No Woman No Cry Read Free

tree in the yard—the “government yard” that Bob would later so famously sing about. From the time I was small, the yard had been my special place, not only where I cried after Aunty’s spankings, but where I went just to be by myself and think. It was smooth dirt, swept clean (often by me), and the plum tree had beautiful yellow blossoms. I used to pick the plums when they were green and gummy inside and break them in half and stick them on my ears, to make fabulous plum earrings.
    When I was fourteen, Fat Aunty died, and her son, my eleven-year-old cousin Constantine “Dream” Walker, came to live with us. Since they’d lived only one street away, he and I had always been close, and because of the “Two Sisters” business we’d grown up more like brother and sister than cousins. Aunty had taught us harmony, and so Dream became my harmonizer, pretending to be the band. Evenings, in the yard, he and I performed together. Every song that played on the radio, we had it down pat. We listened to Miami stations that played rhythm and blues, singers like Otis Redding and Sam Cooke and Wilson Pickett and Tina Turner, and groups like the Impressions, the Drifters, the Supremes, Patti LaBelle and the Bluebells, the Temptations—we caught all the Motown hits. But if you lived in Trench Town then, you’d also hear “ska,” and even earlier kinds of music like Nyahbingi drumming and “mento,” with roots in African traditions—the way in the States you might hear soul and pop on the radio but also folk and blues from way back.
    Sometimes Dream and I would put on a show and draw a crowd, charging people half a penny apiece. The people in the community, neighbors, other kids, the good, the bad—everyone looked forward to our “special entertainment” evenings. Even some of Papa’s musician friends came to hear us, people like Roland Alphonso and Jah Jerry. With Papa’s help, we’d made “pan guitars” from sardine cans. First, he nailed a flat piece of wood to the can for the fret board, and then we fixed strings onto it. Our “guitars” were small, but they worked!
    At my school, the Central Branch government school on Slipe Pen Road, my name had been shortened from Alfarita to Rita because the teacher said it was too long for the register. At Central Branch nothing was something; we wore white blouses, blue pleated skirts, and blue ties, and considered ourselves fortunate. I don’t know how Aunty had even gotten me in there, because you were supposed to live in the area in the first place, as well as having a good family background and somebody or some school to recommend you. I was kind of far from all that, living in Trench Town with no mother and Papa being a carpenter and a musician with no established earnings. I think Aunty surely must have pulled some strings; probably she got a letter from some member of her political party, as she was the area representative. But I showed myself deserving of the chance. I always loved school, was always “a bright girl,” as my teachers said, not always by the book but by my common sense and quick pickup of the lessons. Except math. I tried my best and was very good at everything else.
    Lunchtime, in elementary schools, different vocal groups gathered in classrooms to compete. At Central Branch I was one of the organizers, and if there was to be a concert—often just before a holiday—Mrs. Jones, my favorite teacher, would say, “Rita, we need some songs,” and she’d make sure I had time and space for rehearsals. I’d tell everyone in my group what to do, what parts to sing and when. And all the while I’m telling myself that one day I’ll be like Diana Ross.
    In Jamaica, public education is free only through elementary school, and then you need money. After Central Branch I got a half scholarship to Dunrobin High School (Merle Grove