I’ve been asked why I wrote “Hero” but to explain, I’ll need to go back forty years to the summer of ’83 which was a time best described with words written by Charles Dicken’s, “It was the best of times it was the worst of times.”

At the dawn of each morning, I’d wake to the crow of the roosters and lay with eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the outside world. Tropical birds in the thousands singing, cows mooing from a neighborhood farm, “Nay, Nays,” from the goats, a slow clip-clopping of a pair of horses, and the rolling wheels of the Coconut man’s wagon. When the sun’s rays opened my eyes, I would jump out of bed, eat whatever breakfast my grandmother had prepared and then head outside to spend most of the day with the warmth of the Caribbean sun beating on my little brown face. I had only a few toys but would examine caterpillars, chase butterflies, or the little lizards that zipped back and forth between the green leaves. I had conversations with the plants and made hideaways in the trees. I used my imagination to dig a hole to China or travel to faraway lands on the big planes that passed overhead. I’d lay on my back and stare up at the clouds wondering what life was all about and who and where God was. As the sun would go down, I’d watch it set against the backdrop of the Blue Mountain peaks, then spend the evening outside looking up at the web of stars that seemed close enough to touch. I’d joyfully ride in dilapidated, crowded buses devoid of air-conditioning to the city for church on Sunday or to the market. Holidays were spent with family at the nearby beach, playing in the sand, splashing in the water, or trying to grab the fish and other sea creatures clearly seen through the turquoise water. Then I’d eat fish freshly caught and prepared right on the beach. There were walks through the neighborhood on cool evenings to visit the neighbors, sometimes taking shortcuts through the sugar cane fields. The food was fresh and full of flavor. I can still taste the tropical fruits in ample supply, either from a backyard tree or to buy from the farmer’s stands or wagons out on the main road behind our development. Music was everywhere and all the time. Bob Marley’s songs seemed to play in an endless loop.

It was a beautiful life, or at least it would have been if not for the troubles plaguing the adult world that had invaded my simple existence. Crime was rife in the nearby city, and gang violence was out of control, it was so bad that on a recent trip to church, I had to run from gunshots randomly fired in my direction. Inflation was astronomical, jobs were hard to come by and political strife and corruption caused food shortages. Sometimes the power was out, or the water shut off for weeks.

School was starting back soon, and the air was tight with tension. Money was needed to pay my school tuition and what about my uniforms and supplies? Where would that money come from? Because we were absorbed in those worries, my birthday had come and gone with barely an acknowledgment. The only treat to mark the occasion was a trip to the ice cream parlor where I was gifted a free cone.

One morning, feeling sorry for myself, I was playing alone as I often did, when I heard loud voices and some kind of commotion. With the typical curiosity of a child, I ran toward the noise, excited but scared because something was not right. There on the carport, (the center of most Caribbean homes) stood the Coconut man. I was used to seeing him standing by his wagon out on the main road. I’d watched him countless times, skillfully remove the husk from a coconut with a long cutlass, chopping it open to let me drink the fresh cold juice before he cut out the white flesh and put it in a plastic bag for me to take home. But that day he looked very different and out of place, standing on the carport that my grandmother had me sweep, mop, and polish just that morning. He stood there agitated, in his bare feet, cut-off shorts, and a sweat-stained white T-shirt. He pointed at the little girl next to him clutching a burlap sack as if for dear life. She was about my age, but her tear-stained, shadowed eyes made her look years older. With a voice full of animation he said, “She’s a thief!” The little girl, looking down at her dirty tennis shoes, shook with fear. My grandmother who had been in the middle of her wash day, wiped her wet sudsy hands on a washrag and remained silent until the Coconut man finished his story of how he caught his “little thief,” ending with, “So I brought her here because I know you’re a good Christian woman and would know what to do.” Caught off guard, my grandmother took a minute to think, and then she took the situation into her capable hands. The Coconut man left to see to his wagon, and I was ordered to fetch some “bun and cheese” a snack that we always had on hand for guests, and a glass of juice made from freshly squeezed lemon and limes. The girl was ordered to sit down and eat, which she did with gusto. When her meal was over, my grandmother asked her some questions. “Why did you steal from the Coconut man?” The child answered with her voice shaking, “I hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and I had no money.” The next question, “Where do you live?” Hesitating, she said with a sad sigh, “nowhere.” Then she told her story of how her mother had ordered her out of the house and slammed and locked the door, screaming at her to go away and never come back.

