'THE SIN OF MY SKIN" (Excerp)

cont'

It was frustrating to witness as things turned out so awfully bad when the CHAT programme was the noblest desire of mine to do the right thing for the world’s children.
The children of this small twin island of my birth, the children of my heart.
Tears of shame, frustration, and guilt continually strained my soul, staining it as red as the blood I’ve seen, heard about and written about for such a long time. Tears were forever stinging and straining my eyes.
I no longer wanted this mission to just end. I desperately wanted to forget. To forgive... to live only my pitiful life and not be haunted by the lives and deaths of the children I had come to care for even more than breathing and certainly sleeping.
I knew that I was dying. The ‘cause’ I was fighting for was dying... the children I’d wanted so badly to assist was dying.
I knew also that I and I alone had made my choice in life.
Yes…It had been my choice to die for my convictions. I knew what I was dying for and knew also the price I’d been forced to pay as a result of my dedication to this ‘cause’.
Yes... indeed. I still believe that I was right... am right.
I was no longer afraid to meet God. I knew that He at least was proud of my effort to do the right thing and I believed that my works were indeed pleasing in his sight.
But, oh... what an expensive sacrifice this battle has been for one measly human being.
Yes... I knew that I would still live and die with the courage that has brought me this far. I still believed that our children were our future. That their lives are our most valuable commodity and investment in the future of humanity.
I have indeed seen the real tragedies of this war of sexual pervasion on innocent children. There was not a lot that could surprise me anymore. It certainly has been awfully painful to bear alone. Yet. I accept the fact that I have been vilified for wanting to do my part, and I hold out my arms to another, and I listen to another, and I record another story, and I keep breathing... In and out and in and out and in and out.

Indeed, this has been a painful experience, one I would gladly never choose to live again; but it was part of my life story and as such my life would not be fully lived if I turn my back on it and just simply forget.
And though for the most part I truly did not rest much on the opinions of others, I knew now that opinions were indeed important as opinions made friends and opinions made dreadful enemies of other wise normal minded human beings.
And yes, I’ll continue this journey I started and I will always remember to return to my yesterdays as history not remembered are so often repeated over and over again.
Believing will help me to hold on a little longer to my sanity.
For in spite of it all, believing will help me to go on even knowing the outcome and having tasted the bite of those who hold the real power over what will be and what will not be.
It was time to break up my camp and move on to the next. All that I could accomplish in Trinidad and Tobago was done. There was nothing more my presence could achieve, and so I prepared once again to leave.

I had been fighting for so long and so often all I really wanted now was peace, to pray to God one more time for forgiveness... But would He still have mercy?
I had failed... So many will still die and had already died... Is there still mercy for soldiers who had chosen to leave the field of battle while the war was yet on, I asked myself for the thousandth time? I could not think of any amount of honour that was worth me dying here... Not now... Not like this...
“Please, God!” I prayed into the deep darkness... I have to get home... I have to see my sons... Please God...”
But God did not appear to be with me at the moment.
Through it all, right was still right... Blood was still blood... Rape was still rape... Abuse was still abuse... And a person of honour was still an honourable person.

Posted on: March 04, 2007, 05:13:17 pm

cont'

Yet, though I certainly was not attempting to hide my identity, I no longer had the desire to touch them. I didn’t want to look at them. I didn’t want to see them as human. I was beginning to know a great price for living true to my convictions... But didn’t my convictions in the end make me who I am? Yet, my dignity, my self-respect, my pride and faith were so terribly damaged that I feared they were beyond repair and certainly way beyond redemption.
I wanted desperately to survive this horrible mission I was still being forced into completing with mind, body and soul intact. Yet I was sure that I had already felt parts of my soul separate as things started falling apart. I still wasn’t positive that I was truly ready to use any means, anyone, anything to help free this bondage these poor, helpless children in my native Trinidad and Tobago was being forced into. Had I finally worked and cried myself into an early grave due to my actions?
Thunder suddenly seemed to fly out of the night sky, like unto the voice of God.
Reality was just as suddenly such a tragedy. Fathers are fighting with sons, brothers killing each other, friends turning on each other, mothers and daughters- with words and actions tearing each other down- shooting, raping, killing...
I’ve now been attacked for being a voice for the sexually abused, for trying to help black children, even for being black. So when truly does the end defend the means...?
Unlike my slave ancestors, I lived freely, knowing that my sons could never be sold off or hanged. I now worried about whether they’d have a world left after this genocide of the world’s children through the tragedy of physical and sexual abuse and deviances and the torture of the deadly HIV/AIDS virus that so often accompanied this behaviour.
The stench of the bullshit was scarcely bearable. I was determined to accept any and all hardship that came along in my mission to make a difference and leave footprints on this earth. It was essential to me that I do my part as actions such as the one I’m now taking were the true backbone and building blocks of a civilized society.
I had chosen to go to this war, to get involved. No paychecks or rank was issued to me. No one paid me and no one forced me. I made a choice.
Nothing seems at all fair. This sad war is currently destroying an entire generation of young people too powerless to fight and too broken to even care anymore.
There was an intense amount of strain. There were many foolish enough who would hurt me for no reason but my right and determination to do the right thing. And my determination to fight to the bitter end for my conscience.

