Jada's Diary: From Growing Pains to Found Promise

By Jo Cabey

Education propelled her to success.

But old wounds run deep…

 

Ever since she was a child, Jada White was told that education is the key to success. To freedom. To happiness. So, she found purpose and a life direction at college, studying the very subject that connected with her the most; and as she acquired multiple degrees, life started to open up for her.

 

Now navigating her twenties as best she can, Jada has a thriving career as an educator amongst the hustle and bustle of New York City. But despite throwing herself enthusiastically into jobs, relationships and travel, Jada finds herself continually betrayed, alone, and far from the happiness she always dreamed success would bring.

 

Dragged along by her work ethic and fueled by her yearnings, Jada fails to acknowledge the traumas of her past – traumas that are rearing their ugly heads as cycles of abandonment and abuse.

 

As Jada is hurled from one heart-wrenching situation to the next, the peace and happiness she so desperately wants always seems just out of reach.

 

Can Jada face her shadows and realize that emotional freedom is hers for the taking? Or have her scars altered the course of her life forever?

 

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Cabey
• Release date: Sep 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735186115

Book preview

Acknowledgment

To Kalina,

I would be remiss to not acknowledge you in this book. You are someone who has been one of biggest supporters since the day I met you. In numerous ways I can’t list, because it would be ongoing, you have encouraged me to use my voice and share my gifts.

Thank you for the encouragement to create Journey with Jo over four years ago and for sharing your wisdom on putting this book together. Your friendship means the world to me and I love you dearly. Thank you.

Part One

Entry

One

I was born in the most revered place in America, a place where people’s dreams are validated. The melting pot where gritty Hispanic, British, and Caribbean accents are celebrated and people travel from all over the world to see the fabled, once sable-skinned Statue of Liberty whose broken shackles and raised lighthouse represented visions of liberty. Of course, like most native New Yorkers, visiting the current tourist-saturated Statue of Liberty was never on the to-do-list. We left the ritzy attractions to the out of towners who were thrilled to be in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple. The Times Square cacophony of animated tour guides masked as characters and car screeches from drivers stopping to address exasperated cab hailers seemed to represent a lovely symphony of the sounds of home.

After we maneuvered around the overly zealous tourists, the illusion of urgency to go nearly everywhere and nowhere loomed out of the subway station. The subway station was the staple of transportation and entertainment. It was not uncommon for people to make a minimum wage salary during the pursuit of their big break. Professional starving artists temporarily satisfied their insatiable thirst for success with the compliments of the subway riders. You’re going to make it big one day. Don’t forget us, little people! Those who declined to compliment would shoot an insolent stare instead; nonetheless, the performers could buffer their sensitivity with the silent rejection. It was the thing to do; you mark your subway stop or train transfer, amass a crowd during rush hour, present your five minutes of fame worthy talent, pass around a charity basket---and BOOM---you’re an overnight subway celebrity. The Grand Central Station stop was the hub for aspiring painters, musicians, dancers, professional panhandlers, and daring adventurers who opted to find their purpose with only one dollar and a dream in their pocket.

My favorite act was a brazen artist named Vagabond from New Orleans; she was known as the Vagabond Violinist. Vagabond’s act would commence just as my friends and I were dismissed from school. It was obvious that our appreciation of the violin and operatic performances were the highlight of her shift. She bellowed ballots that transported listeners from the grungy subway to a jazz festival.

My younger cousin Carina and I were honored to announce her presence whenever we happened to see her at the station. The glee in her eyes from our admiration was something that even a record-deal couldn’t rival. Now presenting the soullllfullllll sounds of Grand Central Station! Hailing allll the way from the dirty south! From New Orleans it’s Vagabond Violinist! Miss your train, miss your bus, fill her cup with dollars or deal with us!

