In our present time, there is a necessity for rugged independence among individuals. But this is often supported in good measure by deliberate interdependence with a community of other souls. …………. the stronger gravitational field that holds a group together are their stories… the common and simple ones they share with one another. It is the experiences you share with others and the stories that you tell about those experiences afterward, and the tales you bring from the past and future that create the ultimate bond.
There is no right or wrong way to tell a story. So cajole the old grumpy ones to tell their best memories. Ask the little ones their happiest moments. Ask the teenagers the scariest times of their lives. Give the old ones the floor. Go all around the circle. Coax out the introverts. Ask each person. You will see. Every one will be warmed, sustained by the circle of stories you create together.
Though none of us will live forever, the stories can. As long as one soul remains who can tell the story, and that by the recounting of the tale, the greater forces of love, mercy generosity and strength are continuously called into being in the world, I promise you … It will be enough.
With much love and appreciation to you for helping to tell The Gyambo/Santa Cruz/Gamboa Story
Carlos “Jumbo” Alleyne
Note: Continue to visit www.gamboareunion.com for updates or to contribute photos. comments and stories.
In my mind’s eye I can see him as he stands under the school waiting to give us directions to enter the building. Mr. Morgan is dressed in black trousers and a white shirt with both hands behind his back. His left finger is securely placed in one of his belt loops and his right hand is fastened to the tong of the bell. “Seis, hello there” he bellows as a late-coming student scampers to enter his classes’ line. A male recalcitrant student who is out of Mr. Morgan’s view shouts “Bullet Head”. Usually the principal ignores the insulting name calling, but this time he points and shouts emphatically at three unidentified hooligans: “You are a Bammy Head, You are a Bammy Head, You are a Bammy Head and I am a Bullet Head”. Confession is good for the soul. With a clang cla-lang of the bell we unceremoniously climbed up the stairs and entered our respective classrooms.
There were several wooden flower boxes measuring two feet by three feet which were kept on the outer window sills of two adjacent classrooms. Tragedy struck one day when one of the dirt-filled boxes fell at the same time that Mr. Morgan was walking under it. Sadly, the rotting flower box fell, crashed and shattered upon impact with Mr. Morgan’s head. Poor Mr. Morgan was covered with dirt, pieces of plywood, petals from the flowers and blood. In short, “the man was a bloody mess !” Notwithstanding this adverse and tragic accident, that flower box had met its match with a Bullet Head and it was no contest. If this were a horse race, it would have been “Mr. Morgan by a head”. He stood triumphantly, bloodied but unbowed. Most individuals would have suffered a concussion and consequently would have taken a few days off. Not Mr. Morgan; the following day he came to work as usual, with his laceration covered with a white baby’s diaper tied in a knot under his chin and it was business as usual for my favorite principal. Not only was he highly opinionated, but he was strong-headed as well.
One school year, I was constantly in Mr. Morgan’s office, thanks to the mischievous activities of Rafael Sandino Simon who sat behind me and was continuously talking to me or engaging in some other nefarious activity. The teacher once sent us to “The Office” and I received five lashes in each hand from Mr. Morgan’s belt ( a three inch wide, one quarter inch thick, brown, leather barbers’ belt ). If one’s infraction was particularly egregious, the belt would find its mark over the perpetrator’s back. Ouch !
interestingly enough, I never complained to my father about “child abuse”. Apparently our parents didn’t believe in child abuse in those days. As I end this paragraph, I must confess that I’ve been looking for Rafael for a long time. I have something special for him. I would like to greet him with “the right hand of fellowship”. If anyone knows his whereabouts, please contact me immediately.
