Why Do I Write About Mona Heights?

Once upon a time, there was a place called Mona Heights…


In her review of Dub Wise, Mary Hanna called the collection "a gift." If she meant “a gift” in the way that Lewis Hyde in The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World defined it as an "act of gratitude," then all of my books have been gifts because they attempt to return to the source the sensory impressions that have affected my life's work.


And certainly, Mona Heights has been a source. My earliest memories of Mona Heights are of growing up with my sister, Judith, my brother, Ansel, and a house full of cousins. Down the street, my childhood friends, Paul Chin, David Griffith, and Paul Smith and always trying to keep out of trouble with our parents and extended "uncles" and "aunts": Uncle Danny and Aunty Joan Morrison, Uncle Welly Chin, Uncle Michael Witter, Uncle Michael "Jah Mick" and Aunty Ann-Marie Mowatt. The happier days of our childhood were filled with playing cricket, exploring the "open lands, of Hope Pastures, and skylarking at the annual Christmas fair.


It was an idyllic time. Even the streets had paradisiacal names: Garden Boulevard, Anthurium Drive, Daisy Avenue, and Plumbago Path,  where I grew up and which I’ve used as the setting for many of the short stories in Uncle Obadiah and the Alien.


This is not to say that there weren't problems associated with race and class. But our parents did what all parents should do--they protected us from the harsher aspects of life. They realized that Mona Heights was the beginning of a civil society in pre-independence Jamaica, and, as one of the first attempts to create an open middle class enclave in St. Andrews, Mona became a microcosm of Jamaican society with all its dreams, fears, and conflicts.


As we grew older, however, we began to become aware of the divisions, but we didn't care who was black, white, Chinese, East Indian, or browning. We belonged to a community.


We were friends and continued to be friends during the so-called communist threat of the 70's and long after the undeclared civil war broke out...

II

So why do I write about Mona Heights?



I’m a wild golden apple
that will burst with love
of you and your men,
those I never told enough
with my young poet’s eyes
crazy with the country,
generations going,
generations gone,
moi c’est gens Ste. Lucie.
C’est la moi sorti;
is there that I born.


(from Derek Walcott, Collected Poems, 1948 – 1984, Noonday Press, 1986/1993; originally from Sea Grapes, 1976)

It was there on Plumbago Path with Long Mountain to my right, Wareika to my left, and a child's delight in dirt and green things that I first had a feeling of awe, of being part of something larger than myself. It's the place in Jamaica where I first fell in love and where I discovered the work of three artists who would have a profound effect on my life: Bob Marley, Derek Walcott, and Dennis Scott.


Watching the pouis blanket the lawn while listening to the whistle of the peanut man, or waiting for our gardener, Victor, to regale us with his off-color jokes about "toning" as the Nyabinghi brethren called out, "Broom, Broomie," gave me the time to think about what Lorna Goodison, speaking about her childhood in pre-idpendence Jamaica, has called, "a very complicated, complex, rich place."


Later in the interview, Lorna also revealed, "I can be a witness. I can say, ‘In my life I saw this, and I knew this about Jamaica. If it doesn’t exist now, believe me, it used to exist, and hopefully it can exist again."

I feel the same way, Lorna. I haven't given up.

Howzat! Mid-Day Thoughts of a Late Cut Artist

By Geoffrey Philp

I love to play cricket. Sometimes I like to think I was born with a bat in my hand. Or at least it seemed that way when I was growing up in Mona Heights, Jamaica. Many of my holidays were spent playing cricket with David "Griffo" Griffiths, Paul "Pat Chow" Chin, Paul "Pablove" Smith, and our friends from Geranium, Orchid, or Daisy Avenue. In fact, you could substitute some of the characters from my short story, "The Day Mrs. HoSang Got Arrested"  in Uncle Obadiah and the Alien for Griffo, Pat Chow, Pablove, and me playing cricket on Plumbago Path.