Would I have loved my own two children of my womb as fiercely if I had not seen with my own eyes that lives could be changed, ended. Lives shattered in a split second due to a lack of conscience and no sense of right and wrong. I recognized that the time of total destruction was certainly on its way, but as of right now it has not arrived.
I wanted so much to yell at God... “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you doing something?”
I now lived for this dreadful experience to finally come to an abrupt end. I had fought my own wars... I had found a certain strange kind of peace... I had lived... I had learned.
Again I questioned whether the ends really defend whatever means is required to reach it? For though we haven’t yet lost this horrible war on child sexual abuse, this battle I’ve endured has been a terrifying training exercise which left me fearing the call when the final step will be taken.
I couldn’t help but wonder if the memories of this time in Trinidad and Tobago would be buried with me. Will this be the only real thing I take with me to the grave? Will the horrors and evil I’ve seen finally disappear? Will it be no longer as I am no longer?
I was among my grandmother’s and my mother’s people. Somewhere my ancestors’ blood flowed in the veins of some of these black people I love. Indeed my war and my place in this war were here. Here was as much home as was Canada.
Yes, I am Canadian. My ways and understanding is Canadian. Yet, even at home in Canada I am at times an outcast like I am here in Trinidad and Tobago. I didn’t know anymore if there would be a time for me ‘after’ this mission. The reality was truly wretched bile in the pit of my stomach. A vile taste in my mouth.
Maybe indeed some things under the sun was not meant to be prevented. As in all things, death was truly an important part of life. Already at thirty-eight years old I had been forced into mourning deeply and so painfully that a gaping wound would always ooze and fight infection in the deepest parts of my soul.
As I prepare to board another flight back to Canada, back to my children, my heart slammed bitterly against my chest. It was that time when my concern was no longer the who, when, where, and why the children were dying, but the problem of how we could all start living. If I survived this inferno I knew I’d enjoy every day of my life from that point on. I knew also the importance of looking at all the facts in a sensible, logical fashion or it would be a certainty that I would lose this battle in a dreadful manner

Posted on: March 04, 2007, 05:15:17 pm

cont'

CHAPTER TWO

My father, like yours was just a man…My Mama like yours held me at her breast…
But stop trying to get a closer feel…Try to pay attention to your own damn home
You know you’re living in a disaster zone

