Читать книгу Memories of Hell, Visions of Heaven - Esther Joseph - Страница 5

Lionel Joseph, my father, was really a mild-mannered hardworking farmer. He never quarreled or got into brawls with his fellow drinkers at the rum shops, but rather saved the adrenalin the liquor produced for when he got home. Everything my father did the money he earned, the actions he took, were all a prelude to getting drunk and wreaking havoc in our lives. Alcohol fueled the anger, hatred, and bitterness, he directed toward his family, especially his wife.

My mother Suzanna, had her first child at nineteen, and married my father, four years her senior, when she was twenty-three years old. She has a nice wide smile, although I rarely saw her smiling. I used to enjoy watching my mother dance with my godfather at our Christmas celebrations, but I don’t remember ever seeing her dance with my father.

My mother was a good cook, but with time she become so nervous while cooking that she would over-salt or overcook our meals. Afraid of her own shadow, she got so jittery that, over the years, developed a nervous twitch. I was about eleven when I learned of my mother’s little habit.

I was on the playground one day after school when an angry classmate I had just beaten as term leader at a game of Rounders, a combination of baseball and dodge ball, called my entire family stupid cheaters. She went on, flapping her eyes for effective dramatization, “Your mother is such a stupid retard! She can’t stop blinking!” Flapping her eyes some more.

“You fat liar!” I screamed, shoving her to the ground.

I run all the way home that day and went straight into the kitchen where my mother stood cooking at the coal pit stove. Standing inches from her, I gazed directly and unflinchingly into her face. She continued stirring the pot of chicken she was stewing for dinner, tasting the gravy for flavor. Finally, I noticed what everyone else knew. My mother was indeed a serial blinker!

Gilbert was the first child. We referred to each other as Alpha and Omega—the beginning and the end. In the looks department, our parents blessed Gilbert with all that was fine. The women loved him and he loved them all back.

Everything about Gilbert was black, so he was nicknamed “Black,” which he liked and carried with pride. His perfect white teeth made his blackness even more pronounced, although eventually he lost almost all of them to his many dance hall and street fights. He wore his curly jet-black hair in a huge afro, with an afro comb sticking out of it. Slim and fit, with an easy roaring laugh.

He was my savior and knight, but his armor was far from shiny. He fought and argued everywhere he went - even with the police. Often, we would find out about his arrest the next day from a neighbor or from whomever he had assaulted the night before.

When he was in his early thirties, Gilbert became a Rastafarian and moved to the wilderness. He gave up all communication with the outside world, including us. Occasionally, my brothers would see him when they went out that far into the forest, but he made a point of ignoring them. The rest of the family did not see him for years.

Joseph arrived next. I heard that our parents and his godparents were so drunk at his baptism that they christened him Joseph Joseph. Poor Joseph! It does not take much for kids to tease each other, and my brother just could not avoid being the brunt of their hurtful jokes. “Your parents couldn’t think of a name for you so they gave you the same one twice? That’s so dumb!” They’d say.

As Joseph grew older, his name became more of an inconvenience. Since his name seemed like a typo, the confusion caused delayed or returned paperwork. When he became an adult, he legally had it changed to Alexander.

He was the opposite of Gilbert, and they did not get along. I think they secretly envied each other, admiring the qualities they saw in one another, that they thought they lacked within themselves. While Gilbert did not have a problem taking on our father and actually seemed to relish in it, Joseph was terrified of him. Whenever our father addressed him, Joseph would inexplicably start to stutter. For a while, he took part in trying to defend our mother against our father, but the older he got, the more often he would vanish when the fighting began. He would head into the backfields, and I imagine he slept out there because we would not see him until morning.

Joseph’s inabilities to stand up to our father made him feel small and Gilbert delighted in reminding him, “Where did you run off to last night, little man? Someday you’ll have to get that tail out of your ass or I’ll have to do it for you myself!”

