Stories and Reflections

Introduction

How the stories began

After the trips the students were encouraged to write personal reflections about their experiences and feelings. Some would be used to read as part of the 'thank you' presentations for those who contributed financially to the trips.

When I returned from my first trip with the group in 1996 I thought it would be a great idea to create a play based on the students' experiences and tour it around to other schools in Ontario. We would go on the trip in 1997 and upon returning would write the performance. I applied through my old company Graphic Mime Theatre to the Laidlaw Foundation and the Ontario Arts Council. The Laidlaw Foundation gave us money to write it although they could not and would not sponsor the trip itself as the grant only covered creation of new works. I was awarded an Artist in the Schools grant from the OAC that year and used one of my project weeks for this purpose. So with the money from the Laidlaw Foundation and my personal grant from the OAC we were ready.

In 1997 there were still bitter feelings and protests between teachers and the Ontario Conservative Government. The teachers went on a work to rule style protest and all extra-curricular activities were cancelled. This included the March break trip to Jamaica. We decided to use stories and reflections based on the previous year's trip and wrote the play. The protest also cancelled the planned tour of the play and so it was presented as a workshop production at Brother Edmund Rice Secondary School. It was later performed at a conference at the University of Toronto. The stories you will read are from the play as well as other reflections written since. They will be added to as they are collected.

Here on the first page are my personal stories and/or contributions to the play. Page two and beyond is a collection from other group members which will expand over time. Your contributions or comments are always welcome.

Peace.

Stephen La Frenie

Story list

Motivations The Arrival and Long Sunday Walk

The Busses The Meetings

Riverton City Lesson 1 Lesson 2 Lesson 3 Lesson 4

Motivations

When I was a kid, and I can’t really remember when this wasn’t so, I wanted to be a priest. My mom has told me that I used to mimic the movements of the priest and actually walk up the aisle with an imaginary incense holder and mime blessing the people. (I, of course, didn’t realize then that playing with imaginary objects was actually to be a career option later in life as I became a professional mime.) I also used to say the mass for my sisters and older brother. My dresser was the alter, and even though we did not have enough money for food, my mother was extremely tolerant of the fact that I would tear the centre out of slices of bread, pressing them into flat, semi-round, Wonder bread hosts. I would then place them into a plastic glass, place a Kleenex, or, when a Kleenex wasn’t available, a strip of toilet paper sheets, over top with a saucer on top. Then with a glass of strawberry Freshie as wine, was ready to say the mass. This childhood of spiritual fantasy though, didn’t survive the cynical, lazy, unmotivated teenager I became later. The Catholic Mass and the church itself lost its mystery. Our church and my faith were renovated. All the statues and Stations of the Cross were white washed and now blended into the walls. The he Alter at the back was removed and the priest now faced us and in English recited an edited down, schedule convenient, forty minute version of the Mass. Like the statues, the Catholic Church lost it’s distinction for me. Like the priest, the people around me no longer had their backs turned and I saw them for what they were. I saw this the day, at Christmas time, when I was reading on the bulletin board at the entrance of the Church a list of poor people who would need charity. There, near the bottom, I read in a moment of suspended belief - the Lafrenie family. My name? Sorry? Excuse me? People, who wouldn’t cross the street to say hello or wouldn’t be caught dead in our decaying, plaster and wood house. People whose kids ridiculed me at school and laughed at my clothes were now, conveniently going to schedule us in with a few boxes of Kraft dinner. Edited down, schedule convenient, forty minute Christians.

You see, I never saw this before because the situation always had its back to me. I couldn’t see it clearly. We always gave to the food drive ourselves at Christmas. My mother would go through whatever little we had in the cupboard and manage to fill up a small box. I have felt bitterness in my life since then. Anger too, lots of anger. Nothing seems to compare though, in my memory, to that moment. After that, slowly, Christ became white washed. Son of God and Savior, extraordinary, astral planing, prophet attuned to the Godhead, to simply prophet, then extraordinary philosopher, and finally, simply a man. Although, admittedly, an extraordinary one. By the time I was nineteen I had vowed never to do anything for spiritual brownie points or fear of flaming swords. If I couldn’t perform an act simply because it was right or just, or for the simple joy of doing it with no reward in mind, then I truly didn’t care and there was no point in pretending. Well I’m not pretending now. I want to go to Jamaica. I’m actually excited, scared stiff as well.

