Daddy in Politics

The Jamaican government has announced General Elections on Sept 3rd. Daddy’s former party, the incumbent JLP is expected to win over the opposition PNP led by my old JC school mate Dr. Peter Phillips. Because the government has ignored my suggestion that we in the diaspora be allowed to vote, I can’t vote. That needs to be changed. But, I digress.....

Part II: Daddy in Politics

Daddy graduated from the University of London with an M.A. degree. His Masters dissertation topic was 'Jamaica Land Law'. According to my cousin Paul Miller, Daddy married Mommy at St. Luke's Anglican Church, Cross Roads in Kingston. After two children, the marriage ended in about 4 years.

Daddy’s contract in Sierra Leone finished that summer so Daddy and I returned to Jamaica together. Daddy was awarded Sierra Leon's Independence Medal. Daddy was 36 years old. Daddy was then asked by the British Colonial Office and the Jamaica Labour Party’s (JLP) Prime Minister Bustamante (Busta) to be Jamaica’s first Attorney General at Jamaica’s Independence August 6th, 1962 succeeding the British Colonial’s Leslie J. Cundall. In Jamaica, Senators of the Upper house are appointed – not elected. Daddy was also appointed a Senator by Busta. Later on, Daddy made the big mistake of entering representational politics and became a JLP St. Catherine South Member of Parliament (MP). He should just have stayed as an un-elected Senator and Attorney General. Representational politics was hard and nearly killed him. When he became an MP, Daddy was also appointed Minister of Legal Affairs (Justice) - in addition to still being Attorney General. Daddy’s star was rising but he was overworked. He became a part of Busta’s inner circle. My cousin Paul also just let me know that Daddy was appointed Queen's Council because of his superior knowledge and courtroom tactics. My mother's brother Rupert (a brilliant man himself who should have his life documented too) said to Paul that Victor Grant was among the finest legal minds Jamaica had produced. Born in the very rural country district of Frankfield, went to a unknown school called Carron High, Daddy was now: Victor Grant LLB, LLM (Masters of Law degree), QC. MP, Barrister at Law, Attorney General, Minister of Legal Affairs and a holder of the Sierra Leone Independence Medal. Wow.

As a child I campaigned with Daddy in his St. Catherine constituency which included Spanish Town. I put up flyers in businesses, stores and light posts. I handed out flyers to people and talked politics with them – still a child. I became steeped in politics and learned more about politics than I did when I later studied Political Science at Carleton University in Canada. Daddy was my mentor.  Daddy had two luxury cars one was a gas guzzling V8 Jaguar with a well-stocked bar in the back. Both cars had sirens and Jamaican flags flying on them. Daddy would let me turn on the siren. That was fun. We would tear around siren blaring. Daddy also asked me to use the mike on the car’s public address system to announce his upcoming political meetings. Henry was Daddy's driver. Henry eventually became the House Marshal of Jamaica’s House of Representatives. Daddy always carried a gun – a Smith and Wesson snub nosed 38 which was easy to conceal. Sometimes, he would let me hold it. When I got my own gun, I chose the same model. I watched Daddy’s back during political meetings – still technically a child but I was growing up fast. I hit nearly 6 ft in height and people said I looked older than I was. Sometimes, opponents would stone political meetings. Later, during the Michael Manley era of the 70s, political opponents would switch from stones, knives and ice picks to guns.

Daddy remarried twice. His third and last wife was 'Aunt Gwen'. I was offered the chance to live with Daddy for a while. Aunt Gwen was a white New York socialite and I think a former Beauty Queen. She would not even think of having children as that would spoil her figure. She was what we call in Jamaican patois ‘Stocious’ or 'Boasy' (a show off, a real snob). She had silver grey hair even though she was quite young. I suspect it was dyed. Somehow the silver hair just made her look more glamorous. She often also wore tight silver sequined very short dresses which highlighted her fabulous figure and awesome legs. She must have used a lot of hair spray as every hair was always in place. Her face was caked with makeup. Never saw her without makeup. Aunt Gwen chain smoked cigarettes from a silver cigarette holder. She was always glamorously dressed and in silver spike heels. Aunt Gwen was like a shimmering, glittering, walking silver statue with that long silver cigarette holder. She must have worn spike heels even in the shower. She always had some fancy drink in her hand. She would call me ‘Dawlin’ with her heavy, deep throated east coast accent. I had never experienced anyone like her before and I have never experienced a woman like that since. I was in love. Daddy had a lot of trophies in his house. Aunt Gwen was his Trophy wife. There was another trophy in the house, a real tiger skin rug with the head still intact on the living room floor. I think it was given to Daddy by Mao Tse Tung who Daddy met. I had pictures of Daddy and Mao having a great time together in China – which is weird as Daddy was virulently anti-communist. Paintings and sculptures from famous artists were all over his house so Aunt Gwen fit right in. She should have had a shelf of her own! Aunt Gwen fawned over me and I worshipped her. She gave me money and anything I wanted. I never had it so good.