The older he got, the more Joseph withdrew. Exceptionally moody he did not have many friends. Joseph kept his feelings bottled up inside, allowing his anger from past grievances to build and fester. When Gilbert teased or belittled him, or when one of us had any disagreements with him, Joseph would not react but simply walked away. No one would realize how deeply upset he was or had been, until his anger would suddenly explode in shrill regurgitations of incomprehensible words and rumblings. We would have to piece together his words to figure out what he was saying, as he’d replay a previous incident when someone had offended him. Clenched fists, foaming at the mouth, glazed, bulging eyes Joseph reminded me of a crazed caged animal. He would tremble as if he was an erupting volcano about to burst. Usually these episodes ended as quickly and as suddenly as they started. His unpredictability frightened everyone, including our mother. He had this certain stabbing stare—filled with hatred and disgust. I was petrified of him.

Our family practiced a hands-off approach when it came to Joseph. In his teens, he had a psychotic break and taken to a mental institution. My family has never spoken openly about this; however, after his first visit to the institution, the doctor’s instructions were discussed in hushed whispers. The doctors recommended that Joseph keep away from all stress, particularly our chaotic home environment, diagnosed as the cause of his breakdown. The adults were considering sending him away to live with another family, but that never happened. My father, on the other hand, did what he did best: ignored his family needs claiming it was Joseph’s problem not his.

Joseph was one of my mother’s favorites. She felt great grief and guilt at having contributed to his illness and became a passionate defender of his strange behavior and lack of interest or involvement in family affairs.

Joseph later got married and had four children, but sadly went on to treating his family with the same quiet distain he did us. It came as no surprise to me that at the age of fifty-one, Joseph passed away from a variety of different cancers that had eaten him up inside. At the end, I was heartbroken that we had not taken the opportunity to get to know each other.

Elizabeth, the third and oldest daughter, resembles and acts the most like our mother, and the first of my siblings to follow our mother into Pentecostalism. As the oldest daughter, she cared for us when our mother was away selling crops at the city market, or seeking temporary refuge with family or friends when trying to get away from our father. All Elizabeth wanted was to make her big escape; her ticket out was marriage.

She never let us forget how much of a pain taking care of us was and released her frustrations by spanking the hell out of us. The smallest infraction would throw her into a fit of rage. She hated disobedience. Her so-called spankings turned into violent fights between her and the siblings who could stand up to her. I was not one of them.

In those days, children had absolutely no rights and spanking as punishment—at home and school—was acceptable and routine. In schools, paddles and belts were used to hit kids all over the body. Rulers on the knuckle and the ever-popular twists of the ear were effective in keeping students in line. However, what went on at my house went far beyond the spanking category. No matter how harmless the infraction, the level of punishment was an attempt to maim or kill you. At my house, the punishment was always disproportionate to the crime.

Nothing was off limits to Elizabeth, but her weapon of choice was her teeth. When her anger took over, Elizabeth turned into Dracula. When she laid her fangs on her prey, her bite marks on arms, necks, or legs left permanent scars.

One of my most memorable beatings was on the day I stole a nickel from her. Elizabeth, a seamstress, usually kept coins in her sewing machine drawer. One afternoon I wanted some candy, an instant-nasal-passage-clearing minty white sweetie we called oh-so-strong. It was my favorite. Tempted by the change in her drawer, I took a nickel when I thought no one was around. Either she knew exactly how much money she had in there or she saw me take it. But I was busted, literally.

She took her time delivering her punishment. She had me kneel, my knees bare on the uncarpeted, wooden living room floor, waiting for hours. She made a big production by telling everyone that I was a thief, making it seem like I was on my way to becoming a career criminal. She picked her punishing paraphernalia carefully, like a warrior choosing her weapons before stepping onto the battlefield. She made certain that she picked only items that would deliver the most pain—paddles, tree branches, and belts. She proceeded to use them one after another. Of the many beatings in my short lifetime, that was one of the worst.

After such beatings, I would make myself scarce. I would retreat to a neighbor’s home or to a corner and take refuge in my thoughts. I fantasized about being part of another family, one in which parents and siblings treated each other with respect and were kind and compassionate to one another. In that family, there was no yelling or fighting, and everyone spoke in quiet, gentle tones. Some days I wished that I were an only child, other days I wish I had never been born, was dead, or artfully disappear. I was convinced no one would miss me if I did.

