I am a Dirty Immigrant

I AM A DIRTY IMMIGRANT

BY

ANDERSON A. CHARLES

Copyright 2013 Anderson A Charles

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition 

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Acknowledgements

Cover Art by Jorge Noguera

Editing and proofreading support-

Tomi Lynn Coley

Feedback Scott Hall

To the country I owe my talent Grenada

Invasion

The explosions grew louder and more frequent; that was the angriest sound I had ever heard. Villagers ran up and down the street, their lives even more uncertain than when the communists attacked. Members of the People’s Revolutionary Army used anti-aircraft guns to defend the airport. A couple of the paratroopers disintegrated in midair, their bodies exploding like fireworks, but there were no bright colours. I left the window with my heart beating so hard I thought it would explode. I ran back into the house and turned on the radio. The announcers frantically shouted for the islanders to pick up arms and defend their country. I was confused, wondering if I should go to the front lines, or just let the warmongers murder each other. After all, this was my island, my forefathers had fought to free the slaves on this very ground. Why should I let these outsiders occupy my homeland? After five minutes of the announcer’s erratic talking, a Bob Marley song, Ambush in the Night was played. To this day that same song plays in my dreams over and over again. The young announcer’s voice shook as he began talking again, sometimes struggling to get the words out. Suddenly, his voice was replaced by the annoying sound of static; then the radio went silent. I sat there for a moment not knowing what to do. Then I heard a loud explosion and our brick and mortar houses shook. I jumped like someone had poked me with a nail, and ran to the front yard. A puff of smoke bellowed into the air beyond the lush green hill, top to the left of my house. It was then that I realized that the explosion had come from the direction of the radio station.

Then as if with a predetermined purpose, I got up and walked into the house, went to my bedroom, and retrieved my Red Bear-made pistol. Now you may wonder where I got the weapon. Well the government wanted a militia, and they got one - lots of islanders with guns. I checked the chamber to make sure there was a full clip, then reached into my dresser and got a few extra rounds. I walked down the street, my eyes scanning the rows of houses, anticipating any attackers. Trucks loaded with people’s revolutionary soldiers raced by, creating a gray cloud of dust that covered the village. Young men and women clenched their AK-47 rifles, some screaming at me to join them in the defense of the island. I shook my head; poor bloody souls were off to fight a war they could not win. I ran my finger along the smooth metal edge of the pistol. You can’t imagine the false sense of safety I felt with that bloody thing stuck in my waistband. I did not know what I was going to do, but I was becoming angry. First we had to endure the rule of the Union Jack. Then the Red Bears came with their inadequate ideology, brainwashed the population into believing they had a chance to determine their own destiny. Here I was, locked in this battle, confused, frustrated and scared. It did not help knowing that lives were being lost all because we were just a pawn in the destructive cold war. Now the invaders were here claiming to save us from certain destruction. I remember thinking was this not destruction I was witnessing at their hands. 

Angry Guns

I snapped out of my thoughts when there was another explosion. Jeeps raced down the street from the airport, carrying the wounded. Their screams caused my skin to tingle and burn, like someone injected hate under it. I forced my mind to shut out their agony, but the sound was unbearable; those screams still linger in my dreams today. The antiaircraft guns were firing constantly now, causing the air to taste like sulfur. Deafening explosions shook the brick houses, and the screams of frightened children echoed through the village. A debilitating exchange of M-16s and AK-47s erupted just down the street as the paratroopers hit the ground. An earsplitting explosion rocked the village as a building disintegrated. Villagers scattered in every direction, screaming. I instinctively pulled out the pistol and ducked into the yard of the house closest to me. I was shaking so hard I was barely able to keep my grip on the weapon. More trucks screamed by, stopping to pick up some volunteers on the highway. I wanted to get up and join them, but I decided that it was not my fight. Instead, I stood up, the pistol hanging loosely in my hand, my heartbeat echoing in my head. I stood there listening to the sounds of war around me. I have to confess, there was a rush of adrenaline running through my veins. Strangely the explosions were dull hums, like a fishing boat engine in the middle of the night when you are half asleep. For the first time in my life I did not feel human. There was a monster growing in me. I wanted to kill someone, make them pay for the fear I felt. A jeep sped by, fleeing the battle. There was a young man in the front seat with a bloody stump where his arm used to be. I almost threw up, but swallowed hard, then turned and walked back to my house.

