“Arnold Mortimer Golden Dies at 80,” Saturday, July 14th, 2012. My mom broke down in tears the instant she got the call: he had stopped breathing. We were in the TJ Maxx parking lot on one of the hottest days of summer. My mom sobbed as the car stalled. I had never been particularly good at comforting people when they cry, but watching my own mom break down for the first time in my life was jarring. I was only 10. I sat in silence as she cried all the way home.
Prior to my grandfather’s death, on one of my last trips to St. Croix where my family lives, I was painfully aware of how sick he was. I remember playing ping pong outside with my cousins when I heard what sounded like a waterfall, a loud rush of liquid hitting the cold tile inside the house. I peered into the window a few feet away to see my grandfather ambling towards his bedroom being held up by my aunt. He had peed. His body had deteriorated to the point of incontinence. A few days later on this trip it was Christmas Eve. We were planning on attending midnight mass when instead we had to rush my grandfather to the hospital. The mood of the night shifted immediately. Hope for Christmas and the New Year turned into dread and anticipation. Would my grandfather make it through the night? This was a lot to take as an elementary schooler, and the beginnings of my anxiety began to bloom. I sat in one of the guest bedrooms of our family estate, splayed out on a decades-old comforter that smelled like old– mothballs, lint, fabric softener. I was staring up at the light, watching the fan turn and counting the rotations. I was scared. I had never been in this close proximity to the possibility of death. I felt tears starting to form in the corners of my eyes, which I wiped away the moment my brother opened the door. He looked at me, looked around the room, and walked away, leaving the door open in his absence. The perfect older brother. The only other thing I remember from that night is my grandfather getting a blood transfusion. Beyond that he was seemingly okay.
Grandfather had been coming to visit us in Houston intermittently to receive treatment at MD Anderson. I was rather young during these times as well, so my memory isn’t exactly staunch. I can’t remember if the chemo ever worked, or if he decided that it just wasn’t worth it anymore, to be pumped full of chemicals and made to feel sicker than before. Whatever it was, he went back home. On St. Croix, he had to receive blood transfusions just to stay alive, until he made the choice to stop them. On Saturday, July 14th, 2012, he was ready to die. He had lived his life in enough pain and was okay with leaving it. This is one of my first instances with death and the process of dying, not just the physical but the mental. It made sense to me that because he was old and sick he would die eventually, but the fact that he had made that choice himself, that he had decided the plug needed to be pulled, was admirable to my younger self. I looked up to that sentiment, knowing that you had done everything you wanted to, or needed to, in this existence and were ready for it to end. Knowing that the home and family you made would be okay, knowing that you had done a service to the world in some way. Dying did not have to be sad from this point of view, it could be liberating. My grandfather had multiple types of cancer, his own cells were killing him slowly, then rapidly. Fear of living in pain, for him, trumped the fear of dying.
My grandfather was 80 when he died, which can be classified as relatively young for the occasion, but he had fears of dying much earlier. When my grandfather was young and healthy, he was almost a symbol of strength for the Virgin Islands. Able to go to war, come back, survive hurricanes, rebuild the island, and make it clean and safe. He built a shopping center, paved the roads, and stabilized the economy. Everyone looked up to him. But in his strength, he was scared. Postmortem, we found a letter he had written decades prior. He was going into the hospital for some type of treatment, and he was mortified. This letter we found was his last will and testament. It was eye-opening to my family that this man, a pillar in our foundation, was frantic at the thought of death. So much so that he wrote an entire will at the thought of having to visit the hospital. This juxtaposition always amazed me. The man who so many put their faith in being beside himself at the thought of death Meanwhile, the cancer-laden man who needed his diapers changed being so willing to stare death in its face.
When death decided that it was my grandfather’s time, or when he decided that death could take him, it was peaceful. Even though I had only heard about the moment, I felt like I was there, like when you read a book and can imagine everything taking place. I could imagine the house, on top of a hill with all of the windows open. Tropical temperament year-round bearing the most beautiful flora. Our giant mango, lime, and banana trees swaying in the wind. The chickens hiding in the leaves taking shelter from the heat. The lingering smell of Earth mixed with the salt from the ocean. My grandfather, pale and sickly, lay in the full-sized bed one door away from his bedroom. His daughters, sons, and wife huddled around him, watching with bated breath as he began to slip. Death. The open windows ushering in two small birds, his favorite kind, the yellow-bellied sapsucker. A rare bird to find in the Caribbean, and two of them just now flying through the house, around him, in every room, and out again. I’m not a very religious person, but stories like these make me question my faith, or lack thereof. It seems too beautiful to be a coincidence. Maybe the birds were a sign that he was still with us in spirit, like his life was the wind that blew through the windows and gave the birds flight. Part of me will always believe.
Mom cried as the plane was landing in St. Croix. When the altitude began to dip, she performed her cross: forehead, heart, left and right. She looked out of the window at the black expanse of the ocean at night with its blinking lights in the distance. Upon seeing the island, my mom broke down again, this time more visceral. I understood her feelings. Not to the same extent because I didn’t grow up here like she did, but having spent a lot of time on St. Croix, it was a wave of nostalgia. An overwhelming feeling landing back somewhere that feels like home but isn’t really your home. The air was thick and warm, more benevolent than the humidity of Houston. We landed at night in the small seaplane and walked down the stairs into the airport that my uncle manages. The airport was open and spacious, lined by palm trees. I can still feel it now. That plane ride was different. Maybe it was just the knowledge of my grandfather’s passing, knowing that our family had been changed forever. That rush of humidity as we exited the plane felt suffocating rather than refreshing. It was heavy and sad. When we finally arrived home that night my mom embraced her family, and they all cried. It was silent except for the tears. No words were shared in the moment, only knowing. The shared experience and pain, the bittersweet past of growing up with a borderline-abusive military father, and having to care for him in his old age. Losing one of the most respected members of the community, and losing your father and husband of decades. Realizing that life doesn’t last forever, and taking in the fact that most of the people in the room would probably also die of cancer at some point. All of these sentiments reverberated within that silence.
