andrew Skerritt

Ashamed to Die: Silence, Denial, and the AIDS Epidemic in the South | Teaching for Change's Busboys and Poets Bookstore

2011-11-20T14:57:00.000-08:00

Ashamed to Die: Silence, Denial, and the AIDS Epidemic in the South | Teaching for Change's Busboys and Poets Bookstore

Ashamed to Die: Silence, Denial, and the AIDS Epidemic in the South

2011-11-17T04:51:00.000-08:00

Ashamed to Die: Silence, Denial, and the AIDS Epidemic in the South

Searching for home

2011-08-20T06:58:00.000-07:00

Searching for home

Bowling Green, Ky, Aug. 15, 2011

Some people search for the next big thrill. Others for wealth – how much money can they earn in a year. Meanwhile, there are those whose lives are devoted to a search for meaning – the big questions. Where did it all begin? Why am I here? Where did I come from and where am I going? Is there really a god?

I am going to confess to some of those predilections. There’s an emptiness in all of us that needs to be filled. Few can boast of their cup perpetually running over.

That sensation of being satisfied is a rare gift.

My search is not for happiness, for gold, for acclaim. Mine is for home – for a sense of belonging. To lose the permanent stain of outsider in favor of the mantle of belonger. I don’t want to be an insider.

There’s no desire for me to furrow that deeply. I just one to belong - to feel as if I am exactly where I need to be and not try to be someplace else.

I was acutely reminded of that internal debate during two recent outings. The first was to the Gadsden Cultural Center in Quincy, Florida. I drove to the Cultural Center to see “Rich in Spirit,” an exhibit of artist Dean Mitchell’s work. Mitchell grew up black and poor in predominantly black Quincy. His work celebrates the people and places of his boyhood. His watercolors capture real life texture in ways no photograph can. They evoked a sense of place that teased my heart anew.

Recently as I drove from Bowling Green to Franklin, Kentucky, the route was marked by strip malls and chain restaurants and payday loan storefronts before giving way to cornfields with stalks as tall as giants. Silos stood over open fields like guards. Barns, their red paint stark and rich against a sea of green leaves, interrupt the flow. Even at 40 miles an hour, those images evoke a time and place that speaks to my heart, that beckons and seduces me. Is this the kind of place to find emotional solace? Can cornfields and red barns be the cure for my restlessness?

My greatest fear is that one locale will yield to another. This modern day nomad will continue looking for the next horizon. That the ache, the need, the yearning for home, will never end.

I suspect that I will never find home as long as I keep looking for it. Home needs to be in the here and now, where I am at that moment. That place is less geography but an emotional terrain, a spiritual place. When I find it my wanderings will cease. I’ll know it. I’ll feel as if I belong. There will be no boasting but a quiet affirmation that I’ve found it. When I do, I won’t ever let it go. I promise.

Sunday Journal: Teens' island romance made summer of 1978 magical - St. Petersburg Times

2011-08-15T16:45:00.000-07:00

Sunday Journal: Teens' island romance made summer of 1978 magical - St. Petersburg Times

Lawrence of Jamaica: A touch of crass - Editorial - JamaicaObserver.com

2011-07-09T10:01:00.000-07:00

Lawrence of Jamaica: A touch of crass - Editorial - JamaicaObserver.com

Becoming an American

2011-07-04T15:23:00.000-07:00

ATLANTA 2000 - My journey ended Friday.

Following four years of bureaucratic bottlenecks and political delays, the floodgates to citizenship had finally been flung open for me. In a matter of minutes, I completed my cultural and intellectual transformation that began on a December night in 1984. I became a U.S. citizen, a proud American. I joined more than 190 other immigrants in the ground-level auditorium of the Richard B. Russell Federal Building in Atlanta and took the Oath of Allegiance.

"I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty," I read aloud from the written oath issued to each of us.

"I will bear arms on behalf of the United States I will perform noncombatant service in the armed forces when required. I will perform work of national importance."

Each line I read amplified a commitment that had been made unconsciously in my heart years ago but was now written in ink. Each pledge reminded me that the promise of America was not just in the opportunity and freedom she offered immigrants like me but in the responsibility that we new citizens have to ensure the door remains open for those who will follow.

I felt the cloak of citizenship weighing on my shoulders. It was a burden I was proud to bear. And, looking around the auditorium, I knew that sentiment was unanimous. Friday morning's gathering was part of the Immigration and Naturalization Service's massive push to swear in 1.3 million new citizens by Sept. 30, 2000.

Similar ceremonies were taking place in South Carolina and throughout the country. Like those other ceremonies, ours was filled with natives of India, Vietnam, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Surinam, El Salvador, Mexico, Canada and Greece -- all soon-to-be Americans drawn to this country by dreams of opportunity.

Each person waiting to be sworn in had a different story -- a unique path that brought them to this place. Yet everyone in the room, regardless of language, culture or religion, shared a common destination. The concept of citizenship holds rich meaning for immigrants. They may pay taxes and live lives of civic responsibility, but citizenship promises to fulfill their desire for access and opportunity.

It means the right to vote, to serve as jurors, to fight -- and die -- for their adopted homeland. It offers membership in a culture that is envied and copied around the world. Many of the new citizens I met in Atlanta had applied within the last year or two. Not me -- my application was first submitted in 1996 in New Jersey. Subsequent moves to Charlotte and then to York County pushed my application to the bottom of the pile. Eighteen months ago, in desperation I asked U.S. Rep. John Spratt's office to intervene. Through Spratt's office I learned that the INS had lost my application. I had to produce copies of my petition and show a canceled check to prove I had paid the $95 fee. Failure to produce the document could have delayed my citizenship application even further. Thus, with my application revived, I received a trail of correspondence during the last 12 months from the INS: requests for fingerprints in Charlotte, an interview appointment in Greer, and finally, a swearing-in date at a location 220 miles away in Atlanta.

Friday's ceremony marked the end of a long journey for myself and for dozens like me. As we rose to take the Oath of Allegiance, beside me stood Henry Romero, a 24-year-old construction foreman from El Salvador.

In 1987, Romero flew to the United States to join his parents, who were among the thousands of El Salvadorian refugees that had fled the murderous civil war in their homeland. On Friday, dressed in a beige sport coat and matching pants, Romero took his place in the nation of Americans.

"I want the right to vote. That's the important thing," said Romero, who lives in Lawrenceville, Ga. Romero believes that voting is a right not appreciated enough by his neighbors. "Americans -- they don't know what they are missing," he said.

Immigrants will sometimes speak of "they" to refer to native-born Americans, those whose birthright has spared them the indignity of standing in the "alien" line at airports or waiting before dawn outside an INS office, only to be sent home for yet another document.

"A lot of people don't think about the pressure," Romero said. Then he cherished a new realization: "This is the last time I have to walk into an INS building."

A few rows from where Romero and I stood, Donna Butler Williams, a physical education teacher from Summerville, was also becoming an American. For the native of Canada and Winthrop University graduate, citizenship means not having to worry about her retirement benefits.

"I didn't want to work all these years and retire and not reap all my benefits," said Williams, expressing a common concern for immigrants. Many worry that changes in immigration law could restrict social security and other benefits to non-citizens, even those who have lived and worked in the United States for years.

Williams' family settled in Hilton Head when she was in junior high. After 28 years, she said she already felt like an American.

"I've been here that long," she said.

In the next row was Edet Ikpeme, who came to America from Nigeria to attend Northeastern University in Boston 20 years ago. In 1998, he decided it was time for him to become a U.S. citizen.

"I've been living here so long, I might as well become one," said Ikpeme. With a wife, an eight-month-old baby and a promising career as a quality assurance analyst in Atlanta, Ikpeme's American dream was still incomplete. He couldn't vote; he wasn't a citizen. "It felt like unfinished business," Ikpeme said.

Minutes later, after all the oaths had been said, citizenship certificates distributed and family pictures taken, Ikpeme and the rest of us new citizens walked out into the midmorning sunlight and blended into the pedestrian traffic of downtown Atlanta.

Each of us clutched our citizenship papers with the certainty that our place in America had been legally secured.

Baptism at Wakulla Springs

2011-07-02T14:15:00.000-07:00

An afternoon at Wakulla Springs

One of the earliest lessons children in Florida learn is that swimming in fresh water can be dangerous. Beware of the alligators signs are everywhere. But the Sunshine state is also blessed with more than six hundred fresh water springs, some of which are open for swimming and communing with nature. Andrew Skerritt recounts his first visit to Wakulla Springs, located deep in the forests of North Florida.

