Long Time No See

by Hannah Lowe

  The boy stood on the middle deck, looking out at Kingston sprawled before him, the sky a blinding bright blue above the proud white colonial buildings and the crumbling slums. People were dying in the country and men were getting out – not abandoning the island, they told themselves, but leaving to earn money, send money home, come back with money – then make a change. They’d make more in America than they could ever dream of in Jamaica.

  Like the others, the boy had read the advertisement in the paper, read it again, torn it out and slipped it in his pocket: US Farm Worker Program – Jamaican Men Needed for Three-Year Contracts. Good Rates of Pay. By then he’d been in Kingston eighteen months, dealing at the club on Barry Street. He had saved money, but not enough after rent and food and a losing streak on the horses. The last of it had greased an official’s palm to be among the passengers on the Shank.

  Everyone wanted a permit. Adult suffrage had finally been granted, an election loomed, and the permits were in the hands of a government desperate to keep their power and keep out the People’s National Party. They distributed permits in the hope of votes, for favours and for bribes – so most of the men were educated and had trades. Most came from decent homes. The real farm workers – the cane cutters and banana farmers – would stay poor and left behind.

  No work below the Mason–Dixon Line. That’s what the government agreed for them. Everyone knew and obeyed the island’s own informal hierarchy of shade, but formal segregation was another thing. They would not be sent to the Deep South. The Jamaicans did not know Jim Crow law and would not respond well to it. Instead, the sprawling farms of the north – New Jersey, New York and Maine – awaited them.

  On board, they swiftly organised themselves in shifts for meals, to wash, to sleep in the bunks. Ten days at sea and then, despite the government’s vows, they docked at New Orleans, the men steered through the port and onto trucks that drove them to Camp Pontchartrain, a military camp for black US soldiers, a holding pen for the Jamaicans. Not a white face in sight. The black soldiers milled around, waiting to be sent to war, eyeing the Jamaicans with curiosity through a partition fence. The Jamaican men watched them back.

  Each day the men were issued with paperwork and fingerprinted and dispatched in batches to the night train north. ‘How big is America?’ they asked each other as the train rattled past endless fields and hills, through cities and small towns. How was it possible to fall asleep and wake up, and still be travelling in the same country? They had thought Jamaica a big island until then.

  On the first farm, the boy and a hundred other Jamaicans picked beetroot, nine hours a day, bent in the scorching sun, working up one line, down another. Two weeks with their hands stained bright purple. Then the boy and half the rest were moved further north, standing in the backs of trucks, riding across the flat land at dawn to Cranthorn Farm, Smithfield, New Jersey, a vast estate the size of a small town with a processing plant, huge ice houses for freezing vegetables, a fleet of trucks. To the Jamaicans’ surprise, they weren’t the only imported labourers – two thousand Japanese-Americans resided there already, sent from the internment camps to work through the war. On their way to their barracks, a handful of Japanese children ran after them, pulling at their clothes.

  But the Jamaicans were a new curiosity to the people of Smithfield, who sent a marching band to the gates of the farm to welcome them on the day of their arrival. The sun was high in the sky as schoolchildren with horns and trombones played jaunty tunes, marching back and forth before the men, who regarded them with curiosity. Behind the band, the town’s men and women stood smiling and waving at the Jamaicans. Some held baskets of food and cloth-covered pies. ‘They playing this stuff for us?’ George McLean asked the boy. He was the youngest of the Jamaican men, his face still round with puppy fat.

  ‘Looks that way,’ the boy replied.

  ‘You think that food’s for us?’

  ‘Who knows? It might well be.’

  ‘It might be poisoned,’ George whispered. ‘But if it’s not, I’d love some pie.’

  ‘This is strange,’ said the boy. ‘I didn’t think we’d be rubbing shoulders with white folk, you know.’ He whistled under his breath. The Jamaicans had heard much about the racial divisions of this country, none of it good.

