Rose and Thorns

When my face hit the ground it tasted like the sweat of the travellers before me, their pained feet sinking into the sweet dirt, perfumed by the rain’s touch. I was so close to nature I could smell the plants and the herbal remedies that stung the throat and worked its way to my stomach and out of me. I could hear the gentle gurgle of the river and the unholy Sunday washer women afar off chattering in high happy voices, reliving the Saturday market day and the prospect of a big Sunday meal. When I closed my eyes I could see their jellied arms scrubbing the fabric until it shone, and the children holding on to the strong arms of their mothers as they raked the comb through their tender heads, preparing them to be baptized in the clear waters, freshly cleansed for a week of reciting and gazing through the windowless classrooms at the clouds floating lazily across the blue firmament, each waving to the sun as it passed, reaching to shake its outstretched arms.

There is something wrong with me (something serious they say), and the green plants mashed until the natural juices escape cannot help me. The pastor held my head, calling out until his voice sounded like the end of a husky cough, dry and hoarse “Father help Rose!” with golden liquid running down my face combined with a little of his spittle. But the earnest praying cannot free the dark forces that run through my mind and dance around me, (well that’s what my mother believes.) You see, I am alone and although my two sisters and my mother are so close to me, that I can feel the hairs on their hand, and the heat of their breath against my face and neck. We sleep in the same bed and I feel them brush against me as we fight for the mirror. I know what my mother wears under her dress every morning before she leaves for her office job in the town near to us, and while I wait for the little monsters to disappear entirely I continue to emulate the grins on the faces, the shake of a hand. Somehow I still feel isolated.

I lived in a different world before I went to secondary school, a place where it was normal to slide down muddy hills and climb the rough texture of the mango tree and the scars you got from scaling down the trees were embraced and looked at in awe for your courage and bravery. It was a joy to watch my mother prepare our meals, she didn’t teach me to cook, but I learned by watching her oil her hands and peel pale green bananas while waiting for the fire to light, during those waiting periods, I danced in the blue mist of the smoke encircling the house. Then I watched the movement of her hands, the estimated measurements and timed each meal as they came to perfection. And I saw nothing wrong with sitting on a smooth rock and lapping your skirt between wide open legs as you prepared your meal.

Where I was from, I didn’t have a problem with the opposite sex, I didn’t endure snares, I was only human to them, a girl who could do everything, I sang as loudly as I wanted at Sunday school, speeding up the songs that my teacher drawled as she sat in the tiny chair fanning her folds. After church, I spun around in my dress allowing it could go high as I wanted and then drop on the dry summer grass laughing in dizzy happiness. Life was simple, the clouds lazily floated by, and the rain pleasured us with its wet kisses ever so often, making the trail to the river slippery, and we would cling to the branches and plants on the side as we slid and fell into the clear, fresh water.

But when you turn thirteen you take an exam, and if, like me you are smart enough, you are awarded the honour of walking through a modern building, and you get to rub shoulders with those who take baths indoors and are scented with delicate perfume and lotion from somewhere else. Their hair float past their shoulders and they walk with their backs stiff and straight. They speak in a way that is only required on special occasions where I am from and their smiles are tight and laughs are like the screech of an angry animal.

The first time I walked through the gates, my hands were plastered against the rough blue fabric. I stood with my mouth wide open as girls with big hips swung pass me, their necks stiff as ostriches and their pride and prestige looming about.

I knew they were vicious, I felt the cold when they passed me, yet no one gave me a hard time which surprised me, even when they saw how my uniform hung loosely off my slim shoulders, a way for my mother to save money so she wouldn’t have to buy another next year. They didn’t pay attention to how stiff and brown my stubby twists looked in the sunlight or the faded cartoon characters on my school bag while they carried plain, brown leather hanging off a slicing sleeve seam, obviously perfected by someone who inherited the rough palms from their African ancestors. They didn’t look at my oversized shoes with the heel leaning, a gift from my aunt whose daughter wore it until the insides smelt like the dead, even though I spent a week putting them in the sun for prolonged hours. And they didn’t even glance at my government book, flimsy and on the verge of falling apart. The sad truth is I wished they mocked and taunted me, I would kill for them to rag me until I fell in a child’s pose weeping. But they simply walked past with their heads facing forward and their shoulders and neck high.

