A Historical Fiction piece written into the early 20th century during the US aquisition of the virgin islands
The sea breeze blew softly on the island of St. Croix. Mama said she was going into town for a while. I never knew how long a while was going to be. I usually pass the hours exploring down near the beaches. The rough grass and thick, overgrown trees quickly give away to soft sand and the occasional palm tree. Sometimes I pretend I am a sailor, or maybe even the boat, thrashing through the rough ocean, sea spray thick in my face. The winds to the east battering my sails, deck hands hanging on for dear life, some tossing their cookies over the sides. I wish I was with Papa right now. He was on a boat out there in the sea. He said he was going away for a while too, but I know when Papa says he’s going away it's for a week at a time at least.
Yesterday I sat with my back to the house and watched them load the carriages with sugar cane. I loved watching them work. The rhythm of Papas calloused black hands was mesmerizing. Back and forth between the piles. Gray pads formed on their hands after thousands of canes coated them with sticky dust. I sat there with some cane Mama cut for me earlier in the morning. It’s tough and chewy but sweet and juicy. You have to spit out the fibers after but it’s worth it. Harvest is definitely my favorite time of the year, it’s usually when my Papa and Mama are happiest too. I can tell. Load after load I wondered how he never seemed to tire. But then I wondered how he seemed that way when he spent every night resting his tired frame on the chair in the living room. How did the day transform him into an ox, but the night give way to a shallow, tired frame. He goes away with the sugar cane harvest and sells it on St. Thomas every spring. One day I know I’ll get to go with him and sail those seas. One day I’ll get to see St. Thomas with my own eyes. Papa talks about what they have there, and it makes me wonder why we don’t live there if it’s so great. Boats from all over go into the harbor there and buy and sell different things. I know for sure they’ll be buying our sugar cane, though, I don’t exactly know what else they are buying, probably toys for all the kids all around the world. The big boats don’t usually come over here. Our harbor is a lot smaller than the one at St. Thomas. Sometimes one will come by, and I’ll run down to the shores with all the other kids and we’ll watch the men unload and load the cargo. We’ll talk about where we think the boat is from, where it's going, and which one of us will be its captain one day. Sometimes a fancy black man will come by our house and talk to my Papa for a bit. When I asked my Mama, she said he’s an important man from St. Thomas and he talks to Papa about business. I only noticed recently that when the fancy black man comes, he is always wearing nice shoes. I look at those shoes and think about St. Thomas. I think when I grow up, I am going to go to St. Thomas and do what those people do. Sometimes other farmers will come by and they will talk for hours and hours about the crops and the rainfall.
Last week was different though. It wasn’t a fancy black man who came but a fancy white man who said he was from congress. He didn’t come to our house, but I still saw him. Well, everyone saw him the way he showed up in town. We all had to go down and see. Papa said he came from D.C., from the big government, and wanted to learn more about our crops. There was supposed to be a big meeting with everyone in the government with the white man and Papa was going to go too. The night after the man arrived Papa had lots of people over and there was lots of discussion. Most were adamant that we shouldn’t talk to the white man. A lot of them were scared and no one really knew what he wanted from us, but Papa insisted that if we speak to him and tell him our troubles it can only help. Mama told me to stay away from town for a few days, but I wanted to watch anyway, and the other kids were going too so I snuck away a couple times. People definitely seemed different now that the white man was visiting. The town used to be fun with so many people in the streets, carts moving back and forth, goods from the boats for sale. But this time the merchants didn’t yell as much, the carts were a little louder, people a little stiffer. Just like at Papas meeting, a lot of people didn’t want him there.
For the next few days Papa had people over and it seemed like they talked over at least every problem they had in the past a million years. It was never ending. At first, I wanted to hear what they were saying but now I just wanted to eat with Mama and Papa again. The meeting day came, and Papa went into town with only two others, the rest refused to go. Papa told me afterwards that he and a couple others had a private meeting with the congressman, and they talked about crops and rainfall and business. I wanted to ask him about St. Thomas then, but I didn’t. I wondered what the congressman talked about there.
That was a week ago and now I am sitting on the beach under a cool palm, shielded from the sun. The waves crashed at the shore.
The sun beat.
The grass sang.
Papa was at sea and Mama was away.
National Bank of Commerce, The Virgin Islands: a Description of the Commercial Value of the Danish West Indies. [New York]: National Bank of Commerce in New York, 1917. United States Congress House Committee on Insular Affairs, Virgin Islands Hearings before the United States House Committee on Insular Affairs, Sixty-Ninth Congress, Second Session, on Dec. 20, 1926. Washington:U.S. G.P.O., 1926.