Rusea’s Graduation Class of 1981: Golden Initiatives

Today my heart and my spirit are in Lucea, Hanover where my schoolmates from Rusea’s High School are gathering for the second annual fundraising barbecue. The event was planned and is being executed by the graduation class of 1981 (GCO81), a group that was conceptualized and initiated by Garth Grant who also serves as the chairman. I’m thinking about how the Rusea’s campus is now buzzing with activity as my old friends gather from all over Jamaica and the world to set up the stalls and tents with food and drinks. As I picture the scenery in my mind, I can also start to feel reggae music filling the air over the school and into the seaside community. My thoughts are with my fellow alumni who planned this fundraiser and decided to host it despite the ongoing state of emergency in five parishes across Jamaica, including Hanover.

As I reflect on the last two years that I have been a part of the newly formed GCO81, I must say that I admire the efforts and contributions of the members, especially those who give their time, talents, and treasures to our good old Rusea’s High School. I take the time to say this because over the course of my life I have known of many organizations that would be constantly fundraising for specific causes but the benefactors would never receive anything tangible. This is probably because fundraising projects often are not able to make any substantial profits after their investments. It is refreshing to see that GCO81 is different from the other community and alumni organizations I have come across, given that in 2022 they donated the fundraising proceeds of $400,000.00 (Jamaican Dollars) directly to the school. This year the group plans to use the money raised to purchase a bus for the school; a gift that will have an immediate impact on the students. The success of the GCO81 fundraising efforts in Jamaica is commendable, especially in a time when many economies are struggling. Fundraising is an extremely difficult endeavor but somehow GCO81 was able to do it successfully in 2022 despite a short planning timeframe. I pray that they will exceed their target for this year.

I am confident that the group’s leadership and its members will execute another successful fundraiser this year because they are now more committed than ever and are determined to achieve their goals. Although I am at a far distance away and I was not involved in the planning because of poor health, I could feel the energy from my peers as they mobilized resources. It is even noteworthy that the security forces granted permission for the event to continue amidst the state of emergency; this I believe is a reflection of the group’s credibility and reputation as an organization that truly gives back to Rusea’s and to the wider society.

Last year I thanked Garth and the rest of the team for making the donation to Rusea’s on behalf of the entire class of 1981. I remember telling them via our WhatsApp group that their action was selfless because they could have made the contribution as individuals but instead they did so for all of us. Again this year I am thanking the GCO81 for all that they are doing to help sustain Rusea’s. Because I am not able to give financial resources, I somehow feel compelled to give my heart and a few kind words of recognition.

I also hope that the group will accept this little picture frame that I painted a few weeks ago with the colors blue, green and gold as a tribute to those of us who walked through the doors of our very old alma mater over forty years ago. The truth is that though I recall being taught about the meaning of the school’s colors, I do not remember what they represent and now I find myself somewhat curious about the significance. I suspect the gold color is associated with wealth and abundance but I am not certain. Hopefully, some of my fellow alumni can educate me about the colors’ meaning even as they are busy at the barbecue.

 

Love Thriving in Newark’s Westside

While standing at the kitchen window a few weeks ago, I noticed a familiar yellow plant growing on the bushes in the open lot adjoining the property where I live. Although it caught my eye at the time, I did not pay close attention. However, this week the yellow plant seemed to have spread over a wider section and so I decided to go outside and take a look from the fence. Suddenly, I had childhood memories rushing through my mind of the Love Bush we tossed all over the hedges along the roadsides in Cascade where I grew up.

I was surprised to find the Love Bush growing in Newark, NJ because all along I thought this plant was tropical. Furthermore, it’s now October so in my mind it just did not make sense that a tropical plant could be thriving outside. After some consideration, I surmised that someone must have placed the Love Bush there after they cleared the land in the summer. Now that it has taken over a section of the land, I can see clearly that it is in fact the Jamaican Love Bush.

So what is the story of the Jamaican Love Bush? In my rural community, children in the 1970s would search for this parasitic plant, pull handfuls of it, and cast it over another host plant while calling out the name of their secret admirer. Then they would go back to the spot in a few days to see if the Love Bush started growing. If the plant thrived, legend stated that a romantic relationship would develop between the two in the future.

