A View from the Land of Wood and Water

Lovers Leap. The beautiful sunset, reggae music, farm animals and delicious foods. The soothing sounds of water rushing over the rocks at Noisy River; The lively sounds of Lititz and Junction; The laughter and chatter of farmers from Carish Brook as they reap their peanuts. Now, stop day dreaming about the places in St. Elizabeth, Jamaica and read Mattie’s important letter.

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Dear Mattie,

Good day! I write to you from under the biggest mango tree at my niece’s home. Or, with due respect, the people from back in the day would have written: Greetings in the precious name of our Lord and soon coming King. I hope when these few lines reach you, they will find you and your family in his tender loving care and the best of health. Gosh! It was always a treat to read their sincere salutations. Today in our society people just go straight to the purpose of their missive. Having mentioned that, I guess by now you must have heard that I am in the land of wood and water, yard, the rock or little paradise otherwise known as Jamaica. My 78 year old sister has been ill so I decided to take a trip down here to see her. It’s better to see her alive than in her death. No use saying I love you when the body is lifeless.

First and foremost the airline carrier is now Caribbean Airlines. No more Air Jamaica. It has been sold. Caribbean Airlines, according to the news, is making a lot of profit but to me they are no grand prize. The flight was good but the landing wasn’t up to par at all. The pilot put down the plane with one big thud, just like when a big ripe breadfruit falls from the tree to the ground. I feel like cussing now because it wasn’t a bunch of orangutans sitting on that plane. Mattie, this is no joke because the landing rattled my heart, not to mention my nerves especially now that I am up there in age. I had never experienced anything like that when our lovely Air Jamaica was around. The pilots were great. As a matter of fact they were the best. They landed those airplanes without a flaw. I wonder if Caribbean Airlines has given any of them employment? Mattie, I would do anything to fly with those pilots. I really miss them now. My granny would have said “cow doesn’t know the use of its tail until it cut off”. They are of the highest caliber and are wanted all over the world. It is my understanding that a few of them are living in Dubai and flying planes in the United Arab Emirates.

Mattie, looking into the situation my little bird brain has figured that Jamaica is suffering from all kinds of drain: brain drain, money drain, land drain every drain except politician drain. I wish some of them were the ones leaving the island. Let them go wreck some other place. Back-in-the-day leaders such as Bustamante and Daddy Manley would be very disappointed at the political arena and the fanfare that comes with it now. Frankly, I believe that majority of the nowadays politicians sit in office and spin around on swivel chairs all day until they become dizzy rather than go into the communities to meet and talk with the people who had voted for them. Mattie, inasmuch as you may have a low tolerance for lazy people please note that it wasn’t my intention to stir your anger. It is also possible that unscrupulous behaviors have a hand in the economic and financial decline of our beloved island. Look at the rapid rate at which Jamaica is being sold. Bit by bit and piece by piece. Can you imagine! I wonder how much of Jamaica really belongs to Jamaica. Soon enough Jamaica will be documented as All that parcel of land named Jamaica which is located in the said country is now owned and operated by small island governments and other foreign countries. Mattie, do you see what I am seeing? Rumor even has it that Dunns River was on the sales list. Ahahahaa this is the biggest joke of the year and I hope it continues to remain a joke. It would appear as if the decision makers are out of their minds. Dem lick dem head! I can’t believe that our good-good Jamaica is going, going until it soon gone because of mismanagement and arrogance. I feel so ashamed. Tell me, what is left to gloat about?

Mattie, to tell the truth I don’t even know how well the country is faring from tourism. So-so sea and sand cannot rectify the situation, according to the people who are voicing their opinion openly. I sit and listen to them daily while I move around town and rural areas. They have expressed that we Jamaicans should exhibit our culture in a more laudable manner, especially now that we have so many champion runners and bobsled on our credentials. Also not to be forgotten are the late Robert Nesta “Bob” Marley, great musician and renowned ambassador of reggae; Louise Bennett-Coverly, Miss Lou, who took our local language, patois to high places. Sadly today it has no honor in its country. How do we expect to go forward if we don’t know where we are coming from? There should be no fear because we Jamaicans are a versatile and unique set of people. The use of Standard English, our official language, is not a problem among us. We always rise to the occasion whenever it is necessary. Take for instance since I arrived here in Jamaica I have observed the heavy use of the American “Yeow” when calling out to someone. Follow fashion is overriding our heritage. What has become of: Hey deh, Oye deh, or Psssst. Many of us will remain ashamed of our dialect until strangers snatch it and put it to good use. They are so hungry for knowledge that they will go through any means to research the Jamaican culture especially if they have a keen interest in Cultural Anthropology. Yes, Mattie, Cultural Anthropology. It is a mouthful and a great field of study these days. In the end a book or a documentary will be produced much to the detriment of our pretentious behavior.

Mattie it is about time that we Jamaicans accept who we are and pump up the volume on the songs Peel Head John Crow and Carry Mi Ackee Go a Linstead Market as the visitors arrive. Let us use our Otaheite apple in the hotels instead of granny so and so apple or so and so delicious apple from foreign. Do you agree? Our wide farming community has more than enough foods and fruits to entice the visitors to our shores. Natural vitality beverages are also produced by the locals. I have heard of one such beverage which is called the “front-end lifter” an alleged miracle worker for the men who are involved with several women at a time, poling them, according to the old timers, until their manhood is damaged. Mattie, I can see you rejoicing at the demise of the womanizers. He who feels it knows it. We will talk when I see you because this letter can get into the wrong hands. Eh-eh! Mattie, it is getting dark and the mosquitos are swarming me under this mango tree. They are out to eat me raw. I haven’t even updated you on the medical progress of my sister as yet. It’s hard to believe that venting about a not-so-pleasant plane landing could have led to so many things.

Well, Mattie the venting is over now and I give God thanks that my sister is no way worse than when I had arrived. She is home from the Black River Hospital and continues to be in her right mind although on one of my visits to the hospital I thought she was travelling, you know what I mean, going to her end. The eyes looked distant and her conversations weren’t sober. She mentioned that some ugly people next door to her were making a lot of noise. Don’t ask me why she described her imaginary people as being ugly. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe as a child she used to call people ugly. Who knows, Mattie? Some behavior is hard to escape even on the sick bed. Or, it could be that the saying “Once a man twice a child” is really true. Mattie, my friend, you can tell the world that Black River Hospital “little but it tallawah”, great. It is tops when it comes to patient care. My sister was brought back from the brink of death. The doctors, nurses and porters are excellent. They are true professionals, deserving of many medals.

