Memories of Hell, Visions of Heaven. Esther Joseph

out of control like my father, he was a quiet man, drunk or sober. When he went home after a night of drinking he never disturbed his family, but instead spent the night in his outdoor kitchen. Although Mr. Victor drank like my father, he was able to provide for his family and be a decent husband and father. Two things were clear -there was another kind of family out there, and my father’s problem when far beyond just the liquor and his drinking, there was something seriously wrong with him, mentally.

      My mother and Ms. Janie’s friendship puzzled me. How could two women so different be friends? If their opposing religions and marital styles were off limits, what did they talk about?

      Whatever the case, I suspect Ms. Janie was placed in my mother’s life for a reason. She was an angel—the only person who was truly compassionate—never asking for anything in return. Ms. Janie gave my mother the support her own siblings and church could not give. I maintain Ms. Janie’s presence and strength kept my mother going and was conducive to preserving her sanity. Ms. Janie and my mother remain best friends to this day, as are Glenda and Jeanette.

      Helen of the West

      Nestled in the Eastern part of the Caribbean, is the tiny island of Saint Lucia. Saint Lucia’s historical background plays out like the myth of Helen of Troy. Just as Helen’s beauty ignited the passions of two men obsessed with possessing her and in turn, started the Trojan War, so did the beauty of Saint Lucia ignite the passions of two countries determined to claim her. Like Helen, Saint Lucia’s suitors engaged in bitter wars to possess her.

      People fondly refer to Saint Lucia as “The Helen of the West.” Growing up, I heard many stories as to how the island got that name. However, my favorite theory claims that Juan de Cosa, an explorer traveling with Columbus, was so smitten that he exclaimed something like, “A beauty as magnificent as Helen of Troy! My, I think we’ve found our Helen in the West.”

      Before any Europeans set foot on Saint Lucia, Arawak Indians and their enemies, the Caribs, inhabited the island. In 1499, Columbus and his crew laid eyes and boots on Saint Lucia. The British and French soon followed. By that time, both the French and British were madly in love and wanted to acquire her. Around 1660, the British colonized the island by signing a treaty with the remaining Caribs. Disputes set ablaze conflicts that persisted for over 150 years. The island would change hands fourteen times, until finally, the French surrendered and the British gained ownership in 1814.

      In 1842, English became the island’s official language. Although English is still the official language, local Saint Lucians speak a French Creole Patois.

      In 1967, the year after my birth, England granted Saint Lucia autonomy. However, the island did not gain independence until 1979. Since then, Saint Lucia has been a stable democracy, but still operating within the British Commonwealth.

      Saint Lucians elected the same prime minister from 1964 to 1996!

      During Sir John Compton’s tenure, the once booming banana industry was falling behind other countries; education was not improving, many students did not have the opportunity to attend high school, and there were no higher education or vocational schools to speak of. The lack of educational prospects led to young people aimlessly roaming the streets, giving rise to teen pregnancy and delinquency.

      Having a Prime Minister; English as the official language; driving on the left side of the street; and a passion for cricket, are British characteristics that Saint Lucia possesses. However, the things that give Saint Lucia its flavor come from France and other parts of the Caribbean.

      Saint Lucia is a mere 238 square miles in size with a population of about 165,000 people, and a great variety of vegetation and animal life. Exotic plants grow wild in the rainforests, and gardens and yards proudly display tropical flowers. The clearest and bluest of waters I have ever seen surround the island, and the sea is warm and welcoming, just like the people who reside there.

      And One More Makes Eight

      For as long as I can remember, whenever a stranger discovers that I am the youngest in my family, they excitedly exclaimed, “Oh, you’re the baby! How nice. You must have been so spoiled.” Part of me wishes that it were true, but another part becomes confused. Growing up, I never realized that being the last child was something special. In fact, being the youngest had always been a burden rather than a blessing.

      Whenever someone commented about how wonderful it was that I was my mother’s last child, my mother would always respond in a sad, “You know what they say” sort of way: “Denye eish tuiye mama!” (The last child kills the mother!) I could never make sense of that statement, or the reason my mother repeated it whenever someone said something nice about me, her baby.

      As the last, I was the smallest and weakest; therefore, I became everyone’s punching bag, picked on by a house full of angry people and lacking the strength to fight back. I was about twelve when I first heard my mother tell this story. She was at the hospital, giving birth to her sixth child in almost eight years. A nurse who had become familiar with her almost-yearly maternity visits cautioned, “Madame, you do know what you’re doing to your body, right? Having all those babies so close together. Lady, you’re killing yourself!”

      My mother’s reply was always the same, “Nurse, you think I want to be here?”

      My mother repeated this story every time one of us got a year older; it seems, to remind us, especially me, of the childbearing pains she had to endure.

      Birth control was not readily available in Saint Lucia at the time, and large families were commonplace. However, other women seemed better able to manage their down time between pregnancies than my mother was.

      Aside from having six children who survived, my mother had given birth to two babies that did not grow past infancy. After her seventh child, Elias, was born in September 1964, this same nurse gave my mother the contact information of a woman who would give her a homemade concoction to prevent her from having more babies. She heeded the nurse’s advice, taking her prescribed herbal birth control drink faithfully.

      On March 9, 1966, I, Esther Joseph, was born.