Life Beyond Measure Page 2

  You will have questions after I’m gone. Such answers as I might embrace in the course of this book may or may not apply when you stroll across these pages. But never mind. What I can promise is to give you my best judgment on what I’ve seen in my time, and my understanding of what unfolded even earlier and in the millennia before we came along.

  What I can also promise, here at the outset of our correspondence, is that as you meet up with some of the questions that have nurtured my curiosity starting at a very early age, you’ll discover that none of them are new. Nor are the answers. They are all variations of other questions, other answers, passing quietly from culture to culture over thousands of years, proclaiming that for salvation and redemption one must frame one’s own questions, seek one’s own answers, in the boundary of one’s own time. Each generation must be responsible for itself, and there’s no escaping that.

  Even so, dearest Ayele, it can be helpful at crucial moments to listen to the murmurings of ancestors in whose footsteps we follow. And sometimes, if we’re fortunate, they catch us off guard and make themselves known to us as well. I hear them even today, out of a distant time, through fading recollections of my father and our village elders gathered in conversation, wrestling with the fundamental questions of life, survival, and death. All ordinary working men: fishermen, farmers, men who built houses out of palm leaves and tree trunks, men who exchanged fish for land crabs, others who worked the sea in respectful ways, others who worked the land with reverence. A few were teachers, and others worked for the colonial government. A few owned petty shops stocked with items shipped in from the capital island, Nassau. Mostly flour, sugar, rice, lard, pork, and the like. Some dry goods, tobacco, fishhooks; some lobster pots.

  None, to my knowledge, were philosophers by trade. Certainly my father, your great-great-grandfather Reggie Poitier, who had no formal education and who made his living for most of his adult life as a tomato farmer, would not have deemed himself so. Nonetheless, I can see him in my mind’s eye as a man of stature among his peers, respected and sought after for his sound judgment, as together he and his fellows dared to grapple with the very questions that have come to occupy me and that will one day, soon enough, become important to you. My father and our village elders undertook the struggle to make sense of their surroundings and the world beyond, not by choice, but in response to life-and-death issues they were challenged by nature to address—both in their own interests, and in the interest of each member of our village community as well.

  This is to say, little one, that though your great-great grandfather and the elders from my time are sadly not with us anymore, we keep them alive in part by honoring the questions they searched their whole lives to answer. From the bits we can know of them and the other individuals from our collective family tree, we can better understand where we come from and where we’re headed.

  On a recent return to the place where my life began, I was startled at first to find much of Cat Island as it was seventy-five years ago, when I was five years old. But that impression was fleeting. The reality, dear Ayele, is that nothing remains the same. The number of villagers has shrunk. The young are increasingly drawn to the world outside. No one that I could find was left with even hazy images or fading recollections of the stories passed on by my father’s generation, history that is now on the verge of extinction. So it falls to me to preserve what I can for you by returning to the fundamental questions and touching on answers in ways that my father and his peers of village elders would do today—assuming that they would be as conversant with the outside world in which I now live as I was with the village life they once lived.

  Of course, my recent visit back to Cat Island flooded me with so many memories, and returned me to such a state of childhood, that I had to consciously remind myself that I, too, had changed. But I will admit to moments when I wanted nothing more than to prove to everyone that I could still race along the beach at top speed and scale the rocks as nimbly as ever.

  There it is, my dear Ayele. I close my first letter to you by agreeing that, true to my nature, I’ve got much more to see and do before I will yield willingly to forces meant to tell me when to stop or to stand in my way. Still, from the perch where I sit now on occasion, it can be seen that I, your great-grandfather, my journey, my mission, my destiny, are all winding toward their final bend in the road.

  You, my great-granddaughter, who have just begun to prance in the starter’s gate of life: your journey, in effect, is now in motion, your mission assigned, your destiny already fixed in time. For each of us, our journey, our mission, our destiny, each knows exactly who we are; how far we are from home; how close we are to our journey’s end. And when we stumble along the way, as surely we will from time to time, as I can tell you from experience, or when we get lost, or, as in my case, when a touch of weariness slows us down, the light of wisdom from an unknown source draws near, lifts us gently to our feet, quenches our thirst, and points us forward toward wherever our destiny waits.

  second letter

  GETTING TO KNOW YOU

  Dear Ayele,

  So much has happened in the seventeen months since your birth that I have not been able to keep pace with the stream of electronically transmitted snapshots of your latest exploits. The most arresting of these are a dazzling series that show you bending over from the waist, your head only inches from the floor as you look back between your legs at the camera in your father’s hands. The shots dance across my desktop in rapid flashes, capturing your upside-down face, already brightened with infectious delight clearly triggered by the raucous encouragement of adoring grown-ups, all members of your loving family.

  Word has it from reliable sources that you are being spoiled rotten by all of them—your great-grandmother Juanita in particular. I’ve asked your mother and your grandmother Beverly to please keep an eye out on that woman. She’s a baby spoiler for sure. But we may be out of luck. Those two, just like your great-aunts, have long ago fallen on her sword.