Luckily her husband and children didn’t take her back to Mandeville Hospital where she was first. It is a very modern hospital and would have been good but it is very far from her home in St. Elizabeth. Thank God Black River proved that they are capable because if that D word had taken place it would have caused an immense eruption. Everyone close and dear to her, including me who had just purchased plane fare, would have to fork out money in these hard times to send her “home” in style. Hard times have become a worldwide crisis and so are the medical bills. My sister had taken x-rays, blood tests and all kinds of scans which took a good size of money from her savings. The family should be grateful for the little farming that she had done alongside her clerical work at the Post Office. With this insight my sister should have been a politician, having displayed this impeccable sense of planning. Mattie as a matter of fact, pause right here, grab a glass with some special water and mek wi toast Black River Hospital and staff. My glass is always in a toast and cheers mode especially when I am in Jamaica. Yes, it is true. Hick! Ooops! Excuse me, please. It seems as if I am drinking too much.

Mattie, I know that you are curious to find out if I am having fun in Jamaica. Girl, I sure am. The sun has been in a brilliant mood which has put more pep in my step. Ahahahaha. I am eating all the good foods and seasonings, nothing artificial. The foods and fruits are gathered from the trees or dug from the ground in my presence. I visited a few sorrel fields and I am having a daily fill of sorrel drink. Steamed fish and bammy are also on my menu. For relaxation I visited the river yesterday, sat against a stone and let the water caressed my total being. People were at the river washing and cooking. I also saw a man with his pig walking along the banks. Mattie, the Jamaican people are still filled with laughter regardless of the hullabaloo that is taking place about an early election. There are no changes in my fellow Jamaicans’ styles of walking: slow, not so slow, hardly going and walk and stop. It is a pleasure to watch them compared to the movements of the people in New York City. The laidback behavior of those who constantly sit around tables placed under trees, playing dominoes, drinking beer and listening to music reminds me that there is more to life other than work.

Mattie, nature never ceases to amaze me, especially among lower class of animals. Two days ago I saw some goats trying to get frisky, you know what I mean, and by the time I reached for my camera the performance was finished. I felt so disappointed because capturing a picture of them in the act would have been good for wild life documentary. Ahahahaha. Liza’s wattle and daub house is still standing, from the eighteen hundreds. It is stronger than some of the modern homes. Girl, most interestingly, mongoose is still alive and rampant here, lots of them. They are very boldfaced. One almost bit a little girl. Mattie, it is such a great feeling to be here in Jamaica. Maybe one day soon I will be back to live and with the hope that I will be able to keep up with the lifestyle. Believe it or not, the Jamaicans are trekking off to China and Japan as if they are going to their backyard. They have come to realize that America is not the only place on planet earth to visit, go to school or live. Talking about that, Mattie, do you recall the days when Chinese were rampant in Jamaica, doing business. Well it is happening again. I guess we are learning to “foster relationships between countries”. I must say that regardless of all the bad decisions Jamaica has come a long way. Adding to that, last week I heard one of my nieces speaking Chinese language. You should have heard her: Ching fong ding don dung dung fuk do. Don’t ask me the meaning because I write according to the sounds I had heard.

Finally, Mattie I have lots of pictures to show you. Among them is one that was given to me by Ms. Holly. It is a picture of me at a wedding more than fifty years ago. I have enclosed it and others. I was the lead flower girl who sprinkled the flower petals along the aisle of the church while the bride walked behind. I am the tallest of the flower girls. The picture is fading but if you look good you will see me holding the basket of petals. How do you like my hat? My hairstyle was drop curls. Mama had combed it. See how pretty I looked then, and still do to this day. To prove it I still get wolf whistles from the males. Aahahahahaha. I bet you are laughing as hard as you can. Laughter is good medicine.

Hope to see you soon.

I remain your best friend,

Grace

Tah-tah! Show some love every day. It will make someone happy.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2011

Show Me Your Lace

Do clothes make a man?
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Sometimes peoples’ character and status are judged based on the clothes they wear. Is this a fair evaluation or observation? In my opinion when it comes to garbs some people are pinned with the title follow-fashion. They will go through extreme measures to be with the trend. On the other hand many people have made it known that they dress according to mood or the way they feel. Absorbing the way people dress, the god of nakedness would fume if the scantily clad in our society are not considered here. The impostor is not to be overlooked. A pastor at a church I once attended mentioned in one of his sermons that the devil goes to church wearing a three-piece suit. Do I hear an Amen?

We should also take into consideration that people exercise their likes and dislikes when it comes to certain attires. Among the likes, you will find someone dressed in a buttoned-up shirt and a necktie in place to the point of a choke hold or someone walking around in a dress with the tail sweeping the ground. A couple dislikes such as jeans and tops that fit above the midriff came as a surprise. Luckily in the garment industry there are beautiful fabrics that will help us look beyond the oddities and disappointments in styles. Thus, at this point I will focus briefly on the beautiful and intricate fabric called lace and the role it plays in the lives of females.

What is Lace? Lace in a concise definition is an openwork fabric, designed with open holes in the creation which is made by hand or by machine. In all my probing the origin of lace has never been clearly explained. Hence it would be amiss of me to say that lace was originated in Rome, Honduras or Timbuktu. Regardless of its origin it is agreed that lace is a regal accessory and is used by people of all sorts. Looking back, lace has been and is still associated with the costumes of thespians, and the attires of clerics and magistrates. Granted that I am neither a seamstress nor a fashion reporter, this does not deter me from saying that lace should be considered the diamond of all fabrics. I remember as a child even an itsy bitsy amount of lace on my dresses had me walking stylishly, heels in and toes out, hands swinging and head held high. I wore my dresses to church services many Sundays, and on each account I purposely made several unnecessary trips to the toilet, hoping to be noticed by the members of the congregation. My exhibitions went well except for the times when I was waylaid by one of the strict female Helpers who threatened me with a pinch and a report to my parents.

Lace speaks. It tells a lot about the wearers and their missions depending on the amount and how it is arranged on each garment. Viewing my childhood, a little girl was expected to display youth and innocence. It would then behoove her to wear lace on her dress collars, pockets, sleeves, and many rows on wide skirts, which presented grand flounces fit for a queen. Interestingly, the intricate embellishment had no boundaries. It could be seen in multitudes on undergarments, such as panties and petticoats. The beautiful decoration inspired the little girls to become showoffs. They would pirouette on their shoes heels as fast as they could and in doing so their skirts flipped upwards, revealing the maze-like accompaniments.

Is lace still worn in that manner among the little girls these days? Maybe it would be a nuisance to walk around with yards of lace on any one piece of undergarment especially now that styles come and go at a rapid rate. Therefore, I would not be surprised to see a little girl wearing her lace in adult styles but before this happens there should be a silent wish that there are no elders from back in the day to witness this preposterous idea. The feisty eagle-eyed elders would cry foul because they expected little girls to enjoy each segment of their lives and not be viewed as forced-ripe. Besides that, the elders particularly wanted the excessive amount of lace to remain on the undergarments of the little girls as a deterrent for all the peeping Toms who wanted to see more than knees.