I also remember the times Mr. Morgan would come into the classroom as a substitute teacher. He would lecture us on various topics ranging from Science to English Literature. “La gran cuestion no es cuanto dinero tiene en el bolsillo pero lo que va a hacer con el dinero”. This was one of his translations from Shakespeare. He really piqued my interest in science by explaining to us why the sky is blue. Although his explanation was not completely veracious by today’s standards, I thought about that phenomenon for a long time. We know today that as light comes from the sun, molecules in the atmosphere scatter blue light from the sun more than they scatter red light. Blue light is scattered more than other colors because of its shorter wavelength.
I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to Mr. Morgan, Mr. McDougall and Mr. Cockburn because they motivated me to pursue a career in science, first as a researcher, then as a professor. They were excellent mentors for me. I am sure that my favorite principal also had a profound, positive and lasting impact on the lives of many of us from Gamboa/Santa Cruz. Was he the brain that launched a thousand minds ? If so, then let all God’s children say Amen !
Dr. Louis R. Browne, Ph.D
The Panama Canal is known mostly as the world’s premier man made inter oceanic transit waterway, connecting the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Lesser known, and recognized are the men who built (1904 – 1914) and maintain this one of the modern seven wonders of the world. Under the direction of the United States, thousands of workers from around the world participated in this undertaking. Over 130,000 West Indian Blacks, mostly from Jamaica and Barbados made up this formidable workforce. While accounting varies in the literature, it is safe to say at least 30,000 lost their lives due to hazardous and inhospitable conditions. Descendants of these early Caribbean workers continued to be a major part of the Panama Canal Company’s maintenance force.
Dredging debris, dirt and rocks continues to be an indispensable function to allow safe and rapid transit of vessels (including today’s PANAMAX SHIPS). This is the primary function of The Dredging Division of the Panama Canal Company. For 22 years after the opening of the Panama Canal, this operation was located in Paraiso Canal Zone. Gamboa proved to be a more strategic location for accessing problem areas as well as dump sites. Thus in 1936 Gamboa Canal Zone became home to the Dredging Division.
While these reflections provide general information on the role of this division, more importantly, they recognize and honor the men whose service and sacrifices (sometimes fatal) made its function possible. As a Panamanian descendant of Afro-West Indians, like hundreds of Gamboans and other Canal Zone “Silvertowns” residents, I proudly share our heritage and legacy. Our story is more accurate and complete when those who shaped its key events play an active/participatory role to inform the narrative. I was born and lived my formative years in Colon, Republic of Panama with my Panamanian mother and my siblings. My great-aunt, Maud Ellington and her husband Wentworth Charles Ellington;These Jamaicans residing in Santa Cruz Canal Zone, adopted my younger sibling Alberto and me at an early age. My adopted father was an employee of The Dredging Division until his retirement when I was in my late teens. Through him and other adults, I learned first hand about the Dredging Division.
Mr. Ellington told me that, as a young man, he migrated from Jamaica and began working for the Panama Canal Company as a “waterboy”. During my early teens, he took me inside the boiler room of a giant crane (The Hercules) to proudly show me his work. I remember what seemed like boils on his face from the heat. Although I was proud of him and thankful for his sacrifices, I decided instantly, that I was not going to do this type of work.
An honest review of the Panama Canal’s Dredging Division requires a clear understanding of the socio-economic as well as the political climate and setting under which it was operated. Racial segregation, discrimination, and unfair labor practices were embedded in the Panama Canal’s paternalistic system of employment supported by the accepted norms of the Panama Canal Zone Government. The Hercules and its twin, The Ajax were housed and maintained at the dredging division. This division also housed dredges, tugboats, launches, barges and other equipment needed for Panama Canal operations. There were specialty shops like machine shops, foundry. blacksmith shops, paint shop, sand blasting, carpentry, welding and others.
The workforce for these Dredging Division operations consisted mostly of men from Santa Cruz (Gamboa’s Silvertown). They were skilled, dependable, loyal, and hard working. Employee dismissals were almost non-existent. Between 1947 and 1973 there were nine or more seriously injured Dredging Division ‘Silver Workers’, including seven known fatalities. Despite stellar work performance under continuous hazardous conditions,opportunities for advancement or journeyman status were available only to White US citizen employees, some of whom had to be trained by these hard working, non- complaining, “Helpers”.
