Yesterday we attended the Thanksgiving Service of a special man. There were many tributes and songs to his honour and his long life; politicians and business men spoke about his generosity and his wit. He was a man who was born in the early 1900s, lived through the Great Depression in his youth and maintained a successful farming operation along with his philanthropy during the World Ward 2 years. If it were not for my marriage to his daughter’s best friend’s brother and my recent “Seeds of Insight,” I probably would not have known this great man. I listened keenly to every spoken word as I sat on the tough wooden bench for over two and a half hours in the section of the church reserved for “Family.”  

On our way back from the Thanksgiving Service my husband and I spoke about family life until I fell asleep. I was awakened when I felt the movement of the car decelerated and then stopped at the intersection of Presidents’ Boulevard and Diplomat’s Road (see Antonio Thompson: Day 4 ) and I heard His question:

“Are you going to stop and see your boys?”

“Uh?” I had to make up my mind quickly as the traffic light was about to change to green. “OK, yes.”

Diplomat’s Road appeared brown-grey and the dusk casted a black background on the scene despite the high street lights. Sweet Meat (not the real name of the Jamaican fast food restaurant) was open but the large neon sign was off and I wondered if they were conserving energy. As we approached the street on which Antonio lives, I noticed that it was devoid of energy; the cook shops were closed; Miss Puncie’s stall was so bare that I could see the rough improvised tables sitting and standing on the dirt floor just inches away from the sidewalk; the few people I saw sat easily on their rears waiting for the slow Sunday evening to pass. There was no music either. 

The scene was not right. My favourite actors and actresses were not there last night. The lighting and the sound were poor so the energy levels were low and there was just not enough colour. As we drove away from Diplomat’s Road, I paid close attention to the sign that was posted behind Miss Puncie’s stall and was reminded that the playfield was a part of the community centre. The boys were living in a community centre! Oh my God! I have heard that before! A former staff member told me a few years ago that she knew of a similar situation in another community.

As I thought about the constructs of a Jamaican inner-city community, I wondered where they were at about 7:00 pm on a Sunday evening. I will try to remember to ask Antonio that question when next I see him.