Before I came here, I thought I was rich, I thought the soap we bought that no one could afford in the community was a badge of distinction. Women with sagging breasts and skinny toddlers with protruding stomachs needed permission from my mother to walk through our yard, a shortcut to the river, and wash themselves until their knees were white and scratched and water beads ran from the little boys’ hair. When we went to church we were suited in clothes that fit us, with smiles for everyone who wanted to speak with us and they marveled at the way my sisters and I rounded our o’hs perfectly and nodded respectfully when appropriate. We didn’t mingle with the ones who went to market on a Friday, we were like the other working class rich whose parents worked in an office in the city or owned a decent acreage of land to sell food they grew. The only idling we knew was to gaze at the bright blue sky and rest our arms on the windowsill to feel the warmth of the sun lull us and the sound of the teacher’s voice became a faraway sound, ushering us to the land of nod.

But here, they come from cars that are cleaner than me, they have someone to carry their bags and their skin are as clean as babies. They talk of shopping trips to Manor Park and promised gifts of new novels, pens, journals and “a brand new satchel!” for improved academics. They didn’t even bother to ask where I was from, I didn’t look like and talk like them or know the appropriate response to dining etiquette or Sunday brunch in the garden. I was an outcast, deemed unfit for conversations or sitting too close to those who knew rosary prayers or attended mass on Sundays. I was the one who found enjoyment in shaking tambourines and hollering how good Jesus was until I was hoarse. But I became so lost in all of my sadness and unsuitable upbringing that one week at church I didn’t feel the glee in shaking the tambourine when sister Brown handed me with pride, and I glanced out the faded doors of the church to see if any of the posh girls might just see me, but then I started shaking the tambourine lightly, the bells straining under the sounds of the drums , I shook it harder, beating it mercilessly against my palms and bellowed “Some sweet day I’m going away!” oh absurd of me to think they would end up here.

It was a visit to my mother’s office one day that allowed me to meet one of them, have her actually speak to me. She had skin like toffee and wavy honey gold hair that flowed over her shoulders, freckles were sprinkled over her face as though she was using brown paint and flashed the brush too hard. Her nose was quite large for her small face and she had hips that made her uniform swing and sway as she walked. She often sat with the other girls licking lollipops that made their mouths blue and then they would look in their compact mirrors and laugh, casually brushing their hair from their eyes. Sometimes they sat in the sun by the gazebo and buried their heads in romance novels, disguising them with library books so they wouldn’t get in trouble with the sisters.

I was walking towards my mother’s office gate when the royal blue taxi pulled up and she got out and slammed the door. She waved to the burly security guard who gave her a gold tooth smile and polite wink, then she waltzed to the entrance as though she owned the building. He had a less pleasant face for me and even though I told him who I was visiting, he wrote it in a book and made me sign anyway, slamming the pen on the book as though I was bothering him. He didn’t even tell me to go ahead when I was through, It was when I stood there fidgeting with the splits on my bag strap that he gave me an impatient wave. My mother types for the assistant to the boss, a woman who clacks her way through the halls in red pointy heels and often fidgets with her black skirt even though they never move pass her knees. She is friendly and would always rub my head, and even though it is almost the end of the term, she always made sure to congratulate me for passing high. She gave me a blue lollipop once that my mother insisted I shared with my sisters.

I was walking through the halls when I saw the girl from school, she looked shocked then smiled politely. I could feel her pause and the urge to ask a question lingered in the air.

“Hey,” she smiled at me “You go to my school right? She asked this with genuine concern on her face even though we were wearing the same uniform, and her thick brows scrunched making her freckles seem as though they were colliding.

“Yeah,” I answered hanging my head and watched little ants run through the tiny crack in the tile.

“Ah” she said with a smile, a perfect row of teeth and blue mouth, then she swung her gigantic hips and disappeared around the corner.

I began visiting my mother every day because they had a library where I could do my homework in peace. My first real interaction with the girl was when she dropped a pile of books on my table and began chatting with me. I told her all the details, my rural Saint Andrew home, rides on the packed bus and my absent father. She took in all of this with such interest, her face propped up on her elbows with a serious expression, as though my life was a horror picture and even when you wanted to turn away you just couldn’t resist the action.

