I'm From Slipe: A Testament to Family and Community: A Memoir (eBook)

CHAPTER 3

Childhood Years

I was born on July 29, 1953, a Wednesday.

My mother was Enid May Roye. She was born on October 15, 1923. I did not call her Mama, Mawma, or Mumaw, like most other children called their mothers. I called her, like almost everybody else in the district, Auntie. My earliest memory of my mother is of her saving me from drowning in a shallow well. That memory typifies my lifelong perception of my mother: she was my savior.

My mother was the eighth of twelve full siblings. Only four of her eleven siblings survived into adulthood; the others died in infancy or while they were very young children. Her only surviving adult sister, Myrtle, died when my mother was about twenty years old, and one of her adult brothers, Dan (maybe short for Daniel), died tragically when she was about thirty years old. My mother never spoke of her deceased siblings. I guess it was too painful for her. She however, spoke much about her two surviving brothers: Enos Roye and Cyril Roye. I only knew two of my mother’s full siblings, one of whom I met for the first and only time when I was twenty-nine years old. My mother also had two paternal half-sisters: Alvira Roye (married Nash) and Ethline Roye (married Johnson).

My mother had two children. Her first child, my sister Hyacinth Ruby (whom we all called Ruby), was born when my mother was twenty-nine years old. That was atypical for the period when most women began to have children as teenagers. It was also unusual for women to have only two children. My mother was probably starting to think she was not going to be a mother, so I can only imagine the joy she felt when her children were born. As a consequence, she was fiercely protective of her progenies, and she did all that was within her power to ensure that they survived and thrived. She deprived herself to ensure their wellbeing.

Later in life, my older paternal half-sister, Evadney, told me that my mother had a boyfriend before she met my father. The boyfriend migrated to the United States and promised he would send for my mother. She waited for him to fulfill his promise, but he never did. My wife also told me that my mother told her that while she was in England she tried to have a third child, but that did not materialize. My mother was reluctant to speak about her past because, as I said before, the past (with its romantic disappointment and the deaths of so many of her siblings) held too many painful memories.

My mother was a private individual and didn’t like to impose on others. A lot of time she struggled alone, reluctant to appear vulnerable. She taught us to work hard, study hard, and to be independent. She was conscious of her public image and instilled in us how to carry ourselves with dignity and decorum. She was not the most gregarious of individuals, but she was not aloof. Folks liked to hang out at the house and speak with her and seek her advice. When women came by the house in connection with her dressmaking business, they would loiter for a long time just chatting with my mother.

My mother was generous, both with her time and her resources, limited as they were. She would not hesitate to help the less fortunate. I remember, as a child, taking dinner to some older men who lived alone and who were not able to cook for themselves. People came by the house frequently, knowing they would be provided with something to eat, if it were available.

As children, we addressed most of the women we knew with the title “Auntie,” followed by their first names. For example, we’d say Auntie Coolie, Auntie Meggie, etc. The person did not have to be related to you to be so addressed. With my mother, the first name was dropped, and everyone, children and adults alike, just referred to her as Auntie. A few women who were not well known were referred to as “Miss.” That title was also applied to those who were from “Mountain” (a terminology that will become clearer later in the narrative), and to teachers at the local primary school. Within the context of the church, women were addressed with the title “Sister” followed by their surnames.

I was surprised when I started to attend primary school and began to intermingle with students from the other sub-districts to discover that a different title was used to address women. The term used was a variation of the word “Cousin.”

My father was Salem Albert Daley. He was born on May 21, 1923. I did not call him Papa, Pawpa, or Pupaw, like most other children called their fathers. I called him, like almost everybody else in the district, Daada. My earliest memory of my father was of a strange man throwing me into the air and catching me. Another early memory is that of my father distributing coins to the children at the Ball Ground. As the children trailed behind him for the coins, I remember how proud I was that he was my father. In both instances, my father had just (or recently) returned from America. Both incidents may be separated by a few days or a few months; I don’t remember.

My father was self-disciplined, levelheaded, and straightforward, but he could also be quite humorous. He modeled honesty, prudence, and a strong work ethic. Because resources were limited, he was careful, frugal, and provident. As a young man, he displayed a responsible attitude. From proceeds earned working as a migrant laborer in the sugarcane fields of Florida, he bought a piece of land and built his mother a house so she could have a permanent place to call home.

My father was eminently wise and intelligent. He could quickly analyze and assess ideas, opinions, facts, figures, circumstances, and even nonsense and come to reasonable and logical conclusions. Folks in the district trusted him to be their banker, marriage counselor, financial and career advisor, and even their dream interpreter. The most obvious characteristic of my father (after his conversion) was that he was a highly religious person. All his actions and decisions were informed by his religious beliefs.

My dad was a sociable and outgoing individual. I remember when traveling with him as a child, he would shout a greeting to everyone, once they were visible and within earshot. If they were outside the audible range, he would wave. Later in life when he became involved in the church, many of the young men in the congregation loved to associate with him.

Like many men of his generation, he did not readily express his emotion or engage in chitchat with his children. I knew my father loved us as children, although he did not often verbalize it. His actions substituted for his words.

As children, we addressed most of the men we knew with the title “Maas” followed by their first names. For example, we’d say Maas Caleb, Maas Jacob, etc. A few men who were not well-known were referred to as “Missa,” followed by their last names (for example, Missa Brown), and a few others by their full names (for example, John Brown). The title Missa was also applied to those who were from “Mountain” and to teachers at the local primary school. Many men were called by their nicknames only. I grew up not knowing the true names of some male residents, only their monikers. It was also possible that many men did not know their real names. Nicknames were sometimes very descriptive, such as “One Shut” (“One Shirt” because the person only possessed one shirt) and “Look-A-Bush” (“Look-In-The-Bush” because the person was cross-eyed). Within the context of the church, men were addressed with the title “Brother” followed by their surnames.

I have three siblings: one full sister, Hyacinth Ruby; one paternal half-sister, Cinderella Evadney; and one paternal half-brother, Norman Denzil. They are three distinctly different individuals, with different likes, different wants, different views, different personalities, different dispositions, different temperaments, and with different pathways in life. I relate to them differently, but we love each other profoundly. They are three irreplaceably wonderful human beings.

My maternal grandmother was Louise Anne Roye, daughter of Roslyn Adair and Jacob Roye. My paternal grandmother was Kathleen Roye, daughter of Sarah Clark and an Englishman, whose first name I am not certain of.1 I never knew either of my two grandfathers. My maternal grandfather, William Josiah Roye, son of David Roye, a “property manager” for a local land baron, died while I was still very young. My paternal grandfather was not from Slipe, and he disappeared from the district before I was born. I never knew his name. I was told that he migrated to Cuba to work in the sugarcane fields and died there.

In the year I was born, Queen Elizabeth II of England was coronated. Her husband was Philip Mountbatten. Because of that, I was given the childhood nickname “Mountbatten.” At the time, I didn’t know the reason for the nickname, but I remember thinking it was a strange name.

Early Childhood

Early memories leave lasting impressions. I grew up believing I was born on a Thursday. But a recent Google search indicates that July 29, 1953 was actually a Wednesday, not a Thursday. I remember a little ditty that we learned as children:

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is loving and giving,
Thursday’s child has to work hard...