HANGING ON TO MY DREAMS
Bouncing Back From All Rejections
By
Arnold Henry
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Published by Arnold Henry at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 Arnold Henry
Visit Arnold Henry Website at:
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Manufactured in the United States of America.
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Author’s Note:
A few of the names in this book have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals.
Dedication
For my mother, Maria Henry, who gives me the strength to hang on to my dreams.
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My mother holding me on Baptism Day, 1985
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Warm-Up
Introduction
December 13, 2008
I am lying on my bed, half-naked, uncovered, and soaked in my own sweat. It is about 9:00 p.m. and the lights are off. I close my eyes, reliving the horrific moments that occurred four years ago—on this particular date and time. I had thought I could escape the flashbacks of that event by going to bed at an earlier, unusual time.
Obviously, my plans failed.
I crawl to the edge of the bed to sit, to stop thinking, to relax my frustrated brain—massage the throbbing veins in my temples.
Should I call it an anniversary? In my opinion, an anniversary recalls a special, happy day to be celebrated in the future. For instance, my birthday, February 11, 1985—thanks to my mother, I survived my father’s suggestions of abortion. For sure, my father always wished I was dead; at least, judging from his absence in my life.
Still seated at the edge of my bed, I reflect on, not an anniversary, but a tragedy.
My options? I remain seated at the edge of my bed, or lie back down due to lack of inspiration, or get motivated, stand strong and face all my rejections. What will be the reward? How about transformation? From an angry, troubled boy, to a man unveiling and understanding life on my own terms; from failure after failure to achievement and accomplishment; from the bottom of the ladder to the peak of no return.
I realized that one day was all it took to make life altering changes; for my sperm-donor father to ejaculate, for my mother to marry another man, and for me to attempt to kill my physically and verbally abusive step-father.
Commitment was all it took to bring happiness and joy to my life; to play basketball for my school team; to graduate from high school; to be nominated for a national award; to achieve a full basketball scholarship from an American institution; to finally leave my broken Saint Lucian home forever.
Determination was all it took to accomplish a dream by becoming Saint Lucia's first basketball player to achieve a full basketball scholarship as a freshman at the highest level of the National Collegiate Athletic Association, better known as NCAA Division I.
But then, one incident was all it took for my dreams to be crushed; to bounce around five American schools in five years; to end up nowhere but here in Jacksonville, Florida, seated alone in this dark room, about to start writing to share with you how I was still able to hang on to my dreams.
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My mother holding me at my birthday party, 1985
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First Quarter
Home Court Advantage
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Chapter 1
The Beginning of the End of my Dreams
December 13, 2004
9:00 P.M.
I knew then that it was over—everything I had worked so hard for. It felt like my legs weren’t strong enough to walk the distance, as if I was at the gym, leg squatting 1000-pounds from my shoulders. The hallways felt like they were closing in on us. With every step we made I witnessed pairs of feet hesitantly clearing our path. I found it difficult to make eye contact with my schoolmates.
My long, gray sweat pants and black hoodie helped to disguise me. But who was I fooling? I was the tallest and biggest student on the fourth floor of the Harris-Millis dormitory. It felt like the stairs would never come to an end. It was awkward walking without being able to swing my arms. My two escorts assisted me as I took longer and longer strides to get out of the building.
As one of my escorts widely opened the basement exit door, the cold breeze and snow that blew in allowed my tears to suddenly run down my face. My vision went blurry. Everything looked distorted. Upon exiting the building, fuzzy flashing lights from what appeared to be the top of a car forced me into a deep thought. Is this it…the end? Is this all a dream? Arnold, you need to wake up.
The noise from the door shutting behind us caused me to snap out of my hallucination. I tried wiping my eyes with my shoulders to take a better look at reality. My arms were cuffed behind me and the frozen rain melted on my hands. I shut my eyelids tightly to drain the water out and then squinted to see through the snowfall. Red, blue, and white lights flashed on top of the cop car. This is no dream.
“Watch your head,” advised officer Sue Roberts as she opened the door to the back of the car. Sergeant Phelps held on to the top of my head and slightly pushed me into the backseat of the car.
Now seated, I tilted my head back and stared at the roof. I sniffed to prevent the snot from running down my nose any further. Tears started running down the side of my face then down my ears. As I tried to speak, a blown up saliva bubble popped. “Help me God,” I whispered.
I had a strong feeling that this was the beginning of the end of my dreams—my hoop dreams—in Burlington, Vermont, USA.
How did I end up in this predicament? Especially after working so hard to get out of my broken home…
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Home sweet home was a green, wooden house with a galvanize rooftop, located in the city of Castries, northwest of Saint Lucia. This was my Saint Lucian home since birth.
The yard in front of our house was paved unevenly. Diverging cracks made it appear as if we were hit by a low magnitude earthquake, but somehow our towering breadfruit tree stood strong (today, only the trunk remains). Our yard area was covered with rocks, weeds, and small plants that led to our three concrete steps and our home’s front door. At the back of our house stood a coconut tree and next to it, a wooden shed covered with an aluminum roof. The right side of our yard was covered with dirt derived from a muddy slope that led to our neighbor’s mango trees at the top of a small hill. Julie mangoes occasionally fell on our rooftop. On the other side of the house was our homemade clothes-line.
Our house was quite spacious—not too much though. And for the most part, we lived in a friendly and peaceful neighborhood. The streets were less than 100 meters away, therefore, everything we needed, such as convenience stores or bakeries, was within a 10-minute walking radius.
