Shifting The Night - painting every day after dark

Rasta Pickney Deh Deh, 4” x 6” ink and watercolor on paper

I never saw him smile — ” a serious pickney dat,” they would say in the yard. The likkle bwoy with the sad face but the dreadlocks tinted with gold.

Who’s Your Daddy?, 10” x 14”  ink wash on watercolor paper

Who would chew up a handful of peanuts into a buttery paste, carefully retrieve them/it from his own mouth and then pop it into yours, just like a mama bird would do for its babies?

Your Daddy, that’s who.

Pirate of the Caribbean, 9” x12” mixed media collage.

They still exist, you know, those pirates. They’re just wearing different outfits.

Menage a Trois, 4” x 6” ink and watercolor on paper

Let me introduce you to Mr. I Love Your Skin Color.

Or, well, Junior.

“Yuh know, mi nevah like di skin of a black ooman. Mi always like the nice creamy, soft skin of a white lady, seen?”

Nancy wasn’t buying it.

She liked Junior, she’d been seeing him over several months during frequent trips to the island. A woman of a certain age, Nancy was smart, wisecracking, and came from a cold, woodsy rural town of the northeast. And her skin WAS the color of porcelain, and so was her extensively bleached hair. She chain smoked, observed the runnings of Negril beach from behind large thick-lensed glasses, and had an unexpected sophistication lurking beneath a casually disheveled appearance.

I liked her instantly.

She shared this rather disturbing “compliment” with me shortly after we first met. I liked Junior, I still do. I didn’t know him well but he was hard not to like. He had an easy smile, was quite pleasant, and always seemed to be on the move, working and hustling, in a good way. And he was kind to Nancy.

But that remark gave us both the creeps.

She was having a good time, but was decidedly skeptical about the long-term prospects of Mr. I-Love-White-Skin. She’d learned of a Baby Mudda inna the bush, who was presumably Not An Issue, or so she was told. But still, her gut told her perhaps there was something, or some one, else which just might be an issue. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

So she took some investigative action.

It was several months after our return to the states before she gave me an update. She’d done some snooping around Junior’s belongings and found the quintessential black book. It was the size of about 4 postage stamps, crammed full of scribbled numbers and names.The most recent entry was a name and phone number of a woman from a mid-western American city. So, Nancy says, I called “the numbah.” She started to chuckle.

Seems the numbah belonged to a black American woman, whom I’ll call Marie. She had also been a frequent visitor to Jamaica and they began to discover how much they had in common. Seems Marie had heard a variation on the I-love-your-skin theme but with the obvious twist — “Mi jess cyan tek the white lady skin, mi always luuuuv the nice brown skin of a righteous black ooman,” he’d told her.

So at least Junior doesn’t discriminate after all.

But it was probably that false expression of desire that angered them more than a straightforward case of infidelity. They were grown women, they knew that international dating was not a sure thing and their expectations were not ridiculously high. And so rather than see themselves as enemies fighting over a man, they bonded as sisters in a sham, pissed off at the false profession of love. Cheatin’ vs. lyin’, well maybe it was a distinction without a difference. Still.

They made a plan.

Now mind you this was in the days before cell phones, but just at the dawn of such wonderful features as call waiting, star 69 and the all-time favorite: 3-way calling. Nevertheless, if you wanted to reach someone in Jamaica who didn’t have a phone, which was just about everybody you were likely to meet, you either had to wait for them to phone you from the Call Box down the lane, or you could call a third party who had a phone and they would get the word out that you were trying to reach someone. So Marie put a call out to Jamaica that Junior must give her a call back. Word soon reached him and he dutifully called Marie at the designated time.


After the initial pleasantries, the how-are-you-darlin’s, the mi-miss-you-so-much and the mi-cyan’t-wait-fi-see-you, Marie told Junior she had someone with her who wanted to speak to him. A few clicks and a beep or two and Nancy was also on the line. And as far as Junior could tell, it sounded as if they were not only both in the same state, but both in the same house, sharing the same phone.

Ahh, the telephonic threesome. It’s a beautiful thing.

Runaway Dread, 4” x 6” ink and wateracolor on paper

And sometimes you find the right path despite the roadblocks put up in your way.

Losing parents, moving in with distant relatives, running away from home before the age of ten, finding a new family in the embrace of unsavory Dons.

You know what I mean by “Dons”, don’t you? A Jamaican ting, dat.

And still growing up to be a good man, a kind and Conscious Dread. A man who will sweep out his yard at daybreak, cook up one nice pot of coconut rice and peas, and will have your back in any seetch-yoo-ay-shun, seen?

But you knew that just by looking at his face, no?