  A middle-aged man with a red face and white hair came forward as the music stopped, and stood before the Jamaicans, his hat in hand. He spoke slowly and loudly, as though they might not understand English. ‘My name is John Bentleman. On behalf of the people of Upper Deerfield I would like to welcome you boys here to America, to New Jersey.’ He spread his hands to indicate the land around them. ‘You will be picking peas on the fairways and greens of the Gehret Country Club, an institution of which I am president. I would like to formally invite you to make full use of the club during your time here. The club is at your disposal, and we, the townsfolk of Smithfield, will do all we can to assist your stay with us.’

  He made a small bow and the townspeople began to clap. Some came forward to present their gifts. The boy wondered why they were clapping, but before he knew it, a few of the Jamaican men around him were clapping too. Then more of them were clapping. Then George beside him was clapping. The black men and the white folk stood applauding each other, across the rows of children still holding their instruments. Soon they lifted them and began another rollicking tune. The sun was baking the ground. A few of the Jamaicans stepped forward and gave a little dance.

  ♠

  The Jamaicans were housed on the other side of the farm from the Japanese in a one-storey wooden barracks that slept twenty men. There was a camp store, showers, comfortable bunks and blankets. It was more than they had expected. They felt welcomed.

  In the weeks to follow, the townsfolk became more fascinated by the men. Their generous offers became a source of bemusement. ‘Mr Hoffman’s daughter is coming to drive me to church tomorrow,’ Enoch Leaford declared from his place on a top bunk, cleaning his glasses. ‘Asked if anyone else needs a ride? Any of you?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ replied Ronald Chin. ‘Dora Green, that nice girl from the camp store, already offered me a lift.’ He laughed. ‘These people like us, man. The girls especially.’

  ‘The Americans like a sophisticated Negro,’ Enoch said. ‘They use that word. I read it in the leaflet they gave us. Listen to this.’ He unfolded the crumpled paper, perched his reading glasses on the end of his nose. ‘The Americans’ use of the word “Negro” is not meant to offend you Jamaican men,’ he read. ‘It has the same meaning as coloured in Jamaica.’ He put the leaflet down. ‘I’m not sure about that.’

  ‘I bet some of them can make it sound offensive,’ said the boy. ‘Especially in the South. They like us because we sound British and behave ourselves, so far. They think we’re a notch above the American “Negroes”, whom they treat like dogs.’

  ‘You might be right,’ said Ronald Chin. ‘I’m being careful. We’re so far from home. Who knows what the rules are?’

  ♥

  The Jamaicans played dominoes in a booth at Marnie’s, a late-night diner half a mile from the farm. Green leather seats, red lamps hung low over the table. One night, the boy and his friends were lost in a game, not noticing the three white men edging closer to them, beer bottles in their hands, all of them wearing denims, the uniform of local labourers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said one of them, smiling to show a mouth of broken teeth. ‘Don’t think us rude. We wondered if one of you fellows might say something for us?’ He looked at his two companions – one much smaller than him, the other with a slick moustache in the style of Errol Flynn. ‘It’s just that you boys sound so British – my friends here don’t believe me.’

  The Jamaicans looked between each other. This wasn’t the first time they’d been asked this. Ronald Chin cleared his throat. ‘We are British,’ he said, in his best British accent. ‘We are part of the war effort, and Jamaica, as you know, is part of the British Empire.’

  ‘Hot damn,
you’re right!’ exclaimed the small one. ‘They do sound British!’

  The moustached one shook his head in disbelief, his mouth open. ‘Can you say something else?’ he asked the Jamaicans.

  ‘Perhaps I could draw you a map to show you where Jamaica is?’ offered Enoch politely, lifting a napkin, pulling a pen from his jacket. They had not met one American yet who’d known where the island was with any certainty.

  ‘Please do,’ said broken teeth. ‘I have no idea.’ He looked again at his friends. ‘Can you believe it?’ he said to them. ‘I close my eyes and I swear I’m in a British film or Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘You boys don’t sound a bit like American Negros, that’s for sure,’ Errol Flynn told them. ‘Well, well. Hope you all are settling in and enjoying your time?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the boy, and the Jamaicans agreed. ‘We’ve been made very welcome.’ They all introduced themselves, shook hands, and the Jamaicans shoved up, allowing the three to squeeze into the booth. Enoch presented his map, pointing out the Caribbean’s proximity to Florida, the location of Cuba and Jamaica.

