We love you Salisha!

There are no words to describe how much I love this girl! Her friendship means more to me with each passing year. This picture is when Salisha saw snow for the very first time in her life. I met Salisha in Grenada. She is just about to graduate from BYU Hawaii. Last week she shared some exciting news with me. Her English paper was accepted in a National Undergraduate Literature Conference held on March 31-April 2nd in Ogden Utah. The school is paying for her to travel to Utah to present her paper at the conference. This paper is a selection from the memoir she is composing about her life story. I hope some of you will take the time to read the incredible road she has endured. I want to tell Salisha how proud I am of her and that many people love you very much. You have touched my life in a way no one else ever has. Thank you for being my sister.

A Survival Story: A Peak Into My Childhood

In the most Eastern Caribbean lies the Tri-island State of Grenada, Carriacou and Petite Martinique. These islands are masked with a number of tall green mountains, rainbow lined waterfalls streaming down the jutting rocks, exotic beaches laid out with white sand and beautiful colored shells; Grenada is a living beauty to all. The enriched smell of nutmeg, cocoa, bananas, spice and cinnamon will follow you throughout the island. The sight of small black boys and girls skipping over black slippery river stones, jumping off the long jetties which jut off in the deep blue waters, or even springing off tall tress entangled with vines should not worry you. These actions to these children are as common and necessary as one’s ability and desire to eat, and it has been a part of their lives since they walked on their own.

As you exit the airplane, you will be greeted by a people who are known to be most friendly, warm and welcoming. The language used is termed ‘Grenadian Creole’ which is a rapid spoken language composing of a mixture of African, Spanish, French and English. This language is spoken with distinctive accents depending on the location of the island where the specific individual resides. The first Grenadians you will encounter are often dressed in their patriotic colors of bright red, yellow and green, designed with seven golden stars, representing the seven parishes of the island. Grenadians are proud of their heritage and love to be accepted for the people they are, and not the people they came from, the African Slaves.

Grenada, also known as the Isle of Spice, is the largest of the three islands. Her cultural practices are the most modern of the three. This is so probably because of the island’s inhabitants when compared to its smaller sister isles. Eighty-two percent of the people in Grenada are of
African origin. Another five percent of the inhabitants are descended from Asian Indians who were also brought as slaves. The remaining thirteen percent of the people are of mixed ancestry, including European and American immigrants. On the other hand, the residents of Carriacou and Petite Martinique especially are all from African descents.

Our traditional gowns, dances and food from our African descendants are rarely used. However on special occasions, such the first Monday in August, Emancipation day, the entire island is swamped with ancestral clothing, parades, dances and other entertainments. However, our ‘Grenadian’ food which is island style food cooked the ‘Grenadian way’ remains the same. Our national dish is called ‘Oil Down’. Breadfruit, a round, cream colored staple food is the main ingredient. Oil Down? There must be Breadfruit in the pot! Because it is the main ingredient, the peeled and quartered breadfruit are placed at the bottom of a big pot and are layered with peeled and thoroughly washed yams, green bananas, dasheens, sweet potatoes and any other ground provisions of one’s choice.

An assortment of well-seasoned meats is then distributed to the sides and to the top of those provisions. Like breadfruit, chicken back which is the key meat, must be present. It produces a lot of oil, so in order to have oil down, one must use chicken back. Other meats such as pig tails, pig snouts, salted or dried fish and lots of chicken – chicken wings, drumstick, breast and thighs are neatly situated in the pot. Like sleeping soldiers, hard rolled dumplings hug the meats. Several okras, onions, and green peepers are thrown in the pot. Next to last, Callalou, the young leaves of the dasheen plant, are then used to cover everything in the pot. Finally, depending on it, a sufficient amount of coconut milk is then poured into the pot. No plain water is used.

It is crucial to note, that the coconut milk is not the type bought in the store. It has to come from the dried coconuts from your garden or the market; the coconut must be grated with a few saffrons, which are orange colored roots that can be found in either of the places mentioned above. The pot is then covered and is set on three fire stones which already would have had a small fire going. Beneath the pot, larger fire-woods are packed, and after a couple minutes the pot sings as the iron pot cover playfully slaps the pot. There are times when a clean piece of fire wood saddens and defeats the cover of the pot with its weight, forcing it to remain still.