I am not certain why I have been thinking about the Love Bush all week because romance is the farthest thing from my mind these days. Maybe it’s because I have been experiencing small acts of kindness and love from the seniors at Westside Community Center. Last Friday, Daphne gave me a bottle of shampoo that she won in Bingo; she felt I could use it with the conditioner I had won that day. This week Hattie bought me a pair of warm pants for the winter after she learned that I was shopping around for a few. Connie who always has goodies in her bag, shared her honey with us to sweeten our tea. And Ernestine offered to bring me a bottle of aspirin after she learned that I have hypertension. Or how could I forget Blanche who gave me a new journal with the words of the Serenity Prayer on the cover after she heard that I enjoyed writing?

As we sat at the circular table after lunch, I kept thinking about how the simple story I wrote about the Senior Citizen Prom affected Harrison. With his right hand over his heart, he shared how he was touched after reading the words. That is the least that I could do for such a man who had served his country, volunteered on numerous occasions to transport Hattie and I over to Nellie Grier Senior Center, and represented us so well as the Prom King on September 29th. I now take this opportunity to say that I recognize, applaud and honor you Mr. Harrison Judkins!

Whether it is the Jamaican Love Bush growing wild in the vacant lot on 17th Street or the acts of love witnessed at Westside Community Center by the seniors and staff, I believe it is important to pause and learn from the lessons that nature teaches in ecology. Furthermore, we must stop to thank people for their kindness and show appreciation for even the smallest things that they do for us. By doing this, love and kindness become contagious and before you know it everyone is involved in sharing a little piece of themselves. Indeed, I was reminded this week that love can thrive in favourable environments when we do not expect it.

 

I Love You To The Moon And Back

So many people will never be able to understand how severe mental illnesses like major depression affect others. These diseases are so disabling that they adversely affect one’s ability to function in the basic aspects of life. Despite all the available literature on how mental illnesses change individuals and despite the widespread prevalence in places like the United States, so many of those unaffected lack knowledge and also compassion.

Family and close friends of the mentally ill are encouraged to support them to function but this is not always easy. This is partly because those who are mentally ill often lack motivation and lose their basic abilities. It is especially frustrating for everyone involved when the mentally ill individual looks physically well and is intelligent.

As I spoke to my psychiatric nurse practitioner this morning, she stated that I was coherent. I am not sure why she felt the need to remind me but I suspect that she was puzzled as I am that I was still able to have a conversation with her after suffering for over two years with severe insomnia (associated with major depression and anxiety disorder). Before she ended the call, she asked me if I had recently spoken to my children and encouraged me to do so. Following her suggestions, I decided to reach out to my sons as well as a few of my other favorite people while I sat on the park bench on this October afternoon.

How could I let my sons and others know that I was thinking about them and that they were very special to me today? I reflected on the craft work that I participated in at the senior center this morning and thought it would be a perfect message to send to my loved ones. When I chose the stencil with the words “I love you to the moon and back” I had the intention of sharing it with them and I did.

To my surprise, I received an unexpected response from a relative implying that I had cut him off. He probably arrived at that conclusion because I no longer call him as often as I did before my diagnoses. I had to take the time to remind him about how severe mental illnesses affect people. These diseases destroy the spirit, cause isolation and lack of interest in doing things once enjoyed. I honestly thought my close relative (one I consider my brother) would understand and appreciate the picture I sent him with words “I love you…” but his reaction reminded me that he wanted to hear from me more often. He wanted more than words. He wanted me to love him to the moon and back which really means (according to Google) love without borders and unconditionally.

I truly hope my brother-in-law understands how much he means to me. I had to push through all the adversities of another day in order to paint that tote bag especially for him and my other loved ones. And I was only able to do it with the help and support of the seniors at Westside Community Center as well as the resources from United Community Corporation.

 

Reverend Herbert Redway’s Leadership: Eloquence, Deportment and Prestige.

Recently I learned of Reverend Herbert Redway’s passing and was asked to submit my thoughts to his son after making two unsuccessful attempts on the memorial website. Though frustrated with the technology and struggling daily with a range of illnesses, I felt compelled to share my views on this remarkable man who helped to shape my life before I was even aware. I was told by my mother that it was Parson Wint who baptized me. However, it was Reverend Redway who I had my first memories of as the minister for Brownsville Presbyterian Church in Cascade, Hanover, Jamaica back in the late 1960s to the early 1970s. I remember him most for his eloquence and his deportment during his sermons.