Consider this true story of “Limpy”and The Governor”:
Mr. Bowen and Mr. Herrera were security guards at the Dredging Division. They were both kind and fun-loving men who took their jobs very seriously. They did not miss work for any reason. Among their responsibilities was to ensure only authorized personnel and workers entered this vital and at times hazardous work place. Only persons with official business and proper identification (Panama Canal ID) were allowed
Mr. Herrera was called Limpy because he walked with a limp.
One day Limpy was at his guard post (a small shack) at the entrance to the Dredging Division. He was either “under the weather” or “under the influence” when an official Panama Canal Company car with a passenger in the rear seat approached the gate. The driver expected unimpeded entrance to the Dredging Division since his passenger was the Canal Zone Governor. .. Limpy denied entrance and requested the passenger’s ID. The cold-feeted driver whispered to Limpy,”Do you know who this is ? It’s the Governor”.
Limpy replied, “does he have an ID ?” “I don’t care who he is. He needs an ID to enter here”. .. The Governor presented his ID and Limpy waved him in. The driver proceeded with a sigh of relief, but when the incident was reported to Limpy’s supervisor, he started preparing termination papers. The Governor was informed and overruled the decision, stating, “the Panama Canal is in good hands if all its employees performed their duties like Mr. Herrera. Word of the incident spread through town like wildfire. Young folks shouted, “Rahtid ! Limpy stopped the Govervor !
These noble men did what they had to do under very difficult conditions so their children and family could rise above a system and conditions that attempted to define and limit. We, their descendants, achieve because of their examples of integrity and performance. Mr. Herrera’s performance of his duty reinforced lessons taught by our parents, teachers and elders. 1. Treat others respectfully, fairly and equally regardless of their station or condition. 2. Whatever you do, do to the best of you ability 3. Fear no person – all are mortals….. Fear no condition – it can be changed .
Federico Ellington Smith
Recent photos of its guarded entrance shows a sign which reads, “Welcome To The Dredging Division”. In the foreground, the viewer’s eyes are drawn to the railroad crossing, the gate and the guardhouse that controlled entry to this industrial complex. To the average viewer, this photo is a rather mundane depiction of a heavy equipment site partially obscuring a water way barely seen in the background. To the Gamboa / Santa Cruz family it conjures up vivid memories of the wonderful community life we created and enjoyed despite all its complexities and contradictions. During the early days of “Silvertown” Gamboa, there was a heightened awareness that there could be calamitous consequences, including termination of employment for workers whose dependents dared to linger at, or attempt crossing into this restricted area. The thought of “potential consequences” settled in our subconscious and governed our everyday behavior. Unless delivering our father’s lunch, messages from our mothers or waiting for dad to “knock off work”, we stayed away from this gate. After all, there was no “Welcome” sign there.
As kids, we knew very little historical details about the construction of the Panama Canal. Although we grew with a sense of this history, we knew very little about the enormity of the extraordinary price paid in human suffering, death, loss of limbs, loss of sanity or general health of thousands of our ancestors. It was our great grandparents who tackled and conquered “The Mighty Culebra Cut” ( the section of the Panama Canal that frustrated the earliest French attempt and challenged the American construction effort). This section of Central America’s “Cordillera Central Mountain Range” was and remains an engineering, excavation and dredging challenge. Its location, not far from the Gamboa Dredging Division allows for quick access to ongoing rock slides.
Ironically, it was the Dredging Division’s relocation to Gamboa that brought some token semblance of inter racial accommodations in the Panama Canal Zone. No, it was not a civil rights, humanitarian impulse that prompted its first Superintendent, John Jeronald Claybourn (1914 to the early 1940’s) to make the case for shifting the Dredging Division operations from Paraiso Canal Zone to Gamboa Canal Zone. His principal preoccupation was to more efficiently address the frequent landslides and to trim back the mountains’s edges from the banks of the canal. For him, it was a viable solution for pulling together needed ‘Local rate’ and ‘US rate’ labor force for quick and timely responses to the continuous landslides and subsequently needed dredging effort.