She didn’t say anything after that, I thought maybe it was how horrendous it all sounded. But to my surprise she said “I like your life,” in a small still voice and we sat staring at each other until her eyes seemed as one and all the little freckles across her face became one big brown circle. I laughed, a nervous laugh, one that made your whole body tremble and your throat dry, then we just sat there in silence, not knowing what to say, until we went back to scrawling notes in our books, mine flimsy so you had to write slow while she marked away on the rough, thick white pages.

“What’s your name?” she asked before she left.

“Rose.”

“Ellie,” she said and I shook her moist outstretched hand.

She sat beside me every day in the library and made me tell her stories of the river, the women fighting over shared men and how a girl we called “Cattie,” gets pregnant every second. She would laugh when appropriate, on one instance, her eyes got watery and she looked as though she could vomit when I told her of how they slaughtered the pigs and goats. She never told me anything about her life and she would often glance at the door every few seconds. If I asked her a question, she would give a little laugh and wrap a finger around her hair then say “my life is boring, I like yours better.” I would go on and tell her about all the things we did, it was as if a pipe had burst and all the water broke through, spilling everywhere.

She never talked to me at school. She would glance at me and give a little smile, being careful to look at her friends first. I watched her hop in the blue taxi after school and even though she knew I was going the same place, she never offered me a ride. We had the same homeroom but she sat over the corner by the window staring at nothing and if I happened to arrive after her, she would pretend as though she was reading a book.

She seemed to panic if I came too close, and would always be nervously playing with her uniform if I stood behind her in the lunch line, then one day I was placed in a group with her, we were told for our science class to find different types of plants and paste them our books, after which we would present to the class our findings. I was with her and two other girls, both were quiet ones who were like her, but they never seem to care about anything but looking in their mirrors and poking every part of their faces. But today as we walked through the low grass and touched the different plants, they seemed chatty, one said “This feels like the wild countryside, you know I hear they don’t even have proper water, they drink from a river that everyone shits in.” and they all laughed, Ellie arched her back and lifted her head, her teeth looked pointed in the sunlight and all her freckles came alive, jumping around her face. I stared at her, my hands growing sweaty with hurt and I wanted badly to hit her, to strike the lump in her throat and make her choke, but I could only feel the tears welling at the side of my eye so I turned and walked away while they berated the place I worshipped.

As we stood in front of the class that afternoon I watched the formation of their words, the lips lubricated with hatefulness and how angelic they appeared to the teacher. Ellie would glance at me once or twice and I stood staring at her, and I knew she wasn’t sorry, she had a smirk and sometimes a closed mouth smile of victory, after that they started sitting in a circle and stared at me when I entered the class, sometimes they would snicker, burying their heads together, their shiny plaits jiggling, and their wicked backs trembling with laughter. They could hate me here, but I knew if we were to visit another country like England, the white people there would probably ask us the same thing “where are you from?” With confusion in the brightly coloured eyes and hands partly stretched out, to touch the melanin that could not be bought, because to me we were all the same, except for the water that cleansed us.

I don’t mind the tickle of the grass, and it wasn’t true, we didn’t shit or piss in the river, we love the river, we even made sure not to make too much suds fill it as we washed our brown bodies, dry and grey after we were done. And I like walking in the dark, the pale moonlight guiding my feet and the sound of the Patoo urging me to walk faster. I have no problem singing the choruses and reading from a ratty Bible even though nearly half the words were gone. There was no real hate for those who couldn’t speak well or go to school. I wanted to kill all these girls who thought that their lives in a box was worth more than a run down the hill while the orange glow from the sun settled in the far side of the sky, the wind blowing you along and the grass caressing you as you pass.

