The Manley Memoirs (Part I)

[Magician]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Q3210</div><div class="ubbcode-body">One day many years ago when my daughters were infants I was driving down Hope Rd. towards HWT, only to see Bev Manley pull up alongside in the other lane at the traffic lights.

I immediately told my girls, "See Mrs. Manley in the car there."

They began waving at her to which she never gave the slightest reaction.
From that day, I figured that Ms. Bev was just another uptown snob. </div></div>

It's amazing how extraordinary famous people can become ordinary in the street.

[Wahalla]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: evanovitch</div><div class="ubbcode-body"><div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Wahalla</div><div class="ubbcode-body">A friend of mine who knew her very well in the day is very complimentary about her..

Me I still feel that her ilk were intolerant of others thought and played poltics by denounciation as oposed to compromise.. (this is one reason why I will stand up to any one of what ever ilk that claim they and they alone have a solution and we must discard how and who we are)

It led to a schism in our society that we are still living with.....And instead of pointout their failure they multiplied it and denouced more with more vigour than before..

Too damn interlectual for a country heratic like me...

After all when Dudley Thompson lived and died in Miami that says it all! </div></div>

why u a kill awf Maas Dudley? [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70402-thinking.gif[/img] </div></div>

Mi tink im ded late las year ....sorry mea culpa...

[7777]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

I was estactic when I read the title of the book, but from what I have read, me noh interested..
If it was a tell all book now, maybe..
but she just a chat bout har contributions to the PNP party and other things..
lawd, me loose interest..
sorry..

[Yvonne N.]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Q3210</div><div class="ubbcode-body">One day many years ago when my daughters were infants I was driving down Hope Rd. towards HWT, only to see Bev Manley pull up alongside in the other lane at the traffic lights.

I immediately told my girls, "See Mrs. Manley in the car there."

They began waving at her to which she never gave the slightest reaction.From that day, I figured that Ms. Bev was just another uptown snob. </div></div>


...or someone lacking in social skills...[img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70402-thinking.gif[/img] :kissteet: Noh mine.

[ColeS]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

Adding this to my list of "to gets".
For some reason she looks different to me, and its not just age, but really different. hhmm .... maybe is juss me. [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70402-thinking.gif[/img]

[Wahalla]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: 7777</div><div class="ubbcode-body">I was estactic when I read the title of the book, but from what I have read, me noh interested..
If it was a tell all book now, maybe..
but she just a chat bout har contributions to the PNP party and other things..
lawd, me loose interest..
sorry.. </div></div>

No doubt giving her self credit for any success and explaining how she warned against the failures!!!!

[evanovitch]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Wahalla</div><div class="ubbcode-body"><div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: 7777</div><div class="ubbcode-body">I was estactic when I read the title of the book, but from what I have read, me noh interested..
If it was a tell all book now, maybe..
but she just a chat bout har contributions to the PNP party and other things..
lawd, me loose interest..
sorry.. </div></div>

No doubt giving her self credit for any success and explaining how she warned against the failures!!!! </div></div>

no not really...but then again if anyone is reading to find faults,dem can find them...guess that is why reading and comprehension can be subjective ...

[Wahalla]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

I tend not to like autobiograhies as the authour usual cannot be critical on the subject.. (This is not only a failure of Beverly Manley)

[evanovitch]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: Wahalla</div><div class="ubbcode-body">I tend not to like autobiograhies as the authour usual cannot be critical on the subject.. (This is not only a failure of Beverly Manley) </div></div>

really ...fi real [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70402-thinking.gif[/img] i find that it is the best time for them to reinforce any foibles u the reader may have thought them to have....especially politicians who have been earthshaking so to speak...i am still trying to get thru Churchills many epistles ...now he is 'a one' indeed

[Diplomat]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

Aren't autobiographies written from the writers' perspective? I don't mind reflections on mistakes made, and things they could / would have done differently but I don't expect them to be overly critical. I'm going to get Nelson Mandela's In His Words, as that should be an interesting one.