His leadership of the Boy’s Brigade and his wife’s leadership of the Girl’s Brigade are permanently cemented in my mind as I recall how on selected Sundays the Brigaders would march proudly and confidently behind their flags, lined up orderly at the rostrum, and then took their seats in the designated areas. The positive impression that the Brigaders left on me as a preschooler impacted me so much that I aspired to be a member from before I was old enough to join.

As I share my thoughts about Reverend Redway, I realize that it is not possible to celebrate his achievements without mentioning his wife, Miss Lynn. I will also never forget the Redways’ leadership during Christmas Rallies. Every year while I was as young as five years old, I would look forward to participating alongside senior members of the church, practicing Christmas carols and Nativity plays for several weeks. I even remember that we would get the scripts handed to us by Miss Lynn. I also have recollections of the Redways leading choir rehearsals, Sunday School, as well as preparing youngsters for the island wide performing arts competitions.

Looking back, I now know that the Redways were more than just church leaders. They were way ahead of the times in community development and youth development. It took me over forty years to learn about the theory and practice of “life skills” and “interpersonal communication” for youth, concepts that the Redways mastered while at Brownsville.

This brings me to the topic of prestige. Reverend Redway’s communication and diction set him apart from other ministers and pastors. I remember feeling like the Brownsville congregation was different from other churches and as a young child, I would try to emulate Reverend Redway’s style. I felt like I was a part of a prestigious church community even though we were located in deep rural Hanover. I believe Reverend Redway set the precedent for other ministers to follow when they came to Brownsville. I even heard of comparisons being made by parishioners between himself and other ministers who were not on par with his level of leadership. He and his wife filled the void of parenting that was not always present in many homes in Cascade and because of them, individual families, Brownville All Age School and the wider community learned how to be better citizens.

 

Winter Wonderland: Frederick’s Special Hot Cinnamon Chocolate

I am often puzzled that my brain is able to recall certain moments in time and fit them into a story after visualizing a familiar picture. This is what happened again on Wednesday at the United Community Corporation’s “Winter Wonderland” event that took place at Westside Community Center. When I entered the senior room around 2.30pm for the advertised “sip and paint” evening, most of the approximately forty chairs were already taken by anticipating invitees. I immediately noticed a completed winter themed painting positioned on an easel to the right of the room. In front of each chair were blank canvases with a pencil outline of a mug. Makeshift palettes with brightly colored paints arranged in little puddles on plastic plates were already prepared on the trestle tables that were joined together to make a large open square where the instructor could guide the group. Each art station had three paint brushes of different sizes sitting to the right of each setting. After about five minutes I joined the group and listened carefully as the instructor stated that the completed picture was there only as a guide and that we were allowed to create our own painting. By the time I started to paint the red mug and fill in its surface with brown color at the beginning of the art exercise, I could feel emotions rising in the room coming from the original creator as well as the participants, evoking feelings that had probably been submerged for years.

I was taken back to my childhood when my grandmother would make “chocolate tea” from scratch. I witnessed her on a number of occasions going through the process of beating the parched cocoa beans in a wooden mortar until they became a paste, and then rolling them into balls until they dried. I later learned that the process was even longer than what I saw her doing because the beans had to be washed after they were broken from the pods and then they were laid out in the sun for days until they were golden brown. My grandmother’s chocolate was well known all over Georgia Road especially among family members and I believe I even recall people referring to the product as Miss Nellie’s Chocolate. While there were other older women making chocolate at the time, Ma’s had a distinct taste especially on Sunday mornings before church.

Many decades after migrating to the United States I had forgotten everything about my grandmother’s natural chocolate. I started to drink processed versions like Quick and Swiss Miss as well as the varieties that I would get from my workplace cafeterias. There was nothing special about those memories until I experienced an afternoon with Frederick. It was sometime around 2004 when I lived in Decatur, Georgia that I visited the International House of Pancakes on Claremont Road for breakfast with my older son. The flamboyant waiter who introduced himself as Frederick prepared a cup of hot chocolate for me in a way that made an impression that would last for a lifetime. As he delivered the mug to me, I remember that the whipped cream he added was more than usual and it was generously sprinkled with cinnamon. His kind gesture made such an impact on me that I not only returned his smile but I thanked him with a decent tip.