The bigger challenge was how best to address violating the housing segregation residential policies and practices in the Canal Zone. Gamboa became the only Canal Zone town to house both predominantly West Indian local rate workers and exclusively white American US rate workers. Initially, the racial segregation tenants were easily accommodated by geography. White workers lived in the Gamboa hills, in air-conditioned quarters, easy access to their golf course, clubhouse and swimming pool. Evidence of outright segregation practices were the commissary, (one building divided in the middle with separate “Gold” and “Silver” entrances) and the US post office, with similarly segregated services and mailbox access.
Men from both sides of town worked for the Dredging Division where they remained segregated in a hierarchical order that limited ‘Silver’ workers to work that presumably required less ‘smarts and skills’.
While it is good to see the “Welcome” sign portrayed in this recent photograph, we must not forget the price our ancestors paid for our youthful recollection of the seemingly idyllic times in Gamboa / Santa Cruz. We owe it to our progeny to strengthen their resolve and capacity to ‘dredge’ and clear pathways to realizing the full potential of the world’s common humanity. This is the legacy we must bear now and for generations to come.
As I turn the clock back in time…. The year is 1947, when my dad, who was working at the Dredging Division on one of the tugboats, suffered a serious accident that severed his right leg, resulting in him being an amputee. The accident was caused by an ‘oiler’ who worked on the tugboat, and witnessed by Mr. Cornelius Gillings (aka Gunner), and other workers. My dad was released from the hospital after two months and remained at home until the medical staff at Gorgas Hospital and the U.S. Government were able to fit him with a prosthesis that allowed him to work.
A year after he returned to full duty, he was assigned to work at the Motor Boat Dock as a Launch Dispatcher. In the beginning, when my brother Butch and I dropped off his food, the security guard would call my dad, and he rode his bicycle to the guard station to pick it up. Since he worked rotating shifts, (11PM – 7AM and 7 AM – 2PM ), Mom gave us scheduled days in the evening, where we took turns taking Dad’s food to ‘the gate’. Over time, and after numerous trips, one of the guards, “Limpy” (uncle of “Bandido”), came to know us as well as our routine, so he allowed us to walk to the dock on our own.
My recollection of “the guard house” was getting the OK to enter a secure area, where only employees were allowed. Since we no longer had to stop at the gate, we looked forward to these trips that allowed us to enter the Dredging Division and walk directly to my dad’s office area.
Impressive for me at that age, as I approached the Dredging Division, were the huge cranes, “Ajax” and “Hercules” that loomed over the water’s edge. Our next door neighbor, Mr. Dan Hebbert, worked on the crane boat-Atlas. We saw large containers enclosed in metal buildings, and passed a variety of other equipment that were being warehoused. Dad took the time to give us a mini tour of his work area, and a surprised “bird’s-eye-view” of the Governor’s boat ! (Shh, no one knew that). We also stopped and stared in amazement at the large ships passing in both directions on both sides of the canal. I remember the Elliot brothers- Roy, Bobby, Eddie; Mr. Dunn, Mr. Ellington, Mr. Barber”Chippy”, Mr. Sampson, Mr. Wade, Mr. Brathwaite “Bammy”, to mention a few who also worked at the Dredging Division.
Sometimes I would have to wait at the railroad crossing gate. I purposely timed my trip to Dredging Division to coincide with the arrival of the evening trains, so I could wave at the passengers. Butch’s vivid recollection is of stopping on the way home to look at the “Whites Only” swimming pool. We were not allowed to swim there until much later (around 1959), when Mr. Jose French (Gym Teacher), finally made it possible.