Do female adults care about the way lace speaks? The classy woman will decide on wearing an elegant tailor-made all lace dress, a pair of lace gloves and a pillbox hat with its tinge of lace slightly resting on the forehead. A woman who loves to flirt will wear lots of lace in the bodice of her dress to deliver or enhance a buxom look whereas the pious woman will wear her lace in the form of a mantilla. Lace has such an endearing quality that it captures and messes with the minds of some male adults, particularly when they see an apron, sometimes pinafore, trimmed with lace or when a female wears a lace costume from head to toe, depicting her as a bunny. Reflecting on the festooned apron and its association with the hospitality industry, it is no wonder that some men have dalliances with maids.

While the minds deliberate about romps and dalliances with bunnies and maids, let’s not forget that lace is also geared towards commitment in the form of a wedding gown. Lace comes in various categories, colors, styles and quality and can be used to make this special garment. However, the most desired is the French lace. The French town of Caudry is said to produce exquisite lace-making. It is alleged that Kate Middleton’s, wife of Prince William, wedding gown had a touch of Caudry. The same thing was also said of Grace Kelly, a famous American actress. My mother’s mother whom I had held in high esteem had great taste when choosing fabrics and styles. To this day she is being remembered, in the village which she had lived, as the lady who wore fine lace. She would never leave home without a touch of lace. Her occupation as a seamstress gave her the advantage to utilize lace to the fullest extent. She made shawls, gloves, handkerchiefs, curtains, doilies and runners.

I cannot resist mentioning that my grandmother like many women of yesteryear wore a peculiar intimate garment that made me giggle each time I got a glimpse of it. This garment was called pantalets, a long loose drawers frilled at the bottom. Some people also referred to it as pantaloons or trousers. To avoid getting into the politics of names, which I barely understood then, I decided to call it long drawers just like the locals did but certainly not in earshot of my parents or elders. The name was a vulgar expression for little girls, maybe even more than if the buttocks of the females were exposed. The tricky yet fashionable little garment created all kinds of fuss and excitement; nonetheless the women wore it with pride. It was of great importance to the females then. They felt comfortable knowing that the skins above their knees would not be exposed when they stooped, jumped high, climbed or when a child got a good grip of their skirts to be used as a nose-rag. The child in an innocent state performed this daring action which resulted in an exhibition, but it was not shocking because lace could be seen not for its beauty but as a mark of integrity.

How is lace shown in today’s society? Is it exhibited to blow your own horn, satisfy the needs of others, or make worthy connections as seen in its many clever designs. The choice is yours.

Tah-tah! Show me your lace and I’ll tell you who you are.


Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2011

Save for a Rainy Day

In times of Austerity, should we still stash?_______________________________________________________

I probably must have heard the maxim “Save for a Rainy Day” a million times, spanning from my childhood to adulthood. I remember the first time it was used in my hearing I was hiding under the dining table at home happily feasting on candies out of a brown paper bag, unaware that my parents were watching me. “You will get worms,” my mother yelled, frightening me. The bag fell from my hands in my fright and I watched in horror as candies scattered on the floor around me. My father shifted the table, bringing me to full view of him and my mother. I hung my head in shame and was quickly plagued by the delicious candies around me. “You are too gluttonous,” shouted my father. “Learn to save for a rainy day.” I continued to look at the candies. There were the car-shaped candies which came in assorted colors such as yellow, blue, green and pink and most importantly plenty of the forever popular paradise plum. This candy except for its texture and vibrant two-tone, yellow and red, reminded me of a slug, the garden pest which melts easily when salt is poured on it. My father in the meantime wasn’t quite through reprimanding me about the candies as I took stock of them. Ultimately his reprimand radiated to my absent siblings. “You and the rest will suck salt through wooden spoon later on in life if you don’t learn to put away something for the next day. Learn to cut and carve,” he raged on as my mother cleaned my hands and mouth of liquefied sugar and then picked up the candies that fell on the ground, for safe keeping.

At the time my father’s reprimands were too difficult to understand. My mother’s was quite easy because all the children in my surroundings were told by their elders that eating many sweets caused worms. To prove their point, without giving thought to over-eating, any child seen with a protruding belly or bang belly as we called it then, would be considered a victim of worms. Do sweets really cause worms? Maybe my mother was using another one of her scare tactics. Mothers in trying to protect children always seem to scare them into temporary oblivion whereas fathers project the raw truth that dwells. My father was excellent at doing this. However, in today’s society his style of rebuke probably would be viewed as verbal abuse. His “suck salt through wooden spoon” and “learn to cut and carve” sayings were used by him as needed and had puzzled and haunted me for many years until I was old enough to translate them. It turned out that they were linked to the saying “Save for a Rainy Day.”

My father, when he had caught me with the bag of candies, knew right away that there were multiple servings in the amount. The fact that I was trying to eat all must have broken his heart. He abhorred greed and recklessness. Other times, in similar situations, he would have whipped my behind but luckily for me as it were he decided to give me a tongue-lashing instead. In his raw speech or reprimand he was grooming me for the future. No doubt it was in the same manner which was bequeathed to him by his parents and elders who in turn had received it from their forefathers. The aim in all of this, I suppose, was for me to place value where it belonged, be responsible, conserve, show respect, use my discretion, avoid stress as well as peer pressure, cope with the trials of life, be a decent leader, be resourceful, stay within the perimeters of my financial setting, not go shopping for Champagne knowing that I can only afford to buy beer. At this point, I should testify that as a buyer my bouts of instant gratification often lead to buyer’s remorse. Most importantly my father wanted me to learn the art of putting away money, as savings, from even the smallest amount that I would receive.

Save for a Rainy Day. How is it progressing? Perhaps some of us in our attempt to save for a rainy day, be it about food, personal effects or money, have lost will or faltered by the way. There are also times when our efforts to save money are placed in capable hands yet there is failure. A prime example of capable hands is the stock market which will plummet without warning, causing financial woes. The elders in summing up the situation would have said, when trouble coming, shell not blowing. In my opinion whether or not there was adequate warning, the result is still disappointing. I hold the stock market in high esteem and therefore I do not expect failure. Such a situation leaves me to lament, giving way to comments such as: I would have been better off going to Las Vegas, Atlantic City or Foxwoods Casinos to gamble my money instead of letting those farts do it. I could have saved my money in my mattress or buried it in the ground somewhere in the outdoors. The stock market is a pimp, a melting pot of greed and high class gambling. I should have been more mindful of the quote, “The safest way to double money is to fold it over once and put it in your pocket.” Of course, to me, my comments are tension-easing and obviously temporary, because as soon as the stock market is up and performing as expected, I once again embrace it and hail it with my praise and gratitude.
Is money the root of all evil? Whilst the answer is being pondered, some financial gurus in today’s climate of economic decline and uncertainty tend to become rampant with their knowledge. They are quick to remedy financial catastrophe with the same propensity they invest in charging fees to attend seminars or motivational sessions, where they talk about the safe methods of saving and ways to invest monies. I laugh heartily at the delivery of the financial planners. They come with a twist in language and modern technique to downplay the ideas of the elders from back in the day. Unlike the financial wizards, the elders were on-the-spot advisors. Their sessions didn’t cost a penny. They were free. The elders spoke with determination through voices of experience. Their excellent commonsense, simple solutions, a story with a good moral, and the hardcore maxims which were all in tune with the save for a rainy day plan were not looked at lightly by many.

