(Ep5) Antiguan Fam

(This is part of a storytelling experiment called WELCOME TO YOUR QUARTER-CAREER GAP YEAR)

There are a couple more weeks left in your month-long stay in Antigua. And while your early plans of volunteering and weekly writing groups hasn’t worked out as planned, your steady diet of short story writing has been progressing quite nicely. You’re on the third draft of your story about the adventures of a Black man traveling through Japan, and even though you still have a long way to go to arrive at the end goal you have in mind, you’re inching forward, and that’s something to be proud of. 

Another item that seems to be progressing is that you're getting to know your Antiguan relatives. Just like your characters whose backstories you continue to flesh out, you’ve become more familiar with the backgrounds of the cousins who you’ve been living with for the past few weeks. 

Victor, the 80-year-old cousin (who’s more like an uncle), knew your father growing up. He owns the modest one-story home where you stay, and has lived there for the last 10 years, first with his wife, but then after she passed a few years ago, he lived alone for a couple years before his youngest daughter, Fawnie, moved in within the last several months. 

Fawnie is Victor's 40-year-old daughter who was born and raised in Harlem, New York City. For most of her adult life she lived and worked in Harlem as a physical therapist. But for the last several years she’s become weary of the city, and has wanted a change. During her childhood summers, she would stay in Antigua at the family home, so she always dreamed of a return to the tranquil environment that she loved as a kid.

So, after a few years of prep, she made the move back to Antigua with a plan: she would start a small organic farm (something that was hard to do in the limited green spaces of New York), use Youtube to teach herself how to grow different plant varieties, and then try to sell her harvest to the local Antiguan stores and restaurants – places that hadn’t yet caught on to the organic trend that had been sweeping through the States.  

That was the plan, at least. 

After some trial and error, she was able to grow most of the crops that she wanted. Tomatoes, eggplants, carrots, and sweet potatoes, all filled baskets and cupboards in her house, and she was able to give plenty away to her friends, but selling to businesses didn’t go as well as she had hoped. 

On a small island such as this, who you know goes a long way. She knew a few people who worked in restaurants, or who were friends of friends who worked at hotels. This helped her get some meetings. And at most of her meetings, people would remark at how fresh and delicious her tomatoes were. “The best we’ve tasted in a long time,” they would say.

But the sales never came. 

“It’s the big factory farms – they’re in the way,” she would lament. 

Just like in the States, the big farms had the volume and the speed that smaller farms couldn’t match. 

“Also, it doesn’t matter that my food tastes better. In a lot of these cases, the people at the big farm happen to be the brother of the cousin of the sister of the owner of the restaurant. It’s a small island, so the connections are thick.” 

Fawnie and Victor had connections of their own, but not so much in the food industry. They had quite a bit of family in various parts of the island, but most of their connections came from being Jehovah’s Witnesses. 

You don’t know that much about the faith, and often, you confuse them with Seven-Day Adventists, but today is Sunday, so to satisfy your curiosity, you decide to throw on the only set of nice clothes that you brought with you and accompany your cousins to the service. 

Jehovah Witnesses don’t call their place of worship a church, it’s “Kingdom Hall,” because they view it as place to learn about God’s Kingdom. And as you walk inside, it seems like any other meeting space or auditorium with chairs arranged to face the raised stage. It doesn’t feel like a church. There are no altars, crosses, or images of Christ on display. 

“The Bible says we are to ‘flee from idolatry’ – and that’s what all those decorations are to us,” Victor explains.  

The congregation ranges from young to old, all dressed in their “Sunday Best.” And as you look for a seat, Fawnie and Victor introduce you as their cousin from New York, which causes lots of people to say that they love New York and that they have a cousin there. 

The service starts, and just like other churches you’ve been to, there’s a few songs at the beginning, some reading of scripture, and a short sermon. 

But there’s another portion of the event that you weren’t expecting: the reading of The Watchtower, the Jehovah’s Witness official publication. 

Over the years, you’ve been handed Watchtowers by pleasant Witnesses on the streets of New York, but you never took the time to read through them. 

You look closely at the Watchtower in your hand and see the “study articles” designated for people to read each week. The two articles from previous weeks – “Parents, Children: Communicate With Love” and “Safeguard Your Inheritance by Making Wise Choices” – are followed by today’s article, “Strengthen Your Marriage Through Good Communication.” Two congregation members are chosen to read a few paragraphs of the article, and then a question is posed to the congregation about what was read. 

“What factors can work against good communication in a marriage?” says the Hall leader. 

Several people raise their hands. “Different communication styles,” says one person. 

“Different upbringings,” says another, “like if one person came from a ‘yelling’ household, and the other came from a don’t-talk-about-your-feelings household.”

These are all answers that partially came from the text that was just read, making the whole experience seem very much like Seventh Grade English class. But you’re fascinated. Never before have you seen public discourse like this in church service. There’s a back and forth between the Hall leader and the audience with people answering questions and building off of each other’s answers. It’s left of what you’re used to, but it’s a positive experience just the same. 

The service ends, and after some more introductions and goodbyes, you hop in the car and head home. 

Your curiosity is piqued like never before, and you pepper Victor and Fawnie with questions. They tell you that, for the most part, the Jehovah's Witnesses have similar beliefs to other Christians, but they also have an interesting belief about death. They believe that we are currently in the “end of days,” and sometime soon, God will wipe everyone off the Earth, allow certain folks to stay and live forever on the recently scrubbed and fumigated paradise that was once full of sin, while others – a certain select 144,000 people – get to be His angels and follow Him up to heaven. 