But as I walked off the bus today, taking everybody’s stale odor and troubles with me, I frowned at the garbage by the side of the road, and the browning of the grass due to the onset of summer. The road was rocky and I felt the stones dig in my heel almost penetrating the soft flesh, and as I approached my house I saw how the paint was peeling and the zincs were rusty, the entrance needed badly to be cleaned then I heard the vulgar shout of a mother and the contact of a hand against frail, delicate flesh followed by a long whine of pain. I felt my own eyes grow moist and my whole being felt like it was crumbling under the weight of their laughs, her betrayal and the fancy life I don’t have. I began thinking of how easy it was for them to go to Woolworth and pick anything they liked, to sit in a garden and smell Mother Earth, the sweet fragrance of the flowers and carefully prepared food on white plates. The tears slowly streamed down the corner of my eyes and settled on my chin, tickling me, but I didn’t feel like laughing. I glanced at the mangoes ripening on the tree, and the flies buzzing around the rotten ones. I felt a pain, a sharp sting in my stomach and I could feel it travelling to my chest and a cramp in my legs. I was tired

I heard a voice yell “Rose!” and I turned and watched them waving at me in the ugly red uniform, the ones who didn’t pass as high and had to go to the school a little out of our community. They waved their arms wildly, looking like creatures appearing out of their hiding place. Their grins could be seen from a far, the white teeth shining brightly against their black skin, but they seemed happy and in a group where they belonged. With wide eyes and yearning in their voices they often expressed their envy at me going to a good school and seeing better people, we thought they were better than us and boy was I wrong.

And usually I would laugh and try to exude confidence, but this time I was too exhausted and I kept seeing her face in my head, her yellow skin and long hair glaring in the sun, and that laugh, like a hyena seemed too vulgar for someone who should be able to play the piano and recite poetry in a small voice while standing at a large window while a white curtain blow around her face. But today I was tired and I walked away without answering them, I stepped in my yard, the door creaked loudly as I opened it and I slammed it against the wall. Inside smelt like old clothes and fried foods and a glass of water had turned over because someone left the window open and breeze felt like being cheeky.

I flung my bag on the floor and the boards groaned then I almost ripped the light blue material from my body, taking off their hatred and snobbish behavior off my pure, clean country self. And as I walked alone to the river, I heard it calling me. I ran on the moist mud and fell, and I could smell the earth and everything that gave me joy, then I ran to the cool water, brushing the damp mud from my knees and dribbled water over my naked self, it glided along my slim thighs and the bruises over my knees, then I immersed myself and rubbed the pebbles against my toes and felt the force of the water unravel my hair, making me breathe. I couldn’t hear or feel anything from the outside so I stayed under until I could no longer puff my cheeks for air.

One week we had the boys from Saint Joseph Christian Boys school visit our school, they called it “Mingling Monday,” where we had to learn how to conduct ourselves in the company of gentlemen. We stood in the hall the morning with the sun stinging our faces and seeping through the polyester, making liquid run down our legs. But we could not move, we had to present ourselves as ladies, stiff and voiceless. They stood on the stage matching our five perfect lines. I could smell the testosterone, the grease in their hair and pants seams threatened to slice us if we went to close. Every girl would be matched with a boy, and they scanned the room separating the desirable from the ugly. I held down my head as they looked around and my heart racketed against my chest as the partner names were called. “Rose Williams and Jim Burley,” the principal said in her high, screeching voice and I slowly held up my head to see a boy whose skin looked like grounded coffee and his face shiny with grease. He smiled nervously and glanced around the room to see the girl who would walk towards him. He brushed his hand against the beige pants, maybe they were sweaty. I made the first step, my foot slippery with sweaty moisture. I had worn my best uniform, the one that didn’t fall off my shoulders and my face was smooth from the river water and my hair oiled and tamed. His smile disappeared as I walked towards him, he had a serious expression, one that wasn’t hateful or happy either, then when he shook my hand, he whispered “pleased to meet you Rose,” and my hand trembled against his, “pleased to meet you Jim” and he took my hands in his cold palms while we walked out listening to the other names. I could tell that he was disappointed when he walked pass Ellie.

We had to spend the morning together, so he was polite, he handed me a bright blue blow that was too big for my hair, I could see it sitting perfectly in Ellie’s hair. He asked me questions, where I was from and what I liked to do. He often brushed against me, and I rustled my skirt each time a teacher passed, observing us. He laughed when I told him about my church and the river, I could feel him getting warm and my smile brighter. He told me of his home and his helper and the trips they were planning to take across the country. He didn’t speak boastfully, it was his life, and he didn’t know anything else. I noticed the tiny spilt between his front teeth when he laughed and how bright his eyes got when he was interested in anything I said. So often he would touch my hand and it would feel as though electricity was running through my skin, then we were silent and I felt at peace.

