I see a young Dominican girl. She is sitting on a stoop in front of a small roach infested termite riddled rickety house. Half a dozen small children in various stages of undress scamper around. The girl is forced to play the role of the mother since her mother died in a car accident. Neighbours said if the ambulance hadn t come so late, or if the nurses were a little quicker on their feet or if she could have gotten a CAT scan, she might have lived. Her father works tirelessly but hasn t received a salary in seven months. She can no longer attend school and uses her history book to stir up some hot air to cool her face. A book which tells no tales of Jaco, Pharcelle, Balla, Congore or Pierre Colaire. She turns on their little transistor radio and heard that today was emancipation day, the anniversary of their freedom. But that freedom had a dull ring, a mocking emptiness when, in her time – in the short span of her life, the bitter harsh reality of her life never reflected an emancipated Dominica. So she sits on the stoop of her small roach infested termite riddled rickety house watching her neighbours cook up a storm to head to the beach, wondering where she ll be getting her next meal from.
Posted on: Mon, 05 Aug 2013 18:19:48 +0000