The little girl sat out on the carport for about an hour, until the priest from our church arrived to take her to the church-run boarding school. He hadn’t hesitated when my grandmother called him but had stopped what he was doing and jumped on the next bus. The usually stern man came with a smile for the child and sympathy in his voice.

Looking back, I realized I had grown up a little that day. My view of the world had changed when I compared my situation to the little girl’s, because there I was feeling sorry for myself but when I looked into her eyes what I saw was envy of me. Sure, things weren’t right in my world, but I had a home that was comfortable and nice. I never went hungry unless by choice and I had the love and protection of my extended family and the assurance that they would take care of me and would never throw me out on the street, penniless to fend for myself.

I saw that girl one more time a year later, as I left the church following a Sunday mass. She came out of the school with a group of girls and ran with them down the street. She seemed happy and carefree, void of the burdened, desperate look that she had worn sitting on our carport. Throughout my life, when things have gotten particularly hard, I’ve remembered that little girl and was reminded of how hard life could really be for some and how blessed I truly am.

Reading has always been a solace for me, I’ve used it as an escape from the mundane world or the harsh realities of life. As I grew up, the desire to write my own stories became just as strong as my desire to read what others wrote. I loved nothing else but to find blank pieces of paper that I could write out whatever story or poem was in my head. If I couldn’t find paper, I’d write in blank pages of books, or on boxes. My bedroom would be littered with my writing. Of course, I dreamt of being a famous writer along the lines of L.M. Montgomery, Maya Angelou, Laura Ingalls Wilder or Langston Hughes, but as often happens, making money to survive put that dream on the back burner. Yet God would not let me forget. As I would sit at my desk working, taking care of my family or running errands or even drifting off to sleep at night, stories would form in my head. On rare occasions, I’d sit in a quiet place and type up story ideas and wonder, “What if?”

In the thick of the pandemic, several changes and upsets had disrupted my life, including a health scare, which left me feeling drained, anxious and overwhelmed. Then the unease that I had been feeling about my career had fully blown into an unrest that had me questioning my life choices. I mentioned to a confidant that though I was grateful for my career, I had started to resent it because it left me with little time to do the things, I really wanted to do like write a novel and she challenged me to find the time to write that novel anyway. It was around that time that my husband gifted me a laptop and I sat down and started to write. First, it was just a short story idea, inspired by the little girl that I had encountered forty years before, but it soon developed into a full-length novel. I was surprised to find that as the story began to form, and I became emersed in developing the plot and characters, my feelings of anxiety began to fade into the background. When the story was finally completed, I sat back and re-read it and was amazed, not at what I had done, but what God had done by bringing out of me something good and productive during one of my darkest seasons.

My life hasn’t always been easy, in fact I’ve been through more than my fair share of trouble but at twenty-six years old, I came to believe in Jesus Christ and since then I can truly say that I have seen the goodness of God and his power working in my life. I pray that readers of “Hero,” will see his goodness and experience his power too. Isaiah 54:10 says, “Though the mountains be shaken, and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant be removed.”

Someone said recently that the best way to introduce a person to a culture, region or even a person, is to introduce the foods they enjoy so here is a recipe of one of my favorite breakfasts that my grandmother would make for me back in the summer of ’83.

Jamaican Banana Fritters

Ingredients:

1 1/4 cups All-Purpose Flour

1 tsp Salt

1/2 cup sugar

2-3 bananas (very ripe)

1 teaspoon vanilla or almond extract (optional)

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1/3 cup cooking oil

Powdered sugar (optional)

Instructions:

In a medium bowl, mash the bananas with a fork and then add in the remaining ingredients, mixing until well combined. Heat the oil in a pan until hot and then add spoons of the batter to the pan and fry about 3-5 minutes on each side. Remove the fritters from the pan and drain on a paper towel. If using, sprinkle with powdered sugar before serving.