Baptism at Wakulla Springs

Every cell in my body seems to protest as I step gingerly into Wakulla Springs. The average water temperature is about sixty-eight degrees, but on a steamy-hot Florida afternoon, it feels near freezing. But I’ve come twenty miles from home in Tallahassee; it’s too late to turn back. It’s time to be baptized into one of the deepest and largest freshwater springs in the world.

To read and hear the complete essay, visit Living On Earth at www.loe.org

Montego Bay state of Mind

2011-05-31T07:09:00.001-07:00

A languid common-ness. That was my first impression on setting foot in Montego Bay, Jamaica, one November afternoon. Cars zipped by. Pedestrians strolled at that easy, unhurried, 'no problem' pace. School children in uniform walked by in twos and threes. They could have been from anywhere in the Caribbean. From one island to the next, the rhythm always seemed to be the same. Easy does it. But Montego Bay though with its history, the colonial architecture, the market place, the waterfront, the food, the people, all represent a world worth discovering. Stay tuned.

Meditations on voices of a common tongue

2011-05-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

Melda oh you making wedding plans

Carrying me name to obeah man

All you do, you can’t get through

I still ain’t goin married to you.

Obeah Wedding - Mighty Sparrow

The crowd sang in unison, its partially inebriated state adding folly to the chorus. Singers crooned at the top of their untrained and unrehearsed voices. But they maintained the tune of the almost drunk. But their oneness came from much more than the sharing of imbibed and imbued spirits. They spoke the same language. Not just English or some dialect thereof.

In singing that song on that Saturday night in Atlanta, those of a particular generation demonstrated a shared oneness, the things that keep them united, that draws them like black sand soldiers to a steel magnet from cities far and near.

It defines who they are and always will be. It is the shared language of the exile. For them, distance from home is calculated not by time and space but by memory. Theirs is a shared memory of a time and place, when and where they listened to the same songs, heard the same stories, believed in the same rituals. The words evoke particular images of a particular time and place. That stamps them as a member of a particular tribe. The name of their tribe distinguishes them by geography and history, but also biology and anthropology.

Their song is one of longing, a desire for home, to belong even when they don't. It is a cry of affirmation. To see them is not to know them, but to hear them is to begin to understand them. But only just a little. For understanding takes time, requires patience, and a generous portion of honesty and introspection. People from a small place they are. And always will be.

Going Home-A remembrance of things past

2011-03-27T20:31:00.000-07:00

from the archives

Under the ash, home
By ANDREW J. SKERRITT
Published January 8, 2004

OLVESTON, Montserrat - I finally went home again. Eight years after my last visit, I walked down the gangway of the Opale Express, an Australian-built catamaran, and stepped on the concrete jetty.

Ahead of me the landscape rose sharply in parched bluffs and rock outcroppings. Wooden shacks lined the road from the waterfront. Unfamiliar faces greeted me at the customs house.

My return home was a familiar ritual, to bury family, my father. But on that placid October afternoon, none of that mattered. I was home, even if home was a vastly different place.

Montserrat, the 38-square-mile island where I grew up, had been sliced in two when the volcano rumbled to life in July 1995. It uprooted most of my relatives, friends and former neighbors. Some of them stayed on the island, but most left. You can find them mostly on the streets and in double-decker buses in London, Birmingham, Leicester and Manchester, England, or in New York and Miami.

Those who remained inhabit a truncated world of exclusion and safe zones, ash gray and tropical green, fear and hope.

Click here to read the entire article
http://www.sptimes.com/2004/01/08/Floridian/Under_the_ash__home.shtml

Geoffrey Philp's Blog Spot: Lorna Goodison: One of the Best Writers You’ve Never Read

2011-03-12T21:01:00.000-08:00

Geoffrey Philp's Blog Spot: Lorna Goodison: One of the Best Writers You’ve Never Read

Bread A Lifelong Love Affair

2011-03-10T10:21:00.000-08:00

Hot Bread: A love story.

A journey of the senses..

Tampa, Fla

The red light seemed to take forever to turn green. I tapped my right foot on the brake pedal, impatient to reach home. On the passenger seat next to me sat a long white package. With the windows rolled up on a cool Florida evening, the air inside my car was saturated with the irresistible aroma of hot bread. I reached my right hand over to the passenger seat and touched the white wrapping from Mauricio’s Bakery. Home was less than five minutes away, but as the aroma of hot bread filled my car, it seduced me; I couldn’t hold out that long. With one hand on the steering wheel, I balanced the three-foot long loaf on my knee and broke off the heel, poking the soft moist bread into my mouth. I chewed, swallowed and bit again. I savored the hot soft white loaf, present and past converged, realizing that much of my culinary life was spent in a pursuit of hot bread, butter a must, with cheese if necessary. I’d prefer some butter but savored the warm moist loaf. Within minutes I pulled into the driveway. Bread and butter and meatloaf. Before the night was over, all that was left of the loaf of bread were the crumbs scattered on the granite counter top.

From Jubilee to Johannesburg

2010-06-06T08:47:00.000-07:00

The black and white photograph sits timeless in my photo album. It shows a team of gangly youth. The players look westward towards the horizon. Behind them stands a cinder block wall. In the distance, mountains loom large, like giant hedges protecting the players’ backs.

This was the Montserrat national under 19 soccer team. Circa 1978. I was 16. In the front row, I crouched low and squinted against the afternoon sun. The players standing behind me were boyhood friends: Oscar, the star striker who could dribble through a school yard of rampaging boys. Norman, the left footed striker and midfielder. Dwight, the goalkeeper. And his brother Gershom, a striker. Their father was a Seventh Day Adventist minister so Saturday games were off limits.

Eddy was the right winger. His skill was to work the ball down the right side of the field and cross it over in front of the goal, where one of the forwards would either head or kick one time into the goal. I was the right midfielder. Eddy and I were an inseparable tandem. We worked the one-two, the give and go, like Scottie Pippen and Michael Jordan, with feet instead of hands.

It was almost psychic. Without looking for Eddy, I sent passes into his speeding path. Opponents took to calling us hyphenated: Eddy and Andrew in one breath. That’s how quickly we zipped through defenses. We played domestic league football on a team made up of students from the island’s only high school, our teachers - Peace Corps volunteers and the British equivalent - and employees from Higgs & Hill, the international building contractor that constructed the pier at the harbor. We were a lethal mix of old and young, black and white, skinny and brawny.

As we raced up and down those hard-baked fields, the youth players dreamed of international soccer glory. But those illusions were dashed each summer as our national youth team was thrashed in the regional competition. It wasn’t for a lack of effort. Half of our summer vacation was dedicated to two-a day practices. As each day dawned, my coach and teammates woke me with a knock on my louvered windows so we could jog three miles to the park.

In 1978, as in the years before and after that, our endeavors proved fruitless. Undersized and overmatched, heart and energy were no answer to our man-sized opponents, who were mature enough to grow beards. But the results didn’t matter. We danced and cheered partied afterward. Desire, friendship and a game of soccer on a tropical Sunday afternoon.

I loved soccer before I loved girls. I grew up with cricket but soccer conspired to steal my heart early. One afternoon after Sunday school, I walked to the park to watch a league game. Arrived early. One team was a few players short. They scoured the sidelines for scrubs to make up the numbers. Somebody heard I was good, so they selected me. But I was ill-prepared to play. My t-shirt was fine, but my bell bottom pants and imported English shoes were not soccer wear. Undeterred I dashed on to the field. Somewhere, somehow, the ball fell at my feet and I smashed it into the net. Exhilaration. Triumphant. Goooooal! I was hooked. I was a soccer prodigy. I was going to be a star.

That was a long way from kicking a deflated netball barefooted on asphalt in front of my home in Jubilee, the small village on Montserrat, the Caribbean island where I grew up. Kicking with toes meant unkind collisions between skin and gravel. Games often ended in blood and sweat but never tears. Those are the ingredients of soccer dreams. For many of the players competing at the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, that is where their soccer dreams usually begin.

I even dreamed of migrating to England to play soccer professionally. But eventually, reality intervened. I settled for the mundane; I became a government civil servant.

But I got lucky.

I discovered journalism by writing about soccer. From early on though, I vowed never to be a sportswriter. I wanted to go to the games to cheer on my team. I would always be a fan.