Our household daily chores were assigned according to age. Since we did not have running water, it was the responsibility of the youngest children to fetch water from the public water tap—a pump established by the government, which provided the entire village with its water supply. Our task was to fill two gigantic drums located on the outside of the house, so our older sisters would have water available for their tasks. Each drum had three indentations, and my two younger brothers and I had to fill both drums to the second indentation in order to meet the daily water requirements. That meant fetching water in the mornings and evenings on school days, and all day long on the weekends. We had to fill the drum to the brim on weekends because we watered all the crops and did more laundry during those days. Our failure to fill these drums was one of Elizabeth’s greatest pet peeves.

The public tap was quite a distance away, or so it seemed for my skinny legs and arms carrying buckets of water in the sweltering heat. With time, we got so good at fetching water that we could balance a bucket on our heads and one in each hand, shortening the number of trips.

Easily distracted, I would often put down my buckets to chase or watch birds. If only I could grow wings like them, I thought, I would soar high above it all. I would fly to far away lands where no one would ever find me—ever. Taking to the air, I would devour all the yummy plump fruits and nuts growing at the tippy-top of the tall trees, living the high life.

On most days while journeying with the water, I would go sit in the fields surrounded by mangoes, coconuts, guavas, and other types of fruit trees. I liked climbing the tall mango trees to pick the fruits, while the guavas and plums were within my short reach. I was always hungry, and would sit and eat fruits in the warmth and comfort of the sun. Walking and balancing on the thick black pipes that carried the water into our area was an enjoyable distraction; these pipes were miles long. Eventually I would remember the reason for being out there in the first place and would run to gather the water. If I had really delayed Elizabeth from getting her work done on time, she would smack me. Sometimes it was worth it, though. My once-hungry tummy was now full of fresh juicy fruit and I had the pleasure of being in the peaceful outdoors away from her craziness for a little while.

My next oldest sister, Jeanette, was at one time my favorite. She was the first of all my siblings who had the initiative to make something of her life and moved to Castries to continue her education. Unlike the other young women her age, Jeanette was not waiting around for a man to support and take care of her. She attended the only vocational school in Saint Lucia, which offered a specialized agricultural business curriculum. A new and innovative college acceptance into the program was difficult. It was a proud moment for the family when she was accepted.

Jeanette had many friends and my only sister who went out on dates, or “gallivanting” as my parents liked to call it.

She rejected our mother’s Pentecostal religion and became a very active member of the Catholic Church. Our mother resented it, as she felt Catholics were unsaved and called Jeanette a jammet (slut) destined for hell. My father hated the fact that Jeanette desired to educate herself. He accused her of being pi ma ya (arrogant or proud).

I admired Jeanette’s ambition and independence. Not to mention, she always looked and smelled nice on her weekend visits. She was the one who beat up on me the least; sometimes she would even try to defend me, especially to our mother. When my mother complained about me to my siblings, Jeanette would remind her, “Well, that’s normal, how kids behave.” When I was a teenager, Jeanette even attempted to sway my mother to let me take dance classes, but there was no way my mother would allow me to do anything that would bring me joy.

Like all my siblings though, Jeanette had her dark side. She was obsessive and protective of her personal belongings: perfumes, clothes, and jewelry. From time to time, I would make use of her things, and no matter how careful I was in replacing the borrowed items, she would somehow always detect that someone had tampered with it.

When I was about ten or eleven years old, my body started to develop, even I was becoming aware of my body odor. Since my father barely provided enough money for food, luxury items like toothpaste, body lotions, and fragrant soaps were extravagances we could rarely afford. On the few occasions when we were able to purchase such products, they were gone as soon as they appeared. With little access to deodorants and soaps, Jeanette’s fancy fragrances and body splashes were exactly what my body needed. They were irresistible!

On her return Friday evenings from her week at school and work, she would head directly to her corner of our bedroom. She would examine her dresser closely and knew instantly whether any of her items had been touched. Although she knew exactly who’d done it, she’d grant the courtesy of asking, “Who touched my stuff?” Since everyone knew who the culprit was, no one answered. She’d answer her own question by screaming, “Esta!” at the top of her lungs.

