My Breonna Taylor Experience

 

 

This is not fiction, although I wish it were. This happened a few weeks ago, a week or so after the storming of the Capitol. I just couldn’t talk about it enough to share at the time. Yes, 

i had to exhale and process it first, and it is still difficult, but I hope my sharing it will heighten awareness. 

 

My doggy and I are at home alone. She’s been with me for less than a year but we are solidly bonded - my shadow, BFFs for life. She’s a tiny Jack Russell Terrier, and as senior a dog as I am as a human. My little Diva weighs about 18 lbs (and that’s obese for her the vet tells me). I linger downstairs watching marathon reruns of Curb Your Enthusiasm while she sleeps (her favorite thing to do) at my feet, comfy in her ergonomic bed. She gives new meaning to the expression ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ I am killing time really because I had planned on folding and putting away laundry at long last, but I’m an inveterate procrastinator. Deciding reluctantly to stop procrastinating, I get off my butt to go upstairs. She’d usually follow like she’s on Twitter except when she is in diva mode and thinks I am disturbing her beauty rest. This time, as I get 

up from the sofa, she raises her head, gives me a quizzical look and takes the decision to continue with doing nothing until she is good and done. 

At times like these, when the spirit moves her, she eventually comes up and settles herself in her bed in my bedroom. She has a bed in every room that I frequently occupy - with the exception of the restroom.  I assume she’ll do the same, so I continue up to my bedroom, put on my headphones to listen to an audio book while I work; she knows her way and will show up eventually, I know. There was one time she had not followed me for hours and when I finally went back downstairs to see what was the problem, I found that her sweater had worked its way down her tiny body, restricting her movements and making negotiating the stairs an impossibility. But she does not have on a sweater today so there is no chance of a recurrence. Sure enough, my bedroom door opens about twenty minutes later and she saunters in, immediately setting her sights on dissecting, and hopefully devouring, a green bacon-flavored rubber bone toy while I continue doing my work.

 

It is about 20 minutes later while I am in my recessed in-suite bathroom that I hear her barking. I pay it no mind thinking my son has come home. Although he has been the other permanent resident in this house long before she ever came along, she still refuses to recognize that fact, and barks at him whenever he opens a door, comes up or down the stairs, leaves or returns home. Unperturbed, I continue to listen to my audio book, and, truth be told, my Bluetooth usage weekly updates have always cautioned me against amping up the volume so loud. I don’t think it’s loud, though; I can hear just fine; but it is noise-canceling, that I admit. It cancels all other noises except, apparently, the sound of my doggy’s barking (she must have a secret arrangement with the thing), which, most times, is a good thing. This time, the frantic and persistent barking penetrates the noise-eliminating perfection of my Beats 3 Solo headphones. It’s an old pair held together by black sports tape and Krazy glue in some places; the sound is gone from one ear and I have had to change the ear pad cushions twice. But I still love these old babies. They have been put through the ringer because I usually fall asleep listening to music or an audio book or the soothing vibe of some Fitbit mindfulness meditation designed for insomniacs like me. While the physical housing can certainly do with some advanced engineering, the sound remains impeccable. My son’s Christmas gift to me was a new set but I still use old faithful while he has ditched his Apple Bluetooth earbuds in favor of my new Beats Solo 3. All this to say that when an external noise penetrates the effective single-minded focus of these puppies (pun intended) on whatever sound it is transmitting to me at the moment, it calls for further investigation.

 

The frantic barking accelerates sharply in pitch and urgency as I linger in the bathroom; then I hear it moving farther away as the Tasmanian devil persona inside my Jack Russell Terrier bolts out of the bedroom and charges downstairs. It occurs to me that something else must be truly wrong because she won’t be carrying on like this were it my son who had come home. The only other things that elicit such rowdiness from her are the sound of the dryer, the vacuum, and the house alarm, for all of which she harbors serious phobias. Now concerned, I bring my bathroom visit to a hurried end and decide to go downstairs to investigate. I emerge from my bedroom - *dramatic music* - only to come face to face with a Glock revolver (I guess since that’s the only brand name that I know) leveled, cocked, and ready for action pointing directly at my face. 

 

What?? In confusion, my eyes travel from the finger standing at readiness on the trigger, up the brown arm, and slowly, disbelievingly, l register the uniform and attire of a youthful police officer, with traces of mother’s milk still on his face. And I instantly think of Breonna Taylor and Botham Jean and that 94-year old lady from East Point who were all shot dead in the supposed safety of their own homes without having been guilty or accused or even suspected of having committed any crime. I know I have done nothing wrong so all I can think of asking is, “Did my alarm go off?”

“No! Your alarm didn’t go off,” he tells he, gun still pointed to my face. 

“Is anybody else in there?” he asks, meaning my bedroom, I assume. 

I tell him no and that I’m home alone, but for the dog (See what happens? Just like that, these people have reduced my diva to a dog, and me to a child of a lesser God). 

