Miiga
Just as she did every evening after the dinner was served and she had cleared the dished, Miiga brought tea and strongwaters to Margaret Bontemps Grund and whomever Mrs. Grund had invited to join her on the screened-in porch. It was a tradition, one of many, that Mrs. Grund had assumed after her mother-in-law, who lived with them, had passed away. Some evenings Miiga just served Mrs. Grund, who stayed at the Mackinac house from Memorial Day to Labor Day each year. But most of the time, invited guests were only too happy to join her. After all, aside from watching television or renting movies from the video store on Main Street, there wasn’t much to do but drink or read or talk, so most people welcomed an event of any kind when they were on the island. Especially tea at the Grund’s.
Like a good deal of what Miiga was asked to do, it was an agreeable enough task: three level tablespoons of Bouddha Bleu deposited in a wire strainer and steeped for three minutes exactly in one quart of boiling water, covered with a tea cozy, and accompanied by a bottle of Glenmorangie single malt, a bottle of Grahams vintage port, and a bottle of black Sambuca. Miiga always found it amusing that Mrs. Grund was so precise with the tea, since she usually skipped it altogether and headed straight for the sauce. When Mrs. Grund was alone, she seemed to feel obliged to tell Miiga that a little alcohol helped her to sleep. After three years working for Mrs. Bontemps, it was clear the alcohol was also a medical necessity. Miiga hoped it also brought some peace to her.
Miiga spooned the last tablespoons from the tea canister into the pot, and added “bouddha tea” to the list of things that Mrs. Grund would have to order, since there was only one can left. The tea was a beautiful dark green, though to Miiga, it looked only grey (she was red-green colorblind, something she inherited from her father). She could, however, see the tiny bright blue flowers floating in it and she loved the earthy rich aroma. Sometimes, when it had been several days since company had been around, and Mr. Grund was off on one of his usual “business” trips, Mrs. Grund would invite Miiga to have a cup of it with her. It was a bit awkward for Miiga to sit across from her employer while she sipped her sherry, but Miiga enjoyed the tea.
Tonight there were guests, so she did not have to suffer through evening tea with Mrs. Grund as she rambled on about her day, hinted at her loveless marriage, or elaborated on her general misery. Tonight Miiga could slip in, serve the drinks, and slip out, leaving the party chatting. Miiga made her way around the glass covered wicker table on the porch, very silently setting down a teacup, handles at exactly 4 O’clock, in front of each guest. There was no need to rush through anything on the island; it wasn’t as if they had someplace else to go. As she placed the booze and poured the tea and silently nodded at the requests by certain guests for something decaf or a piece of lemon, she listened to the nonsense that passed for conversation, and filled any special requests. Though she had been coming to the island for 3 years, she had yet to understand how what they did and said passed for fun. There seemed, at least to Miiga, to be no joy in their laughter.
“Will you be needin’ me the rest of the evening, Mrs. Grund?” said Miiga, after she had refilled the tea pot and deposited a plate of cookies in the center of the guests.
“Oh, thank you, Nesta, thank you, no, you’re free to get on with your evening. Please, have a good evening,” said Mrs. Grund. Nesta was her real name, her Christian name, but only Mrs. Grund and a handful of other white people who knew her on the island called her that. Jamaicans tended to dispense quickly with given names, preferring something that more closely reflected someone’s character traits or skills. For as long as she could remember, she had been Miiga, a Jamaican bastardization of “meager,” which was used to describe someone whose skin was barely brown, meager brown. Although she had never known her father, it was evident to her – and those who subsequently nicknamed her – that he had been white.
“Have a good night, then,” said Miiga, smiling, and disappeared down the steps and around the back to the carriage house bedroom that was part of her salary while she was on the island. She peeled off her white golf shirt and black pants and quickly showered before slipping into a cotton shift and heading back out. It was only 9pm. There would be plenty of people hanging out at the bike racks across from the Grand. Maybe she would even see Stedley, if he was off tonight.