As I reflect on this experience, I have a better appreciation for the privilege afforded me at the age of 8 or 9 to get a scenic view of the Dredging Division. … Back in the “good old days”, walking from ‘Dust Bowl’ as a child to ‘Front Street’ to get there, seemed like forever. What made the difference, was being allowed as young children to go anywhere in the Santa Cruz community without supervision. The village that raised us kept watchful eyes and ears, no matter where we were. I thoroughly enjoyed reflecting on the Dredging Division as a little girl growing up in the fantastic, special “Silvertown” of Santa Cruz Canal Zone. …I thank The Gamboa Reunion Group for asking me to recall, reflect and reminisce. … What an unforgettable journey !
NOTE: My brother, Butch devised a shortcut when we left building #276 to walk under the clothesline of building #281 (Thorne, Bellamy, Sobers, Wilson, etc.), pass the Stennet, Nurse, Rodney, Cox building, through Church Square, pass McFarlane Parkway, the dispensary, fire station, post office and commisary.
Reva Richards Marcellin
I must have been somewhere between six and eight years of age when my dad took us walking to the Gamboa train station. I believe there were only four of us siblings at the time ( We are a family of seven children ). It was after dark and as we stood on the train station platform, Dad pointed out the dredge vessel on which he worked. It was docked inside the chain link fence that bordered the Dredging Division. I later learned that his title was that of a “Boatswain” (pronounced Bo-sun). In layman’s terms, he was a Leading Seaman in charge of a small crew. I suspect he was recently given that title and was proudly showing his children the vessel on which he worked. As a young boy, I was delighted to be taken anywhere, but I remember being frightened by the loud clanging of the heavy metal forming parts of the dredge’s mechanisms. These industrial noises gave me the sense that my dad’s job at the Dredging Division was a dangerous one.
Dad worked rotating shifts. One week, 3PM to 11PM, the following week, 11PM to 7AM, then, 7AM to 3PM. My favorite was the 3PM to 11PM shift. Why ? Because, as a very mischievous child, punishment for most misdeeds would be delayed (“stay of execution”). I would leave for school while Dad was still resting and when I returned from school he would be at work. … Oh the torture, “waiting for the shoe to drop”. .. He would sometimes forget .. wink-wink.
It wasn’t long before my fears regarding work at the Dredging Division were validated. When I was eleven years old one of my friends lost his dad to a fatal work related injury. When I was sixteen, another friend and classmate lost his dad. Again at age seventeen, two of my friends’ dads were killed on the job. The Dredging Division in Gamboa was the primary source of employment for descendants of the Caribbean- born Panama Canal Builders work force. This employment allowed them to provide better lives for their children and on through to the fourth, fifth and sixth generations. They modeled a sense of duty in spite of unfair labor practices and racial injustices. .. without complaining to their families.
The Dredging Division was relocated from Paraiso Canal Zone to Gamboa Canal Zone in the year 1936. Eleven years later, in 1947, Mr. Clyde Richards became an amputee in a work related accident. In 1950 Mr. Lester Joshua’s head injury from falling debris, influenced the enforcing of rules regarding the use of hard- hats (helmets). In 1952 Mr. Augustus George was fatally injured. In 1958, two more community members lost their lives. They were, Mr. James “Tommy” Joshua and Mr. Oscar Jones. Seven years later (1965), Mr. Charles Mussa was fatally injured and seven years later (1972) Mr. Leroy Alleyne Sr. (My dad) lost his life. The following year ( 1973) Mr. Alvin Burnett died.
This year (2016) marks eighty years since the Panama Canal Company’s Dredging Division was established in Gamboa and the Silvertown of Santa Cruz continue to honor the memory of these men and their families.
Federico Smith Ellington
I am Federico, Mrs. Ellington’s son. My younger brother Alberto, more known as Spooks, and I were adopted by our great aunt Maud E. Ellington, and her husband Charles W. Ellington. We called her “Auntie”, and him “Pa”. We lived in Santa Cruz, Canal Zone. They reared us according to the British adage: “Do not spare the rod, and spoil the child.”