Carina and I were intrigued at her ability to evoke stories of anguish, jubilee, disappointment, and love with various pitches in her voice and strings on her violin. Vagabond stood confidently and owned the rights to her music. The music was her home; wherever she went, it went too. Vagabond emitted physical charm by batting her dark brown eyes; her voluptuous figure and voluminous afro complemented her exuberant personality. Her bronze-tinted skin, deep-dented dimples, and illuminating smile put New York’s bright lights to shame.

She was completely happy with herself, and it was easily noticed by anyone around her. She often warned us about becoming too content with life. Before beginning a new song, Vagabond oftentimes gave this same uplifting speech to the on looking crowd. "Sugar, never get too comfortable with life’s song, the tempo can and will change without your permission. Still, sing a melody that makes your heart smile."

Music gave her a sense of stillness in the city that never sleeps. She summoned the hospitality of her southern roots, deafened fear with compositions of courage, and appreciated life’s journey without complaining about the status quo. For Carina and I, this was the highlight of our hour-long train ride from Manhattan to the Bronx. Vagabond even let Carina pluck a few strings of her violin sometimes, which inspired her to become the next Emma Ginger Smock. The eventful train ride tired us so much so that by the time we arrived home; our only yearn was a nap. But our family had other plans in mind.

Jada, I know you have homework---and if you don’t, then get started on your chores. Your cousins’ dem ah come over, and I want this house to look like decent people live in it. You left the dishes in the sink; the laundry is everywhere, Gyal, you nuh hear me ah talk? I pulled out my report card, with a slight grimace on my face to lighten my load of chores; as usual, I had scored all A’s. As she skimmed the paper, her lips curled upward, and she realized that all the A’s were in my honors classes, which is every immigrant’s dream for their first-generation American child. Her statuesque frame towered over me, and I was unsure if she would notice the number of tardies that had tallied this semester. Mastering school was like second nature to me, so even when I didn’t try my best, I still managed to ace each course. Oh! I am so proud of you! Wait until I tell Auntie Tanya. Gyal, these grades are going to make you a rich woman one day!

Good grades are like sweet mangoes; the joy is sweet at first but slowly goes away. When I was younger, I’d get a few dollars for my report card being above average, but it would go straight to the yellow piggy bank that I couldn’t touch. But now that I was officially a teenager and I could spend my money, the little money that I got. I also tutored two of my cousins in exchange for them doing a few of my chores. I guess mom was right. The more good grades, the more you get paid! Literally!

Ripping and running the streets of Zoo York with my cousins was the prime of my childhood. Our Caribbean roots and American influences led us to respect our parents’ sacrifices while simultaneously being spoiled by the instant gratification of emerging technology. But, the vision of getting a piece of the American Pie was still a long-awaited dream for my Montserratian family. The 90s was the golden era of Hip-Hop, and the Boogie Down Bronx was our cradle. Every weekend, we would convene at my family’s three-story house and party to a mix of Bronx-bred artists such as DJ Kool Herc and Slick Rick, and legendary Soca artists, like Krosfyah, Burning Flames, and Arrow. Each floor had its theme; the top floor hosted the food, the middle level was the dancefloor, and the bottom level was the kids’ hangout area and place to play card games or Dominoes.

My Grandmother was the head matriarch, and she was often so deep into the soul of calypso groove that she tuned out the racket from the rest of the house. Come, let me teach you how to make my favorite dish, Goat Water. My mother used to make it for me every Friday night, and you will carry on the tradition, Jada! Chop those onions, cut up the scallion, and get the cloves out of the cabinet. This was surely going to take forever, but I could count on her re-telling me about the 1768 Slave Rebellion in Montserrat, which happened on the same day that Saint Patrick’s Day is celebrated.