Guayaguayare Village
Tying Up Loose Ends
2006

On June twenty-ninth in the year of our Lord two thousand and six I sat up in an antique cast iron bed draped with a pink mosquito net, the mattress dressed in ice, gold and green bedding, gold being the predominant colour. One long gold and green satin covered pillow, two cell phones, my silver cigarette holder case, a going away present from my biggest fan, my son Jimmy, a lighter, my journal with a pen marking a page and a photo of my two greatest heroes, my boys, Joshua and Jimmy. The items that had seen me through the worst breakdown I’ve experienced in my entire thirty-eight years. The items that I recognized the most in life. The items I’d depended on the most to get me out of the mess I’d tied myself up in.
It had been six months now since I’d made the trip back to Trinidad and Tobago since our slight escape back to Canada with the videos and CHAT data on January twenty-fifth two years ago. That’s how long it had taken me to gather up enough resolve to return and finish up the mission that I had set in motion back in September two thousand and one, days after the famous 9/11 attack in America. I still wondered on whether that attack was not a warning to me to stop this assignment while I still could.
After sneaking out of Trinidad and Tobago with my youngest son in tow together with the videos and data we were able to save, I had made a promise to Jack that I would return.
I had every intention of doing just that, as soon as I was able to get my health under control, reestablish my boys back into the Ontario school system, and allow the heat to die down. Two years later, months upon months of dissecting the data and videos, I had finally been able to make the return trip. This time I came solo. There was no way I was going to put my children in harm’s way by forcing them to accompany me back to my place of birth again. Not after all that they had endured for the sake of the CHAT programme already.
Straight ahead of me at eye level is the spectacular view that had awed me every day for five months. A Panasonic view of the ocean waves crashing against the sea-wall currently being constructed in a half-minded haphazard way that will eventually wash away so many lives and livelihood of the people of this poor village along the seacoast of Trinidad.
I felt the shame of knowing that my Canadian Government were in part responsible for raping and killing the children and poorest of my birth land. I felt the shame of knowing that I had in my possession documents, videos, audios and testimonies that could have made a huge outcome of the leading political party’s position as the results could and would have changed the course of T&T’s history.

I question the choices I made when I started this mission. When I thought that the truth was best known. When I was still proud to be black. When I thought there was still hope for the Blackman to save himself. Before I knew better.

The sliding windows are eight feet across and four feet down. It is dressed in dark brown organza drapes, white hand spun Italian lace, drawn back and looking like a line of soldiers.
A few feet outside in the magnificent walk out flower garden, a mother’s day gift from my boys, a handsome ice, gold and green gazebo, complete with huge umbrella, sitting chairs, a lounge chair and a painted red log dragged home from the beach more than four years ago by Marie and I.
The ground was mortared with chip-chip shells cast into the surface. Surrounding the gazebo were huge red and yellow daises, elegant long-tailed and huge puffy coxcombs, purple and pink Bourganvillas, pink ladies slippers and several rose bushes.
Turning to the side window view were three neat rows of louvered windows, each row holding one dozen louvers each. To the back of the house stood an elderly sapodilla tree a few decades old with humungous roots protruding from the ground high enough to sit on and hang you feet. In front of the sapodilla tree were rows of daisies and long tail coxcomb. Below the window a thick hedge of ladies slippers. These windows held miniature versions of the curtains hung by the sliding windows.
Through the kitchen window is a huge eggplant tree baring over a dozen eggplant, tree and fruit the natives call malengen or bygone. Tomato trees carrying their final fruits, big and small leaved thyme trees, mint and shadow benny. A few scattered corn trees, a guava tree in full bloom and an avocado tree finishing off the kitchen garden.

Posted on: March 04, 2007, 05:19:27 pm

cont'

