Who don’t hear will feel!

It has been established by now that I am very outspoken about my Guyanese roots. I was born in a developing country which offered knowledge to a child in its own backwards way – sometimes. My Grandmothers, who were dominant fixtures in our lives, were two different women with the same views on discipline. Let us visit the Bible for a bit – Granny Alma, Lord rest her soul, would read the Bible with us as we memorized verses for Sunday school. It was imperative for the children of God to gain knowledge of his words. Granny B would make sure we join every choir under a bottom house church.
Granny Alma’s church is where my sister and I attended on most occasions. It was masterly built with a full religious staff. My Great Aunt became an antique ornament of this temple. She was the Sunday school teacher since my Dad was a child and became ours as well. The Marshall’s roots were deep in the church, in music and education.

Granny B was from Canada but a real battle-axe Guyanese. It did not matter where you praised the Lord – as long as it was done every Sunday. She would make sure our skin looked smooth with some coconut oil and hair slicked back with car grease. We wore the handmade dresses she created. My sister, my cousin and I would skip across the road to a hard muddy floor, bottom house, semi broken benches church. Our Sunday best dresses were cut from one design of fabric. We were the only members of the choir and we were proud of ourselves. The lifestyle was different in some ways as we shifted between the two. I did not like to listen to Granny B when she told me to stop being lazy and learn a longer memory verse. Why should I? Will a memory verse solve anything? Sunday school should feel like a party of sorts, for meeting and playing with classmates. I would bully my way to the first in the bench on the Preacher’s side. This allowed me to be the first child to utter a verse when called upon. I would proudly stand up with a smile and say, “Jesus Wept” – the shortest memory verse in the Bible.

Granny Alma told us the stories of Eve and how “hard ears” she was. If she had only listened to Adam, none of us would have been in this mess. The mess she referred to was the constant black-outs, the price increases on kerosene oil and food. The sinners had taken over the land and it all started with that greedy wretch called “Eve”.
I have a story of an “Eve” – my little sister. At 11 years of age, it was my duty to wash my 9 year old sister’s clothes. Mind you, washer and dryer sounded like a UFO to us at that time. A bar of salt soap, a scrubbing board, water and lots of energy in your hands were all one needed to gain clean clothes. I was a tiny child and my sister was even smaller. Every day, about three times a day she changed her outfits. It was a trait she inherited from our Father... that is another story. I warned her about it – “Tek kay” I said.
Like Eve, my sister had a weakness for eating what she should not have. She was told repeatedly to stop buying Demico’s ice-cream. Demico prized itself on adding a rainbow of colorant to their ice creams, such as shocking color green, pink and purple etc. My sister’s belly would sing louder than a hungry Calypsonian on stage as she raced to the toilet. It was amazing how she became immune to the over-use of old newspapers to wipe her buttocks but could not stop shitting after a cone. Numerous attempts and knuckles in the head did not detour this child from indulging in class room Birthday parties with ice-cream and cake. I told her multiple times, “Jus eat deh govament cookies an stop act like yuh scraven”.

Thunder roll and rain fall we stepped out of a loud mini bus one day without an umbrella. This child’s belly was louder than the thunder itself. I yelled at her – “Yuh see? It gon tek we 10 minutes fuh walk home an yuh gon shit yuh self fuh everybody see”. Before I can finish cussing her off, a goop of green ice-cream looking feces trailed down her legs, just to be washed away by the pouring rain – into the path of the people behind us. I swiftly turned my head and ran. A voice from a Rasta man behind chanted, “Gyal, yuh sista shit she self hey man, come look afta she. Green konksie floating all ova meh yatin boots – duh is nuh you sista?!!!” I pretended I did not know her, filled with shame as she started to cry, “duh is me sista, Yolanda stop acting like yuh ain’t know me!!”

The shame... ooooohhh ggggaaawwwwdddd the shame I felt. That was not the end of my worries. I was responsible for washing the shitty uniform in the thunder and lighting. We got home, I helped her take off the uniform and demanded she stood outside so the rain can shower the stinking loads away.
A good whipping with a thin mango tree branch had her racing up the stairs bawling. I washed the flit off the uniform with my hands and explained to Granny , why I had to trash my sister’s behind.
Granny B said, “When yuh go to church, must tell deh teacher yuh learnt a new memory verse from yuh Granny “. I was not in the mood to hear her talk of embedding statements into the mind of children. She laughed, as if the situation between my sister and I made her day... she said, “Who don’t hear does feel”.
I searched the Bible for that verse and in the process; I learnt over 10 new pieces for Sunday school. I did not find that specific quote in the bible, but I sure did wish Eve had memorized Granny’s verse - that way I would NOT have been in this shit. As for my little sister – she felt it alright!




Written By Yolanda T. Marshall
© 2009