"Ohhhhh, my darling baby. Let Grandma tell you about your rich Montserratian heritage. You see, those pseudo-kind-hearted Irish conveniently neglected to mention that there is another, darker-skinned, Emerald Isle. And even though we were first occupied by the Irish, we are still a British territory. Slaves got dropped off everywhere back in those old times, and my sweet island happened to be one of them. Our ancestors toiled the lush land and were treated with heinous torment for demanding their human rights. The Irish would like the world to believe that they were as innocent as the Apostle of Ireland himself, but that was not true. Ireland advocated inhumanity for African people who were kidnapped from the celestial shores of the Motherland. I am going to tell you about the real Montserratian martyrs; my grandmother told me, her grandmother told her, and now it’s time for you to carry the torch of justice. We are regal people who were denigrated through slavery and the wretchedness that comes along with it. The slavers doubted our ability to rise up and seize our liberty; however, for every Irishman, there were three newly arrived Africans. Our bodies may have been stolen, but our dignity and sense of self exuded through the shackles, nooses, and blatant brutality.

Gyal, yuh know that the white man values his rum, cotton, and sugar cane more than life itself, so while the masters were getting drunk, we were conspiring a coup. That means a revolt. They planned to do it on Saint Patrick’s Day because the Irish & British would hopefully be distracted by all the celebrations.

Grandma continued, March 17, 1768, was the date they set. Many of the brave enslaved Africans came up with a grand plan to ambush their masters with machetes, axes, swords, rocks, farming tools, and more makeshift weapons. But, as sure as the sun would rise, the scheme was leaked out and the Whites found out the entire plan. To this day, no one has identified the traitor. Nine men who were accused of conjuring the plan were hung; countless of our selfless mothers and fathers were maimed, so it is our responsibility to uphold their vision of freedom. My eyes widened as she told me the story. Eager for her to continue I begged, Tell me more Grandma.

Ok, ok. Just one more, she smiled. There was also a courageous man named Cudjoe, who we honor to this day. He was one of the few slaves we know that got away. At least for a little while. Cudjoe escaped his living quarters and was on the run. His master wasn’t happy about it at all and sent out many people to look for him. Since the island isn’t that big, he was found. Unfortunately, his master wanted to make an example out of Cudjoe. His head was cut from his body and places on a tall tree near the base of a hill. They wanted to make an example out of him to warn other slaves not to run away.

Oh my goodness, Grandma. That was so mean of them. They didn’t have to do him like that, I shouted out.

But she continued her story. Cudjoe’s family gathered the blood-drenched cotton from his clothes that were left behind and preserved it in the living quarters. His spirit continues to permeate our beloved island, and we vow to commemorate his death as well as the slave uprising every year to honor their sacrifice.

I was so grateful that Grandma told me stories about her beloved place of birth. It was because of her; I was so proud to let everyone know where my family originated from. After all, we had such strong people in our lineage. Who wouldn’t be proud of something like that?

Entry

Two

Grandpa would park in front of the TV and yell at the players for missing home runs. The only time he would talk for hours on end was during a baseball game, and each of my cousins took turns listening to him rant about how Jackie Robinson was the last of a dying breed of great baseball players. What is this new generation mess, eh? Jada, you can out pitch any of these sorry, so-called pitchers! And that was typically my cue to leave him and catch up with my crew.

My cousins and I would play outside all day until the streetlights reminded us of our curfew. Carina and Brianna were sisters; Marcus was an only child, and so was I. I was so lucky to live in the same house with them. Carina was the youngest of the bunch; Five years old. Then Brianna was one year older than me and Marcus was the leader of our troupe, three years my senior, at fifteen years old. I lived on the top floor with Mom, Grandma, Grandpa, and Aunt Tanya. She was mom’s younger sister. People always told me I looked like Aunty Tanya because we shared the same dark chocolate complexion and bright brown eyes that came to life in the sun. Marcus stayed on the second floor with his mom and grandparents, while Brianna and Carina lived on the first floor with my Aunt Melissa and Uncle Reginald.

Throughout any given day, we could be found on any floor in the house together or split into random locations.