We all had individual skills at which we excelled. David was a good pace bowler; Pat Chow had a wicked leg break, and Paul had a mixture of off-break, leg break, and googly. And when we had our version of test matches against teams from Hope Pastures, we'd call on Ian Carey, who was also a good spin bowler, to be our opening batsman. The competition was always a means to hone our skills in the three essential positions of a cricket team.

When you are fielding, you have to be aware of your surroundings by paying attention to the bowler and the batsman's reactions. A bowler has to confuse the batsman either by pace or spin, spotting his weaknesses or bowling him out by indulging his strengths. As a batsman, my favorite position, you must possess a combination of skill, patience, and confidence to master each shot. You have to focus on each ball to either play defensively or to create an opportunity for your team to make runs. My favorite shot was a late cut off the back foot for four runs between backward point and third man.

You also learn every ball is different. If, as a wise philosopher once said once said that you never step in the same river twice, then every ball is an opportunity for defeat--Howzat!; victory--six runs!, or a resounding truce--"Nooooooo!"

For nearly every summer until we graduated from primary school, Griffo, Pat Chow, Pablove, and I played cricket against different teams. Griffo went to Wolmers, Pat Chow to Ardenne,  Pablove and I went to Jamaica College. I was chosen for Murray House and Paul was inducted into Hardy House, our perennial rivals. Mid-way through our first term, Paul stopped playing cricket and started playing football. I, however, continued playing cricket, and as a first former, I was assigned to the "B" team. I thought I deserved to be on the "A" team, but the events proved me wrong.

I was the opening batsman in a limited overs match against Hardy House, so every ball counted. The pace bowler, who I think went on to play for our Sunlight team, had me pinned from the first ball. I was forced to make defensive plays: "Nooooooo!" Our housemaster, Mr. McLeod, didn't like what was happening. Didn't like it one bit.

After the second over, my partner and I had only scored four runs. Mr. McLeod walked over to me and said I needed to make runs or he would declare me out. I didn't think it was fair, but I couldn't protest or do anything about it, I was only a mere first former. Pressure was mounting on and off the field. I tried hard to remember the advice that Griffo's father had once given us, "Play the ball. Not the crowd."

The next ball came at a blistering pace, and I showed the bowler the face of the bat, "Nooooooo!" I looked over at Mr. McLeod. He looked me dead in the eyes and tapped his watch. Mr. McLeod was angry with me.

More pressure. The bowler delivered a ball that swung from the offside toward mid-wicket and I countered with another, "Nooooooo!" Mr. McLeod threw his hands in the air and pointed to another first former to get ready.

I was losing my cool and the bowler sensed it. He slammed a crushing bouncer at my head, and I tried to lift the ball over his shoulders for six runs, but it didn't work. He jumped up and caught the ball. I was out for three runs.

And then, the bowler laughed. I've never forgotten the smirk on his face or his raucous cackle.

I walked off the field with my bat under my arm and my head hung low. As I passed Mr. McLeod, I said, "I hope you're happy now."

"What did you say?" he screamed at me.

"Nothing, sir," was all I could say and sat on the sidelines. I didn't want to get a caning, so I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the game.

The worst was yet to come. Our team lost. My wicket had been sacrificed for expediency, and it was all in vain. My only comfort was I hadn't made a duck.

From that day, I made a decision that no one would ever force me to give up my wicket for any reason. As long as I could hold the bat between my hands, I would never give up my wicket for anything or anyone. I would dig in and if I had to play defensive strokes, then so be it. Either bowl me out or I would parry with "Nooooooo," for the rest of my life.

I've never forgotten that day or the bowler's derisive laughter. It has been the spur in situations that I've faced as a teacher and writer where the odds have been against me.

In fact, a few years ago when I worked as an English teacher in Dade County Public Schools, I was confronted with a situation where I had to be defensive. I was a young father and I needed every penny I could get. So, in addition to teaching English, I taught journalism and I was the yearbook/newspaper advisor and soccer coach. But that, sports fans, is another story.

