I knew about other women, my aunts’ contemporaries, who were challenging the roles traditionally assigned to females. Audrey Layne Jeffers, another of my grandmother’s friends, founded the Coterie of Social Workers, and together with other women, established homes for the elderly, for the blind, for “women in distress”, and nurseries for babies. Leonora Pujadas McShine—Leo, as she was familiarly known—organized the first League of Women Voters in Trinidad. My aunt Pearl, while still in her thirties, founded the Negro Theatre Workshop in London and was an agent there for artists of color.
So my ignorance of my mother’s interest in books cannot be blamed on prejudices I inherited about the inferiority of women. Perhaps I was so brainwashed by the myth of Nunez intellectual superiority that I chose to be blind to much of what my mother did and said.
My mother told me the story about the first time she felt belittled by my father. I was in my fifties when she told me this, old enough to know better, and yet I was alarmed that my father would have dared to give voice to suspicions I had harbored, when I was a child, about her limited intellectual capacities.
It was true, my mother said: she had not been a reader. In fact, before she was married, she had never read a book from cover to cover. Then, one day, as she was talking idly about some social event that had taken place, my father snapped at her: “For God’s sake, Una, is that all you can talk about? Educate yourself! Broaden your interests. At least read the newspaper!”
The irony, though, was that the newspaper was the most my father ever read, with one exception. He got a kick out of the novels of P.G. Wodehouse. After a day at work having to endure the arrogance of his British colonial bosses, little gave him as much pleasure as laughing at the buffoonish Bertie Wooster. But he never progressed beyond Wodehouse, or the newspapers (the cartoons were his favorite). My mother, on the other hand, took his admonishment to heart. When I discovered she had read my first novel, I gave her not only my other novels, but also novels by my favorite authors, novels that before my father began to withdraw from the world I could not imagine she was capable of appreciating or understanding. Within weeks she devoured Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Gabriel García Márquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera, V.S. Naipaul’s A House for Mr. Biswas. (I would not count Naipaul among my favorite authors, but A House for Mr. Biswas is as close to a masterpiece as a novel can get.) She read Naipaul’s A Way in the World too, a novel I found difficult to digest, but she was intrigued by it and had lots of questions for me.
I dared to introduce her to my love of opera. I took her to see Master Class on Broadway, that backhanded homage to Maria Callas. Callas is at the end of her operatic career. She has lost her voice, her lover has abandoned her, and now she teaches opera hopefuls at Juilliard. She is angry, her voice shrill and strident, her young students cowering under her criticism of their slightest mistakes, and yet in the background we hear that miraculous voice that awed the world and made millions worship her.
My mother sat forward in her seat, her eyes glued to the stage. Was it the savagery of time marching indiscriminately onward, reducing us to shadows of our former selves, that had moved her, or regret for the person she could have been had her life not been circumscribed by eleven needy children and fourteen pregnancies? She wanted me to play arias by Callas when we got home, and as Callas’s voice swelled throughout my house—“Casta Diva,” “La Mamma Morta,” my favorites—my mother and I bonded in a way we never had when I was young and living in her home. She returned to New York for the Christmas holidays, and I had no trouble persuading her to come along with me to Carnegie Hall to hear Handel’s Messiah, though I warned her it was hours long. She sat transfixed through the entire program while my father, who comes from a musical family and played the violin as a boy, paced the corridors long after the first intermission had ended.
I want to think my father recognized this change in his wife and that their conversations had deepened beyond the mundane as they grew older together. If this was true, my mother, too, must have missed our father’s searing intelligence that had made our world less chaotic, more ordered, safe. How frightened she must have been when he swirled butter in his tea, or when he insisted on going alone for the long walks he loved to take through the maze of streets in their neighborhood, wielding a stick to keep the stray dogs at bay. He always returned, but it must have been harrowing for my mother, waiting, as the minutes ticked away. She reacted in the only way she could. She buried her fear so deep that she was able pretend it did not exist. She chastised my father when he returned; she blamed him for making her miserable; she called him a selfish old man who cared only for himself.
If only she could see him now when I tell him that the funeral director has agreed to allow us to come to the funeral parlor later in the morning. He is sitting up on the bed, eyes alert, the old intelligence shining out of them. In a voice crisp, clear, strong, he thanks me. “I can’t wait to see her,” he says.
If my mother were here now she would know that she was right: she had not lost him. Behind that jumble of memories in his brain, he has kept a clear space for her. He has never forgotten that he loves her.
Verna Allette Wilkins
Born in Grenada, she was the founder in 1987 of Tamarind Books, and is the author of 40 picture books and eight biographies for young people. Her books have featured on BBC Children’s TV programmes and have been included on the English national curriculum. The many awards she has received include the British Book Industry Decibel Award for Multicultural Publishing and an honorary doctorate from Newman University, Birmingham in 2014 for her work as a champion of children’s literature. With a mission to redress the balance in publishing output, she writes books that give children of colour a high and positive profile. A moment that will remain forever in her mind is when, during a school visit in the UK, a young black girl said to her, “I always wanted to be an author, but I didn’t think I could be one until I met you today!”