Aftershock

I sat at the kitchen table and listened to the war raging at the airport. That whole day, I stayed in the house. I would grab hold of the pistol every time I heard footsteps on the road. That night, the electricity was out, so I sat at the window and watched the orange flares light up the sky. Revolutionary soldiers ran through the village, retreating from the battle, their voices fading into the dark, replaced by barking dogs, angry they were woken up by the commotion. I stayed in the village for a week, sometimes going down the street to see what was going on. There were periodic lulls in the fighting, and lots of villagers stood at the top of the hill overlooking the airport. It was like standing in the middle of a bloody movie set. The invading soldiers had advanced from the airport. I remembered thinking that that was the first time I had heard inner city blacks from The City of Golden Streets talk, well except for the movies. I remember scavenging for food in my garden, making it a game to go outside when the shooting was intense. I had some common yard fowls and I had to break down and kill one. Later that day, I took the rest of the fowl and let them go into the bushes behind the house. I watched them scatter in all directions, their wings flapping, their feet kicking up dust as they ran for their freedom. They were more like pets to me and I did not have the heart to kill them. I wanted to be them, just for a moment, feel the freedom they felt.

Evacuation

When the fighting had died down, my brother came back from the city just before the order for evacuation was given. We packed as much as we could and went back to the city where my oldest brother lived. Invading soldiers lined the streets all the way there, their M-16s an ominous sight simply because I had gotten used to revolutionary soldiers walking around with AK-47s. The difference in national origins was not as important as the difference in the weapons; I guess I had become used to the Red Bear-made guns. We arrived at my brother’s house where he, his wife, and their three children lived. We were a long way from where most of the fighting was going on, or so I thought. There was a lot less explosions and gunfire, but the quiet was more frightening. I had become used to the sounds of explosions; the deafness that lingered a few seconds after helped drown out the screams around me. We stood in his front yard and watched the navy ships torpedo the beach. Sand mushroomed into the air, falling on the soldiers lying around. Every once in a while, an ambulance would go by, maneuvering through the narrow streets. Sirens blared, as they transported the wounded from other parts of the city. At night, flares lit up the hills around us, as the invading soldiers advanced deeper into the island.

I was startled awake early the next morning when antiaircraft guns began a barrage of firing behind the house. I sat up in bed, annoyed about being awakened by such noise. The bloody guns were so close it took a couple of seconds before I could hear again. Then the helicopters came from the direction of the ocean and opened fire. We retreated to my brother’s small bathroom where he had lined the walls with mattresses. His son, then about three, began singing. Tears rolled down my face as I sat helpless, not able to quell his fear. When the firefight was done, we ventured out of the bathroom and peeped out the windows. Ambulances sped through the small city, sirens blending in with the explosions and gunfire. A helicopter glided around the fort, smoke bellowing from the rear of it. I watched as it disappeared inland. Later I learned that it had crash-landed on an old cricket field. The pilot was killed execution-style while his passenger hid in the bushes and watched.

Slaughter

On the radio, now back on, we heard of a battle in a place named Beausjour where one of the largest radio transmitters in the islands was located. That battle raged on for days, as they attacked and counter-attacked. Many were wounded and of course there were some casualties. After the war, I visited that place. The stench of decaying human flesh permeated the air while flies and rodents feasted on body parts; I threw up so hard I thought I would cough up my lungs.  