Nothing was very far from anything else, but it had already gotten unseasonably hot and humid on the island so Miiga took her time, not wanting to be drenched before she got to the bike racks. She missed the companionship of the few friends who had also made the long journey to Michigan to work the summer at Mackinac, so she cherished the time she could spend with them. Most of them were working at the Grand or other resort locations. As was the practice on the island, Jamaicans held the jobs that, for the most part, no one else would take, working as busboys, in the back of the house, in sauna-like kitchens or on a housekeeping or gardening detail. Most had to wear uniforms. Most were paid well-below minimum wage. But by Jamaican standards, the pay was decent, and as it was the off-season back home, so it was certainly better money than they would be making in Negril. If they could get an H2B visa and could pass Jack Walker’s sniff test, they came to Mackinac.
Not all Jamaicans worked back-house jobs. Some old-timers, like Stedley, had come up through the ranks and were working as managers and foremen. Some places, like the Grand, which preferred a uniformity in their front house staff, employed only Jamaicans. The party line regarding the Grand's Jamaican-only hiring practice was simply that Jamaicans rendered the highest standard of service. Most recognized the actual motivation had more to do with the fact that their presence added to the old time, prewar-style atmosphere that many of its returning guests had come to love (and expect). Other restaurants, especially the late night bars, felt that the deferential and subdued nature of the Jamaicans put a damper on rebel-rousing and accordingly drink-buying, and so preferred attractive college students, who would flirt with patrons and push rum-runners and mai-tais.
Of course, not every Jamaican would do to work on the island; Mr. Walker was quick to point out that Jamaicans were not interchangeable. Each year, he made his way down to Negril to recruit staff for Mackinac. He always came to Negril, where Miiga lived. The Christian population was quite sizeable there, and he wanted good Christians to work the island. Ocho Rios and other resort towns had too many Rastafarians and even some folks who practiced Santeria, and Mr. Walker said they simply would not be a good “fit.” After all, Jamaicans were welcomed to the Sunday service at the Little Stone Church, but he was afraid they just couldn’t accommodate, well, other religions. Miiga wondered whether, had he known she was named for Bob Marley, Mr. Walker would have invited her that first time. Of course, she was legacy on the island, and legacy always got invited back.
In fact, but for her legacy, she would not have made the cut at all. Bi-racial help was rarely selected, certainly not for the Grand. No one acknowledged this, but the Jamaicans knew better than to apply if they were lighter than a paper bag. Fortunately, she was working in a private home, as her mother had done, and she was less conspicuous. Her mother had worked for the Bontemps (who later married into the Grund family), and after her death, they had offered Miiga a substantial summer packager– far more than most of her friends were getting. During the time Miiga’s mother was alive, Miiga was not allowed to interview for any positions in Mackinac. It had been tough to be away from her mother for three to four months, especially when she was little. But her mother was insistent that Miiga stay in Negril with her father. When she died 3 years ago, the first Mrs. Grund – Margaret’s mother-in-law -- had sent a condolence note and flowers down to Miiga’s father. Miiga’s mother had been working on the island for 35 years.
It was Miiga that had suggested she take her mother’s place. After all, they needed the money, and the job was ready-made for her to slip into. Mr. Walker was slipped a little something extra by the Grunds for completing the transaction, since it was outside his normal duties. Mr. Walker was slipped a number of something-extras by the various old families on the Island who could afford extra help. The sub-terra economy on the island was far more lucrative than what was reported on one’s tax return.
She rounded the corner of __________ and quickened her pace just a little. It wasn’t like her to want to hang out. Back in Negril, she was quiet and shy, preferring a book or a walk along the shore to a party any day of the week. But on the island, even she had gotten lonely just staying in the cottage night after night, reading and writing letters back home. The harsh flat monotone of her employer’s accent grated on her until she would fairly run to the bike stand or to the dorms, just to hear the familiar musical lilt of her people’s voices. It was enough for her to simply listen, and as most Jamaican’s love to talk, they were only too happy to have an audience. It had been a long week and she was looking forward to hanging out.
The water from Lake Huron was bringing a welcome breeze. It would be a nice evening, and since Mr. Grund had gone back to Bay View and Mrs. Grund was rarely out of bed before 11, she could stay out late. She looked up at the stars, free from the lights of a big city, and marveled at their twinkle. She was nearing the Grand and in the distance at one of the nearby bars, she could hear someone playing the steel drum. Probably a wedding, or maybe just a one-night hire. With the music in the background if she looked straight out over the water, and blocked out the odor of horse manure that penetrated the island, it was almost like being home. So lost was she in the moment that she ran smack into a guest.
“OH!” Miiga let out a grunt and hit the ground with a smack.
