Keisha - Learning a New Language

I met Keisha one day while roaming around the countryside south of Montego Bay, north of Savannah La Mar on my motorcycle. I was visiting potential class sites for the literacy program, JAMAL - the Jamaican Movement for the Advancement of Literacy. I stopped by the house of a colleague, Mrs. Lightbody, who helped me when I visited the local rural schools. Mrs. Lightbody was a delight to work with, and I always looked forward to stopping by her place to chat. Her husband was a farmer, and they lived on the edge of their terraced farm. I had spent a day with him earlier, working out in the fields, learning how to graft lemon trees, eating boiled dumplings, conversing in patois. It was a fabulous day, and very poignant. I watched these Black men working their own land, where their not too distant ancestors had been slaves. I saw the lessons of their fathers in their hands as they expertly grafted the trees, working long and steadily throughout the day, free men. But on this day, I would meet another of her relatives, an amazing young woman named Keisha.
When I pulled up to Mrs. Lightbody's house, I noticed her standing on the balcony with a small child tucked shyly behind her skirt, peaking out curiously at the large helmeted man climbing off his motorcycle. I should mention that I loved Mrs. Lightbody's balcony that wrapped around the modest house, pulling the structure into the hillside. It was a nice day, and I was smiling as I pulled my helmet off knowing I would spend a good part of my afternoon sitting there, working on site plans with my hostess. As I bounded up the steps, I could see that tiny face peering from behind her aunt, wondering who this big white guy was. It was at least an hour before I saw her full figure - she exercised a perfect pivot with me on one side and her aunt between us. Eventually, she emerged and darted behind a chair, her eyes never leaving me. Keisha was a very beautiful girl with long braided hair, a simple clean dress, and a sad soft smile. Mrs. Lightbody apologized telling me the girl was deaf and dumb, and that she didn't interact much with strangers, or with much of her family for that matter.
Predictably, my secondary task for the day was to try to draw Keisha out and interact with her, my first being the literacy business at hand. As we talked and outlined site plans for several schools, I tried everything I knew to get Keisha to come out in plain view. After a bit, I noticed that she was no longer looking at me, but at my yellow helmet. I slowly pushed it closer to the edge of the table, near her chair fortress. When it got close enough, she gave her aunt a quick glance, who did not convey any prohibition, and she grabbed the helmet with both hands and ducked back to her safe place. I heard a strange sound that I knew was kin to a giggle, but oddly muted and flat. With all her might, she hoisted the helmet up and pulled it quickly down over her head and all those braids. Once she had it properly placed, she promptly walked around the chair, into open space, and right up to me. She was smiling broadly, and I wondered how all those teeth could fit into the opening of the helmet. When she got up beside me, I instinctively tapped the top of the helmet. She squealed. When I tapped the helmet again, she would bring her hands up and repeat the gesture, laughing and squirming. I increased the complexity of my thumping, using both hands. She matched anything I could conjure, pestering me over the course of several hours to continue the game. Mrs. Lightbody was delighted and noted that she had never seen Keisha behave like that, not even with family. I did manage to get some work done, often writing with my right hand, drumming with my left. When lunch came, Keisha refused to eat, caring not to remove her crown.
I knew it would be difficult when I had to leave. Keisha was not giving the helmet up without a fight, and I could raise no more than a half-hearted attempt to reclaim it. Eventually tough, Mrs. Lightbody gave her a stern but loving stare, and Keisha slowly pulled it off. She placed it on the table and promptly raced back to her chair. As I climbed back on my motorcycle, I did see a little hand waving goodbye, just cresting the top of the chair. On the way back to town, it struck me why the helmet had the effect it did - Keisha could "hear" with it on. For several hours that day, maybe for the first time, she heard another human being, even if it was just vibrations posing as language.
I didn't see Mrs. Lightbody for several weeks after that lovely day when two lonely people from different worlds chatted eloquently through polycarbonate and plastic. When I did see Mrs. Lightbody next, she was visiting the office for supplies. She came in and greeted me with even more enthusiasm than was her custom. Before I could ask how Keisha was, she informed me that every time a motorcycle came into view, Keisha would start running to the porch symbolically patting her head. When she realized it wasn't me, or that the owner was not stopping she would retreat back inside with a disappointed frown. I changed my plans for the day and took Mrs. Lightbody home on my motorcycle. Keisha met us halfway up the drive, wildly tapping the air around her head. I stayed a few hours to renew our conversation, and had a bittersweet departure knowing I probably wouldn't be able to return before I was to head home to the States permanently. Keisha gave up the helmet without much fight, and my leg got a beautiful hug.
On my way home, I had plenty of time to concoct a good story about how I had lost my spare helmet.

