School Alone

So, I read this article in the Caymanian Compass the other day, and am still disgruntled by it.

It constantly amazes me as to how some parents can be so clueless and careless with respect to their children, although during my conversation with one of the teachers at the school, she states that we should be somewhat thankful that the chill’un are attending in the first, even if the school and teachers are being used as a glorified babysitting service.

I cannot begin to fathom how a parent(s) can allow a child to remain at school until 7:00PM, and not take safety issues into consideration, coupled with the fact that the child must be tired, smelly and hungry. What about a set routine for a child, which includes bath, dinner, relaxing at home; quality time with family; homework, and an early bedtime in order rinse, lather and repeat? This can never happen if a child is left at school until 7:00PM, and what perturbs me even more, is the fact that there are repeat offenders. Had this been a habitual offender who’s child remained at the school until 7:00PM, Social Services should have been contacted, though I am not even certain how they could posibly this problem, or if the parent(s) would particularly care.

Everything being relative, there are instances of parents fighting with teachers; parents fighting with students; chill'un cussin’ teachers; ganja brownies in schools, and heaven only knows what else. I am too naive to consider the further possibilities. It would be interesting to cross reference the attendance, punctuality, behaviour and grades for the children that are habitually left at the school until the wee hours, in order to asses the possible social concerns that may potentially adversely affect the Islands in the future, and to decide if and when an intervention would be required.

It was also ironic to note that within the same newspaper publication, the Ministry of Health and Human Services announced that it would be hosting a planned symposium to review the points at which young people enter the Criminal Justice System, though the article reads as an extravagant homage to nothingness. There were a lot of words, though nothing was said. I just think that in terms of common sense, the so-called symposium attendees should draw from the Compass’ article about the school pick ups, and this may provide them with a starting point for their sociological, political and economic assessment as to how young people could possibly enter the Criminal Justice System.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

'Fro

Children, Race and Self Esteem

Take a look at this video, and lets seriously contemplate the methods by which our children are socialised to feel racially inferior. This should serve as a gruesome wake up call.

It would be interesting to view the results of similar experiments in the Caribbean.

Please be sure to share it with all of your friends and family.

I need say no more.

'Ta

Arthritic Knees and Football Glory

So, glutton for punishment that I am, after our glorious and renowned victory over the evil villains in the indoor five a side football finals, the Lady Lions have once again taken to the battlefield to defend our illustruous title.

Prior to each practice and game, my knees send shock waves through my body by emitting a series of cracks, creaks and aches, blatantly protesting the form of torture that will be meted out when I am running up and down the court seeking to deliver the little ball into the goal. I had previously pledged that 2007 would be the year that I would actually take care of my knees by doing the dreaded surgery, but my modus operandi at this point is to continue with my rabid denials in the hopes that if I should ignore it, the problem will go away . Miracles do happen.

Well, the Lady Lions are back, though I am sorry to say that the team is not the same. Last season we took the field with laughter, jokes, revelry, and an incomprehensible attitude of hope and joviality after each and every loss. Now, our team structure has changed, as some players have left, and new players have joined the roster. Winning seems to be the primary motivation, and the so-called “novice” players are taking a back seat to the more ‘elite’ and "world-cupesque" players. Last season, everyone played, and a good time was had by all. Now, there is cussing (each other and the referees), back door lobbying, sussing and they are all acting like...dare I say it…girls. Once again, I am reminded of why I had decided to discontinue team sports for all time, as I no longer have the patience nor the tact to deal with the foolishness and aggravation that accompanies the diverse personalities. I am just too old for that crap.

Additionally, games are scheduled for Friday nights, and by the time I finish playing, sweating, applying the Tiger Balm and icing the old knees, no dyam happy hour for me, and I am too mash up to go anywhere later! Stoopid season is interfering with my social life. Crap!

On that stinkin' note, I shall now exit.