One thing I have always struggled with being mixed is my identity. When I’m on St. Croix with my family, and they’re speaking their Virgin Islands Creole and eating their johnny cakes and pates, I feel like the history of the Caribbean is my history. Prior to the Carib presence in the islands, the native people were the Tainos. My grandmother, Carmen Maria Encarnacion Golden, is a descendent of the Tainos of Puerto Rico. On the other side of the coin my Taino abuela was married to Arnold Golden. My grandfather was pale, to put it frankly, the same as my mom and her siblings. Being from the Caribbean means that you get mixed with a lot of things over the centuries, but one thing that stayed from when my ancestors colonized this island was their pale skin.
The islands were occupied various times, by different indigenous groups, and then by different countries. My ancestors were part of the Danish West India Company, who were hired by the Danes to occupy the island and turn it into profit. One of the most infamous symbols of St. Croix is the old sugar mill standing on a hill. It’s a symbol of these times, when slavery was still rampant in the islands. Slavery is not something that you can ignore when coming to the islands. Growing up my mom used to sing me children’s songs from the islands, and one of them was called “Clear De Road.” It’s a song about the St. Croix slave rebellion and emancipation of 1848. They say ‘clear the road’ because the slaves were all taking to the streets and rebelling against the unjust treatment they have had to endure. Along with this, there are these smaller outlying islands named ‘Buck Island’ that were used as places for slaves to be imprisoned. These islands now are sites of sea turtle hatchings and nationally-protected coral reefs. To me, this rings like the Caribbean version of the song Strange Fruit by Milt Raskin. The song goes, “Southern trees bear a strange fruit. Blood on the leaves and blood at the root. Black bodies swingin’ in the Southern breeze. Strange fruit hangin’ from the poplar trees.” In the Caribbean, the strange fruit we bore grew into clear water, white sand, and rum. It’s tragic, but telling. The way that life and death are viewed in an Afro-Anglo-Indio-Hispanic society is one that is steeped in spirituality. Mourning those who have died or sacrificed their life for ours, juxtaposed by relishing in the beauty that their death has become. Maybe this sentiment is why my family found comfort in that bird flying through the house as my grandfather died. Even the cemetery is lined with lush palms and hibiscus flowers. There is hope in suffering and death.
During the viewing we were in a bright, wood lined room with pews. Me and my big sister made jokes about him coming back to life. I was in an old black dress that was quite stiff. I had an itch on the back of my neck for most of the day from the tag that hadn’t been cut off. My older relatives cried. It was my first time seeing a dead body in person. He still smelled old, like moth balls with a touch of makeup and formaldehyde. His skin was pale and covered in freckles. My uncle Peder went up and kissed him and put some jewelry into the casket with him.
The next ceremony was another small one for the Knights of Columbus. This ceremony took place in a slightly brighter, wood-lined room. The natural light added to the ambiance. As the ceremony went on, my cousin, who was the same age as me, started crying and hugging his mom. This display of emotion was unlike him, so I felt like maybe I wasn’t showing enough emotion myself. I started fake crying and hugging my dad, who looked at me confused and just sat back.
The third ceremony was the big one. This was the time and place that was advertised to the whole of the US Virgin Islands: Holy Cross Catholic Church at 11 am. The obituary in the newspaper read, “The family requests that all in attendance wear pastel colors.” This wasn’t meant to be sad, it was meant to be beautiful, respectful, and celebratory. He had lived an amazing life, after all. The church is one of those beautiful, quaint catholic churches with stained glass windows and pews lining the middle and sides. They were overflowing. People that we knew, didn’t know, homeless people, rastas coming out of the jungle, families, kids; everybody that my grandfather impacted had come to pay respect to him. People were packed in, standing outside in the hot sun listening to the preacher and my family speak.
Next was the burial. This is when I saw my uncles cry for the first time. As the casket was being slid into place in the small, two-story mausoleum built for him and my grandmother, everyone broke down in tears. My uncle Arnie hid behind sunglasses, while my uncle Peder hugged his mom and wept. My older cousins, who presumably got to spend more time with him, were also very emotional. I stood under the tropical, equatorial sun and watched. I didn’t cry the whole day. I only watched. I stayed silent and let my relatives, the whole island, grieve. The majority of my memories with my grandfather fell into the cracks of my adolescent brain, never to be picked back up. This didn’t mean I didn’t love him, I just didn’t know him. The only time I cried was when I returned back home to Texas, in my bed, once again staring at the ceiling. Was I a bad person for not crying when my grandpa died? What just happened? He’s gone now. I will never get to talk to him again. Is he really gone? The tears came in the midst of feeling guilty for not crying at his funeral. Why didn’t I cry? He’s my grandpa and I love him so why didn’t I cry? Am I a bad person?
It’s impossible to really know any of these answers. No matter how much soul searching I do, some questions were never meant to be answered. Sometimes things just happen, and I will always just let them.