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Aunty Talin
 
Text Box: hurt her any further. This so enraged him that he called my parents at 4am to come and get me. According to him I was being downright rude and disrespectful. When my dad got there, and I recounted what happened to him I was still crying, and he saw the bruises on Aunty’s face-he beat my uncle like a dog. I was never happier to see a grown man get his ass kicked than I was at that moment. A few months later on December 7th, 1977, five days after my birthday, daddy died in the arms of my mother’s brother, Uncle Mike. He was electrocuted at work while changing some wires. There is a voice that we heed to when we know we’re doing wrong or not living up to our best self. Everyday, I hear her voice urging me down the path of righteousness. “I will put a dollar in church and pray for you, Papa. I love you Papa.” She would say and then kiss her inner palm, and place it on my cheek. If I try hard enough sometimes I can still feel that kiss. There is no greater love in this world than that of a mother for her child. Dean Jéan-Pierre 9-26-05 2:05 in the pm
Text Box: Even before I could spell love or articulate its meaning, Aunty Talin was showering me with it everyday from childbirth until now. Everyone called her Aunty Talin or just plain Aunty, but there was nothing plain about her. She was the wife of my father’s brother. While the women and men of the family went off to work, Aunty Talin raised me, my brother and two other cousins. She was the mother we needed while ours was at work. A stranger seeing us together for the first time would assume I was her son. She was childless, and of the four children she raised, I was always her favorite. She nicknamed me Papa for some reason, and through the years I don’t recall her calling me by my real name too often. But I do remember how much she loved me, and everything she did for me without ever asking for anything in return. It’s these memories I hold true to my heart as age and time have conspired to rob her of good health. There were times when she should have been angry with me or raised her hand to discipline a spoiled child of her creation, but there was never any anger, only love. She drowned me in it everyday. There was never a time in my life when Aunty Talin wasn’t there to nurture me. She was a simple woman of Indian descent and never learned to read or write, but she taught me more than any books ever could. I remember teaching her how to write her name, and she would sometimes practice for hours. She was so proud when she was finally able to write Ann Marie that she beamed like a child who had just made their parents Text Box: proud, and I was so proud of her. From her daily actions of love she gave freely from her heart to the love I saw for me in her eyes, she showed me everyday the true meaning of being selfless and loving. Everyday she would find loose change in her purse to give me to buy candy or a comic book. She didn’t have much, and any money she received came from my uncle. “Papa this is all I have today,” she would say as she sneaked me a $1 out of the view of my uncle and mom. I was in high school and she still felt the need to do this. A few times I tried refusing, but she would sneak it into my pockets or books when I wasn’t looking, or after she had ironed my school clothes for the week. I would come to realize that it wasn’t about the money, but more about her need to feel like she was still contributing to my life. She would often touch my heart with such simple gestures that lived beyond that moment.Life lessons were being taught to me by this simple, loving Indian woman who Text Box: was the embodiment of God and love. Even today, as I go through my daily life, her voice still rings sweetly in my ears and heart, and I know whatever goodness and kindness that resides in me is a direct result of her daily influence. The compassion and love she has shown me over the years is so powerful an emotion that it could bring me to tears right now. How anyone could ever inflict pain on someone so beautiful was beyond my nine year old mind when this particular incident occurred. Sometimes I would spend the weekend with her and my Uncle Beau who had always been an avid drinker. On this night, he came home in a drunken stupor and words of rage and hate were spewing from his mouth in the direction of Aunty. From the bedroom I could hear the commotion, and her cries of utter pain rose me from my bed and to her side. Even as my uncle was pummeling her with his fists she never cried out for help. Even then, she was loving and protecting me from this ugly scene. It’s because of this incident I could never ever hit a woman even if provoked. She lay there on the kitchen floor cowering in fear as he stood over her, fists clenched and about to turn her beautiful face into minced meat. “Papa go back to bed,” she said looking up at me. “I alright,” her English was often times improper. There are moments when you act outside yourself without thinking twice. Quickly I reached for the long machete under the kitchen counter coming to Aunty Talin’s defense before my uncle could