An Easter to remember

 

Not long after we came to America, dad wanted to see Florida. So, we went during Easter break—I think it was before college students raised hell. The memories I stored have been reprocessed a few times, but the colourful gist remains.

Dad loaded our things into the boot of his well used two-tone blue Chevy Bel Air and headed south. By the time we reached the Carolina’s, my memories stored images of people and events strengthened by my parent's commentary. A hard-working black man was with a mule in a field. Signs at a roadside stop read “Whites Only”.

Somewhere in the South, people marvelled at how well we spoke English since we hadn’t been in the US very long.

I must have slept a lot. Dad drove all night. We didn’t do hotels, which was a good thing I found out later when dad chose some hovels on future trips.

When we crossed the border—Florida—dad stopped for samples of Florida orange juice. I’m guessing we arrived Saturday because I was red with a helluva sunburn at church the next day. Dad couldn’t skip church even on a holiday. So, what I remember were people in colourful clothes. They were members of a Native American tribe. I’m learning a lot more than I would in school.

Now my parents planned to surprise me. And they did. The Easter egg they packed from New Jersey had not survived the wrath of Florida’s sun god.

Sometime during that sun-drenched visit, I became acquainted with a product called calamine, which was later featured in a song. You see, one memory activates another.

Anyway, I came back to New Jersey with memories of a colourful parrot’s claws on my bright red sore arms and you could see the agony in my face—if you had an old-fashioned slide projector. 

And I had this jumble of other memories too, but some are out of focus.

For some, Easter is about a life hereafter. Perhaps for some, Easter had always been a promise of a better life beyond Jordan. Lord knows you ain’t gettin much of a life behind a mule.

On reflection, I see that I had a better life as a foreign white boy than did some people who had lived here all their lives. Like old black and white photos that only hold colour in my memories, Easter was bereft of meaning for those trapped in a white man’s paradise.

I’ve learned a lot since that Easter. Those memories reframed with adult eyes keep me focused on liberation—not from life, but for helping people get a life in this life. I’m sure there are many ways to do the work of liberation.

There ain’t much use carrying a cross or raving about an empty tomb unless I help someone roll away the stones that entomb their lives. 

Funny how lessons from childhood can be woven into a life-narrative. Innit?

 

Geoffrey W. Sutton, PhD is Emeritus Professor of Psychology. He retired from a clinical practice and was credentialed in clinical neuropsychology and psychopharmacology. His website is  www.suttong.com

 

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