Auntie and Pa were avid quadrille dancers. They traveled throughout the Canal Zone Latin American communities, Panama City and Colon City to practice and dance quadrille. Mrs. Ellington even taught quadrille to young people in Santa Cruz. She had such grace and energy. Like a ballerina, she would spin on her toes like a top. These quadrille aficionados were members of quadrille clubs that attended quadrille balls in the Canal Zone, Panama City and Colon City. These were big cultural, social and entertainment events.
One late evening after bathing and feeding Spooks and me, Auntie dressed us in our pajamas. She said prayers with us before sending us to bed.
She had asked our next door neighbors Mr. & Mrs. Richards to “look in” on us because Pa and she were attending a quadrille event somewhere.
I awoke in the middle of the night after Auntie and Pa had left for their quadrille dance. Shaking my brother vigorously, I whispered, “Spooks, Spooks!” I did not want the Richards to hear me because our bed was located beside a wall separating their quarters from ours, and near our unlocked common access door.
He would not budge, being an innocent and deep sleeper. I continued shaking my brother with increasing intensity, while whispering, “Spooks wake up.” “WAKE UP!”
When he finally awoke, I said to him quietly, “Come let me show you a trick.” Spooks looked at me confused and sleepy. But he followed my directions. I was his older brother. He trusted and was loyal to me.
I nimbly escorted Spooks to the center of the room which served as our bedroom and family dining room. It had a large and beautiful dark mahogany table draped with a white and colorfully embroidered table cloth and four matching mahogany chairs. Auntie had bought this expensive table cloth from an Indian store in Panama City. A large bunch of pretty artificial flowers in a big vase sat on the middle of the table. This centerpiece and a large grandfather type clock high on the wall beside it captivated the attention of anyone who entered this room. Pa stood on a chair to wind that clock weekly with relish. That table and clock were two of my parents’ most cherished possessions.
At the base of the table, I whispered to my sleepy eye brother, “Spooks, I am going to show you how John Wayne lights a lamp.” He looked at me bewildered, and made no comments. He really was not interested, and sleepy, but stood beside me with my encouragement.
I got a match from the kitchen. With it I approached
Auntie’s vase of flowers on her mahogany table, Spooks in tow reluctantly. “You see,” I whispered, “I am going to show you how John Wayne did it.”
I struck the match against the side of its match box. A sharp flame erupted. “S-h-r-e-e-e!” My heart jumped. I became nervous, and scared, but my curiosity overwhelmed my fear. Spooks really woke up then. He was alert, but again said nothing. He was a person of few words.
I nervously touched one petal of Auntie’s artificial flowers with the burning match. My expectations were that this petal would light up, and then I would snuff out its flame, just like how John Wayne did the lamp in one of his cowboy movies. But things did not work out as planned.
The lit petal burst into an unpredictable and uncontrollable flame which radiated instantly throughout Auntie’s flowers. The conflagration consumed her bunch of flowers, burned her precious table cloth, and scorched her deep blood stained color mahogany table. By the time the fire extinguished itself, a nasty black fire mark emerged on the ceiling directly above it.
Dismayed by the speed and destruction of the fire, I panicked. I had lost control of my demonstration. My experiment, which some would call “playing with fire”, had failed miserably. It was an unmitigated disaster!
Spooks asked, “Wha we gwen du?” He always got straight to the point. It jolted my mind to our parents’ West Indian admonition, “Chicken merry, hawk near.”
But it was too late for philosophical reflections now. I had committed a grave transgression for which there would be dire and painful consequences. So I entered a damage control mode.
I gathered the remnants of burned flowers and tarnished vase, and wrapped them in the singed table cloth to dispose of them. With my brother in tow, I quietly took them to a garbage can under building 281 across the street. No one saw us. My expectations were for Auntie, who was a leader, business woman, and nobody’s fool, to search the three garbage cans under our 276 quarters. She would find no incriminating evidence, and I would be exonerated. “Not guilty”, I thought.