The elders in their humble fashion saved, traded, and invested. Those who were more specific in their doings would refer to their “Save for a Rainy Day” as old-age pension. In business, they had a no-nonsense approach. Their catchphrase was “wheel and deal” a tool which they exercised to gain rapid success or if failure was in sight. “You can’t lose when you buy a piece of land,” they would tout. “Even if it is barren land, it is better than buying a second hand car.” In the true sense, to them, buying any secondhand vehicle was a bad investment. Deals of such nature were called “sinking fund.” For that reason the elders invested heavily in real estate, buying acres and acres of lands. They cultivated some whereas some remained idle or in their natural status. They also invested in livestock: goats, pigs, donkeys, cows, fowls, horses, and mules to name a few. People looking to increase certain livestock would approach and pay monies to the owners of pedigree animals who then saw to it that their customers’ animals were impregnated or serviced by their pedigrees. A very prosperous business then which probably still exists.

Save for a Rainy Day. Sometimes I take stock of the should-haves and could-haves whenever some of my ideas are hampered by lack of finance. My father’s reaction to my unfortunate situation would have been: I had warned you repeatedly about the implications of not adhering to the Save for a Rainy Day. If that statement wasn’t menacing enough, a good dose of Jamaican dialect would then be in order. Mi did tell yuh. If yuh can hear yuh muss feel. Yuh too blastid stubborn an luv fi have yuh own-way. Unwilling pickney always do-do lickle. As lewd as the latter statement sounds whenever it was been used it would always attract laughter. However, I dared not laugh when it was measured out to me, fearing further grief. By now my experiences and the experiences of others have taught me that Save for a Rainy day is a good endeavor. However, I keep hearing that everyone should live each day as if it were the last. Be merry. Eat, drink, and spend because tomorrow is not promised to any man. The message is a constant reminder in our daily lives yet it is certainly another twist and topic to “Save for a Rainy Day,” as in the case of a recent conversation I had with a lady. Without any qualms, she mentioned to me that she is spending all the money between her and her husband because she is not leaving anything for a second wife to enjoy.

Save for a Rainy Day. Overall, the elders in times gone by weren’t an easy force to reckon with when it came to savings of any sort. They laid down hard core rules and sayings yet I find that there is a prominent concern which engulfs the saying “Save for a Rainy Day,” money being the main focus. Are we going to live like a pauper and die rich? Nowadays it seems like dying rich is a noble status. If this is the case, while not being disrespectful, the only missing honor within this status is the absence of a U-Haul truck tugging behind a coffin with all the material things saved and attained. This sounds a bit morbid but it raises thoughts. Some people will penny-pinch, depriving themselves of the common nutrition that their bodies require. There are also some people who will save their monies and then sponge on others. Are we doing this in honor of the elders to show that it is better to have saved than not save at all? In the long chain of thoughts many have by now concluded that life is a gamble. If this is the case, why not take the chance on Save for a Rainy Day. Who knows when the rain will be at its heaviest?

Tah-tah! Keep the store basket occupied.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2011

Facing Facebook a Bit

We're now living in the age of social networking. Is it good or bad? Let's see. _______________________________________________________

It is my belief that the catchphrase Tom, Dick and Harry means anyone. Hence, looking at the Facebook community it would behoove me to say Tom, Dick and Harry, including me, have been swept up in the Facebook phenomenon. My induction in the Facebook arena came at a rather late stage. As in most cases, whenever new devices and products are introduced to the public, my participation will be delayed because of speculative tendencies, fear, doubt, or being thrifty. So, by the time I was coerced and had decided to jump on the Facebook band wagon, Facebook was already considered stale by many of my friends. As a matter of fact some of my friends had already lost interest, found faults, done their tenure in the world of Facebook and moved on to twitter. There are many blooming social networks these days, adding to our busy schedule. If time management is not taken into consideration as we whet our appetites, where these networks are concerned, rest assured that some of us will become cyber zombies or even forget how to converse with one another in person.

My tardiness in joining Facebook did not deter the warm welcome given by a bunch of existing customers, friends and family. My daughters, especially, were pleased to hear of my grand “step-up” into cyberspace and laughed heartily. They said, “Go Mommy, go!” In their mind I had become hip or up-to-date. However, after getting over the initial excitement they gently asked, “Mommy, who showed you how to get on to Facebook? Do you know what you are doing?” They even took their concerns a little further. “Mommy, be careful about the information and pictures you post on Facebook.” I smiled at the role reversal because while they were being protective and caring, there was no doubt in my mind that my two daughters had used my baby-boomer status to assess my ability in handling Facebook. Besides that, little did they know that I had also gotten a glimpse of Facebook’s resume which fervently reminded me of the saying “open packie” (revealing). Facebook, from some of its contents, appears to release inhibitions but in doing so much caution, care, guidance and reminders are needed while we continue to conduct businesses on it.

I became fascinated with the dynamics of Facebook almost immediately after I had opened my account and thus wanted to spend a great amount of time on it. Maybe it is the joy of being nosy or browse-happy that interests me when it comes to this social media. It is then no wonder why some of my friends and I have termed it “Faasbook” (prying into peoples’ business). Sometimes in my quest to get away from it operations, I curse at it as if it were a living being, calling it an old idler and inveigling. A few minutes later I would double over with laughter at my layman’s psychology. Before I forget I must point out that during one of my browsing stints on Facebook, it happened that I came across a candid shot of one of my daughters which almost left me dumbstruck. What on earth is she doing to herself? I muttered, staring at her picture. She looked pleasingly plum. Eventually I picked up the phone and called her. “Girl,” I said to her, “will you take down that picture of yours that you have posted on Facebook. What kind of business is that? You look like a blimp.” Luckily, for me, my daughter is convinced that I am comical and immediately dismissed my comments with laughter. Two days later she called me and said, “Mommy I need to stop eating junk because I am too big.” At this point silence is golden so raise a glass, cup or mug in honor of Facebook because it seems as if this social media could possibly remind many of us to stay healthy and in shape.

Facebook, in my portfolio has become the modern day roving reporter. It became obvious during the 2010 earthquake in Haiti as well as the 2011 political upheaval in Egypt. In both situations detailed accounts were reported in a timely fashion on Facebook pages, leaving no stones unturned. We then had witnessed the power of this social media which, periodically, also had mainstream media feeding from it. Today Facebook users continue to provide vital information. I have no qualms when it comes to that because I also indulge. I share opinions, announcements, experiences from some of my train rides, or express my feelings about the day at hand. Facebook is also my favorite place to say “Happy Birthday” or send messages. While this is going on, I have made it my point of duty to police the postings of my children and a few other family members. Yes I do. It is no secret. I have to ensure that they are keeping things sober, not giving too much personal information that could come back to haunt them. Facebook is like the log book of life. We should not forget that it is a part of the World Wide Web or cyberspace. This reminder can never be too much. There are cyberspace-happy people in our society, also the little workers and doers of Photoshop. Don’t dare to forget about the mischievous and malicious people that will pull pranks and go to any length to discredit people. It is because of these reasons that many people have refused to become users of Facebook or any of the other social Medias. Who can blame them? Time after time I have heard such people say: My thoughts and pictures are not for broadcast or public display.

