Family

Jamaica’s Catholic community has prayers for everything: for stewardship, for encouragement, for education, for holidays.

They also have a prayer for families, a prayer that Miss Doris, the church boss, makes me read aloud every Sunday at mass in Mount Friendship:

“Heavenly father, raise up in Jamaica good and holy families, loving husbands and wives and devoted parents and children…Send your Spirit to guide and strengthen us that we may serve your people, following the example of your Son, Jesus Christ, in whose name I offer this prayer, Amen.”

I have family. I have a great family. I’ve got two wonderful parents, ten aunts and uncles, and, in patois, a ‘ole ‘eap a cousins. I love them and miss them dearly, especially during this, the most wonderful time of the year. But they’re not here. Thank goodness that I’ve found a surrogate family here in Jamaica.

Mrs. Plummer grasped me in a firm hug when she met me in church and told me that I was coming to Sunday dinner that day, and whenever else I wanted. I could come on Christmas, on New Year’s, and on Easter, too, if I wanted. Oh yes, and they were slaughtering a pig soon, and I should come to that as well. And then, she began to mother me. She sits in on my Sunday school classes if she thinks any of the children are going to cause trouble. She pushes my hair back when it gets in my face. She stands with me on the road and tells me which taxi drivers are suitable to take me back to Stony Hill.

Mr. Plummer grinned widely the first time Mrs. Plummer brought me home. He fixed me a glass of juice and gave me a tour of his modest property. I saw his banana tree and met his pigs. “Enjoy yourself, mon,” he said as he directed me back inside his home and put me into a chair. “Don’t trouble yourself, mon, rest yourself.”

Georgiana, their daughter, also lives with them. She taught me how to make rice and peas using brown rice, not white rice. She let me hold her baby, and later, let me help to bathe 1-year-old Ianna. Chevelle and Daniel, the resident grandchildren, invited me to watch cartoons on the one station that the Plummers get on their television.

And always, they feed me. Times are tough for everyone in Jamaica, but the Plummers share with me, despite any protests I make. “Eat, mon,” they say as they pile rice on my plate, “Plenty food here, and you far from home. You far, mon.”

They have made me a part of their family. Mr. and Mrs. Plummer, married for 34 years this January, are intrinsic parents, and their children and grandchildren have accepted me as a sibling. The Plummers love, cherish, parent everyone…what is one more?

A concrete, nuclear family unit can be hard to come by in Jamaica. Marriage is uncommon and siblings are often scattered. But that doesn’t seem to matter…the people with whom I work understand the concept of family. A daughter is someone you welcome home, a sister is someone with whom you watch cartoons, and a granddaughter is someone who you feed.
The Plummers can’t replace Mary and Richard and the O’Grady/Rouleau network I’ve got going back in the States. They can, however, make me feel loved and cherished and remind me what it feels like to be part of a family.

“How many children do you have?” I once asked Mrs. Plummer. I stood in her simple kitchen, watching her fry fish while Mr. Plummer stood in the doorway, holding his baby granddaughter. I was confused by the mass amounts of pictures of children on the walls, tucked into mirrors, and in her handbag.

“Five,” she answered casually over the hissing of the frying pan, “but we raise up plenty more.” Including me.

Father, raise up in Jamaica good and holy families, loving husbands, wives, parents and children. Father, send your spirit to guide and strengthen me so that I may serve Your people.