EXCERPT FROM ‘JUST ONE HANDFUL OF SNOW’
I was born at Rose Cot on the tenth of April 1941 in the parish of St. Thomas, to Joseph and Elsa Applewhite. Where is Rose Cot you ask? Such a place does not exist. That was actually the name my parents called our home. Back then every Barbadian’s house had a name. It is different today. Now there are numbers on the homes, but back then it was a matter of prestige among the middle class to have that name on a piece of metal, lovingly nailed above the main entrance to the home. It was also easier for the postman to find and deliver the letters to homes with names like, In God we Trust, Sweet Harmony and sometimes they even used their own names. Harold and Mavis Springer’s house might have been called Harold and Mavis. I have strayed. I was telling you about me. My mother said that when the midwife whacked me across my rear end, I yelped like a wounded puppy. With such lungs, she swore I was going to be a great singer. Instead I chose teaching which made her rejoice, for teaching was considered an honourable profession. Singing in my mother’s opinion meant running around to places which she deemed unladylike; where huge amounts of alcohol was consumed and then crawling home in the wee hours of the morning. Singing for God in the parish church choir she could accept. That she did admit.
My mother claimed she was from good stock. Was it because she was fair skinned with wavy black hair? My sister Rita looked just like her, only a bit taller. My father was a big man with skin as black as coal, and I looked like him, tall and big boned with dark brown skin.
Growing up in St. Thomas, Rita and I were always teased by the town folk. We were from the country! From a parish where there was no sea. That meant we were not privileged enough to have a coastline in our parish. When other children were allowed to go to the beach, we were forced to remain at home and read or do something that would improve our minds.
“The sea don’t have a back door,” Elsa would always say.
We got used to the idea that no matter how often our friends made that trek to the beach, especially during the hot months of August and September, Elsa’s two daughters Colleen and Rita remained at home, their heads buried in books or climbing the Golden Apple tree to get a glimpse of the beautiful Caribbean Sea. It was blue! Oh so blue!
“Elsa, you should let the girls go out and have some fun. They’re young,” Joseph said now and again.
Elsa always won. Her word was law and so our father would back down and let her have her way, although he was by no means a pushover. He knew her intentions were good, and just in case something did happen to one of us because of his persistence, he would not want Elsa’s wrath on his head.
Rita and I both went to Teachers’ College and became two elementary school teachers. Our parents couldn’t have been prouder of their daughters. We had done well. Never gotten into trouble and most of all, didn’t bring home any unwanted children. Whenever an unwanted pregnancy befell any of our classmates, she always chided our father.
“If I had let them go astray, only God knows what would’ve happened to them. Give them an inch and they would take an ell.”
“Give them some credit Elsa. They are good girls. We brought them up well,” he would say winking at us.**
That was where I met Selma Prescott. At Teachers’ Training College! Since then she and I were inseparable. Our friendship blossomed after we were both placed at the same elementary school. She taught Maths and I English. My mother liked her but she wasn’t particularly fond of her. I didn’t understand it. She was a nice enough person, but whatever it was that my mother saw or knew, she kept to herself. After teaching for about two years, Selma one day brought a newspaper to school and showed it to me.
May 1962
Domestic workers needed
Would you like to work in Canada?
Trained housekeepers and nannies needed.
Paid passage and accommodation!
Please forward your letter of application to… etc.
“Are you even considering doing this?” I asked.
“I would like to get away from the Rock,” she replied. “I heard that Toronto has lots of great opportunities. Yes, it is cold but it really gets warm in the summertime. I would like to help my family to a better way of life.”
“But you already have a good position. Not everyone is as lucky as we are.”
“I want to get away from this place,” she whispered. “I want to see what life is like in the big city.”
**
Selma continued to paint the picture of a rosy Canada and Colleen succumbed to her friend’s idea of escaping the island. Elsa did not take the news sitting down. She couldn’t believe that one of her children would dream of going to Canada to become a domestic servant or a housekeeper.
“You don’t have to do that. Your father and I worked hard to get you where you are today. Tell her Joseph.”
“She is not a child anymore Elsa. I don’t like it either but if that’s what she wants to do, then she has my blessing.”
“You’re no help. Those jobs are for people who didn’t go to school. Not for any of my children. I can’t hold my head high in this place anymore.”
Various methods of persuasion helped to change Elsa’s mind. She was not happy, but after a six month course to hone my cooking skills, she sent me on my way with three pairs of long underwear, some knitted sweaters and a half-hearted blessing.
“You can always come back home. You have a place to lay your head. You are Joseph and Elsa Applewhite’s child. Remember that Colleen.”
Those were her parting words.