From the very early stages of my life, I remember flashes of my beautiful smiling mother and a monster in the form of a man, then their children. My happy world had shattered into microscopic pieces. No more sunny blue skies; no more just Mummy and me. I had to accept the fact that the storm would never cease.
Truthfully, there was no other place like home. But home was not always sweet. In fact, it was more sour than sweet; especially the late nights on my lower bunk-bed, awakened by the violent sounds that came from my mother’s room.
“Bam! Bam! Boom!” Every blow would make my weary eyes open wider and wider. My heart would beat faster as if the noise was right outside my bedroom door. I would squeeze my pillow tightly, scared for my Mummy as she pleaded for a hero.
“Bang! Bang! Bram!” I imagined her head slamming onto the wooden partition that separated our bedrooms. I felt a pain on my body for every sound that I heard.
“Whack!” I felt Lucius’s hand connecting with my Mummy’s face.
“Aarrgh!” Her late-night-screams would wake up everyone in our house.
My youngest sibling, Marva, always started crying first followed by my younger brother, Marvin. I forced my mouth to remain motionless. I imagined all my neighbors just standing by, being spectators from their homes.
“Lucius, Lucius, aarrgh!” Mummy would cry out.
“Shut your ass up!” he would yell back, in Kwéyòl—our secondary language.
I squeezed my pillow tighter. I was too frightened to even step outside of my room knowing that I would get my share of the beating from my step-father. No one would answer my mother’s cries.
I never understood the reasons for her punishments. I always felt weak whenever the thought of rescuing her crossed my mind. Lucius had a huge beard on his face and a six foot, muscular body that loomed over me.
The next day, I would creep through the house acting like I was invisible. My mother would be in the kitchen preparing breakfast. “Good morning,” she would say with all white teeth when she caught me staring.
What should I say to my mother? Are you okay? No, that would be a stupid question.
I just replied, “Good morning Mummy.” She probably read the anger on my face. I just couldn’t pretend we lived in a happy home.
She wore black sunglasses in the house and acted like the glare from the sun was affecting her eyes. The black marks on her skin and her swollen cheeks were another manifestation of her pain.
Seriously, how could she prepare him breakfast?
My hatred for Lucius would build. Anger and rage would sit upon my mind, ready to explode. The fingers of my hand clenched in my palm every time I noticed a bruise on Mummy’s body. I wished I could punch him to death, but I never had the heart or the balls to do anything that crazy.
Making eye contact with Lucius was impossible for me. I never looked his way. I wondered if he ever looked at me.
Did he love me like he loved Marvin and Marva?
He never brought me candy when he got home from his days of fishing.
Due to my siblings’ light colored skin it was obvious that Lucius wasn’t my biological father. Marva had my mother’s naturally straight, long black hair, and no one understood where Marvin’s black curly hair came from. Lucius also had a deceased son (whom I never met), who had passed away from choking on a fruit seed. He was also the father of two other light-colored girls whom he had with two different women.
His oldest daughter, Nadia St. Brice, lived with us until she was in her early twenties. Valencia, who was the same age as me, visited us from time to time. My mother treated Nadia like her very own daughter; gave her food, shelter, and clothes for over 15 years—and got nothing in return. Valencia’s periodic visits had no impact on my life.
My immediate family was my mother, Marvin, and Marva. Creating a family bond with Lucius was never on my mind. He only cared for his own children anyways. Marvin and Marva were always happy when their father was home. I tried to keep my distance from him. I excluded myself from any activity that he was involved in, like dinner at the table, gardening, or fishing. Whenever we crossed paths, I kept my eyes to the floor.
In the mornings, I greeted Lucius, “Good morning.” It was not enough for him. He demanded respect from me. I thought, a man that beats my mother will never earn my respect. But Mummy insisted that I obey him. One day when she was fed-up with Lucius’s complaints, my mother said to me, “I don’t want any trouble so please call Lucius Daddy.” I complied with her decision and called Lucius, “Daddy,” just for her sake and happiness. Although, every time I stuttered Daddy, I felt like someone held a pistol to my head.
I grew up in Bishop’s Gap, a very small, quiet community that had its tough moments. Marchand Roman Catholic Church, where I was baptized and celebrated my first communion and confirmation, was in walking distance from my home. We called our neighborhood “Da Yard.” Our houses were close enough that all the neighbors knew everyone’s business. Mummy was the loudest of them all. She spoke better English than me. Everyone called her “Ms. Jean,” but her real name was Maria. Her loud mouth acted like some kind of advanced disciplinary device. Whenever she screamed at us it was the equivalent to a spanking—embarrassing, loud noises helped us learn from our mistakes.
Everyone in Bishop’s Gap knew me as Mario. I never had to introduce myself to anyone because Mummy did that for me from miles away. “Mario! Mario! Mario! Didn’t I tell you don’t go playing by the road?” And of course, everyone noticed me sprinting towards the hollering voice. I would always reply, “Yes Mummy, I’m comin’!”
On the flipside, Lucius used other protocols for discipline. Whenever I disobeyed his orders, he looked at me like I just challenged him to a fight. Every vein on his body showed. If I had an option to poop in my pants I would have, but that would have caused a worse beating. “Didn’ I tell you to stay your ass inside da house?” Sometimes I didn’t answer his question. Why should I waste my breath? My beatings came anyways. Anything in his sight would be used as an asset for my punishment. As a child, I felt the impact of a frying pan, the branch of a tamarind tree, the side of a machete, a baton, and a belt. I didn’t mind the belts though; they left cuts on my skin that healed in a few days. Getting hit with the baton was the worst pain; it caused a limp in my walk for a few weeks. The machetes made me run around the house; I feared getting slashed accidently. Running, crying, or screaming only made him angrier.