Oven stoves are rarely used to cook this well loved dish. This is so because nothing is tastier than a smoked pot of Oil Down. Also, no one wants to wait for an extra hour or two before the oil down pot can be finished. ‘Oil Down’ is unique to Grenada and her people because it was created and named there. Although Oil down is the easiest Grenadian meal to actually cook, it demands several solid hours of preparations; therefore, it is the most expensive of meals to purchase. In Grenada, Oil Down is used for every occasion. This includes Emancipation Day celebration, weddings, christenings, birthday parties, beach festivals, funerals, or a big family meal at home. It is also sold at sporting activities.

Nevertheless, Grenada is not only known for her delicious food, her lush green vegetation, friendly people and the world famous Grand Anse beach, but she is about to be known as the birth place of a story most beautiful in its interior. The story of my childhood.
When I look in a mirror, I see an African descendant girl with stunted black hair, and a wide smile that reminds me of my mother. I wonder, when others look at me, if they know that my hair shows I’m too poor to afford the constant treatment to maintain long, healthy hair, or that my deep dimples sometimes conceal depression and turmoil? Do they see that in order to understand me they’d have to know about my past life, future dreams, and aspirations? Growing up as a poor orphan in Grenada, I was denied a solid foundation on which to build personal and social success; however, when I converted to the gospel, I was able to improve my self-esteem, education and social life.

As I was growing up, I was extremely poor. I wore ragged clothes and walked bare-foot everywhere, besides to school and to the city. My school uniforms were my best clothes, even though they were burnt, off-colored, and stitched in a manner which drew much attention and victorious giggles. My only pair of shoes were at all times laughing – opened at the front; but, thankfully, were held in place by a piece of cloth or string.

Our home was a wooden house, the shape of a straw hut. The unpainted wooden structure was soiled with mud. There were several lines of termites tracing, evidence that the termites were eating away the wood while making their homes as they proceeded along the exterior of our house. Large and small millipedes nestled themselves in various creeks in the board. In search of a new spot, several millipedes strolled up towards the ceiling of the house where they were better sheltered by the rusted galvanized which covered the roof of the house.

Inside the house, there were only two compartments. To the right, was a horizontal wooden structure resembling a shelf, called a dresser. On top of the dresser, sat a small gas stove, the ones that have two burners which can easily be transported. Also, there were three small pots and one large black pot, which had been used on the small coal pot beneath the dresser. Some enamel cups and bowls were turned down on the brown wooden surface of the dresser. To the right was the bed room. The area between the kitchen and the bedroom was called the living room. It comprised of a piece of tree trunk, two large tin pans holding up a piece of board and a wooden bench which served as chairs. The bedroom was separated from the kitchen by a wooden partition and an old fashion curtain which was decorated with holes and filthy stains. The room had a bed. In fact it was a wooden structure resembling a bed where my mother and her boyfriend slept. This structure was composed of several pieces of boards varying in length. On top of the board, a piece of carpet buried with old clothes served as the mattress. Delon, my younger brother, and I did not have a bed. We would have been delighted to! Instead, we curled ourselves on the tiny space between the bed and the frame of our millipede-infected house.

There was not a spot in the house where your eyes could land without seeing several millipedes either curled or striding up and down our wooden house. Our house was a habitat for not only my family and me, but of several large and small millipedes: some black, some yellow-brown others red-brown.

The ground was hard and cold. We did not have blankets or a mattress to sleep on at nights. For this reason, my brother and I spread a netted – curtain type piece of cloth under our young bodies.
Even in my adult years I often times forsake my soft padded bed and retire to the ground. As I think about this, I must admit I fall asleep faster when I am sleeping on the ground when compared to a bed. I must still have a strong connection with the hard ground.