The Arrival and Long Sunday Walk

Well aside from a couple of minor last minute dramas at the airport we have arrived fine in Kingston. It was cold in Toronto when we left and now as I step out of the plane. WHAMM!! A wall of heat envelops me as it oozes its way across the island. Yes, now I’m glad I bought the two pairs of shorts packed in my bag the day before. My legs haven’t forgotten either as my long brown corduroy pants begin to stick to them, smothering them. “Steve, help us. We can’t breath.” “Hang on boys. Just a little longer.”

Now we’re in a van heading through South Kingston or Old Kingston. I’m idly listening to comments from the kids. Some of them I think haven’t traveled much. They find it weird to be driving on the left hand side of the road. I still find it a strange sensation and I hope I never lose those smaller discoveries and sensations when I travel to a new place. These idle comments are quickly pushed aside though as we start to pass through streets of decayed houses. Others are made from sheets of metal loosely nailed together. I’m not even really listening to John’s pointing things out anymore. I’m just watching, wondering if anyone has noticed all he bars on the windows and doors. Even some of the poorest houses have bars and I’m thinking, everyone here is a prisoner in their own house. People are sitting out on their verandahs and patio’s, locked in. The wealthier you get, the more bars you put up. I’m curious. Is the symbolism or irony lost on them or is it that the richer you get, the more you convince yourself that it’s simply innovative architecture.

Sunday morning and we are going to visit the places where we will work. We take the bus down deep into South Kingston. There we get off near a large church and a market place called 'Parade'. Hey this isn’t so bad. We walk in a group along the market street and John asks where to go for Father Ho Lung’s Faith Centre. The old woman points around the corner and says to take the first street all the way across to the Centre. We get there (to the street) and I look up this long partly deserted street and hey, this isn’t so good. All of a sudden it isn’t just the heat that’s making me sweat. Now the sight of women and men who barely earn enough to eat, some, whose lives are filled with anger and despair, and whose job involves carrying a machete is making me very nervous. Now we are walking down the street further and my paranoia is developing a little further and it’s searching for ways of hiding itself. Rather my ego is searching for ways to hide it. After all I don’t think it will be a very good start to the trip for one of the members of the group to look back and see in my eyes the message:

RUN! NOW! EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF! I KNOW WHERE CALAGHAN KEEPS THE PLANE TICKETS!

Instead I’m now doing head counts pretending to keep tabs on the group. Keeping them out of harm’s way supposedly and finding justification in lagging at the back of the group by proposing in my mind that it’s a good idea to have adults at the front and the back of the group. I also find comfort in looking a people directly and saying hello. Some smile back and others, especially the young people, simply stare unemotionally or harshly. Then turn and talk amongst themselves. As I look down the side streets I wonder if I would ever have the courage to walk down them alone. This of course, is a simple fantasy since there really isn’t a chance in hell I’d ever do it no matter how bloody big the cross around my neck is. We arrive at the Faith Centre. The doors close behind us. There is a beautiful little church, immaculately dressed old women along with men and children with down-syndrome...smiling. Most of them have been abandoned by their families. There is the stench of urine and unwashed bodies. This is Father Ho Lung’s Faith Centre. I’m safe now.