I never gained anything from his punishments, and neither did he. I never wanted to give him the pleasure of my obedience. In my mind, he was a stranger that only came around to eat, beat, sleep, and shit, but my mother kept him around for reasons I never discovered.
Did he even love my mother? Um…? If I have to think about it, then I guess not.
Did my mother love him? I intentionally distracted myself whenever I thought about it. I hoped that one day Lucius would be out of my life. But I was wrong. When I was nine years old, the unthinkable happened.
“You may now kiss the bride,” instructed Father John in April
1994. This was the only time I noticed affection between Lucius and my mother. I wondered if the eyes of the Lord were open during their matrimony.
How could she be so stupid? What about the beatings? Did she even care how I felt? She blamed alcohol for his actions. I blamed “desperately in need of a husband” for her role. On their wedding day, I realized that I needed this storm to be over—I wanted to get out of the house.
My surname went from being Jean-Marie to Henry.
If my mother thought that a wedding would make a difference in an abusive relationship, she was proven wrong.
Chapter 2
Childhood
Ten-year-old youths usually view life as a way of having fun with no responsibilities. At least, that seemed to be the case among my childhood acquaintances. We all grew up running around Da Yard, playing football or cricket. However, I had visions of making it big someday. As much as I was focused and determined to accomplish success, I knew that it was not going to be easy. But the obscurity and obstacles along my way exceeded my expectations. I waited and waited for the day to come when I would be able to be on my own. Lucius and my mother’s marriage crushed my hopes for any easy future break-up between them. I felt like my mother had lost sight of her own flesh and blood.
Can I really blame her though? Maybe Lucius had choked her until she agreed to marry him. Well, that’s what my imagination pictured. I knew for sure I’d never seen him get down on one knee, holding a rock at the tip of my mother’s finger, asking her to spend the rest of her life with him.
Expressing love was one thing that was exempt from my so-called family. I never understood my mother’s reasons for keeping Lucius around except that he was the father of Marvin and Marva. Not once had I seen him caressing my mother with warm hugs or rubbing her feet after long hours of work. Neither had I noticed my mother showering affection towards him. Their relationship just seemed phony.
All I wanted was to be gone out of our household, like my cat, Puss-Puss, who once lived with us. Her disappearance was a mystery. One night, like every other night, I let Puss-Puss out the front door and the following morning she didn’t come home for breakfast. I had no evidence, but I suspected Lucius was the culprit. He was the only one who I had seen kick my cat. And even though I had no pieces with which to solve the puzzle, I’ve lived the rest of my life holding on to Lucius as my only suspect for the loss of my cat.
When Lucius was not around, I spent as much time as possible in Da Yard with my friends—my freedom time. My first ever childhood friend was Olvin Cyril. He was the yellow, chubby kid that lived in the yellow house next to my home. But he did not last long in Da Yard. When we were seven-years old, Olvin, his mother, and older sister vacated their home and flew to New York City.
Da Yard felt empty when Olvin left. I felt like I lost my only true friend forever. It would have been great if I was able to venture along with him to the land of opportunities. Even though he was not going to be around anymore, we remained in contact as pen-pals.
After Olvin and his family’s departure from Saint Lucia, his aunt, Joan, and his three cousins, Jackie, Jermal, and Jovan, moved into the yellow house.
Jovan and Jermal took Olvin’s place as my companions. Jovan was two years younger than me and Jermal was three years younger than me; the same age as Marvin. Jermal was the same dark-skinned complexion as me and Jovan was the same light-skinned complexion as my brother. Their sister, Jackie, was already an adult.
Shortly after they moved in, their mother followed Olvin’s family and flew to New York City. Jackie was left to take care of her two younger brothers.
After a day of school, Jermal, Jovan, Marvin, and I gathered in Da Yard to seek adventures in the Bishop’s Gap area before sunset. They were my partners, my partners in crime—although we were never in trouble with the law. Sometimes people mistook us for brothers because we were always seen liming together. We were also involved in most of the same groups. On Saturday mornings, we were usually at choir practice rehearsing songs for Sunday’s church performance. Then later that evening, we would train with our Coach for upcoming marathon competitions. And on Sunday mornings, we attended church services and sat together in the same row.
When we weren’t in Da Yard breaking our neighbors’ windows with our football or cricket ball, we would be trespassing into other nearby resident’s yards to steal from their fruit trees: coconuts, tamarind, oranges, cherries, guava, plums, mangoes or cacao.
We sold our stolen commodities to our neighbors for cheaper prices than the Castries Market. Whenever we went out to steal fruit, we traveled together. Jovan, Jermal, Marvin, and I were all good tree climbers. We picked as many fruits as possible without getting caught; if the property-owners were to ever catch us in their trees, we would probably lose an arm or a leg after a fierce swing with a machete. Sometimes we would just relax in the trees, have long conversations, fill our bellies, and never worry about what was down under.
There was a certain Kwéyòl word that we kept our ears open for, “Yo Bouché!” In English it meant to catch someone by surprise. But to us it meant, run your butt off. And no, it was not a warning. It was said by annoying children who were intentionally trying to get us caught for their own amusement.
Whatever methods we used to climb up the trees were never used to climb down during an escape. From altitudes that might be four times our heights, a jump was the fastest way to break away. Marvin and I would sprint all the way home without looking back.