Most times, I would stick around and take my punishment. She would slap, punch, and kick me wildly. Covering my face was my only defense. If I had stained or spilled something, the punishment would be worse. On those occasions, I made myself scarce to delay the consequences, hoping she’d forget or leave on a date before I reappeared. During the beatings, I felt the emotional hurt more than the physical. How could my own sister care more about her possessions than for me, her little sister? I could not, and still cannot, comprehend why she would not want her baby sister to look and smell pretty as she did.

Francisca was my only sibling who played games with me. She was born to teach, but missed her calling. I credit her for my love of reading. She read to me when I was too young to comprehend, and we enjoyed playing reading games when I learned how to read. She volunteered at the school library, borrowing books she would entertain me for hours.

I learned that I could be smart and determined just like Nancy Drew—but it was the fairy tales that gave me hope that someone would someday come to save me. I, too, wanted to go to a party and have a prince return my lost slipper and take me away. Or, “let down my hair” like Rapunzel, allowing my hero to climb up to rescue me. These fantasies allowed me much-needed escape. For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamt of being in other places, being another person, and live a life other than mine.

My favorite story was “Pinocchio”. At the time, I didn’t know why I liked it so much. Now I know that I related to him because I too yearned to be a boy. Life was much easier for my brothers. They had fun and freedom! I wanted anything, other than my life.

Francisca was a good daughter and favored by our mother. Timid and eager to please, she cleaned and decorated our broken-down house, making it as homey as possible. Her teen years were centered on the Pentecostal Church. She taught Sunday school classes and was devoted to them. Her commitment to the church always got her elected to many church leadership roles. Francisca and Elizabeth dressed in accordance with the church’s protocol. Pentecostals, like most fundamentalist religions, expect the bodies of their female member’s covered—long sleeves and long skirts—especially for church services. Women wore hats and veils to cover their hair. Dresses were loose fitting, not revealing cleavage or the contours of the body, especially the behind. Jewelry— except for wedding rings—makeup and pants were sins of vanity.

Our mother encouraged and was extremely proud of her girls. They delighted in talking and planning church activities together. When it came to the church, they were Jesus’ three Musketeers.

Francisca was extremely responsible when it came to church, but there was one very puzzling thing about her. When our mother could not make it to the city on Saturdays, and it became Francisca’s duty to travel to the city to purchase our groceries for the week, she would return hours later with no money and no food. She never had any explanations and refused to talk about it. No matter what questions were asked she’d repeat, “I don’t know.” When pressed for specifics, she would blow up into fits of rage and tears or sullen silence. My mother just chose to ignore the severity of the problem. The odd thing was that since my mother did not get mad at her, no one else did either. Our mother made excuses to our father as to why there wasn’t sugar, rice or beans for that week.

One Saturday afternoon, Francisca returned home empty- handed again and stormed to our room before anyone could interrogate her. After a short while, I followed, and for a few minutes, we laid on the bedroom floor side by side in awkward silence. It must have been the combination of hunger and the disappointment over the absence of the fish we were expecting for dinner that prompted me to ask, “What happened? What did you do with the money?”

She did not answer. She merely turned her face away from me, but not before I saw the pain and confusion in her eyes. I am not sure what Francisca did with the money, but I believe the responsibility was just too much for her to handle. It was easy for her to be overwhelmed by the city marketplace and she was pick-pocketed or misplaced the money somehow. I know her actions were not malicious or intentional, but clearly, she was not the right person for the job. It took some time for my mother to realize that this had to stop, and passed the torch on to me. I was about twelve when I obtained the adult task of taking the bus to the city to purchase our weekly groceries. I believe Francisca’s fervent faith and constant praying is what saved her from a fate similar to Joseph’s mental state.

Lawrence’s desire as a young man was to be as feared like our father and was my only sibling who consciously imitated him. He was defiant, vengeful, loved fighting, and did most of it at home. He bullied Elias and Francisca endlessly. I just stayed out of his way.

