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What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
CHRIS BURNS
Monday, September 19, 2011
MY late grandmother had her own perspective on life's trials and tribulations, but always said, "What nuh cost life nuh cost nothing," and Denzil's story confirms her thinking. I met Denzil in late 2008; his baritone voice would move the most obdurate heart as he sang, Pass me not O gentle Saviour or Elvis Presley's version of You'll never walk alone. Denzil performed at the same spot daily; and unlike the transient flow of traffic, his commanding voice represented prominence and purpose and he used it to climb atop the parallelogram of faded dreams and disappointments life constructed for him.
His voice not only derailed the endless caravans of inquisitors, but in a strange way it also retired accompanying questions even before they were asked. It was hard to ignore the pangs in his eyes which were as endless as the melodious echoes from the a-capellas he rendered. And with eyes as full as the moon, the reflective alloy of distress and contentment shone brightly. It was also easy to detect, from his street antics, that uneasiness ruled his world - a world in which things appeared so perpendicular that they erected thin lines between despondency and insanity and which caused him to bob and weave just to dodge familiar faces.
Still, Denzil scrutinised everything around him like detectives do, and although fear belied his confident gaze, he followed the mass of humanity with unusual addiction. His face was thin; its skeleton floated to the surface without pause and his neck appeared too frail, but determined, to carry the weight of his big head. And even though blistered and cracked, his lips did not signify malnutrition; they told the story of chronic dehydration and of an extraordinary commitment to sing his way to victory. Always well-groomed; he wore clean clothes and a spotless pair of black Clarks shoes. His intermittent smile gave way to his white teeth which confirmed that although faced with hardship he maintained his dignity. He seldom begged; yet, hardly anyone passed without sharing a donation with him.
About two years ago, in the middle of winter, I saw him struggling with what appeared to be a huge multichromatic comforter. However, upon examination it turned out to be several pieces of old coats stitched together; he used it to keep himself warm. It became strikingly apparent that the contrivance was inadequate so although we never spoke before, except for an occasional howdy-do, I asked him the obvious, "Hey, you must be freezing, you want a coat?" He responded approvingly but ruefully, "How yuh mean bossman; it cold bad mi bredda, but a wha yuh gwine wear?"
I was jolted by his selflessness because, despite being in the throes of his own struggles and challenges, he had it within him to be thoughtful of my well-being. His answer segued into a lengthy conversation about the circumstances of life and his journey to, and presence in, North America. Denzil, the third of seven children, lived in Spanish Town with his other siblings and mother for 27 years. His father died in a car crash when he was 11 years old; he said life was never the same afterwards. Anyway, after leaving secondary school, he did odd jobs, but on discovering his great singing voice, he started singing at weddings and funerals and amassed enough money to "fix-up" his mother's house.
Things were going very well until one of his brothers got "mixed up" with the wrong crowd. His involvement would later change their lives for the worst - everything went downhill. He said his brother had witnessed a murder and the murderers, all of whom were his cronies; theorised that his connection to the decedent would cause trouble for them, so they killed him, execution style. But that was just the precursor to an endless night of death and destruction, followed by weeks of reprisal killings. Blood flowed from the bodies of all his siblings; and in a final act of barbarity, the heartless reprobates killed his mother then disembowelled his pregnant sister.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened and saw his face twitch effortlessly as he whispered, "Di man dem kill dung to di fowl dem inna di yard." Denzil survived because he hid in the cavity of an abandoned pit latrine and was too determined to live to care about the stench and weight from the filth that covered most of his body, nor by the roaches that turned his face into a playground. He just held firmly to the cross-bar to prevent himself from drowning in human waste.
But he continued, "After the terror, I moved to Montego Bay. Luckily, about a year before the craziness went down, I got a visa, so I decided to buy a ticket and run and is suh mi end up a 'Merica. I came without money, no place to live, friends, family or knowledge of the system, but I came with hope and determination to get a better life. And I plan to go back to Spanish Town to give my old lady, sister and brothers decent tombs and close that chapter of my life. But sometimes it's like constipation, because everything mi do come with pain and I cyaan flex like seh mi legit, yuh done know."
With dimmed eyes, he sighed then said, "Di night dem long, di bench dem tough and di firmament indifferent to mi situation, but mi nah give up." I suggested steps he could take to sort himself out, even as I encouraged him to stand firm. But mysteriously, he went missing - gone from his regular spot - and as I wrestled with many thoughts about his status, I hoped for the best and my fears were allayed. A few months ago, while shopping in Manhattan, someone tapped on my shoulder and exclaimed, "Whaa gwan Chris!" It was Denzil; sharp as a razor, with wife and two beautiful daughters, financially stable, full of life and pride and doing well as a cabaret singer. We chatted, and as he left he said, "Chris, I continue to believe that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Denzil's story, though touchingly sad, is not unique, but it speaks to the capacity of human beings to survive and of our will to succeed.