“Excuse me. Are you alright?” the man said, holding out a hand and helping her up.
“Yes, it’s my fault. I’m fine,” she said.
“No, I’m afraid I had my eyes closed. You sure you’re alright?” The man actually seemed concerned, which surprised Miiga.
“My husband is sort of a klutz,” said the woman who was with him. “Forgive him. You sure you’re OK?”
“No, it’s alright. Have a good evening,” said Miiga. She was embarrassed and she was quite certain that her friends had seen her. She didn’t have to wait long to confirm her hunch.
“Miiga!” a few in the crowd near the bicycles were laughing. “Miiga, all fruit’s good, girl. Pick yourself up” She was embarrassed, but she was laughing, too And at least the man had been kind. He hadn’t yelled at her or even walked away leaving her on the ground, so it hadn’t dampened her spirit.
“Hey Miiga, Cooya, you done today? Every’ting Cook and Curry?” The boys laughed as she approached, and she settled herself against an empty bike rack. She handed them a paper bag with corn bread in it that she and taken from the Grunds’ table. The cook had given it to her, since Mrs. Grund was not one for leftovers. Miiga knew it was a welcome change to the tasteless hard rolls they were allowed to take home from the various hotels that employed them. They snatched the bag and devoured its contents.
“Stedley ‘round?” Miiga asked, hoping to see her favorite uncle. He wasn’t really an uncle by blood, but was close to her father, or the man she called her father, and Stedley watched out for her while she was far from home. She as glad he was here.
It was one of the things that bothered her about white people. She wasn’t racist, or maybe she was – she wasn’t sure if black people could be racist – but she was always bewildered by the rigidness of white people when it came to nomenclature.
“Stedley’s not really your father, is he?” Mrs. Grund had asked her when she first came to work there.
“Well, not by blood, if dat’s what you mean, Ma’am,” said Miiga. “but he’s my uncle, dat’s sure, or just like my uncle.”
“It’s just not accurate, that’s all. I bet you were confused as a child,” said Mrs. Grund, walking away.
She wasn’t confused. She knew perfectly well who was related by blood and who wasn’t, but what did it matter anyway? Was someone who loved you any less important simply because they didn’t share your DNA? She was proud to have so many Uncles,” especially if one was Stedley. She hoped she would see him tonight.
“Nah, him gone, workin’ tonight,” said one of the young men, Bunny, his mouth full of cornbread. “Why you don’t come on wid us back to the dome. Fann makin’ som mean rundown and ackee and saltfish. “We gon’ play bid-whist soon as Jujee get off work. You rope in?”
All of them could speak in the American patois that their employers could understand, but when a group of them got together, they often fell back into a more colorful way of speaking. She knew that if she went back with them to the Dome, she’d have lost her carefully practiced dialect. But the food and the company were calling. Miiga knew that the ackee was canned and had been shipped in by one of the seasonals, as the Jamaicans were sometimes called. It wouldn’t be nearly as succulent as the fresh red fruit she would pick directly from the tree back home, but it was better than nothing. In fact, having worked on Mackinac the past three Summers, she had missed Ackee season altogether and had been relegated only to the canned fruit for some time. Mrs. Grund was extremely generous with whatever food was in the house, but the bland diet kept by the folks on the island, including the Grunds, left Miiga starved for something reminiscent of her home. Normally, she stayed away from the dorm, or “dome,” as they called it. But with Stedley working, and Fann cooking, she had nothing better to do.
“OK,” she said, “I’ll go.”
They waited for Jujee to get off work where they could see him come out, directly across from the kitchen at the Grand, sitting and standing in the large bicycle parking lot. It was one of the places where groups of them could congregate without being moved along by the cops, who were not fans of loitering. The bike racks were sufficiently out of the way so as not to be an eyesore to passers by.
Between stories about work and home, they watched the earlybird Mackinac vacationers stroll past on foot or push their bicycles up the only hill on the island. At this early date, only the Jamaicans and the year-round residents were strong enough to pedal their one-speed cruisers up the slight grade. For the most part, island guests ignored the seasonals, although from time to time their laughter or chatter would rise just high enough for an elderly passer-by to shoot them a disdainful glance. It was understood, if unwritten, that seasonals – at least the darker ones – were in, but not of the island.