Anyways, just so you know, according to here so, "The Manley Memoirs will be serialised in The Gleaner beginning Sunday, May 4" so I'm depending on you for the postings. Tonks in advance [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70409-waytogo.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/grin.gif[/img]

[evanovitch]

Re: Beverly Anderson Manley as she looks today

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: CEW</div><div class="ubbcode-body">Aren't autobiographies written from the writers' perspective? I don't mind reflections on mistakes made, and things they could / would have done differently but I don't expect them to be overly critical. I'm going to get Nelson Mandela's In His Words, as that should be an interesting one.

Anyways, just so you know, according to here so, "The Manley Memoirs will be serialised in The Gleaner beginning Sunday, May 4" so I'm depending on you for the postings. Tonks in advance [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70409-waytogo.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/grin.gif[/img]
</div></div>

yep...an if anyone else,i.e. the writer, echoes what i feel bout di subject matter, it gives credence to my take....afta all, i cant be wrong to dat extent if smaddy else see it my way too

[evanovitch]

The Manley Memoirs - Mixed memories on the home front

The Manley Memoirs - Mixed memories on the home front
published: Sunday | May 4, 2008




When I was a child, we lived in sections of rented houses mainly in east Kingston - Rollington Town and Franklin Town. These were lower middle-class areas with stinking open drains, and yet the smells I remember are of mangoes rather than sewage and, inevitably, my mother's abiding Jeyes fluid and Dettol.

Every house had its fruit trees in the yard. I can still hear the sounds of the street vendors calling out their wares - hominy corn and booby egg - and of the local peanut vendor, who was also a ventriloquist, pushing his whistling cart.

The family was always moving, movements which depended on whether my father had been demoted, promoted or transferred, often with little notice, to rural Jamaica, and this would mean the rest of the family having to rent rooms in Kingston so that our school life should not be disrupted. Daddy would live in housing provided for him above the railway station, which meant that he would lose his small housing allowance, making life even more difficult for us and particularly challenging for my mother, who was the family's money manager.

Money to manage

But, first of all, she had to have money to manage. Depending on the greediness or neediness of the particular 'sweetheart' - the outside woman - my father had at the time, smaller and smaller amounts of money would find their way home. The money my mother would get to manage also depended on the frequency of my father's visits to the rum bar on the nights he received his pay.

When I was about 10 years old, the situation got so bad that on one occasion my mother went to the railway pay clerk without my father's knowledge, to demand his pay. The pay clerk told her that he could only hand pay over to people who worked for the railway. Mama retorted that she was my father's wife, that she had children to feed, and above everything else, if he did not give the money to her, she would behave very badly. In the end, the pay clerk relented and gave her the salary.

When Daddy came home that night, he was, of course, extremely upset. I don't think we had ever seen him so angry. But Mama stood her ground and gave him only pocket money.

The issue of his pay and how it was allocated among his family, his sweethearts and his alcohol was a recurrent theme in the household. He loved my mother. He was prepared to make some sacrifices for his family. But he had to have his nightly visits to the bar, he had to have his church, he had to have his political meetings, and he had his women. He never ever participated in household chores.

I was always amazed at how resilient and quietly defiant he was in the face of my formidable mother. I remember once in Rollington Town when he was ready to go to work, she told him to use the side gate and not the front gate as she had just tidied up that area. My usually obedient father got agitated and said in a loud and decisive voice, "Side gate, hell!' - and proceeded to use the front gate. My mother just stood and stared at him as he left. Their battles were often childish. Sometimes, to get back at him, instead of preparing and leaving out his dinner, she would cover empty plates and set them on the table as if they contained food. This would lead to another uproar.

We were forced to move so often - sometimes because we couldn't afford the rent, others because the landlord would decide he didn't want children living in the apartment - that on some Sunday mornings my mother and I got up early, before anyone else was awake, and searched through the 'Apartments for Rent' section of The Gleaner. At that time, 'apartment' meant a section of a house with a bathroom shared with other tenants. We would also walk from street to street in our neighbourhood looking for signs that read 'Apartments to let - apply within'.