You’re fascinated by the number – it’s so specific. You ask many more questions about these end times, but your cousins don’t have all the answers and they say that you can either read the Bible or look online for more info

After arriving home, you write about your Kingdom Hall experience. Having grown up in a Methodist church, you understand the somewhat similar Jehovah's Witness beliefs, even if you don’t agree with many of them. Fifteen years of expanding your religious knowledge post-college has left you skeptical of traditional religious practice, but you feel thankful for the foundation of morals and ethics that the practice laid down when you were young. In fact, most of your family members in the U.S. and abroad currently, or in the past, have had some sort of church-centered upbringing. This by no means makes them perfect,  of course, but you've noticed a culture of kindness and eagerness to help that’s common amongst all of your cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. You feel very lucky to have this in your family, realizing that not everyone is so fortunate. 

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(Ep1) Stimulation Deficit Disorder

(This is part of a storytelling experiment called WELCOME TO YOUR QUARTER-CAREER GAP YEAR)

You’re sitting at a patio table in Malone's beach bar, a restaurant and outdoor concert venue on Fort James Beach in Antigua. It's sunny and quite balmy, but your table is underneath a thatched-roof pavilion, so you don’t feel the full impact of the ball of fire in the sky. A cool breeze rolls across your skin, while it also causes the pages of the notebook in front of you to flutter. 

“This is the life,” you imagine someone saying about where you are. But that’s not how you currently feel, despite the fact that crystal blue waters gently lick the white sand 30 yards from where you sit.  

Looking down at your notebook, you think about the short story you’re writing. This is awful, you think. The idea excites you, but the execution, as far as you see, is severely lacking. It deals with the shenanigans of a Black American guy around your age (34/35), who, during a trip to Japan, meets a former-Sumo-wrestler-turned-tour-guide who takes him on a little adventure through Tokyo. You’ve been working on it since your trip to Japan last year. And even though you’ve written several drafts, it doesn’t come close to the sweeping adventure that you imagined it would be. 

Fixing your gaze on the waves, you consider the fact that yes, crafting this story is difficult, but what makes it more oppressive is that you don’t have much else to take your mind off of it. 

This was supposed to be a smooth transition into a new life – or at least a slightly new direction in life. Two months ago, you were in New York City, working your butt off as an advertising copywriter. You loved your colleagues, but you needed a change. Plus, the urge to travel and to write fiction tugged at you like a petulant little child, so you finally gave in and paid attention. 

After a few stops and starts, you had finally made it to the first leg of a self-designed, year-long journey that would give you time to write, but also to explore and volunteer in the countries you would visit. 

But fifteen days in, things weren’t going as smoothly as planned. In Antigua, the home country of your father, where you stayed with your 80-year-old cousin and his 40-year old daughter, you had hoped to be near the end of writing a short story, volunteering with a school or film production company, attending regular writing group meetings, and doing a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure type project where students from your school program back home voted on where you went and what you did next. 

But at the moment, none of these were happening. So while sitting at the table underneath the pavilion, you assess your situation. 

“I have stimulation deficit disorder,” you think to yourself. There’s no such thing as stimulation deficit disorder, but that's how you feel. In New York, you had plenty of activities to fill your time. But here in Antigua, all you have is time. 

Stopping your line of thinking, you look around. Time for a dip in the sea. Maybe it could wash away some these negative thoughts, at least for the moment. 

You pack up your backpack and head down to the beach.

After a dip in the ocean, you settle down on your towel and crack open a book about Antigua. It was written by a guy who grew up here in the 70’s. It talks about living on the island in a simpler time where there wasn’t much technology, so people were very resourceful. You only read one page, because you can’t focus. So, you put on your headphones and start listening to a podcast about paleo fundamentals and eating whole foods. 

After a few minutes, you put that down as well.  

It bothers you that you’re not actually “doing” anything but writing stories. Time to put in some more work – or at the very least, to get out of the sun. 

You put on your clothes and start walking back down the winding road that leads to your cousin’s house. While passing by the beach bar, you see a dead tarantula in the road. It was flattened by a car, no doubt. It reminds you of how you’re feeling right now. A little flattened by making the choice to “cross the road,” so to speak, to see what else is out there, to see what other kind of opportunities life has in store for you. 

Further down the road you pass a grass field with grazing horses. 

There’s nobody nearby, so you wonder who owns them. The beasts pay you no mind as you walk by. 

Across the street from the field is a one story house with a helipad beside it. A woman sits on the porch petting a hefty-looking Rottweiler. You wave to the woman. This is Marcy. She sells helicopter tours for Antigua, Barbuda, and the lava-ravaged Montserrat. Yesterday, you talked to her about a possible work exchange: in exchange for your copywriting help on their website, brochures, and whatever they need, you’d get a helicopter tour over Montserrat. She said that she wasn’t the person to talk to, but could forward your work samples to the appropriate people. 

You didn’t have a good feeling that anything would come of it, but you decide not to dwell on what you have no control over. She walks back inside the house immediately after she waves to you. 

Turning down the street to your cousin’s house – a dirt road with power lines running alongside it – you run into your cousin’s dog, a small mutt with a mixed brown and white coat. 

“How you doing, boy? Huh? How you doing?” you say, assuming the dog recognizes you from the last 15 days.

Crouching down, you motion for the dog to come. But it takes a step back, unsure of whether to trust you.

“You look lost, boy,” you say, standing up. “But hey," you chuckle, "so do I.” 

Then you continue down the road toward the house with the dog trailing behind.

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