He beckons me to come out fully from my bedroom since I was still standing in the doorway. I do as he has commanded. Then he motions me to go downstairs. His more hesitant, equally young, partner, gun still in holster, is standing behind him at the top of my stairs. So, I slowly walk down the stairs with one policeman in front of me and one behind, with the latter’s gun still out and ready. Meanwhile, with a gun pointed to her human’s head, my doggy diva defender is sustaining her frantic barking, donning her big guard dog alter ego.

 

As I walk, they tell me that they received a call from my neighbors (not sure which, since none of them are very neighborly to me) to say that my dog was walking around my yard off-leash and that my back door was wide open. “They called,” he says, “because they were concerned something was the matter with you.” I know he did not just say that! He must have the wrong neighborhood; not my neighbors! I know for sure, too, I left that door closed and latched. How she got out is a mystery to me. I’m not yet crazy and not yet senile so I would never leave the back door open and just go upstairs all carefree like lah-dee-dah, not even in the worst of times. How did that happen? I wonder. ‘I is a long- memoried woman” (quoting the title of Grace Nicholl’s book of poems that I so love), and a ‘long-memoried’ Caribbean woman at that. If I say I know the door was not open, trust me, it was not open.  But at this time my brain is in panic mode and not functioning well enough for me to work my way through to solving this mystery like the logic problem aficionada that I usually personify. It – my brain, that is - is still shaking like a leaf to match the rest of my body. All the time I’m thinking look how I almost got ‘Breonna Taylored’ this ‘good’ morning, all because my black neighbors did to me exactly what they complain about when white people do it them. They had done a ‘Karen’ on me. 

 

After getting me all the way downstairs, these two oh so brilliant, over-zealous limbs of the law then ask me for my DL. Why couldn't they ask me for that while we were upstairs? I have to force my trembling legs to take me back upstairs to get it then bring me all the way back downstairs again. In going to fetch my ID, I feel the fear and incredulity within me shift and give way to red hot anger rising like a searing flash seeking outlet; anger first with my neighbors, and next, and above all, with these police officers who ought to know better, especially the one with the revolver on ready. 

 

Let me deal with the neighbors first.  I have several, none of whom had have ever greeted me with a ‘Hello,’ a ‘Good Morning,’ or a ‘Good Day’ let alone a something, anything casserole, or a freshly crusted, aroma-wafting apple pie like we see in the movies. And I have lived here for almost five years. Well, except for one guy two houses to my right who was known on occasion to half-raise his hand in greeting to me as I reversed out of my garage, down my driveway, and sped past his house on my way to work, cutting it close as usual and resolving that I’d have to make up the time en route by flying low instead of driving fast (Have I told you about the time my car told me to slow down? But that’s another story for another time more fitting of such obvious hilarity).  But this one goodish neighbor, I have not seen him in the last two years or thereabouts. I recently learned from my son that he no longer lives there - apparently because of some acrimonious, I imagine, parting of ways between him and his lady friend (I hate to call adult women girls), whose house it is. Granted, three of the neighboring houses have relatively new occupants, but they, too, are accustomed to regard me with nothing approaching anywhere near amiability. So how is it that they are suddenly so concerned for my welfare?

 

“Really?  Where I come from, a neighbor concerned for another’s welfare would come over and knock or pick up the phone (if they know my number) to inquire. Calling the police would not and should not be high up on your priority list of things to do to show your concern; you’d be buzzing my doorbell or calling out to me if you did not have my number. A different culture, indeed! Secondly, since you’re so concerned, how about an occasional greeting when our eyes lock while I’m checking my mailbox or rolling my trash can to the curb? Instead, you avert your eyes and look in the other direction just so I do not get a chance to ‘smeyes’ you a greeting (a Tyra-ism) in return - every last one of you. Since you care so much, how about not littering my yard and my driveway with the charred debris of your frequent fireworks that defy the rules of celebratory occasion? How about keeping your dog on a leash and not giving me extra work having to pick up poop totally unrelated to me littering my backyard, which you and/or your ‘somma-dog’ (some o’ this, some o’ that – a Viveca-ism - what we would call back home a Caribbean Shepherd or dustbin terrier) often try to cover up by scooting dirt over it? Since you care so much, how about not letting the trash in your yard stray casually over into mine? How about not letting your visitors park their cars such that they block access to the driveways of the neighbors you care so much about? How much do you really and truly care? And since my house is more recessed that the others on both sides, how do you have full view of my back door let alone to know that it is wide open unless you are actually trespassing in said backyard? And even so, if my tiny doggy diva is off leash for a hot nanosecond, should calling the police be your first resort? What great neighbors! Did they pull you aside and teach you that in school? But since, it seems, I ought to easily deal with them by returning the favor when next their dogs are roaming loose and crapping in my backyard as they are won’t to do, let’s focus on the two soi-disant upholders of law and order in question.