As an orphan in Grenada, I also had very little to eat. On good days, I ate dried cow tripe soup with yams and sweet potatoes given to me by the neighbor. On bad days, I ate left over bread, noodles or rice tea – overnight rice mixed with hot water and sugar. The majority of the days, I did not have anything to eat so I ate mud and sugar and I loved it! I loved mud because it was the one food that was always there. No matter what time of the day, month or year, I could have walked outside and get me a full bowl of mud. Mud and sugar was my luxury.
In our yard, under the medium height lemon tree, the mud was like granules. Even if it rained, the leaves of the lemon tree successfully shielded the ground, so the mud there was often dried. I took my orange bowl there and scooped up a handful or two, depending on how hungry I was and placed it carefully in my bowl. I ran back into the house and somewhere on our table, which was a thin piece of ply wood sitting on a rusted iron frame, retrieved the sugar. I scooped a little bit of sugar out of the clear plastic bag and poured it into my bowl. Stirring the sugar up with the mud was my next step. I liked it to be mixed properly just so the sugar was even out with the mud.

After this, I returned outside and sat on our ground level concrete steps to eat my mud and sugar. Most often than not, I shared it with Delon. However, he did not like mud as much as I did so most of the times Delon made himself some hot water or sweet water tea to ease his hunger. Hot water tea, as you may not know was simply sweetened hot water and sweet water was the opposite, sweetened cold water. A cup of water would then chase down my mud and sugar after I was finished.

At the tender age of nine, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and spent most of her last days in the hospital. With no other choice, I was forced to become a young mother. Ronzel, my baby sister was only one year old, and I had to tend her in my mother’s absence. I fed her with sweet water tea and the left over bread and noodles given to me by the neighbors. Ronzel’s father was no longer at home as he resided in the hospital for the mentally ill. He smoked and drank excessively. These and other family problems drove him insane. He had big fights with his mother, ever so often. Sister Gwen, his mother, and him were both alcoholics and abusive smokers; for this reason, they often said things which they did not mean or were unconscious of.
During my mother’s absence, it hurt me badly to see no one stretched forth a helping hand to assist me in caring for my baby sister and six year old brother. As a result, I began hating myself because, as I felt and believed, everyone hated me. I grew into an absent-minded phase and paid little attention to myself and those around me. I walked the streets with the same dirty clothes, day after day not taking into consideration what others thought, nor did I pay attention to what they were saying. I became enclosed in my own little world, oblivious of the real world in which I lived. My low-socioeconomic situation had fully controlled me and led me in the wrong direction.
Moreover, being a poor orphan also limited my opportunities with friends, education, and career abilities. At the age of fifteen, I lost my father to a category three hurricane, and some of my friends disappeared. I became a poor, stranded orphan with no family to turn to. My friends were too embarrassed to be around me, so they shunned and ignored me. My education and chances of finding a stable job were also affected negatively. For example one day, while attending Primary school on of my teacher’s became angry. She stomped between the rows and grabbed me by the arm and marched me out of the class. I didn’t speak in class, so I did not understand her anger.
Did she notice I was not paying attention? Am I going insane that I did something and I cannot remember? What is she doing that for?

All these questions flooded my scattered brain as I struggled to keep up with the frustrated pace of the teacher.
“ I am tired of you.. I am tired of you disrupting my class”! Exclaimed my teacher as she dragged me to the Principal’s office.
Me? Disrupting her class? I did not do anything… I don’t want to go to the Principal office. What if the principal takes out her leather belt? But I did not do anything..
As I was pulled the Principal’s office down the corridor, I could not help but notice the environment. Everywhere was quite. No one was out on the playground. It was bare, save for some butterflies that was nestling on some petals on the far side of the play ground. My new class was in the ‘top school’ so the road was visible for a long ways ahead. There were not many buses. The shop right across the road was closed. The world seemed subtle and cheerful. As we walked down the corridor, I could see the older children in the higher grades writing. They looked at the paper in front of them with great intent. They too looked happy.