Soon my fandom becomes the ultimate fantasy. My soccer journey will take me from Jubilee to Johannesburg, the scene of the 2010 World Cup.

I will be a fan of the game and a journalist at the event. I will have the best of both worlds. I

will write about the host country and enjoy the spectacle of the competition. Best of all, I will

share it with the world. Come along for the ride.

Tiger Woods

2010-04-08T04:57:00.000-07:00

Some events will always be inextricably linked in my mind. Today it's my daughter's birth and Tiger Woods winning his second Masters championship.

It was Sunday April 8, 2001. The day began with labor pains and an early trip to Carolinas Medical Center in Charlotte, N.C. My wife had made a similar trip twice before. I had never been invited inside the delivery room. The third time was different. A nurse came outside and invited me to don hospital garb and step inside. I entered armed with my camera.

As I sat awaiting my daughter's arrival, my mind wandered to the other big events of the day. Tiger Woods was on the verge of winning a second Masters Championship. I couldn't help but wonder how he was doing. Did he win? Could he seal the deal? My daughter emerged kicking and screaming, healthy and strong. She had the cheeks of an African princess. She was my princess.

As I drove home that day, I turned on my car radio to hear the sports scores. Tiger was leading and he eventually won. Much has happened in the nine years since that Sunday afternoon. My daughter is a fun third grader. My heart jumps each time I talk to her on the phone.

For his part, Tiger has shown he can close the deal. But he has also shown he is all too human. The world has seen a dark side of TIger. Now we know Woods the Womanizer. There's nothing pretty about that person. But in a way, he is no different from most of us. He fooled around. He cheated on his wife. He betrayed his family. What separates him from the rest of us is that he is wealthy, talented and, he is Tiger Woods.

Today, he tries to make a comeback. Today he tries to change the headline of his personal and professional narrative. He tries to help us remember by making us forget. It doesn't matter how this tournament ends. It doesn't matter whether Tiger wins or loses. What matters is that he regains his moral center, that he realizes that in order for Tiger to be Tiger, his public and private personas can't be at odds. We want him to succeed because a successful Tiger is good for his family, good for the country and, most important, good for him. If Tiger makes the cut, I'll watch the back nine on Sunday afternoon. Imagine the emotional powder keg if he wins it all.

A birthday memory

2010-04-08T04:48:00.000-07:00

On April 8, 2001 I sat in the operating room at Carolinas Medical Center in Charlotte, N.C., dressed in a medical gown, camera in hand. My wife lay on the operating table as surgeons performed a C-section. It didn't take long before they reached in a pulled out a baby girl with cheeks the size of plums. I grabbed my camera and snapped pictures, then I held her. My voice was the first she heard. I don't remember what I said, but I just kept talking to her as if she could understand me. She probably did. She still does.

I was a father again. I had a daughter.

Now she is nine. She lit up my life that day and she still does.

2010-03-30T07:36:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from "firesticks"- Short story by Andrew J. Skerritt

She remembered everything as if time were an accordion. Fifteen years felt like fifteen minutes; it was 1981 again; Leroy was on the phone and the line between love and loyalty, trust and treachery had not yet blurred in her mind.
"Good evening, Lorna Mae. Is Jerry home?" Leroy was her husband's boyhood friend. He lived in Boston.
"No, he’s not in,” she answered. “Don't you remember?

“Remember what?”

“It’s volleyball season,” she said. “Jerry isn't sixteen anymore, but he still lives as if he is.”
"Good for him,” Leroy said. “I wish I could trade places.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” she teased.

“I hate this time of year, with the cold and the way the time change robs the afternoon of its sunshine," he said. "Darkness comes much too early."
From where she sat she was a stranger to his world. The island breeze filtering through her wooden jalousies smelled like roasted asphalt, just like it did on hot nights in the village where she grew up. Lorna Mae sat up in bed, her check book and unpaid bills scattered among the cotton-stuffed pillows. The TV watched itself.
During the 80s, many of Lorna Mae's former schoolmates traded in island living for American dreams houses and Yankee accents. But hearing Leroy complain about the cold weather reminded her of why she refused to leave Margarita.
“What are you complaining about,” she said feigning impatience. “Don’t you get all the sunshine you need?
"I guess nature gives and the government takes," he replied, turning on his trademark wit.
"How's work?" she asked trying to throw him off balance.
"It's office politics and subtle racism as usual at AT&T," he said.
"Talking about politics, whom do you like in next week's election?" She remembered Leroy was one of the few radicals on Margarita to call the government radio station to protest the 1983 U.S invasion of Grenada.
"I'm voting for Ralph Nader instead of Bill Clinton,” he said. “Nader won't win, but at least he's not a bagman for the big corporations.”

“You haven't changed much, have you. So how’s Donna and the twins?” she asked struggling to carry the conversation.
"She's at her mother's for a few days. Her mother isn't feeling well," he replied. "Renate and Sara are asleep. I'm washing the dishes.”
She heard the sound of water on china and the metallic chaos of cutlery being wiped and stacked.
"I have a thing for men who don't mind washing the dishes," she said. "I wish Jerry would follow your example."
"Jerry isn't much of a follower," he reminder her. "Plus, this is therapeutic for me. Even though we own a dishwasher, I prefer to wash the dishes by hand. It gives me time to think."
Jerry always said Leroy spent too much time thinking. Her husband preferred to act first and think later.
"So what’s on your mind tonight?"
“You,” he chuckled. “That's why I really called.”
She was taken aback by his forthrightness. If he could have seen her an ocean away, Leroy would have seen her face glow, flush with surprise. She held her breath and waited; she felt her heart wanting to hear more.
“There’s a full moon out tonight. I can see it from here,” he said. “Full moons always remind me of you.”

“I don’t get the connection,” she responded. “Why me?”

He paused for a few seconds before answering. When he did, his words were more a jazz riff than a response to her two-word question. He said full moons exerted a certain cosmic pull on his soul, made him feel vulnerable and restless.

“Restless enough to step outside on to a moon beam, keep walking and never look back,” he said.
He sounded closer than usual; his word flowed freer.
“Sounds like you're trying to get away from something or is it someone?”
“Who said anything about escaping.”
“Not me,” she played along.
“I don't confuse my fate with my fantasies,” he said.
“You’re in an interesting kind of mood tonight,” she countered.
When he turned off the faucet and the sound of running water died, she heard the light switch click. She pictured Leroy standing, lanky and long in the hushed darkness of his kitchen, his refrigerator humming and wheezing, moonlight slicing through his window. She pictured him staring at the moon with hungry dog eyes, whispering to it as if courting her, like he courted her fifteen years before.
This was the first time Leroy had ever hinted at what they had done with and to each other. Until then, it were as if they had imposed a no-fly zone on their dual memories. Since their break up, they had conducted no autopsy, sought no reassessment, had never asked each other why, after all the promises they made to each other, they both ended up with someone else.

2010 Montserrat Creative Writing Contest Results

2010-03-30T07:26:00.000-07:00

POETRY

Title Author

1. Daily Bread Chadd Cumberbatch

2. Word Processing Clover Lea

3. Balandra Chadd Cumberbatch

Special Merit

The Bird Laura Taylor-Scotland

Honourable Mention

Dead in Some Places Laura Taylor-Scotland

Take Me Home Maxx Maynard

W. H. Bramble Shirley Spycalla

SHORT STORIES

Title Author

1. Night Again Gordon Buffonge

2. Firesticks Andrew J Skerritt

3. Sins of the Mother Laura Taylor-Scotland

Special Merit

Jack-O-Lantern Shaumen Thompson

Honourable Mention

Volcano Jumbie Dance (Screen Play by Capt. John Howes)

The Box Clover Lea

Snapshot from Boy to Manhood Margaret Dyer Howe

Cotton - the fibre of lives past and present

2009-11-19T21:44:00.000-08:00

Cotton – the fiber of lives past and present

Driving north through South Georgia in early November, I am struck by the expanse of cotton fields on either side of the highway. I speed past churches, their steeples pointing directly to heaven, like spiritual antennas connecting to God. They stand alongside the Florida-Georgia Parkway, like sentries guarding the entrance to the palace. This is no palace. Though it used to be home to a king- king cotton, if you please.

The sight of cotton stirs my emotions. I am traveling to Atlanta to celebrate the past. A boyhood friend turned 50 and I was invited to celebrate with him, with family, with long separated friends.