 

 

The most troubling part of this is not the action of the neighbors, however. It’s the response of the responding officers especially the one with the Glock at ready and the itchy trigger finger. Had I or my dog inadvertently done anything to startle him, I could have ended up like Breonna Taylor or Botham Jean. And dead people tell no tales, so it would have been their word against mine, but I would have been long past the point where contributing even one word would have been an option for me. My diva, too, could not have given testimony on my behalf, although I know she would have if she could have. Or the over-eager PCs could have fabricated some far-fetched scenario of having to act quickly and in self-defense since I fired at them first. Hey! It has been known to happen. Think of that 94-year-old East Point grandmother who was riddled with bullets when they executed a no-knock warrant on the wrong house, then shot themselves in the foot, and planted a gun in her cold dead hands to corroborate their self-defense story. We only got to know the truth because somebody’s guilty conscience caught up with them eventually. But think of all the many instances where consciences have failed to put in an appearance either sooner or later. (In fact, conscience seems to be on extended sabbatical in this country). I would have gone down in history as an attempted murderer, cop-killer, who got her just deserves. I can see the gleeful headlines blaring from some of the sleazier muckraking press editions now: “Justifiable Homicide;” “Collateral Damage;” “Injured in the Line of Duty in Dangerous Black Neighborhood;” “All in a Day’s Work” and a picture of the deceased,moi, in happier times, sans gun. 

Since black lives don’t really matter as much as, and to, blue lives, who can feign surprise? The hue of my skin I’m in and love being in, mind you, and the complexion of my very existence only mean that not a single  body would question their story (Of course, she’s guilty; don’t trust that smiling seemingly-innocent face; all black people are criminals or potential criminal aka guilty). I would have bitten the dust and ended up, like the Lord Composer once said in a very deceptively catchy ditty, “just another black-hen chicken, a next common breed, to eat the bread that the devil knead.” 

 

And I can just imagine the fancy embroidery that would have been decorated the fringes of that story. I can hear it now: “Both she and the son were big drug dealers” “We found drug paraphernalia, arms, ammunition and loads of cash in the house.” Excuse me, Ima a need you to think! Had I loads of cash, do you think I’d be living here? Come on now, Ima need you to take as long as you need and think really seriously about it!  And cogitate, too, upon the possibility of what would (yes, would, not could) have happened had my son, a tall young confident upwardly mobile black man, emerged from that room instead of me. Is this how our police officers are trained to investigate a domestic health concern? Or to resolve however non-existent neighborhood conflict?  Had I fallen ill or had a heart attack or something, how would a drawn gun have helped my cause? Or would people coming to rob me in the middle of the day have left my back door swinging wide open off its hinges for “the Marish and the Parish” to see while their robbery was still in progress and they still inside my house? Do you mean to tell me police nowadays don’t even know how to think like criminals? Is not the possession of commonsense still one of the basic requirements for any job these days, let alone the police force? Is the motto of the organization still to protect and serve? And if so, to protect and serve whom? Or is it to protect and serve white neighborhoods while terrorizing black ones? 

 

Would the response have been the same had this been a posh white neighborhood and me a posh white good citizen (I forget; I didn’t even have to be posh, just white; since this

	past administration taught us that all white people as good citizens? What this indicates to me is that because this is an undiluted and unapologetically black neighborhood, you feel justified to come in assuming a crime is in progress, with either me or some invisible intruder as criminal-in-chief.

And where were the trigger-ready protectors, servers, and defenders of law and order when those white-supremacist seditious thugs, invited and incited by the real criminal-in-chief, were storming the Capitol in search of senators, congressmen, and congresswomen to lynch and assassinate? Huh? We could have done with such excessive show of zeal for law and order then. But no! Nary a gun was in sight except on the part of the hooligan rabble with whom they took selfies instead. Meanwhile I could have ended up like Breonna Taylor because my smart-as-hell tiny Jack Russell Terrier, unbeknownst to me, had more intelligence than the ‘investigating officers.’ She sure figured out how to liberate herself instead of begging open-palmed, “Give us Free” like Cinque in the Amistad; she figured out how to seize by force that which she has been legally denied, how to open my back door and give herself a few minutes of unrestricted roaming around her very own backyard to sniff and crap in peace without, if only just for once, being at the end of a rope.

 

They tell me the report will be ready in the next few days in case I’d like a copy, but that they are not pursuing charges. Charges for what? I should be the one pressing charges. A dog off-leash for a fleeting few seconds in no one else’s backyard but mine is hardly deserving of capital punishment. But then again, in this country, black peoples have died at the hands of police for far less. Georgia is no state - scratch that - The U S of A is no country - for black people. Yes. I C U. And, in case you’re wondering, I’m still shaking inside, from fear, but mostly from outrage. My sleeping beauty, meanwhile, no longer attempts her escape artiste stunts because propped up against the back door now stand two sturdy sentinels, upholders of doggy diva law and order, her nemeses, the vacuum cleaners.             

