Out of Zion: A Soldier's Dreams, Demons and Destination

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to my sister Lillian whose curiosity motivated me to write the narrative. Also I thank my college buddy Emmanuel Irish Esq., who challenged me to meet a dead-line.

I am greatly indebted to Mrs. Irose Payne Chalon who painstakingly edited the manuscript, and I am grateful to her for her time, effort and expertise. Thanks to Dr. Gilbert Sprauve, who encouraged me and constantly gave me feedback.

Dr. Sydney Sadio’s contribution was invaluable. He was constructively critical and helped me to soften the rhetoric and make the diction more palatable. Jimmy Rogers helped me to reconstruct life as a soldier. Recognition is given to Mr. St. Clair Wilkerson who was my sounding board and did the legwork for me to publish. Special thanks to Sydney Newton, Verne Manners, my many relatives and friends whom I consulted. I am grateful to my church family at St. Thomas Assembly of God.

Finally, there is no way I can repay my wife Rosanna for critiquing, organizing and typing the manuscript. I am also grateful for her sacrifice and encouragement throughout the arduous writing process.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my beloved children

Florence, Geoff and Gregory, and to my grandchildren

C.J., Brittany, Geoffrey, Grant, Cayla, Jada and Gavin.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

DEDICATION

Preface

Introduction

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

References

Glossary

About the Author

Preface

I write about the life of an emigrant of low estate and who made the ultimate sacrifice. Seldom does a person of humble means get center stage. On the surface, there is hardly anything worthy of note in an indigent’s life. Yet everything generation needs to recognize the hardships, sacrifices and obstacles that confronted their parents and grandparents. This must be done if only it is to avoid a repeat of the scourge of deprivation.

Traditionally, our West Indian stories are shared orally and mainly at family gatherings. But with the extensive dispersion of families, the rich and informal exchange of stories, tales and occurrences has been depleted. As a result, our progenies feel disconnected and aloof from the grit and grind of their pioneering forefathers.

I take you back and forth in time and place. The book is interspersed with anecdotes from various settings: Nevis, Puerto Rico, Chicago, San Juan and Zion. Obviously, there is an inter play of social, economic and spiritual forces at work among these settings.

Professor Davies of Inter American University, P.R. inspired me to write. She prepared me to enter the Annual Literary Contest. Her belief in my writing skill strengthened my writing desire and although I have not lived up to expectation, I appreciate the gesture and foresight.

It is my guess that many poor emigrants have a rich life story. It is this that I wanted to capture and unfold. I hope to showcase an emigrant’s journey and a few demons he encountered. Then, you can be the judge to determine if the finality of his destination was worthwhile. I am aware that I risked airing dirty linen in public. Yet, I am oblivious to the dirt; I simply air the linen.

I remind you that somebody before you made sacrifices, built bridges and laid foundations so that you could experience a privileged life. Enjoy the journey out of Zion.

G. H.N.

Reflecting our past

Celebrating our present

Embracing our future.

Introduction

My father lived his life abroad while I grew up with my paternal grandparents in Nevis. Yet the image of him was always near. His parents etched in my childhood mind the picture of a man of strength, adventure, and intelligence. The villagers extolled him with wild and inflated tales about who he was. He was athletic and knew how to win. And so, although my father was distant geographically, he was never absent. In addition, he wrote; he advised; he shared; he applauded, and he encouraged.

As I began to write the story of my father’s life, my wife saw my enthusiasm and how it overwhelmed me.

Are you looking to resurrect your father? she asked with tongue in cheek.

I hope you have the salt and pepper handy. she continued.

Dad came out of the small village of Zion on the island of Nevis in the eastern Caribbean. From this village on a clear day, when there is no African dust or volcanic ash from Montserrat, Obama Peak in Antigua is visible.

I intended to celebrate my dad’s life, short though it was. Like him, I was acquainted with the personal struggles and obstacles one faced growing up in the village. He realized that the prospect for good quality life in Zion was unattainable. Planting crops, fishing among the reefs, and raising animals were the legitimate means to earn a livelihood then, but he had other dreams for life.

He decided to migrate. I summed it up in these lines in my book Ties That Bind Caribbean People.

He fantasized

and became hypnotized.

So he theorized

that the grass was greener.

As a foreigner, he sneaked into the United States, and gambled his life at war. This one act of bravery helped to break the cycle of poverty into which he was born. Subsequently, he never forgot the values of hard-work, family and education.

My sister, who was born abroad and grew up with our father, spurred me to write his story. She remarked that Dad never told them (my siblings) about Nevis. Probably in his time, there was not much to tell. What was there to tell really?

