I grew up in Clarendon, Jamaica where everyone blows their horn or waves when passing by. A home where WAHGWAN is a word and Gud mawnin, Gud evenin, and Gud nite are greetings.
We went outside, we got dirty, ate whatever our mother and grandmother cooked, ate fruit from the trees without washing them, and we weren’t afraid of anything but STRAY DOGS. The sunset was our curfew and you could do anything outside except run around the house (cause duppy will bax yuh dung).
Chicken was fried and Quench-Aid was the house wine. Boiled dumplings and Cornmeal porridge were staples - and if you wanted some extra flavor, just add some pieces of bread to the porridge. School was mandatory even if it wasn’t your “time” to go. Shopping carts were Baskets and Washcloths were Rags.
Mango season was a time to be alive - one bucket of mango per person was the bare minimum. Can’t forget the Juneplums with the salt & pepper in the bag or the Hot pink blossoms from the apple tree when it started bearing. And if you wanted a coconut you’d have to get one from everybody’s yard, because all of them tasted different.
Everyone was family, even if not by blood, so there was a lot of Aunty-this and Uncle-so and so. Disrespecting your elders was a no go or you would get a beating with whatever was nearby - plus another one when you reach home.
I’m proud of how I grew up and I will never forget where I’m from. I grew up with a village, laughter, adventure, excitement and of course, nuff nyammings.
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