 

 

©KalyPsouL

02.09.21

 

 

 

  

Larger than Life

How does one push beyond a profound grief that has settled in for the long haul and refuses to budge, permeates everything you do, circles back and surfaces like bile time and time again just when you think you have gained mastery over it?  How does one carry the poignant past like so many precious gemstones into the fullness of a future it was not meant to inhabit? And yet, fearlessly, they walk with you along life’s corridors, light your path, and guide you as step by step, first one foot and then the next, you pick your way toward that eternal muster point for the safety of which you needs must yearn. Meanwhile, all that remains is memory, and you embrace it and wrap it around yourself and merge into its downy warmth. 

And so, in memory I dwell, more moments of each hour, more hours of each day, more days of each year . . .

I remember many years and days and hours and moments

Magic hearts and magical people 

People like gemstones embedded and shining forever  

In remembered annals of just yesteryear

And yes, ever I remember. . .you. . .

Selwyn

My forever buddy, big brother, and BFF. . .

*

There are some people you just know will be around forever, some things you know will never change regardless of the changes happening all around us. Life exists swirling, spinning, and eddying but always around a central and steady fulcrum. Dr. Selwyn H.H. (Hawthorne Hamilton) Carrington and I were not related by blood, but we might just as well have been; he embraced all of his student mentees as though they were blood relatives; it did not change the price of cocoa.

 

He was professor par excellence - I was the first student to sign up for the first course he ever taught at UWI, St. Augustine. I remember that first day when I walked into his west facing second floor office located in what was then the Arts & Gen. Studies building. His office was overlooking the main quadrangle which gave him a good vantage point to spot all those truants who missed his class, and to hail out to them, by name. The year was 1980 and Dr. Selwyn H.H, Carrington had just arrived from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, to take up his first university teaching position with the UWI, St. Augustine Department of History, as Lecturer in US and Caribbean Economic History.  

You could feel the excitement and enthusiasm emanating from him; it connected itself to us all. Who was this new lecturer with this booming voice, infectious laugh, commanding aura, and larger than life personality whose physical size matched perfectly his powerful presence? 

 

He was a proud son of the soil and patriot. The second of nine children (eight boys and one girl), he was born in Tobago on October 11, 1937 to the fearsome and widely respected Reverend and former headmaster, William Carrington and his beautiful wife, Beata (nee Crooks), the warm, funny, much-loved matriarch who ruled the  roost at the Carrington Manor, that imposing white house on the hill overlooking Club La Tropicale and Bacolet Bay, the one that’s most easily-recognizable as you stand on the deck of the ferry making its approach to the Scarborough jetty. You take in the sleepiness of the little island, so different from its bustling sister-isle Trinidad, and you realize the greatness of this place lies deceptively hidden beneath all of that languor; after all, it produced many icons, least of all, Dr. Selwyn ‘HH’ Carrington. The marriage of his parents signified the coming together of two prominent Tobago families: the Carringtons originally of Charlottesville, and the Crooks of Milford/ Canaan-Bon Accord. In such a family, with a formidable patriarch at its helm, you couldn’t do less than strive for excellence. Young Selwyn’s pursuit of excellence took him to Bishops High School in Scarborough, to ‘THE’ Sir George Williams / Concordia University in Canada (BA History), The University of Manitoba (MA History), and King’s College, University of London where he earned his Ph.D. - yes, in History.  It came as no surprise to anyone who knew him or the family that he insisted on the best from his students and would accept no less.

 

He was a passionate about what he did, impartial, and on point. He knew that in order to get the best from others, you, too, had to give of your best. He did, and consistently so. It’s because of him that Kate Turabian is now my homegirl.  I now insist on the same flawless documentation from my own students.  His grading was fair, acknowledged your effort and gave you encouragement to press on, but never with inflated grades. A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless,  to whom I had loaned an essay graded by Dr. C decided to test his grading consistency by submitting to him what was essentially an almost totally plagiarized  version of my essay, in the hope of possibly receiving a higher or lower grade. While the fact that he had copied remained undetected, his essay received the exact same grade as mine. Dr. C’s, unknowingly, made that ‘friend’ dispense with his preconceived notion that my consistently high grades were because “the lecturers liked me.” I don’t know to this day, and will never know now, if Dr. Carrington knew he was being tested, but he passed with flying colors. Dr. C’s grading, like everything else about him, was impartial, and consistent – what you saw was exactly what you got. He made no attempt to be who he was not, no holds barred, no filters, no apologies for self. No good work went unrewarded, and no bad work went unnoticed. If you did receive a bad grade from him, rest assured you deserved it, and you knew it.  The essay in question was not one of my best, and we both knew it. He pulled no punches and plastered both our papers with comments – all constructive - pointing out the same flaws in logic, inaccuracies, and areas of improvement. He grew even taller in my estimation. That day, I made a mental note to self, which has become one of my main guiding principles through my decades as an educator at many levels – by giving students higher grades than they justly earned, you may gain more students, but never more respect.  Dr. C had the respect of all his students.