Pigheaded and irrational, it was impossible to reason with Lawrence, which meant every disagreement ended in a physical altercation. During his quarrels, he backed up his talk by always trying to find sharp objects. During a confrontation with Lawrence, the aim was to keep him away from jagged objects, it case he would use them, even accidentally. It was more important to block or hide these objects from him than to throw or receive a blow.

Once, Lawrence and Francisca had a fierce encounter out in the fields where a pitchfork was involved. Lawrence was threatening Francisca with it, but she managed to grab and tossed it away. As they continued jabbing and pushing each other, Francisca accidently stepped on the pitchfork and was pierce in the foot. The sight of her own blood gave Francisca strength and further incentive to cause Lawrence to bleed also. Since Lawrence had to match her renewed vigor and elevated anger, the fighting only escalated. They were two wild beasts driven by the sight and smell of fresh blood. In the end, the screaming and shouting drew the attention of a neighboring farmer, who called our parents. Only then did the fighting stop.

Lawrence’s toughest challenge was Elizabeth. When he did something deserving punishment, usually on a Saturday when our mother was away at the city market, Elizabeth would prepare, collecting necessary items: belts, paddles and sticks. She chose the safety of the kitchen, as it was made completely of wood, and broken glass could not become a weapon. Sealing the two windows and doors, she would also take the time to hide any other items he might try to use against her. Then Elizabeth would call or drag Lawrence into the kitchen. She would punish him with such fury, that ultimately, he would have to defend himself and the fracas would break out into a full-blown war. If Lawrence felt he had “won” a round, he’d come out proud and cocky. However, if wounded, he would emerge angrier and ready to provoke another fight—with someone weaker, of course.

Oh, Lawrence was mean. We were both born in the month of March, Lawrence on the third day, I was the ninth day. Our siblings would tease and annoy Lawrence by telling him that since the day I was born on was greater then the day he was born, then that made me older then him. Lawrence knew that I was not older then him, but could not quite make sense of how my greater birth date did not necessarily mean I was older. In his rage, and inability to understand, he would maliciously beat me up, even though all I had to do with it was share his birth month.

Although Elias was younger than Lawrence, Elias felt that as a boy, he should be able to defend himself. His technique in handling Lawrence was to not get him angrier. He would hit back in defense, but at the same time, try to talk Lawrence down. Elias would say things like “Stop it! Why you wanna hit me like that for? Come on, man, I didn’t do anything to you!”

The fact that Elias was being reasonable and not challenging him often took the wind out of Lawrence’s sails. Even so, he released his venom on Elias quite often. Their fights were more frequent, but shorter and less intense than Lawrence’s fights with his sisters.

Elias was dishonest, gossipy, mischievous, and never owned up to his mistakes. When I was about ten years old, a neighbor who was our cousin, accused me of killing her chicken. I tried unsuccessfully to convince her and my sister Elizabeth that I had not killed the chicken. “How could you do this? How could you kill someone’s chicken? Apologize right now to Miss Zeta!” Elizabeth kept shouting.

I insisted that, “I didn’t do it.” But my continued denial just made the embarrassing situation, and the whooping, worse.

Later, we discovered that Elias was the one who had stoned the chicken with his slingshot, and knowingly and cowardly stood by as I received punishment for his misdeed.

Elias was more feminine than I was his homemaking skills were far superior to mine. I was more interested in doing things outside the house. But Elias enjoyed household chores - considered women’s work according to the mores of the time. The fact that he was adept at these things caused him grief. Lawrence liked calling him a “sissy,” especially when they were among friends. Sometimes, when Lawrence and Elias were not fighting and actually playing, one of the games they played was “The Best Ways to Torture a Wife.” They tried to come up with ideas on how they would torment their future wives and the one who came up with the most disturbing and creative affliction would be the winner. I remember listening once and hearing one of Elias’s cruel fantasies, which involved trapping a woman in a tiny cage, starve and brand her with a hot iron, then inserting the iron up her butt. At the young ages of twelve and thirteen, they came to believe, that a woman’s reason for being was to serve and be tortured by her man.