Facebook, I suppose, in its making had all good intentions and would have received full marks for all it works if it were not for the ill will of some people in our society. There is the moderate person as well as the extremist. As far as I am concerned the rapid advancement of technology has boosted curiosity and set off inquiring minds which then turns into cyberspace-happy, a trait which forces some people to become the “black-heart” of Facebook. The name “black-heart” goes back to my childhood. The elders in my tiny rural village used to warn every child about “black-heart”. Although we had no physical description of “black-heart”, trust me, the villagers imparted the words in such a manner that it injected a tremendous amount of fear in us. Right there and then we knew that they were talking about people with weird behavior. This also included strangers. We should stay away from them and run away as fast as we could if one approached us or even stared at us. Later as I grew older I was able to define “black-heart” as evil, shady, dark, obscure, and deceptive. In addition I found out that “black-heart” could be a person of any size, height, stature, color or creed.

Facebook is a go-getter yet there is still a great amount of concern among some people regarding its true purpose. At this moment I am not indulging in any conspiracy theories as we are already inundated with many. The latest one surrounded Judgment day May 21, 2011, or the day the world would have ended according to a certain God toting man from radio land in his prediction. As expected, this did not take place and therefore had many people laughing at this radio man and his fallacy. Personal experiences seem to get more attention than calculated predictions, especially in the world of cyberspace. Experiences, good and bad, have helped us to become more aware of our surroundings and behaviors. Attesting to this are the happy and sad Facebook experiences that some people have shared either publicly or privately. The Facebook community is vast and its maintenance crew is aware of the behaviors that can malign its purpose. Hence they have become vigilant in the upkeep and are always creating ways to provide a more user-friendly, safer, and hassle-free environment for all users.

It has been said many times that there are always loopholes for those on the sly no matter how perfect things may seem to appear. Or, according to some people The sticker the government, the wiser the population. Interestingly, though, nothing overrides the good old saying: There is a plaster for every wound. Well, Facebook in its operations has come close in honoring such a saying. It can be seen in one of its tools, selecting friends and keeping out the uninvited or nosy parkers…lol. There is the padlock that stands guard. It gives a sense of security but it also makes me chuckle, sometimes, wondering if it will ever rust and fall off. ..lol. Moving along, users can also set up more than one profile to accommodate their various friends. Some friends are held in high esteem whereas others are seen as just mere acquaintances. This reminds me of back in the days, in our village, when some households sorted housewares, dinner wares, cups, mugs, and utensils according to the visitors that arrived at the homes. Oh dear, what guilt. Mh! Hush! Maybe Facebook was designed with this concept in mind. As disgusting as it seems, I have a right to choose and wouldn’t want to go around sharing certain information with everyone but at the same time how safe is cyberspace even when we categorize. The choice is yours.

Tah-tah! When in doubt, leave it/things alone.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2011

The Hay Days of Summer in New York

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. Which one is your pick?

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New York! New York! What’s up with the snow and freezing temperature? Spring 2011 sprang into action with plenty interference from winter. Every so often it seems as if winter is annoyed with its term limit and ultimately tries to bully spring by prolonging its stay. Sometimes I feel like pushing any shiny knob in sight to select the type of weather I so desire. Of course this is only wishful thinking which brings to mind one rainy day in Jamaica where I had met an elderly man at a bar. He was jolly and quick to share his knowledge so I listened keenly as he recited the following verse: Whether the weather is wet or whether the weather is dry, We weather the weather whatever the weather, Whether we like it or not. I left the bar smiling, later thinking of the many meanings the verse carried yet it was the meaning about the sometimes unpredictable behavior of the weather in its seasons that stood out the most.

Having taken this into consideration, unpredictable is the word that best describes the Spring 2011 weather in New York. However, amidst the hullabaloo I am in some way saddled with the notion that Summer 2010 had occurred a few days ago. I remember vividly the experiences that I had gained and encountered. I also remember the special events that had taken place in and around New York City, particularly in Brooklyn. The summer weather was conducive to a visit to the park, bask in the outdoors and be in the company of other people. Subsequently, after many decades of living in the United States of America, I decided to emulate the summertime activities of others or to go with the trend. It was time to show people that I was in cahoots with the saying: When you go to Rome, do like the Romans do. Among the list of things that I wanted to do was to sit at the entrance of my dwelling and socialize with others. To perfect this I bought a chair, which folded and opened easily, and then placed it on the pavement at the entrance of my dwelling where I sat in the company of other male and female tenants who were enjoying strategic positions, seated with faces turned to the busy public. I felt awkward as I sat there because during my childhood, in rural Jamaica, I was told several times by the elders of the village and also my parents that it wasn’t lady-like to sit at roadside, doorways, on steps or shop piazzas. My parents, especially, would have been disappointed to see that I had not adhered to good discipline and would not hesitate to whip my behind even though I had become an adult.

It is amazing to know that over the many years I had held on to the teachings from my childhood even as I stared in the face of change along with the traits of city living. For example, in and around New York City, the people with authority constantly give orders for benches to be placed on sidewalks for leisure. Coupled with this, is the fact that there are numerous side-walk cafes where people sit, eat, laugh and chat during favorable weather. I took into consideration that the benches seen on the side-walks were at the hands of the kingpins of our society and should therefore influence me to sit happily at the entrance of my dwelling. Unfortunately this was to the contrary. I remained uneasy as I sat there. To pacify this feeling, I turned my back to passersby. My identity was now shielded as I listened excitedly to my neighbors, now turned pals, who reported on what was taking place around us. A Couple weeks had gone by when I finally decided to forget about childhood discipline because I was missing the eye witness account of summer in a big city.

he spunk of the people was amazing as the scenes unfolded on the streets and sidewalks. They played dominoes, blasted their music, and in some cases peddled their wares such as candies, cookies, water, peanuts, cashews and accessories for the girls’ hair. There were some people who appeared to be lonely. They leaned against fences, gazing blindly into the summer’s day. The neighborhood children, anxious to release their pent-up energies, played noisily on the side-walks, paved driveways and dashed onto the busy streets now and again while onlookers screamed and yelled at them, telling them to be careful. Boys aspiring to become basketball greats, shot balls into makeshift hoops which hung from light posts. People who were able to make it to a nearby park could be seen pushing their shopping carts with lots of food, water, and sometimes a barbecue grill. Quite noticeable also, the hot days of the summer seemingly provoked a hostile atmosphere. On those days people got into altercations, throwing punches at each other. It was obvious that people were moving to the beat of the summer season. They took advantage of every available space in the outdoors and did whatever pleased them.
On the other hand the birds steadily invaded our privacy during the summer. They hankered for the bread or rice placed on our laps as we ate in the outdoors. They made nests on the roofs of buildings, and happily released their droppings on the windscreens of vehicles, and on our heads which we readily took as a sign of good luck. In truth and fact, we invaded the birds’ privacy because before the city became a concrete jungle there were rolling hills and lots of green pastures which stood in place. This was where the birds found their real foods. Taking stock of the situation, the birds aren’t the only ones that have been deprived of green fields. The children around us are also deprived and would welcome that much of nature to play and gallivant.