A Memory Evoked
Calypso! The subject of the email message from my sister in Baltimore led me to a video link. To click or not to click! I had loads of work to do. It was the middle of a very busy day preparing for a school workshop—“Writing Books For Children, With Children” —the very next day, but the sweet smell of the ruby-red mango ripening in my fruit bowl had already put me in the mood to indulge warm memories of home, memories of the Caribbean that conflicted with a cold, grey, London winter seeping into my room. A little light music would surely do me good. I clicked.
The calypso’s title was “Fork Up the Beaches” by the calypsonian Scorcher. The title evoked the island in the sun I missed so much. My room, overlooking a bleak, suburban North London road, was filled with an infectious melody and the tintin-nabulation of steel-band rhythms.
Calypso is multidimensional. Calypso can be unpredictable. It is the politics of the working people of the Caribbean islands, put to a catchy tune. The double-entendre that is calypso’s stock in trade means that for all its easy danceability, its flip side may well be serious naughtiness. Or, naughtily serious business. Calypsonians give themselves fabulous names. Roaring Lion, Lord Melody, The Mighty Spoiler, Lord Executor, just to name a few. So when I heard Scorcher cheerfully begin, I knew there was more to this title than met the ear. It was a protest song despite the rollicking tune. The jaunty lyrics, combined with the scent of mango in the room, pulled me back more than half a century.
Back to a tropical sea sparkling in the bright sun, resplendent with small boats bearing big names. In God We Trust, Crewed Structure, and No Fear—bobbing about near the shore. Further out to sea, larger vessels and visiting yachts have dropped anchor. Their owners sit in beach bars, swim or snorkel in the gentle morning sun. The miles of white recumbent beaches receive the waves, lapping, foaming and receding. Inland, there are hundreds of trees of various shapes and sizes. Stretching higher than all others are the stately palms which wave their skeletal branches in the soft breeze.
I drift b
ack into the cold and listen to Scorcher’s powerful lyrics stating strongly that the beaches belong to everyone. He sings that if the rich incomers cut off access, the local people should destroy the beaches.
The Caribbean is the fantasy of would-be lottery winners. Here is the place where rich foreigners buy land near the beaches and build elaborate homes. They build high fences to cut off large areas around their elegant residences to keep the local people as far away as possible. This allows for private beach parties, and as some local folk have argued, skinny-dipping in the daytime and unmentionable carryings-on when the sun dips into the far horizon. This urge for privacy means that locals on and around the beach areas are not welcome. Neither are the fisherwomen who come to the beach from the hinterland. These women walk for miles, carrying large woven baskets. They sit on the beach, in the shade of the wide-leafed manchineel trees and wait for the fishermen to bring in the morning catch. As the fishermen arrive bare-chested and weary from hours at sea, the women rush forward to buy enough fish to fill their baskets. They make a small profit selling the fish as they walk back home, their heavy baskets balanced securely on their heads with pads of twisted cloth. In their brightly coloured dresses, vivid in the morning sun, they walk slowly all along the beach and all along the road, calling out the list of the catch they carry. The barriers that the rich beach dwellers built prevented the fisherwomen from doing their trade. They were forced to make hazardous detours, bypass potential customers and worse yet, the fish would begin to rot in the harsh midday tropical sun. Livelihoods lost.
These desperate fish-sellers turned to my father for support. My father was a political animal. He was head of a large school. A number of his pupils were poor. He created a breakfast club so that the children could have a bowl of porridge made from locally ground cornmeal. This was accompanied by plates of warm buttered “bakes” which set the children up for the day at school. Downstairs in our family home, which was the converted old school house, my father ran evening classes in literacy for adults. He was active in the Union of Teachers and fought for the rights of the young men and women he helped train to become teachers. Parents of children at his school and many in the community came regularly for his advice and support. Faced with the barricades on the beach, the fisherwomen too, beat a path to his door. They needed his help. My father rose to the occasion. He donned his pith helmet. He saddled his horse, and off down to the beach he went. He waited for the women to load their baskets. “Just follow me,” he said quietly.
I carry a vivid memory of him on his horse, followed by a line of women balancing laden baskets on their heads. He charged forward, waving at the fence builders. “These barricades are illegal. This is common land. It belongs to all of us.” He summoned a group of young men looking for some action. “Come on, lads! Go on! Take these barriers down!”
They set to, ripping poles out of the ground and smashing fences, shouting as the barriers fell. The fisherwomen walked through, triumphant while the incomers barricaded themselves inside their lavish dwellings.
Three and a half thousand miles away, and more than half a century later, the jaunty steelband music reminded me of my island in the sun but the lyrics of Scorcher’s calypso told a painful story. He sang of the same atrocities that my father fought against, more than fifty years earlier. Then, the incomers were building holiday homes near the beaches, but now the international hoteliers had arrived as well, with the encouragement of the government trying to boost the tourist trade. The situation seemed worse than ever. Scorcher’s absolute frustration and anger at the continuing injustices and abuse of power rang out in his calypso— “Fork Up the Beaches”—dig them up with forks.
