When I saw the flyer on the dorm bulletin board announcing the Caribbean Literature class sponsored by the University of Central Florida (UCF) and the Florida Prison Education Project (FPEP), I said to myself, "That's me."
Fifteen students. I sent in my request form that night.
I approached our first class with an open mind and wasn't disappointed. Professor Heather Vazquez quickly lit up the class with her enthusiasm for the course, and the students caught that enthusiasm. A teacher who loves to teach enhances the students’ learning experience, and I became determined to squeeze every bit of knowledge from the class that I could get. College-level classes in prison are rare, and a professor teaching a volunteer program is rarer still.
I have had a special interest in the Caribbean islands and their peoples for a long time. For ten years my family rented a house next to a large orange grove east of Tampa. An orange grove is a great playground for poor country children: football games between the rows, rotten orange fights with neighborhood children, all kinds of snakes, frogs and other critters rousted by the dogs, and all the oranges one could eat.
When I was nine years old and a new Florida resident, a busload of Jamaican workers arrived to pick the ripe fruit. Years later I learned that thousands of Jamaican laborers were brought in every year to harvest Florida's prodigious agricultural crops.
To a nine-year old boy the Jamaicans were fascinating people who spoke with a strange accent. To them, a nine-year old white child must have seemed equally strange. Nevertheless, they immediately accepted my presence. They taught me to pick fruit. Each man carried a pocketknife with a long, slim, razor-sharp blade. They taught me how to properly peel an orange, Jamaican-style. First, you squeeze the orange until the juice is freed, the orange soft. Then peel the orange carefully, in one long curling strand, leaving the white pulp covering the orange. Lastly cut a circular hole at the top to drink from. Voila! An instant orange juice container.
Sometimes a man climbing a tall ladder would suddenly shout some incomprehensible verses loud enough to be heard across the grove. Workers in the distance would answer him with more words, a chorus. He would shout more verses, and the other men would answer him. They would continue until the work song ended, then laugh uproariously.
I count back the years — 64 — I am now 73 — and wistfully realize that those fine gentlemen who took the time to befriend a curious little boy are most likely all dead.
At the University of South Florida I joined the World Affairs Council along with students from 37 countries, several from the islands, and made a number of lasting friendships. I saw Bob Marley and the Wailers perform, and was wowed by the music. Back to the present day, I can still hear the steel drums reverberate inside my head.
I didn't know what Caribbean Literature entailed, but with my 500-page textbook in hand I planned on finding out. When I began reading our textbook and other materials Professor Vazquez provided, I was shocked by how the women islanders lived, endured and withstood horrifying mistreatment. I told my wife, Libby, about my readings, and shared them with her. She was especially affected by an excerpt from Dr. Anna Levi's forthcoming book, "The Nowherians," about sex workers in Trinidad, and we had several discussions during our weekly visits about how those women survived. From the first sentence of the excerpt, the reader is transported to a new level of horror, which is sustained at that plateau with each disclosure in the subsequent sentences. No joy in life, just unspeakable pain.
Libby said something that struck me. "If those poor women in that barracks yard were suddenly transported and set down anywhere in America, there would be an outcry."
How true. But they aren't in America. They are trapped in Trinidad, with little hope for rescue.
Dr. Levi was a guest speaker one week, and if she can be convinced to return one day, I have some questions.
Dr. Kevin Meehan was also a guest speaker, and is coming again this week.
The class gave me an unexpected opportunity to share what we were learning. An officer who passed through our class caught snippets of discussion and later on asked what it was about. I told him. I said the textbook didn't mention my favorite Caribbean poet, Bob Marley.
"Bob Marley!" he said. "I am Jamaican. I love Bob Marley."
I pulled a sheet of paper out of my book. "My wife sent me the words to the last song he wrote before he died."
"Redemption Song," he said.
"Yes." I unfolded the page with the lyrics.
He pointed out a verse. "The most important words," he said. "Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery."
Amen, brother.
Charlie
February 26, 2023