Venturing north means traveling through the South- Tallahassee to Atlanta - one capitol to the next: Florida to Georgia. The link is strong, fibrous- cotton. It stands in the fields stretching for acres as far as the eye could see. Fields of green speckled with white, like snow drops on the leaves. This cotton used to be indeed king. But even though it is no longer king, it still holds much sway.

Georgia is the third largest cotton producing state in the union it once tried to destroy. The state has 1.03 million acres under cotton crops – second most in the U.S.

It’s ironical that South Georgia cotton would move me, an island boy with sea island cotton in the recesses of my genes. There is a long romance between Georgia and sea island cotton. Georgians were importing sea island cotton from the West Indian islands as early as 1785, less than a decade after Independence, according to The New Georgia Encyclopedia. Chances are some of that cotton came from Montserrat. Cotton was being exported from the island in 1782, the year the French captured the British colony, Sir Howard Fergus writes in Montserrat: History of a Caribbean Colony.

In the 1780s, white folks even tried planting sea island cotton in Georgia, but the conditions were only favorable on the coast because of the long growing season. Cotton, white as snow, is forever stained with blood. The westward migration of English settlers to the Georgia interior, the invention of the cotton gin and the growth of cotton production coincided with the aggressive removal of Indian tribes and occupation and possession of the fertile Georgia soil for cotton cultivation. The path from cotton cultivation to the slave plantation is short and direct.

Cotton demands many hands. The demand for cheap labor prompted Georgia land owners to look to the slave trade and Africa for labor. They bought record numbers of slaves. As their ventures prospered, it fed the demand for more slaves, who planted and picked cotton. According to The New Georgia Encyclopedia, cotton production increased 2,000 percent in the 10 years from 1791 to 1801. Fast forward the Civil War, Emancipation, end of chattel slavery, Reconstruction, sharecropping and the age of Jim Crow. South Georgia cotton in now the domain of big agribusiness. Cotton no longer picked by hand. Large machines sweep through the field snatching the fiber from the plants. As you drive by, huge bales of cotton, stacked like large boxes of paper tissues sit astride the road. A year earlier, before the general election, the bales were painted with graffiti: Saxby, the writing shouted; a salute to Republican Sen. Saxby Chambliss, who was in a tight run off race. Chambliss is a South Georgia boy. He’s from Moultrie, in the heart of Colquitt County, about 65 miles from the Florida state line. Chambliss and cotton seemed an apt partnership: the ole boy from the old South.

Sea island cotton was loved for its strong, long fiber and the ease with which the fiber separated from the seed. No one ever told me that. But instinctively I should have known after all the summer days I sat on my front porch on a pile of cotton separating the fiber from the seeds by hand. My grandmother assigned me to the task. This wasn’t just make work. My efforts bore economic reward. The seedless, clean cotton sold for more at the cotton gin than the seeded cotton. By separating the seed from the cotton I was adding to the wealth of my grandparents’ household. I never thought about those benefits. I fretted about the time lost away from my friends. But I should have fretted instead about the injustice and the inequity about the whole exercise. Not my loss, but my grandmother’s loss. Although she didn’t know it - she hadn’t read the history books; they weren’t written yet. The landowners cheated the peasants; they fudged the scales; they deducted 10 pounds for shrinkage. They demanded clean cotton. After the death of sugar, cotton was king on Montserrat from 1910 to 1960 - a year before my birth. It paid the bills; it sent children to secondary school. It paid the passage for young men and young women to buy tickets to board those passenger ships to flee to England to seek better lives beyond the hot sun and dusty cotton fields. They sailed away to lives where they would wear cotton but never again have to plant it, to pick it, to separate the cotton from the seeds, to feel it cling to their shirts and plants and hair. Like them I left the cotton fields, but on a Saturday morning driving through South Georgia, I realized that no matter how far I run, the fiber of that cotton will always weave a tapestry of fond memory, an unbreakable bond between the man that I am and the boy I used be.

Nov. 20, 2009

CBS Network journalists visit FAMU

2009-10-24T13:59:00.000-07:00

Together they possess more than one hundred years of network television experience. They have reported hundreds of stories. Their faces have flashed on the millions of television screens.

But on Thursday Oct. 22, 2009, five black CBS network newsmen shared one stage for a historic coming together in Tallahassee, Fla.

Harold Dow, Russ Mitchell, Byron Pitts, Randall Pinkston and Bill Whitaker appeared at a public event together for the first time to celebrate the 35^th anniversary of the Florida A&M University School of Journalism and Graphic Communication.

Kim Godwin, a senior producer for the CBS Evening News with Katie Couric, organized the event. A FAMU alum, Godwin was director of the school’s division of journalism before she went to the network. Godwin said when she emailed the five journalists about the event they all immediately responded. All said yes. One person said, “absolutely.”

The forum was an inspiring, emotional and educational exercise. Each journalist talked about his journey from anonymity to network news then aired one of his favorite stories.

More than 40 years ago, Dow began his television career in Omaha, Neb., where he was the first African American to appear on the local station. Since 1990 he has been a correspondent for 48 Hours. Prior to that he was a correspondent for the CBS newsmagazine Street Stories and a reporter for the CBS Evening News. Dow has been recognized for his work with five Emmy awards, including one for a story on American troops’ movement into Bosnia.

Dow shared the story that aired on inauguration day when he spoke to the widow of Medgar Evers and her children about the meaning of Barak Obama’s election to the presidency of the United States. http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/01/20/national/inauguration09/main4741387.shtml

When the piece was done, there was hardly a dry eye in the room. Even Dow, a tough, no-nonsense newsman, was in tears. He got a lengthy standing ovation.

That emotion deeply affected Pinkston, who is from Jackson, Miss. He spoke about Evers appearing on local television to make the case for civil rights – it was part of the Fairness Doctrine- and how he became the target of white hatred. Pinkston’s voice broke as he spoke of the historical significance of Evers’ sacrifice and the opportunities it created in the television industry for journalists of color.

Pinkston, who has been a New York based-CBS News correspondent since 1994, shared his 2007 story about the young man who went from living on the streets of Baltimore to playing for the Morgan State football team.

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/12/04/eveningnews/main3575848.shtml

Mitchell has been with CBS News since 1992, when he was a co-anchor of the overnight show, Up to the Minute. For the past three years, he has been anchor of the CBS Evening News Sunday Edition and the Early Morning Show. Mitchell shared his interview with Maya Angelou as she responded to the Don Imus controversy a few years ago. Angelou’s “Don I messed up Imus” line was unforgettable. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0n9Pq1LNLwM

Pitts was promoted to correspondent for 60 Minutes and chief national for The CBS evening News with Katie Couric in 2008. He was one of the network’s leading reporters covering the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. He received an Emmy award for his coverage. He spoke of his early struggles. He didn’t learn to read until he was 12 years old. A therapist recommended that he be institutionalized. He stammered terribly until he was 20. When he went to CBS, a producer told him he wasn’t good enough to be at the network. Pitts’ motto: plan your work; work your plan. Set definite, reachable goals. Find five people whose job you want. Then figure out how they got where they were. He cited Sam Donaldson, the former ABC White House correspondent. Pitts didn’t want to be obnoxious like Donaldson. Dan Rather -he worked hard. Diane Sawyer. She was graceful and classy. “You can’t accept no for an answer,” he said.

He also credited his mother’s unwavering faith. She wears a mustard seed in a locket on chain around her neck. His favorite story was the piece on the Iraqi war veteran Carmelo Rodriguez, who died of a misdiagnosed melanoma and whose family was trying to sue the federal government for medical malpractice. The piece was all the more powerful because Rodriguez died while Pitts and the camera crew were at his home. Federal law may be changed as a result of this case. http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/05/19/eveningnews/main4109454.shtml

Whitaker, who is from the Philadelphia area, is the CBS News correspondent based in Los Angeles, where he covers the US-Mexico border, illegal immigration and the Mexican drug wars. He was the lead reporter for both O.J Simpson trials. Whitaker shared a story about the desperate journey Salvadorans make to reach U.S borders.