As the steelband rhythms died away, I was aware, more than ever, of the influence of my father on my own life. Scorcher’s words brought clarity. I realized why, after twenty-five years as a publisher of children’s books, I have abandoned the role. Having witnessed, year after year, over more than a quarter of a century, the exclusion of Black and ethnic minority children from books aimed exclusively at children, something had to be done. Ongoing countless proclamations from publishing houses which set up apprenticeships, and mentoring schemes to address the problem of “the lack of diversity in publishing” made no noticeable difference. So many conferences, charters for equality and training. So many initiatives. So little discernible improvement. Barriers to including children of colour in publishing remained. I had to take a different path.
I walked away from being a publisher and began working in diverse classrooms in the UK. The existing barriers that exclude children of colour from books aimed at children could start with the children. They should see themselves as the authors, editors, designers, illustrators and publishers of the future. An illustrator, editor and I work together to demystify the entire process of how books are made. So far, working in suburban and inner-city schools we have produced two beautiful picture books that have children of colour as the main protagonists. The children contributed and were involved in the entire process from the idea to the finished product. On both occasions, they chose to write with me about their school trips. They had all the knowledge they needed about these. My Caribbean childhood experiences of a trip to the seaside was so very different. I learn so much from these workshops.
Abdi’s Day is a story about a young Somali boy on his first seaside trip, travelling from his diverse inner-city school, across the English countryside to the seaside. A Visit to City Farm tells of a school trip to a farm in the middle of the city, with llamas and many exotic creatures, surrounded by city skyscrapers. An enjoyable experience for all of us. The children were involved in the entire writing, editing and publishing process, “hands-on” from the first rough notes to the final edit. They contributed and were involved in the writing, they witnessed and worked with the illustrator on her roughs all the way to her finished artwork. They were fascinated by the design process and checked the final proof sheets from the printers in China. To hear even reluctant readers shout, at the launch, “This our book! We did it!” was heart-warming.
I thank my father for opening my eyes to change and empowerment. He was a brilliant storyteller and the best and most hilarious raconteur I have ever known. I thank Scorcher for bringing memories and music to warm my spirits on a cold North London day, and I thank the children who, with support, will change publishing forever. The programme grows.
Another chilly day in London and I gasp at the list of emails to be tackled. A quick scan picks up one from the Caribbean. I click. This time it is not a Calypsonian calling for desperate methods to ruin the beaches because of exploitation and greed. This time it is:
Hotel Developer Forced to Demolish Walls on Grand Anse Beach
After weeks of outcry on local radio and social media platforms, with petitions signed by hundreds of locals, the developers of Silver Sands Resort have finally bowed to public pressure and were forced to demolish the wall that was built on the beach to cut off access to local people.
That beach is where my father protested physically so many decades ago. That beach where Scorcher sang out loud in desperation was at last rightfully claimed. The local people could finally walk freely and enjoy their own island in the sun.
Sue Woodford-Hollick
A former investigative journalist and current affairs producer for Granada Television and founding Commissioning Editor of Multicultural Programmes for Channel 4, she is now a businesswoman (the founder and co-owner of Little Garden Day Nurseries, a London-based childcare company) and consultant with wide-ranging experience in broadcasting and the arts. She spent nine years as Chair of Arts Council England, London, has chaired and been a trustee of numerous other arts organisations, including Tate Members, Index on Censorship, Talawa Theatre Company, the Theatre Museum and Free Word, and recently retired from the international board of AMREF, Africa’s largest health NGO, based in Nairobi. Currently a trustee of Complicité Theatre Company, Reprieve, Music for my Mind, and Chair of the Stuart Hall Found
ation, she is also a passionate supporter of Chineke!, Britain’s only majority black and brown classical orchestra. She was appointed an OBE in 2011 for services to the arts.
Who I Was Then, and Who I Am Now
This is a story about secrets and lies. I kept it under lock and key for most of my life, allowing only a few carefully curated strands to be unravelled by my closest family and friends.
Until several years ago . . .
My youngest daughter Abigail, then a new mother, is a radio producer specialising in programmes for women. One day she put my new grandson down for a rest, gave me a cup of tea and placed her tape recorder assertively before me: “Mum, tell me everything . . . what was your childhood really like?”
No one had cornered me in this way before and Abby, an ace interviewer, is very direct. As a mother of three daughters, and as a grandmother, I finally realised that it was time to speak openly about my mother and my grandmother. Of who I was then, and who I am now.
* * *
I was on my own, always on my own, in a small, mock-Tudor terraced house in Streatham, South London, with Auntie May and Uncle Dick. They seemed very old. Uncle Dick was a kind, patient man who loved cricket. He had real charm, a lady’s man way back when. Auntie May, a small nervous woman, was Irish-Catholic, very strict. She was always complaining and seemed desperate for middle-class respectability. I remember her compulsively washing and re-washing the net curtains at the front of the house. She didn’t seem to like me. I don’t know why. They had a daughter, my “Auntie Joan”, who was twenty-six years older than me and lived on the other side of town with her husband Rob and three children. I saw them from time to time. When we did meet, Joan was friendly and seemed to like me. I quite liked her.
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