At 9:35, Jujee emerged from the employee entrance to the Grand and walked over to the group that was hanging near the bicycles. Jujee was a big man, black and muscular, with wide shoulders and a thick accent when he didn’t hold it in check. He told stories back at the dome about scaring women on the island, just by walking behind them. He would never do anything, but he liked to feel powerful, if only for a moment. Though he did not want the title, he had become the unofficial leader for the young seasonals. For the most part, he ignored them, preferring to be off doing other things.
Jujee was one of the men who slipped passed Mr. Walker’s Christian Net. He was Santeria, Obeah. It was illegal in Jamaica to practice Obeah and other forms of witchcraft, at least on the books – a throwback to colonial times. So JuJee was well practiced at deception by the time he went through the interview process with White-man Walker. Besides, it was easy to lie to people you didn’t care about.
As he strode across the pathway toward Miiga and the rest of the group, which had grown sizably in the last 30 minutes, he smiled and winked at Miiga, which made her look away. He playfully put his arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head.
“Lilly Miiiiiiiiiiga. What you doin’ out so late, huh? You comin’ back to da dome tonight, yah?” He grabbed her shoulders and pointer her, and the rest of the group, toward the dome. “Dem send I back anudder yard we stay here too long. Babylon dere,” he said, motioning to the beat police who were eyeing them.
They headed up the hill to the dome, a large former bed-and-breakfast that had been converted to employee housing 10 years ago. It had been remodeled to maximize its capacity. This summer, it house 15 men; 12 in the attic dorm room, 2 downstairs in a smaller room, and 1 in a tiny room. The downstairs rooms were reserved for the most senior members. Stedley, who had been coming to the island since Miiga’s mother was a a girl, had the single room.
Downstairs there was also a large living/dining area, which served as an unofficial clubhouse for the Jamaicans. Any time of the day or night, people could be found lounging, cooking, writing, talking and generally bonding in the dining room. And although the kitchen was no bigger than 5 feet lengthwise, the smells that emanated from it were among the best aromas on the island. At any given time, someone was cooking up a mess-o-pidgeon peas, or some curried chicken.
As the little group came up the walkway toward the front door of the dome, they could smell the rundown. Miiga looked up at Jujee.
“Jujee, why you keep comin’ back to dis place when you don’t like white people?” she asked. Jujee smiled and bent down to whisper in her ear.
“Miiiiiga. Lotta reasons to be in Mackinac, overstand? I got reasons. I vank da white man with his own weapons” Jujee planted his hands on her shoulders and led her into the Dome, and the music and laughter inside transported her from one tiny island to another.
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Like a good deal of what Miiga was asked to do, it was an agreeable enough task: three level tablespoons of Bouddha Bleu deposited in a wire strainer and steeped for three minutes exactly in one quart of boiling water, covered with a tea cozy, and accompanied by a bottle of Glenmorangie single malt, a bottle of Grahams vintage port, and a bottle of black Sambuca. Miiga always found it amusing that Mrs. Grund was so precise with the tea, since she usually skipped it altogether and headed straight for the sauce. When Mrs. Grund was alone, she seemed to feel obliged to tell Miiga that a little alcohol helped her to sleep. After three years working for Mrs. Bontemps, it was clear the alcohol was also a medical necessity. Miiga hoped it also brought some peace to her.
Miiga spooned the last tablespoons from the tea canister into the pot, and added “bouddha tea” to the list of things that Mrs. Grund would have to order, since there was only one can left. The tea was a beautiful dark green, though to Miiga, it looked only grey (she was red-green colorblind, something she inherited from her father). She could, however, see the tiny bright blue flowers floating in it and she loved the earthy rich aroma. Sometimes, when it had been several days since company had been around, and Mr. Grund was off on one of his usual “business” trips, Mrs. Grund would invite Miiga to have a cup of it with her. It was a bit awkward for Miiga to sit across from her employer while she sipped her sherry, but Miiga enjoyed the tea.
Tonight there were guests, so she did not have to suffer through evening tea with Mrs. Grund as she rambled on about her day, hinted at her loveless marriage, or elaborated on her general misery. Tonight Miiga could slip in, serve the drinks, and slip out, leaving the party chatting. Miiga made her way around the glass covered wicker table on the porch, very silently setting down a teacup, handles at exactly 4 O’clock, in front of each guest. There was no need to rush through anything on the island; it wasn’t as if they had someplace else to go. As she placed the booze and poured the tea and silently nodded at the requests by certain guests for something decaf or a piece of lemon, she listened to the nonsense that passed for conversation, and filled any special requests. Though she had been coming to the island for 3 years, she had yet to understand how what they did and said passed for fun. There seemed, at least to Miiga, to be no joy in their laughter.