Six Years for the Gun

This my friend, Jerry, who is serving a prison sentence for attempted murder. I knew him for a year and a half before he committed his crime, and he changed my life!


Jerry was not the first murderer I have taught, but he was the first student to murder someone after I taught him. I first met Jerry when he came to our literacy agency for help. I was the training and program development specialist, and I met many of the students working in our one-on-one tutoring program. Jerry's tutor was one of our Board of Trustees, Margaret. She was a fantastic woman who never stopped giving to our community. She brought Jerry to me because she felt he needed some help socially, and that the new student support group I was forming would be beneficial. I remember shaking his hand the first time, noticing his unkempt appearance and strong stench of tobacco. He was shy but pleasant, and he agreed to come to a meeting. I had no idea how far his education would go, how much he would teach me, and how suddenly he could be pulled back into the hell he was climbing out of.
Jerry did attend the student support meetings and gradually began to open up. We started the group not only to support the students, but to eventually develop them into public speakers - far more powerful advocates for the program than we could ever be. It took Jerry six months before he was ready to speak in public, an informational gathering for would be tutors. He did an excellent job, but he broke down and cried at the end of his two minute presentation. Jerry knew what all non-literates know in this culture: It is far more fashionable to have a drug addiction than a reading program. Tell someone you are recovering from most problems and you get sympathy, maybe a hug. Tell them you cannot read and they move away from you.
I started to spend more time with Jerry as he began to volunteer more and more at the literacy center. I was new to the area and he directed me to a lot of resources and events. One Saturday, after we did an early training session together, Jerry and I walked down to a local bar to get a drink. We both had cokes, and chatted for awhile. Afer about a half an hour, Jerry nodded towards two men at the bar and told me that they were gonna fight. Shortly after I began to respond (I didn't get that sense from them), one punched the other squarely on the jaw. Jerry had seen something I didn't. I had spent my fair share of hours in bars, but he could see more than I could, more body language.
Jerry and I would sometimes go to local auctions and flea markets he knew in the area. We had a good time, and he seemed at ease. We came from somewhat similar humble backgrounds, but his was far worse. His brother had been murdered years earlier, and I don't believe Jerry had ever had a fruitful full-time job. I knew he had had psychological problems, and that he was estranged from his wife and children. We didn't discuss his family much, as it upset him. I learned a great deal about Jerry, and a group of people like him. I thought I understood them well, but I did not. He provided a great deal of insight for me, positive and negative.
Jerry was making good progress with his tutor, and was doing well with in the support group. He was making more public speaking appearances, as was attending better to his hygiene. I really thought he was turning his life around. That is until one rainy Saturday Autumn morning.
I got a call from a colleague at work telling me to turn on the news. When I did, I saw a picture of Jerry, and heard the news report that he was being sought for the attempted murder of his wife. Jerry hid out for a few days before he turned himself in. He called me from jail with his one phone call. He told me that he spent the night in my parking lot thinking he would have me turn him in. He thought better of it,not wanting to involve me and eventually drove himself to the local jail. I called legal aid for him, and made arrangements to visit him a few days later.
I was shocked when I saw Jerry, he looked worse than when I first met him. He was tired and depressed. I asked him how he was, and he just looked at me in defeat. I couldn't help myself from asking what had happened, and he detailed the events very dispassionately. He told me he had tried to reconcile with his wife, and that she had taken him back. Something went wrong though, as usual, and she threw Jerry out. He returned with a large caliber pistol and confronted her in their driveway.
He told me that he hit her and she fell down. Jerry then informed me that if she had fallen on her front he would have killed her as he would have shot her in the back of the head. Instead she fell on her back and looked up at him. He told me he wanted her to suffer as she looked at him and he shot her five or six times in the chest. She was a big woman, and somehow she survived.
Jerry pleaded guilty to attmepted murder and was sentenced to 25 years to life, with six years to be served initially for the use of the gun. We corresponded for awhile when he got to prison, but eventually we lost touch. I miss him often. I saw Margaret a year later. She smiled sadly, but then said with a better grin, "let me know when he is released and I will tutor him again."

