Goodbye to a Friend

I sat down to write about Trump’s executive orders about DEI today. The idea was to declare his presidency a white supremacist project (with greed as its engine) and to insist that we treat it as such. No dancing around the bush. Frank speech is required and direct action needed. No time to waste with outrage at every word or deed. With mouths wide opened. Brows furrowed. Instead, I wanted to write about boycotts and conferences, and the necessity of turning inward to ensure that our babies make it to the other side of this madness.

But then I got a call. A close friend, much older than me, will die today. He has been sick for a while. And the family has decided to take him off life support. His has been a life of hard work, displacement, and fleeting joys. We called him Saddam, among other names. Short and stocky. With hands that held hammers and pulled them too. Built like the cinder blocks he used to build homes in Clarendon and Kingston.

Saddam taught me how to play dominoes or, rather, he tried to teach me. Barely literate, he had an uncanny ability to find dominoes and, once he did, played his hand, sipped his Heineken, and asked in a cigarette-laden voice, “yu undastan’?” He was so confident in his skill that he invited me to play partners with him among men who have played the game as long as I have been on the planet. I preferred his company to some of the “stush” folk who moved about Miami.

He loved to dance to ska and rocky-steady, a recollection, I suppose, of a time on an island left behind because of politics and need. The memory of him, in his powder blue slacks, white belt, and white shoes, twisting “Ms. Ruby” round and round as her wig tilted to the side makes me laugh still.

He taught me how to fry sprat, to season jerk, and tried to show me how to make mannish water. Something I refused to taste. He brought this country boy from Moss Point, Mississippi, into his world, yelled at me when I inevitably made a bad play on the domino table, and laughed with me as we gave our friends six love. He told me stories of his days with the PNP, of his dreams, and his dashed hopes as we drank white rum or Jameson or whatever was within reach. Sadness sat behind his smile.

We would spend hours playing cards, a game called “coon can” (also known as Conquian). Drinking and laughing. Waiting for the domino game to get started. And every time we readied ourselves to leave to return to New Jersey, he would send us home with some ackee from “the farm.” And we would take a shot to say goodbye.

The last time we talked he said he was tired. Too much loss, I guess. The last time I saw him he didn’t open his eyes. I whispered goodbye. Today he makes his journey home. He can rest now.

I will get back to Trump. That much I know. But today I am going to grieve and remember my friend. I am going to talk with my mom and dad. Call my son. Pull the people I love closer. That’s the armor needed for the days ahead.

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