“Will you be needin’ me the rest of the evening, Mrs. Grund?” said Miiga, after she had refilled the tea pot and deposited a plate of cookies in the center of the guests.
“Oh, thank you, Nesta, thank you, no, you’re free to get on with your evening. Please, have a good evening,” said Mrs. Grund. Nesta was her real name, her Christian name, but only Mrs. Grund and a handful of other white people who knew her on the island called her that. Jamaicans tended to dispense quickly with given names, preferring something that more closely reflected someone’s character traits or skills. For as long as she could remember, she had been Miiga, a Jamaican bastardization of “meager,” which was used to describe someone whose skin was barely brown, meager brown. Although she had never known her father, it was evident to her – and those who subsequently nicknamed her – that he had been white.
“Have a good night, then,” said Miiga, smiling, and disappeared down the steps and around the back to the carriage house bedroom that was part of her salary while she was on the island. She peeled off her white golf shirt and black pants and quickly showered before slipping into a cotton shift and heading back out. It was only 9pm. There would be plenty of people hanging out at the bike racks across from the Grand. Maybe she would even see Stedley, if he was off tonight.
Nothing was very far from anything else, but it had already gotten unseasonably hot and humid on the island so Miiga took her time, not wanting to be drenched before she got to the bike racks. She missed the companionship of the few friends who had also made the long journey to Michigan to work the summer at Mackinac, so she cherished the time she could spend with them. Most of them were working at the Grand or other resort locations. As was the practice on the island, Jamaicans held the jobs that, for the most part, no one else would take, working as busboys, in the back of the house, in sauna-like kitchens or on a housekeeping or gardening detail. Most had to wear uniforms. Most were paid well-below minimum wage. But by Jamaican standards, the pay was decent, and as it was the off-season back home, so it was certainly better money than they would be making in Negril. If they could get an H2B visa and could pass Jack Walker’s sniff test, they came to Mackinac.
Not all Jamaicans worked back-house jobs. Some old-timers, like Stedley, had come up through the ranks and were working as managers and foremen. Some places, like the Grand, which preferred a uniformity in their front house staff, employed only Jamaicans. The party line regarding the Grand's Jamaican-only hiring practice was simply that Jamaicans rendered the highest standard of service. Most recognized the actual motivation had more to do with the fact that their presence added to the old time, prewar-style atmosphere that many of its returning guests had come to love (and expect). Other restaurants, especially the late night bars, felt that the deferential and subdued nature of the Jamaicans put a damper on rebel-rousing and accordingly drink-buying, and so preferred attractive college students, who would flirt with patrons and push rum-runners and mai-tais.
Of course, not every Jamaican would do to work on the island; Mr. Walker was quick to point out that Jamaicans were not interchangeable. Each year, he made his way down to Negril to recruit staff for Mackinac. He always came to Negril, where Miiga lived. The Christian population was quite sizeable there, and he wanted good Christians to work the island. Ocho Rios and other resort towns had too many Rastafarians and even some folks who practiced Santeria, and Mr. Walker said they simply would not be a good “fit.” After all, Jamaicans were welcomed to the Sunday service at the Little Stone Church, but he was afraid they just couldn’t accommodate, well, other religions. Miiga wondered whether, had he known she was named for Bob Marley, Mr. Walker would have invited her that first time. Of course, she was legacy on the island, and legacy always got invited back.
In fact, but for her legacy, she would not have made the cut at all. Bi-racial help was rarely selected, certainly not for the Grand. No one acknowledged this, but the Jamaicans knew better than to apply if they were lighter than a paper bag. Fortunately, she was working in a private home, as her mother had done, and she was less conspicuous. Her mother had worked for the Bontemps (who later married into the Grund family), and after her death, they had offered Miiga a substantial summer packager– far more than most of her friends were getting. During the time Miiga’s mother was alive, Miiga was not allowed to interview for any positions in Mackinac. It had been tough to be away from her mother for three to four months, especially when she was little. But her mother was insistent that Miiga stay in Negril with her father. When she died 3 years ago, the first Mrs. Grund – Margaret’s mother-in-law -- had sent a condolence note and flowers down to Miiga’s father. Miiga’s mother had been working on the island for 35 years.