“Daddy dere?” That was the first thing I would ask Marva whenever I returned home. Luckily, I usually made it home before 5:00 p.m., enough time before Lucius arrived from whatever he did during the day. Most days I didn’t know if he worked or if he just spent time in his fishing shed near the sea. He couldn’t possibly have a job that involved reading because Marva or Marvin couldn’t get him to read one word out of their school workbooks. It seemed like he was only good with his hands (if you know what I mean).
Unless someone needed a house built, Lucius had no work. However, let’s give him praise for his extending our home with his masonry and carpentry skills. Although, after a physical fight with my mother, he yelled and threatened to remove all his nails from our home; I couldn’t tell if it was the liquor talking.
At times, I wondered if he used his or my mother’s hard earned money to purchase his alcohol. If Lucius knew how to keep a steady job, maybe I wouldn’t have overheard my mother secretly begging our neighbors for money to send us to school. It was obvious to me that the money she earned from her housekeeping job was not sufficient to raise three children and a grown man. I never asked for anything unless it involved school. Marvin or Marva would constantly ask, “Mummy I wanna lollipop or an ice-lolly or tamarind-balls.”
My mother shouted back, “I don’t have money, go ask your father!”—Like that solved anything.
Who needed manufactured toys? The last time I had seen a commercial toy was at a very early age when it was only my mother and me. I had to be creative. On hot sunny days, Jermal, Jovan, Marvin, and I were in Da Yard constructing toys like Santa Claus’ elves. We used resources from our environment. I used a rotten breadfruit and two broomsticks to push around a tire from a car. Some thread, a nylon grocery bag and sticks from a coconut leaf helped to build my kite. Usable parts from abandoned rusted-bicycles were mounted up to make my own bicycle. These were some of the most memorable toys that I created. But the most exciting of them all was bamboo-bursting. All I needed was a big piece of bamboo plant, some kerosene, and a homemade fire torch to allow the bamboo to explode like the cannons at Pigeon Pointe, north of the island, which were used in combat between the British and the French in the early days. The sounds of exploding bamboo sometimes indicated that Christmas was around the corner.
My Christmas day traditions were the same no matter how naughty or nice I was throughout the year. I attended church to praise the Lord, and, as a choir boy, to sing in front of the biggest crowds of the year. My mother always wrapped a tin of milk for me to bring up to the altar for the collection of items for the poor and homeless during our community’s church service. And for the rest of my day, I watched and listened to the happiness of my neighbors resounding in Da Yard. Jermal and Jovan’s family gave me a perfect vision of that day—through their house windows, I watched them unwrap their presents. They would receive a big barrel filled with toys and groceries from their mother, all the way from New York City. That’s when I began to imagine America to be a place where all dreams were made possible.
Chapter 3
Primary School
“Mario!” shouted my mother every weekday at 7 in the morning. She yelled so loud that she probably woke up our neighbors’ fowls. I covered my ears with my pillow, but it was impossible to sleep-in on schooldays. “Go buy me two-dollars bread,” my mother sometimes said. I had to walk to the bakery near the church to buy fresh, hot bread for the family. On any given day, for our breakfast, my mother might prepare us bread and tuna-fish, or bread and hotdog, or bread and eggs with a cup of tea. But most of the time, we ate Cornflakes. I ate so many bowls of Cornflakes with milk that I grew up thinking that every cereal on the shelf was named Cornflakes. Same goes for Colgate; I thought every tube of toothpaste was named Colgate.
By 8:30 a.m., I was on my way to Marchand Combined School which was less than a five minute walk down the hill next to my church. It would be shameful if I was ever late for class. Jermal and Jovan both attended a different primary school than my siblings and I. We wouldn’t see them until they got back home from school.
The students in my last year at primary school were all new faces. That year, the head principal introduced a new system and divided us into highest to lowest grades based on our previous report cards. I fell into the A class. All my buddies were either in the C or D class. The maturity levels of my new classmates made it seem like I was older than 10. I believed our first male teacher made the difference.
Mr. Regis was the only teacher in the entire school that could silence a room of disruptive students just by his presence. He was a dark, chubby man who never smiled, not even for the world’s funniest joke. And my classmates wouldn’t dare crack a joke in his classroom, we all feared getting caned. To avoid any incidents with Mr. Regis, my eyes were always glued to the blackboard and my ears were attentive to his lessons.
When I first encountered my primary school crush, Marla Foster, it was difficult to maintain focus in the classroom. To get my mind off her I tried something new: track and field. I didn’t want to be known as “Tall for nothing” anymore. I wanted to be known as the fastest man on the planet. Maybe that was my route to forget about Marla and to get out of Saint Lucia—to be a track star. I wouldn’t know unless I tried.
One day, I walked barefoot onto the hot, green grass at the Mindoo Phillip Park, during the early mornings of my school’s Track and Field event. I was preparing to face my visions as a future runner. As I walked to the starting position, I overshadowed the seven other guys who walked in line with me. The rest of my schoolmates, who cheered from the bleachers, wore a T-shirt that represented our school’s housing system (red, green, blue, and yellow). I represented the red team. The purpose of the housing system was to group and support the organization of extra-curricular activities, such as sports, in a competitive nature amongst teachers and students at a school. Every school on the island followed the same organization.
The Mindoo Phillip Park venue did not have eight lanes, or a 400 meter track, and we did not run on a synthetic surface like we had seen on the televised broadcasts of the Summer Olympics. Instead, we ran on grass in seven-300 meter lanes.
“On your marks!” shouted an official. My arms and legs trembled as I assumed my position. “Get Set!” I looked ahead at the 100 meters. “Go!” I ran like I was being chased by a man with a machete. I crossed the finish line in third place and immediately realized that running was not for me. The first and second places were probably 30 meters ahead of me.