  ‘Well, I surely didn’t know that before,’ the small one said. ‘Did you fellows?’

  And Errol Flynn replied, ‘I never even heard of Jamaica until these guys showed up, and that’s the truth. But pleased to meet you all.’

  ♣

  The Jamaicans worked hard at Cranthorn’s, but conditions were fair. There was a sense of hope among them. They were earning fifty cents an hour, a day’s wages in Jamaica, and sending money back to wives, children, parents. The boy thought about Hermione. However she was earning money, he didn’t like it. He would rather send her a wire than have her go flirting and eyeing the shopkeepers on Barry Street. He sent a little to Felix too. Each time he went to Western Union he thought of his father, but he couldn’t bring himself to send a penny to him. Times were tight, but James Lowe always survived.

  ‘Working overseas is what we Jamaicans do,’ Enoch said in the barracks one night. He was sitting at the table with a tin mug of coffee, his long legs crossed. Enoch was like a gangly professor, prone to outbursts of analysis. ‘We’ve been working abroad for ever. Who you think build the Panama Canal?’ He looked around at the blank faces in the room. ‘We did! And we’ve been travelling to America and Cuba for years.’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ said Benton Ford from his bunk. ‘My grandfather and uncle picked asparagus in New York twenty years ago. They’re still there now.’

  ‘My grandfather picked coffee in Cuba for three years,’ said Ronald Chin. ‘Married a Cuban woman and brought her home. My grandmother. She only speaks Spanish.’

  ‘I thought you were part Chinese, like me?’ the boy said.

  ‘The other side is Chinese. My grandfather was Chin. And my other grandmother was half maroon. Blue black, you know? All that mix is why I come out so handsome.’

  The boy laughed. ‘When the lights are off, yes man.’

  ‘No money on the island, no work,’ Enoch said, ignoring them. ‘What do we have? Our hands, our backs.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said the boy. ‘Maybe one day they’ll want us for our brains.’

  ‘At least they’re paying us,’ Benton said. ‘Not like the poor Japanese over the way.’

  ‘It’s our labour,’ Enoch said. ‘That’s all they want us for. That’s all we have.’

  ‘And thank God we do,’ said Ronald. He yawned, stretching himself like a cat across his bed.

  ‘Things are working out here. Things are working out just fine.’

  ‘Things are fine, except for the food,’ said George McLean. ‘What is this scrambled eggs? It looks like ackee, but it’s no friend of mine.’

  ♦

  America was an adventure. There were dances in the town. The Jamaicans would dress in their best clothes and, under the bright lights of the community hall, swing the local girls back and forth, spin them and show a little fancy footwork. There was a day off in the week when they could sleep all day or walk into town to take a girl to the pictures. Or on nights at the barracks, the boy might run a game of poker or kalooki, skilfully shuffling the cards before cutting them in two and dealing each man’s hand. They were light-hearted games played for pennies. The boy didn’t try to cheat his friends, although he always had an advantage, knowing which cards were out of play.

  Sometimes they would talk about Jamaica, how things were and what might change. Enoch’s mother sent the Gleaner and they’d pass it from bunk to bunk, reading the news from home. Food prices had gone up because of the war, but still no exports. Crops were still rotting in the country with no one to sell them to. Strikes were happening all over and the leaders were being punished severely. Alexander Bustamante had split from the PNP to found a splinter group – the Jamaican Labour Party. Thomas Reid was in prison. He and many others had been locked up for weeks with no release in sight. The boy had kept quiet about his political activities in the year before, unsure how the other men felt, but soon it became clear that they all agreed big change had to happen. The colonial government was not interested in the plight of the poor man.

  ‘I feel torn, you know, about leaving,’ the boy said. ‘Sometimes I think I should have stayed to help make things happen, to make a change. Anyone else feel it so?’

  ‘Plenty of time for revolutions and uprisings,’ Charles Dee said. He was a big man, too big for the small bunk he was lying on. ‘We all need money first. May as well earn what you can here and now, then go back.’

  ‘Jamaica is hell,’ Ronald Chin said loudly from his bunk. He leant up on his elbow. ‘I never want to go back. That country eat you up and spit you out.’