Daughters of a Crimson Dusk

After my first year working for JAMAL (The Jamaican Movement for the Advancement of Literacy) in Montego Bay, we moved our office across town. The new space was larger, but was in terrible shape. I am not sure why, but we had to vacate the old offices with little notice, and classes needed to continue. The director and I, along with three other staff worked around the clock for three days to get the place ready for our students. We cleaned, patched, and painted. It was tiring, but a lot of fun. Mr. Drummond, the director, was a wonderful man who never lost his composure and always had a cheerful demeanor. We were worn out, but proud and our students appreciated the new classrooms.
I had been teaching a group of students for most of the year, and we had a great relationship. They were from different walks of life, but had bonded well. My favorite of this favorite group was Mr. Cowell, a sky juice vendor. Sky juice was shaved ice flavored with syrup. Sky juice carts (made famous by Cool Runnings) were home made sleds on wheels that carried a large block of ice and bottles of various syrups. The operator would shave some ice off the large block, put it in small plastic bag, then pour the syrup over it. This bag of cold refreshment came with a small straw. Mr. Cowell pushed one of these contraptions cheerfully ten hours a day, six days a week. He had cut his working hours down in order to attend early evening classes. He learned slowly, but was very eager and worked very hard. When I saw him in the day around town, he always made a big production, introducing me to his customers and "comping" me a sky juice. I didn't really care for the mixture, it was far too sweet, but I loved the interaction and ritual.
When we moved to the new office, we slowly gained more students. We had more space and a more visible location. I had a large desk in a corner of the first floor with a filing cabinet - my first official office space. We had a small cook stove in the backroom and Kingsley, our custodian, would make lunch everyday. We ate casava, dumplings, sweet potatoes, and greens. Morale was very high. It was a very dynamic time, and I was thrilled to be part of it all.
During the day, I worked out in the rural areas setting up and supporting classes. On two nights each week, I taught a class in the classroom above my office, where Mr. Cowell and his classmates made me laugh and love the fact that I was a teacher. Things were going so well, I should have known there would be an inevitable problem, not yet understanding how pessimistic karma really is. The problem came three weeks or so after the move, and I was totally unprepared for it (I guess that is what makes it a problem). I was teaching late one evening when three women knocked on the door asking to be admitted to the classroom. I was excited - three new students! As they entered, I felt a chill in the room and I saw the other students stiffen. The three women proceeded to the back of the room where they sat quietly and waited for my instruction. The other students shot furtive glances at each other, but said nothing. I dove back into the past tense or whatever lesson I was working on, hoping that the atmosphere would soften, and that I would figure out what the heck had just happened. The chill remained, but the explanation came at break time. When most of the class had gone downstairs for water, Mr. Cowell and a few of the other regular students stayed behind. The did not address the issue directly, but it was clear something was on their minds. After a minute or so I just looked at them and said "what?" Mr. Cowell stammered, paused, and blurted out that the new students were not proper women. The others just nodded solemnly. My three new students were prostitutes.
At first, I was somewhat indignant that such a thing mattered to these students. Who were they, who were we to judge anyone? I was really at a loss. I tried to remain patient as an ultimatum was constructed. By the end of the break, I was informed that the entire class would walk out if the new students were allowed to return. My instinct was to call their bluff and to take the higher ethical ground. But I owed these students more than that, more than my desultory liberality. Desperate to buy time, I told Mr. Cowell to tell the other students that we would end class early, and that I would address the issue before we next met again. I called the three women in on the pretext that I needed to do a registration for them. I really did not know what to do.
As we chatted and as I took their information, a plan slowly developed. I told them that since they were new, they would be behind the other students. Therefore, I would teach them separately for awhile, immediately after the scheduled class. They were deferential, and in hindsight, I suppose they were hurt. In any case, I had time to help them and to figure out a way to get them back into the regular class. In the end, it almost worked out, and I learned more about human dignity than I had expected.
The ladies and I met steadily for almost two months before one disappeared. In that time they worked hard at their lessons, and taught me about some very harsh realities in the pursuit of simple existence. As they grew more comfortable with me, they shared more about their lives and their occupation. I never asked, but I think they wanted me to know they weren't bad people. On one evening, the oldest of the group (perhaps 30) told me she did the work she did in hopes of purchasing a mattress for her three children. Their father had moved to Racine, Wisconsin and would be sending for them any day, at least that was the dream she half held for more than ten years. At one point early on, I realized I had seen one of them near the bars on several occasions, but she had been dressed much differently, even her presence had changed in the classroom. She told me she had seen me as well, as had the other two. I did notice that I never saw the three of them "working" again, as I suspected they began to avoid the few places I went out to.
Back in the original classroom, I had been fairly icy with the students. I felt bad for them, but I had not completely forgiven them. The three women always waited outside until the other students had left the classroom completely, and I could tell Mr. Cowell and some of the other students were curious about the second class. Our class never regained the ambiance it once had, but we attended to our business and the students learned. I still got my sticky sweet sky juice, and Mr. Cowell plodded along as earnestly as ever. At the end of the second month, after I had lost one of the three women, I was resolved to bring the other two back to the larger class. I sat down one evening with the original group and told them flatly of my intention. They muttered and made small protests. I explained that the two students had worked very hard, and that they deserved to be in a proper classroom. I went on to say that I was growing very weary of teaching a double class. Perhaps it was the latter appeal that moved some of them. When the following week arrived, most of the students returned, a few did not. The two women quietly sat in the back, and we continued to do our work into the next year. The class was never the same, we laughed far less often, but we all learned. I settled for tolerance when I was aiming at acceptance.
I don't think the women changed their profession while I was there, and I know the two groups never really interacted, but I was grateful for the peace we finally settled on. Mr. Cowell and I remained friends, and I had the hope that the seeds we sowed eventually spawned simple and honest dreams. I cling to that hope every time I step into a classroom anywhere.