It was Miiga that had suggested she take her mother’s place. After all, they needed the money, and the job was ready-made for her to slip into. Mr. Walker was slipped a little something extra by the Grunds for completing the transaction, since it was outside his normal duties. Mr. Walker was slipped a number of something-extras by the various old families on the Island who could afford extra help. The sub-terra economy on the island was far more lucrative than what was reported on one’s tax return.
She rounded the corner of __________ and quickened her pace just a little. It wasn’t like her to want to hang out. Back in Negril, she was quiet and shy, preferring a book or a walk along the shore to a party any day of the week. But on the island, even she had gotten lonely just staying in the cottage night after night, reading and writing letters back home. The harsh flat monotone of her employer’s accent grated on her until she would fairly run to the bike stand or to the dorms, just to hear the familiar musical lilt of her people’s voices. It was enough for her to simply listen, and as most Jamaican’s love to talk, they were only too happy to have an audience. It had been a long week and she was looking forward to hanging out.
The water from Lake Huron was bringing a welcome breeze. It would be a nice evening, and since Mr. Grund had gone back to Bay View and Mrs. Grund was rarely out of bed before 11, she could stay out late. She looked up at the stars, free from the lights of a big city, and marveled at their twinkle. She was nearing the Grand and in the distance at one of the nearby bars, she could hear someone playing the steel drum. Probably a wedding, or maybe just a one-night hire. With the music in the background if she looked straight out over the water, and blocked out the odor of horse manure that penetrated the island, it was almost like being home. So lost was she in the moment that she ran smack into a guest.
“OH!” Miiga let out a grunt and hit the ground with a smack.
“Excuse me. Are you alright?” the man said, holding out a hand and helping her up.
“Yes, it’s my fault. I’m fine,” she said.
“No, I’m afraid I had my eyes closed. You sure you’re alright?” The man actually seemed concerned, which surprised Miiga.
“My husband is sort of a klutz,” said the woman who was with him. “Forgive him. You sure you’re OK?”
“No, it’s alright. Have a good evening,” said Miiga. She was embarrassed and she was quite certain that her friends had seen her. She didn’t have to wait long to confirm her hunch.
“Miiga!” a few in the crowd near the bicycles were laughing. “Miiga, all fruit’s good, girl. Pick yourself up” She was embarrassed, but she was laughing, too And at least the man had been kind. He hadn’t yelled at her or even walked away leaving her on the ground, so it hadn’t dampened her spirit.
“Hey Miiga, Cooya, you done today? Every’ting Cook and Curry?” The boys laughed as she approached, and she settled herself against an empty bike rack. She handed them a paper bag with corn bread in it that she and taken from the Grunds’ table. The cook had given it to her, since Mrs. Grund was not one for leftovers. Miiga knew it was a welcome change to the tasteless hard rolls they were allowed to take home from the various hotels that employed them. They snatched the bag and devoured its contents.
“Stedley ‘round?” Miiga asked, hoping to see her favorite uncle. He wasn’t really an uncle by blood, but was close to her father, or the man she called her father, and Stedley watched out for her while she was far from home. She as glad he was here.
It was one of the things that bothered her about white people. She wasn’t racist, or maybe she was – she wasn’t sure if black people could be racist – but she was always bewildered by the rigidness of white people when it came to nomenclature.
“Stedley’s not really your father, is he?” Mrs. Grund had asked her when she first came to work there.
“Well, not by blood, if dat’s what you mean, Ma’am,” said Miiga. “but he’s my uncle, dat’s sure, or just like my uncle.”
“It’s just not accurate, that’s all. I bet you were confused as a child,” said Mrs. Grund, walking away.
She wasn’t confused. She knew perfectly well who was related by blood and who wasn’t, but what did it matter anyway? Was someone who loved you any less important simply because they didn’t share your DNA? She was proud to have so many Uncles,” especially if one was Stedley. She hoped she would see him tonight.
“Nah, him gone, workin’ tonight,” said one of the young men, Bunny, his mouth full of cornbread. “Why you don’t come on wid us back to the dome. Fann makin’ som mean rundown and ackee and saltfish. “We gon’ play bid-whist soon as Jujee get off work. You rope in?”