It was my first track and field competition. The rest of the events which I participated in were: 200-meters dash, 400-meters dash, 4x1- relay, and long jump. By the end of the day I collected gold, silver, and two bronze medals. I got my first gold medal from the long jump event.
When I arrived home that evening, I surprised my mother with my awards. “Mummy, Mummy, I win four medals!”
“For true my boy. Where did you get that from, uh?”
“Today da school had Inter-house track un field ih.”
“Why you didn’t tell me? I would have taken the day off to come see you run.”
“No, dis morning I jus’ decide to run. Buh Mummy, I ran so fas’ ih.”
“That’s good my boy. I’m so proud of you.”
I had sought the same emotions from Lucius. I said to him, “I jus’ wanna show you my medal.”
“Okay,” he replied, without even attempting to look at my hands. His face was blunt as a rotten knife.
I hammered three nails into the partition of our living room and hung up my first four medals. Just by staring at them, I visualized there were more to come. But then again, this was a one day track and field event; soon after, it was back to the books.
Marvin, Marva, and I all went to the same school. Marvin was three grade levels lower than me and it was Marva’s first year. They both literally looked up to me for protection, but it wasn’t necessary. We hardly got into trouble with anyone. I was known for being very quiet and even though my classmates never noticed, I was mostly quiet the mornings after Lucius and my mother’s fights. These were the days I learned nothing from my teachers.
Since I had no male figure to look up to, I was my own fighter whenever it was necessary. My last fight at primary school ignited when Arthur, a student from the D class was transferred into my classroom. He was known for getting into fights and beating the living crap out of his opponents. Arthur was sent into our classroom because he needed the supervision of Mr. Regis and because of Arthur’s bad reputation with the school’s principal, none of my classmates would provoke a fight with him.
One quiet day at the school, everyone in the classroom was working on an assignment left by Mr. Regis before he’d stepped out; we were expected to have completed it upon his return. While I focused on the Mathematical problems, Arthur turned around and asked me, “Oye, Arnold, you have a pen mun?”
I raised up my only pen.
“Awa, dats my only pen ih gah,” I said. As soon I attempted to press my pen to my notebook, Arthur snatched it out of my hand leaving a black mark across the problems I’d just solved. He then turned around and proceeded to write in his notebook. Fearful I wouldn’t finish my work in time, I said, “Gason, give me back my pen please.” He ignored my request and continued writing. Marla dragged her desk and chair away from me as if she foresaw the future. I touched Arthur’s back and repeated, “Gason, give me back my pen please.” My contact ignited his ticking bomb.
Arthur erupted from his seat, and his desk and chair went flying, breaking the silence in the classroom. My classmates jumped out of their seats. Arthur and I were surrounded by spectators. When I received a punch to the face, I answered with a punch of my own to his jawbone before he could swing again. My classmates chanted, “Yay! Hees-salòp!” (An exclamation used by Saint Lucians less than a second after something amazing, exciting, or funny has occurred. It could either be followed by laughter or amazement).
I knew that, because of my height and body size, I could overpower Arthur, so I charged and rushed him to the desks. He fell to the ground with the desks. I started landing punches to his face uncontrollably. The classroom became drop-dead-silent. My last swing was stopped by Mr. Regis. “Stop it!” he shouted with the deepness of his voice. He grabbed both of us by the shoulder. Arthur’s face was red. I dusted the dirt off of my black dress pants and buttoned up my blue uniform shirt. We were sent to the principal’s office, but before I went in, I made sure to pick up my pen from the floor. That was the one fight that I needed to gain respect from my primary schoolmates; I never had to prove myself, or fight again in primary school.
It was very important for me to stay focused on my schoolwork because I was about to attempt the Common Entrance Examination, the most important academic exam of primary school. This mandatory exam was taken to determine my future secondary school—a level equivalent to the United States or Canada’s high schools. But one couldn’t just register for a secondary school; we had to earn it with the scores of our Common Entrance Examination. My goal was to get the best score possible that would allow me to attend Saint Mary’s College—the top secondary school on the island.
From the very first day I entered primary school at the age of five, my mother always said to me, “I want you to pass for Saint Mary’s College.” I wanted to make her proud, although I wasn’t putting in as much work as I needed to. I focused too much on having fun and disregarded my schoolwork.
Every Friday, we put down our pens for Physical Education. Mr. Regis allowed us to play basketball games after we changed from our school uniforms to our PE uniforms. I held on to my first rubber basketball during these periods. The games were played outside, next to our classroom. Our school never had a basketball court so we ran up and down on an open gravel surface area without any out-of-bounds lines, free-throw lines, or 3-pointer lines. Our pretend basketball rim was used mainly for the girls to play their netball games—it was a long metal pole that had a hoop at its peak, with no backboard. The circumference of the netball rim was much smaller than a regular hoop, but the basketball was still able to sink down.
I might as well have been playing the same position as the basketball rim because I just stood around uselessly and scratched my head whenever we played the game. Teams were divided into two groups of four. The first time teams were divided equally, I was an automatic first pick because I was the tallest boy in my class. I tried to do other stuff that could benefit my team, but there was no hope.
“Gason you real-ih lapo ih,” my classmate once said to me (meaning: boy, you really suck). My interest for the game faded. Watching from our imaginary sidelines was less embarrassing.
Back then, basketball was the least of my interests. Education was my key. At home, my mother reminded me, “Mario, these boys you playing with are not going to be taking your exams for you. You should be in your books studying.” I was the first of my mother’s children to take the Common Entrance Examination. Whenever I opened up my notebooks and attempted to study, all the pages seemed to be blank. The fun noises from Da Yard called my name allowing me to easily get distracted. However, my mother’s happiness was important to me, so I studied harder, closer to the date of the exams.