His home was merely a shelter. All activities were conducted outdoors. The fireplace sat under a galvanized sheet. The toilet was a covered pit. The yard was the venue for relaxation on a shaded rock. What is in that to tell?

Dad could have told my brothers and sisters that their grandfather was an honest farmer. He cultivated three acres of land in different locations. His mother was a seamstress. She sewed his clothes but could never survive on the trade. The customers were few. However, she ran the household – whatever the transaction was.

He could have mentioned the extent of his home library. A King James Bible was visible on the shelf. There was also an Anglican Church prayer book. The Vicar of Wakefield (an old English novel) sat uninviting with some of its pages missing. That was the extent of available literature in the home.

The community center or the Big Tree was worth mentioning. The Big Tree was a large shady genip tree. Its branches were crowded with foliage that formed an irresistible canopy. It was the symbol of discourse, dialogue and debate. It was the venerable venue to regurgitate news – world, local or domestic. It was a setting for laughter, frolic and gossip.

In many ways, my father George Henry Newton was a pioneer. He was a trendsetter. He was the first in the family to pursue a teaching career. He was the first to wear the U.S. epaulette in combat. He was the first to matriculate at a post secondary institute from the union of John Newton (English landowner) and the unnamed African house-slave, his great-grandparents.

Seventy years are given us! And some may even live to eighty.

But even the best of these years are often emptiness and pain;

soon they disappear, and we are gone. (Psalm 90:10).

My father never lived out the allotted course; he fell short by a decade and more. However, during his sojourn, he accomplished some of his dreams.

William Faulkner submitted that it was hard to dream oneself out of poverty, lack and hopelessness, yet he encouraged one to dream anyhow.

Dream on! Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do. Don’t bother, just be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. Try to be better than yourself. (William Faulkner’s quote on Commitment).

Dad couldn’t prevent himself from dreaming. He didn’t just dream when he was asleep. He dreamt of a better day. He anticipated an improved life. He encouraged himself to aim for the sky, and perchance he reached the mountain top. In his quest, he scaled the foothills of Zion and landed on the mountain top of El Yunque.

The struggle was arduous. He chose the route of the military. He experienced social ills and disparities first-hand. He battled frigid winters. He worked exhausting hours. But, mission accomplished! It was all worth the struggle.

Was my father’s story a typical rags to riches tale? Not quite. He managed to clothe his family; he provided proper shelter for them; he gave his children an education, and he inspired hope for others in similar vicissitudes of life.

A life long or short, if we walked in God’s will, would be a fulfilled life. An unknown Spanish poet described life thus:

Life is long or short,

bitter or sweet.

Those that find it short

it is sweet,

Those that find it long

it is bitter.

My dad made it short and sweet. He cleared some major hurdles and paved the upward way. He blazed a narrow trail that those who came after him would find accessible.

If you’ll break through the barriers in your mind and stepping out in faith, you will go beyond those old barriers, and the same thing will happen in your family. Your children, grand-children, and future generations will continue to race past those barriers. They will continue to go further than people ever once thought possible. And it will be because you were willing to step out in faith, setting a new standard, paving the way for future generations.

Your Best Life Now – Joel Osteen

CHAPTER I

They Called It Snow Island

My father reminisced. He thought of his school days in Zion, Nevis. He recalled that this little island was named, the Isle of Snows.

Snows…., he pondered. That’s nieves in Columbus’ vernacular.

We both agreed that snow was alien to Nevis. It was not a welcomed precipitation on this tropical island.

Columbus was drunk if indeed he so named the island, he argued.

That’s a strong indictment against the navigator, Dad, I submitted.

I know, but we must face reality, Dad countered.

Well, if Columbus was drunk as you allege, it takes a thief to catch a thief, I volunteered cautiously.

Dad and I chuckled playfully. It was one of our many lighter moments of passing the time. And so, I proposed a counter explanation how Nieves became anglicized to Nives and ultimately Nevis.

It was my guess that the navigator hallucinated. He sailed by the island about that time when the night-light and pitch darkness played tricks on the sight. Or, he possibly passed by the island just after midnight when apparitions were prevalent.

That’s superstition, Dad warned. I didn’t challenge him then. However, we agreed that the intent was not to bash the navigator. He stood forgiven since he operated out of ignorance and innocence.

Already, Dad told my siblings that he and I were born on a fifty square mile island. If nothing else, teachers taught with much regularity the size and capital of all the islands. Great pride emanate in students when they learned that their homeland was bigger than others. It stemmed from an insular pride which proposed that bigger was better.

In more