  Fortunately, during your first year and a half of life these doting women have been cooperative in allowing you and me to share some quality time in four memorable visits together—starting with the moment I first met you in the hospital in Atlanta, one day after your birth.

  Our next encounter took place when you were a little more than three months of age, on March 25, 2006. That was the day of your christening—which we referred to as “The Morning of Ayele’s Outdooring,” according to the tradition of the ritual that has been steeped in the religious practices of Ghana, in West Africa.

  Held in the Atlanta home of your grandmother Beverly and attended by family and friends numbering in excess of seventy-five people, it was a ceremony the likes of which I had never seen, and certainly one I will never forget. As the principal player, you once again demonstrated a natural grace in enjoying your role as the center of attention. When I learned that I was to have a supporting role in your rite of passage, I was all the more pleased to do my part in welcoming you out into the world officially.

  We were honored to have a gentleman named Tralance Addy lead the proceedings—an accomplished native son of Ghana’s cultural establishment who is an important figure on behalf of the political, spiritual, and social leadership of Ghana’s indigenous people, among whom was your mother’s father, your maternal grandfather, William Mould. Though fluent in English, Mr. Addy chose to conduct the ceremony in the Ga language of his tribe, with an English translator at his side.

  In a voice that was steady, a tone both melodic and conversational, Mr. Addy began by asking the assembled crowd to gather in a semicircle on the back porch of the house, overlooking the garden—where he and his translator took their places, ready to proceed. The crowd, their anticipation at a high level, settled themselves in short order.

  Mr. Addy then called for the eldest of the family’s patriarchs to join him in the garden. That being my cue, I entered the garden and stood facing him. So silent and still were those present on the back
porch that I was able to revel in the familiar sounds of the outdoors—the chirping of the lonely winter birds, the whirring of a light breeze, the buzzing of insects complaining about the chill in the air. After a beat or so, Mr. Addy called for mother and child.

  From the house, where you and your mother, Aisha, had been waiting to be summoned, the two of you emerged. With you in her arms, your mother stepped out onto the porch and moved gracefully down into the garden, where she, too, stood face-to-face with Mr. Addy, who then called on your father, Darryl, to step forward and, “Speak the name that has been chosen for this child.”

  “Sydney Ayele LaBarrie,” Darryl said with great poise and pride, emphasizing as he did the music of the pronunciation of Ah-yayl-ee, a name that means “first daughter born,” as you are to your parents and the lineage that follows you.

  Mr. Addy instructed your mother to pass you to your father—who held you briefly before he was asked by Mr. Addy to pass you to me. Once you were in my arms, Mr. Addy asked me to raise you high above my head and show you to the heavens. In doing so, I paused for a second to look up at the endless expanse of sky smiling on your upturned face, and then was guided to slowly lower you down toward the earth, until the bottom of your feet rested on the tops of my shoes. This perfect moment, shared by everyone in attendance, was understood to symbolize the coming of the day when you will walk in the footsteps of your ancestors.

  Again, Mr. Addy asked me to repeat the offer of you to the heavens, and to lower you once more to the tops of my shoes. From there, I was asked to lower you further, until both of your feet touched the face of the earth.

  Throughout the profoundly moving ceremony, Ayele, you seemed to be aware of the momentousness of the occasion, as though you could understand on some deep, ancient level what Mr. Addy was saying. Or at least that was how I felt listening to him speak, following his pace, which had the soft, unhurried ring of simple truths, almost as if history, tradition, faith, and destiny were speaking for themselves, allowing Mr. Addy’s voice to be their instrument.

  Now that you had taken your first symbolic step along the path into life, led by older generations, at the culmination of the proceedings all those gathered were solemnly tasked with the responsibility of serving as elders, looking out for you and protecting you in your journey to come. The ceremony thus transformed you and named you as one of us while elevating us to the status of ancestors—relevant in your life for as long as we would live, and even longer. Truly, it was one of the most joyful, reverent rituals I’d ever experienced.

  Eight months later came our third meeting, not long before your first birthday in early winter 2006. It was not nearly as auspicious as the “Morning of Ayele’s Outdooring,” although it served to solidify my belief that you are as wise beyond your years as you have appeared to be already. This visit was made possible when I returned to Atlanta at the invitation of Morehouse College to receive their Candle in the Dark Award. Your maternal grandmother—who is also my first-born daughter, Beverly—invited family members living in the Atlanta area to dinner at her home, in celebration of my having been chosen by Morehouse to be honored that weekend.

  You were beginning to walk, though your stride was not yet steady. You did a lot of hanging on to the hems of skirts and pulling yourself upright along the legs of chairs and tables.

  As you were scooting between the legs of your grand-aunts, I noticed that when moving faster served your purpose, you switched abruptly to scurrying about on all fours, with no regard for speed limits. No matter where I turned, there you would be. How was it possible, I wondered, that you could cover so much ground in so little time? Then it dawned on me! Your great-grandmother Juanita was chasing you down, scooping you up, and transporting you to wherever I was, even depositing you into my lap, from which you would wiggle your way back to the floor and scoot off along the same route she had taken on her exit.