One day my mother promised that if I did well enough for a secondary school, she would get me a Super Nintendo gaming-system. That day I got all the strength in the world to study more. Finally we could have our own gaming system. My friends, Jermal and Jovan, had already received a Nintendo 64 from their mother in New York City. Nevertheless, I liked the sound of my mother’s offer because I knew that was all she could afford.
The morning of my examination, the palms of my hands were sweating like a fat man wearing a winter-jacket on a summer’s day. At the breakfast table, my nervous mother acted as if she was about to attempt the exams herself. She dropped almost every kitchen utensil she held on to. For breakfast, I ate Cornflakes, bread and salt fish, a banana, orange slices, and a cup of apple juice. Her catering efforts made me feel special, like I was at one of the restaurants in the hotel she worked at. “Good luck my boy,” she said before I left the house. Her eyes were so full of tears that if she blinked they would have run down her face. Her first child was close to attending a secondary school—exactly what every mother on the island hoped for; especially for their sons.
A few weeks later, the results were in at Marchand Combined School. Every parent and examinee patiently waited as Mr. Regis publicly announced our future schools. My mother was beside me. Just before I received my results she said to me, “I am going to be very proud if you just pass for any secondary school.”
“Arnold Henry, Entrepot Secondary School,” Mr. Regis finally broadcasted.
“Yay, that’s my boy!” my mother yelled embarrassingly. Though her loud applause and chanting encouraged me to believe that my result was perfect; my exam scores were only good enough for Entrepot Secondary School. I felt like I let her down.
Chapter 4
The Death Threat
One ordinary weekend, while Lucius and I were seated in our backyard plucking chickens’ feathers, he said to me, “You mus’ be waitin’ for me to turn an old mun in my wheelchair eh…but I go wait for you…I go wait for da day you try puttin’ your hands on me when I turn an old mun.” Although the thoughts of abusing him when he became a vegetable in a wheelchair sounded like perfect payback, I’d already planned to never stoop to his level.
The situation with my biological father, or the sperm donor, was a theoretical one. Why did he never come to visit? Why did he never come to pick me up? Did I do something wrong? What about his side of the family? Did I have living grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, or cousins? So many unanswered questions. Maybe he was ashamed of me—that became the hypothesis of my life.
People said that I resembled my biological father. All I knew was that we had the same dark colored complexion. I wanted to know more about him than his name, Tobias. When did Tobias walk out of my life? Was he ever part of it? It was very hard to ignore his existence since he was often in the public eye because of his job as a photojournalist. However, I’d always known my mother to be both parents. I knew if Tobias was constantly in my life, or at least contributing towards child support on a monthly basis, it would have never felt like my mother was on the edge of poverty. But finance was far beyond my issue with Tobias. I needed him to be there for me emotionally—and I needed him to pick me up whenever Lucius beat my mother.
Numerous times I heard my mother in her room crying to God because she didn’t have enough money to pay the light bill, phone bill, or water bill. I would have gone to my room to do the same; shedding tears until my tears-water-well ran dry. I never understood how she managed to pay the bills or provide food for us to eat, but she always found a way.
I remember one Sunday afternoon when my mother was at work for the day, Lucius was out fishing, and I was home taking care of my two younger siblings. Marvin and I had got into a disagreement which ended up in a physical fight. Lucius got home before my mother and heard about the altercation from Marva. He was fuming like a raging bull that just saw the color red.
“Why you raisin’ your hand on my child for?” Before I could give an explanation in my defense, Lucius swung his hand across my face like a tennis player swinging a back-hand.
That was the first time he ever slapped me across my face (he’d hit everywhere else but never a slap on my face). The left side of my face felt hot and stung. My ear was ringing which made me believe that I had gone deaf. Tears came running down from my eyes. He commanded, “Make dat be da las’ time you touch my children!” For some reason, at that moment, enough was enough. As soon as he turned around, I headed towards the kitchen counter and picked up the biggest knife we had. I rushed in his direction. But I stopped halfway, as if someone held me back. He turned, looked at me like he had just seen a ghost. The fear on his face made me wish I had done this a few years ago. I raised the knife horizontal across the room in his direction.
I shouted, “If you ever touch me again I go kill you!” I was trembling and realized that I couldn’t backup my threat. Even though he stood still, Lucius’s domineering nature got the best of me. I dropped the knife and ran straight out the front door.
I ran and ran on the streets, ignoring traffic and pedestrians, until I was far enough to catch my breath. Going back was out of the question. The more I walked, the shorter my strides became. My feet had acquired some tingling, sharp, and burning pains, but I kept walking like a nomad. I headed north of the island hoping a miracle would lead me to my father’s residence—at these times, I wished I knew where he lived. I thought, maybe, he would invite me in.
Eventually, there was no more sun in the sky. It was the farthest I had walked away from home and the longest I had stayed out without anyone knowing my whereabouts.
A printed sign on the roadside said, “Welcome to the town of Gros-Islet.” I had walked over twenty kilometers on tar before my path made a transition to muddy, green grass and bushes. Then I found myself in someone’s tomato, yam, and dasheen garden.
“Sa ou ka fé la?” asked the deep voice that came from an open dark entrance. Seconds later, an old man charged through that front door, holding a machete, looking like he was ready to attack me.
I cried out in English. “Please…please…I’m lost. I ran away from home. Please help me.” I raised my hands to block my face in case the old man started swinging.