There had been a change in the administration and I sensed that the new principal wanted to replace me so she could give the yearbook/newspaper job to one of her cronies. She tried every trick in the book to get me out, but I wouldn't budge. With every charge she delivered, my reply was "Nooooooo!"

When the situation became obvious to my coworkers, one of them said to me, "Why are you trying so hard? Why don't you just quit?"

My response? You guessed it. "Nooooooo!"

It is that kind of determination--my wife says stubbornness--that has also helped me as a writer. Every morning I get up to practice my writing as I had done with batting in the nets because it takes a special kind of perseverance to dig in when the rejections are coming from publishers: "Nooooooo!"  Call me Bartleby with a cricket bat.

During my writing apprenticeship, I went for years without making a run or taking a wicket. But I figured as long as I could hold my pen between my fingers--I still write by longhand--I would never be discouraged by anything or anyone. And whenever I saw an opportunity to transform the issues that plague my culture intopersonal stories, it would be a late cut off the back foot for six runs.

That's the kind of persistence that I've had to possess to continue writing, and I've never settled for expediency. A good writer, like an experienced batsman, has to have faith in his skills, which according to Malcolm Gladwell can take up to 10,000 hours of hard work todevelop, so he can get through those times when it seems as if you're facing Michael Holding at the peak of his powers, and it doesn't seem as if Mikey is going to tire any time soon.

But every now and then, I look at the scoreboard, the runs that I've made and I feel confident that even though the innings may not have been as spectacular as I would have liked, I still haven't lost my wicket.

I'm still batting.

Spock, Barack, and Papa Legba: Cosmic Integrators

For those of us who are old enough to have grown up on the original Star Trek, tonight is the night when we see as Jeff Greenwald states: "the back story of the original series, and show how its three principles got themselves onto what might be (along with Noah’s Ark and the Titanic) the most famous vehicle in history: the starship Enterprise."

And I'll be there because of Spock--the Papa Legba of cosmic challenges.

I've always loved the character of Spock and for all the reasons as Greenwald continues in his comparison of the fictional character and the very real Barack Obama: "His appeal stems from the self-aware integration of all aspects of his personality: black and white, wonk and poet, athlete and aesthete."

Spock always managed to remain calm while the world raged around him as Leonard Nimoy pointed out in an interview and explained Spock's appeal: "what I was constantly playing -- is the yin/yang balance between our right and left brains. How do you get through life as a feeling person, without letting emotions rule you? How do you balance the intellectual and emotional sides of your being?"

As a teenager growing up during the turbulent seventies in Jamaica, this is what drew me to the character of Spock. And the fact that he was a mixed-breed curiosity who managed to maintain his composure despite the taunts of others made him a kind of male role model when there were few, if any, around.

This began my curiosity with sci-fi and when I decided to become a writer, one of my first stories was "Uncle Obadiah and the Alien," and why I named one of the main characters in my novel, Benjamin, my son, Papa Legba. It's wanting to find an answer to a question that has always haunted me: How do we straddle two worlds?

Poet and baller. Spirituality and rationality. Desire and responsibility. The internal battle still continues. Some days the human wins and some days the Vulcan takes over. But neither pole has all the answers--just as Obama learned as he walked through the racial minefield of America, and which is why he continues to confound his critics. He has looked at the world through black and white eyes and his solutions represent a new Hegelian equilibrium in race relations. The rest of them will have to play catch-up. But the only way that they will be able to do this is by rigorous self scrutiny--something of which Spock would have found "fascinating."

It's what we all have to continue.

Live long and prosper, Idrens!

***

Reader Question: "My Brother's Keeper"

Hi

My name is Lynn and I'm a third year student studying literature and one of my courses is Caribbean Lit. I have an assignment on one of your short stories "My Brother's Keeper" and I was wondering if you can share what issues you were trying to address and what exactly was going through your mind. I would appreciate your help.

Thank YOU,

Lynn





Dear Lynn,

Greetings!

