Return to the Village
My first entry for the year 2006 was about my spending the beginning of that year with my son, Ray and his girlfriend, Inez in the Philipsburg Methodist church in Saint Martin. It has become tradition within our family to go to church on New Year's eve. It is called "Watch Night". Today, I am standing in front of the Gospel Hall in the main street of the Village, the Saint Martin street in Aruba.

I remember "Watch Night", I reminisce on spending the "ole year's" in Saint Martin two years ago with my son and his girlfriend; I am taken back to my boyhood days in the Village. Indeed, this experience goes back to my childhood days in Aruba where I grew up. My mother, a very religious and committed person, took her six children to the Gospel Hall in the Village. There, starting from 10:00 o'clock in the evening we would be singing hymns and some of the members would 'testify" proclaiming their faith in God. The pastor would ceremoniously open the service with prayers and more singing until half an hour before midnight, when he would start his sermon. It usually was based on crucial happenings during the year. The most appreciated pastor preached fire and brim stone until he would move, mostly the sisters, to speaking in tongues.

The "Watch Night' sermon, however, never enticed that kind or participation. It was more contemplative of the events of one's life during the year and resolutions were made, with the help of the Lord, to transcend frailties and enter with the New Year into the good graces of the Lord. The irony of the devotional proceedings in the church - the Gospel Hall - was where the New Year was piously ushered in by a silent moment in prayer, the thunderous explosion of 'thunder busses' and whistling fire crackers and the resulting multi-colorful formation created a cacophonous salute to their New Year. You see, there was a Chinese club two alleys away from the Gospel Hall in the Saint Martin street, the main street of Village-Zuid and Village-Noord. Some 60 years later, I am walking through the Saint Martin street - it is asphalted now -and I pass the Gospel Hall. This house of worship has not changed. It is no bigger than then, but it has been diligently maintained. It sticks out against the broken houses in front of it and in other parts of the Village. The Village has grown decrepit and on the verge of collapse.

The vibrant spirit I knew in my boyhood days is moribund. I guess, the houses reflect the condition of the spirit in the broken street, the dilapidated houses and there appears to be hopelessness in the few trees that bear no fruits. I will not be in Aruba to spend another Watch Night in the Gospel Hall and I do not know that there are as many present as before - some sixty years ago - to make resolutions to do better in the New Year. I have not experienced any children, playing or adults around the pool rooms, barber shops discussing politics, their social and economic condition. I have seen a single fowl, a lonely spaniel cock picking at some undefinable substance. I do not hear a crow, the clarion call to the breaking of day, welcoming sun light. There is no human traffic in the Saint Martin Street. I seek my boyhood memories, but do not find them in places, I knew. Those places are lost in the ruin of decay and the people who inhabited the places passed on. Monuments, not recognized as such, are mute reminders of the fascinating and vivid energy of my parents, relatives and Caribbean immigrants that created them.

I hear myself, my brothers and sisters singing uplifting songs in UNIA hall - listening to elders in the organization speak the philosophy of Marcus Garvey; the Windward Islands club, the pride of the many Windward Islanders, where concerts and soirees were organized for the benefit of themselves and their children; the French club where my sister was acclaimed for her virtuoso skills on the piano. Yes, Charlie's pool room, Alan's barbershop, Gordon's barbershop, Basiga's mechanic shop, the lumber yard, Mister Arrindell's ventaria, Sammy's 'round-the-corner shop, Mister Davis bookstore with less than 50 books - I reminisce as I stand silently for a moment in front of what was Nolly's ice plant.
I discuss with my brother, who never left Aruba and is an expert on the history of the Village. Donald, with a few others of our generation, is respected for the manner by which he has contributed to not only the Village, but to San Nicolas. He has been expressing that spirit of being, the energy in transforming young minds through sport, baseball, softball, basketball; through participating with others in a foundation, trying to uplift the social well being and regenerating life in the empty places, I spoke about. It must be tough on him. He knows the historical reference of this place, I call the Village and by extension, San Nicolas. He knows when Aruba consisted of two capitals: Oranjestad (officially) and San Nicolas (economically); then, the heartbeat of Aruba throbbed ferociously in San Nicolas and in Village-Zuid.

Today, I walk through the Village and as I walk pass the emaciated, ramshackle structures I must confess, I do not know that I can return to the Village; there is no homeward bound here.