The cold December winds slapped her across the face as she made her way from the underground tunnel known as Dundas subway and into the cold sunshine. She was on Yonge Street; one of the longest streets in the world, with frigid winds that funnelled down the long canal, filled with cars, buses and street cars, all belching exhaust fumes and filling the air with grey plumes of smoke. The smell of roasted chestnuts hung in the air and she spotted the vendor on the southeast corner of Yonge and Dundas. He was wearing a red Santa Claus cap and only his eyes and red cheeks were visible. As the smoke cascaded from his roasting machine, he rolled sheets of paper into triangular-shaped cones, and carefully portioned out the chestnuts into them. Shoppers scurried for shelter from the winds. This was her third winter in Canada and it was no better than the first. It was quite different from the teaching world they had left behind. They had both dreamt of leaving the little island for wider pastures; however this was not what they had had expected. It was really the only avenue open for the citizens of the lesser developed countries to make the trek to the wide open spaces of Canada. That was the way the system had been programmed. After taking a few home economic courses, the prim, proper and educated Colleen Applewhite along with her friend Selma Prescott finally entered Canada as two domestic workers.
Back home everyone looked up to Colleen. It was Miss Applewhite this and Miss Applewhite that, but this was all behind her. She was now cooking meals and eating hers alone in the kitchen. Selma was more fortunate because she was allowed to sit at the table with the family. She remembered the first time her employer handed her a scrub brush and instructed her to scrub the kitchen floors. On her knees, she crawled into every nook and cranny of the beautifully tiled floor, while secret tears mingled with the water from the scrub bucket. Colleen Applewhite had never before scrubbed a floor. That was done by her mother or someone engaged to work for a few dollars per week. She felt such helplessness. Helplessness at her plight and hopelessness as her employer’s two children trampled across the floor she had just cleaned and polished. It brought tears to her eyes. They were two spoilt brats and she couldn’t reprimand them for fear of annoying her employers and losing her position. In addition she had the task of bathing their dog Shaggy. The name fit perfectly for he had long brown hair which was always matted and the animal could easily have been mistaken for a piece of garbage. He was not properly trained and would sometimes leave a mess on the floor which they would all step over, leaving the unenviable task to her. She could not understand why the parents could allow the creature to sleep in the bed with of one the sons. In Barbados, dogs belonged in the backyard! Gary didn’t seem to mind, for the animal to him was like a nice warm blanket, but the musty odour left behind was one she could not stomach. She swallowed her pride and did the menial tasks for perhaps if she didn’t she could be sent packing back to Barbados, her body racked with shame. Her employer’s children were not like those she had taught back home. They were rude and as the saying went in her homeland, those two had a plaster for every sore. So once again she wiped their footprints away from the shiny floor and suffered in silence. But she was in Canada!
My mother would never believe this, she often thought.
I was born at Rose Cot on the tenth of April 1941 in the parish of St. Thomas, to Joseph and Elsa Applewhite. Where is Rose Cot you ask? Such a place does not exist. That was actually the name my parents called our home. Back then every Barbadian’s house had a name. It is different today. Now there are numbers on the homes, but back then it was a matter of prestige among the middle class to have that name on a piece of metal, lovingly nailed above the main entrance to the home. It was also easier for the postman to find and deliver the letters to homes with names like, In God we Trust, Sweet Harmony and sometimes they even used their own names. Harold and Mavis Springer’s house might have been called Harold and Mavis. I have strayed. I was telling you about me. My mother said that when the midwife whacked me across my rear end, I yelped like a wounded puppy. With such lungs, she swore I was going to be a great singer. Instead I chose teaching which made her rejoice, for teaching was considered an honourable profession. Singing in my mother’s opinion meant running around to places which she deemed unladylike; where huge amounts of alcohol was consumed and then crawling home in the wee hours of the morning. Singing for God in the parish church choir she could accept. That she did admit.
My mother claimed she was from good stock. Was it because she was fair skinned with wavy black hair? My sister Rita looked just like her, only a bit taller. My father was a big man with skin as black as coal, and I looked like him, tall and big boned with dark brown skin.
Growing up in St. Thomas, Rita and I were always teased by the town folk. We were from the country! From a parish where there was no sea. That meant we were not privileged enough to have a coastline in our parish. When other children were allowed to go to the beach, we were forced to remain at home and read or do something that would improve our minds.
“The sea don’t have a back door,” Elsa would always say.
We got used to the idea that no matter how often our friends made that trek to the beach, especially during the hot months of August and September, Elsa’s two daughters Colleen and Rita remained at home, their heads buried in books or climbing the Golden Apple tree to get a glimpse of the beautiful Caribbean Sea. It was blue! Oh so blue!
“Elsa, you should let the girls go out and have some fun. They’re young,” Joseph said now and again.
Elsa always won. Her word was law and so our father would back down and let her have her way, although he was by no means a pushover. He knew her intentions were good, and just in case something did happen to one of us because of his persistence, he would not want Elsa’s wrath on his head.
Rita and I both went to Teachers’ College and became two elementary school teachers. Our parents couldn’t have been prouder of their daughters. We had done well. Never gotten into trouble and most of all, didn’t bring home any unwanted children. Whenever an unwanted pregnancy befell any of our classmates, she always chided our father.
