April 12, 2005

• Snapshots from a past life, Part II

  
  

  (Part two of many, of this odd thing called “my life.” If you want to read the first installment, there’s a link at the bottom of the “The Human Behind the Words” left sidebar.)

  
  

  “Wow! You’ve lived in so many exotic places!”

  
  

  That’s true. I can’t deny it, at least not withing the frame of reference of most people’s lives. In early 1967, we spent about four months in Jamaica. It was the first time I set foot outside of Europe– and on the way, it also became the first time I set foot in the US of A.

  
  

  My Godfather lived in New York, which was our first stop. Coming from the “small time” cities of Europe, I was fascinated by the height and “newness” of the buildings as well as the strange water tanks that graced the roofs of so many of them. I remember that my Godfather lived on the 26th floor, with an uninterrupted view of the harbor and the Manhattan skyline, and I’d just sit in the window and look at the tall buildings, and watch the endless activity on the water below.

  
  

  My Godfather was married and had twin daughters in their 20′s who were still living at home. My mother had lived with this family during her years in New York, and spent hours telling me about all the “wonderful” things the city had to offer (with the accompaniment of occasional tears of nostalgia), although said things held limited wonder for a 6-year old.

  
  

  I should mention (before someone asks) that I grew up bilingual– Danish and English. Popular family lore holds that I actually had to learn Danish so I could go to kindergarten in Denmark. This is a complete lie. Whereas we often spoke English at home whan I was really little, I know for a fact that spoke Danish with my father’s relatives when I was three and four. But I digress.

  
  

  My Godfather also represented my first exposure to “cultural differences” of the kind that aren’t obvious to the eye, and I can clearly remember the inner confusion I felt. I came from a background of “quiet politeness” in which “Children may be seen, but not heard.” He almost immediately went to work on teaching me to “Stand tall, look ‘em in the eye, and tell ‘em what you know!” Somewhere in my 6-year old brain, I tried to wrap myself around the concept that this man was asking me to do precisely what I had previously learned to be “rude and inappropriate.” He was also 6’4″ tall, which scared me a bit– and after growing up to be 6’4″, myself, I use those feelings as a sort of “reference point” when I sense others feeling a little intimidated around me.

  
  

  After about a week in the big city, we went on to Jamaica, our “tropical paradise.” Jamaica is somewhat significant in my memories, in the sense that it was the first place of which I have any “contiguous memories” as to daily life. We lived in a lovely house on the coast, some 40 miles east of Montego Bay. There were extensive grounds, a little cove with our own private sandy beach with a colorful coral reef adjacent, and a full-time staff consisting of Selma, the cook; Charlotte, the maid/housekeeper; and James the gardener/chauffeur.

  
  

  I don’t remember exactly what my Father’s business in Jamaica was– and I am not sure that I ever really knew. Come to think of it, I sometimes wonder if he even had much business there, or if he was just trying to “escape” from himself. I do remember that there were occasional “Gentlemen in Suits” who’d come around to the house, and they had something to do with the R.J.Reynolds Corporation’s presence in Jamaica. I remember he took me along to a bauxite mining operation once, and I got the impression it had something to do with his work. “They make the aluminum foil we put inside bottle caps at the factory,” he told me– and I remember thinking that it was somewhat magical that red rocks could turn into silver foil. However, I mostly remember the red dust on everything, and the cable line with carts transporting the red rocks down the mountain to a freighter anchored by the coast.

  
  

  As I sit here writing, so many memory fragments come up, and scroll by. Exploring the (I’d guess) 20 acres of grounds, sometimes with James’ 11-year old daughter Sunshine. I don’t think that was her real name, but everybody called her that. There were tiny green parrots in the trees, and butterflies the size of small birds. I saw brightly colored hummingbirds in a myriad of jeweltones, only to be outdone by the brightly colored fish in the lagoon. I helped Selma search for the eggs her flock of semi-wild chickens would deposit around the property. James showed me how to carve funny masks from coconut husks, although we always had to hide the knife if either of my parents showed up.

  
  

  [pause for reflection]

  
  

  To the casual observer, it all looks very idyllic and priviliged, right? Although my mother fumbled around with trying to homeschool me (some reading and math, but mostly “social graces”) I had lots of time to myself, and I was naturally introspective and thoughtful.

  
  

  I don’t know if it was sudden, or gradual, but as the weeks passed I was increasingly overtaken by a vague “awareness” that I didn’t belong there. My parents were in hog heaven, with sun, warmth, beach and lifestyle with servants. I could never quite get comfortable. Physically, there was never a place where I could find coolness; refreshment. Even the ocean was “warm,” and the ostensibly “cool” sea breeze felt muggy and cloying. I remember the feeling of being covered by a fine film of sweat for four months straight. I remember how my otherwise boundless energy was always sapped by early afternoon, and how often I just wanted to sit. I remember my parents laughing and joking about how happy they were to not be shovelling snow, and I found myself visualizing snowflakes falling on the palm trees, in some attempt to feel cooler.

  
  

  But there were other ways in which it all seemed slightly “wrong.” I slowly became aware of a growing sense of isolation. Although I didn’t know what it meant, at the time, I was experiencing a budding awareness of the importance (to me) of “human connection” (on a feeling/emotional level) as essential to my sense of well-being. My parents related to life through “things,” “ideas” and “experiences,” but not through “people,” ”feelings” or “connections,” which I know now– all these years later– are my primary modalities for “being in the world.” 

  
  

  As a final “new concept,” I grew aware that I didn’t “understand” certain things about my parents– specifically, I didn’t understand the odd way in which they seemed to think themselves “separate” from the other people in the house. Although there was definitely an element of separation on account of Selma, Charlotte, James and Sunshine being “of color,” there was also this strange undercurrent of it being “wrong” for the “gentry” and “servants” to comingle. To me, they were all people, no different from any other people. Although I was quiet and shy, and by no means easy to get to know, I made no distinctions between people, except as to whether they “felt nice” or “felt scary.” I was certainly too young to understand the ongoing dynamic, but I was still very aware that both my parents and the staff were– on some level– anything from “appalled” to “confused” by my total disregard (or was it simply “unawareness?”) for certain conventions of conduct/behavior they were accustomed to.

  
  

  To this day, tropical islands hold no mystique or appeal to me. Leaving Jamaica was far harder on my parents than on me– frankly, I was glad to stop sweating. Life is funny, sometimes, in the little twists it tosses our way. All of us were going to miss sunshine, on returning to the dark cold raininess of Denmark. But for my parents, it was something to do with the weather. For me, it was something to do with a young Jamaican girl named Sunshine, who had offered me a few threads of human connection.

  
  

  (This seems like a natural breaking point for now– no promises as to when I’ll get around to the next one.)

  
  

   

  • 12:34 pm
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