2009-07-23T20:41:00.000-07:00

The furor isn’t unexpected. If it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone else.
Yes, I am talking about the recent arrest of Harvard Professor Henry Skip Gates on his front porch by a white city of Cambridge police officer. Some of the facts are being disputed, but to me a few things are clear:
Gates has been writing and talking about race for his entire professional life. A week ago, he received the most profound personal lesson about race in America. The intellectual has become personal.
No matter how big, how prominent a black man becomes in America, he will encounter moments of utter and abject humiliation. At those moments, he will rightly blame race and racism. But at those moments, he must reach deep down and find the will to not let the bigots win.
I don’t know Gates, never met the man,, but I couldn’t help but feel that his anger, his righteous anger at that Cambridge police officer, was fueled in part by frustration- after all the work he has done, after all the things he has accomplished, a three-striped cop could reduce him and his Ph.ds to ashes and he becomes just another brother under criminal suspicion.
I believe as part of our education, every black man needs to experience the helplessness of being unjustly handcuffed. It’s a grounding experience; it’s a life-changing experience. Below is an account of my arrest one night in Fort Mill, S.C.
A version of this essay appeared in the St. Petersburg Times' Floridian section.

Handcuffs that won’t come off
By Andrew J. Skerritt
As the light turn from red to green, I lurch forward. Half a block away a white sedan slips into the traffic behind mse, sitting in my lane. The blue lights on the roof of the cab are unmistakable. They are coming for me. I drive using my rear view mirror mostly. What's behind me is more fearsome than what's ahead. That wasn't always the case, not until I got four traffic tickets in one month. Two stops, three tickets in less than one week and you're spooked. You think of what you'll say when the officer comes to your car door, how you'll phrase the apology: ‘I didn't know the speed limit, officer.’
‘Is there a problem, officer? How fast was I driving?’
Each flashing blue light and I am dragged backwards to the Thursday night in February. Every one remembers their first time. The sharp edge , the silver steel bracelet. the powerlessness, the shame. I kept thinking it was a dream. I'm respected. I'm innocent. This was supposed to be Pizza Thursday night and I was driving home. My son sat in the back seat reading with the light on. Pizza pepperoni and mushroom rested on the floor. As we turned around the bend, a police patrol car came flying in the opposite direction. Soon after it passed me , it made a u-turn and fell in behind me. Unperturbed I kept going. I slowed down turned the corner. lights flashed. I pulled over. I sat; I waited.
License and registration. I waited some more. My son wants to know why we have been stopped. I ask the question. There has been a report of a white car overtaking and driving recklessly with no lights coming over the bridge, she replied.
I wait.
Sir you have no insurance. We will have to take you in. Do you have anyone to take care of your son?
I stall, unbelieving. I paid insurance the week before. My wife wouldn’t let our insurance lapse. I stalled further, knowing she would drive up soon and show the officers that we had insurance. Passersby slow down and stare at another black man being stopped by police.
My wife arrives and transfers the pizza and my son to her car. Mine will be towed at my expense. She reaches for her handcuffs. Is that necessary, I ask in protest.
She must follow regulations. I'll handcuff in front, not behind your back, she promised. I was grateful for that a major concession. It made me feel better already.
There is a peculiar view you get of the world from the back seat of a police cruiser. The world seems less safe, smaller, less colorful. It is mostly gray, black and white. But this was my movie, I could choose the colors. This was all a mistake.
But the black dye under my fingernails when I awoke the next morning was real. So was the slow, unbuckling of my belt, loosening my silk paisley tie; removing my wristwatch, wedding bands and chain, posing for the mug shot.
I was quiet and cooperative, even though I seethed inside.
At any moment I expected someone to say it was all a mistake, apologize and let me go home. After all I was a newspaper columnist; my picture appeared in the paper three times a week. They'll know who I am and release me on my own recognizance. I lived in town. I owned a house down the road.
That kind of treatment was reserved for a different kind of suspect.
I'll have to lock you up in the cell until the magistrate arrives, the booking officer said. He should be here around 9:30.
The short walk to the cell empty except for one cellmate who had made up his bed and slept fitfully. I sat on the concrete slab. Inside I wanted to scream, but I remained silent. There was no one to hear me. So I wrapped my soul in the comfort of innocence. But how many others had been brought here before me loudly protesting their innocence only to spend the rest of their life behind bars?
The worst I could do was thirty days in a county jail. But I refused to contemplate that eventuality. I had insurance. I had the card to prove it. I was innocent.
I counted the bars in the cell. I read the hate mail my predecessors left behind for jail guards. Bereft of my watch I could only imagine time. The metal caged my spirit. I couldn't relax. I couldn't sleep. The police officer brought me a blanket. Did he expect me to sleep overnight? I replayed the entire day in my mind. The ifs. if i had used the other route home instead of driving through town. What if I hadn't gone for Pizza? The answers astounded me. In order for me to have been stopped required a series of coincidences, too random to fathom. I was here for a reason. Someone wanted to teach me a lesson. I needed to remember who I was; what I was. No matter who people saw you as, it was who you were that truly mattered. Secretly I kept hoping one of the officer would recognize me. "You're the fella from the newspaper. I like your stories," I waited to hear her say. But she never does. Her eyes remain hard, steely, suspicious. She cuffs me with the practiced indifference of crime wary big city cop. I was her anonymous thug unconventionally dressed in jacket and tie.
She didn't recognize me. I wasn't going to drop names. In the South, being known is, even more than race, everything. If the officer who pulls you over knows your or your family, your chances of driving away with an admonition to ease up off the accelerator increases dramatically. But if he doesn't know you or your kin, you'll help him make quota this month. But how could I claim to be a black man and never been arrested?
The only moments I've spent behind bars were on guided tours of county and state prisons. I had to earn my badge. Every black man had to be arrested at least once. It was a rite of passage. Mine had been delayed. There was no postponing it.
Later that night, the magistrate arrived at the station house. He recognized me, alright. ‘You’re Mr. Skerritt from the newspaper.’
He demanded $350 bail before he released me. I could call a bail bondsman if I needed help. Instead I called my wife. When she arrived, the magistrate sent her back to get exact change. Later, as she drove me home, my son wrapped in a blanket in the back seat, she tapped my knee. Are you doing okay, she asked. Yes, I said. I'll be fine. The sense of innocence wrapped even more tightly around me. salving my sense of being wronged. But it also bolstered the knowledge on that February night that when I walked into that jail cell, I walked through a portal, the one of experience shared by millions of other black men in America. But unlike so many others I walked out unsullied and unbowed by the experience. At the same time, I drove home knowing that each time a police patrol car pulled in behind me, I would always see those blinking blue lights tinged with chrome, the color of handcuffs binding my wrists, humiliating me in public, reducing me to just another, anonymous thug unconventionally dressed in jacket and tie.

Notes and observations

2009-07-15T06:58:00.000-07:00

The last month has been intriguing with all the political and celebrity news. Some brief observations:

The Gov. Mark Sanford affair scandal is sad in so many ways. Here is a man with big ambitions to be president risking it all on a romantic affair that he knows has no future. Matters of the heart- reason just doesn't work. Can you imagine how miserable it must have been to be at home with his wife and four sons when his heart was in Argentina? That is hell if there is one.

This is not an attempt to gloat. This kind of failure happens more often than we hear about it. I'm no fan of Sanford's but I wish him luck in rescuing his marriage, if not his political career. Makes me want to guard my heart more carefully than ever.

Later today some belated comments on the Steve McNair murder suicide.

Hurricane season 20 years after Hugo

2009-06-01T22:44:00.000-07:00

In recognition of the 2009 hurricane season, I'll reproduce an essay which appeared 20 years ago after Hurricane Hugo struck Montserrat. I, like many other ex-pat Montserratians, was sitting around for the phone to ring, hoping in vain for good news from home. After this piece appeared in Gannett Westchester Newspapers, my editors sent me to Montserrat for a week. As the 20th anniversary approaches, I am looking for people who are willing to share their memories of Hurricane Hugo - whether its in the Caribbean or in the Carolinas. Caption information:This is a view of Kinsale from Fort Barrington,Montserrat, about a week after Hugo struck.