Proud and grown-up

I am not sure why I was the one chosen to accompany my mother, but this was one of the things we did together that made me feel proud and grown-up. Yet, I always dreaded the work involved in moving, and the uncertainty of going to a new neighbourhood, particularly if it was far from our school. To this day, I feel compelled, when I wake, to read the classified ads when there is no longer any need to do so.

Looking back on my mother's life, the most extraordinary thing about her was her determination to be financially independent. She always told us that, in addition to marrying a man who could support us, we girls should eventually own a house in our own name. We were told to avoid 'boy boys' - those who were going nowhere, the kind who would get us pregnant. When I think of it now, she was always setting the example, saving money from the limited means of my father's pay cheque. Despite being dependent on my father economically, she was determined to use those savings to buy her own house and have a title unencumbered by a mortgage. Such a property, she told us, was to be kept hidden from a husband at all costs.

When I was about 10 years old, we were surprised to be told that we had another brother, Tony. Later, my father informed us that he had had this son before he met my mother but hadn't known how to tell her then about the boy.

When Tony's mother migrated to the United States, my father was forced to take him in, and he brought Tony to our home. At that time we lived in Linstead, above the railway station. At first, my mother was upset and I can remember the tension in the household and the quarrels between my parents.

Eventually, Tony settled in, but this did not last long. His mother, who by then was in the United States, sent for him, and suddenly he wasn't with us anymore. My mother, who had developed a relationship with Tony, was both relieved and saddened at his leaving.

Jealousy

For a while, Tony brought such joy into our lives. As girls, this was our first experience of having a young man in the house. He was allowed to play outside in the yard in a way that we weren't. And we had to close the bathroom door behind us, because he was 'different' from us. I watched and envied my mother's relationship with him; it seemed he could do no wrong. Tony played cricket constantly and one day the ball nearly knocked his eye out. I remember vividly the fear, the blood, the pain, and my mother playing the doctor role she loved so well. She managed to correct the damage and the doctor who later saw him was astonished that she had handled it so well.

Also living with us for a while was my Aunt Myrtle's first child, Roy. Aunt Myrtle was my mother's older sister - same father, different mother - and she had, as a teenager, had Roy out of wedlock while she lived in the family home at 5 Crooks Street, Jones Town. By the time Roy came to live with us, he was a handsome 12-year-old and my mother adored him - right colour of brown, 'good hair', and the kind of looks she approved of - that is to say, he was good-looking by Caucasian standards.

Exotic flavour

My mother came from a near-white middle-class family on her father's side. They were Jews out of Scotland, the Pearsons. My grandfather was a big drinker and had an awful temper. Nobody messed with him - or they did so at their own risk.

At the turn of the century, he made 'buggies', horse-drawn carriages for the wealthy. Most of his family lived in Panama, having gone there like other Jamaicans, to work on the Panama Canal. Many of my cousins arrived from Panama, and their use of Spanish brought a new and exotic flavour to the family.

My grandfather built two homes on the property. The larger home housed the main family: my grandfather, my grandmother and my mother. My mother's brother, Uncle Massa, a barber, and her sister Myrtle also lived in the smaller house. After my grandfather died in the 1940s, my grandmother struggled to do the best she could, but the property grew run-down. The family yard at 7 Crooks Street is still there, although much of the house, along with the two-room apartment where the aunts lived, has been neglected or destroyed. It was taken over by squatters after great-aunt Edith died.

Minimum wage

The family home in Jones Town, a middle-class area at the time, was well kept by my grandmother. She planted her own vegetables and reared ducks and chickens. She had beautiful antique mahogany furniture, family photographs, and china and silver. It was clear that this was no ordinary home. My grandfather never married my grandmother, thought I became aware of this only when she died in the 1960s and I was asked to place a death announcement on radio. I found out then that her name was Delcina Hall. This meant that my mother, like my siblings, was illegitimate. In those days, illegitimacy was a stigma, so I was not surprised that this had been kept a secret.

My Aunt Myrtle washed bottles at a soda-bottling plant, Desnoes and Geddes, all her working life. This was menial, repetitive work at minimum wage. We would sometimes visit her on the job and watch her as she hand-washed bottle after bottle. She never complained. She eventually met her husband, who was doing the same type of work, and they had a happy marriage.