My parents “cut to the chase”, and “go for the jugular” of a mischievous mind early, zapping it in the bud, as I painfully learned.
Having disposed of my incriminating evidence, I told my brother that we would swear to our parents that we “knew nothing”, and we returned to sleep.
Auntie and Pa returned home sometime after we had fallen asleep. Noticing and smelling the inescapable results of my fire, they called out to us, “Fred and Albert!” “Albert!” “Fred!” Neither of us responded initially.
We got up after they furiously shook us. “What happened here”, they asked sternly. Auntie and Pa had a way of demanding the truth. They would accept nothing less, and we knew it.
Spooks and I answered, “A-a-a-w-?” We were on target with my plan, I thought. But it quickly fell apart.
Auntie took control. She queried emphatically, “What happened here!” Her eyes flashed like steel that could pierce the defense of a seasoned liar.
Again, my brother and I denied any knowledge. We were going for broke because we knew what would happen to us if she proved my transgression. Her look intensified. She was going to get to the bottom of this.
Auntie left us, went to the Richards, and returned. I do not know what transpired there till this day. I am sure; however, they knew nothing about my fiasco. If they knew something, they would have disciplined us. And our parents would discipline us again upon their return, according to our people’s customs.
Auntie told us to sit on our bed, with Pa like a centurion standing guard in front of us. She left for downstairs of our quarters. I knew she was going to search the garbage cans for her flowers, vase and table cloth. I was sure she would not find them because I had dumped them in a garbage can across the street. So Spooks and I waited for a favorable resolution of this matter.
My eyes popped out my head, and my heart raced uncontrollably when Auntie returned with the evidence in her hands. I was so shocked, and afraid. She had searched the three garbage cans of our 276 quarters to no avail, and then went to those under building 281 across the street. I knew that I had been busted, and my punishment would be severe. I felt sick–a nauseating emptiness filled my stomach.
Auntie showed me the evidence, and demanded, “How this happened!” I told her the truth, hoping for some mercy or reduction in my punishment. Telling the truth after lying, however, had no mitigating influence on my parents’ disciplinary methods. Speaking truth is simply required in accepting responsibility for one’s behaviors and personal growth. It does not lessen or absolve one from the consequences of one’s misbehaviors.
Auntie and Pa severely punished my brother Spooks and me. As they whipped us, I immersed myself into my own thoughts with platitudes for mercy. My deep silent prayer for divine intervention, which is the only action that could dissuade them, was unanswered.
They also grounded us for one month. They dressed us in one of Auntie’s dresses. This embarrassed us, and ensured that we would not sneak out to play. We were allowed only to attend school and church. I welcomed these exceptions because I enjoyed and found comfort in these institutions. Their activities and personnel afforded me countless opportunities to grow academically, spiritually and personally, and meet my friends.
Upon completion of my punishment, I returned to living life more fully and responsibly–fully armed with the lessons Auntie and Pa taught me about playing with fire, never making the same mistakes again.
As we left to find our fortunes we surely heard you say
“Don’t forget the lessons you’ve been taught and don’t forget to pray”
Your red light in the distance then we saw it turn to green
Quickly you were out of sight but this is what you’ve come to mean
Fun filled walks with childhood friends as we stepped across your trestles
Young men wearing tailored slacks and girls in frilly dresses
Singing to our hearts’ content, delighting every ear
Tho the Chagres flowed beneath us, there was no hint of fear
We learned from you quite early that if we remain in lane
We need not fear life’s traffic or run away from pain
These many years away from you with stops in distant places
Allow us to retrace our steps to appreciate your graces
On our return we’ll find you there like Lady Liberty
Saying “welcome home, I’m glad you’re here” in all sincerity
by Gyambo Boy