The Busses

Ya man! The busses. Wonderland - Smonderland. One day I’m going to open a theme park and instead of scramblers and roller coasters, I’ll just hire a bunch of Jamaican Busses and Bus drivers to drive people around the grounds. Ya man, and I’ll make the streets really narrow too. And they’ll run both ways and the drivers can use whichever side they want whenever they think it’s safe. Ya man! And there’ll be lots of hills, curves and robotic pedestrians crossing at red lights. Ya man, and the capacity of each bus will be 52 but we’ll sell 80 tickets and there’ll be prizes for anyone who can yell, “Bus Stop driver!!” Then make it to the doors before the bus stops or under two minutes whichever comes first. Ya man! There won’t be any regular maintenance checks on the busses either, we’ll just run them until they simply won’t start again. Ya man! And there won’t be any rich or middle class people on them, just hard working, honest, decent people who can’t afford cars. Ya man...and they won’t hesitate to offer to hold your baby so you can hang on, or hold your bag, and it won’ matter how heavy it is or how old they are and old people will always get a seat. Ya man... and if you’re on your first trip and can’t see where you are, they’ll tap you on the shoulder and ask where you need to go and tell you when you get there. Ya man... and sometimes they’ll even get off the bus and walk you to your next stop and show you where it is or if they don’t know they’ll go out of their way to ask around and find out. Ya man! You won’t pay with tokens you’ll pay cash and there won’t be any way of verifying how many people paid or how many people rode that day. I’ll just trust the working class driver and the attendant who moves up and down all day collecting it. Ya man... and you know I won’t have any problem trusting them because I’ll only hire hard working, working class Jamaicans.

The Meetings

In some respects the meetings were more difficult for me than crossing the road to the bus stop at three mile round - about or the long walk to Father Ho Lung’s Faith Centre. I could feel it deep down and begin to rise within me before each meeting, that petty, whining, dreaded voice. “Oh Christ, now we have to share our feelings.” I’ve always, to be very honest, hated, smiley, happy, smug, Christians. Not all Christians mind you, just the complacent, vacant, body and soul snatching zombies. Come on. You know them. “Come share with us Stephen. God loves you. Jesus loves you…, and so do we. Come join us. GIVE US YOUR SOUL!!!!” I mean who the hell needs Stephen King and Clive Barker when there are Baptists, Reformers and Born Agains roaming the earth. These meetings were to be different though. After the first meeting I wanted to know what the others saw and experienced. I had seen all the places on the Sunday and wondered what I would be experiencing there. It was still hard for me to speak. Why would my opinion matter to these young people or the two men who had been here before? I remember forcing myself to grab the speaking stone or speaking knic-knac, or whatever the hell that thing was, and saying something. (We used an object in the room for designating a speaker. When you wanted to say something you took the object and that meant you had the floor and wouldn’t be interrupted.) All the while I wasn’t fooling myself though. I wanted to talk. I just had to defeat my own smug, complacent attitude. There was to be no, Yes God loves you. No psycho-babble words like the dreaded “issues”. Sorry I can’t come out to-night Reggie I have roommate issues to sort out. No our relationship isn’t doing well Penelope you haven’t resolved your maternal issues. Sorry Bob I can’t go on Saturday I have laundry issues. Let’s discuss this Jamaican issue but from our own poverty issues. I’ll pretend to be a starving Jamaican and all of you try to identify with me.

I heard instead, the voices of passion and challenge. I heard the struggle to understand and confront undeniable experiences. The desire to challenge oneself. It was one of the few times I have had the privilege of being in a room full of life, full of substance. The air was thick and pliable allowing each one of us to reshape it with our feelings and stories. At the first meeting on Monday night someone cried and a voice whispered from inside. “That’s right. Soon it will be your turn. You know it will.” I fought it though. I wanted to cry when one of the girls sang my favourite hymn as her way of speaking. I didn’t cry though. I fought it hard. Stephen 4, meetings 0. It eventually did happen though. All the tension of the trip came through, my spirit cracked and little shafts of vulnerable light shone through my image from the inside. No shame though, just one of those release issues.

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Riverton City 1996, assisting at two schools.

Lesson 1

Located at Three-mile round-about is an eerily deserted side of the intersection where you catch the bus going in the direction of Spanish Town on Spanish Town road which will drop you off at Riverton City. Riverton carries with it a reputation of being a very dangerous shanty town. It is said that the police will not enter it without an Army escort. There is a police station in the area of Three mile round-about which is apparently, as the story goes, routinely shot at by local residents. “There”, says the man pointing in the direction of the deserted opposite corner. He has been kind enough to get off the bus with us and take us to where we catch the bus. “There?” I ask pointing in the same direction. “Yes. God bless.” he says as he turns and leaves. I watch him leave and continue the conversation in my head, “You’re kidding right? Please turn around and tell me you’re kidding.” In my mind’s eye he turns around laughing and tells me he is in fact kidding and that the bus is really located where he is standing with all the other people who will gladly leap in front of any bullet heading in my direction. Ah the wonderful world of fantasy. Is there anything else like it when you’re scared and too stupid, or arrogant, to admit it? Well, onward. I mentally inflate my chest and begin striding across the street with the others in the group.