Turning to face the east and the early rising sun as it made its way over the huge mango and hog plum tree, the front garden almost take my breath away. Jack’s finest gift to me...
Through the six-foot wooden doors is a concrete walkway twenty feet long, running through two massive flower beds, whole thing alight in full bloom. To the right is the shack-shack plants, three dozen placed strategically, reds and bright yellow flowers swaying in the early morning breeze. More daises in abundance, all the way down the two hundred feet walkway to the main road.
To the right, coxcombs of every breed in abundance and bloom. Then the walkway divides into a private circular walk into a section on the side with extravagant coxcombs, daises and roses along with a few flower plants I recognized from my grandmother’s flower garden in my childhood years but as yet I could not name.
The flowers followed the steps leading off the property.
Bringing my focus back inside, ‘Lonely Girl’ was playing on Power 107, Trinidad’s most healing radio station and I venture to say in the Caribbean.
On the floor over brown and gold linoleum was a red wooden table facing a red wooden loveseat with gold and brown cushions. On the table is a huge vase of morning glory laced with purple and also in full bloom. On another taller table laid haphazardly against the wall is two radios. Both always loaded with battery to keep the music playing.
I felt closer to Stan, Sherrie, Jason and Des on 107fm than I did to most people at this point in my life.
I made it a new religion of mine to not listen to Ricardo or David on 102 fm by choice. I avoided them and most other radio, news and television personalities to the best of my abilities.
I had returned to Trinidad and Tobago to follow up on those clients who had their lives endangered during the course of ‘Operation Meltdown’, to assure myself of the safety of some of the girls I had to turn my back on when I left Trinidad to return to Canada, and to assure the ones who had entrusted me with their stories that I had not bailed out and that I was going to make sure that their stories were made public or die trying.
On the red wooden shelf above the kitchen counter was a few bottles containing coffee, a lot of carnation milk, a couple of large cans of Hunt’s Spaghetti sauce, Pringles potato chips, New Brunswick tuna and a few extra bottles of Mayo.
Taking up a good amount of space on the lower shelf was a woven basket filled to overflowing with my prescription bottles. Lorazapam, Seroquel, Remron, Altace, Adalat, Asthma Inhalers and on and on.
I look at the small photo of my boys, now positioned directly in front of me, each with a hand around the other’s shoulder. Jimmy, the colour of dark chocolate. The youth the Durham Regional Police Department arrested several times over the past year due to nothing more convincing than that rich dark colour of his skin. The one who’s only passion is in his ability to beat any video game. The one who’d read Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Marcus Garvey and Ghandi’s autobiographies before he was able to button his shirt straight or ride a bike. My dark-skinned African prince who already wanted his own crown of dreadlocks before he could tie his shoe. The one who loves black people and black history. The one who wanted it most but was forced to leave regular school for home schooling through no fault of his own or under his control. Forced to deal with a skin disorder for years of his short life.
After finally overcoming so much to be back in school again, he’d been so traumatized when Canadian police roughed him up, handcuffed him and put him in the backseat of their police cruiser in front of all his neighbours, being filmed on security camera. He’s never gotten over the fact that due to false accusations so many people in his building had an opportunity to view him being led away by six police officers in the comfort of their apartment, all watching, as he insisted on viewing this episode, ‘...just another nigga’...
Jimmy watching me from the photograph. Jimmy staring at me from the photo on the wall. A blown-up of his first official high school identification card. Red top to identify with the blood his African ancestors shed for him to be able to go to school a free person.
Jimmy, who the new principal of his school told that she just does not like him as an individual. The one most likely to speak his mind, to anyone, including the police

Posted on: March 04, 2007, 05:22:52 pm

cont'

And Josh...
My next hero. Next to his dark brother his caramel coloured face stares back at me with arms fully placed around his brother’s shoulder. He’s had his arms there ever since. His wavy Indian-type hair and facial structure enhancing his Indian background more than his African features.
In their brotherly adoration of each other the Niles meets the Ganges in harmony. So unlike the reality of Trinidad and Tobago at this same moment in history.
Above the red wooden love seat is a two by two mirror plastered into the wall .
I press the disconnect button on the cell phone and I exhale a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. A breath I’d been holding since giving birth to Josh when I was seventeen years old at Toronto East General Hospital on May first nineteen hundred and eighty-five.
I heard his words vibrating in my whole heart, body and soul.
“Yeah... Mom... I got the diploma... some more awards... honours... pictures for you.. Get better mom... love you mom...”
All I knew as I rose from the mattress is the fact that I had reached. I had finally reached the place I’d been headed for since I could remember.
As I step around the red center table I see my small Fairy Box I’d been given by a special lady I’d befriended in my building on Cedar Street in Oshawa, Canada. She was one of the first white women I’d allowed myself to befriend since returning to Canada.
My miniature lion collection were displayed prominently. A male lion caressing his female lioness in a gentle touch. A lioness watching over her babies. A male and female on a hunt. Lion book dividers, lion ashtrays, lion candle stick holders...
On the floor was a stunning throw rug with a huge male lion in a vicious roar.
As I reach the mirror and lift my eyes up towards the reflected image I knew I’d see, I prepared for the first time to see the woman I am. The one I’ve become.
Tears were already pooled in my eyes. Not tears of sadness, but tears of relief. I’d arrived...
My hands trembled. Josh had done it. My brown skinned boy. As a man with only part time fathers, while being legal guardian for his brother, hanging in while I completed this mission, a mother diagnosed with a serious heart condition, maintaining his own apartment, bills, food, transportation for two, and two miserable dogs. He graduated with honours and special mention by the Durham Region Teachers Association. He was an outstanding student with an almost perfect grade point average. He was still a good hearted, humble man who still believed in holding out for the girl next door. He was already a phenomenal entertainer and was now well on his way to University and his chosen career.
Even after being handcuffed, shackled, forced to spend days in jail based on false allegations by a crack addicted woman in his neighbourhood. All this being carried out by Durham Police although there were security videos and other strong evidence that he was actually on stage in a church hours away performing while this lady swore he was at her home threatening to kill her. He pulled through... After being threatened by these self same representatives of Canadian Justice, an experience I had tried so hard to never have my boy’s experience.
After all this... he got up, brushed himself off and continued.
Pride over-whelmed me. Jimmy finished the year with an overall average to be proud of and Josh with a Diploma with his name on it. And this accomplished on their own, with no adult support. They’d done better in their short lives than their father and stepfather put together. Two black men to be proud of. My sons...
My eyes leveled with the mirror as the first drop of tear leave my eyes. I see me. My pain and hurt. My joys and laughter. My prayers and sorrows. My successes and my failures.
I see my mission in Trinidad and Tobago. I see the faces of all the lost children from our interviews and videos. I see the Canadian government officials turn their backs on my children, my crew and myself. I see them cover-up the data I’d provided, hiding the fact that Canadians had a blame to live up to by raping and obtaining sexual acts from the poor child population in Trinidad and Tobago.
I see the large oil companies over-running this small fishing village of Guayaguayare I now call home. I see the youth on the street corners smoking marijuana cigarettes, playing Wappi for big money on the pavement, waiting for their body bag to be made available for them. Some of them my former clients. I see the ones who were raped by fathers, uncles, teachers, police officers, foreigners... All carrying guns, selling drugs, sex...

