“Cock Soup”

by Jazz Sanchez (Jamaica)

“So what are you doing for spring break?”
The question came over the sound of classmates and teachers rushing to beat Friday’s afterschool traffic. For the first time, the girl had what might have been an enviable response.
The girl shouted it to her classmate over the banging lockers.
“My family went there two summers ago and our hotel was right on the beach, we loved it,” the classmate said. ” Can’t remember which part, but it’s all beaches and blue water.”
Except for the girl, there’d be no hotel. She’d spent so many years forging this acculturated identity outside of home, outside of herself. How was her classmate supposed to know? She would be three thousand miles away in a few months, off to school in California where no one knew her. She would change her major from the one her parents had decided and be her own version of herself; a new chapter and identity.
So there was no point in explaining she was going alone. She wouldn’t be on the beach. Would she? She didn’t know where exactly she would be. She’d never met the people she was going to see.
“Make sure you go river rafting!”
“Just cool yuh self, it nuh ready fi di spinners yet.”
The girl fought the urge to sneeze as her mother skimmed the ladle over the boiling pot. A few drops collected, she sprinkled the concoction into her palm and ended the broth’s journey to her mouth with a quick tap.
“So much scotch bonnet? And yuh don’t remove the seeds? Yuh must mean fi kill us,” Mummy spoke in a tongue that was reserved only for the company of loved ones.
She smacked her lips vigorously and looked at the girl.
“It nuh taste right.”
“Mummy, it has everything except the spinners,” the girl said.
“Run mi through it again.”
“The chicken. The scallion. Irish potato.Yellow yam. Cho cho. Pumpkin. Carrots. Onion. Thyme. Pimiento. Garlic. Oh, and a little bit of curry powd-”
“Who tell yuh fi put curry innah di pot?”
“For color.”
“It gets color from di pumpkin. Cooyah, don’t go a yuh poppa family dem yard and have them think yuh never grow wid proper soup.” The mother handed a damp rag past its prime to the girl. “Make yuhself useful.”
As the girl wiped the countertops, she was careful not to get the edges of the laminate too wet. It was already peeling -especially around the sink- and the press-wood was peeking out at every corner.
By Sunday morning all was forgiven and Poppa loaded up the van.
“Ready? Yuh must be excited. Look how yuh skin up yuh teeth.”
For seventeen years, she’d heard stories from the living exports that were her mother’s family and imagined what it would be like. Many bottles of Ting and tamarind candies later, Mummy and Poppa were finally sending her off.
“Open up yuh books and study while yuh deh.”

She’d never seen the people she was going to see, either. Not even in pictures or video calls.
Poppa was always so secretive about his life prior to coming to America, almost feigning amnesia. Not even Mummy seemed to know since she had met him here. The couple might have been from the same land but they must have come from different worlds. He was a simple man and had none of the degrees or marks of sophistication of her mother’s side. Poppa acted as Mummy’s souvenir of her homeland and she, his translator since he refused to change his accent to “chat like a Yankee”.
He was a simple man who believed cerassie was the cure-all for everything from headaches to the stomach flu . He would come home from a double shift asking a million questions about school. After supper, he’d occasionally smoke in the basement -no, not tobacco- then fall asleep. What could be more simple than wanting to look forward over dwelling on the hardships of the past?
The aunts and uncles she would meet were not the ones who’d gifted her cards with crisp C-notes in them. The cousins she’d see were not the ones with whom she’d snuck a bottle of Red Stripe or Dragon Stout from the pantry during sleepovers after their parents had fallen asleep only to spit it out, vowing to pilfer the rum instead next time.
Yes, it was just her going. Her parents had to work.
But this couldn’t wait.
She had to go before college.
Before adulthood.
Before she got too old to care and these people she had never met died.
No river rafting. No hotel.
She didn’t know where exactly she would be. She’d never really heard of the people she was going to see.