Unfortunately, my mother had a strange relationship with her family. Until I was about 10 years old, every Sunday afternoon we would visit my grandmother and Aunt Edith - by then Myrtle had died. Then suddenly, we stopped going. My mother never told us why.

Tomorrow - Mama's heartaches and my black-sheep treatment.

"I had huge eyes and thought I was ugly. I was also the darkest in my family and my mother often compared me with my father, who by then had fulfilled all the prophecy of my grandparents and turned out to be good for nothing, as all blacks were - at least that was how my mother put it."

[Magician]

Re: The Manley Memoirs - Mixed memories on the home front

<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Quote:</div><div class="ubbcode-body"> Sometimes, to get back at him, instead of preparing and leaving out his dinner, she would cover empty plates and set them on the table as if they contained food</div></div>

[img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/704555_dwl.gif[/img] [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/704555_dwl.gif[/img]

[tuffstuff]

Re: The Manley Memoirs - Mixed memories on the home front

[img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70371-jump.gif[/img]

so wat dis mean- we nuh haffi buy di book, yawguh leggo chapter by chapter a week time? [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/704555_dwl.gif[/img] Thanks evano!!!

btw, i've seen her look much better than the pic. i saw her give a speech, and liked her- not overly impressed like she scholarly or nutn (altho she have honorary degree), but she was down to earth and very personable [img]/forums/images/%%GRAEMLIN_URL%%/70409-waytogo.gif[/img]

[evanovitch]

black-sheep treatment

black-sheep treatment
published: Monday | May 5, 2008


Beverley Anderson-Manley, who oozed Afrocentric flavour in her hairstyles and couture in the 1970s, arrives at the Little Theatre with husband, Prime Minister Michael Manley.

By the time I was seven or eight, I had lost my baby fat and become thin as well as tall. I was always the tallest in my class and felt strange and awkward. I had huge eyes and thought I was ugly. I was also the darkest in my family and my mother often compared me with my father, who by then had fulfilled all the prophecy of my grandparents and turned out to be good for nothing, as all blacks were - at least that was how my mother put it.

Because my colour was unacceptable, like my father's, my destiny too was to be good for nothing. My mother told me this constantly, and I soon developed a defence mechanism. I withdrew into myself, became very quiet, and struggled constantly to prove that I was as good as my sisters, regardless of what Mama said. This withdrawal would suddenly erupt into something quite different whenever my mother accused me of something I felt as unjust. My colour was God-given and I may have been part of a race that was unacceptable, but some things - such as my sisters relaxing while I was made to do housework - I railed at having to put up with it.

My 'brown' sisters were not allowed to help. I was resentful, yet there was a sense in which I accepted this was the role of the darkest one in the family. Until I was in my '50s, I thought of myself as very dark, because in my family I was always called 'black'.

Few refrigerators




During those days, there were few refrigerators in homes and the ice company would deliver to individual houses. We used to take 25 lb of ice, and I was the one who had to haul it from the truck to the icebox in the kitchen. On one of those mornings, I dropped the ice on my toe. I can still feel the pain. I screamed, then quickly shut up, picked up the ice and took it into the house. Only after I had placed it in the icebox did I run away to cry. I just could not deal with another flogging. My toe hurt for days, and when I put on my shoes the pain got worse, but I bore it quietly, the way I knew my mother would have wanted me to.

My sister and I always shared a double bed. We enjoyed sleeping close together, and it provided comfort, particularly when my father returned home drunk at night and our mother started cursing. In spite of her response to his drinking and philandering, he never stopped. We girls would huddle close together, hoping that things wouldn't get violent. We also hated it when we heard our mother cry. This was a heart-rending sound like a dog howling. We couldn't handle hearing this from our Mama, a woman who seemed so strong.