Posted on: March 04, 2007, 05:24:57 pm

cont'

The young men having children they’d never support... All of them possessing one thing in common...
I see the Vagina Diaries and all the tears trapped in its covers. I see the HIV/AIDS charts Marie and I had slaved over. The letters to and from the High Commissioner of Trinidad and Tobago and Mrs. Manning, the Honorable Senator and Education Minister of this fair island. Her words after being given the CHAT packages of documents and videos... ‘... May I take this opportunity to thank you for the dedicated service you are offering to the youth of our Nation...’
I see no help...
No help for Sarah-Ann. No help for Jamie or Skinny... for none of them. The strongest will survive.
I see the Honorable Ministers, Anthony Roberts, Fitzgerald Hinds, Cryril Blanchfield, Alan John, Robert Sabga and so many others... No one willing to stick their necks out. They all knew, including Mayor John Gray in Oshawa, Ministry of Community and Social Services, both in Canada and Trinidad and Tobago.
The Canadian High Commissioner, Editors of Newsday, Express, Mirror, Globe...
So many know about it and choose to do nothing. From Trinidad’s Ministry of National Security to Canada’s High Commission. Many know of the sexual horrors being visited on the children and youth of Trinidad and Tobago.
June Callwood was so very right. There really is no such thing as an innocent bystander. None of us who know of these crimes against humanity and does nothing are innocent.
Like Maya Angelou, Harriett Tubman, Oprah Winfrey, Rosa Parks and so many others, I see in this reflection in this mirror that I’ve done my part.
Coffee in my hand and a newly lighted cigarette in my mouth I sit back on my bed and retrieving the cell phone, I dial.
“We did it... there’s nothing more I can accomplish here... you can put the manuscript in the mail now... we did our part...”
I heard small parts of the rest of our conversation. Through the time I’d spent recuperating from the post-traumatic stress I’d acquired during my mission, starting right after the Inspector of Police had placed his loaded service revolver at my vagina to force me to hand over videos and case files, I’d managed to secure and transcribe enough of the children and victims’ stories to get a part of the truth into the Western and civilized world. The Vagina Diaries was alive and ready to be released to the world.
Canada had a lot to account for. Canadians had a right to know what actions and inactions our government takes on our account. And as a Canadian citizen as well as a citizen of Trinidad and Tobago I hold myself accountable to finish what I started. I was opening the Vagina Diary for all to see and know what I now know. To have the choice whether to be bystanders or not.
As I listen to the Trinidad and Tobago’s National Anthem on 107fm every morning at six, I now hear the words of the Canadian National anthem in my head. I am proud...
I am mother. I am teacher. I am proud. I am human. I am sorrow. I am proud. I am love. I am truth. I am proud. I have told the stories of those children I once cried with and hugged. The youth I met walking through the shanty-towns and ghettos. The experienced and inexperienced ones.
The ones dead now and the ones waiting their turns to die. The ones I was able to help and the many I was not able to help.
I am proud. I listened to them all and I absorbed a little of their pain into my own body. It’s in my blood. The tears... It’s in my heart... The hopelessness... it’s in my soul.
Yet I am proud. I did not give up. I did not let go, though both those options would have been so much easier, financially and physically. I still managed to use my voice, my pen, to repeat the stories told to me starting so very long ago, when I was yet young and strong.
I closed my journal, removing the pen from its pages finally. I can breathe again. The burden of so many horrible stories was no longer mine to bear alone. The outcome was no longer important to me. Only that I had finished what I started and my son was a Grad with academic honours.
It was their world now. Their time to make changes. I had my time and I did the best I could have all things considered.
I glanced at the wall devoted to my boys. Josh and his friend Mike, a white boy his age, hugging their guitars close to their young bodies. Josh with a white girl, arms firmly holding her in a friendly embrace. Josh in army gear posing with another actor from his first acting role in the Oshawa Little Theatre’s production of South Pacific. It was such a great play. I remember watching my son on opening night standing proud on stage. Josh again and again. With a group of white fellows with another white girl, and another. And I smile. The spirit of Martin Luther King... I have a Dream... The heart of Ghandi... Peace...
His world... black and white...
Even though the police on a whole in Ontario, Canada was again pulling over any black man on any given day, a result apparently of ‘black-on-black-crime’, he loved Canada and the freedom that everything Canadian stood for.
As we all prepare to continue along our own roads in life, I know I have no regrets of the sacrifices I made in my personal life to bring me to the point I am now. I am proud.

