The first indication that something was brewing came from a close friend in San Francisco. She called asking if I had just sent her an email inviting her to some special dinner event.
“No,” I told her, puzzled.
“I knew it!” she said. “I told [name of husband] not to click on the link.”
We chatted about this strange situation.
“A couple days ago, I received a dinner invitation on Facebook from a writing friend,” I told her. “It seemed odd; I didn’t click on the link.”
After ending our call, I accessed the said email account. I was surprised to see the warning: Your account may be compromised. We recommend that you change your password. I did so, immediately.
How had someone gained access to my email account without my knowledge? I prayed that no one on my contact list had fallen for the scam. Surely, they must know that I wouldn’t ask them for money.
In Chapter Eleven of my work in progress, I share my experience of entering a male-dominated workforce at the age of eighteen years. It’s the period October 1969 to December 1970. The term “sexual harassment” was not yet in use to describe male sexual overtones and intimidation in the workplace. According to a Wikipedia article, the term was first used in May 1975.
In November 1969, while I entered a new phase in my life as a young woman, hundreds of thousands of protestors took to the streets across America to call for an end to the Vietnam War. In the United Kingdom, John Lennon of The Beatles rock band returned his MBE medal in protest to the British government’s support of the war. Richard Nixon’s inauguration as President of the United States in January 1970 eventually brought a withdrawal of all US troops in 1973.
On February 23, 1970, Guyana became the first Republic in the Commonwealth Caribbean. The country’s official name is the ‘Cooperative Republic of Guyana.’ Queen Elizabeth II, the Head of the British Commonwealth, entered her eighteenth year on the throne. Later in the year, Sir Edward Heath replaced Harold Wilson as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.
On Guyana’s radio waves, Peter, Paul and Mary were “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” Simon & Garfunkel offered us a “Bridge Over Troubled Waters,” while The Beatles urged that we “Let It Be.” The Jamaican reggae artist Bob Marley & the Wailers released their first album “Soul Rebels.”
Since I had already featured Kowsilla of Leonora on International Women’s Day in 2013, I had decided not to share her expanded portrait in Chapter Nine of my work in progress. I changed my mind the day that our former president and current presidential candidate called the black- and brown-skinned migrants/refugees at our southern border “animals.” “[They’re] poisoning the blood of our country,” he said on another occasion. His remarks hurt. It matters not that the blood of these people has fueled and continues to fuel our giant corporations worldwide. Kowsilla (1920-1964) was such a person.
Kowsilla’s abruptly shortened life was so inconsequential to the powerful British sugar producers that her ultimate sacrifice at Plantation Leonora only merited a brief description in our local newspapers. In recalling those early days of growing up in then British Guiana, I regard her as a worthy and memorable representative of the rural working-class women of her generation. With little information about her life, I took on the challenge of re-creating her story.
To tell her story, I turned to Kowsilla’s ancestral history as a descendant of Indian indentured laborers. I found Coolie Woman: The Odyssey of Indenture by Gaiutra Bahadur (The University of Chicago Press, 2014) an excellent resource. What strong and courageous women! I also considered the cultural norms of the rural East Indian population during Kowsilla’s early years.
I hope that I have done justice in re-creating her unrecorded life.
Since I’ve already posted Chapter Eight of my work in progress, featuring “Winifred Gaskin: A Political Woman,” I’m moving on to Chapter Nine that portrays another political woman and the first female president of Guyana (1997-1999): Janet Jagan nee Rosenberg. The white American-born wife of Cheddi Jagan—co-founder of the left-leaning People’s Progressive Party (PPP), Guyana’s first political party to garner massive support—was regarded as an “outsider” among the ruling British and local elite at the time.
When I started this book project, I did not plan on including Janet Jagan among the influential women in the formation of my social and political consciousness. As a young devout Christian, I viewed her not only as an outsider but also as a threat to religious education in our parochial schools. Though I did not share her communist ideology, I would be remiss in not acknowledging her influence in empowering Guyanese women to speak out against oppression and injustice by those holding power or authority within the home, workplace, and public spaces. In retrospect, she may well be the driving force for my rebellious attitude towards those in authority: A criticism I received from my religious superiors as a young Catholic nun.
As Cheddi’s wife and political partner, Janet’s remarkable journey is also an interesting case of what can be achieved when the male and female work together as equal partners. Here in the United States, we are still plagued by the patriarchal dominator model of organizing our society. As the world’s greatest democratic nation, we lag behind other countries, advanced and developing, in electing a woman for the top position as president. Since the 1872 elections, several American women have tried and failed. Isn’t it ironic that the first American woman to hold the position did so in a foreign country? Hillary Clinton came close in the 2016 elections. Does Nikki Haley stand a chance in 2024? We have no shortage of remarkable American-born women capable of leading our nation.