  I glanced around the living room until I spotted your great-grandmother, and I kept her under surveillance. In a couple of minutes you appeared and started tugging on the hem of her skirt. Aha! That’s when I got it: the whole thing was a conspiracy. With my own eyes I watched as she “apprehended” you and headed back to where she had last seen me. You both found, to your great surprise, that I had relocated to some other part of the house, from where I watched the two of you search frantically for me, the object of your little game. Then, after a while—would you believe it?—I found myself missing the part you had secretly given me to play in your game. Finally I thought to myself, What could have been more fun than discovering the wool had been pulled over my eyes? Probably, I decided, it would have been learning that the pullers of the wool were none other than my great-granddaughter and her great-grandmother—whom I am sworn to keep an eye on.

  But that was not the last episode in which you helped with some wool pulling. As it so happened, our fourth meeting—which took place a few months later—involved a conspiracy in which you participated with others, including my beloved wife, who is by marriage your great-grandmother Joanna.

  Around this same time—coincidentally, not long after I returned to Los Angeles after receiving the award from Morehouse College—I found myself being subjected to some rather pointed put-down comments about my taste in clothing. They came from the two youngest of my six daughters, your great-aunts Anika and Sydney, whose disdain for the way I dressed was no secret in the family.

  Under almost any other circumstances, I am putty in the hands of all my daughters. With their beauty, charm, brilliance, and out-spoken independence, Anika and Sydney know that on countless subjects I am more than interested in whatever they have to say. That is, except when it comes to my apparel. Knowing that, the two began a not-so-subtle campaign to convince me of what was wrong with my clothes.

  “Too old-fashioned,” they insisted. My suits looked “like thirty-, forty-year-old hand-me-downs,” they charged.

  “To the contrary: neither are my suits that old, nor are they hand-me-downs,” I invariably responded—with hurt feelings. But they wouldn’t let up; on and on they would go, pounding and pounding, trying to crash through my defenses.

  Staying strong—very strong, I might add, for a man who was about to celebrate turning eighty—I refused to budge from the ground upon which I stood until one February morning over breakfast, when Anika and Sydney took a different tack.

  “OK, Dad,” Anika began. “Look, we want to take you out shopping for your birthday.”

  Sydney jumped in: “And we will pay for everything, on one condition: we will pick out what we think will look best on you.”

  Aha. I knew instantly how I would turn their proposal into a lose-lose situation for them in the end, and one that would teach them a lesson.

  With my best poker face, one even your great-grandmother Joanna couldn’t read, or so I gathered from her lack of reaction, I agreed to the plan.

  By the time I get through turning the tables on the two of them, I said to myself, they will hoist the white flag, and my wardrobe will once again be my business. And mine alone.

  Still, over the next few days, just knowing how smart those two are began to give me pause. I set to wonder if their proposal sounded too good to be that good. As I chewed on that thought, the scent of a rat flew up my nose. It was simply a reminder that my kids had outsmarted me too many times before.

  My wife—who is also a mind reader, and almost always seems to be within earshot of all such conversations between me and our daughters—somehow figured out yet again what I was thinking. How did she do that? It was as if she had been sitting inside my head when I began to second-guess my daughters’ motivations for our upcoming shopping expedition.

  “As always,” said Joanna, who actually had been listening after all, and not sitting in my head, as it seemed, “it’s in the interest of your well-being.”

  And, she had a point. So I caved. I sealed the deal with my daughters and promised I would wait patiently until this makeover process completed itself, then
check out the reinvented, cool, hip, laid-back, fun person who was expected to replace the old me.

  When the appointed day arrived and the two took me out shopping, true to form they escorted me precisely to the places I knew they had in mind. They took me to Old Navy and the Gap. They took me to places where you find exotic T-shirts, places where I tried on T-shirts that had no sleeves. They tried cargo pants on me. They took me to places where I had to try hard to keep a straight face because I had to at least appear cooperative.

  At each stop, one or the other, or both in unison, would say, “How do you like that, Dad?”

  And no matter what I had tried on, each time I replied, “That’s OK, that looks sort of nice.”

  Everything looked terrible! I looked like an old fool dressed up in that kind of stuff.

  We visited seven or eight places, and we wound up—because they wanted to play their game properly—at Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, and a couple of French places, but that was just to keep me off my guard. The stuff they picked there was no different than the stuff they picked up at the other places.

  We shopped until the sun started to go down, at which point we had about twenty-five outfits for me—none of which I intended ever to wear.

  But finally, sticking to my own plan, I said, “OK, guys, I’m impressed. Let’s go home.”

  “Wait,” said Sydney, “we have one more stop.”

  Before I could argue, Anika announced, “Sneakers, Dad. We’ve got to get you some hip sneakers.”

  Now, I don’t know what hip sneakers are, but I can tell you that when we made our last stop and I tried them on, I knew that these were not they.

  Nothing appealed to me in the least. There were sneakers you’d find on any basketball court, and there were walking shoes and just casual stuff. None of it was stuff I would ever wear. One of my daughters pointed out, “But remember your new pants and the jacket and the T-shirt. You can only wear hip sneakers with that outfit.”