“If I had let them go astray, only God knows what would’ve happened to them. Give them an inch and they would take an ell.”
“Give them some credit Elsa. They are good girls. We brought them up well,” he would say winking at us.**
That was where I met Selma Prescott. At Teachers’ Training College! Since then she and I were inseparable. Our friendship blossomed after we were both placed at the same elementary school. She taught Maths and I English. My mother liked her but she wasn’t particularly fond of her. I didn’t understand it. She was a nice enough person, but whatever it was that my mother saw or knew, she kept to herself. After teaching for about two years, Selma one day brought a newspaper to school and showed it to me.
May 1962
Domestic workers needed
Would you like to work in Canada?
Trained housekeepers and nannies needed.
Paid passage and accommodation!
Please forward your letter of application to… etc.
“Are you even considering doing this?” I asked.
“I would like to get away from the Rock,” she replied. “I heard that Toronto has lots of great opportunities. Yes, it is cold but it really gets warm in the summertime. I would like to help my family to a better way of life.”
“But you already have a good position. Not everyone is as lucky as we are.”
“I want to get away from this place,” she whispered. “I want to see what life is like in the big city.”
**
Selma continued to paint the picture of a rosy Canada and Colleen succumbed to her friend’s idea of escaping the island. Elsa did not take the news sitting down. She couldn’t believe that one of her children would dream of going to Canada to become a domestic servant or a housekeeper.
“You don’t have to do that. Your father and I worked hard to get you where you are today. Tell her Joseph.”
“She is not a child anymore Elsa. I don’t like it either but if that’s what she wants to do, then she has my blessing.”
“You’re no help. Those jobs are for people who didn’t go to school. Not for any of my children. I can’t hold my head high in this place anymore.”
Various methods of persuasion helped to change Elsa’s mind. She was not happy, but after a six month course to hone my cooking skills, she sent me on my way with three pairs of long underwear, some knitted sweaters and a half-hearted blessing.
“You can always come back home. You have a place to lay your head. You are Joseph and Elsa Applewhite’s child. Remember that Colleen.”
Those were her parting words.
The cold December winds slapped her across the face as she made her way from the underground tunnel known as Dundas subway and into the cold sunshine. She was on Yonge Street; one of the longest streets in the world, with frigid winds that funnelled down the long canal, filled with cars, buses and street cars, all belching exhaust fumes and filling the air with grey plumes of smoke. The smell of roasted chestnuts hung in the air and she spotted the vendor on the southeast corner of Yonge and Dundas. He was wearing a red Santa Claus cap and only his eyes and red cheeks were visible. As the smoke cascaded from his roasting machine, he rolled sheets of paper into triangular-shaped cones, and carefully portioned out the chestnuts into them. Shoppers scurried for shelter from the winds. This was her third winter in Canada and it was no better than the first. It was quite different from the teaching world they had left behind. They had both dreamt of leaving the little island for wider pastures; however this was not what they had had expected. It was really the only avenue open for the citizens of the lesser developed countries to make the trek to the wide open spaces of Canada. That was the way the system had been programmed. After taking a few home economic courses, the prim, proper and educated Colleen Applewhite along with her friend Selma Prescott finally entered Canada as two domestic workers.
Back home everyone looked up to Colleen. It was Miss Applewhite this and Miss Applewhite that, but this was all behind her. She was now cooking meals and eating hers alone in the kitchen. Selma was more fortunate because she was allowed to sit at the table with the family. She remembered the first time her employer handed her a scrub brush and instructed her to scrub the kitchen floors. On her knees, she crawled into every nook and cranny of the beautifully tiled floor, while secret tears mingled with the water from the scrub bucket. Colleen Applewhite had never before scrubbed a floor. That was done by her mother or someone engaged to work for a few dollars per week. She felt such helplessness. Helplessness at her plight and hopelessness as her employer’s two children trampled across the floor she had just cleaned and polished. It brought tears to her eyes. They were two spoilt brats and she couldn’t reprimand them for fear of annoying her employers and losing her position. In addition she had the task of bathing their dog Shaggy. The name fit perfectly for he had long brown hair which was always matted and the animal could easily have been mistaken for a piece of garbage. He was not properly trained and would sometimes leave a mess on the floor which they would all step over, leaving the unenviable task to her. She could not understand why the parents could allow the creature to sleep in the bed with of one the sons. In Barbados, dogs belonged in the backyard! Gary didn’t seem to mind, for the animal to him was like a nice warm blanket, but the musty odour left behind was one she could not stomach. She swallowed her pride and did the menial tasks for perhaps if she didn’t she could be sent packing back to Barbados, her body racked with shame. Her employer’s children were not like those she had taught back home. They were rude and as the saying went in her homeland, those two had a plaster for every sore. So once again she wiped their footprints away from the shiny floor and suffered in silence. But she was in Canada!
My mother would never believe this, she often thought.