We the girls, played double-dutch while Marcus practiced his layups. Then there was hopscotch, and freeze tag, but when we grew tired of those, knock-knock zoom and prank calling on the payphone were next on the agenda. Knock-knock zoom was our favorite because we were able to hear the aftermath of our upset neighbors. Them damn raggamuffins playing at my door again! Wait until I get hold of them, I’m going to knock them into next week! shouted Mr. Fred, who lived six doors down.

It was a daily routine during our summers, and looking back, I’m sure it kept the neighbors occupied. After witnessing our neighbors fuss at the air of imaginary visitors, we decided to explore the Yellow Pages. Our favorite prank-calling victims were the local pizza shops; we would order dozens of pizzas and send them to addresses in our neighborhood. We were professional people-watchers, so we knew everyone’s schedule. Since all the addresses we gave were not more than five blocks away, it made it easier to instigate a fiasco and watch it unfold. Marcus was the friendliest of us all, so he used his wit to finesse the pizza deliverer into donating a pizza pie to innocent youth.

"Hey, Mr. Pizza-guy; it’s really a shame that people don’t take your job seriously. Who would order such an amount of pies and not pay for them? Then they have the nerve to curse you out for doing your job. Man, when I grow up, I want to be like you. All a brother is trying to do is fend for his family and The Man is always keeping you down. As Marcus was completing his rehearsed speech, Brianna, Carina, and I would chime in with an occasional, Hmmm-hmm. That’s right. Those people ought to be ashamed." Marcus would close a few moments after, with what we really wanted.

You see, Mr. Pizza-guy, we know that you have little ones at home who are waiting for you to bring them pizza. So my sisters and I would like to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for bringing delicious pizza to our community. Sure wish we could afford one. Each of us flashed a gleaming smile that he could not refuse. Little man, you’re going to grow up to be the next Martin Luther King, Jr! I’m going to reward you for your compassion; here’s a whole pie for you to share. This one’s on me! I knew you had a heart! Marcus beamed. Thanks, soul-brother! Marcus dapped the pizza man up and handed the warm box to us girls.

We were the undercover rascals that caused an uproar in our section of the Bronx but managed to be rewarded in the midst of the mayhem. Our anonymous games allowed us to control the liberation that our parents gave us. As long as we were together during the day, our parents were assured that we were safe. But, when the streetlights began to flicker, the unspoken curfew called our names. When our mischievous festivities were over, it was time to go to the cabaret to watch my mother, who dedicated time showcasing her first love: singing.

Entry

Three

Before falling in love with my father and starting a family, she had dreams of being the next Nina Simone, Ella Fitzgerald, or Josephine Baker. My mother carried the revolutionary spirit of Nina, the flirtatious persona of Josephine, and the impeccable singing prowess of Ella. She was rather reserved by nature, but when she opened her mouth to sing, stories untold roared from her petite diaphragm.

Gospel was her genre of choice, but she was no stranger to the Blues either. I gauged her mood by the hymns she would hum around the house. The blissful days yielded Just a Little Talk with Jesus and Oh, Happy Day. When she was somber, her tunes were long and drawn out; she cleared her throat to prevent choking on tears and often washed the dishes while she sang. Mommy scrubbed the debris out of a rusted pot at a slower tempo in a circular motion; she was mesmerized by the music and cast her frustrations on the aged, cemented food stuck in the bottom of the pot. Duke Ellington and John Coltrane could not help her to escape the Sentimental Mood; her ranges from alto to soprano enabled her to embody the instruments.

I would observe her private performance from the dining room and become entranced by her talent to communicate with herself through music. Mommy’s jubilant attitude masked the silent agony that she carried from being a single mother. So when she needed time to tend to wounds that were caused by others’ poor decisions, namely my father, she used her harp-like chords to sail away to celestial bliss.

