Melville Cooke
ABOUT 10:00 A.M. on Tuesday, I was driving up into Chancery Hall Estate. Just before taking a sharp left off Cadiz Avenue, I saw a young man sitting on the kerb on the right side of the road. His face was bloody and he was bawling. Not crying, bawling.
The drivers of the two or three vehicles that were in front of me did not even slow down; neither did those going in either direction after I turned the car around and got out to speak with him.
His name was Shawn and he had fallen off his bicycle, which was way in the bushes, further than the flattened area that marked his heavy landing. As we spoke, as he bawled, as we put the bicycle in the back of my tiny car, as he got in the front seat, bawling and saying thanks, the occasional car passed. None even slowed down, even though the drivers looked us over.
Shawn said that before I came along the only thing a person driving by had said to him was "go ova da house an wash off yusself". Yeah. Right.
STRONGER SENSE OF COMMUNITY
I know that if a similar accident had happened in a ghetto area, as a stranger to the area Shawn would not have been alone, bleeding and bawling, for long. A crowd would have gathered, a dramatisation of the accident would have been on even as he was being assisted and there would be laughter to go with the helping hands.
It has occurred to me time and again that the poorer collections of residents have a stronger sense of community than those that are supposedly uptown. This goes against the notion of grinding poverty destroying the bonds between people, while a more comfortable existence allows people to have time to form more than casual bonds with those who live around them.
Maybe it is a function of close living, with people crammed into small spaces having no choice but to actually know each other (as opposed to just seeing them - sometimes). Maybe it is a trend in 'informal settlements' for family members and friends to be invited into particular areas by those who were there before them. It could also be as a result of bonds being forged for mutual survival by those who often have nothing to depend on but their own efforts, and often no one to turn to but themselves, especially in the face of an immediate crisis.
HELPING HANDS
There is also the transportation factor. We uptown people hardly walk the streets we live on; it is the car to and fro. Those in poorer (materially, but certainly not spiritually) areas often have to walk and, in so doing, come into close contact with those who live in the same community. None of this 'one person to a car' gas-guzzling situation.
When the family of three were murdered on Barnes Avenue in Maxfield, the murderers who set the house on fire stood guard so that no one could come to help. They knew that otherwise there would be people pouring out of the keyholes to throw water and kick down doors in a concerted rescue attempt.
And speaking of fires, do you ever wonder where the homeless go when you hear a story that "fire left 13 homeless..."? Many are absorbed into the same poor communities in an informal support system. Families get split up, yes, but there are helping hands.
I know (in the Jamaican sense of knowing) that the serial rapist situation that was reportedly in the Cherry Gardens area about six months ago could not happen in a ghetto. One man simply could not assault over 10 women back to back to back. First, a stranger would be immediately recognised and challenged ("yes fada, a who de I come to?"). Second, if it started, he would soon have been tracked down and dealt with (no police).
A GEM OF INSIGHT
It is interesting that when people from ghetto areas move uptown whether by cocaine or enter-tainment means they take the sense of community with them, in terms of hanging out at the gate and talking until hours of the night, while we uptowners go inside and lock our doors against our fears.
And Shawn left me with a gem of insight into Jamaican society as he spoke about being cheated out of his earnings by a 'Chiney man' who owns a supermarket in Portmore. He said in a voice that expressed hurt at being betrayed by his own: "An me an him come from de same place y'nuh, over Portmore, but me come from de ghetto side."
Melville Cooke is a freelance writer.