Posted on: March 04, 2007, 05:26:41 pm

cont'

I was grateful to have been privileged to be chosen to bare the cross of these painful stories I have penned, for to know such important tasks are set aside for those well blessed individuals. I was one of them now having delivered my cross and its burden.

At this point I remember the other women who’s crosses I’ve passed along the way. My grandmother... Such a regal memory Thelma Alleyne placed in my mind. My own mother. A broken woman who I finally no longer missed. Colleen Kamps... white woman, social worker, mentor extradinaire and friend. The Child and Youth Care Worker program at Centennial College, the Toronto Children’s Aid Society and Toronto Child Abuse Centre are all so blessed to have such an extra-ordinary human being as a part of their team. The only person I had deemed to share my plight in Trinidad and Tobago with while the events were still taking place. She has never failed me since making her acquaintance as a young sexual abuse victim as a child entering the Canadian Child Welfare System.
And I picture my son Christopher Lee Alleyne. The one responsible for starting me on the road to being a Children’s Rights Activist. And of course, the story of his birth in another book I’d penned. A book that reached across two continents and found its way into the hands of principals and rape crisis counselors. The book they’d all read and remembered. The reason the Rape Crisis Society in Trinidad and Tobago had contacted me to train counselors at a workshop in T&T. The book that had inspired the original letters for assistance in my native land.
I remembered it all and accepted my fate. I would do it all again for Sherek and Maurice. Sharon and Ramesh. Phil and Paul and Layla and Patreece. Khan and Samantha, Robin and Jaimie. Cocoa and Patsy. For Mike and Rose-Ann. Joshua and Jimmy, Christopher and Natalie. Kim and Gail and Cindy. Lester and Carlene. For all of them... for the children black and white, brown and red. For the children worldwide, because truly they are the future of humanity. For better or for worse.
I close my journal and prepare to go outdoors and walk in the garden among the flowers Jack has painstakingly planted on my behalf surrounded by the ocean and the ranges of the Trinity Mountains. I look back at the small, cozy stone cabin he has built for me with his own two hands and I feel blessed.
Sipping my coffee I see all this beauty among me and know that there isn’t a more beautiful hospital room in the world. I look constantly at the back entrance watching for my prince to come and take me away to the land of happily ever after.
Even among all the chaos... the blood and guns and drugs... The sex with children... the deaths With Sean Luke and Emily Rose’s sexually violent murders still being discussed daily on the radio... the Socca Warriors debut in World Socca... their loss to England... the tropical storms and the big oil companies... the police brutality and racial discrimination... the corruption and the lies...
Even now, there is still a shadow of hope lingering in this cruel time in Trinidad and Tobago’s history.
I think this as a thought lingers in my mind. The worst is yet to come. These will still be ‘the good ole days’ for my children. Even with all the slaughter. Certainly we’re as bad as Sodom and Gomorra ever was. And look what happened to them.
Never before had I been so filled with shame in my black heritage or so weary and sad in my soul. It was as if yet another phase of maturity had emboldened me like a shroud. Like I’d again made growth in my life like I did when I switched one day from girl-woman to just woman. The way reptiles do when they shed another layer of skin or birds when they lose their baby bird feathers. Or maybe more like when a little girl becomes a mother or when good friends become the best of lovers.

