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