“Miss Patrich, Salisha does not listen to me. She continues to disrupts my class, and I am out of patience with her” blurted out my teacher, Miss James.
Salisha? What? I was far in thoughts that I did not realize that we had arrived at the principal’s office until I heard my name.
“Salisha?” began Miss Patriach, our Principal.
“Yes?”
“Do not say yes, answer yes Miss”
“Sorry Miss, yes Miss”
“Has Miss James not spoken to you already?” Why are you being disobedient?”
“But I did not do anything Miss”.
“Salisha! Miss James shrieked, I told you not once, not twice, but several times to bathe before you come to school. Is that not so?” asked Miss James.
Who said I did not bathe today? Well, I did not bathe bathe but I did wash up. Wash up means bathe too. To wash up means I sat over a pail of water and washed my private parts. Before doing that, I took a rag or clean underwear, soaped it up and rubbed it on my skin, especially under my arms. So I did bathe this morning.
“Yes Miss, but I did bathe this morning.”
“You did?” asked Miss Patrick and Miss James in unison. They wore a shocked looks on their faces. They probably asked themselves “how can one bathe and still smell so bad? I did not smell myself, I knew that I did not smell like most of my classmates who were wealthy, but I never knew that I smelled so bad, that it was too difficult to accept my saying that I bathed this morning.
“Yes I did” I answered.
“I even carried water yesterday from the cistern and washed my school shirt and skirt. I hung it on the big stone in front our house yesterday so that sun would dry it.”
There was no pipe at my house. There was only a cistern or a well located behind the school. It took about fifteen to twenty minutes to go to and fro. The cistern was dangerous. Although there was only one little window to the entrance of the well, if one is to fall inside, the chance were slim that person would come out alive.
“Well Salisha,” began the principal “you said you bathe, but you don’t smell like you did. I don’t think you bathed this morning. And you are disturbing Miss James’ class. She had already spoken to you about that!” Miss Patrick ended with a stern voice.
I know I bathed this morning. How can she say she don’t think I bathe this morning? This is not fair!

They kept staring at me, with a turned up noses and looks of disgust on their faces. I let me body fall loose. My lips ferociously hug each other and cling to my teeth as though they doubted the capability of my gum. I felt my eyes grew smaller and my nostrils widened.
“Come Here!” Miss Patrick grabbed my arm and jerked me to where she was standing.
“Look, look, you see up there, that’s my house. If you don’t want to bathe, I will bathe you! I will make you walk naked from here to my house, bathe you, and bring you back!”
She paused. Miss Patrick realized her voice was loud. She looked at my Miss James who stood to the right of her, glaring at me, with folded arms and a wrinkled forehead.
“Do you understand?” asked Miss Patrick in a hushed voice.
This is not happening. I did bathe. No, this just can’t be happening. I washed my clothes and I bathed.
I stood there stock still. I felt like I was suddenly moved from Jupiter to the Moon. All my anger turned into chills. I could not hold back. The tears came tumbling down my brown cheeks. They tasted salty or bitter? I don’t know which one. It did not matter then, because I felt like I would never be able to taste anything again that was pleasant to the tongue. Everything was just so bitter.

“Look Salisha, we don’t mean to make you cry. But you need to understand that you need to bathe every day before you come to school, ok?”
They don’t care about me. No one does. Nothing is sweet. Only hot water or sweet water tea is sweet. But when the sugar done, there is no more tea…
“Do you want me to take you to my house to bathe you?” She asked as she patted my shoulders.
I did not answer. The tears kept flowing. I could not open my mouth. I could not utter words. I felt numb. I could not nod my head. I could not respond.
I want to go home. I want Mammy to come and let me cover my ears on her arm. I wish Mammy would come and take me and comb my hair, and tell me story about me when I was younger. Or maybe Kendell can come and tickle me, so I can forget that I am crying.
“Do you want to go home and bathe?
I looked up for the first time and nodded to Miss Patrick.
I want anything but to be here. I will not even mind going to sit under one of those big trees over by the playground. Yes, I would not mind at all, but, I mostly want to go home.
“Go back to your class and get your things. But Salisha, you must not come back until you bathe. You need to bathe first!” Miss Patrick ended her request with seriousness.
I headed back to my class, new tears racing down my cheeks. I walked close to the banister, my head down. It took me one minute to get to the door of my classroom. Any other person would take two to three minutes. I rushed into the classroom, and stumbled to the far end to collect my belongings. My blue shirt collar was soaked with tears. I grabbed my plastic bag from inside the wooden desk. I picked up my only English book and my single notebook and stuffed them into my plastic bag. I never had a school bag. My reading book and my note book made themselves comfortable in my plastic bag. I only had one plastic bag. I loved it! It was not ripped, and I was able to hold it in the handles. There used to be days, when I had to go with my books in my hands, because my plastic bag was destroyed with holes or large tearing.

