A story of Bermuda
I listened for their voices on the breeze coming off the ocean. I saw their reflections in the glistening white caps surrounding me. I felt a softness in the air, the warmth of arms wrapped around me, a sense of belonging. I now see where it comes from, my love of small houses, a nice cup of tea, soft tropical breezes while I follow the footsteps of my family.
There was a white world in which the demands of society were strenuous; the mornings spent grooming, a mid day walk to a sister in laws stoop and tea at 4. Evenings spent together formally dressed around the large family table where the days activities were discussed. The women called upon to share less often.
But there was a different Bermuda that shed a dimmer light on what life bestowed upon one. A Bermuda where they toiled in the fields, bent over like the trees in a hurricane, bent just short of breaking, never the same, nonetheless. Skin darker than pale, heads bent, mixed blood, silenced voices, a life spent into the wind.
Bermuda of today shares a sense of hustle bustle with the rest of the world though on a much smaller level. They, too, suffer from rush hour traffic and parking scarcity, crowds, phones ringing, red lights and even a few homeless sleeping in doorways on the streets of downtown Hamilton. Bermuda is unknown by most and unheard of by many, only a speck in the Atlantic Ocean at 18 miles by 2 miles and yet it was my grandmothers world in the early 1900s.
This story takes us back to a slower, softer Bermuda, a Bermuda known by few and yet each experience is unique. When I walk the white coral lanes looking for Irene, my paternal grandmother, I try to see what was in the shadows, listening for her voice on the wind. A woman born in a time when women had little power but faced insurmountable challenges. She lived in our past but now lives in our hearts.
She yearned to be loved by a family where she belonged. Not finding that acceptance she spent a lifetime trying to create and corral a family of her own against odds too big to overcome, too painful to speak of, too deadly to survive. She searched for family having to look past those she shared a name with. This is a story of resilience, perseverance, forgiveness and hope, hope for a better future no matter how dark the skies overhead. The story of a woman with a silent resolve.
Irene Muriel Page George, born on March 13, 1895