When the session ended, he shook my hand and kissed me on the cheek and it made me warm. “It was a pleasure speaking to you Rose,” he said with a big smile.

“Likewise Jim,” and he waved goodbye. Then he gathered in a small group with Ellie and another pig nosed girl who laughed too loudly and made sure everyone knew how much money she had. I heard words like, tennis and Sunday school and I assumed they lived in the same community. Then Ellie became alive and her whole started jiggling which made a teacher frown at her. I sat there stiff, not knowing why I didn’t move, when the girls started talking loudly to Jim “how did you feel when you got her?” and they glanced back at me, I felt the sun on the top of my head and my face grew hotter, then they all started laughing and Jim stood staring at me, not knowing exactly what to do, and I could see the pity in his eyes, I have never felt embarrassed in the way that I did that morning. The bell rang and made me jump and they scattered like ants, he glanced back and gave a smile, one that I read as “I am sorry for how you live.”

A few weeks have passed and I still haven’t recovered. I see Ellie and feel her everywhere and everyone thinks something is wrong with me. My mother took me to see an old skinny doctor with his cheekbones threatening to pierce through his skin. The room smelt strongly of eucalyptus oil and curtains hung all around for privacy. It was dark inside and the liquids in the bottles on the shelves looked like muddy water. He stretched my cheeks and eyes and I only stared in the distance, waiting for him to say what I already know “she needs rest,” I could hear him and my mother speaking in hushed tones and words like “stress,” “anxiety” and “fluids” floated pass me then fell to the ground. I need rest, but not the kind where you had to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling

One night, I woke up to the sound of the wind, a loud moaning sound travelling through the night, and in her angry state she was shaking and breaking everything. I felt my sister jump and saw her slim shadow trembling in the night, then she turned and held my face and rested her cheek against my bony chest, and without a sound she was crying. I could feel the drops of tears seep through my nightie and moisten the left side of my breast. And even though I was tired and broken, I stroked her smooth head and kissed her forehead. I could hear my mother shuffling in the dark and muttering to herself. And in her frenzy she knocked over a glass and silently cursed under her breath. The wind storm continued through the night, and threatened to lift the roof over our heads, but the metal sheets fought with her, and even though she was weak, rusty and broken, in the morning I was pleased to not see the sky from my bed. I watched and listened all night to the wind crying and breaking everything apart, but they wouldn’t let her, the stones knocked against the window, pleading for us to let them in and the trees waved frantically as she pulled and tore them, and I sobbed with those who lost to her rough hands and smiled with the others who stood against her force.

My eyes were sore and puffy when I woke up and I heard my mother and sisters arguing through the curtain. I turned my head towards them, I could see my sister’s frame, long and lean and her plaits sticking out her head, we called her “Moonie” because her head was a perfect circle and Jennifer, the youngest had her thumb hanging from her lips and I laughed a little when my mother slapped it from her mouth and she started howling. I dragged my heavy body from the bed but my mother heard me moaning and peeked through the curtain, then she quickly forced me to sit.

“Rest,” she said opening her bright eyes wider. She let her hair loose and started pulling the long strands into a ponytail without looking in a mirror. She had a smooth oval face and a small nose and I wanted to reach up and touch her but I could not move my hands. And suddenly I started drooling because her skin looked too much like dark chocolate tea.

“I have to clean the yard.” I whispered, and she heard me and spun in surprise

“For what!”

“The wind, last night.” How could she have not remembered?

“There was no wind, and I just come from outside, the yard clean.” She stared at me for a long minute and I felt my head swaying with fatigue and before I hit the pillow and went off into unconsciousness, I heard her say “must be the medication” and they all laughed.

##

I need to be some place where they outstretch their arms for me and we lick lollipop and drink sky juice, the sticky residue clinging to the hairs on our hands then we would dip our entire body in the cool clear waters and laugh….and nobody would hate us for it.

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