It really does not matter if Frederick’s chocolate was as natural as my grandmother’s or if he made it in a few minutes. What truly mattered was the thought and the care that he placed in making what would have otherwise been a regular cup of hot chocolate. That experience that he shared with me over a simple meal is the only reason why I remembered his name on Wednesday while I was painting.

 

Rosalynn Carter: A Passionate Advocate for Mental Health

I did not know that Rosalynn Carter was an advocate for mental health until she died recently. This I believe is unfortunate because if I was ignorant about her advocacy, so were many other Americans. I knew that she was active in the establishment and implementation of programs at the Carter Center in Atlanta but I never knew the extent of her work and that she continued with mental health advocacy long after she left the White House in the early 1980s. I also knew that Mrs. Carter served beside her husband in Habitat for Humanity because my Facebook page constantly generated stories about the achievements of the organization, often showing the couple in hard hats and holding hammers at construction sites for affordable homes.

It’s probably a coincidence that Mrs. Carter died during the month of November, 2023 when I received a second notice from my case manager that the Integrated Case Management program (ICMS) at Mount Carmel Guild would be terminating my services after I have been with the organization for a year and a half. According to their rules, they only provide referral services for a year. If a client does not have any goals which require referrals, then they are terminated. This is compounded by the fact that the organization is short-staffed so apparently there are not enough case managers to serve clients even when the they are still in need.

This is the type of disparity that Mrs. Carter must have seen over her lifetime that propelled her into becoming a fierce mental health advocate. Although I was never aware of any of her books or any of her articles related to mental health until recently when she passed, I now understand why she was a leader in the Mental Health Systems Act of 1980 while her husband was president and even as late as 2010 when she published “Within Our Reach: Ending The Mental Health Crisis.” Even then she tried her best to convince the public that there were still gaps in mental health services in America.

I use this opportunity to thank Mrs Carter for her service and recognize her husband who at 99 years old was able to attended her funeral. Frail in wheelchair with a blanket over his legs, he was supported by his family to bid his last farewell to this remarkable woman. This latest image of the Carters might be the one that most people will remember but I chose to remember her tireless advocacy for mental health until death.

Rosalynn Carter did her part to to reduce stigma and improve services for those of us who suffer from mental illnesses. She started her advocacy in the 1970s when I was a young child, never knowing that I would one day be in need of mental health services or that I would benefit from laws that extend benefits to the mentally ill. She was indeed a First Lady. Her death has created a void that will be hard to fill but hopefully the laws she helped to enact will remain. It’s now up to the rest of us to educate ourselves about her life’s work, recognize her legacy and continue what she started.

 

Senior Citizen Prom

In 1981 when I graduated from highschool there was no senior prom. I had never even heard of senior proms. It was not until I came to America in the mid 1980s that I saw teenagers going to highschool proms. At the time I could not appreciate all the effort that went into the events, maybe because I grew up in a country where proms were not a part of the culture.

I never knew the day would come when I would participate in a prom because I am now in my senior years and I honestly believed that proms were an unnecessary cost. However, life often brings us unexpected turn of events sometimes when we least expect. With age and illness, I have learned to appreciate some things that I once considered trivial.

After nine years of struggling with serious mental illnesses, loss of employment and being separated from family and friends, I began to question my purpose in life, especially after I moved back to New Jersey from Georgia a year and a half ago. I felt very isolated and needed to be among people who I could relate to. The challenge though was that major depression destroyed my motivation to participate in groups. I just had enough energy to take daily walks in a park adjacent to the house where I live.

On August 4th of this year after completing my walk, I noticed that there was a health fair happening at the community center in the middle of the park. I decided to browse through the stalls and then I sat on one of the benches outside in the sun. That’s the day I met Connie, a senior citizen with beautiful white hair. She told me that there was a senior program inside the community center and invited me to come the following Monday.

I’ve been going to the senior program for the last eight weeks even when I did not believe I could make it. Then about a month ago, they announced that they were going to have a senior prom for the seniors in the area. I really had no interest in attending until we were asked to create our own face masks. For about three days I watched as we painted our masks and glued on brightly colored feathers and shiny gold and silver sequins. As the day drew closer, I started to feel connected and developed a desire to participate in the event on September 29th. I said to myself as I’ve been for the last nine years, “if I wake up and I can walk, I will go!”

