+ #wordsbyguyanese Neezam Ali …
“Remember yuh boyhood days,
Remember yuh wayward ways.
Come leh we go down memory lane
Check out dem days again.”
~Dave Martin and the Tradewinds
Dave couldn’t have said it better. Moving away from Guyana makes you visit those memories and dust off the cobwebs quite alot. I was seventeen when I left with my parents and sister to what was then a strange land New York City. Most of my relatives live here and it was good to be amongst them after being away from them for quite a number of years. But this was a different land with different ways and different attitudes.
My sister and I, since we were quite young, adapted quickly as we were exposed to everything in school. From the many walks of life that come to this melting pot to the different types of food to a little racism here and there. My mother took a while to get accustomed whereas my father never did, even after ten years. Guyana is still his home. He goes back quite often and stays for a while since we have a business there. I, on the other hand, have only been back twice.
Very often, I would find myself thinking about Guyana. I had some of my best and worst days there. But one out weighs the other and the scale is definitely leaning more towards the best. I fondly remember my primary school days at Craig Primary where I met some of my best friends. Then common entrance came along with sweaty palms, extra lessons every day, studying late in the night, and then waking up early in the morning and doing it all over again. Let’s not forget the lashes. In the end it paid off. Thank you Ms. Wendy. I passed. St. Stanislaus College would be my stomping ground for the next five years. I had never heard of this school. Initially, I thought I failed and would have to face my parents and all the family members who expected the best from me. Most of them went to the top three. I almost cried. Then my teacher came over and told me she was very proud of me and I was puzzled. I thought to myself maybe she thinks this is the best I could do and she’s trying to console me. She looked at me and said I got the third highest school in the country and my expression changed. Now I was ecstatic. I wasn’t gonna die from what I know now as heart palpitations and anxiety. We’ve all been there. After all the over spewing emotions I went home to meet my father. He was the proudest man ever. I remember him picking me up and hugging me. That was the best day of my life, even to today. A few weeks later I received a letter from President’s College. I knew for a fact I would not be going there after hearing my uncle’s story of his one week attendance. Let’s just say after one week he transferred to Queen’s College. Based on what he told me I knew “Saints,” as it is commonly known, would definitely be my only choice.
The first few months were hard. It was a different environment with different people. It took some getting use to, especially the grey shirts and grey pants. What were they thinking? After some time, new friends were made and the little crushes we all experienced started happening. My universe was balanced again. However, my biggest crush was cricket. As a young Guyanese boy, cricket was “the” sport, at least for me. I grew up watching the likes of Brian Lara, Courtney Walsh, our very own Shivnarine Chanderpaul, Carl Hooper and countless others. These guys were my heroes. If you needed to find me at school you would have to search the hard court first. Cricket in the morning before school. Cricket at lunch. Cricket after school. Cricket on the weekends. Only God knows how I could read and write. This beautiful sport was a getaway for me. Some of my best memories in Guyana are playing cricket in the streets with some of my closest friends. It was not only the experience of “lashing” a fast bowler for six but also the camaraderie amongst friends. As I got older, I was allowed to stay out later and by later I mean 7 pm. If I wasn’t home by then, my mother would make sure she comes out and she would call for me. My friends would then go on to tease me. I didn’t want to leave but I had to. It was during these times I got to hear all the stories of who kissed who and who had to jump over fences and out windows because some girl’s father came home. There was never a dull moment. Some nights when my father worked late in his auto body shop, my friends and some of his workers would play hide n’ seek. Grown men playing hide n’ seek. Believe it. If we weren’t hiding in cars, we were hiding on the roof of our back shed which was about fifty feet high or more. Some of us even hung off the sides of our back fence which was made out of cinder blocks and had a rough concrete finish. I guess that’s how my friend got his grip. These memories have never left me.