Memories of Hurricane Hugo: Waiting for news- Sept. 1989

The tone of my sister’s voice over the phone Friday night was calm, even nonchalant. We’re stocking up. But we’re not boarding up. It’s too much trouble. Insurance would pay for the damage. Anyway our houses are built properly. This isn’t Jamaica, she said.
Those were the last words I heard from home for a week. For the subsequent four days, like hundreds of other Montserrat and Caribbean nationals living in the United States, I havebeen hanging on to last words from home. Words of misplaced optimism.
I talked to my sister just hours before Hurricane Hugo lashed Montserrat with 150-mile an hour winds, high seas and torrential rain. For days afterwards, I waited ,worried and listened to hear word of what was left of my island, my home.
The first twenty four hours were the worst. The early television news accounts of storm damage were dominated by reports from the larger islands - Guadeloupe, Antigua, the U.S Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico. There was no news about Montserrat.
I wondered:If Hugo could tear apart Guadeloupe and Antigua, then what could possibly save Montserrat, a hilly, 39-square-mile, pear shaped island which sat between them.
News from Montserrat began coming in late Sunday the mountainous lush green island and its twelve thousand residents took the brunt of Hugo’s fury.
At first the only detailed information came from exhausted amateur radio operators who reported that six people were dead and the hospital, police headquarters and court house had been destroyed. Half of Plymouth, the island’s capital, was reported to be under water.
I thoughy back to my sister’s optimism. This was worse than Jamaica.
Furtive phone calls and hourly news bulletins confirmed my worse fears. Ready or not Montserrat had been hit by one of the deadliest hurricanes to hit the Caribbean in decades.
I called Linelle and Wendel Lee, a Montserrat couple vacationing in NYC, whose return trip was delayed by Hugo. Not knowing what happened to their son, home, and pharmacy had made it nearly impossible for them to eat or sleep.
“You can’t comprehend the size of this disaster,” Linelle said. “I won’t be able to understand until I see it for myself. You can’t get anything specific. You think about it and you cry.”
News of Montserrat’s plight has not been easy to get. A call to the British Consulate, which handles matters dealing with Montserrat, wasn’t much help either. So my wife and I traded updated information with the Lees by telephone.
It wasn’t until three days later that television news reports brought me face to face with reality: Virtually the entire population was homeless, the reports said.
British television provided live footage of the disaster, but I still could hear no definite word about who was safe and was wasn’t. What of my sister, her husband and her three children who had spent part of the summer with me in New York? Were my dad, granddad, grandparents and numerous friends and relatives safe?
My wife, Chris, had reason to be concerned too. Although most of her family lived in New York City, her parents were in Montserrat. Their wood frame house is nestled in the rural northern section of the island, exposed to high winds and susceptible to flooding.
A first time expectant mother, Chris has taken things in stride. She decided she’d worry when the time came. Amid the worry and the wait I knew there was one person , my grandmother, who would not take the approaching storm lightly. At 67, she had experienced two devastating hurricanes in her lifetime. I remember as a child that whenever there was an approaching storm, she would talk about the hurricane of 1928. It ripped the roof off her parents’ house and forced her to put her younger sister on her back and take seek refuge in the nearest church. The hurricane of 1958 was equally devastating.
Growing up, I was her companion on numerous hurricane vigils. Together we braced for storms that always seemed to weaken or radically change course at the last minute. On Montserrat, hurricane warnings are a summer ritual, as much a part of our lives as cricket, calypso and tourists. Hurricanes are to the Caribbean what tornadoes are to the American Midwest.
As a young boy, it was my responsibility to nail the windows shut, stock up on batteries, kerosene and other essential items. Every few years or so a small storm or a distant hurricane would bring heavy rains and strong winds. Trees fell. Corrugated metal roofs flew away. Dry gulches became raging ravines. The inconvenience of life without electricity or running water for a few days was a small price to pay for days off from school or work. I knew my grandmother would take no chances. I feared more for the young, able and inexperienced. Like me, they were accustomed to the hurricane watches and warnings that amounted to be little. To them fallen trees, surging waves and swollen creeks were matters of adventure and fun, nature's spectacles to admire.
They had seen near misses. They saw Hurricane David in 1978 when it glanced Montserrat and devastated Dominica. After so many nea0r misses it was easy for the young to believe that the worst can never happen to them. They were wrong.

2009-05-30T20:52:00.000-07:00

My healthcare reform moment

May 2008- My daughter and I pulled up to the skating rink for a Friday afternoon skating fundraiser for her magnet school. For a 7-year- old girl, an afterschool skate party with her female classmates is the ultimate social event. And I am the chaperone, the designated parent for birthday parties and school functions.
The parking lot was almost full. Other parents have arrived ahead of us. We walked through the door and I was about to grab my wallet to pay to get inside, when I noticed the sign.
“If you do not have health insurance we recommend that you not skate. We are not responsible for injuries incurred on the skate rink.”
We had been to this skating rink for parties before. The sign was faded and old, but somehow I had never noticed it. Why should I? In 20 years of employment since I graduated from college, I always had health insurance. Until then.
As I reread the sign, the presidential campaign debate about portability, universal healthcare, single payer system and health care reform immediately became very real. It took two decades, but my ox had finally been gored.
Then the two of us had one of those unforgettable moments between a father and a daughter, man and child. That afternoon it seemed that for a second our roles were reversed. For a second I felt ashamed, powerless to provide for my daughter. I felt like one of those people who I used to look down on. But my shame was soon replaced by an infusion of pride. Instead of throwing the expected tantrum, instead of breaking down in tears over her disappointment, my daughter offered me an olive branch as sturdy as a life raft.
“It’s okay dad,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m not upset.”
We turned around and walked out of the rink and drove home to do something far less physically risky – watch television.
I lost my health insurance the minute I was laid off from my newspaper job. The process was much more humane than many of the lay off horror stories I had heard. I got early notice enough to schedule dentist, doctor and optometrist visits.
The company cut its ties with me on the last day of work. With the paycheck went my health insurance. The HR department offered one option. I could buy COBRAA for me and my family, the letter said. Cost? $950 a month. I was astounded by the absurdity of it. Those who are employed fulltime and have good paying jobs get cheaper health insurance than the unemployed. How was I going to afford COBRAA on my $275 weekly unemployment check?
Unemployment and the lack of health insurance are partners in the sad marriage of our present economic maelstrom. The Kaiser Family Foundation predicts that if unemployment rate hits 10 percent this year, the roll of those with employer sponsored health insurance could fall by 13.5milion people. That could swell the ranks of those with SCHIP and Medicaid could grow by 5.4 million. That could mean another 5.8 million uninsured Americans. Just think that in 2007 when times were good relatively, there were 45 million Americans trying to figure out how to stay healthy without health insurance.
KFF analysts say that every one percentage increase in the unemployment rate represents to a 1.1 million increased in the ranks of the uninsured population and a one million increase in the SCHIP and Medicaid enrollment.
And having a job no longer guarantees you health insurance. Companies that offer health insurance are making employees pay more for less. The Wall Street Journal recently reported that many small businesses are cutting employee health insurance in order to avoid layoffs or just to stay in business. Talk about a blow to employee morale. The bad news seems endless.
But here is the good news.
The stunning numbers of those newly unemployed and uninsured add an unprecedented urgency to the current health care reform debate. For the first time in a long time, enough people are affected by an issue and a forced to pay attention by what happens in Washington.
So what do we do? Hopefully we are beyond another “Harry and Louise” moment. Scare tactics about socialized medicine won’t work this time. It’s one thing to be a conservative Republican denouncing government run healthcare when you have a job and your doctor’s visits are subsidized. That argument holds less currency after you have been sitting at home for a few months and you don't know whether that bump on your son’s arms is just a bruise or a fracture. How about a plan that taxes those who are insured against the day when they might lose their health insurance? We’ve figured out a way to provide income for the unemployed.
This country spends $2.5 trillion a year on health care. Half is from the government; the rest is private. We have the framework for the kind of health system that can meet the needs of an increasingly unhealthy populace. Our problem isn’t one of means; it’s a lack of will.
There are people all over this country who are getting paid to maintain the status quo. They reckon if they stall long enough, good times will return; they hope people like me will forget and move on to the next big distraction.
They’re wrong.
May 2009 On the Friday before Memorial Day, my daughter’s elementary school has another fundraiser at the same skating rink from a year earlier. She’s a second grader. Third grade and its freedom looms. Her girl friendships are as important as ever and so are the parties and out of school social events- like a fundraising party at the skating rink. She has $5; she’s willing to pay her own way. She remembers the disappointment of a year earlier. She jokes with her mom about it.
Now dad has a job; he has health insurance. At the scheduled time we arrived at the rink. I paid her way in; they stamped her arm and I walked in behind her. I didn’t see the sign that blocked my way a year earlier. To be honest, I didn’t look for it. Unfortunately, when I have health insurance, there are some signs I think I can afford to ignore. But that sign I won't soon forget.