We left Guyana for Brazil in 1987 before the PPP returned to power in 1992, after spending 28 years in Parliament as the major opposition party. With her husband as Executive President, the 72-year-old Janet became First Lady of the Republic of Guyana. She was 77 years old when she was elected as Executive President, following Cheddi’s death.
In Chapter Seven of my work in progress, I tell two stories that played vital roles in shaping my young identity. These involved critical turning points within the Roman Catholic Church and the end days of European colonialism. What an interesting time to witness history in the making!
Beginning on October 11, 1962—after ninety-three years since the convocation of the First Vatican Council on December 8, 1869—between 2,000 and 2,500 Catholic cardinals, patriarchs, and bishops from all over the world, assisted by 460 theological experts, convened in Rome for the Second Vatican Council. For the first time, Protestants, Orthodox, and other non-Catholic observers were invited to assist. In attendance as observers were forty-two lay and religious men and women.
Meanwhile, in what was then British Guiana, our parents and grandparents were embroiled in the struggle for independence from Britain. Our country’s independence in May 1966 went way beyond constitutional change and self-governance. No longer socially inferior subjects of the former Mother Country, we the people also had to undergo the psychological process of “mental emancipation.” As I observed during my adolescence, the Church and State often disagreed on the means to achieve such profound changes of being and doing.
When I first drafted this chapter in 2017—yes, this project is years in the making—the MAGA administration of our 45th president held power in the White House. As I understood then, this rallying cry to “Make America Great Again” meant a return to the 1950s when the white male held power over non-white bodies and the female stayed at home to raise the family and serve her husband. I had visions of a return to life in colonial British Guiana. It meant a return, too, to my mother’s unhappy life as a stay-at-home working mother of five children and an abusive husband.
What a turn of events in the world’s richest and most powerful nation!
I imagine that this is not an easy time to be a young person in the United States. In addition to laws and regulations dictated by the Church and State, they must also contend with bullying and conspiracy theories on ubiquitous Social Media platforms. Added to that is gun violence in schools, colleges, and the public spaces where they socialize. For girls and young women, rights won by their mothers and grandmothers, through years of political activism, are being dismantled.
During my adolescent years, my steadfast faith in the teachings of the Catholic Church grounded me during those transformative years from a colonial country to a cooperative socialist republic. Moreover, as a young woman, I witnessed strong and courageous women lead the way forward. I feature three of these women in Chapters Eight to Ten.
I hate to admit it: I’m still recovering from the COVID-19 pandemic lockdown of 2020-2021. My writer’s life was disrupted and has never got back on track. I miss the monthly lunch meetings with our writers’ critique group. Long past resuscitation. What’s more, the Greater Los Angeles Writers Society (GLAWS), of which I was once an active member, continues to meet on the detestable Zoom. To make matters worse, the society’s co-founder and president, Tony Todaro, passed away in December 2023. It’s difficult to imagine GLAWS without him at its helm.
In July 2023, I lost another friend, Cyril Bryan, who also played an important role in my writer’s journey to publication. As the publisher of the Guyanese Online website/blog, Cyril promoted my blog articles, short stories, and novels, bringing my work to the attention of the Guyanese Diaspora worldwide. His invaluable contribution in connecting us and promoting Guyanese cultural events will be missed.
My personal loss is nothing compared to what families are facing in GAZA, Ukraine, Sudan, and other war-torn regions of our world. The plight of Palestinian women and mothers in GAZA was, and remains, my deepest sorrow in 2023. Their collective grief pierces the fabric of our interconnected consciousness. Such is the value of our lives to those who wield power in our world.
While the threat of a nuclear World War III lurks in the shadows, a planetary climate crisis and ecocide intensify with humanity’s inability to change course. The fossil fuel companies continue to use their political clout to forestall global efforts to reduce carbon emissions by 45 percent by 2030 and reach Net Zero by 2050. No doubt, they’ve got their escape survival plans ready for execution, when needed. The rest of us will be on our own.
Seven years are just around the corner. Already, 2023 was the hottest year in recorded history. It turns out that our planet is heating up at a faster pace than predicted by our climate change models. Last summer, staying cool demanded daily vigilance. This aging body of mine no longer copes with excessive heat like it used to.
Change is a constant in our lives. As occurred during the COVID-19 pandemic, some changes are very disruptive. In 2022, after reading Deep Adaptation: Navigating the Realities of Climate Chaos Edited by Jem Bendell & Rupert Read (UK/USA, 2021), I knew with terrifying clarity that a catastrophic change was already in motion. Dealing with such change would, indeed, demand a “deep adaptation,” unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. A shift in being.
Beginning in September 2022 and for ten months in 2023, as shared on my blog, I focused on the ideology that has led humanity on the path of environmental degradation and the remedy proposed by Jem Bendell. This shift in my way of being—still a work in progress—has amplified the way I see my interconnection with others and Mother Earth. My interactions with my blogger friends on WordPress are no longer the same. The stories I share are no longer the same.
