COMING HOME
I remember growing up in my father's house which is a bit of an oximoran as I can't remember him really being there very often and like in most traditional West Indian families, my mother bore the brunt of all our cares and concerns. She with her hands weaving together the fine thread that made up the colorful fabric of our family- I should imagine we were quite a handful -with all five of us more often in trouble than out. I used to joke to myself that I feel as if I grew up in a single parent home, steeped in the traditions of the past with my father in his abscence as ceremonial head of the household. Of course in an attempt to discipline us, came my mother's cliched and open threat "wait 'til your father gets home!". As expected we would all cower at the perilous thought of what might happen then obediently slip into shameful submission. This as a child I resented though it was my mother's wish to keep the mystique behind my father's autocratic rule, with her and us remaining three steps behind. This still exists today in some form and like the rebellious child, I still resent this absolute rule which evoked such fear and respect. I must say however, it would be unfair to paint my father as a cold and unfeeling man, and certainly after the recent death of my brother, realize that inspite of his silence which often made him seem more larger than life, how fragile, vulnereble and more sensitive to the going ons of all of us than I was led believe. It must be hard to take on such responsibilities of protecting us all with such courage of strength. A characteristic that many in today's generation lack nor a responsibility they want.. Truly, inspite of my aches and complaints of the past and there are many, I must admit my father's exciting view of the world of which I have journeyed existed a vibrancy and originality that should make the greatest of them envious. Sometimes it takes a sense of loss to understand how truly privalige we all are beyond material success although that too has been part of my unique privalige.So today as I sat plunked right in the middle of St. Matthew's church - the church that my father belonged to as a child, i pondered what had taken me on this long journey which had brought full circle from whence I came, Church was something my mother and father did while I tagged along as a confused observer. I found it odd that I should find myself reunited within the midst of a community that I grew up with and with whom I once called family. They all looked the same in spirit . a little worn by time and alot older than I remember. The thought of seeing them all again brought a smile to my face and the familiarity reassuring. Church was never my favorite place as a child and the cross-cultural experience of my household (Rastas, Athestes, Chrisians, Buddhists and Non-committal committals) made the decision of being confirmed a difficult one to make even at the tender age of 43yrs. Still it felt right to be there and I knew I made the right decision to follow this path. As I sat listening to Father Moultrie speak about Jesus and being a thinking christian, I could only chuckle at being there- how ironic! I had brought myself there and all of a sudden I was no longer the observing child but rather making a grown up decision based on a sense of my own autonomy. Surely I had walked into my father's house once again- that which I rebelled against and resisted all my life? And like a child who instead of wanting any help when learning to walk from crawling...I had found myself a home of my own. And it felt good coming home.