Me and My Ex-Zombie Girlfriend

You might think that she was a monster, but she really wasn’t.

I’d met her at Nirvana last Friday and the sex was non-stop. Well, if you don't count getting up at five in the morning to work security at the mall: putting on a dry-cleaned uniform and Ray-Bans, smoking primo weed, and doing nothing except watching other people live their boring lives. And then, buffing up at Bally's, smoking more weed, riding my Italian custom-fitted bicycle home, showering, and afterwards, heading to X-Treme where I work as a bouncer. 

As usual, I'd just come off my six-hour shift at X-Treme and went over to Nirvana. It was about one in the morning. She'd put her credit card on the counter and motioned to the bartender to keep the drinks coming. But after five drinks, I could see she was in trouble. Everything was spilling down the front of her dress. I pretended to help her. This is my routine for picking up women. I wait until they are high on X or some other drug and sneak them out the back door. And then, like Emeril says, "Bam!"

We did the nasty in the alley. When I told her we could go home and do it some more, she came along. Luckily, my mom was out of town. I'd "borrowed" her car. When we got home, we did it with handcuffs. Underneath I guess she was a nice girl who didn't want to hurt my feelings, so that's why she agreed. She was the only girl that I didn’t have slip a roofie to do it with handcuffs. The others that got away called me a pervert.

But she was different. She went along with everything. And even though she smelled bad (I thought it was because she didn't go home to shower), I doused her with mom's Chanel No.5 and went at it! Did I ever go at it!

She was perfect! She didn't eat anything and she had a killer body: 36-24-38. Plus, she never talked back. The only thing she ever said was, "Uh-huh" or something like that. Except for the zombie part, who wouldn't want a girlfriend like that?

But the next day, I had to break up with her. It was predictable. She was getting serious. When I came home, she was waiting in my room. Okay, I locked her in.

I told her I didn't want to do it with handcuffs. I wanted to make love. I even broke my pattern and let her get on top. That's when she came at me. I really think she was trying to open up to me, so I told her she had to leave.

 "Go. Leave now!" I screamed and all she could say was, "Uh-huh." But you have to understand, I felt so used, so misunderstood. I had to take a shower. To think, she only wanted me for my brains.

***

Jamaica: What's Halloween Got To Do With It?

Last week as I was finishing the edits on "Bawon Samedi's Halloween," a friend of mine tweeted, "What does Halloween have to do with Ja. culture?"

It was an interesting question. When I was growing up in Jamaica, Halloween would never have been celebrated in my home. My Jehovah's Witness mother did not celebrate Easter, so you can bet that Halloween wouldn't have had a chance. And the nearest that my father came to a costume was the Masonic regalia that he donned when he went to meetings with his lodge brothers.

So what was my motivation for writing a Halloween story, other than the obvious self-imposed task of writing a story with fewer than five hundred words?

The first is to change our attitudes about embracing Halloween or the period known as Dia de los Muertos, All Saints' Day, All Souls' Day or Samhain. In nearly every culture, there is some form of remembrance of the ancestors that is practiced in the liminal period between October 31 and November 2.

The question we have to ask ourselves is why didn't these celebrations, even though they are practiced in Britain, become part of the Jamaican calendar?

The first clue has to do with Jamaica's Protestant past where any kind of popish foppery, including the veneration of the saints, is strictly verboten. Protestants do not take kindly to the veneration of saints, so it was very difficult to continue any kind of subterfuge, as other New World Africans had done in Catholic Cuba, Haiti and Brazil, by sneaking African gods under the vestments of the saints and which gave rise to the many syncretic religions of the Americas.

But a far more important variable—and this is pure conjecture in my part-- has to do with the history of colonialism in Jamaica. I don't think the Home Office would have appreciated any kind of religious ceremony for the remembrance of ancestors. African religions and any associated practices, which included drumming, were banned in Jamaica.

And if any naïve expat would have tried to initiate a Day of the Dead ceremony in Jamaica, I'm sure the Home Office would have sent some underpaid undersecretary to have a talk with him, over tea, on the verandah: "Not a good idea, old chap. We don't want the darkies to start thinking about their ancestors, would we? Put us in a bit of a pickle, don't you think?"