 

Dr. C was personable; a people person. He loved people and made everyone feel special. If you were unfairly treated by anyone, he’d stand firmly in your corner and fight on your behalf. His stance was one that few could match. Dr. C. was a man who loved people and had that uncanny ability to connect with any and everyone right where they were. He never looked down on anybody, even those he towered over. Where other lecturers looked with condescension at the cleaning or office staff, for him, they were all “my friend” or “mi boy.” He took interest in you, no matter who you were, as a person worthy of dignity, fellow feeling, and respect, not just student. Colleague, or unit of labor. And you found yourself caught up in his gravitational pull, becoming one of his retinue before you realized what was happening. He had many followers, mentees, sycophants, admirers, hangers on, and devotees; he was the common denominator, the glue that held us all together. And it did not matter how high up in the pecking order you were, no respecter of persons, he’d never let you feel or even think that you were better than he was. He bowed in obeisance to nobody and did not suffer fools gladly. Everyone was equal and deserving of equal treatment in his sight – he was a friend to every messenger, janitor, secretary, Administrative or Office Assistant, cafeteria lady, faculty member, and student at both UWI and Howard University. 

 

Dr. C. had a phenomenal memory, especially for names and faces. He only had to meet or be introduced to you once and the next time he saw you, he’d call you by name and always with the appropriate handle for respect. No one escaped his eagle eye. If you were to miss a few classes, then show up one day in class and late, don’t for a second think he’d wait to catch you by yourself to call you to task. No. Not him. He’d stop the lecture and embarrass you loudly right there and then. We all knew not to be absent nor to be late because those things to him were unforgiveable failings. He did not lecture to a spot on the back wall like others did; he would stop the lecture to comment on the fact that not only did you (by name) decide to grace us with your presence after (x number of weeks) but that you did not even have the decency to be punctual. I can assure you that was the last time you came late to any of his lectures, such a stickler for punctuality he was. Because of his embarrassment of me one day in a full lecture room, I adopted the MO “Better Never than Late” just for his classes, but I became better at being on time because those classes were the highpoints of my day. 

 

Dr. C was anything but pretensive and had no time for pretensive or pretentious people.  What you saw was what you got; he never pretended to be what he was not, nor did he hold back in giving of his whole and true self to you, no apologies – like it or not. He was unique in every way. There was and always be only one Dr. Selwyn H.H Carrington and never forget the middle initials.  A proud Tobagonian, he never allowed you to forget that he was from Tobago, not Trinidad.  He left UWI St. Augustine to take up a position at Howard University Department of History in 1994 returned to UWI in 1995 and then moved back to Howard permanently in 1996. For the 20 years he remained at Howard he steadfastly refused to accept the green card offered to him on a silver platter or even to buy a house there which spoke to him of permanence – a situation the mere thought of which he abhorred; his intent was always to retire in Tobago, which, ever a man of his word,  he did. There were things he did not and would not do including getting a social media account (except work-related email), driving a car in the US, and getting a cell phone. He actually got a cell phone in 2014, after intense persuasion, when he returned to Tobago after retiring from Howard University. Anyone who knew him knew you were expending energy uselessly trying to convince him to do something that went against his grain – going to parties, Carnival, the beach, and such like included.  He was the fatherly keeper of kids while his wife and their parents went to UWI principal’s fete and other fetes or to play mas. I joined him sometimes as kid sitter.  Every year when exams were over, the end of year get-together would be at his house – and all his students would be in attendance, while he cooked up a storm and reveled in the celebratory interaction. The year I graduated, he held a party in his home for all his students in the graduating class. He was known for cooking up the tastiest of storms. That night was no exception. 

 

His favorite pastime was sitting in his study surrounded by his books, working on some paper, analyzing statistics, or conferring with a student over a thesis. It was then that he was at his happiest; his study was his element. It explains why he was such a prolific producer of historical works – books and articles. He was single-mindedly focused on doing history and had absolutely no time for works of fiction, although, as he said, his parents gave him one of his middle ‘H’s after name Nathaniel Hawthorne. But Dr. C.’s life did include fun. He was the main cook, a mean one, and the bread maker in the house.  We teamed up to bake the Christmas cakes for both our houses and bake the break every Saturday. When I say ‘teamed up’ I mean I brought some of the ingredients to his house, and served as his kitchen assistant or sous chef, nothing more. Now that he is no longer around to bake my bread for me, his daughter, Leah, bought me an automatic bread-maker for my birthday since, despite my efforts, I could not and will never be able to duplicate his baking skills. (Thanks, Lea!)  Dr. C also loved, like all the Carrington I know, to play cards, and he was good at it – Thursday nights were devoted to Bridge at the UWI SCR (Senior Common Room) with Esmond, and Pidge and the others. And when the Carrington clan got together either in Trinidad at his house, Tobago in the white castle up the hill in Bacolet, or in Winnipeg where four of the brothers lived with their families, the weekend would be devoted to ‘All Fours, competitions. And, let me tell you, those Caringtons take their card-playing seriously, so seriously that they kept a score book which they studied religiously, and as intensely as if it were some tome of weighty historical analysis or chock full of economic history statistics. It was from Dr, C and his wife, Lesly, too, that I learnt to play bridge, and yes, Cribbage, another of their favorite card games. His dogs were another of his passions – beautiful German Shepherds; he loved photography, too, as evidenced by the big camera bag he carried slung over his shoulder; and last, but by no means least, he loved orchids which he nurtured lovingly with his evergreen thumb.