One night, she attacked my father physically, and when he hit her back, she slipped and fell. We lived above the railway station in Old Harbour then. I was 12 years old. We were in bed, as usual, when Daddy came home drunk. She cursed him about the usual things - his drinking and his current sweethearts. She was concerned about one in particular, who was the latest postmistress to arrive in town. Mama knew her by name. We heard her scream as her body hit the floor. Because we were always expecting something horrible to happen to one or both of them as a result of their quarrels, our darkest fears had now been realised. Daddy had hurt Mama physically.

Adhesive bandages

We ran out of our bedroom to help her. I can hardly remember what happened after that, but suddenly, everyone was helping her up off the floor and we were all frightened. Later, we would learn that she had sprained her back. She had to wear bandages around her torso and, therefore, also around he small child-feeding breasts and down the length of her body to just short of her abdomen. The adhesive bandages stuck to her, and she had to use Johnson's baby powder to soothe the inevitable itching and discomfort. But she still had her housework to do and carried on. The sprain was just one more cross to bear. Things would be so much easier for the entire family, I thought, if Daddy would just stop drinking, stop philandering and come home to us at night.

In many ways, my father was a mystery to me. During the week, he worked long days and many nights. In-between, he would frequent the rum bar, which was always close by, and visit his sweetheart of the moment. My father was also involved in an organisation called 'The Lodge' - the Masonic Lodge. My mother teased him about it, trying to find out more about this secret group, but she never got answers to her probing questions, such as 'Did they brand you like a cow when you became a member?'

Serious church duties

On Sunday, however, everything changed. My father was a lay preacher in the Anglican Church and he took his duties seriously. Whenever he preached or partici-pated from the altar of the church, even his accent changed to one that sounded British and authoritarian. He became the father we did not know when he was preaching from the pulpit. Everyone said that he had a way with words. He was a good communicator and a powerful preacher. His tones were mellow and he knew how to colour his words. I often wonder if my communication skills and my voice came from him.

Clean 'priestly' robes

By Friday, my mother would have his 'priestly' robes clean and ready for Sunday. These were long gowns, white over black, and had to be impeccable. In the meantime, he would do the research for his sermon and then sit at an old typewriter, pecking away with one finger. During this preparatory period, he would sometimes spend a great deal of time in the bathroom where it was peaceful and quiet. My mother would keep telling him to hurry up. He would reply in his British accent, 'Don't bother me now, Esmine. Don't you understand I am doing my ablutions!' I always wondered what he was doing, locked up for so long in the bathroom. Did he do something different from what we did in the bathroom? Was this something to do with being a man? When Sunday morning arrived, he would dress up in robes, Bible in hand, and assume the aura of a holy man.

Lay preaching

It was important to Daddy that we observe him in church. Wherever we lived, he would be involved in lay preaching. In our earlier years, while we lived in east Kingston, he was with St George's Anglican Church in downtown Kingston, which was run by Canon R.O.C. King. Then there was the church in Old Harbour that we attended with him, although we were members of the Brethren Church. Later on, in Spanish Town, the Anglican cathedral was under the leadership of Canon B.C. Jones. We children would go whenever our father was preaching. Our mother never went, although she approved of our going. Her job was to ensure that, just like Daddy, we were well turned out for church in our Sunday best. Daddy would seat us in the front row and then go to the vestry to put on his 'vestments' and get ready for the procession into the church with the rector and other clergy.

Soon, however, Roma and I were given to giggling so much that we were moved to the back. We laughed at everything. In church, everything seemed funny. No matter how our parents admonished us, we couldn't help ourselves. Finally, Daddy had what he thought was a brilliant idea. He decided to make us sit in separate areas. But Roma would look around to see where he had positioned me and I would do the same, and the minute we saw something that amused us both, we would be eyeing each other and laughing again. Over the years, the giggling never stopped.


Tomorrow:

Bev's political awakening

Even as a child, I was fascinated by the way Norman Manley spoke. His words were slightly, ever so slightly, muffled, uttered in a sing-song way and as if he had cotton in his mouth, and a whole generation of Jamaicans would try to talk just like him.



A Gleaner file photo shows Beverley Anderson-Manley rallying the 'troops' as they repaint Maxfield Park Children's Home in a Labour Day project in 1974.