S. Brian Samuel’s Music for My Father: A West Indian Journey (Ian Randle Publishers, 2023) tells “a special narrative of the West Indian father.” Samuel will probably be presenting his newly printed memoir this 12 months on the Bocas Lit Fest, going down from April 28 to 30, in Port of Spain, Trinidad.
Cowl Blurb: In 1942 my father, Darwin Fitzgerald (‘Gerry’) Samuel, boards a British ship and leaves his native Grenada, sure for war-torn Britain. He labored within the armaments trade, certified as a instructor, and married Scottish nurse Nelleen Hogan. In 1950, two years after the Empire Windrush had opened the flood gates to England, our father went residence together with his younger household: a person on the up. Pity, it wouldn’t final.
One fateful day in 1960 whereas residing in Trinidad, my mom walked out on us with out warning or nary a goodbye to her three younger sons, thrusting us into the only care of our father. To say our father was unprepared is placing it mildly: he was in a state of shock, for he had no inkling of this pending abandonment by his spouse of ten years. However regardless of his shock there was one factor he would by no means do: abandon his sons. Trainer, seeker, author, Renaissance man, and most of all Nomad, that was my father. Not like a lot of the Windrush Era, our journey didn’t finish after we obtained off the ship in Liverpool – that was just the start. By the point I turned 18, I’d already lived in 5 nations: Grenada, Trinidad, Guyana, England and USA.
In 1971 got here my father’s best transfer: Jamaica. In a single seminal 12 months, my life was reworked: from a dumbed-down, low vanity immigrant child in London, right into a newly assured sixth former, about to enter college. Jamaica within the 70s was the world epicentre of road cred, with its heady combination of Marley and Manley, Reggae and Rasta – interspersed with massive doses of homicide and mayhem. After my father died, immediately and shockingly, my brothers and I (who actually are known as Tom and Gerry) went seeking our long-lost mom, and what we discovered was far more than we’d bargained for.
Observe me as we go from the hills of Grenada to the arse finish of London in an unforgettable West Indian journey, filled with dramatic twists and escapades. That is my story – my tribute to our father and to all these unsung fathers, who’ve ‘mothered’ numerous generations of Caribbean women and men.
Excerpts: What if I instructed you that my father was an actual bastard, the worst possible. That he fathered three sons together with his spouse after which deserted her: heartbroken and penniless. What if I instructed you that he slept with my mom’s finest buddy and turned his again on his household, turning into a whole non-entity within the lives of his younger sons. What if I instructed you that regardless of having such a father, we have been fortunate to have the very best mom on this planet, a mom who raised her three sons on her personal, who put garments on our backs and meals on the desk, regardless of her personal appreciable monetary struggles.
What would you say if I instructed you all that? You’d say: be a part of the road, it’s par for the course of West Indian households. Effectively, the identical narrative applies to me – however in reverse. It was our British mom who flew the coop, and our Grenadian father who stayed behind. It was my father who raised me and my two brothers (who actually are known as Tom and Gerry), my father who cooked for us (he was terrible), cleaned for us (nicely form of), comforted us (and beat us too, once we wanted it). He was, pardon the reverse cliché, my father who mothered me. So, who was this man? [. . .]
He was one in all a sort, our father: instructor, seeker, author, Renaissance man and lifelong nomad: by the point I turned eighteen, I’d already lived in six nations, two of them twice. Citing three sons on his personal, our father took us on a rollicking trip: from the hills of Grenada to the arse finish of London, the White Home, Buckingham Palace and past. We have been the unique latchkey youngsters: with our father spending most evenings at night time college or promoting World E book encyclopaedias door-to-door, you possibly can think about the world of hassle three boys might get into! Not like a lot of the Windrush Era, our household journey didn’t finish after we obtained off the boat in Liverpool – that was just the start. [. . .]
Who was Darwin Samuel? What’s his legacy, his tune? Was he a saint? Consider me, my father was far, removed from a saint! However he did possess some saintly qualities, mainly his willpower to boost his youngsters on his personal, giving us a broad vary of experiences alongside the way in which. He had his failings in fact, who doesn’t? He was a product of his time, and in some methods forward of his time. Anti-colonialist in politics; colonialist in tradition. He instilled in us a really sturdy sense that we have been (a) West Indian, and (b) black. He had a ardour for studying, a ardour, sadly, partially fulfilled, he wrote on my commencement programme: ‘To my son Brian: as the primary Samuel to realize an educational diploma – I salute you.’ I’d by no means thought of it that means, and it actually moved me. Want I nonetheless had it.
After my father’s sudden demise in 1975, I found a field filled with his journals, pictures and letters, a window into my father in his personal phrases. After holding onto these reminiscences for over forty years, I made a decision so as to add my very own voice. [. . .]