 

Dr. C was a strong and powerful man -both physically, and mentally.  You heard his booming voice resounding down the corridor before you saw him. He walked everywhere – even into his eighties. In 2005, thirteen years before his passing, he suffered a massive brain aneurysm and had to have immediate life-saving emergency brain surgery. The doctors warned that he would never be able to be left alone, let alone to return to work. Out of sheer will power and his own inner determination, he proved them wrong. It was touch and go for a few weeks, but we knew the exact moment he began to turn the corner. The nurses brought him mashed potatoes for lunch. He looked at it, shoved it aside, and bellowed, “What the hell is this? This is what you’re gon’ give me to eat? I’m a Black Man!”  His tone let you know he had, no doubt, capitalized ‘Black’ and ‘Man.’ Yup! He was well on his way to recovery. He defied all odds, all predictions to the contrary. He continued on for another nine years at Howard with a full-time teaching load, continued to top the list of PhD producers, and continued to walk everywhere and ride the Metro to work until his retirement in 2014. When he retired, I drove up to DC twice to help him pack both his house and office, shop for his new home, and make all the necessary arrangements for his move back to Tobago. I could see that he was slowing down and finding more difficulty with things like climbing the flights of stairs to his apartment and carrying heavy bags from the supermarket. The roles were becoming reversed; this time it was I who had to slow down and wait for him to catch up rather than vice-versa to which I had grown accustomed. I never once, however, let it enter my mind that this was the prelude to his eventual passing. You see, I just knew that he was one of those people who would always be there. And besides, he never complained. It was easy to conclude that my eyes had deceived me.  Like the selfless valiant warrior he was, he never admitted weakness nor ever wanted anyone to worry about him – to the end.

 

Dr. Selwyn H.H. Carrington was a workaholic and a perfectionist. He put his all and gave his best in everything he did. He had an eye for detail, and it showed in his work.  He demanded the same level of performance from his students and left no stone unturned to ensure they met his high standards. He was the best mentor and thesis advisor you could ever hope for. If you were having difficulty writing at home, he’d coms and find you and bring you bag and baggage to his home, install you in an upstairs bedroom, your sole business being to write. He lay on the floor and read each page as you wrote, while the rest of his household kept you supplied with food and coffee. He made you want to excel. It is no wonder that many of his students, yours truly included, won the outstanding Caribbean Studies Prize in their graduation year. It is no surprise either that he was the most prolific producer of PhDs during his tenure at Howard University. But he did not enjoy what he considered ‘the embarrassment’ of being given gifts by his students or his colleagues. I can only surmise that he felt he was doing what he loved and was called to do and needed no tokens of gratitude. Knowing you would pay it forward was reward enough for him. It came as no surprise that Dr. C. was categorically and unequivocally opposed to accepting Emeritus status or any manner of retirement celebration or send-off that his Howard colleagues wanted to throw for him; and they knew him well enough not to ignore his wishes.  He was a paternal presence to all. His was a huge following – students maintained contact with him long after graduation, and often became great lifelong family friends. His biological children, Marcia and Leah, grew up with, and still have many such ‘siblings’ both here and abroad. His students wept openly, men and women, wherever they were when they received the news of his passing.

 

For me, personally, he was a big brother, uncle, father figure, mentor, confidante, and friend. 

It was because of him that I put my UWI postgraduate scholarship on hold and went to Winnipeg to do my MA degree; he believed no one ought to get all three degrees from the same institution; he was a firm proponent of getting as wide and varied an academic experience as possible if you intended to become a professor. I knew his advice was wise and that he had my best interest at heart. Next thing I knew, I was landing in Winnipeg and he was there at the airport waiting to show me around and turn me over in the care of his siblings and their families who embraced me wholeheartedly into the fold.  Thanks to him, I had a readymade extended family and solid social support system, a necessity for anyone struggling with adjusting to harsh and unfamiliar climes so far away from the place you call home. Being embraced by his immediate household, and by his family in Tobago and Winnipeg, I came to understand that generosity and magnanimity of spirit was not just his but a family trait.  Partly because of the village that enfolded me, I came to feel so much at home that I opted to accept a graduate fellowship and stay on to complete my PhD there. 