'Ta

'Fro

Weeping For The Willows

So, as I was driving along the coast of South Sound the other day, I was at a loss as to why the usual jaunt along what was one of the most beautiful pieces of coastal scenery on Grand Cayman did not provide me with my usual sense of peace and tranquility. As I snapped out of my revere, turned down my tunes and pulled over to the side of the road, I realized that South Sound as I once knew and loved was no more, and once again, the rabid environmentalist dwelling deep within the recesses of my heart let out an undignified roar for the loss of what was. (Well, sorta, though this sounds more dramatic).

My heart bleeds for the South Sound of old, fraught with the elegant statuesque weeping willows that engulfed the road and invariably hid the skyline from a pedestrian’s view, assisting with the receipt of cool onshore winds, as the needles of the willows made their eerie music whilst swaying in the wind. The flora and fauna of South Sound were abundant and raw, and I can always remember my brothers and I trudging through the boggy surf to go fishing and to get up to all kinds of childhood mischief. I can’t remember when this all changed.

As a child, I can remember driving through South Sound with my Granddad, knowing that he would mischievously turn off the car lights as we were engulfed in total darkness, unable to see our hands in front of our faces. I would squeal in abject terror and plead with him to turn the lights back on. Two minutes later, I would beg him to do it again. This was our game, and regardless of our destination, my Granddad would always make it a point to drive through South Sound, even if he had to go miles out of the way. I can’t remember when this all changed.

As a child, I can remember competing in road races that traversed through South Sound, running barefoot in the early mornings, at one with the winding road, counting trees as a distraction, hearing the wallowing surf breaking through the trees yet unable to see the beach from the road. I can’t remember when this all changed.

Today, I stare in resignation at the bulldozers that are lined up to further render the flora and fauna of South Sound, all in the name of progress and development. The South Sound as I knew it no longer exists. The weeping willows are gone, replaced by towering mansions competing for dominance along the coast, landscaped with imported palm trees strategically placed as a part of the ‘natural’ landscaping .

Today, property values along South Sound are sky high, and Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom, will further continue the developers’ work. The beach has receded after the passage of each tropical storm, and Hurricane Ivan has made it almost non-existent. Advantageous fishing spots are difficult to find without trespassing on private property, most of which are cordoned off by intricate fencing, keeping out the nappy haired people that look like me. Trees and shrubbery are almost non-existent, as the last of the weeping willows hang on pathetically in their solitude, with their roots stretching into the sea. Running through South Sound in the afternoons is a heat stroke induced nightmare, as the lack of any form of foliage provides no protection from the harsh rays of the sun, and the on-shore winds from the rolling surf offer no consolation from the vicious heat of the sun.

I weep for what once was.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

I Want My Baby Back...

So, there are no electronic whirring, buzzes and kebangs resounding throughout the house, as cyber villains are shot, lambasted killed and/or maimed by a weapon of choice, be it karate chops, kicks, ray guns and other assorted weaponry.

There are no longer blasts from televisions throughout the house all constantly tuned to Cartoon Network, for which I dare not change the channel for fear of whiney repercussions and eventual squabbling and justifications of one being able to ‘multi-task’.

The house is clean and I am able to walk unimpeded from room to room without stepping on shoes, games, cartridges, underwear and other randonmly strewn unmentionables, now able to preserve the delicate nuances of my voice as I observe the cleanliness, remembering the bellows of aggravation from having to constantly supervise and monitor the clean up process, or shaking my head in resignation and leaving it alone.

I am able to dive into my bed for a good night’s sleep, without having to play the vicious game of dodge the bony elbows and knees randomly kicking in any direction, as a body is tossed any which way during peaceful, innocent exhausted slumber.

Sigh. Sonny has gone back to Bim and I miss him so much . Two more school terms are left before this aggravating separation will end.

On that note, I shall now exit, with the theme song from the Chili's restaurant chain commercial singing an annoying, repetitive refrain throughout my head: "I want my baby back, baby back, baby back...", and I doh mean ribs.

‘Ta.

'Fro