Melville CookeAS I write these 1000 or so words, the first grey streaks are dispelling the darkness over the hills of Moneague, St. Ann. The mist still lies in the valleys, where it will remain until it is light enough to see one's breath making its tiny contribution to the wraiths which give this beautiful piece of Jamaica a charm and chill all of its own. The hills are still joyful together. It is my 30th birthday, old to a Sixth Former, young to a retiree.
I woke up this morning knowing that it is very likely that half of my life is over. I accept it and do not fear dying nearly as much as I fear not utilising my life. I must have done something right in my wonderfully misspent youth. I woke up beside a good woman, watched her breathe with our one-month-old daughter and battled the wily charms and tantrums of our 20-month-going-10-year-old to write this piece.
Life is good. I was born two years after Neil Armstrong took his small step on the moon and nine after Jamaica's Black, Green and Gold swapped places with the Union Jack. The car that has come to fascinate me, the Ford Mustang, hit the streets at a gallop seven years before I hit a doctor's arms at St. Joseph Hospital with a howl. I was five years old when Donald Quarrie beat them all, up at Montreal, two when Bob Marley and the Wailers' Catch A Fire changed Jamaican music forever and five when Winston 'Burning Spear' Rodney put out Marcus Garvey. And I was 10 years old when Bob died.
I was nine when over 800 Jamaicans died in the 1980 civil war we called an election campaign and it seems that I will be 30 when the next real political war plays out in bullets and firebombs on the streets of Kingston. I was eight when Steve Biko was killed and 20 when Nelson Mandela fulfilled Hugh Masakela's wish to see him walking down the streets with Winnie Mandela. I have forgotten how old I was when the Mandelas divorced.
When I was born the United States was still thinking of winning the Vietnam War; I was a lower Sixth Former at Munro College when the Cubans whipped South Africa soundly as they tried to expand into Angola. I was 19 or 20 when I saw Buju Banton perform for the first time, 29 when I heard Bunny Wailer deliver the best speech I have ever heard live at Reggae Sumfest 2001, and about 26 when House of Leo stopped hosting Stone Love's Thursday sessions. I was 15 when I cut out my first Morris Cargill article. He was wondering if he could send some choice samples of coloured toilet paper up to the Bureau of Standards for some ass up there to test it.
I saw the Berlin Wall go down on television and I saw a space shuttle blow up on television. I saw the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center go down over and over and over again on television. I have seen the best that an athlete can ever be wear No. 23, loll out his tongue and fly, I have seen Tiger, Venus and Serena tear down barriers with balls. I have seen Jamaica qualify for the World Cup and doubt if I will see it again.
Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and John F. Kennedy had been killed by the time I was born and the world was a much poorer place for their passing. I listened to Peter Tosh's Creation about 50 times the night he was killed, as I sat in the glow of a Home Sweet Home near Wilmington, St. Thomas. I was 16. I watched Michael Manley being escorted to his grave from the roof of The Gleaner when I was 27. I have seen CDs come, the Internet boom, cloning happen, AIDS spread and condoms grow bumps and ridges.
And what, dear reader, have I learnt in my 30 years of killing time before time kills me? I have learnt not to take myself too seriously. In fact, not seriously at all. Here I wish I could quote from Oscar Wilde's Importance of Being Earnest and impress somebody with my brilliance, but unfortunately I read comics in Mr. Lowrie's English class in those post-lunch A Level sessions. But I am determined to laugh as much as possible for as long as I can especially at the pompous who believe that a star will fall when they die and six wise men will carry them to their graves.
But while I chuckle at those asses, I have a target closer to home. Myself. My follies, stupidities (couple folks who don't like my stance on Afghanistan will agree with that one), dreams and idiosyncrasies touch my funny bone. I have also learnt that every man puts on his pants one foot at a time and I am in awe of no man, woman, beast or child on the face of this green, brown, blue and white ball hurtling around the sun. Respect, yes, awe, no. I have learnt that 50 sketels are not equal to a piece of a good woman and to walk zig-zag after passing wind in a crowd. I have always known that one does not need to be rich, or even that smarmy word comfortable. I find myself in the delightfully ironic situation of writing a column with decidedly unmiddle-class-like views in a decidedly middle class newspaper. I expect to be called many things and relish the thought of spoiling some yuppie's breakfast. Like all other things, this column, too, shall pass.
All things being equal, I expect to outlive Fidel Castro, Edward Seaga and Percival Patterson. I hope Cuba does not change after El Jefe passes on and wish Jamaica does after Messrs. Seaga and Patterson. While I hold out strong hopes for the former, another set of vampires is waiting in the wings with speeches ready to suck Jamaica to the bone. This anti-terrorism war, which I believe is the powerful countries of the Earth cleaning up the Cold War mess, reinforcing the misconception of globalisation and expanding markets to fuel capitalism, will be the dominant world issue of my time. I know which side I am on. I don't take tea with Christianity, but the mark of the beast is coming. Capitalism without conscience has been and will be the death of many of us.
When I grow up I want to be like Mr. Bevil DeBruin of Ceylon and Cornwall College. And from time to time I remember the words of William Butler Yates, in the Four Stages of Man:
Man with body waged a fight
Body wins, it stands upright
Then he battled with the heart
Innocence and peace depart
Then he struggled with the mind
His proud heart he left behind
Now his wars on God begin
At stroke of midnight, God shall win.
Melville Cooke is a freelance writer