Jobless

2009-05-21T16:47:00.000-07:00

The news arrived in a timely and technologically appropriate fashion. It came via a text message: “It’s official. I am jobless.”

She was 30-something, a veteran of the financial services. Wall Street had transferred her from New York to Tampa, North to South, and it has been downhill ever since.

She arrived at work one Monday morning. Come into the boss’office, we need to talk, she was told.

The job she’d thought she would have until in the end of April had left town two months early, outsourced to India - Mumbai or New Delhi, to her what’s the difference.

Pack your things and leave, she was told.

Thankfully, she didn’t go empty handed: six months salary; two months health benefits. She’s lucky I told her. Some men and women with families and mortgages and children in college are being let go with a month’s pay.

I gave her the "obstacles and opportunities" speech. She can finally go out and get the job she always wanted. She’ll finally get that teaching certificate. She ‘ll perhaps try to be a social worker. The Department Children and Families needs employees who care about hurting adults and children.

A year ago I heard the same speech as I was preparing to leave the St. Petersburg Times. I didn’t always believe it intellectually, but in my heart it made me feel better repeating the words: something good will come out this. Every door that closes means a door is opening. Obstacles birth opportunities.

Those words don’t ever salve the hurt and calm the panic of being fired, but they’re true. And every day someone else needs to hear them - someone like the veteran reporter for a major newspaper chain who started his day interviewing folks at a recycling center. When he walked into the office, someone told him the boss wanted to see him in his office. He walked in to learn he was being let go that day.

“What about the story I’m working on,” he asked.

Forget the story, the editor told him.

Here’s more. I reconnected with an old friend from college this week. He has been freelancing as a photographer since January when he was laid off from a position he held for 18 years. Another former colleague, who had long fled newspapers for the saner pastures of public relations, finally returned my phone call after a month. She had been laid off since February. Her nonprofit employer closed offices and cut staff. They blamed the economic downtown and the sharp drop in charitable donations.

Sounds depressing? I know it is. But this cycle of trouble demands the best ideas, the best innovation, the best originality from all over us. This is a reminder that we can never get too comfortable. That master’s degree? Now looks like a great time to go back to school. That old hobby that has been catching dust in the garage? Time to dust it off. Those kids stories that you always wanted to write? Procrastination time is over.

Can’t seem to develop the motivation to get started and get off the couch?

Lace up those sneakers and take an early morning walk; better yet, go jogging. You won't come back emptyheaded.

I want to hear some of those ideas you came up with while you were out breaking a sweat. Those endorphins have me feeling optimistic for you already.

2009-05-12T19:47:00.000-07:00

The UWI Open Campus Montserrat recently announced winners of the 2009 Creative Writing Competition. Entries were read by six judges some local and some international .My short fiction, dead, which was written almost a decade ago when I lived in the Carolinas, won the short story prize. I guess it's time for me to dust off all those other short stories languishing in digital purgatory.

Here are the list of winners:

Poetry

Ease de Pressure by Laura Taylor

Stage 2 Denial by Jamaal Jeffers

View Through Beaded Curtains by Shirley Spycalla

Honourable Mention

Etude by Jamaal Jeffers

The Last Farewell by Shirley Spycalla

Short Stories

Dead by Andrew Skerritt

He Would Remember Forever by Gordon Buffonge

We Will Not Go Quietly by Laura Taylor

Honourable Mention

One Year in Hell by Laura Taylor

Nubian Journeys: As a Woman by Celia Marshall

The Open Campus will organise a prize-giving ceremony which will also include the reading and signing of recently published work. The Alliouagana Festival of the Word, a Literary Festival for Montserrat, will be held Nov. 13 to 15, 2009.

2009-05-12T19:44:00.000-07:00

Excerpt from Dead, a prizewinning short story by Andrew J. Skerritt

The conductor announces each stop. In silence, I scrutinize my fellow passengers aboard the northbound No. Five subway train in Brooklyn heading for Manhattan. I search in vain for a familiar face. I look through a one-way glass. I see them. They cannot see me. I am the dead among the living. Together we ride in quiet isolation. A crowded New York City subway car is the loneliest place on earth.

I sit in the double seat between the conductor's booth and the rear side door, squeezed between an off-duty transit cop and a Jamaican girl wearing braids. She told me who she was the second she asked the conductor for directions. Seated next to the officer in uniform, I imagine the curved butt of the officer's service revolver digging into my ribs, wrinkling my mauve, double-breasted suit. He kept folding his arms and fingering his piece while looking out of the side of his eyes at half a dozen Puerto Rican-looking youths standing near the door leading to the next compartment. Their boots seem more suited for rocks and boulders than concrete and asphalt. They laugh and jostle each other in a friendly warm up for Times Square. A woman transit cop enters our car and strides down the aisle, eyeing the pocket of Latin energy. The youths fall silent as if on cue. Within minutes, the train slides further north. Home is lost in the darkness and the cold behind me. I live in a field of strangers. For twenty five years, I lived off Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn.

On December fourth, I moved to Evergreen Estates, a ten-acre development resting beneath the sod alongside the Interboro Parkway. My place is twenty feet inside the wrought iron fence. Low cut grass and freshly turned earth surround me. Patches of beige-brown clay suggest that new neighbors just moved in. Although I'm not used to the damp, frozen earth, this new place has a certain charm. Each dawn I revel in the mist as it drifts over the Chinese section. Huts and gongs stand gaunt. Like Manchurian sentries, they guard their dead in exile. To the left, in the Jewish section, crows play late afternoon games of tag. Beyond the wrought iron fences and landscaped berm, Parkway traffic crawls east, where Brooklyn peters out and Queens, bushy and pretentious, emerges. To the west and south, yellow cabs honk their horns as they make their mad rush toward Pennsylvania Avenue. They mean no disrespect to us dearly departed residents of Evergreen Estates. A Brooklyn cab driver without a horn is like an undertaker without a hearse.

2009-05-10T19:59:00.000-07:00

Under the Evergreen Tree - Oral History Project

The need for this project was reinforced in December 2008 as I attended funeral services for Richard “Richie” Allen, a former newspaper and television journalist and ex-press secretary to several Virgin Island governors. Allen was also a native of Montserrat.

I never met Richie Allen, although near the end of his life we lived a few miles apart in Tampa Bay, Florida. He was my wife’s relative and so we received the news of his death from a cousin in Connecticut who was flying to Florida for the funeral. That weekend I learned about Mr. Allen’s work as a journalist, his humble upbringing in Cudjoe Head, his involvement in the expatriate Montserrat community in St. Thomas, and his dedication to his family and his faith. During his lifetime, Allen met presidents and other dignitaries. He made a difference. It would have been wonderful to sit and talk with him about his life in Montserrat, what inspired him, his influences and record his life story for posterity . Unfortunately, I never had that opportunity. Standing at Mr. Allen’s gravesite in Tampa, I was struck by the urgency to begin an oral history project for the Montserrat diaspora. Gathered for that solemn occasion were dozens of fellow Montserratians who had immigrated decades ago; some had never returned to home, but all cherished vivid memories of their childhood, adolescence and young adult hood on the island. Their memories are frozen in time. They deserve to be collected, shared and saved to inspire future generations.

Montserrat is a nation of immigrants. Many Montserratians grow up and aspire to leave the 39- square- mile British colony to seek their education and fortunes abroad – England, America, U.S Virgin Islands, Europe and Africa.

During the nineteen fifties and early sixties, Montserrat experienced significant waves of immigration to England to fill the void in the labor force caused by the devastation of World War II. Those immigrants, gone more than half a century, are fast exiting the stage and their stories of struggle and perseverance are being lost to history. Now is the time to reach out and document their long overlooked personal narratives.

The eruption of Soufriere Volcano in 1995 and the violent deadly explosions two years later set off an unprecedented exodus. More than any time in the island’s history, Montserratians have been scattered around the world. Only a brave remnant soldier on. In time that remnant will be outnumbered by an influx of immigrants from other islands in the region. Already we see the Spanish influence of Dominicans immigrants who have relocated to the island. Indian dances at the Montserrat Christmas festival events portend the cultural shift. That influence is not always a negative one, but therein lurks the peril. Our open embrace of other cultures usually comes at the expense of our own. Our sense of identity as a people and as a culture is endangered.

Currently a number of projects are undertaken to preserve our national identity for future generations. I propose Under the Evergreen Tree, as an addition to those efforts.