When Elias was nearly fourteen, he saved money and bought a bicycle—the first one owned by a Joseph child. Elias chained and locked his precious silver and black bicycle so I could not ride it—but I was a little Houdini and found a way to unlock the bike and rode it all over the neighborhood when he was away. I loved riding that bike, it made me feel strong and free, like a boy. It was the only time I felt as free as my brothers. Trying to relock the bike the same way was impossible, so I inevitability got busted.

At first, I begged. “Could I just ride it from here to there? I promise I won’t scratch it.” Pointing to a short distance, “Just a tiny, little minute, please…?” His reply was always the same: “No!” My only option was to borrow it on the sly. In the beginning, I was careful about keeping it clean and scratch-free—but after making use of it a few times, I wasn’t as careful. I would ride farther and faster, and even race automobiles on the rugged unpaved roads. Riding this bike, I could feel the wind in my face and hair. It was the closest thing to having wings like a bird.

Freedom had a price though, when he returned home, Elias would make me pay. He loved punching me all over my body, and as soon as he discovered that girls’ developing breasts were sensitive and should never be hit, he aimed for them. I became adept at protecting myself by crossing my arms over my chest while keeping my head down. Regardless, Elias was nothing compared to the others.

I was the annoying, inquisitive one who “why” everything and everyone to death. I made frequent use of the wide mouth and thick lips that engulfed my face. I took things that did not belong to me. At first I had no problem asking and saying please, but when refused what I wanted, I would respond with an “in your face” manner. I didn’t have the physical strength to fight; but I had words and an attitude, which I amplified for maximum impact.

When my mother was lecturing about something she learned in church, I couldn’t help but remind her of something she had done recently.

“Mom isn’t giving Pastor Delease money and food, behind Daddy’s back, dishonest? He tells you not to do it all the time, but you do it anyway.”

“Shut your big mouth! I’m your mother, if I tell you to do something, you just do it!”

One day, the women from the various parishes came together to plan an upcoming social. My mother and some of the women were sitting on the floor chatting and laughing. I was sitting in the corner behind them, to the side of my mother. The conversation turned to adult relationships as they started discussing some woman’s husband. They were saying things like, “Well, aren’t all men the same?” and “Well you know it’s the women’s fault. If they did what they are supposed to at home, their husbands would behave.” The mature nature of their conversation grabbed my attention, and as I listened, the things they were saying got more idiotic. As usual, my thoughts popped out of my mouth! “Not every man would do things like that!” I blurted.

My interruption made everyone look back in shock; they had forgotten I was sitting there. My mother, without thinking or saying a word, just turned around and, with the back of her hand, smacked me so hard and loud across the face that silence filled the room.

Everyone quietly returned to her tasks in an uncomfortable hush. Marcella, a Sunday school teacher from our church, hesitantly broke the stillness with, “Sister Joseph, you’re really hard on that child that really wasn’t necessary.” That was only time I remember anyone standing up for me. Everything about me unnerved my mother. Perhaps, she wanted to protect me from the dangers she perceived my openness and outspokenness would bring “Why do you have to be different, why can’t you just be like your sisters?” was always her defense.

I was one more mouth to feed, and there were times when my mother actually forgot to feed me. At dinnertime, my father came first. After that, she served plate after plate, in order of importance. By plate number ten—mine—there usually wasn’t enough left. When she realized she had not fed me, she would splash water into the empty pot to loosen the scrapings from its bottom. When there was nothing left to scrape, she would pick bits of food from my siblings’ plates to concoct my dinner, annoying my hungry siblings in the process.

My mother was always telling me that bad girls like me went to hell when they died. She said that hell was a place where everyone was screaming and howling from constant pain and I did not want to go there. I kept thinking, “What’s the big deal about this hell place, anyway?” It sounded just like where I was already living.

All I wanted was for them to show me a little compassion. It would have been great if, by example, someone in the family would show me what being a good person was like. I was continuously being told to be good, but I didn’t have a clue what that meant. They were all acting evil. All I wanted was for them to love me for who I was. After all, I was part of the family, even though I was different and difficult.