Riverton City has developed and grown around a huge garbage dump and now holds approx. 20,000 people. For some people the dump is the only source of food. John told me of witnessing a man fight a large pig for some lettuce on one of his earlier trips. Children go swimming in the fetid water around the garbage heaps. The smell is indescribable and must be experienced in order to be truly appreciated. The school though is not within sight or smell of the garbage dump. It is not that far from the road. When I first arrived at the school I thought all the kids there were so cute in their school uniforms. The uniforms were dirty and some were mismatched but the kids looked adorable anyway. The Principal came over to say hello and ask us what we were doing there. I said we were sent to do whatever he needed to be done. He said, “All right good. Take this class outside and teach them about travel. We are learning about travel this week.” I said, “Sure no problem”, not realising that I was about to jump from the pan into the fire. He told the class to go with me outside. I took the class outside and looked for a place to sit. The Principal said to sit in the shade and tear up newspaper for them to sit down on so they wouldn’t get their uniforms dirty. The children began running around with the paper and taking it from each other. They would then run up to me and ask for more, shouting, “Me want one! Me want one!” I would give them one or say, “You already have one.” They’d respond to this by throwing it away and shouting again, “Me want one!” The Principal comes out and yells at the students and they fall silent and sit down. Great now we’re getting somewhere. He leaves. Twenty little explosions! “Me want one! Me want one!” A handful of students sit patiently watching me frantically tear newspaper while shouting, “Sit down! Don’t do that! Hey get back here! Put that down! Stop hitting her! Stop pinching him!” After awhile these few patient ones come to the conclusion that this white guy’s lost it and they too begin throwing newspaper and scream, hit, pinch, and run around. A voice deep inside me begins to push its way up into my brain, as I look in terror at the scene around me and cries, “I don’t want to be here! Why can’t I simply be washing lepers, shaving and feeding old, sick, dying people! That would be easy compared to this. At this point I was hot and tired. The Principal came out to say it is time for their snack break. What? What do mean their break? We’ve just started. Alas no. Apparently I have been tearing newspaper, yelling and staring reality straight in the face for 45 minutes. I haven’t taught a single thing.

Riverton City

Lesson 2

The next day I was more prepared for the onslaught at Riverton. When the teacher assigned me a class to help with writing skills I knew I was only going to get through to a few children or perhaps even one. They all at first gathered around and wanted a pencil. "Me want one!" "Me want one" "You have one man!" I would say in the worst Jamaican accent you ever heard. "I gave you a pencil" Some of their pencils needed sharpening and so I sharpened each one as needed. Some didn’t need sharpening and I would tell the students this and so with that most wonderful, absurd logic that only kids can express, they would run to their desks and break the points of their pencils deliberately and come running back to me with a huge smile and show me the broken pencil. After a couple of times I stopped and started with the lesson. Some kids would leave but the ones I could make direct eye contact with stayed and tried to write. At one point I was writing with both my right and left hand. "You make a ‘C’ and you make a ‘D’ and on and on until lunchtime. We sat and had lunch with the teachers, Principal and the students. That’s when they came, the kids who didn't attend the school. They would be able to eat whatever leftovers there were. Some bigger kids come into the school and begin circling the kindergarten kids like sharks. Moving in and eating their food. I watched one little girl about 4 years old quietly place her bowl inside her desk and sneak spoonful amounts into her mouth while watching them, regularly stopping and pretending like she had already finished. The afternoon class was dedicated as usual to singing songs involving positive affirmations in the same way as the morning begins. One of the sayings is this. "I look in the mirror and what do I see. I see I am smart and beautiful, and there is no one else exactly like me."

