She remembers everything – from childhood in Saint Martin and as a teen coming to Curaçao. As her memory goes, it was a fascinating journey those days on the ‘Baralt’-steam-boat. Days being sea-sick and finally a sad look at arriving ashore watching so many dry Cacti compare to her lustrous green vegetation and full Mountains left in Saint Martin. Because of her Mom, she came to this part –she was longing to be with her– a kid that left her Grand Parents in upper Windward Island. Immigration was huge those days already, so it was not difficult to get someone guiding this kiddo to where her mom was having a job. A visiting Aunt from the US was willing to carry her downwards to Lower Caribbean.
Going off the land for long period of time to ultimately lasting stay elsewhere is migrating finding a good paying job or personal undertaking. Most times people are being pulled out unwillingly from their homes because of freight, threats and war. But a better-placed motive never comes without consequences. Many get poorer or have to live with discrimination like my mom those days, enduring shame in Curaçao. Even with a clearer skin and fluffy hair still black skinned immigrants were number one cause for being undermined and the language seems ugly begee English. The poor circumstances still brought many to shape up by goodwill and linguistically because of their pride. And my mom was bold and dare not intervene with ‘koi kens’(stupid things) and always had her own ways to live up whatever was reliable for a better life, and she turned very creatively.
But while nestling in Curaçao her heart continuously favored Saint Martin. Even with her pleasant unharmed childhood with a sparkling character, lovable for nuns and teachers because she sang so nice like a ‘nightingale’ she wouldn’t change her mind. Fortunately her adulthood brought her good things. She put herself on a pedestal, a special place in Community with nicely hand-dresses on attractive slim-line body to attract. And very outgoing, but only with the dearest friend those times;, my dad So from her robust younger life full of undertakings in Curaçao then marrying she became successful dressmaker and together taking care of her four girls. Life showed a charming bright side, always willing full and so continued for 40 years designing – living oversees and back to continue introducing Alternative holistic healing. She’s almost 90 now.
She recites me now her whole life and especially that from Saint Martin,
this family Scott, lady which has many memories.
This is what I found past half days’ rest at my home in the Countryside in the month of June, all around Yellow bloomed in fantastic lower part of Bandabou- away from Willemstad’s noise going to afternoon before sundown. I’m shuffling through my drafts papers, inspiring myself maybe on another exciting subject for blogging. I came across ‘The(e) Butterfly Flower by Gaston Emile Scot that was stacked between quotes and notes. It was a reciting piece from my mom, soon getting 90 years old. Then I remembered how I urged myself to quickly write down. Some times I’ll record when my mom’s memories start cooking to surface. Then I have to listen well. Whatever boils from her hearth and steams out hot to cool aid, because only through expressing can dampen the pain and recite her memories. Her Saint Martin in her youth little girls’ life was special and pleasant. I’ll listen afterwards to her jumping thoughts reminding the difficult deity clients of hers when as dressmaker in Curaçao on fixing their dresses. Then up to more recent time about her skills giving therapeutic advises, I get marvelous jumping stories from time to time to hear. But especially Saint Martins’ stories are undoubtedly her most fascinating world, interesting subjects to hold on to her life.
This Big Uncle ‘Gassy’ who died a few years ago did a lot for the island of Saint Martin, and he privately wrote poetry. All the Scot –families have something to be honored for. They were one’s having the First Aiding Companies like gas station, first bakery and Government positions. Also, Newspapers Agency and in recent time a Dentist Clinic. Those were old times’ ones amongst few others putting Saint Martin on the Worlds-map. And I’m wondering what if my Mom Agnes or Aggie (her pet-name) or Chichi (in Papiamento ‘eldest of siblings) had stayed in Saint Martin.
Destiny told her that where ever she might be, the pieces of her stories are definitely going to be bound together to glimpse like I’m doing. Here’s the poem ‘The(e) Buttercup Flowers’ by Gaston Emile Scot.
There is not a Yellow Buttercup Returning with the Spring But it boasts a Golden Crown As bright as any King There is not a Lady in the Land As finely dressy as ‘they’ They feel so proud No foolish thought. Because they are so gay with sunshine and sweet air God gave them their colors’ bright To us Hope, Faith, and Love And bade us, leave the things of Earth And seek the things of Heaven above.
Blogged by: Asyla ten Holt