What He Built

by Vernell Silva (United States of America)

Making a local connection Bahamas

I always questioned why I made a trip every year to The Bahamas. I know it's my mother's country and she pines for the nostalgia of being a careless seventeen year old who thought about life outside of the Caribbean. She often tells me stories about what factored into her decision to pack up and leave for the 'states'; my mother has a lot of unresolved resentment towards her father because of that decision. Her father "ruled with an iron fist"; she would often say but she's very grateful for every life lesson he indirectly gave his children. As a woman often visiting, she would reminisce on stories with her siblings and I believe their shared amusement for their father's stories keeps my mother coming back to that house even after he's gone. The house my grandfather built. In 2011, my grandfather ended his long battle with Alzheimer's disease; summoning the whole family to the house on Lyon Road he built with his hands for his wife and eleven children when they started a new life in Nassau. I remember this story from birth when my grandmother would sit me on her knee and proudly tell me the kind of selfless character her husband possessed. As my grandfather sat in a rocking chair beside her laughing aloud at his inner thoughts; she knew I didn't believe her. My grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease the year I was born and the only memory I have of him is watching him deteriorate on every visit to The Bahamas. I knew of a sane man through his children and wife and always wondered why they were so proud of him. I was specifically always wondered why they were so proud of what they called home. The house on Lyon Road sat upon the highest hill adjacent to the infamous Kemp Road that taxi drivers at airports would decline to make a desired destination. Lyon Road had a bad reputation because of Kemp Road and by the sight of things; I knew why. Seventeen year old careless me decided to cope through this visit for my grandfather's funeral with my headphones. As we drove through the streets of downtown Nassau where the tourist bought 'authentic' Bahamian souvenirs and I fixated on the lights of Paradise Island in the far distant; I often thought, "why can't we go there?" I know simply because we aren't wealthy White tourist but I often wondered why I couldn't be happy visiting The Bahamas like the people in the countries. The Bahamas I know is not literally seperated from New Providence concerned with itself only. Paradise Island has built a dream that only money can buy and a ticket to tour around Nassau where visitors can ride our jitney for a low fare and snap pictures of the 'ethnic' neighborhoods they visited. Lyon Road is one of those tour stops. As they snapped pictures from their window like they were on a safari exhibit, I used to beg my mother for our next visit to be like that. She would pass me a pot of boiling hot water for my bath and simply reply, "home is home". We spent days on the beach and walking to the corner for a fried conch as my mother told stories of her and her siblings sneaking out at night to attend Junkanoo festival. I watched her smile for the first time since the funeral reminiscing bittersweet memories. When my grandmother made curry goat for dinner; my family would cope through their stories of their father and husband. As I studied their temporary smiles and digged into my bowl of homemade bliss; I answered all my ungrateful questions. The next day on my walk to the straw market, I took pictures of kids playing soccer on the side road, and mothers slicing open young coconuts for paying customers with a baby attached to their hip; I realized I was home. Now, I savor the taste of security in every bite of Bahamian food I can get in the states until I find my way back to Lyon Road; sleeping on the floor of the house my grandfather built for us; our home.