The Gray World

As the war raged, I tried my best to cope, but nothing worked. One day my oldest brother walked into the room and placed eight cigarettes as big as Cuban cigars on the kitchen table. I looked at them, a little skeptical, but he swore that they would calm my nerves. I took my first draw on one before I realized it was the most potent joint I’d ever had. Needless to say, I must have smoked a pound of marijuana a day until all the fighting was done. We would get high, then go out into the front yard and watch as helicopters hovered over the city. They sometimes shot at targets, and I wondered how many were killed. One afternoon, when all was quiet, we stood outside watching the Navy ships come in closer. Suddenly a volley of gunshots rang out. I was standing next to the door, high as can be. Before I could react, I felt someone grab my shirt and pull me. It was my brother’s wife. That bloody woman was strong for her size. The look on her face was classic: she did not care how big I was, she was determined to move my big ass out of her way even if she had to huff and puff. I landed on my back looking up at my size seventeen feet. I remember thinking how big and ugly my feet looked against the tropical blue sky. Yes, that was my ganja voice talking to me. Before I could gather myself, she had disappeared into the house; I was the butt of jokes for a while.  

Conquered

One day when we were out of weed, we decided to go out and get some. There had not been any shooting for a while, so we figured it was safe. On the way, we encountered a group of Marines standing next to a white Nissan truck. In the bed of the truck, we saw about four bodies stuffed into what looked like black garbage bags. Being the inquisitive idiot that I am, I asked one of the soldiers if they were dead. One of the Marines, the one clearly in charge, shouted for me to move on. That was when one of the bags moved and a young man shouted that he was alive. My whole body went cold; no one deserved to be treated that way. That was the first time in my life I felt totally defeated. I guess we were now a conquered people. When we got back to the house I smoked so much ganja I was totally unaware of my surroundings. The only thing I remembered was using a knife to peel an orange and my sister-in-law herding the kids out of the kitchen, away from me. My brothers were laughing so hard tears rolled down their faces.  

Fighter Jets

After a few days of being at my brother’s house, I was becoming used to the war. That is until one early afternoon. I was high, as usual, sitting at the window watching the helicopters. I heard an earsplitting boom followed by a loud explosion. I jumped away from the window, confused, and the house shook, as if it would shift off of its foundations. A volley of antiaircraft gun shots rang out; it felt like the shots were fired right next to me. I dove to the ground and lay there listening. I heard myself breathing as the antiaircraft guns rang out. There was an eerie silence for a few minutes, so I rose up and looked out the window. A strange aircraft blasted in from the ocean and flew over the city. Another explosion rocked the hills behind the house. I ran to the other side of the room trying to decipher what the hell was going on. My brothers joined me at the window as a fighter jet disappeared into the blue sky. Smoke bellowed from a building in the distance as the antiaircraft guns responded. The sounds generated from the attack were the single most frightening sound I had ever heard. I reached for a joint, lit it up, and drew hard. I remember thinking, What if they missed their targets and hit the house? Funny thing about human beings: we can grow to tolerate anything, as long as we get used to it. That is one reason that nations can have violent conflicts that last for years. For the next couple of weeks I stayed high and played pool in the verandah of the house. I became fed up with staying inside.  

Aftermath

When it was quiet, and we felt it safe to venture out, we decided to go make sure my mother’s house was still in one piece. On the way, we passed The City of Golden Streets Marines - young men with M-16 rifles, most of them shaking with fear. It was the same fear I saw in the eyes of the Spice Islander soldiers that first day. When we arrived at the house, I realized that it was broken into. The invading soldiers had done a house to house search, leaving the back door hanging off its hinges. The village was empty, except for the dogs and cats wandering around. Helicopters flew by; truckloads of invading soldiers drove away from the airport, leaving the stifling dust in their wake. Periodically, gun shots and explosions were heard just beyond the hills. After we checked to make sure nothing was stolen, my brothers decided to go back to the city. For some ungodly reason, in my infinite wisdom, I decided to stay behind to keep an eye on the house.

That night I lay on my bed, the pistol on my chest, and I listened to the military planes land and take off at the airport. Every so often, gunfire erupted, and all the dogs in the village howled as if their owner had just died. Flares lit up the night, creating shadows with their orange glow. I managed to get a couple hours of sleep, my dreams peppered with images of the last few days.  

Green Smoke

The next day, I went down the street and watched as truckloads of soldiers drove to and from the airport, with prisoners. Some of the children were chasing after the trucks, screaming, some of them were waving small red white and blue flags. As I stood there, a house exploded in the village; pieces of