“Aww look at the little huts on the ground. They’re so cute.”
The voice came from the row behind her. The girl didn’t know whether it was that statement or the pressure in her ear from the descent of the airplane that disturbed her. But looking down, she also saw the colorfully rusted tin roofs of the city shanties.
It was only logical that she was shortly destined for one of those. Perhaps Mummy and Poppa arranged the trip to show her what would become of her if she didn’t follow their desired path. She couldn’t remember the last time a barrel of goods was prepared and shipped from their house. Maybe Poppa didn’t like them much.
No river rafting. No hotel. And probably no wi-fi.
Like Friday night’s soup, she was bubbling inside.

New Aunt was a slender mahogany tree towering over everyone else waiting at arrivals. Her hair was cropped short and reminiscent of Grace Jones. She sounded more British than anything. The girl helped her load her own bags into a Jeep Compass, which even though she referred to it as “this old thing”, looked quite new to the girl. She was informed New Uncle was stuck three hours away in MoBay on business.
“You’ll have a tour of your father's old stomping grounds but first let us get yuh settled in.”
They drove just outside of the city climbing mountainous roads and passing a security gate to enter the neighborhood. Behind a driveway with a privacy gate, they reached what could be the design on a Shirley Biscuit- a three-story coral pink house flanked with colorful lilies, hibiscus flowers, and fruiting trees. The occasional ripe ackee littered the manicured lawn.
The white room she’d be staying in looked out over the city. There were more introductions with family members in the foyer, then moving to the kitchen. The clink of the crystal glass sounded different on the kitchen island countertop than back home. The girl discreetly studied the gray swirled veins on the surface while discussing the record-breaking heat with New Cousin. Quartz? No, granite. It wasn’t until she was much older and purchasing her own home that she learned it was marble. The party moved to the sitting room for refreshments.

After some polite conversation about the girl’s future studies and New Cousin’s fresh career as a civil engineer, aunt and niece set out for town where she was shown off, pinched, and kissed with the enthusiasm and excitement doled out to a newborn babe. With each new stranger, there was a familiar twinkle in their unfamiliar eyes. The known cheekbones and noses set on their unknown faces were parts that she’d seen before on Poppa, on the nearly one-hundred-year-old New Granny, and for the first time, on herself.
They hugged her as if they’d loved her forever. After meeting this coterie of relatives throughout the city, they stopped by a modest bar owned by one of Poppa’s old classmates. He regaled the girl with stories of what bad children the two men were together.
Finally, they arrived at a school. With classes dismissed for the day, they walked the open hall to the sound of doctor birds singing a chorus in the trees of the courtyard. They located an old photo of solemn-faced boys in uniforms. The girl spotted a young Poppa sporting a mustache in the top left corner. Even back then, he was bald.
“He was never too keen on school. Rebellious is not the word for it and unruly is too strong,” New Aunt paused and adjusted her silk scarf. “But I suppose all he needed was a change of environment because now things have fallen into place for him abroad. At least you’ve turned out fabulously. He’s told me about your future studies. ”
The girl wanted to ask for more details, an explanation, something, but New Aunt’s last few words invoked guilt. So she nodded understandingly.
When they returned to the house in the hills, the girl would spend most of the night quietly reading about Poppa’s old school and its notable alumni until just before dawn.

The rest of the stay was heavenly. There was no hotel but there most certainly was river rafting. And wifi. And plenty of stewed, steamed, escovitched, curried, jerked, and browned dishes.
But something was missing. Not a missing ingredient, but a different one.
An illusion? An unspoken promise? A lie?
It didn’t taste right.

The world felt smaller when she arrived back home with all the stories, recipes, and wisdom soaked up from the visit. Only a week had passed but her mother and father didn’t appear as old as they once did, either. They no longer seemed so far along in life’s journey compared to her own transitory existence.
They cut the black cake sent by New Aunt #3. Mummy had a million questions. Is this shop still on this street? Is that building still standing?
The woman showed them pictures of all the faces she now knew. But Poppa didn’t offer much except a dry smile. He came into her room while she was studying later that night.
“Enjoy yuhself?”
“Yes.”
“And yuh done meet everyone now.”
The woman looked at this face she must have seen millions of times. She was glad to finally meet him for the first time.