During that time I lived with Daddy and Aunt Gwen, I no longer walked to school. I arrived at JC in a limo driven by a chauffeur (Henry was the driver, now the House Marshal of Jamaica’s House of Representatives) with sirens and a police escort. I now had tons of money. Mommy never gave me any money. I splurged at school and bought out the Tuck shop to give my classmates snacks and sodas.

When Daddy returned me to Mommy, I was asked whether I wanted to live with Daddy or Mommy. I was a young child. Even though Daddy had his own house on Paddington Terrace (now occupied by Seaga’s family), Daddy lived in a big, beautifully furnished government house also on Paddington. Mommy’s house in Mona Heights was less than a quarter of the size and very modestly furnished. Not aware of Mommy’s sacrifices on my behalf and thinking about the luxury of living with Daddy, I told Mommy I wanted to live with Daddy. Mummy was good looking but Aunt Gwen was white, much more glamorous and rich. What was I to do? I was a child. Gimmie di Bling! Mommy got mad, told me I was an ungrateful bastard and it never happened. I stayed with Mommy who took a long time to forgive me.

An Angry Young Man

For all of my years in high school at Jamaica College (JC), I had been severely bullied. The biggest bully at JC is now a famous entertainer. He was huge. I was initially always a year younger and smaller than my classmates and at that age, a year is a lot. I was skinny, wore glasses and mostly khaki short pants to school. I grew so fast that the shorts were always too short and I had very skinny legs. On top of that, I was nearsighted and wore glasses. My hair was shaved low so I looked ridiculous and I was teased mercilessly. I begged Mommy for long pants – to no avail. It was only in my final years that I got long pants. Other boys would ‘smash’ me, slap my bald head with the palms of their hands. I told Mommy about the bullying. Mommy just told me to ignore it. My grades dropped and I became sullen and started to swear. Exasperated, Mommy beat me with all her might with everything she had, belts, shoes, tree branches, you name it. The more Mommy beat me, the more my grades dropped and the more defiant I became. I knew Mommy hated swearing so when she hit me, I would yell 'Yu Bumboclaat' (Jamaican bad word). She would hit me more but I just continued to curse her: 'Yu Rassclaat' (another Jamaican Bad word) I would scream. I drove Mommy crazy. I became sullen, disrespectful and angry. I was a bomb about to explode.

One day, as our class was going from the classroom to the Biology Lab, the class bully blocked the door demanding my lunch money. All JC boys got lunch money except me. Mommy insisted that I go home for lunch as we lived across the road from the school. The bully would not believe that I had no lunch money so he used his huge body to block the door. I lost it. I quickly grabbed a metal chair and hit him with it. He went down but he did not die. He was trying to get back up. I knew if he got up, I would be dead meat so I decided to hit him in the head again with the metal chair to kill him. As I swung the chair mid-arc, a strong arm grabbed my arm stopping my swing and I saw ‘Chabo’, the Vice Principal holding me and yelling ‘are you going to kill him?’ I said yes because he is going to hurt me.

The bully was taken to the school clinic (infirmary) and I was marched to the principal Mr. Middleton’s office. The punishment at JC for fighting was ‘six of the best’ – six lashes with a cane. In Mr. Middleton’s office I was ordered to ‘bend over’. I refused, told Mr. Middleton to ‘Fuck Off’. Mr. Middleton looked like he was going to have a heart attack. He was a very white Englishman, a former British Army drill sergeant who was very proper. He said, pompously that since I refused to accept the punishment of the school, I was expelled. I told them to Fuck Off again, marched out of the office and slammed the door. I will never forget the look of astonishment on Mr. Middleton’s and Chabo’s faces.