Lynn, I'm going to combine your question with a few I had from another student who has been studying "My Brother's Keeper" which was originally published in Uncle Obadiah and the Alien and republished in the Oxford Book of Caribbean Short Stories.

Could tell me some of the significant events in your life that I may share with the class and what means most to you about Jamaica.

In one of my earliest posts, I wrote about many of the events that shaped my life and fictions. Here is the link:
Lecture at Davidson College


I notice that you made reference to Marcus Garvey, what are your views on him?

Marcus Garvey has had a tremendous impact on Jamaican life. If Marcus Garvey had not been born, Rastafari, Bob Marley, and Reggae would not have existed. In fact, many of the Pan-African and liberation movements would not have been possible without Marcus Garvey.

Here's a post that I have written about him.
Happy Birthday, Marcus Garvey


You also mentioned how the narrator kills a mockingbird and his mother is angered by it? Is this a reference to Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird or does the bird represent something else to you?

Maybe it is, but when I was writing the story, I was thinking about the mockingbird representing motherhood, spring and life and the dangerous ground that the boy was now unconsciously entering.


What were some of the things that influenced you to write this story?

Child abuse in Jamaica, the diaspora, sibling rivalry, Cain and Abel. One of the enduring tropes of the Bible and the book of Genesis is sibling rivalry that culminates in the story of Joseph and his brothers. I've also used this allusion in Benjamin, my son.


There is also a mention of the narrator's father beating his mother? Do you believe that physical abuse is a big problem in Jamaica?

Yes.


What do you think of the women's rights over there at the moment?

Despite the many political gains by women in Jamaica, I still believe that women's rights are still devalued. The irony is that many Jamaican men are brought up by women and without any father figures, but the men retain formal political/economic power.


What are the primary roles women have in society?

A. Caregivers


I am curious to know what you mean by "bangarang" in the line, "When I get back home that night though, it was bangarang."

Bangarang in Jamaican means a lot of trouble


The mother in the story emphasizes the importance of Sabbath school while the narrator claims he only goes to please her, what religion is predominantly practiced in Jamaica and what are the less known religious affiliations?

This is from the CIA Fact Book:

Religions: Protestant 62.5%
(Seventh-Day Adventist 10.8%,
Pentecostal 9.5%,
Church of God 8.3%,
Baptist 7.2%,
New Testament Church of God 6.3%,
Church of God in Jamaica 4.8%,
Church of God of Prophecy 4.3%,
Anglican 3.6%,
other Christian 7.7%),
Roman Catholic 2.6%,
Other or unspecified 14.2%,
None 20.9%, (2001 census)
https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/geos/jm.html

I find it interesting that they did not include Rastafari.


Another term I did not understand was jacket when the narrator says, "Well, everybody start to laugh because him never look anything like anybody in my family and Richard say him must be a jacket. Richard did want to change my name from Umpire to 'Three Piece Suit and Thing'.

A jacket in Jamaican is an illegitimate child. "Three Piece Suit and Thing" is a play on the word jacket.


The narrator makes a strong statement shortly after saying, "So the truth come out, but it never set me free", what underlying truth is being referred to?

It's a play on the biblical phrase (John 8:32 ) "and the truth shall set you free." The narrator is thinking short term. He speaks the truth, but it doesn't have the result he expected.


Is the story symbolic to Jamaicans attitudes toward Jamaicans who leave the island to live in the states and later return after long periods of time gone?

I wasn't thinking about it that way. I was thinking about two brothers fighting for the affection/love of a dead father.


Is there some kind of need for re-entry/approval that must be given metaphorically similar to the David's sacrifice for the watch?

David's sacrifice is to win the approval of his brother--yes, a re-entry sacrifice .

Thank you, Lynn, for this opportunity!

Blessings,
Geoffrey

***

Uncle Obadiah and the Alien @ Barry University

“It’s very rare to have a living writer talk to students who are reading his work,” said Dr. Evelyn Cartright as she introduced me to her Caribbean literature class at Barry University.

