My pellucid friend, Dr. Velon John, found a way to do what none other I know ever did: he lived to tell and write his tale of ‘The Joy of Dying!’
Frankly, I didn’t think that was ever possible, so my first reaction was ‘I won’t even read that…’ — but the chronicler in me did and made us both glad.
Last week, I had my own dose of similar reality when I experienced the joy of a funeral!
My mentor, the legendary Caribbean journalist Rickey Singh, who died at 88 on July 5, was the consummate Caribbean Community (CARICOM) communicator, who, in death like life, sent pellucidly clear messages to the world.
For example: His last full day on Planet Earth was in Barbados on July 4 – CARICOM Day (also Independence Day in the USA); and he exited his planetary space on July 5, Venezuela’s Independence Day.
Indeed, his Last Post and Last Ride were more about celebration than sorrow, taking place on July 16 at his adopted church, the People’s Cathedral at Bishops Court Hill in St. Michael.
As I sat on July 18 (Nelson Mandela Day) to pen this piece on, I was torn by competing emotions, including the many references to the largely unknown fact that his late wife and mother of their six children, Dolly, was an Afro-Guyanese.
Rickey was one of the earliest Caribbean supporters of the global anti-Apartheid movement in the late 1970s and early 1980s, his writings cutting through colour and class, equally offending wrongdoers and inspiring (the likes of me) wishing want to forever join the endless journey of enlightenment through seeking, finding and sharing.
Rickey is who ignited my eternal interest in observing how and why people may change inherited religions.
Born into Hindu tradition, he early transformed to Christianity, with nary a loss of a pennyweight in how his deep religious beliefs were manifested his clear, quiet and firm expressions of the correlation between his religious commitment and his effective mastering of messaging, whether through his writings or religious teachings as a lay preacher.
Those of his kind, gathered at his People’s Cathedral represented the region’s best crop of professional journalists and communicators for over five and six decades, from yesteryear to today — and tomorrow — their names carved in the region’s rich history that they continue (like Rickey so-valiantly and fearlessly did) to help chronicle and shape.
That afternoon at Bishops Court Hill, my colleagues-of-old and I were in the shadows of Rickey and the likes of the many who served like tireless bishops of the proverbial holy grail of Caribbean journalism: Barbados’ Harold Hoyte, the BBC’s Hugh Crosskill, CANA’s Youssuff Haniff – and the many others, remembered and forgotten, from across the region.
Also among those gathered were the new older generation that’s emerged from those times when nationhood and regionalism were as far apart as shame and pride, when independence was crafted to keep the region in dependence on colonial powers and sovereignty was symbolically defined by new flags, national anthems, coats-of-arms – and donning uniforms of colonial pageantry.
Among the doyens at the cathedral where I also attended Rickey’s 80th Birthday ecumenical service (and from where I would grow-up hearing my mother’s daily listening to broadcasts by Rev. Holmes Williams) were: his lifelong professional comrade-in-arms and founding Managing Editor of CANA Hubert Williams, the Nation’s Roxanne Gibbs-Brancker, Ambassador Dr P.I. Gomes, Sir Ronald Saunders, Peter Richards of the Caribbean Media Corporation (CMC), Guyana’s Bert Wilkinson – and many others whose faces have changed or didn’t fall in my line-of-sight.
The gathered flock would line-up later for a once-in-a-lifetime photo opportunity at a post-funeral social session at one of the many homes of the Barbados branch of the regional Rickey Ramotar Singh Mansion (that extends from Guyana and Trinidad to Puerto Rico, Europe and North America) where one of many would note that we shared between us ‘hundreds of years of Caribbean journalism.’
I’d watched and listened (despite my dimming humanoid headlights and lessening decibel adaptability) to the words of preachers and pastors, diplomats and communicators in a congregation of Rickey’s wider family that also spans every Caribbean class, race and religion.
Rickey’s family reflects a bright rainbow on a sunny day — a kaleidoscope of the extended humanism he represented everywhere and towards everyone everywhere, in and from the Caribbean Sea, where, as he often reminded, “I was born with all the islands around me…”
Saint Lucia’s Monsignor Dr Patrick Anthony recalled Rickey’s association with and quiet but effective leadership of the communications revolution of his time as Editor of the Caribbean Contact, monthly organ of the Caribbean Conference of Churched (CCC)
Progressive thinking led to the establishment of the Caribbean Institute of Mass Communications (CARIMAC) at Jamaica’s Mona Campus of the University of the West Indies (The UWI) and Rickey led the regional effort that established the Caribbean Association of Media Workers (CAMWORK).
Every step of the way during that memorial service and his later commitment to the ground from which all life has emerged and sustained, was a happy one for me.
Inspired by the endless volumes of tributes and kind words and remarks I’d seen, read and heard since he closed his eyes for the last time, I closely watched and listened to the deliveries by those who knew different snippets of his very-long, wide and deep history.
Never mind my earlier denials about possibly enjoying dying, like everyone else, I’m not yet ready to cash-in my non-expiring and non-refundable one-way ticket to the Great Beyond along the River of No Return.
Like I said during my two minutes in the pulpit, I prefer to continue sitting in life’s departure lounge, boarding-pass in hand, awaiting boarding-time and gate-number.
And with all said and scribbled here and chronicled elsewhere, I cannot but admit, from my heart and soul, that I know it’s fully possible to enjoy a funeral.
I just did at Rickey’s.