In between the scenes from my chosen point or even as I go from place to place, City living had me thinking about the rural areas of my childhood and the blessings from nature that I had taken for granted. I played on real grass compared to fake grass, paved sidewalks, and the streets that the children in my path embraced with innocence. My park or recreation center was in my backyard and when I became tired of playing, I would retreat to one of the many castor oil nut trees and hide among the leaves. On some days the oil nut tree became my passenger vehicle, a truck, to be precise. I pretended to take people to the market in it or even to places of interest such as the zoo or the beach. I also thought about some of the modern services which were meant for comfort and fun but proved otherwise. They made me regret the days when I prayed to become a grown-up so that I could live in the city where life seemed more appealing, vogue I dare say.

I remember telling myself that while living in the city I would learn to drive a real truck or car and have real people as passengers instead of the imaginary ones. There would be no more peenie-wallies or fire flies to contend with; neither would there be any other noisy nocturnal creatures. More importantly the liveliness of the city would eradicate all the duppies (ghosts) who according to stories love to haunt, frighten, and slap people across their faces, causing them to froth at the corners of their mouths. Being in the city, it would be exciting to hear sirens wailing, and see anxious people honking the horns of their vehicles. Interestingly, my days of using kerosene lamps and lanterns would end. Instead, I would be surrounded with lights powered by electricity. One such light would be the moon on stick according to a child who had seen street lights for the first time. I would also have the privilege of dancing the night away at clubs which had psychedelic lights, disco music and huge air conditioning units. This would make me chuckle at the bamboo and thatch dancehall structure on the picnic grounds of a rural village where the cool air was propelled by the wind blowing outside. I would chuckle even harder as I hear the disco hits, thinking to myself I can’t believe that I used to dance to the music of Fats Domino, Prince Buster, the Tennors’ song Ride yu donkey…, Keith and Enid’s If you didn’t need my care why didn’t you let me know… Or, Millie Small’s I love sweet William, He is my boy… and My boy lollipop, He makes my heart goes giddy up… Today as I continue to compare city and rural living, I have come to the conclusion that dimming electric lights is not as romantic as the moonlight or the light from a kerosene lamp. Also, to live in a big city is like living in a concrete jungle. It is no wonder people find joy and pleasure sitting at the entrance of their dwellings during summertime. My mother would have summed up the situation with the following sayings: A cow doesn’t know the use of its tail until it loses it. Or, We never miss the water until the well runs dry.

However, I must point out that the inadequacies of city living have caused me to experience the best summer that I have ever had in the U.S.A. Summer 2010! Sitting at the front of my dwelling place with my pals was refreshing. Looking at our places of birth it would be fair to say that we were a mini United Nations in our own rights. Community spirit from back in the days was revived. We laughed, joked, told stories, indulged in current affairs, bemoaned the hard times, talked about our cultures and showed respect towards one another. Sometimes our friendly chatter turned into delicious gossips which warranted fist bumping, high fives, you gotta be kidding or kiss mi neck (Jamaican expression). Our behavior was observed by a tenant from our dwelling which resulted in him calling us the TMZ crew. We knew we were not even close to the standards of the popular TV entertainment show but nonetheless we appreciated the compliment. A restless female passerby from the neighborhood admired my pals and me so much that she began stopping by to chat. Eventually one day she decided to share some news and in doing so she looked directly at one of my lady pals and said “Miss Dolly (not her real name), I find me a good man.” “So, where is the man?” Miss Dolly asked. “Over there,” replied the woman. She turned and pointed at a burly man standing across the street from us. “Hey boo. Come here baby,” she hollered at him. “Come meet my friends.” Yes Lord, I said to myself while I struggled to cover up a giggle. She viewed us as her friends. The man came quickly without any protest and was soon introduced but left shortly thereafter with his lady. “Look at that. Every hoe has a stick in the bush,” I said, lowering my voice. Miss Dolly laughed, looked at me and then said, “She is in that state and have a man. Where is yours?” “Girl you, right,” I replied, amidst laughter from the rest of my pals.

The vantage point that my neighbors and I had taken at the front of our residence during the summer provided us with information that we had least expected. Almost every week we saw a man that came to our building to deliver eviction notices to tenants, reminding us that it’s a real world. We would snoop to see which button on the intercom system he was pressing because the notices whether or not they had resulted from negligence, mistake or brute force could have included us or anyone for that matter. We also observed progress among some of the children from the neighborhood. They were either college-bound, graduates from various institutions, had great jobs or fancy vehicles. The unfortunate ones also made themselves visible and often received words of encouragement from us. Police Officers patrolling the neighborhood said hello to us as they walked by. We saw local and international visitors who came to spend quality time with family and friends. A few women walked around with noticeable baby bumps. Stray cats paraded the streets. Some dogs, although in the care of their masters, seemed as if they had a vendetta against fire hydrants. They raised their hind legs and showered the hydrants with pee as they walked by.

The summer, believe it or not, also came with some accomplishment for my pals and me. Through conversations we found out the proper names of the people whom we called fats, big bottom, slim, beg-beg, and slow motion, just to mention a few. More importantly I recall our many rowdy laughs which grabbed the attention of passersby who laughed and smiled as if they too were involved in our fun. Our daily silly behavior had clearly revived the youth in us. At the end of each day, when we were finished with the outdoors, we joyfully took up our chairs and headed upstairs to the apartment of one of our pals where we indulged in hefty servings of various cheeses, crackers, peanuts, cashews, wine, beer and rum. More rowdy laughs and chatting reminiscent of our youthful days took place and when we had our fill of foods, beverages and memories we took up our chairs once more, said goodbye to each other and then shuffled off to our respective apartments.

Each day of the summer came with a new lesson for me but nothing as new and dear as the joy I felt being in the presence of my neighbors, my pals. I became addicted to their company and yearned for them when they were not around. Other tenants also expressed their feelings in the same manner. They had gotten used to seeing happy faces greeting them each evening as they went to and fro from the building. Also, they were pleased to hear someone say to them, your child just went to the store or your child wasn’t dressed in a respectful manner today. They even noticed our no-nonsense approach to keeping the building safe and clean and would not hesitate to tell us of a leaking pipe or clogged toilet in their apartments which weren’t getting any attention from the powers that be. There was no doubt that we had gained a certain level of respect from the tenants of our building as well as passersby.

