No. 2
My mum grew up in the church.
Living up country, she decided enough was enough. We went to church, but we were not part of a church and in Jamaica that’s quite hard to do as there is practically a church on every corner.
The joy of not being part of a particular church meant that on Sundays we sometimes decided which one of the many churches on our doorstep we would visit on the day – the Methodist, the Pentecostal or the Catholic church – to socialise with our friends.
Dressed in our Sunday best we would head out carrying the family Bible.
Easter and Christmas time, we would always head to the Catholic church – when our dad would also make one of his rare visits, sitting at the back and making a speedy exit homewards after the service ended.
I loved visiting the Catholic church as the service was pretty short, which left us plenty of time for play after collecting our sweeties from the priest, who would always rub our cheeks with pillowy-soft hands after we said, “Thank You.”
One year, my brother and I decided to be different from our parents and got baptised at the new Seventh-day Adventist Church in our district, along with our friends. It meant we went to church on Saturdays – for a while.
When we got to America, we went with our Aunt to her church on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. One day after church I was told I was feisty as I kept my eyes open during prayers and I questioned things a lot. Quite a lot, come to think of it.
I’m not religious now, but there was something comforting about seeing the community, our friends, on what was supposed to be our resting day.
In Jamaica, Sundays was for church, but after we had our lunch – rice and peas with stewed chicken, side salad of shredded lettuce and carrots, washed down with Kool Aid over ice – we would often head back to the Catholic church to play cricket as they had a make-shift pitch.
I was allowed to play, a girl in the boys’ game, as I was good at catching the ball from very far away and throwing it very fast at the wicket, knocking the rival players out. I was also good at running very fast with the cricket bat.
We would stop our game once the ice-cream man came by on his bike selling his treats, to help us cool off. I would choose my favourite ice cream cake and eat it slowly, being careful not to waste a bite.
Afterwards we would walk home idly planning our next Sunday.
What innocent times.
Best wishes,
Sherry Collins