On a Jamaican Mountaintop

I don't know when I first realized I wanted to join the Peace Corps, and i don't know why -the desire just seems to have always been there. When I finished my bachelor's degree I applied, not knowing it could be a year-long process. While the application was pending, I decided to go to graduate school and was accepted at Oklahoma State University in Ancient Mediterranean Civilizations. I spent a year learning Latin and Greek, and reading some really old books. It was fascinating, but the interaction between my professors really turned me off. They fought, and lived what I thought were pretty insulated lives. I knew then that I wouldn't be a professor, I couldn't live the rest of my life that narrowly.
After a year, my Peace Corps invitation arrived - I was headed to Jamaica. I was not thrilled at all, many of my friends had been there, and I wanted to head out across the world. Despite my reluctance, I accepted the offer to teach Educational Psychology at a teachers college in Montego Bay. The thought of teaching at a college was interesting, so I steadily grew more excited about the assignment.
After two weeks of training in Kingston, I was told that the teachers college had closed. The Peace Corps officials would look for a new assignment for me while I finished my training. After five more weeks, nothing had materialized. I went in to see my supervisor, and he suggested I take a bus up to Montego Bay, look around and see what I could find. I jumped at the chance. The next morning I headed off in a bus to Mo Bay. I found a really nice cheap hotel and made my way around the town. It wasn't very big, but it was very friendly. I spent a good part of the day explaining I wasn't a tourist and asking for various educational institutions. Later in the afternoon, I drifted down a backstreet and saw a very colorful sign that said JAMAL - The Jamaican Movement for the Advancement of Literacy. I walked into the building and up a long stairway where I met the most engaging man in Jamaica, at least I thought so. His name was Errol Drummond, and he supervised the literacy programs on the western side of the island. I explained my situation, and he suggested I might like to visit an adult literacy class that evening. We made arrangements to meet later and I headed off to freshen up at my hotel.
Later, near sundown, I returned to the office to find him waiting with another man in a Landrover. I climbed in and he told me it would take a few minutes to get to the class. An hour later, we were deep in the cockpit country of Western Jamaica. The ride was bumpy and rough, but we had fun talking, and I learned a lot about the literacy work there. Finally, we began driving up a very steep hillside and he told me the class was at the top of the ridge. As we crested the summit, I saw a very dilapidated shack in the distance. It seemed to be leaning to the right precariously, and I could see light from the inside pouring out between the rough-hewn planks. We pulled up near the building and he and I got out. As we approached the doorway, he nodded and had me go in first. When I stepped in, I was alarmed - the room was full of Jamaicans. They were crammed around desks, a few sat in the rafters, and they were all staring at me. The desks were pushed almost up to the blackboard (the front wall painted black) and I barely had room to edge my way to the other side. I got to the wall, turned around and pressed myself to the wall, there was literally room for nothing else. I expected my host to come in and to teach the class. He didn't emerge right away and I nervously turned and looked into what seemed to be a sea of dark faces. I nodded hello, and about a million teeth became visible as they smiled and greeted me in the dimly lit room. The light by the way came from a few hurricane lamps tacked crookedly to the walls. After about thirty seconds (or three hours, if you had asked me then), a piece of chalk came flying in from the darkness outside and a remote voice said "Teach them something, I will be back in a few hours."
Stunned, I stepped up to the board and began writing words. I decided we would review verbs: Run, Leave, Flee, Vacate, Bolt, Escape, etc. They didn't get the connection, and after a few minutes I settled down. The following few hours flew by and I had a wonderful time. We laughed, I answered questions, we talked about Jamaica and the USA. They wrote everything down in their little workbooks (at least what their language abilities allowed)very neatly, and I waited patiently as they did so. I discovered in that first evening with these students what four years of my own schooling in teaching education had failed to accomplish - I knew I was a teacher, and I knew what I would be doing the rest of my life, with passion and love. I became a teacher that evening.
I spent the next year teaching adult literacy classes in the evening while teaching at an orphanage in the day. The second year I stopped teaching full time at the orphanage (they had found a Jamaican teacher which was appropriate), so I increased my role at the literacy agency. I became a field officer, travelling around the western side of the island setting up and supporting literacy classes. It was the best year of my life. I didn't go to Jamaica to teach adult literacy, but I left Jamaica with a lifelong passion.