Bongles By Any Other Name, 4” x 6” ink and watercolor on paper

To look at this sweet-faced rasta, the name “Bongles” doesn’t immediately come to mind. Particularly since the word “bongles” is not in my vocabulary.

Ok, in patois maybe “bongles” is a substitute for “bundles.” Still. I’m just sayin. Bundles? Bundles of WHAT?

Oh. Ok. Maybe I shouldn’t ask.

I read once that a Jamaican’s Original Name, the name ‘pon de berf SUR-fi-ticket (birth certificate) is a tiny treasure that is locked up after the day it is given, as if in a precious box, rarely to be seen again. Maybe not until the next rite of passage such as a graduation or a marriage.

Or even death.

On those special occasions, the box is opened and the name is gingerly extracted for a few hours and then quickly put away again. For the rest of your days, all manner of names are worn, either like a pair of comfortable shoes that last and last and last. Or like a closetful of cloaks, which change with the weather.

I know a

Bigga Ford — something to do with a vehicle, seriously.

Tikka Chest — has a thick, stout torso.

Trote — has a large goiter upon his throat.

Bumpy — yes, has a large, continually-growing bump on his forehead.

Reggie (original name “Cleveland”) — for a kinship with the role of Eddie Murphy in 48 Hours.

Scatta Shot — a tendency to bounce quickly from place to place, not necessarily with any intention to do so.

Junior — I must know two dozen “Juniors”.

Scallion — he’s quite skinny.

Revvy — something to do with a decidedly NON-pastor like existence.

Rough — he could sleep on a 6-foot 2 x 4, set upon two piles of bricks and be quite comfortable. And if he dropped to the ground, he’d keep on sleeping.

Blacka — skin dark like the night.

You get the idea. You are who you are.

I could go on and on. Even to include one of my mother-in-law’s yard pupppies. Can’t recall what, if any, name it was given at birth, but after it was stolen by a neighbor and Miss Una had to pay a ransom of one Jamaican dollar and fifty cents to get her back, well, you know the rest.

Th dog is forever known as “Dollah Fifty.”

Rough, 4” x 6” ink and watercolor on paper

Some Like It Rough

Or shall I call him Courtney? In hindsight, that name seems downright ridiculous. He will always be Rough.

I can’t recall if I met Rough during that tumultuous Accidental Weekend but odds are that he was drifting in and out of that experience, well below my radar, somewhere in the background.

Rough eventually became a constant fixture on my Jamaican landscape.

Rough could sleep on a two-by-four propped up on two piles of bricks. And if he tumbled off during the night, he’d drop asleep again before the dust settled. Man need fi sleep, so ‘im jess sleep.

He once rode as the passenger on the back of a Ninja, as Peter drove them at top speed from Westmoreland to Kingston, with speeds reaching above 100 mph. Big deal, you say? Mebbe so, but Rough would ride upon the back of that bike, lean his head gingerly against Peter’s back and quickly fall fast asleep. Man need fi sleep, so ‘im jess sleep, even at 100 miles per hour.

But I remember that Rough liked his ladies soft. The bredren would chide him, tell him to clean himself up if he wanted to find a nice woman. They’d scoff, “yuh frownsey, mon, yuh greeen an yuh need fi go bade” and hurl soap at him. But he didn’t seem to lack for the ladies’ attentions, particularly the full-figured women. Rough liked his ladies “mampey-sized”. He couldn’t have been much more than 5 foot 5, small in stature, but he loved those ladies who tipped the scales at well over 250 pounds.

I remember driving through Mobay with Rough in the back seat, the windows rolled down, of course, and listening to his commentary on the various ladies we passed. All at once, he leaped up and leaned half-way out the window, shouting “Heeeey, MY-Size!” to an enormous woman who was slowly strolling along the shoulder of the road. They grinned at one another and she waved at him as we sped off.

He eventually made it to the States. The paperwork was a bit shady, in typical Rough fashion, but it got him here. He had a baby mother and young daughter in Canada and hoped to work his way northward and settle down. Ahh, we thought, but he was still Rough. How would America treat him, and how would his rough ways serve him so far away from home?

Sadly, not too well.

Rough was stabbed to death in a San Francisco coffee shop.

There will always be someone else who is tougher than tough, rougher than rough.

Driving While Rasta, 4” X 6” ink and watercolor on paper

I’d have said he was the life of the party, but that honor typically went to Peter. Instead, he was more the ever-present sidekick, the perfect foil. Laid back without being lazy, he was the first to find the humor in any situation, no matter how grim.