Estrangement

I never told my Mom what happened and for awhile, she was unaware that I had been expelled. She left early for work and came home long after I came home from school. I was having a ball riding my bike all day while everybody else had to go to school! I rode up into the hills with my dog Princess, picked and ate mangoes and other fruits - totally carefree. One day when I came home from gallivanting, I saw a limo in our driveway. I wheeled my bike into the house intending to park it in my bedroom. As I passed through the living room, I saw Daddy and two strange men on the sofa and Mommy was sitting on a chair. Little did I know that Mommy had become aware that I had been expelled and what was to happen. As I passed and said ‘Good Evening’ to everyone, Daddy jumped up shrieking ‘if you are not going to take the punishment of the school you will get my punishment!’ He had a cane in his hand. I dropped my bike and ran to my room. I was quick as I had been a sprinter at JC. Daddy thought I was running from him. Little did Daddy know. I was a Boy Scout with a very big knife that I kept razor sharp. I had taken the knife to a machine shop to be extra sharpened so it was so sharp you could shave with it. Daddy thought I was running from him so he came after me. I was not running from him, I was running for my knife. I got to my bedroom first with Daddy in hot pursuit the cane flashing and catching me a couple of times. I grabbed my knife off of my vanity, unsheathed it and went for Daddy’s throat. Realizing that I was going to kill him, Daddy tried to reverse in the narrow passageway with its shiny tile floor. Daddy’s smooth leather bottomed shoes with metal horseshoe heels gave him no traction on our shiny tile floor. I still remember Daddy desperately slipping and sliding trying to get away from me crying ‘Cynthia, the boy is going to kill me!’. Like a Bugs Bunny cartoon character with his feet moving rapidly but barely moving, Daddy ran out of the house. He had a gun in his car.

The other two men with Daddy turned out to be my Uncle John from New York and another friend of Daddy’s who was a New York cop. The cop, using cop tactics used a chair to try and subdue me by pinning me against the wall. By now, adrenaline pumping, he was no match for me. I grabbed the foot of the chair as he approached, threw it aside and went at him with the knife. He ran outside too. By now, everybody was outside, very frightened. Fortunately, Mommy said ‘Enough’ and intervened. She came up to me and told me to give her the knife. I refused saying that Daddy was going to hurt me and I was tired of people hurting me. She told Daddy, Uncle John and his friend to leave and I, crying by this time, gave her the knife. Would I have killed Daddy at the time? Yes. I was a very traumatized, very bullied child by this time.

The next day, I got a call from JC. I was to return to school, no punishment. Meetings must have been held behind closed doors. I don’t really know because now Daddy and I were not speaking. When I came back to JC, everybody was amazed that I was not punished. To tell Mr. Middleton and the feared Chabo to Fuck Off? That was unheard of. The bully was still very injured and he avoided me. As a matter of fact, all the bullies avoided me. JC made me a 'Monitor' responsible for school discipline. I got RESPECT. I was not a Christian yet, I openly swore (usually not done by boys at JC) and I was thought to be tough. That was when I realized my calling. I wanted to be a protector of the weak. I wanted to be a cop. I joined the Jamaica Constabulary Force right out of school but that is a story for another time. Suffice it to say that my short time in the force was a disaster.

In 1968-69, now a member of the Church of Christ, I went to finish my final year in high school in Mission Bay High School, San Diego, California. Through the aegis of the International Christian Youth Exchange Program, I lived with a lovely and loving family – The Stummans. A white family in (by my standards) a rich area. The first Sunday, I went to the local, white Church of Christ and the ushers tried to prevent me from entering the church saying niggers go to the congregation in downtown San Diego – very far away. They used the ‘N’ word but it did not have the same impact on me because we don’t use it in Jamaica. The closest Jamaican word is 'nyaga' which means a black person who is not well behaved. I went into that local Church of Christ anyway. I was shunned, glared at, called a nigger several times. I never went back. After that, I worshiped with the Stummans at their Methodist church which was a loving congregation that accepted me with open arms. Ironically, the Church of Christ claims to be the one true Church….so much for that.