Posted on: March 04, 2007, 05:31:32 pm

cont'

CHAPTER THREE

It’s said that the Blackman is a waste , can’t communicate…good only for others to defecate; heaping bull upon the shit they’ve already been given; sold a white God as their key to heaven

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS...

Almost five years to the date after starting this mission in Trinidad and Tobago it was finally over. On September tenth in the year of our Lord two thousand and six I was again leaving the twin island in the sun with all its heartaches and painful memories to rejoin my sons in Canada.
An accident victim and fellow activist, Atiba Aluko brought home to me the fact that indeed, there were yet a lot of answers that will be required in the end. Although there was not a lot that could make me flinch anymore, I will admit that I was almost flabbergasted by my bad luck when it came to all things taking place in Trinidad and Tobago. At times it was as if the Fates were conspiring to keep me on the island regardless of the cost to my sanity.
Already tonight Jack and I was forced to deal with a lack of transportation as a shortage of gas and diesel was creating a traffic nightmare.
I don’t know if under all the stress of simply trying to get out of this mission alive I forgot to mention that for over one hundred years Trinidad and Tobago has had commercial trading in oil and energy. Or that in the early seventies oil prices quadrupled. Or even that Trinidad and Tobago has been on a race toward diversifying resources to include more than energy since then.
Trinidad and Tobago was still strong with the energy sector and North America and other first world nations are quite aware of that fact too. Of course it’s no secret that I personally believe that since the energy sector has boomed the poor in Trinidad and Tobago will continue to be controlled and overpowered by their government.
The poor are just another resource which their government is using to diversify. Their homes, their children, their livelihood and their lives are secondary if that. With this twenty-first century energy boom, international power was way more important than the lives of the little guys.
Trinidad and Tobago has simply broken down the basic rules of commerce and adapted to it. Namely, figure out what the world wants and at what price. In the case of the sex tourism industry it was really quite simple. Since markets determine economies and there was definitely a market for young children to be made available for the visiting tourist market, well give the world what the world wants at a price that the world is willing to pay.
Trinidad and Tobago had simply identified a product in great demand for the sex tourism industry and as long as there were sectors that were willing to pay and there remains a market, well there will be more investors and more participants and as a result there will always be a need for more laborers. Like Mr. Manning’s new aluminum smelter plant, there are always consequences but in truth, Trinidad and Tobago was willing to pay the price.
It was not difficult to see some of the reasons that Trinidad and Tobago was in so much crisis. At present, in Golden Grove prison people who get imprisoned due to stealing local fruits like coconuts, avocadoes, mangoes and the sort as a last resort at times to get food into the stomachs of their families are locked in small cramped cells with murderers, kidnappers, rapists and gangsters. It wasn’t surprising that T&T is being run by criminals and bandits. They’ve created universities and colleges of higher learning out of what used to be street corners, neighbourhood bars and jails. Graduates of these free government run schools are releasing graduates with degree; criminals who are getting better and better. Society and the small communities are more frightened now than at any other time in Trinidad and Tobago’s history.
It sure seemed to me to be a good time for Trinidad and Tobago to get moving in the right direction, put the devil and his consorts to rest and start with some concern for their children and youth.
On our race to the airport cars were lined up for miles, blocking roadways and creating traffic jams the likes of which I had never seen before. Horns were blowing, motorist were yelling and Trinidad’s favourite cuss word, ‘Mother’s Cunt’ was heard at regular intervals as drivers pushed and threatened their way to the much wanted and needed fuel for their cars and other transport vehicles.
Maxi Taxi drivers were refusing passengers and those who had enough diesel and continued to ply their trade forced passengers to pay more than triple the regular fares.
With thousands of people, including the elderly and young children left stranded along the main roads, hi-ways and bi-ways, the desire to get back home to Canada and out of the dangerous roadways of Trinidad and Tobago was great. Reminiscent of a clap of thunder in a very still and quiet night, the tension was so heavy in the air it was almost stifling.