Although dealing with many health challenges, I walked into the Westside Community Center yesterday for the 2023 Senior (Citizen) Prom. I saw many seniors including Connie seated at their table. After having dinner and watching people dancing for a while I still wondered what was the purpose of a senior prom. But it wasn’t until the MC asked the audience how many of them had attended their highschool prom and about fifty percent of the people in the room held up their hands, that I realized I had even more in common with the group. For whatever reason, almost half of the senior citizens present had never been to a prom.

I think I now understand why the organizers sponsored the senior citizen prom and crowned a Prom Queen and King. For the last two months I met Harrison, a very sweet and kind octogenarian. He danced the entire evening even though he took frequent breaks from the dancefloor. He beamed with pride after they announced him the King and placed the crown on his head. This was a significant event in our lives.

 

Finding Purpose in Disability

How do I find purpose in my disability? After almost ten years living with severe mental illnesses and after two years with co-morbid physical illnesses, I am trying to understand what is the reason for my being.

Mental illnesses literally destroyed Ann Marie by taking away my ability to earn a living and afford a decent life. For the last eight years I have had to cut my expenses in order to survive on a modest income from the Social Security Administration that’s about a third of what I used to earn in 2015. For example, I have had to rent rooms instead of apartments or homes.

These diseases forced me into unpleasant and uncomfortable places like psychiatric hospitals to experience what others have suffered for centuries. I’ll never forget how the healthcare worker at Ridgeview Institute in Smyrna, Georgia asked me to remove my underwear so she could search it as a part of their admissions protocol. At the time I tried to understand what she was doing but after four subsequent admissions to other psychiatric hospitals, I eventually realized that the behavior of the healthcare worker at Ridgeview was inappropriate.

The stigma of these diseases also remind me that according to a former colleague, there is nothing good about mental illnesses. However, because I am here and still have my intellect, I am trying to find a glimmer of hope to hold on to something: That purpose in disability, even if it is just to write about how I feel and possibly touch another person who is suffering and struggling on a daily basis from major depression, lost income and challenges with basic activities of daily living.

 

Blue Hydrangea Moon (8)

“Welcome aboard Miss Brown, your seat number is 22F.”

Cherry felt the tall blond female flight attendant’s soft energy as she extended her left hand for the boarding pass.

“Good seat…” She whispered in a manner that Cherry wondered who she was talking to.

In a second the two little words were energized by a strange flight attendant and touched Cherry Brown like a feather brushing against an aroused cheek.

The long wait at the Pre-conscience International Airport was worth it. After five hours, Cherry received the message for the day.

“Good seat…”

Cherry was excited about finding her seat even though she knew that it was close to the left wing of the plane. In the past she would have hoped to find another seat but on Wednesday November 10th, 2010, she wanted to find out why 22F was a good seat.

With patience Cherry waited and waited…Nothing happened. Seats 22D and 22E were empty. She had no one to talk to so she closed her eyes and began to dream about the flight attendant’s message.

An hour later she was awakened by the voice of the captain. “Flight attendants, please prepare for landing.”

Cherry opened her eyes and peeked through the lower opening of the airplane window.

There it was!

It was the perfect view of the city of Hydrangea waiting patiently for Cherry. The modest city with its dozen high-rise buildings was nestled among tall evergreen trees; and new single family homes along the sides of freshly paved roads of at least twenty developments dotted the suburban landscape.

The airplane took a wide turn allowing Cherry to view the city just before sunset. Then in the continued preparation for landing, the amazing machine began to approach the city head-on. Cherry took one last bird’s eye view before the city was hidden by the aircraft.

“Wow, I wonder what it is like to fly an airplane…to see the City of Hydrangea from the cockpit?” Cherry could not believe that she was even thinking about flying an airplane. She was always afraid of flying. But The Voice and The Message changed all that. She wanted that experience and her mind knew it.

Snapshot!

 

Insomnia

i developed insomnia around the same time I was diagnosed with my mental illnesses seven years ago. Sometimes, the insomnia is worse than the depression and I wish I could find a cure for it. I’ve tried prescription drugs as well as melatonin that’s available over-the-counter but nothing helps.

I’m lucky if I get a couple hours of sleep each night and this I know is very unhealthy. I can only pray for some relief and ask those of you here for some tips that could help me to stay asleep a little longer.

Note that I’ve lost my inspiration to write over the last few years but my insomnia is so bad that I had to do this blog post to see if my readers have any suggestions for me. Let me know if you also have this problem. Maybe together we can find a solution.