Riverton City

Lesson 3

I took the whole class outside and read to them. The book is a cool one which has been donated to the school. It is the story of Puss 'n' Boots but there are little pictures which replace the names of the characters or even a few objects. The task is for them to identify the picture with the written word for the object or character. More of the children were paying attention to me now. They would bump and push each other out of the way so that they could see the book and even sometimes break into all out fights. As I read the story to them I notice that other kids from Riverton City began to come around and listen in. One of them was an older boy of maybe 12 or so. He had no clothes except for dirty, torn, underwear. This of course meant nothing to me as I had already seen kids without clothes playing barefoot among the garbage and glass. No it was not that which caught my attention but the long, wide, jagged scar which ran down his stomach. It looked like it had been done with a bottle opener or broken bottle, something like that. He muscled his way through the kids pushing them aside regardless of their size. They looked at him with resentment but were too afraid and he was clearly too big to fight with. As I read the story and asked questions he answered them and looked at me for approval, (which I gave), with a wide, broken, shy smile. I didn’t want to exclude anyone. I kept glancing at the scar and asking myself how it happened. Was it a fight with a broken bottle? Was it a gang attack? How long ago? When he was the age of these other school children? The other kids started telling him to move and tried to push him away. He pushed back saying, "Get away! Him teach'n me how to read." Then Kenwa cames to the group. Kenwa is also about 12 or 13 and works at the school helping with the children and preparing meals. He is bright and articulate. I can define his attitude for you by telling you that at lunchtime the day before when we were serving the kids, Wendy, (one of the girls on the trip with us), asked him to sit down and eat while she finished serving and he looked at her and smiled saying, "It's not my turn yet miss.", and finished serving the younger children. He was now telling the boy with the scar to leave. "You don't go to school". "You are trouble." "No man, I no make trouble. Him teach'n me how to read." said the boy with the scar. "You go away now or I'll tell matron." They argued back and forth with the scarred boy getting angrier and fiercer and Kenwa standing his ground, matching him glare for glare. Finally Kenwa said, "Alright I'm going to get Matron". He turned and called for the matron who looks after cleaning the school. The scarred boy suddenly said, "No. Don't. I'll go." Right there and then standing in front of me was a sad, scared, hurt, child who just wanted a moment of kind attention and a chance to learn something. He apologized and moved to the back and helped the smaller children to the front making sure they could see the book. He looked at me and said, "No trouble. I stand here."

Riverton City

Lesson 4

One thing kept striking me at both these Riverton City schools. The kids fought for attention but never over money. Kids would drop money on the floor and others would pick it up and give it back to them. I could send any one of them to go and buy me a drink from the local vendor and they would always bring back the change and share whatever they had bought for themselves, (I would always buy them something in return for running the errand), with other children. Their frustrations were real though and could be deadly. They could be smiling one second and then explode without warning. I watched a young girl get punished and being upset she turned around and surveyed the room. She spotted a younger girl who was sitting very content and quiet and walked over to her, pinched and bit her arm until the younger one began to cry and became just as miserable as she was. The children were not the only ones who could explode violently without warning. Corporal punishment is used in a lot of Jamaican schools. I witnessed one class that was especially unruly and the teacher exploded, moving through the room with a belt indiscriminately and fiercely whipping everyone in reach. Kids took cover under desks or behind smaller kids.

This morning we were singing the morning hymn. One child refused. The teacher demanded that he sing and brought out the belt and began to beat him while still singing herself. She stopped and glared at the boy. “You think you can rule me boy like you rule your parents? No, I don’t think so. Your parent’s job is to go to work and your job is to go to school. Now sing!” It was a song about Jesus’ love coming down from heaven. He remained defiant and she continued to sing lines of the hymn while beating him into submission with the belt. He took the beating for about five minutes before breaking down. The teacher was shaking and holding the belt over her head she became overcome with frustration. She closed her eyes and began to pray for strength. She asked Jesus to give her the strength to get through to the children. “Jesus come down and touch these children. Make them understand.” As she prayed her hand slowly came down from above her head and she stood there praying. The boy she had just finished beating slowly moved over to her and hugged her. She dropped the belt and gently brought his head to her side. The other children slowly moved in to hug her as she continued to pray. It was 9:00 a.m. Four hours to go.

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