All of them could speak in the American patois that their employers could understand, but when a group of them got together, they often fell back into a more colorful way of speaking. She knew that if she went back with them to the Dome, she’d have lost her carefully practiced dialect. But the food and the company were calling. Miiga knew that the ackee was canned and had been shipped in by one of the seasonals, as the Jamaicans were sometimes called. It wouldn’t be nearly as succulent as the fresh red fruit she would pick directly from the tree back home, but it was better than nothing. In fact, having worked on Mackinac the past three Summers, she had missed Ackee season altogether and had been relegated only to the canned fruit for some time. Mrs. Grund was extremely generous with whatever food was in the house, but the bland diet kept by the folks on the island, including the Grunds, left Miiga starved for something reminiscent of her home. Normally, she stayed away from the dorm, or “dome,” as they called it. But with Stedley working, and Fann cooking, she had nothing better to do.
“OK,” she said, “I’ll go.”
They waited for Jujee to get off work where they could see him come out, directly across from the kitchen at the Grand, sitting and standing in the large bicycle parking lot. It was one of the places where groups of them could congregate without being moved along by the cops, who were not fans of loitering. The bike racks were sufficiently out of the way so as not to be an eyesore to passers by.
Between stories about work and home, they watched the earlybird Mackinac vacationers stroll past on foot or push their bicycles up the only hill on the island. At this early date, only the Jamaicans and the year-round residents were strong enough to pedal their one-speed cruisers up the slight grade. For the most part, island guests ignored the seasonals, although from time to time their laughter or chatter would rise just high enough for an elderly passer-by to shoot them a disdainful glance. It was understood, if unwritten, that seasonals – at least the darker ones – were in, but not of the island.
At 9:35, Jujee emerged from the employee entrance to the Grand and walked over to the group that was hanging near the bicycles. Jujee was a big man, black and muscular, with wide shoulders and a thick accent when he didn’t hold it in check. He told stories back at the dome about scaring women on the island, just by walking behind them. He would never do anything, but he liked to feel powerful, if only for a moment. Though he did not want the title, he had become the unofficial leader for the young seasonals. For the most part, he ignored them, preferring to be off doing other things.
Jujee was one of the men who slipped passed Mr. Walker’s Christian Net. He was Santeria, Obeah. It was illegal in Jamaica to practice Obeah and other forms of witchcraft, at least on the books – a throwback to colonial times. So JuJee was well practiced at deception by the time he went through the interview process with White-man Walker. Besides, it was easy to lie to people you didn’t care about.
As he strode across the pathway toward Miiga and the rest of the group, which had grown sizably in the last 30 minutes, he smiled and winked at Miiga, which made her look away. He playfully put his arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head.
“Lilly Miiiiiiiiiiga. What you doin’ out so late, huh? You comin’ back to da dome tonight, yah?” He grabbed her shoulders and pointer her, and the rest of the group, toward the dome. “Dem send I back anudder yard we stay here too long. Babylon dere,” he said, motioning to the beat police who were eyeing them.
They headed up the hill to the dome, a large former bed-and-breakfast that had been converted to employee housing 10 years ago. It had been remodeled to maximize its capacity. This summer, it house 15 men; 12 in the attic dorm room, 2 downstairs in a smaller room, and 1 in a tiny room. The downstairs rooms were reserved for the most senior members. Stedley, who had been coming to the island since Miiga’s mother was a a girl, had the single room.
Downstairs there was also a large living/dining area, which served as an unofficial clubhouse for the Jamaicans. Any time of the day or night, people could be found lounging, cooking, writing, talking and generally bonding in the dining room. And although the kitchen was no bigger than 5 feet lengthwise, the smells that emanated from it were among the best aromas on the island. At any given time, someone was cooking up a mess-o-pidgeon peas, or some curried chicken.
As the little group came up the walkway toward the front door of the dome, they could smell the rundown. Miiga looked up at Jujee.
“Jujee, why you keep comin’ back to dis place when you don’t like white people?” she asked. Jujee smiled and bent down to whisper in her ear.
“Miiiiiga. Lotta reasons to be in Mackinac, overstand? I got reasons. I vank da white man with his own weapons” Jujee planted his hands on her shoulders and led her into the Dome, and the music and laughter inside transported her from one tiny island to another.
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posted by Someone with a camera at 6:05 AM
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