He halted a few feet away from me. “Ki koté ou ka wèsté?” he asked.
“I live Bishop’s Gap,” I answered. He slowly lowered his weapon.
After handing me a cup of water and a piece of dry bread, the old man showed more generosity by giving me some money for transportation. Sitting on the doorstep of his house, I hurriedly ate and drank.
“Thank you so much,” I said before departing. The old man gave me some directions to the main road. Soon after, I was aboard a public bus, headed home.
Only eight hours had gone by but the gathering of all my neighbors in our front yard made it seem like I was missing for three days. My mother was the ring leader. I approached her with my head down. “I was just about to call the police! I was worried sick about you boy!” She was furious. “Go inside! I will deal with you later!”
Lucius was not home so that kind of eased my nerves. I knew, sooner or later, I had to apologize. But apologizing to him was only to facilitate my mother’s wishes. It took some time for me to meet eyes with Marvin and Marva. Instead of punishment, my mother had mercy on me since my feet were swollen from my long-distance walk.
When Lucius finally came home a few days later, I was apologetic. But from then on, the only words that were exchanged between us were good morning.
Sadly, although my threats to Lucius made him stop beating me, they did not stop him from raising his hands on others.
I was one year away from being a teenager when I finally witnessed the beating of my mother. I was fast asleep when I woke up to the sound of, “Lucius! Lucius! Lucius!” screamed, hoarsely by my mother. I jumped out of my bed and charged into the direction of her screams. I came to a halt between our living room and kitchen. Crying, Marvin and Marva joined by my side and shouted, “Daddy, no!”
I froze. Lucius was beating my mother with the wire of our house’s telephone. She swung her arms around to prevent damage on her face and body. “Somebody help me!” my Mummy screamed from the floor. The bones in my body vibrated through my boiling blood. Lucius dropped the telephone and started walking away. My heart skipped a beat when his eyes connected with mine. “Police! Police! Help me!” My mother’s voice regained his attention. A swift slap across her face denied her a chance to tell the police where we lived. I couldn’t be a spectator anymore so I hurried to grab the biggest knife in the kitchen. I wanted him dead.
“I go fuckin’ kill you,” I said. “Get the fuck away from her, you pussy!” I made direct eye contact with Lucius.
“You wan a kill me, I go leave,” he said. His eyes were filled with disbelief and his words were slurred.
“Mario, no!” Marvin and Marva yelled.
“Mario, what are you doing? Put the knife down!” my mother cried.
Lucius stumbled through the front door of the house. And as he exited, he slammed the door so hard that the entire house shook. A huge rock thrown by Lucius almost flew through the door. I couldn’t bear to see the marks on my mother’s body, so I returned to my room, uneasy, unable to sleep.
Only a few weeks went by before Lucius was back in the house. I overheard his apology to my mother. “I promise I never go drink again. I’m sorry.” And just like that, my mother accepted him back.
Sometimes I wonder if my threats helped him to be a changed man. His physical abuse towards me had stopped but we were hardly seeing him at home. He spent more time at sea which was fine with me. As far as I know, the days of my mother’s physical abuse had ended.
Chapter 5
Inspired by Sports
In September 1997, after a long, hot summer vacation, it was time to return to school. I started my first of five years at Entrepot Secondary School. It was like a fresh start to life: new school, new classrooms, new classmates, new teachers, new books and new uniforms.
The first bell rang at 8 in the morning. I walked through the entrance gates of the school, and was directed by a teacher to my classroom, 1R20. Upon entering, it felt like I was late by the number of students who were already seated. I kept my head straight ahead as I walked to an empty seat at the front corner of the room. From my peripheral vision, I saw my new classmates along with two familiar faces from Marchand Combined School. Everyone else was engaged in conversation.
My ears picked up laughter. I hesitated, and then looked around the classroom. I stared at a few students only to realize that all their eyes were on me. The joke flew right over my head. I investigated myself for evidence but I didn’t get it. After finally scrutinizing one of the males in my classroom, I realized that I was out of fashion with my school uniform. My light-blue shirt was tucked into my tight gray pants; the bottom of my pants barely touched my black dress shoes. Basically, my image represented Steve Urkel from the sitcom, Family Matters.
We all wore the same school uniform, but these students broke it down into fashion. All the guys wore bellbottom-pants with a pair of black brand name sneakers (Nike, Reebok, Adidas). This is bad news, I thought. Wishing I could have walked back home, I rested my head on the desk. Silence was my best weapon at these not-so-humorous times.
I was expecting secondary school students to have a higher maturity level, but my classmates proved me wrong. I just had to get used to it; especially since I would much rather be at school than home, even with Lucius away most of the time.
Between 8:00 a.m. and 2:30 p.m., I spent as much time as possible in the classroom. During our lunch breaks, as the moist wind blew in my face, I watched my schoolmates play soccer or basketball through my classroom’s open aluminum louvers thinking, wow, I wish I could play like them. At lunch, most of the time, I avoided walking to the school’s canteen even though my stomach growled and craved the canteen’s corn pizza, peas-dal, and soft-drinks. I found it hard to socialize because I felt that my attire was too embarrassing. Everywhere I walked, someone laughed at my appearance. It was impossible for my mother to afford to buy me a better pair of uniform pants or brand name sneakers. Besides, she was old-fashioned and didn’t believe in brand names.
Every day I attended school, my loneliness in the classroom made it seemed like I was the only one present. I was unable to make a friend and I felt like the girls labeled me as a nerd. Since I had no other choice, I kept to myself and, for once in my life, focused on my schoolwork. I kept surprising myself by my high scores on quizzes. Spanish, music and physical education (PE) were a few of my favorite classes out of our timetable. But physical education stood out the most.
