| THE SANTA PICTURE by Hazel D Campbell She watched him shuffling through the exit and thought again how the thick overcoats and heavy boots robbed her people of the natural rhythm in their steps and turned them into furry, furtive creatures scurrying against the cold which bit noses and ears and lungs, spitefully angry at their invasion. And she sighed. It was more than just a broken heart. It was fear and disappointment and hopelessness. How would she get through this first Christmas in a strange land? Why oh why had they chosen to come to school in this far- away- from- everybody city? The friends she had made had happily abandoned her because they thought she would rather spend Christmas with him. They'd come up to study together and everybody expected that somewhere in the studying there would be a wedding, when the right time came. Now he was gone. Suddenly. No warning signs. No excuses. Nothing. Just: "We always knew this day would come. It's over." How cruel. She had never thought of him as cruel before. She opened the notebook which she had so cheerfully put aside when he had joined her at the table. She had been trying to come up with a good topic for her writing class A story or a poem was due after the break. They said that sadness caused writers to create masterpieces. Maybe she should write a poem about him leaving her. It would be a very sad poem. "Why did you leave me?....." she wrote one line, then writer's block set in. Half an hour and two coffees later, she still hadn't written anything more. She had spent the time watching the people who came into the diner, wondering how many of them were as unhappy as she was. Many of them looked just like her. Seekers after a warm place to rest awhile, a place to think about the next move. Drifters.. She added one word to her line : " Why did you leave me, drifting......" Then got stuck again. What was it her tutor had said last writing class? To move writer's block, free wheel. Write down anything that came to mind. Another half an hour. Still nothing on the paper but circles. She always doodled circles when she was unhappy. Somebody had once told her that concentrating on circles could help to lift the spirit, for the circle ends exactly where it begins. She couldn't remember who had said it, but it was a very profound thought. "Are you alright, honey?" the waitress asked. "Maybe you should eat something. Food always helps." "No thanks," she replied politely. Not unless it was some pepperpot soup or a patty and coco bread or some ackee and saltfish. Food from home. Food for the soul, she thought. Time to leave the diner. Time to start facing the world without him. She tried not to shuffle as she went out into the cold, her heart as heavy as the layers of protective garments weighing her down. Nothing to do now but wander through the streets looking into shop windows. This was her first day off campus. Her writing elective had been so onerous, she had spent all her time reading or writing in an effort to keep up with the class. Now she wished she had not decided to stay just to experience a wintry Christmas. How she wished she were at home, sunshine warm and safe. She mingled with the crowds bustling about like mad ants, then turned aimlessly into a department store. The escalator seemed to offer escape from the throng on the ground floor, so she got on and rode it to where it ended on the kiddies' floor. A line of impatient children and weary parents caught her attention. Then amid the tinkly music she caught sight of Santa, looking so real, much more real than the fake ones ringing their bells on the streets. Santa, ho! ho! ho -ing! on a golden throne surrounded by elves and reindeer and Christmas trees and shiny toys and red, white and green decorations. Time suddenly reversed to her own childhood. She had never had her picture taken with Santa. Every December she would get a severe cold and be so sick that she was always absent when Santa visited her school's Christmas party. Her brothers had pictures from two years of sitting on Santa's knees, Robbie with a front tooth missing one year and James with his face screwed up in terror, although in the next picture he was smiling and confident. Grown-ups were always looking at these pictures on the piano and exclaiming " how cute!" long after the boys had stopped being cute, and then they would ask: "So where's Lyn's picture?" One year, Mummy had taken her to the plaza in Half Way Tree on the afternoon that it was advertized that Santa would come in a donkey cart laden with gifts, but although they waited a very long time, he never came. She had cried and cried. Tidal waves of self-pity washed over her as she thought how this first big disappointment had set a pattern for her life. The things she wanted most would continue to elude her. Like the parish spelling bee finals which everybody had said she would win, but, at the last minute, she couldn't remember how to start the word 'eucalyptus', and came in second. Then she hadn't got into the high school of her choice. On and on the memories flooded her. The first date when the boy had not turned up. The returned manuscripts. "Loser! Loser!" she whispered to herself. "Hey, lady! Move up! Where's your kid?" Lyn looked around, at first bewildered, then embarrassed. She was at the head of the Santa line! She didn't even know when she had joined it. Then she got a wonderful idea. Maybe if she undid those first disappointments, it would break the pattern. She would get her picture taken with Santa. If she was too big to sit on his knee he could hug her. And she would send the picture home, framed, and ask Mummy to put it on the piano where everybody would see it. "Ho! Ho! Ho!" Santa beckoned. |
