A Day in the Life of a SALT-er

Just an ordinary day.  No life threatening events or enlightening epiphanies, just an average day.

 Wednesday morning.  My favourite morning because I don’t have to be at school until late.  I have hours to spare compared to the days I’m out the door at 6:30.  Always dragging behind April, who is one of those people who wakes up in overdrive – springing out of bed.  I am one of those people who will never understand how.

But Wednesdays I get to do things my speed.  Jamaica’s speed I like to think – although many Jamaican’s are very early risers.  Lounge. coffee. cereal.  mmmm.. cereal. another bowl. read a chapter.  Eventually I’m out the door.

“Pssst.”

Oh please no, not already.  I haven’t even reached the gate yet.  I know it’s Spragga, the neighbour, without even looking.  Ignore.  Of course this only enspires a louder, longer Psssssssst!  PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST!! 

Fine! smile and wave, quickly escape out the gate.

At Reading Prep School, I see TJ a fourth grader.  He doesn’t hide on me in his usual spot in the library today.  He tries behind the door.  Good one TJ.  The library is one small room with really no good place to hide except a little storage closet where I can always see a limb or the tip of a head poking out from behind boxes.  I quiz TJ on his 6 and 5 timetables.  He is leaning dangerously back on 2 legs of his chair, back against the wall.

“TJ sit up, you’re going to fall.”

“No I’m not.”

Continue on. Sure enough 30 seconds later, legs give out, he slides down the wall, a slow motion drop into heap on the floor.  It’s impossible not to laugh at his shocked, terrified, sheepish expression.  We read 2 books and play “Pass the Pigs” (thanks Rachel).  TJ “creams” me and doesn’t let me hear the end of it.

As I leave, 2 little girls look at me quizzickly, “Who ARE you?”

I turn as I walk by, “who are YOU?”  They squeel, giggle and scamper off.

I go to the highschool.  Enter grade 7 classroom- cautiously.  They should really have a sign on the door, ‘Enter at Your Own Risk’.  Seven boys, occasionally supervised.  Today the aren’t, and it’s a war zone.  Crunched up baber balls are zipping through the air, ricocheting off walls, desks, heads. Shouts, laughter, scrambling, desks become barricades.  One kid dashes out the door, chased by a whizzing paper bullet and another kid.  Something flies by my ear.  I quick grab my kid, Shavoy, and leave them to their chaos.

We sit at the table outside under a tree and read about orphaned kids on a grand adventure in WWII, running from the Nazis.  Believe it or not, its not any worse than the country and western the grade 8’s are reading about a roaming cowboy.

Time’s up.  Brandon’s turn, another grade 7.  He’s a bit of a handful (a gross understatement).  I find him still highly occupied by the riveting game of whip paper balls at people, simultaneously involved in coin hockey on the desk.

“Brandon you have a choice, you can come outside and work with me, or I’ll see you next week.”  A little bit of reverse psychology.  Not sure that it’ll work or if he even heard me, but I don’t feel like a fight.  I go outside and start to read, waiting for school to be over – when I see my next student.  Surprisingly, a few minutes later Brandon turns up, out of breath.  Dramatically, we make our way through the timetables. 

Home.  Grab my beach volleyball (which doubles as a soccer ball) and head for the yard.  Although the fence separating the yard from the road is largely covered by trees and bushes, I do not go unnoticed by the many passer-bys.

“My Ball!” I look over to see a boy slapping his chest- as if I’m supposed to kick the ball over the fence and through all the shrubbery to him.

A couple of minutes later, “I didn’t know you played football.” I wave to a schoolgirl I often share taxis with. 

Some more kids on their way home from school cluster near the gate, peering in.  “Suzanne! Suzanne!”  Somehow they all know my name.

Now some guys are out there.  One is saying something in patois.  All I can make out is something like how some girls in Jamaica think playing sports is childish.  I realise how a white girl playing football might be somewhat of a spectacle around here. 

“You can juggle!”

I laugh to myself, boot the ball across the yard, running after it.

“I’ll come back and look for you later, play football.”  hahah. sure thing bud.

I know if I took my ball outside the gate, a game would flare up immediately.  A football in Jamaica has some kind of powerful magnetice force drawing in everyone within earshot, like kids to candy. No, kids here would prefer football to candy anyday.  A few times now games have spontaneously sprung up in Meg’s yard with some of the neighbours and the three ‘pip-squeek’ relatives of Meg’s that regularly stop by.  Its quickly becoming a Sunday afternoon ritual.  Lasting hours.  Until the sun has set and we can no longer see the ball.