“Yo! You going to Portland?” the young man yelled to the bus conductor.
The bus was nothing short from resembling a van that seated nearly 20 people but somehow managed to fill up with 30 people. The conductor yelled, “Yeah mon. Small up unnu self,” which ultimately means in plain English to make room for more people.
Eyes appealed, stomach clinched and arms crossed, I then braced myself for a ride to never forget!
For nearly three hours, I sat in the back of a packed van on my way to Portland, Jamaica from Kingston, Jamaica. The ride took us along the side of the mountain that was nothing short of bumpy.
I was on my way to Grandma’s house and Aunty Ilean’s restaurant.
Getting in Touch
Recently, I traveled to Jamaica for my grandmother “Aunt Perl’s” funeral. Despite the fact it was a travel for a sad occasion, it was an experience to never forget. The Jamaican culture is rich with much pride and good ole’ cool vibes. Living in the United States, I have lost sight of the culture and the people’s way of life. Being there to experience it all was humbling and brought me back to my roots.
The Meet
I couldn’t tell if it was the warm hug, smile or just the feeling of being around family. Stepping foot into my Aunt Ilean’s restaurant, the hub of all the family gatherings, overwhelmed me with the sense of welcome. It was there I met every cousin, aunt and uncle of mine. Based off the Jamaican culture, whenever someone passes away the family hosts a party called the “nine night” the night before the funeral. The DJ and live band rocked the night away with old-school gospel Jamaican music that had everyone up well into four o’clock in the morning. It is such a prominent event you can only experience. Essentially, it was also there that we danced, sang and found comfort.
Nonetheless, the celebration of life did not stop then. The funeral began with a praise and worship session. Then service continued with poetry, musical selections and a sermon. As I sat in the last seat in the third row against the wall with a small window inches away from the third row that I sat in, I couldn’t help feeling humble to hear the stories shared about my grandmother, Ruby McDonald, whom everyone called Aunt Pearl. She was a daring woman who was not afraid to live and help those that she crossed paths with.
The service proceeded to the gravesite. There the hymns of endearment continued. Men gathered and prepared her final resting space as they mixed cement and water for what will be her tomb stone.
-In loving memory of Aunt Pearl April 2, 1929 – January 22, 2014