I had some scribbles in my notebook. I didn’t know what my English book says. I didn’t know how to read. I liked to look at the pictures. There were a lot of little children in my book. They played marbles or skip. Some of the pictures were with little girls sitting on a bench, talking. The girl I know best is Kizzy and her brother name was Robin. The teacher always talked about them.

I rushed out of the class. I felt the heavy stares of my classmates. They were talking about me.
I wonder if they felt my pain? I wonder if they thought “I am so sorry for her?” I doubt it!
Maybe they were rejoicing that their arms were going to be at rest. They would not need to cover or fan their noses anymore. Their stares and whispers followed me to the front of the class. I heard one person laugh and then several persons laughed. I stepped out of the classroom and hurried to the steps. I wanted to disappear out of the school grounds as soon as possible. But first I had to pick up Delon. His class was downstairs in ‘Small School’.
I wiped my eyes as best as I can and ran to his classroom and told his teacher that I needed to talk to him home with me. She did not object. Delon and I left the school that day and never returned.

I attended a high school with other poor children, whose parents were unable to send them to a higher level institution. Most of the teachers were awefully inconsiderate and cared only about their salaries at the end of the month. They expressed little interest and concern for the goals and dreams of the students. Take for instance, one day, they all went on a strike without informing us. We were deeply hurt when we arrived at school and found out our teachers were not teaching any classes. While all the wealthy students attended school, we had to return home and remained there for a couple days. I was terribly overwhelmed by the teachers’ actions because I knew that the only way out of my situation was to obtain an eduacation. Not obtaining an education instantly depleted my career opportunities. I had no means of attending a university, neither was I qualified to receive a scholarship to take the necessary courses to qualify me as a high school English teacher.

Yet, these struggles were somewhat eradicated when I was baptized and gained a greater understanding of my own self worth. In my Young Women’s class, sister Keri Johnston taught me that I was a loved daughter of our Heavenly Father and I had my own spark of divinity. How important those truths were to me! I immediately began to love and appreaciate myslef. I felt I was important and was placed here for a special purpose. The families in the church were great examples to me. The way they interacted with their spouses and others made me want to be like them. They also treated me with respect and demonstrated their love for me through their words and actions. For example, on several occasions, one of families invited me to have lunch or dinner with them. I enjoyed those meals and was thankful for the opportunity to be accepted by others for who I was. All my burdens and sorrows seemed to have vanished and although I did not become wealthy, I received strenght, courage and even some of my basic needs. The companionship of the Holy Spirit aslo helped me to hanle tough situations in a rather simple way. infact, I no longer viewed my challenges as problems, but I accepted them as guiding trials. The Holy Spirit was and still is my companion of peace and comfort.

In addition, joining the Church gave me new educational opportunities. I was able to travel hundreds of miles from my country to attend one of the most diverse Universities in the world. It is not only the diversity of this institution that is most significant, but it is also the fact that I am surrounderd by individuals who have the same beliefs and faith in the Gospel. The faith exercised by the people there, gives me hope and endurance to overcome the challenges I face each day. Brigham Young University –Hawaii helps me develop myself spiritually, physically and academically. I am fortunate to receive life-changing talks every Tueday, from some of the most higly esteemed men and woman I have ever encountered. Their talks frequently address difficult issues that I have, and inspire me to face them. Attending this university makes my career goal completely achievable. I am able to attend importance classes that I need to become qualified as a high school English teacher.

Though I encountered many struggles growing up in poverty, and after losing my parents, becoming a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, have strenghtened my love for myself, as well as increased my educational and social status. I have learned many lessons which have helped me develop my life. With the directions of the Holy Spirit, I am now able to make wise choices in my daily activities. I have a greater admiration and appreciate for myself and others. As I carry out my daily routunes, I do so with a bright smile on my face. Although often a times individuals, events and even thoughts slabs the smile off my face during the day, my smile returns at night as I close my eyes on bended knees to offer a prayer of gratitude.