Weighing the situation a little further, did the tenants from our abode classify my pals and me as Village Lawyers? I remember one night as I left a pal’s apartment and settled in mine, the word Village Lawyer came to mind. A Village Lawyer in my childhood community was the name given to anyone who took it upon himself or herself to attend to the welfare of the community and its people. At first others, including me, had classified a Village Lawyer as a “Nosy Parker” but as time went by I found out the importance of having such a person in our community. The dwellers would be alerted when a stranger or an unwanted person such as a cow thief entered the village. Family connections would be traced and made known. For example, we would hear reports such as: Ms. Mary was related to Uncle Tom’s father who came from Scotland and got married to Mass Sammy’s daughter whose grandfather came from somewhere in Africa and so on and so forth. Besides keeping the family roots alive, it was repeated many times that marrying a close relative could result in the birth of a mentally or physically challenged person. “The blood too close” is the way it would be told. We now speak about DNA but today’s DNA execution is no comparison to the way the “Village Lawyers” calculated the blood line…three-quarters Indian, Chinese, black, maroon, mulatto, full white, half Syrian, little bit of white, one side was Spanish. They even brought to light some prominent features in families: round face, flat nose, pointed nose, long legs, high hips, straight face, sunken eyes, thin lips, big lips, meager, and stout. Village Lawyers also dug deep to find out traits such as thief, liar, murderer, hide from school, walk about, God fearing, educated, kind, stingy, drunkard, loving, bad breed, sexy, and others too many to mention.

After all is said and done my pals and I had remained diligent in our behavior throughout the Summer of 2010 and as Autumn made its debut I said to myself that those of us who will remain in New York will gradually surface in warm clothing. Birds in their goodbyes as they migrate to warmer climates would again defecate on many peoples’ heads, not for good luck, but in revenge for the damage done to their once treasured sanctuary…rolling hills and green fields now converted into a city of bright lights with huge concrete buildings crammed in every nook and cranny. There would be photographers, painters or artists setting to capture the scenes of the season. By the time winter arrives we would be piled high in warm clothing which would distort our physical appearances and have us guessing each other’s identity but certainly not the quality time and fun shared during the summer.

Tah-tah! You never know where you may find joy.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2011

Grammy to Granny

In the United States of America, the year 2011 started out on a high note in the field of entertainment. First it was the 53rd Grammy Awards and then the 83rd Academy Awards/Oscars. Both events proved to be an evening of splendor whether we were at the venues or watching television in our homes. The garment industry’s bevy of fashions in accordance with the various performances would later meet all the scrutiny they deserved. The Oscars delivered a memorable moment: students from PS 22 in Staten Island, New York, in a rare occasion became the show stoppers as they raised their voices and sung “Somewhere over the Rainbow”.

Overall the Grammy and the Oscar ceremonies lived up to their expectations yet the Grammy resonated with me more. I had no doubt, as I watched it unfold on the television, dousing many of us with a lot of shouldas, and couldas. It may have also left us in awe, pleased, stunned, filled with laughter or even with a pledge to enter the world of hip-hop, song writing, dancing, garment designing, and to upgrade our wardrobes. The latter would probably peak my interest. However, if I must follow the clothing designers’ trend, as expected at the Grammy, it would be necessary to reconsider my ambition because when it comes down to nitty-gritty I would be disqualified on the grounds of inadequate finance. It is also possible that I would frown at the garment industry for putting raunchy, provocative goods on the market.

The garment industry on the other hand wouldn’t be too concerned about my opinion, likes or dislikes because it knows that there is always a buyer for every line of clothing. This proved true among some of the ladies at the Grammy. They poised boldly before the cameras and sprayed smiles all over the place as they showed off dress styles which ranged from looking innocent to secular to the daring. In my mind, I would say daring to the point where Janet Jackson’s past wardrobe mal function would qualify her as a nominee to sit at the right hand of God. Less we forget, there is still a section of our society that is not yet receptive of a lady dressed in public view wearing a see-through dress, a dress with a plunging neckline, a dress with a low-cut at the back, or a dress which exposes the midriff. As the Grammy Awards got into high gear, I drew closer to the television in my living room, feeling a tinge of guilt. My thoughts rambled. Why am I so concerned about the revealing clothes some of the ladies are wearing? That should be their prerogative, not mine. They choose styles to their likeness. After all there was a segment in my life where I had indulged in mini dresses and skirts that could have easily put bending in public places on the list of crimes. I had also indulged in shoulder-less dresses much to the disgust of my elders. They had concerns about “chest-out clothes”, “naked back clothes” and “belly out clothes” because according to them it was a blatant way of catching a cold in the chest, lungs and belly.

Granny with her prim and proper self usually takes her concern to the limit. She labeled such type of clothing as vulgar, an ungodly sight, uncalled for, and not lady like. “No good man will ever court you in that kind of clothes,” she would rant. To tell the truth if my Granny should come back from where she is, even for one moment, and witness some of the modern attire in our society rest assured that she would marvel at the absence of petticoats, and high cut bras. When she was through with the sights she would put her hands on her head and bawl, wondering where her Maker is in all of the unsavory situations. On the other hand, all wouldn’t be considered a failure with Granny at such an event as the Grammys. She loved music like I do and would have gently tapped the floor with her feet while the entertainers dished out their musical talents. The presentation of the Grammy awards wasn’t as fascinating as the genres of entertainers. A walk down memory lane manifested in a tribute to Aretha Franklin which was performed by a powerhouse of sweet singing female voices: Christina Aguilera, Martina McBride, Florence Welch, Yolanda Adams, and Jennifer Hudson. In my world their rendition came within the realms of the proverbial exotic “Damn”.

At the end of their singing Aretha appeared via satellite, looking like an Angel in her radiant white attire as she gave a speech of gratitude. Mick Jagger appeared on the stage in all his glory and carried out his performance like a whip in action. Ahahaha, I laughed, high-fiving the television screen. I felt liberty in my living room. “Do your thing, Mr. Long Legs. Yeah baby, this is what I am talking about,” I screamed, amazed at his agility as he moved about and sang. My excitement grew as I watched him with an old saying in mind: “A dog of his age is no pup.” I could not contain myself so I picked up my phone and called one of my London friends, now living in Queens, to join in the entertainment. She answered her phone on the first ring as if she was expecting me to call. “Girl you watching the Grammys,” I asked, breathlessly. “Yes child,” she answered with a chuckle. “How do you like your boy,” I asked. “Woooo hoooo!” she screamed. “This must be a nostalgic sweep for you,” I commented. “Child, don’t even speak,” she responded, while I held a steady gaze at the television. “Kiss me neck,” I yelled unable to control the Jamaican in me as Mick cranked up his skinny body into what appeared to have been a skipping mode. “Girl,” I said to my friend. “Enjoy the rest of the show I will talk to you later.”

