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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