"Wait, don't I know you?"

If you want to be famous, an island is the best place to start. Election Day is approaching. As it draws near, more and more posters of smiling men (and some women) are nailed to sticks and pushed into the ground. One of these men we happened to meet at an open mic night called, Rock Lounge. Who would have thought a politician writes about furry critters and bougainvillea?

At home I would often see an old pickup carrying some of my friends to Waffle House, Burger King, Town, or some other hang-out place. Gas stations were places I would have familiar conversations with known faces. Inevitably somebody would stop me and say, “Hi, Cara!” My dad’s time was even tighter since the only two high schools were small and most everyone knew everyone and their business. Lately our little hometown has been growing and more frequently we don’t catch as many recognized glances, as many old classmate waves.

St. Thomas isn’t too different from where my Dad and I grew up. “Hey, I know you!” Because, frankly, everybody knows everybody and their business.

One day on the beach Nasim began chatting up the lifeguard, Harry. The following Thursday we were invited for dinner at his house. Harry had invited a few others and one lady we picked up on our way, Dara. Unfortunately our new car was completely out of coolant. After filling it up, I accidentally left the cap on top of the engine as we drove off. Needless to say, by the time we reached Dara our car was sputtering and steaming. By a stroke of luck or something else Dara’s car was the same Chevorlet Cavalier model. Since her car was out of commission, she lent us her coolant cap (despite the shaking heads of a few mechanic friends). Happily on our way to Harry’s, we discovered Dara knew Jahweh, our first friend from St. Thomas. Not only did she know Jahweh, she also, through working at the university, knew our friends C’Neesha and Jevon, who are leaders in her student organization, Sankofah Saturdays.

At the dinner, Harry had us folding tons of gyozas, which he was putting into a big vat of spitting oil. Suddenly I realized I had seen Harry before at Rock Lounge. Our first Friday in St. Thomas was the first poetry night we’d been to on the island, and in fact our first time outside of the Center. After about a half an hour Harry left to pick up another friend, who turned out to be nobody but Jahweh herself. Laughing over chocolate fluff and fruit, we marveled in the interconnectedness of the island.


A few days ago Nasim stopped to talk to a curious old man perpetually reclining under a small tree in the courtyard of Kirwan Terrace. She quickly discovered he was Jamesie, a famous scratch-band musician on the island. He gave her two of his CDs and promised his unfailing support to the efforts of the community to begin a children’s class for the spiritual and moral empowerment of the neighborhood youngsters. “That’s just what we need!” He smiled. We’d seen Mr. Jamesie many times but never stopped to discover his interesting story.

Initially I felt apprehensive about St. Thomas, namely from all the rumors spread about “bad areas” and seedy crowds. But more and more we find our friends all over on their bikes heading down the sidewalk, at the Chicken Fry, or around the corner from our house. As our world grows smaller so does our apprehension.