I then hung up the phone and watched Mick’s remaining performance in utter silence. He took my breath away. I was stunned. Mick Jagger showed the world that he was still in peak shape and that full blown stamina does not define age. As for Justin Bieber’s performance, I have to admit that for the sake of my grandchildren I came down with a bit of the Bieber fever. “You go boy with your baby, baby thing,” I shouted. Then there was Barbara Streisand. Her superb performance had me reminiscing. She took me back to two segments in my life: the years of subtle romance, and St. Peter Claver, the first church I attended in Kingston after leaving rural Jamaica to enter the work force. Lady Gaga was the most intriguing performer of the night. She arrived at the Gammy Awards in an egg which was hoisted on a stretcher, carried by Samson’s little helpers. She is absolutely positively a woman with a creative mind. The gods of the arts should be delighted with her. The idea of arriving in an egg was brilliant I concluded after hearing the name of the song that she would sing, “Born This Way”. The stage became alive with her attire, dance moves and singing. Lady Gaga did her moves with zest and style. She patted her vagina and whipped her hair on a few occasions which were enough for me to take note that those moves can be seen in Jamaican dance halls. Girls in the dance hall have no fear when it comes to expressing themselves through dancing or even attire. In the throes of music they would grab their crotch or pat their vagina and move their hips in a very systematic, interesting, and gallivanting manner. To make sure that some of Lady Gaga’s dance moves weren’t a figment of my imagination, I picked up the telephone and called my younger daughter and a friend, to identify the moves as they too were watching the Grammy. Sure enough they agreed that to pat the vagina and whip the hair moves are traits within Jamaican dancehall. The whipping of hair, neck movements among other moves can be seen in the dance called “Dutty Whine” which had surged in popularity in Jamaica and around the world. The conversation with my friend and daughter then diverted from Lady Gaga at the Grammys to Willow Smith’s new song “Whip My Hair”.

Again most of the dance moves to this song resemble those in “Dutty Whine”. It is amazing to see how popular the whip my hair and pat vagina dance moves have become. My Granny would have summed it up with the popular saying, “One man’s trash is another man’s riches.” To be honest Jamaica dancehall crowd have shared some interesting and creative dance moves over many years. However, they seldom get the praise or the credit that they deserve. Some of these dance moves are catchy whereas others are so daring that they can become catastrophic. While Dutty Whine was in its glory days, it was rumored that the dance moves hadn’t been too user friendly to some of its clients. Many took trips to the doctors to see if repairs could be done to their damaged ligaments and muscles. On the good side though, watching a performance of Dutty Whine is a great treat. It takes good skills to be in its league. Rihanna also brought her skills and Caribbean flavor to the Grammys. Hips gyrating! She stood like a stallion, beautiful and young, and worked her body across the stage as she sang. As I watched her performance I created in my mind the colorful scene of the West Indian Labor Day Parade on Eastern Parkway, Brooklyn.

Influenced by this, I took to the floors of my living room in a pair of high-heeled shoes, dancing. I took advantage of many moves: pat vagina, hands in the air, gyrate hips, and rotate the head. I danced until I broke out in beads of sweat. “Grammy to Granny”, I giggled, taking note of the dancing Granny I had become. There was no denying that dancing is a good form of exercise. Good for the heart, a substitute for my baby aspirin. The dancehall moves in me are unleashed forever. Natural and easy!

Tah-tah! Art comes in all forms. Life is an art. Treat it with dignity.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2011

Technology Sees the Time is at Hand

The daily advancement of technology has transfixed the world, making its peoples and companies scurry in and out of market places in an effort to procure the best for access and identification. Biometrics technologies that verify identity by using body parts are becoming popular especially in this security conscious age. Hence, don’t leave home without your body parts.

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There is an old folk song that is called “Sly Mongoose” which I used to sing as a child. I sung this song umpteen times a day. Maybe as many times as the weasel-like creature slips in and out of the bushes, fowl coops, and cane fields. It is said that, in the olden days, the mongoose was brought to Jamaica to rid the island of dangerous snakes. Inasmuch as this was a good endeavor, I would in a heartbeat trade it with the antics of the mongoose which is relayed in a comical manner through songs and stories. The mongoose seems to have its wit and moves intact, making it a difficult task to keep up with its tricks. A mongoose’s move is sporadic. It is capable of stealing a chicken in a jiffy. It is always one step ahead of its prey in the same manner that technology has captured people. Thus, as I see it, technology has now become the modern day mongoose…slippery, wild, bold, sporadic, mind boggling, tricky, revealing, helpful, rewarding, dangerous, and comical with each move.

The idea of equating the mongoose to the world of technology came about while speaking with a friend. She was troubled by the fact that her place of employment will be instituting the scanning of hands for access and payroll. My friend’s and my thoughts bungled as we discussed hand scanning at the workplace. Will it be the scanning of an entire hand? Or, will it be just one finger. If so, will it be the finger that comes to its owner’s defense in times of trouble? Keeping in mind that some devices might be able to detect emotions, it would be rather interesting to see if the scan machine recognizes the hidden tyrant in this finger and takes action against it.
In comparison to the key card which has long since, in most institutions, replaced the employee sign-in-sheet and fill out time card system it would appear as if the hand scan will be a not-so-easy system to tamper with. How on earth will my friend account for one of those days when tardiness was inevitable or deliberate? Will there be a card to go along with the hand scanning? Is there a backup system that can be taken advantage of in a subtle manner? Under the key card regime, the excuses that would account for her tardiness could never be used in the world of hand scanning. It would be rather hysterical, she mentioned, to tell her supervisor that she has misplaced her hand. Or, that she has left her hand in one of her pocketbooks/handbags at home.

It is suffice to say that her remarks reminded me of another one my friends who worked at an institution where all employees had to use the punch clock system, with the results shown on their individual cards. They would punch in on their arrival to work and would again punch out at the end of the work day but human nature is of such that they would also punch in their tardy friends, or set the clock to an earlier time and then quickly change it to the current time after the purpose is achieved. I must admit that I had a good laugh when she told me that sometimes a tardy friend does not show up at work after the kind deed is done. At this point panic sets in and the card with its current and past clocked-in information would be quickly disposed of. This kind of behavior would be a threat to the mongoose, not a joke. The mongoose is all about business, productivity and advancement. Therefore, it would be wise to do something about the disheartening behavior. Luckily, according to my friend, by the time the company decided to introduce another method of accounting for attendance and access, no one had been caught for doing such a daring favor.

Is the time really at hand for our beloved Hand Scan Technology? What about the people who are equipped with prosthetic hands or, the person who for whatever reasons cannot be recognized by the scanning machine. Whose eyes are watching? After all is said and done, some people’s religious beliefs would question if this technology advancement is a fulfillment of the signs and wonders predicted in the bible. Even more so, were my two friends seeking solace or humor while they relayed and invigorated me to write about the mischief that has been played on technology. By their work, are they too a fulfillment of the biblical signs and wonders? Or, are they are feeding the mind of technology to become as witty and slippery as the moves of a mongoose.

Tah-tah! Meekly wait and murmur not, technology is on the move.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2011