand wash my clothes, play the game of ludi, and sound out Patwa words. My new home has many familiar features. Many days I’ve woken to the sound of roosters, thinking that I’m still in Kalahu’u. Pre-service training (PST) has been an intense period of strenuous days, class work, and field excursions. My cohort has shown resiliency, creativity, and shared many laughs that have lead up to our swearing in ceremony. I’ve heard from RPCVs that training was the hardest period of their whole service, and I can see why. This time has not come without its challenges, both mental and physical. However, I don’t think that personal experience is enough for a human to get all the useful knowledge of life, because the individual life is too short, so we must rely on and learn from the experience of others. A friend here said to me, “this experience won’t build us up as much as it will peel back the layers of our lives.”
Writing this particular blog post has taken more time than usual. As you all know I am keen to share my feelings and thoughts, perhaps too liberally at times. I’ve taken extra care to process my experiences here and then find ways to synthesize them into writing. I think in some ways writing is one of the most immortal acts a human can make. Any attempt to write beautifully, is really an attempt at immortality.
One evening my brother and I stood beneath the ackee tree eating long mangoes. Together we watched the last lick of day slip her fingers through the sky in a fiery exit.
“Ka-ma-ee-hu.” The word clumsily fell out his mouth. “Wah langwij is dat?”
I pulled the mango away from my mouth. “Hawaiian,” I replied.
“But you are not Hawaiian. You are Jamaican.” We stood here for a while longer until the colors faded from the sky and the trilling of crickets made my ears ring. I think about those words often and the meaning that he unknowingly spoke to me that night.
A person who comes to Jamaica with their head full of romantic ideas of lovely groves shaded by aromatic trees, limpid streams and white beaches will find themselves grievously disappointed. There have been experiences, both dear and dark that will not reach the light of day. I’ve decided that these are mine to keep and that that is okay. I’ve added some extra photos at the very end of the blog to show you with more than my words the people and places that have surrounded me daily.
Whenever I depart from a beloved place, I attempt to press its image into my mind to last a lifetime. I have done this so often with O’ahu that when I close my eyes I see every ridge and curve of the Ko’olau range when driving on H3. I attempt to do this now, pressing the outline of the ‘Ulu tree against a purple sky. Pressing the sound of clattering dominoes and the smell of rum and raisin ice cream. Pressing the flashing light of fireflies that appeared on my first night in St. Mary and now my last. It is possible of course that these images appear more radiant through the mist of remembered happiness, but I do not think so.
I have been stationed in the parish of St. Andrew amongst the Blue Mountain foothills. I am the first Peace Corps volunteer that this community has had. My site orientation was nothing short of heart warming. My community members made it feel like a homecoming. I am brimming with joy and gratitude to learn from those who have opened their homes to me and offer me their protection. All I can say is that we are all more similar than you may think. We may look different, speak different, have different traditions, but in the end we all need food, water, laughter, love and a purpose for living. This may seem obvious, but for those who were with me before I left, you know the feelings that fueled much of my fear. All I can say is that Jamaica has not met the expectation of my bias. Disbelief visits me daily. It doesn’t take much- a mere moment of reflection and my chest wells up with warmth. The same juvenile feeling of falling in love. As someone who is caught somewhere between the future and past- both equal in my imagination, I know Jamaica will be a part of both in my life.