Posted on: March 04, 2007, 05:34:01 pm

Bless Up Family

InI have gotten many messages asking InI what InI am up to and whence did InI start taking the stand InI do. In response InI found it would not be suitable to respond in another thread so InI took the time to start this thread. InI am hoping that those questions related to InI's work would get some explaination here.

As InI would NOT be able to share an excerpt from InI's new book soon, InI took the opportunity to share some before InI am forced to stop due to contracts with publisher. So for the Queens and others who are wondering InI thought the Idren wouldn't mind taking a moment to read a bit and reason about things that affect real lives... Like single parent homes... Not enough food to eat... Lovers and Rasta... Black/White Issues and of course the choices that having children make in a Rasta wombman's life. InI will be happy to spend some time discussing these with the Idren. Hope the Idren enjoy the read. InI posted it before InI had a chance to change InI's mind.

As for now, InI am hitting wrong buttons as the Idren can see from the last 'repeat'. InI am attempting to figure out how to erase the duplicate. Sorry for the inconvenience.

It is Important to note that Rastas from many walks of life, doing many different works visit these forums for some time among Family. InI am a writer so InI am sharing some writing with the Idren. No need for responses unless moved to do so. Otherwise, Bless Up...

Nuff Love

Sistah Vee
Posted on: March 04, 2007, 06:01:07 pm

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Rasta Love

Re: Greetings Blessed sistren
« Sent to: sistahvee on: Today at 10:22:58 am » Quote Reply Remove

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Dearest Queen sistahvee,

InI have just finished reading 'THE SIN OF MY SKIN' the whole of it and not just my heart but my soul goes out to you. For many years (possibly the time of the year 2000 and long before i enetered a teenager stage)InI have heard stories of what ghoes on in Africa,Zimbabwe and many other parts too,and many nights i would cry internally for the men,wombman and children who would suffer terribly.

InI would eventually get the courage to express I feelings with I mother and though she would say she felt the same InI would feel as if it wasnt nearly as deep as I. Years would go and I family would distract I mind from such thoughs and de-grade the 'Black society' claiming how stupid the are ignorant and they do not have the mental capacity that is needed to run a country,handle a farm or anything like that.

It would hurt deeply to hear those words but after many years of hearing that i would jus agree with them,to keep them quiet but I heart still burned passionately for the community that needed a voice and many times i prayed and hoped that I would be their voice.

after reading your post it helped I realise just how so much goes on and so easily people turn their backs,they will hear how a person nearly died to get the truth out but after a few moments in which they share the emotion they go back to their everyday lives leaving it upto someone else to uncover the truth.

I thank you for getting the truth out and for sharing it with us all,InI know that by sending all the love and support i can,can never undo all the images you have and all the experiences you have gone through,but it is just an extension to let you know that you are never alone and though 22 maybe still a young age in which InI develop into,I know that it is enough to give you the love and support you need when you need it.

You are a Queen sistahvee and I know many out there feel for you the way i do you have opened the gates switched on the lights and led the way no it is time to allow others to continue the walk beside you and led the rest of the way when you feel like you are ready to step down.

Blessed Queen thank you for reminding InI that no matter what people say as long as I feel it in I heart I know that JahJah shall see I through.

Stay strong and with love around you always,Love to your family and the support they have given you too

Thank you
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we are ONE so why

Posted on: March 05, 2007, 06:05:39 pm

Bless Up Family

InI have taken the liberty to post one of the messages InI have received from one of InI's Blessed Idren. Responding to it did NOT seem sufficient for what the Idren Expressed. InI decided to allow anyone of the Idrens who are Interested to view the response.

InI am hoping that like Love Sponge, other Idren will remember that the load is Indeed Heavy for those of us Idren who are physically in the battlefield and that kind/loving words are at times ALL that is NEEDED in order to gain the STRENGTH to put one foot in front of the other and keep on Trodding.

InI would love some words of OVERSTANDING from the Idren who are moved to do so. Take a moment and text someone that has been on the I's mind lately and just tell them the I is thinking of them and sending Jah's prayes, blessings and Love their way. It takes a moment of the I's time but does an Iverlasting good.

Nuff Love

Sistah Vee

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