  ‘What you say is right about Jamaica now,’ the boy said. ‘Jamaica as it is now. And the war making it worse, for sure. But the Jamaica of the future could be something different, you know. I believe in that.’

  ‘I think it’s better to stay here for now,’ George McLean said. ‘Just send money home, send help when you can. That’s my plan. I’m having a good time here – I don’t want to go home yet.’

  There were murmurs of agreement around the room.

  ♠

  But not everything was rosy. Charles Dee and Paris Brown went to the neighbouring town of Standon to see a movie, but were refused entry into the cinema. ‘They didn’t let us in because we are black, I know it,’ Paris said. ‘The manager just stood there smiling, saying, “I’m sorry, we are full. You boys will have to try elsewhere.” Where is this elsewhere, man? It’s the only picture house for twenty miles. No way were they full. It was because we were black men standing there.’

  In the same town, Mervyn Simms was denied service in a restaurant. ‘I sat there for half an hour,’ he said. ‘I thought the waitress couldn’t see me, so I moved stools. Then I moved again. Then some other fellow came along, sat in my first stool, and he got served. Then another fellow sat in the stool I just left and he got served. I start thinking to myself, what’s going on here? And I ask the waitress, but she look straight through, like she can’t see me, can’t hear me. I ask her is she feeling OK, but it’s still the quiet treatment. She was the only one there. So I tell her thank you, and I left.’

  The men related these tales as they sat at the table of their barracks, all gathered in the lamplight.

  ‘We have to do something,’ said Enoch. ‘They can’t be treating us like this.’

  ‘No way,’ said Charles Dee. ‘We are here as part of the war effort. They should be grateful to us, and understand their nasty rules do not apply.’

  The next weekend they put on their good clothes and boarded the Standon bus. Twenty of them walked up to the cinema, queuing orderly for their tickets at the box office while the manager in the foyer looked on, wringing his hands, his face turning red. They filed in silently to the screen and filled the two rows at the front. None of them turned to see the faces of the other cinema-goers in the flickering light of the trailers. On their best behaviour, the Jamaicans watched the film, crunching th
eir way through boxes of popcorn. And afterwards, the same twenty crossed the road and walked fifty yards up the sidewalk, attracting the stares of people in the street, to the diner where Mervyn had been snubbed. It was the same waitress on shift, but who could ignore twenty hungry men walking in and taking whichever spare booths they could?

  A ripple of surprise went through the white clientele, but the Jamaicans just smiled cordially at their neighbours and bid them good evening. With the black and white diners comfortably interspersed, the restaurant was full to capacity. The Jamaicans ordered beers and burgers and fried potatoes and plates of ribs and steaks, then more beers, ice-cream, pancakes, pie. The waitress ran back and forth all night, angry blisters forming on her heels, while the manager smiled on, thinking only of their bill.

  ♥

  Everything changed in the autumn – the nights drew in and a chill wind blew across the fields. The harvesting work at Smithfield finished and the men were split up and sent to different farms. Then, later in that year, the Jamaican government revoked the Mason–Dixon Line rule – there was too much work in the South and not enough hands. Fruit was dying on the trees with no one to pick it. The boy and thirty other men went to another farm in Maine, a few went east to Pennsylvania, but over half went down to Florida. Bad stories came up from there. They sat on their beds as the boy read out Ronald Chin’s letter:

  ‘ “These crackers think we are monkeys with tails. I didn’t know people could be so backwards. The black people here are raging. We sit round at night and I listen to their talk. They want to burn the South down and I do not blame them. I would light the match myself tonight. I am scared of what will happen if I stay here.” ’

  ‘Oh boy,’ Roy Atley said. ‘I don’t want to go down there. I’m no monkey, and no one’s calling me one.’ They others agreed to stay north as long as they could, picking cranberries on the night shift in the white glare of floodlights. There were miles and miles of vines, the men walking through the deep red fields, picking until their arms ached and they couldn’t bend down any more. Then they slept at dawn in the darkened barracks, dreaming of cranberries, buckets and buckets of them, the juice of cranberries running like blood onto their hands.