Under the Evergreen Tree will be patterned on the Story Corps,(www.storycorps.net) listening project, which allows ordinary Americans to visit audio booths and record their families’ history romances, struggles and triumphs of everyday life. Like Story Corps, Under the Evergreen Tree is predicated on the unshakeable premise that stories matter. This is an audacious attempt to honor that belief and gather our history before it’s too late.

Just imagine, there already is a generation of Montserratians who are too young to remember what it was like to live in Plymouth before the volcano erupted; they have not experienced a Christian crusade or a political rally at the War Memorial, a walk down Parliament Street at 4 p.m. on Friday afternoons, the majesty of the Evergreen tree at the round about, the magic of Boxing Day at Sturge Park. If we don’t collect these stories now, all future generations will have only pictures. Under the Evergreen Tree is an attempt to provide the stories and the historical context.

This is an opportunity to gather family and personal histories of all Montserratians wherever they may live. The stories will dwell on various themes - family, natural disasters such as hurricane Hugo, the 1974 earthquakes, immigration, family, love, the volcano eruption, the 1960s Plymouth fire, education, religion, recreation, culture, calypso, sports and village life, the Lasso man episode of the early seventies.

Under the Evergreen Tree includes five major components:

1. Collection: The first step is to invite Montserratians from the four corners of the globe to sit down and digitally record their stories - sons can interview fathers, daughters their mothers, grandfathers and grandsons, uncles and nephews. I and other professionally trained individuals will visit cities with large Montserrat communities and conduct interviews. I also plan to travel to major cultural events where Montserratians are gathered, such as the Caribbean carnival weekend in Atlanta on Memorial Day weekend, Labor day in Brooklyn and Columbus Day weekend in Miami/Fort Lauderdale, to personally collect stories for the archives. The St. Patrick's Day events are a perfect venue to begin collecting those stories.

Each interview will be recorded on CD and sent either by mail or in electronic form over the internet to designated collection points to be processed, catalogued and archived.

2. Archiving:. Oral histories on CDs will stored at the at the Montserrat National Trust or other designated Montserrat location. The archived material will form part of a permanent multi-media exhibit that can be hosted at the Cultural Center. One can even envision that in the future, this initiative could be part of a stand alone multimedia, interactive Montserrat historical and cultural center to showcase all aspects of what makes the Emerald Isle special. I also plan to approach Florida A&M University and Medgar Evers College in Brooklyn, N.Y., to serve as U.S depositories of the stories so that scholars in future generations will have access to Montserrat history. Similar partnerships are being sought in England.

3. Sharing: The aim is to share stories with family members and the wider community. We will provide each interviewees with a copy of their CD, keep a copy at the archive and, with the family’s permission, air segments weekly on Radio Montserrat and other outlets. Podcasts and YouTube versions will also be created.

4. Marketing. A major part of this project would be the outreach to the Montserratian communities scattered throughout the world. This initiative will require tremendous legwork. I plan to travel to New York, London, Boston, Birmingham, Atlanta, Washington D.C, St. Thomas and other places with significant Montserrat communities to visit churches, homes, businesses and community groups to spread the word. Traditional media outlets that serve ethnic communities will also be targeted to get out the message to this unique audience.

Under the Evergreen Tree will be heavily promoted on social networking sites such as Facebook, MySpace and Hi-5. Presently there are dozens of online Montserrat related communities forged by a common love and longing for a prosperous Montserrat.

I also plan to create a web site where visitors can click and hear podcasts of the stories, and upload their own stories and pictures.

5. Organization and Operation: As part of the process, interviews can be catalogued and archived at the Montserrat National Trust or the Montserrat Cultural Center. Each week Radio ZJB will air one segment, one family’s story. Businesses will be encouraged to sponsor the broadcasts. The goal is to establish permanent booths and liaisons in each city. These individuals will coordinate the interviews, process the CDs and ensure they get posted to the web, sent to the National Trust, aired on radio, and given to each family.

This project will be accompanied by an aggressive promotion campaign world wide, using free media interviews over Caribbean radio programs, internet email list etc. to get Montserratians to sign on to this project. I plan to tap into the vast network of Montserrat associations abroad. With the easy availability of technology, however, many individuals and families will be encouraged to conduct the interviews in their own homes and email the audio or upload directly to the web site for editing and listening.

Interviews will be catalogued and cross indexed in various ways. By geography for example, , former residents of St. Patrick’s could be grouped together. The interviewers will try to get interviewees to talk about significant family and national happenings, wedding, births, hurricanes, epidemics, the earthquakes of the 1970s, and life during World War II. The volcano experience will have a separate category.

As envisioned, a permanent booth will be set up at the National Trust or the Cultural Centre and or studio space provided a ZJB radio to allow Montserrat residents and Montserratians visiting from abroad to come sit and record their stories. To enhance the visuals of this project we will be encourage people to submit copies of family photographs, obituaries and death notices of Montserratians, career announcement notices etc. Funeral announcements on Radio Montserrat will be added to the Under the Evergreen Tree archives.

As part of this project, Under the Evergreen Tree’s web site will display old family photos, pictures of Montserrat etc. The site will allow people to listen to the interviews and upload their audio files of interviews to be edited. There will be detailed instructions to show people how to submit their stories.

This initiative will be conducted under the auspices of a soon to be created nonprofit entity, with an active board of directors. The not for profit corporation will work in partnership with the Government of Montserrat and civic groups who support the goal of gathering and safekeeping Montserrat history. Success and longevity will require financial, logistical and moral support from a variety of government, philanthropic and individual donors.

If you're interested email me at drewskerritt@gmail.com.

2009-05-10T19:37:00.000-07:00

Some voices, mine included, just demand to be heard.

In May 2008, shortly before the tsunami of newspaper layoffs, I left the St. Petersburg Times, where I had been a columnist and editor for five years.

One of the hardest things about leaving the newsroom is thinking of yourself as anything but a journalist. After 20 years of seeing the world through the lens of who, what, where, when, why and how, how do you stop asking questions, being inquisitive?

Here's the good news. It has not been easy, but it has been educational.

I soon learned that when you discard your "journalist" name tag and press pass, folks tell you things they'd never say to any working journalist and invite you to meetings where you hear information that would make a great scoop for the next day's front page. In other words, you get to see how things really work. However, that insider's view is very seductive. After all those years of being on the outside, you get to come inside and sit at the table. But the insider’s view is only a small part of the picture; it’s mostly about self interest, not the public interest.

Old habits die hard. Certain instincts can't be buried simply because you're no longer on the media's payroll. So I'm still asking why, how and when.

After I left the newsroom I worried that I'd find a job that would stifle my ability to write and say what was on my mind. Thankfully, I've hit the intellectual jackpot, sort of. I teach journalism at Florida A&M University in Tallahassee, Fla., where they expect me to teach and write. Publish or perish is actually part of the job description. Also, as adviser to the Famuan student newspaper, I can try to influence the next generation of journalists as they hone their craft. And that's only half of my story.

Being in academia has opened a window for me to pursue the kind of writing that I put on hold when I walked into the newsroom two decades ago. I became a journalist because I believed that toiling as a newspaper reporter would provide the training and discipline I needed to tell the stories of my people - people of color, Caribbean immigrants, people from Montserrat - the Emerald Isle of the Caribbean. I believed and still do that too many stories would otherwise go untold if scribes like me didn't tell them. So now, more than ever, I have the passion to write those stories about the peanut vendor who sat on the side of the road under the grafted mango tree, the old woman who supported herself by selling sugared donuts and ice cream at the park during cricket matches, the boy who cried at night because he was afraid of the dark, the girl whose lifeless body was found under the sandbox tree.

TropicZone will tell the story of the Caribbean diaspora - our loves, our losses, our triumphs, our failures. It will be a forum to examine and highlight the best we have to offer. As someone who grew up on Montserrat, one of the smallest and least known islands, I will also dwell on the people of Montserrat who have been scattered to the four corners of the earth since the explosion of the volcano in 1995. This blog will serve as a bulletin board for progress on my oral history project, Under the Evergreen Tree (see upcoming posts).

But this blog won’t be all serious stuff. I promise to have fun. Expect to see stories about sports - especially cricket and soccer; music, literature, politics, even religion, all told in text, audio and pictures. I will use this location to update readers on my journalistic, literary and cultural projects. Of course, in order for this to work, there must be a dialogue - you'll hear from me; I’d love to hear from you.