The students, some of whom were preparing essays on “My Brother’s Keeper” which was originally published in Uncle Obadiah and the Alien and anthologized in The Oxford Book of Caribbean Short Stories, welcomed me, and in no time, we were talking about plausibility in fiction, creating characters, publishing in the Caribbean, and Caribbean-American identity.

We also talked about the necessity of criticism because feedback was part of the cycle of any healthy system. I challenged the English majors to think about careers as critics. I confessed that I had once thought about becoming a critic after several rejections (not that they haven’t stopped coming!) and after many professors whose opinions I'd valued suggested that perhaps becoming a critic wasn’t such as bad choice after all.

I told the students that I had no problem with criticism. As long as the criticism was balanced and was an evaluation of authorial intent, I welcomed any examination of my work that anwered these questions: How did the characterization, plot, or narrative either help or hinder the plot? Or how did the imagery, rhythm, or metaphors assist the reader in enjoying the poem? Effective criticism can actually help a writer in understanding her own work because most writers rely on an intuitive rather than an evaluative understanding of their work.

One way, I suggested, that the students could begin their careers in criticism was by blogging: writing about books they liked and spreading the word about these books, especially books by Caribbean writers because there are so few outlets providing information about Caribbean life, people, and literature.

Give thanks to Dr. Cartright for inviting me to speak to her students. And thank you students for asking such interesting questions about me and my craft. I hope our conversation will continue beyond the classroom.

For more photos of the event, please follow this link: Reading at Barry University.

***

Uncle Obadiah and the Alien: Back on the Block

Peepal Tree Press, my publisher, received a rather large order from Trinidad, of which Uncle Obadiah and the Alien was a part--hence the new look for the cover. Uncle Obadiah was my first book of short stories and as the publisher notes, "Philp's Uncle Obadiah and the Alien very consciously takes a wide variety of short story forms (sci-fi, the Jamaican tall-tale, and the social realist story) and moods (comic, protesting, erotic, tragic) and mixes the whole like the diverse track list of a Peter Tosh album."

Here's what some others have had to say:

Robert Antoni : "If Dickens were reincarnated as a Jamaican Rastaman, he would write stories as hilarious and humane as these." Uncle Obadiah" and the other stories collected here announce Geoffrey Philp as a direct descendent of Bob Marley: poet, philosophizer, spokesperson for our next new world."

John Dufresne: "Geoffrey Philp is a literary shaman, an enchanter, a weaver of spells that reveal unexpected and marvelous things about life, that carry the news of island culture to the mainland. From the first word of the first story in this comic and touching collection, Philp lifts me out of my world and drops me into the world of his charming, beleaguered and compelling characters. Uncle Obadiah and the Alien is one of those rare treasures, a book you can't put down and won't ever forget."

Norval Edwards : "Geoffrey Philp's writing combines a poetic sensibility with finely honed narrative skills that draw on a multitude of resources: literary and oral traditions, rasta and ragamuffin flavours, science fiction and Jamaican tall tales. Philp blends them all with humour, wisdom and craft."

Preston Allen: "We have always known that Mr. Philp is in a class by himself as a poet, but now he has taken on the mantle of short story writer as well. This collection is not to be missed. The great stories in this book are important because they take us into rarely traversed ground: the experience of the Jamaican immigrant back home on the island and in the new Babylon of America. As a Caribbean immigrant myself, I have often longed for a book that is our version of The Grapes Of Wrath or The Joy Luck Club, one that tells our story with wit, intelligence, and without apology. Uncle Obadiah is it. You will be transported."

After eleven years since its first publication, I'm happy that Uncle Obadiah is still out there and being appreciated.

Give thanks, my Trini sistren and brethren.

***

Podcast of "The Day Mrs. Ho Sang Got Arrested"

The short story, “The Day Mrs. Ho Sang Got Arrested” was first published in Uncle Obadiah and the Alien.
First week of March, I will be podcasting and excerpt from Benjamin, My Son.

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