His paternal caring extended to my son who was just a year younger than Leah, his last youngest daughter. The kids grew up together like siblings. When I had a late class at UWI, Uncle Selwyn (yes, he had become kin) would get my son and his daughter from UWI Prep school. He’d make them both take showers, change, do homework while he prepared dinner. By the time my class was ended, and I walked through the back of St Augustine Circular Road to his house on Pasea Street, hot dinner would be waiting for me. I would have a delicious dinner and good fellowship with his family, then he’d either drive my son and I up to our home in Dash Street on the other side of the main road from where we lived or he’d walk us up accompanied by his dogs for protection. He and Lesly kept my two-year old son for twelve weeks one summer when I had to go to England to do research for my doctoral dissertation. It was he who bought my son the first bike he ever owned and the first laptop when he graduated from Morehouse College. Uncle S. even passed to him his cherished ‘shoe shine’ box from his ‘portering’ days on the Trans-Canadian trains while a student there. No wonder that my son never failed to send him a Father’s Day card. Even as a child, my son always said that the first dollar he earns when he grows up would be for Uncle Selwyn. Indeed, when he turned 16 and got his first summer job at the Fayetteville Dollar Movies, he promptly wrote Uncle Selwyn’s name on that first dollar and mailed it to him.  He saw Uncle Selwyn his ‘other father, Aunty Lesly his ‘other mother,’ and Leah and Marcia his siblings.  And I am sure every one of Uncle S’s mentees will have a similar story. That’s the kind of man he was. Larger than life. Generous to a fault with his heart, his expertise, and everything he had. They do not make them like that anymore. 

 

I can write volumes about his academic accomplishments; his publications stand as everlasting evidence, but the thing that will stay with me forever is his caring, the bigness of his heart, his genuine down to earth goodness. He saw each person’s humanity, and made each person feel special and valued. His energy lingers on, his light still shines, and his voice still resounds in my ear.  Although I can no longer pick up the phone and chat, seek his advice or just to check on him and go to spend the summer, Thanksgiving or Christmas with him, he is forever emblazoned in the retina of my mind and heart. As always, whenever I feel the need to touch base with Dr. C or Uncle S, I know where to find him.  And no, he till does not do social media.

 

 

 

© KP

10.04.2019

 

 

Barack Update: The Morehouse Chronicle Episode

So, I dressed up today - just for him. New snazzy sweater, skinny jeans, tall-heeled knee-high boot. lipstick. Ticket in hand. I was ready!! It did not matter that I had just emerged from an all/day marathon meeting. You see, I stomped for him, phone-banked, canvassed, knocked on doors . . . the works . . . and long before I was even able to vote. I drove up from Atlanta to his inauguration and braved the subzero temperatures for hours and hours under a Jumbotron all the way down by the Washington memorial (you already know that story). Meeting this man in person is way high up on my bucket list. So yeah! I was ready!

Well there was the red VIP line (not mine). The green Stacey Abrams supporters line (again not mine), and then the blue ‘Rest of Us’ line - needless to say, mine. There must have been at least 40,000 people in the blue line that snaked down several blocks from The Fair Street entrance to the Forbes Arena where he was going to be speaking to several blocks up to Northside Drive and beyond as far as the eye could see. I walked for about 30 minutes (hooker heels small steps) to get to the end of the line and still no end of line in sight. And it was bloody freezing cold. By now my fingertips blue. Now I know Forbes Arena and there’s no way even one hundredth of those people will fit in that arena. So, in the interest of preserving my feet for a future meeting with him, I gave up, handed my ticket to a student (who, needless to say, was thankful but totally nonplussed by the ease with which anyone sane and not under duress would surrender a ticket to see Barack) and headed for Spelman to my car. Had to jump a fence between Clark Atlanta and Spelman in my heels to get back to our parking lot because security was so tight they had all Gates closed. 

It was 6 (the time Barack was supposed to speak) by the time I reached the Cosby parking lot. By the time I got to my car I could not feel my fingers. Thank God for heated seats! And Baron’s sweet soca love songs to keep me company on the way home.

So me and Barack’s gonna have to have a one-on-one sometime in the near future. He has got to come up with a Plan B if he is to make my bucket list wish come true ‘cause this ain’t working. We’re gonna have to talk!! It was not about convincing me to vote for Stacey and the whole list of Dems. Checked that off my list via early voting. It was all about him!! He has got to understand that it was not fun jumping the fence with my 👠 . But at least I looked cute doing it. And I made sure to take a photo of the ticket. And by the way, I already wrote him to let him know this ain’t working, but that I’m keeping HOPE alive.

Stay tuned for future updates!

© KalyPsouL

11.03.2018

Organ Donor

Organ Donor 

            It was already nine o’clock. Regine checked herself in the mirror. She looked just right. The olive colored suit, a Mychael Knight original, complemented her caramel coloring, hazel eyes and honey-colored hair. She was riveting and she knew it. 

”You think I’ll impress Simkins?”

Petite, freckled and bubbly, Jen nodded as she caught the hairbrush Regine flung at her.

“He’s big league, honey, rolling in dough. If I get this case, it’ll be a handsome payday. Noon at Justin’s. You said he’ll find me?”