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| A MAN OF VISION ( copyright) by Hazel Campbell "Wake up! Wake up! David nudged his companion. "Tief! Tief!" Daggerman responded as he struggled to get from under his rags and cardboard cover. "No! No!" David reassured him. "Is not thief. I get the dream! I get the dream at last!" "Dream?" Daggerman sighed.. David poked the others lying on similar improvised beds around him, but they only mumbled and shifted positions, so he blew his whistle. The shrieking yanked them from sleep and they hurriedly prepared to flee, for the whistle was the ultimate warning of - Gunman! Police! Thief! - the enemies which caused them to huddle together at nights for protection. "Calm down," David's voice still held the authority of his university lecturer days. " I get the vision!" The others grumbled as they remade their beds, for David was a man of many visions. "Listen nuh! I know what to do now." "Is midnight, man. Tell we later." "The real problem," David persisted, " is that nobody never claim this island for black people!" "What?" "Don't you see? When Columbus came, he stuck a flag in the ground and claimed the island for Spain. Penn and Venables planted the Union Flag and claimed the island for England. When we say we get Independence in 1962 them just string up a flag and never claim nothing. Them even use the same flag pole that the British used. Them never plant the flag. Them never claim nothing for us. So how we expect anything could change? If things to change, we have to plant a flag and claim the island for the sufferers who make up the majority of this country." "What kinda flag?" Daggerman asked. He was resigned to losing the rest of his night's sleep. When David got one of his brilliant ideas, he could talk for hours. "What kinda flag?" he asked again. "The same one, but with red in it." "I see it in my vision. Red in the middle for all the blood that fatten the land for the oppressors." "Where we gwine get a flag?" Maudie grumbled. "Plenty flag pon the pole them. Nobody no tek them down at night." "You have red cloth?" Maudie asked, knowing that she would be the one chosen to alter the flag. David grew impatient. " Details! Details!' He started giving orders " Daggerman, go raid a flag pole. Wildman go find a good long stick. Maudie, tear off piece of your blouse....." Later that August morning, a small band of street people trudged single file up Duke Street. A rag tag bunch of idlers soon joined the procession as it made its way past Gordon House, the seat of Parliament, past other government buildings and into the National Heroes Park. The park was the site of the monuments for others who in their day had also sought to make things better for the majority and were now honoured as heroes. David and his band stopped in front of Marcus Garvey's shrine. David solemnly unfurled his flag, a large one taken from a ministry building. The centre where the black, green and gold met was covered with a rough red circle torn from Maudie's red blouse and tacked on with the few common pins she could find. "We are here this morning to plant a new flag and claim this land for black people," David began his oration. "We're claiming it for all who have to beg to get something to eat; for all who have to capture land because them can't rent or buy house; for all who can't get work; who can't send them pickney to school; who cyan drive big car......." His rabble audience interrupted him with loud clapping and cheers. The cheering attracted more people and the crowd quickly swelled to a mob. The park began to assume a carnival air with hastily assembled food and other vendors hustling business. Some people were ridiculing David and his decrepit followers; but some were listening. The noise irritated David, but he pressed on with his mission. "Poor people pay for this land with them sweat and blood. This land and its riches belong to us. Let us claim it NOW!" The cheering and jeering continued as Daggerman and Wildman ceremoniously dug a hole and planted the flag. "I, David Traffico, Defender of the Rights of Poor People, Rejecter of Every Colonial Connection, Anointed Visionary of the New Millennium for Jamaica now claim this land for the people of Jamaica and you are all witnesses to this act this Day of our Lord August, in the year two thousand and one. Inspector Whitmannore grumbled as he gave his orders. " I tell unoo long time that that madass David Traffico was going to mek big trouble one of these days. Who let him out again?" The persistent squawking of the sirens began to irritate the crowd even before the team of police cars raced to a halt at the entrance to the park. Stones and bottles materialized in frustrated hands fanned to fury by David's garbled rhetoric. Popular discontent which had been smouldering for some time flamed into rebellion. Amidst the barrage of makeshift weapons, jeers and taunts a frightened rookie reached for his teargas cannister. The crowd fled leaving David's flag to be ripped from its lopsided stance by an indignant policeman. But David's speech had settled in fertile soil. The mob regrouped and spread out through the city angrily destroying the very inheritance David had sought to claim for them. One madman with a vision had started the revolution. |
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| Hazel Campbell's Short Stories |
| All stories on this site copyrighted to Hazel D. Campbell |