I thank each one of you for the special gift you brought, and continue to bring, to my day. Without you, 2023 would’ve been filled only with isolation and grief. We may not agree on everything or share the same beliefs. Who does? There’s so much beauty in diversity. You give me hope that, together with those within our communities, we will overcome whatever comes.
In the last three chapters, I’ve shared the stories of three women who played important roles in shaping the person I would become: Mother, Auntie Katie, and Auntie Baby. In Chapter Six of my work in progress, I tell the story about the handsome, young seminarian who entered my life and changed its course: Michael (fictitious name), my first love. At thirteen years old when we first met, I had already developed a close relationship with Jesus, but it was Michael who set me on the path to the religious life.
My deepening relationship with Jesus was a well-guarded secret. To speak of my love for Jesus was out of the question. As I’ve mentioned in an earlier chapter, we were not a family of huggers and kissers. What’s more, those three little words “I love you” were not uttered among us.
For right or wrong, good or evil, truth or deception, I was shaped by the society that sustained me. During those early days of youthful innocence, our country was undergoing political, economic, and social upheavals that would later remold my self-identity.
Chapter Five of my work in progress presents the third portrait of a woman in my life. Auntie Baby, Mother’s baby sister, played an important role during my formative years. Nine years younger than Mother, she was just four years old when her parents and nine older siblings left British Guiana in 1946 for the United States. With the end of World War II in September 1945, my maternal grandparents must’ve seen better prospects for their future under America’s President Harry Truman. For reasons unknown to me, they failed to fulfill their promise to return for the three girls left behind.
Auntie Baby lived with us on and off from the late-1950s to mid-1960s. She brought lots of fun into our lives as kids. I must’ve been around eight to nine years old when I became aware of her dream to marry a white man and move to the Mother Country. Perhaps, the arrival of British soldiers in the colony incited her imagination.
On October 8, 1953, the Royal Welsh Fusiliers were the first battalion to arrive in the colony to suppress an alleged communist takeover. Two weeks later, they handed over to the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Auntie Baby was twelve-going-on-thirteen years old when they left in October 1954, taking twenty-five Guianese-born wives with them back home to Scotland. When she began dating at eighteen years old, the Worcestershire Regiment was on their one-year tour of duty. Her time had finally come to catch her dream husband. She soon learned how elusive dreams can be. Yet, she persisted.
Auntie Baby was the inspiration for the minor character, Joanna de Freitas, niece of protagonist Richard Cheong’s mother-in-law, in my debut novel Under the Tamarind Tree. Joanna first appears in Chapter Seven (p. 32) when she arrives with her Scottish soldier boyfriend at a family Christmas party (December 1953).
Chapter Four of my work in progress presents the second portrait of a woman in my life. Auntie Katie was an inextricable part of my childhood. She lived in the adjacent flat in the tenement yard, where we shared the same toilet and bathroom. Unlike other neighbors in the yard, she did not complain if we were too noisy. Perhaps, she considered that we already had our fair share of corporal punishment.
For some reason, she tolerated my curiosity and treated me with kindness. I liked and respected her. In her simple and quiet manner, she taught me that the color of our skin did not matter. What was in our heart mattered. How we treated others, even the little ones, mattered. Though she has been long gone from the world of the living, she remains close to my heart.
In Chapter One of my debut novel, Under the Tamarind Tree, she makes a small appearance as herself. More importantly, she became the inspiration for my most beloved character, Mama Chips, the protagonist’s surrogate mother following his mother’s death when he was thirteen years old.
The period described in Chapter Four is the 1950s and 1960s in then British Guiana.
Chapter Three of my work in progress presents the first portrait of a woman in my life: my mother. As the most influential person in shaping my self-identity and vision of the world, I could not neglect to tell her story. Moreover, given the current reality of our lives as women in 21st century America, where conservative legislators and the women who support them have forced us back into the 1950s and 1960s, my mother’s story becomes even more relevant.
The first draft of this chapter was written in February 2017, shortly after my mother disowned me as her daughter. In revising this chapter six years later during a period of grief, following her death a year ago on August 22nd, I’ve come to realize how much of my mother’s own pain and loss I’m still carrying.
Given my closeness to the subject, I found it difficult to tell her story without bias or judgement. My objective stance faltered during the narration of intense interactions cited in the portrait. Though I know very little of her life over the thirty years of our separation, my siblings have all shared stories of the terror they had endured. Despite my questions, none of them have been forthcoming about the incident or event that unleashed her rage against them and their spouses. My turn came later, following our reunion in 2003.
The story’s time frame is not linear. Prompted by Mother’s tendency to uproot the past during our conversations, the narrative moves back and forth between our time together in Guyana and in Los Angeles, Southern California. Do let me know if you find this confusing.