Burnscg@aol.com
Read more: http://www.jamaicaobserver.com/colum...#ixzz1YoW65qvB
CHRIS BURNS
Monday, September 19, 2011
MY late grandmother had her own perspective on life's trials and tribulations, but always said, "What nuh cost life nuh cost nothing," and Denzil's story confirms her thinking. I met Denzil in late 2008; his baritone voice would move the most obdurate heart as he sang, Pass me not O gentle Saviour or Elvis Presley's version of You'll never walk alone. Denzil performed at the same spot daily; and unlike the transient flow of traffic, his commanding voice represented prominence and purpose and he used it to climb atop the parallelogram of faded dreams and disappointments life constructed for him.
His voice not only derailed the endless caravans of inquisitors, but in a strange way it also retired accompanying questions even before they were asked. It was hard to ignore the pangs in his eyes which were as endless as the melodious echoes from the a-capellas he rendered. And with eyes as full as the moon, the reflective alloy of distress and contentment shone brightly. It was also easy to detect, from his street antics, that uneasiness ruled his world - a world in which things appeared so perpendicular that they erected thin lines between despondency and insanity and which caused him to bob and weave just to dodge familiar faces.
Still, Denzil scrutinised everything around him like detectives do, and although fear belied his confident gaze, he followed the mass of humanity with unusual addiction. His face was thin; its skeleton floated to the surface without pause and his neck appeared too frail, but determined, to carry the weight of his big head. And even though blistered and cracked, his lips did not signify malnutrition; they told the story of chronic dehydration and of an extraordinary commitment to sing his way to victory. Always well-groomed; he wore clean clothes and a spotless pair of black Clarks shoes. His intermittent smile gave way to his white teeth which confirmed that although faced with hardship he maintained his dignity. He seldom begged; yet, hardly anyone passed without sharing a donation with him.
About two years ago, in the middle of winter, I saw him struggling with what appeared to be a huge multichromatic comforter. However, upon examination it turned out to be several pieces of old coats stitched together; he used it to keep himself warm. It became strikingly apparent that the contrivance was inadequate so although we never spoke before, except for an occasional howdy-do, I asked him the obvious, "Hey, you must be freezing, you want a coat?" He responded approvingly but ruefully, "How yuh mean bossman; it cold bad mi bredda, but a wha yuh gwine wear?"
I was jolted by his selflessness because, despite being in the throes of his own struggles and challenges, he had it within him to be thoughtful of my well-being. His answer segued into a lengthy conversation about the circumstances of life and his journey to, and presence in, North America. Denzil, the third of seven children, lived in Spanish Town with his other siblings and mother for 27 years. His father died in a car crash when he was 11 years old; he said life was never the same afterwards. Anyway, after leaving secondary school, he did odd jobs, but on discovering his great singing voice, he started singing at weddings and funerals and amassed enough money to "fix-up" his mother's house.
Things were going very well until one of his brothers got "mixed up" with the wrong crowd. His involvement would later change their lives for the worst - everything went downhill. He said his brother had witnessed a murder and the murderers, all of whom were his cronies; theorised that his connection to the decedent would cause trouble for them, so they killed him, execution style. But that was just the precursor to an endless night of death and destruction, followed by weeks of reprisal killings. Blood flowed from the bodies of all his siblings; and in a final act of barbarity, the heartless reprobates killed his mother then disembowelled his pregnant sister.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened and saw his face twitch effortlessly as he whispered, "Di man dem kill dung to di fowl dem inna di yard." Denzil survived because he hid in the cavity of an abandoned pit latrine and was too determined to live to care about the stench and weight from the filth that covered most of his body, nor by the roaches that turned his face into a playground. He just held firmly to the cross-bar to prevent himself from drowning in human waste.
But he continued, "After the terror, I moved to Montego Bay. Luckily, about a year before the craziness went down, I got a visa, so I decided to buy a ticket and run and is suh mi end up a 'Merica. I came without money, no place to live, friends, family or knowledge of the system, but I came with hope and determination to get a better life. And I plan to go back to Spanish Town to give my old lady, sister and brothers decent tombs and close that chapter of my life. But sometimes it's like constipation, because everything mi do come with pain and I cyaan flex like seh mi legit, yuh done know."
With dimmed eyes, he sighed then said, "Di night dem long, di bench dem tough and di firmament indifferent to mi situation, but mi nah give up." I suggested steps he could take to sort himself out, even as I encouraged him to stand firm. But mysteriously, he went missing - gone from his regular spot - and as I wrestled with many thoughts about his status, I hoped for the best and my fears were allayed. A few months ago, while shopping in Manhattan, someone tapped on my shoulder and exclaimed, "Whaa gwan Chris!" It was Denzil; sharp as a razor, with wife and two beautiful daughters, financially stable, full of life and pride and doing well as a cabaret singer. We chatted, and as he left he said, "Chris, I continue to believe that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Denzil's story, though touchingly sad, is not unique, but it speaks to the capacity of human beings to survive and of our will to succeed.
Burnscg@aol.com
Read more: http://www.jamaicaobserver.com/colum...#ixzz1YoW65qvB