In the US, I became ‘radicalized’ as they call it now. Unlike at Jamaica College where I did poorly, I did very well in Mission Bay High School in San Diego and got the honor of a ‘Letter’ for track and field. You get to wear a special jacket with a huge M on the back. Quite an honor. Shoulda kept that jacket... I embraced the Black Power and Anti-Vietnam war movements in San Diego. I grew a huge afro, wore Mexican tire sandals, very dark wire rimmed dark glasses and beads everywhere - even in my hair. There was a picture of me in the local San Diego Paper participating in an Anti-Vietnam war student strike/sit in at Mission Bay High with police cars circling in the background.

Daddy as Attorney General and Minister of Justice had denounced Black Power and was instrumental in banning several books about Black Power from Jamaica. Daddy was also instrumental in legally barring the black activist Walter Rodney from Jamaica. That action triggered massive riots in Jamaica. Daddy, black as he was, seemed to be the most anti-Black Power person in the cabinet. Even at a conference in Canada, Daddy denounced Black Power (Ottawa Citizen newspaper). When I returned to Jamaica, I went to see Daddy at his office still decked out in my Black Power look to attempt a reconciliation. Daddy was horrified at my appearance, cussed me, told me I was embarrassing him and ran me out of his office at the Ministry yelling and screaming at me. I was in tears and ran into Mommy's arms - while she was at work. Always the momma's boy... Never saw Daddy again for a while after that.

Daddy was a cabinet minister in the corrupt JLP regime of the 60s. That JLP regime was so corrupt that one of the Ministers was known as 'Mr. Ten Percent' - contractors for his ministry had to kick back 10% of the value of the contracts to him. However, Daddy was never accused of corruption by anybody. The people of St. Catherine worshiped Prime Minister Bustamante so Daddy being allied with Busta benefited from that for a while but I do not believe that Daddy was a good politician. He was a great lawyer and tried to help many people in his constituency personally but his constituency itself remained mostly poor and undeveloped which, like most of Jamaica it remains to this day. Eventually, in 1972, the people of Jamaica became fed up with their condition and elected the opposition People’s National Party’s (PNP) Michael ‘Joshua’ Manley as Prime Minister by a landslide. Daddy lost his seat and his job. Daddy was very bitter as he felt he had worked very hard for the people of Jamaica. Losing broke his heart - literally. Daddy was not used to losing as he had always, always been a winner. Daddy had been instrumental in founding the Law School at the University of the West Indies and had had a distinguished academic, legal and political career up to that point. Rejected by the electorate, Daddy seemed lost. Daddy seemed to have lost his moorings..no wonder he died - of a broken heart (heart attack).

Even though I could not vote in that 1972 election because I was too young (voting age was 21 then), I had switched sides supporting Daddy's opposition. I campaigned for and strongly supported Michael Manley who lowered the voting age to 18 when he won the elections. Daddy hated Michael Manley saying Manley was a ‘Communist’. Needless to say, my supporting his opposition and him losing his job did not endear me to him. After politics, Daddy opened a private law practice with offices on Duke Street in Kingston and another office in Spanish Town. He became even more successful financially as his services were in demand but his heart was not in it. I think he missed the adulation of the people and he never got over his electoral defeat. I can understand. I ran for Ottawa MP once in Canada - came second out of four candidates. Never again. The few times I have been on a political podium, as the people cheer you, it is orgasmic. It can be addictive. Even though we were at opposite ends of the political spectrum Daddy and I eventually became close again. Although occasionally he would brighten up and be the life of the party even stealing one of my dates during a double date with him and his secretary Florence (her amazing story another time), when we were alone together, there was a sadness about him. The evening he died, I had dinner with him and told him he looked thin. Daddy said that was good as his doc said he should lose some weight. Those were his last words to me before I went home. He died alone in his sleep that night....

The End

Thanks for reading my self-isolation therapy. I really appreciate the feedback - positive and negative (there has been some negative). One (former) friend straight up told me to keep my 'negative' jottings to myself! Fortunately, most of you don't seem to mind my 'negative jottings'.

Cheers!

Raymond D. Grant

Mr. Middleton, my JC Headmaster

Me and some members of the Mona Church of Christ. Guess which one is me!