And the British had every reason to fear Africans who remembered their ancestors. It was a Jamaican, Dutty Boukman, who along with other houngans on Bois Caiman, ignited a revolution that would lead to freedom in the Americas.

But is that the only reason why we should embrace a celebration in remembrance of our ancestors?

As much as I love "Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night" by Dylan Thomas, I also realize that death is a part of life. Steve Jobs in his commencement speech at Stanford said, "Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new."

In other words, death is not to be feared. We are all going to die. This fact alone should awaken our compassion and should cause us to be kinder to each other.

It should also be a time to think about the sacrifices that our ancestors made for us to be here. This is has nothing to do with morbidity, but rather it is a celebration of the preciousness of life. For it is when we forget about our ancestors and the fragility of life that we sometimes commit inhumane acts and take for granted the preciousness of the breath streaming out of our nostrils right now.

So what does "Bawon Samedi's Halloween" have to do with Jamaican culdture?

By using a psychopomp from a Yoruba based religion, I hope I have sensitized readers to the archetypal function of the lwas in order to reverse some of the effects of colonialism, which have robbed us of our common human heritage.

And this goes to the heart of larger questions that we should ask ourselves as we approach the fiftieth anniversary of Jamaica's independence: What are the traits/qualities that define us as Jamaicans and how are they expressed in our public and private behaviors? What are the affirmations and denials that have shaped us? Have these affirmations and denials helped or hurt us? Should these affirmations or denials be amplified or eliminated? How will we amplify or eliminate these affirmations and denials?

One way to bring about change in through storytelling: The stories we tell ourselves and others. But what are these stories? Do they set us free or limit our conception of ourselves?

I hope "Bawon Samedi's Halloween" will be the start of a conversation about our African and British heritages.

As for me, I have lit a candle for Merty, Sydney, Paul, Dennis and the many others who have gone ahead.

One Love,

Geoffrey

Bawon Samedi's Halloween

I know you won't believe me when I tell you this. But you should. Your life depends on it.


Last Halloween Bawon Samedi, who can take any shape he desires, left the tent cities in Haiti, was detained in Krome, and then, moved into our neighborhood. When we heard he was looking for a partner, everyone was scared except my mother.


"He's just one of God's children," she said. "Like you and me."


But I didn't believe her. I've never had any faith in the stories she told me about why she left my father in Jamaica and took me with her. I don't think she knew how much it hurt me when the other boys teased me: "Where's your father?" they would say as they laughed. "Look, I just saw him coming out of a window and running down the road."


Yet, I remained devoted to my mother. She has been the only woman in my life. Even in her seventies, she was still a good-looking woman. So when Bawon Samedi came to court her, I made sure I bought new locks for the front door.


When I told her I wanted to install a security system, she said, "It's good that you're protecting me now and you can take care of yourself."


I called Brinks Security and a salesman with a funny hat came to my house. "Trust me," he said. "State of the art. No one will ever harm you or your mother with this system. And you won't have to pay anything up front. I can set you up on our credit system."


I refused to bow to the temptation. I paid the full cost and we slept soundly every night.


But little did I know, my mother was betraying me.


Late at night—the neighbors just told me this—she would disarm the system, unlock the door, and invite Bawon Samedi into her bedroom. Or on some nights, they would steal away into the backyard, sit in the swing under our umbrella tree, and admire the moonlight.


That was how I found her when the paramedics came this morning. She was wearing a necklace he had given her and a wedding gown I thought she had donated to the Salvation Army. She clutched a handwritten note in her right hand:


"Don't be upset, my son. My darling says I've always looked pretty in white. So I searched and I searched until I found my old dress. This only goes to show, as I've always told you, 'Nothing is ever lost in God's vineyard'"


And for once, I believed that old woman. For once.


So, this Halloween I'm not taking any chances. For Bawon Samedi loves to entice the unwary. And especially those who don't believe in him. 


I'm leaving an offering of peanuts, a glass of rum with twenty-one Scotch bonnet peppers, and a Cuban cigar by my doorway.


How are you protecting yourself?

***

"Bawon Samedi and his Bride" by Christina Philp

© Christina Philp 2011

"Bawon Samedi's Halloween" by Geoffrey Philp

© Geoffrey Philp 2011

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween!

© "Rasta Pumpkin" by Jade Rudd
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