My PE sessions were taught by Mr. Lubin, a short chubby man with a black and gray beard and hair, who always wore a buttoned-up shirt tucked into his dress pants—no matter the occasion. He was also the head coach of the school’s track and field team. Every class session he gave us a brief history on certain developing sports in Saint Lucia such as cricket, netball, volleyball, track and field, football, and basketball. Then we would change out of our school uniform and in to our PE gear (short-pants and T-shirt) to compete amongst each other on our school’s playing field or court. Whenever he lectured, I listened to every word that came out of his mouth and applied my knowledge in competition. With Mr. Lubin’s influence, my interest for sports slowly became a part of my life. But there were setbacks.
During a PE period when we were on our school’s netball court playing keep-away, boys versus girls, one of my classmates passed me the ball too high. Our focus was to play defense with good communication. At first glance, I thought that it was impossible to grab on to the sky-high ball, but being so competitive I was determined. I squatted then exploded.
As I tried to catch the ball, my knee did an unusual movement while I was airborne. It felt like my kneecap popped out of place. I returned to the gravel surface with the ball in my hand but I landed on my butt. I had to drag myself to the sidelines. Mr. Lubin gave me a bag of ice which eased the pain momentarily. At the bottom of my knee a bone bulged out that would never go away—no matter how many times I iced it. I was still able to walk but my movement never looked the same—I walked like I had poop in my pants.
A few weeks later, my mother took me to see a bone doctor. The doctor said that my knee disorder was a common problem with athletes. He reckoned that the pain was going to be part of my life until my eighteenth birthday. The doctor also advised me that I should discontinue participating in sports that involved jumping.
At this point in my life, I wasn’t active in any type of sports that involved jumping. I’d contemplated the doctor’s recommendation and thought, thank God I didn’t choose basketball as a career. More icing helped ease the pain as I refrained from jumping activities.
The first time I ever heard of a basketball tryout was at my secondary school. There was an open invitation for interested players to represent the school for the upcoming Inter-Secondary Schools Basketball Competition—an annual tournament held between September and December which involved all of the secondary schools around the island.
The tryout was announced during our regular morning assembly. A quick flashback of my performance in primary school allowed me to ignore the announcement. By then, I had already realized that it wasn’t all about being the tallest person in the classroom; overall, I figured out that my skills didn’t qualify me for a school team—I had no talent.
Out of my class, Jermeel Pierre was the only one who made the team. Judging from the basketball games played during our PE sessions, I always knew that he was good enough to play on any team. The passion in his eyes was visible. He was so good that he ended up playing on both the junior and senior teams and we were only in our first year at secondary school.
It wasn’t long after the school competition began that I went to my first basketball game. I had heard so much hype about my school’s team that I wanted to show my support by attending the game. They hadn’t lost a basketball game since the season began. I wanted to be a witness to winners.
I took a 30-minute walk to Vigie Multi-Purpose Sports Complex where the basketball games were held. I expected that the game would at least be played in an indoor gym like I’d seen on the television. But in Saint Lucia’s reality, the blue skies were the rooftop; the sun- drenched basketball court was hard as the pavement we walked on (although the surface wasn’t as rough as the previous courts I had seen). The court was surrounded by a fence and behind that fence were sheltered bleachers which ran along one lengthened side of the court. And for the first time, I actually saw out-of-bounds lines, a half court line, free throw lines, and three-pointer arcs.
Before sitting in the middle of the crowd, I spotted a very noticeable face on the sidelines—my father, Tobias—who was well known on the island for his work as a videographer. He mainly took footage for HTS, one of our few local television stations. Not many people knew me as his son. When I initially saw him at the game, I approached him and stood next to him in silence until he noticed my presence with his eyes. I mean—how should I address my father? Tobias? Daddy? Our conversation lasted about a minute or less. “Here’s five dollars,” he said to me, slipping it in my hands like we were drug dealers.
“Thanks,” I responded, then walked away pretending to myself that I was used to my father’s carelessness.
I joined my school supporters in the bleachers. They stood on their feet to see every action. Through the holes of the wire-mesh fence, I watched the game already in progress. Ten minutes had gone by and my school was up by a large margin. Although we were winning, our players on the court had no mercy for their opponents. They weren’t just winning the game, they were giving them an ass-whooping.
Seated on the bouncy bleachers, I daydreamed of being part of our school’s basketball team. Momentarily, I found myself suited-up with our school’s blue and yellow basketball uniform. At the center of the court, I joined my teammates in a huddle to discuss the next play. Jermeel said, “Arnold, we go pass you da ball so prepare to shoot it!”
“You know I got dis,” I responded cockily. The referee blew the whistle. Immediately, I caught a pass from Jermeel who stood outside the lines.
“Swoosh!”
I woke up from my fantasy and realized that my school extended their lead by two more points. I was still seated on the same wooden bleachers, wishing I was a uniformed basketball player on the court.
That was the best basketball game I had seen. Who am I fooling? That was the only game I had seen. The enthusiastic chanting, screaming, and taunting students were like groupies, especially the girls who screamed for players by their first names. At one point, I even heard someone scream out, “Jermeel, you so hot!” I wondered about my ugly, pimpled face; if I was on the school’s basketball team, would the girls think I was hot, too? I promised myself I would at least tryout for the team the following year.
I had only attended one game during the 1997 season. By the end of that season, my school basketball team did well, but their performance was insufficient for the Inter-Secondary School Championship title.