He was usually peering at me over some miniscule sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose, more of a nod to style than to the glaring sunlight. He’d top off his mile-long dreads with a jauntily-placed and thickly-knit woolen tam, regardless of the heat, A voice deeper than a basement, he’d patiently repeat himself for me, slowly, when the patois became too thick. Then punctuate his sentence with a slow “aaaaal-riiiight?” and a big grin.

Older, but not necessarily wiser, he struck more as an affable absent-minded professor, ragamuffin style. Hopping in the car on a moment’s notice, road-trip ready, he was a self-professed expert on the runnings of ‘town. He’d navigate from the backseat when we crossed the Kingston city limits.

“Go soh, go soh!”, he’d shout, as we approached an intersection.

“Yah soh? or deh soh?”, Peter would shout from the driver’s seat, glancing over his shoulder, and uncertain as to whether to make a left or a right.

“Soh, soh, ovah soh”, said The Professor.

This particular use of patois was not exceptionally helpful when driving.

“Yah soh” and “deh soh” loosely translate into “here” and “there” respectively. And the simple us of “soh” essentially leaves it up to the imagination. We came to a grinding halt as they argued about yah so vs. deh soh until The Professor finally used his finger to point to the proper choice of roadway. Peter fumed and The Professor laughed.

It’s been years since I’ve seen The Professor. I’d had no idea his peaceful easy facade was propped up by a deep addiction. But looking at him here, without the props of style, I should have known there was more to The Professor than met my eyes.

Yuh Kinda Quiet, Eeenh? 4” x 6 ” ink and watercolor on paper

No, He wasn’t quiet. Geritol spoke faster than any human I’d ever met.

He spoke at such rapid speed it seemed his lips barely touched one another, the words bursting forth so fast that his own mouth could barely contain them.

We were taking my first of many bredren road trips, the rhythms of which I’d eventually come to understand and enjoy. But the very first time was like taking a test that I hadn’t studied for, like landing on another planet without radio contact to Mission Control.

Houston, I’ve got a problem.

Peter decided he’d take me to town. That sounds sweet, romantic even. Except that in Jamaica, when one goes to “town” , it is universally understood to mean Kingston. Not exactly April in Paris. Still, I was excited about the prospect. I hadn’t been anywhere in Jamaica except the seaside resort town of Negril. Well, that and the brief tour along the south coast that landed me in a rural hospital, so I was ready to get out and see more of the countryside.

First lesson: Never drive an empty car to town.

I thought it was just going to be the two of us, but as we headed out of Negril, we made several stops to pick up more passengers. According to the bredren code of ethics, one must always squeeze as many bredren as possible into The Unit. One never knows when a Unit will be available for the next mission, so share the experience. By the time we headed out of Negril, we were five in the rental car: Peter and myself in front, and Rough, Bigga Ford, and Jeremiah, aka Geritol, in the back seat.

Lesson Two: Don’t ask what the plan is.

I was the kinda control freak who liked to hit the road with a precise destination in mind, a map in the glove compartment, and perhaps some snacks on board. The only info I could glean from Peter was that we were heading to town, and that I should “jess chill, relax, jess enjoy the drive.”

Within minutes, the bredren had begun to talk loudly in the most rapid-fire, inscrutable language I’d ever heard. And Geritol was the fastest and the loudest, punctuating his comments with deep bellowing laughter. Minutes stretched into an hour, and I hadn’t a clue what anyone was talking about.

I suddenly began to rethink my decision to agree to take this trip.

The patois was so thick, so indecipherable, they might as well have been speaking Greek. And even in Greek, I’d could at least have understood the occasional “souvlaki” or “ouzo”, but this, well this was impossible. What was more frustrating, was that they were seemingly having the time of their lives. One would fire off an apparently pithy comment and the rest would bust out laughing; I never got the joke. I began to wonder if I WAS the joke. Paranoia set in.

Here I was, on the road to who-knew-where exactly? And to do what? Nobody would say exactly. Not that I would have understood even if they had told me. I started to get incredibly homesick, and felt horribly alone.

Peter must have sensed it because he finally tapped my shoulder and said, in English, “Yuh kinda quiet, eeeh? Yuh alright?”

“I can’t understand a DAMN thing anyone is saying,” I fumed. “Can’t you guys just talk in English?”

Well that just made them all laugh even harder. And they lapsed right back into the patois. But Peter made sure I got food and drinks, pointed out sights to me (in English) and made certain to occasionally ask “yuh alright, Veek-toddya?”

So I made that journey as an observer, rather than an active participant. And I saw more on that 12-hour road trip than most visitors see in a week.

Lesson Three: For all control freaks, “jess sit back an’ enjoy the ride.”