As the water cascaded from the sink to the floor, she began to sway back and forth in the sudsy puddles. While she was hosting a cantata, I was gathering her materials for the cabaret performance. Every third Thursday of the month, she sang at The Blues Joint, for 90 minutes with the house band. The owners were a husband and wife, who also happened to be my godparents. Sanford and Clara were high school sweethearts that had an affinity for music. They worked for five years in the corporate world, just to save up enough money for their dream to come true. Sanford, a trumpet player and Clara, a saxophonist, attended the same church as my mother. Once they noticed her skills in the choir, they asked if she would be interested in performing at The Blue Joint weekly and she accepted. If there were ever anything I could do to demonstrate my love for her, it was to earn excellent grades and help her to prepare for her gigs. During these isolated moments, I seized the opportunity to immerse myself in the wonders of her world.

What was it like migrating from England, a place that revered musical talent, to America, a place that did not see the value in including music education as a part of the core curriculum? What was it like to lease your heart to a man who paid rent in the forms of deceit, unfulfilled promises, and a slew of other disappointments? The love he failed to personally provide her was expressed through me, his seed. No matter the depth of pain she stored for my father, Mommy managed to find a place in her heart to nurture me. She rarely took her frustrations out on me and never blamed me for their failed relationship.

Mommy decided to channel her discontentment’s through her music, which was also our bonding time. Jada! I need you to grab my sheet music, music stand, and extra reeds for the musicians. If you can manage to sit still throughout rehearsal, then I will treat you to Mister Softee! I tilted my head to show her the equipment stacked near the door, lined up and ready to go. She couldn’t contain her euphoria, so she grabbed my hand and twirled me close to her bosom.

She queued the up-tempo tune of Giant Steps by John Coltrane. We danced until our feet were sore and then realized we were running late for the show. My sweet baby Jada. You are going to take giant steps one day, my gyal. All of the little leaps of courage that you muster will give you the strength you will need in this cruel world. I honestly didn’t get what she meant, at such a young age, but anything coming from her mouth sounded like music to my ears.

We made our way to the cabaret, and as promised, I stayed put while my mother serenaded the small audience. They were always enamored by her dynamic vocal gamut, statuesque physique, elusive eyes, and ebullient essence. Mommy dominated the room with a presence that could only be resurrected on stage. She summoned a source of strength on stage that she could not evoke in other parts of her life. She authorized boundaries and standards for the sake of her beloved craft, but if she were tasked to do the same in her personal life, passivity would occur instead. Now don’t get me wrong, Mommy would give a tongue-lashing to me in a heartbeat, but she was sometimes oblivious to people’s schemes.

After rehearsal, the giddy audience would surround her and ask endless questions about where she had received lessons, drawn inspiration, and if she could vocally train their children. Some people asked for her autograph, and she would bashfully sign. Her selfless sacrifices to ensure that I lived a quality life surely earned her the spotlight. Once her ego was stroked with audience fandom, it was time to go back to the reality of raising me alone.

Entry

Four

That’s right, baby girl; you get your brains from your daddy! Don’t get distracted by those little boys, either. Hey, Uncle Al, didn’t I tell you my baby was a genius? My father doting on me and showing me off as his most prized possession were the moments that I cherished most. A daughter’s love and admiration for her father is unmatched. Although he didn’t live with Mommy and me, whenever I was with him, I felt secure and joyful. My father offered me a temporary but invaluable fountain of confidence and validation that I would need to sustain future relationships with men.

Daddy, why don’t you ever come to any of my awards ceremonies? Everyone else’s dad is there. Little lady, there aren’t enough awards ceremonies in the world to celebrate your excellence. Don’t you like it when Daddy can brag about you to the family? I cracked a shy-ish smile that assuaged his guilt for not fully committing to his role as a father. Daddy compensated for his lack of support by introducing me to our Montserratian culture. He was born on the tiny, British-dependent island and proudly embraced the heritage. Our weekend ritual included frequenting barbeques organized by the Montserrat Progressive Society of New