“He’s seen you on TV. Everybody has since the Laveau case.”

Regine preened one last time, “That was brilliant if I do say so. Guilty bastard walked with probation and community service. Which bag? Coach or Kenneth Cole? Okay Coach - the black one.”

Jen quickly transferred her things.

“You should have seen the DA’s face when the sentence was handed down - priceless.”

“He said he had to attend to some important personal business on Moreland first but he should be there on time.”

  “This is my big opportunity. If only I didn’t have to take care of that lost driver’s license first.”

After that official police warning the previous evening, Regine could not put it off any longer. It would not do to be caught on the wrong side of the law, not to mention the negative press.

“Anais. Now why couldn’t you do this for me, too?”

Jen laughed. “Sorry. I can’t.”

Regine sprayed on some Anais and snatched the keys from Jen’s extended hand on her way out.  Jen would clean up after her as usual. That’s what personal assistants were for.  

“Don’t be late.”  Jen called after her.  “You know how you are!”

The Department of Motor Vehicles, located on South Moreland, one of the seediest parts of Atlanta, and jammed with people, smelled like a cross between a triage ward and a cheap café. Too bad she couldn’t hold her breath for the duration. There was standing room only and the queue inched forward. Regine glanced at her diamond-encrusted Rolex. Almost ten thirty. With a sigh, she pulled out her Kindle to pass the time with Afterburn, a  Zane sizzler.

It was hard to ignore the tall, lanky man of about forty standing next to her wearing a badly-fitting brown polyester suit with sallow skin, and sunken cheeks. His stale tobacco odor assailed her as he edged closer apparently to say something to her. Strike One.  She glared at him and he backed off, but only for a second. She took a deep breath and refocused on Zane. She could feel the creep’s nicotine-laced breath warm and eager against her neck. For some reason he seemed intent on making conversation, however unwelcome. Regine shut him down with a steely stare. But his intense gray eyes and ever-present smile refused to leave her head.

An hour later the queue had barely moved. She would have to call Jen. She rummaged in her bag for her Blackberry Curve but came up empty-handed.  Jen must have forgotten to transfer it.
         “Here, use mine,” Mr. Nicotine offered.

It was either that or, heaven forbid, the outside pay phone. As she accepted the grungy Motorola RAZR, she noticed the grime embedded under his fingernails and concluded he must be an auto mechanic or something equally loathsome.  The first ring brought Jen’s perky greeting. Regine had no time for pointless pleasantries. She cut her short.  

“Call Simkins. Make sure he doesn’t leave.”

With a forced smile and a curt thank you, she returned the phone.
           “Lost your driver’s license, too?” He dared to claim affinity. “It costs less for organ donors, you know.”
             Strike Two. Smoker and cheapskate.  She wondered if he planned to donate a diseased lung just to save a penny.

Just then they called G506.  A smile spread across his face making him look almost handsome.
          “That’s me. See you later.”
          “Not if I can help it.” 

He was answering his phone and missed her vitriol.

Another fifteen minutes went by before she heard her number.  With all paperwork in order, she handed over a Platinum Visa.

          “We don’t accept credit cards. Don’t know who you are; don’t care. Exact change or nothing. Fifteen regular, eight organ donor.”

Regine bristled and fished around in her Bermuda Triangle while Ms. Ghettofabulous, seated behind the window, tossed her weave and drummed her long, painted acrylic nails on the counter.

Regine found a five and three ones -- just enough for organ donation.  When she hesitated, Ms. Ghettofab rolled her eyes. “Next!”  Regine plunked eight dollars down on the counter, “Organ donor endorsement.”  Ms. Ghettofab raised one penciled-in eyebrow and snorted.

              Five minutes later, Prada shielding her light-sensitive eyes, Regine turned her royal blue BMW onto the downtown connector, her thoughts fixed on Lonnie Simkins and lemon trout at Justin’s, P.Diddy’s classy restaurant on Peachtree in Buckhead. She was already behind time. At the 400 exit, she pulled alongside a rusted Taurus hooptie belching thick, gray exhaust fumes. The driver was Organ Donor. Was he following her? Strike Three.  

            She stepped hard on the gas, and cut him off on the merger. Too late she saw the silver Benz approaching at high speed from the Sidney Marcus direction.  Regine swerved to the right but ended up wedged in the ditch, engine sputtering, steam rising, the passenger side jammed against the noise barrier, cars whizzing by. Her door refused to budge.  Her stomach lurched.

            Suddenly, there was Organ Donor again, springing into action with a crowbar in hand, prizing her door open. His strong yet gentle hands lifted her out to safety.  Tearful and weak with relief, she slumped against his shoulder.

“One more coat of paint, and you could have been an organ donor,” he teased, securing her in his passenger seat and fastening her seatbelt.

She had to smile. “You are a godsend.”

“My pleasure, Miss West. Lonnie Simkins at your service.”

“You knew all along?”

“I tried to tell you.”

***

©KPLewis (KalyPsouL)

06.19.2009