“Well, thank you, Allan.”
We’ve finished our dinner, and I stand with my hands in my pockets, pulling out money to pay for our meal.
“Let me,” Byron insists, as I suspected he would.
“Thank you, and oh, no suits tomorrow. Find a pair of overalls and a Panama hat to keep the sun from turning your pale skin scarlet. And wear comfortable shoes. We have a lot of pamphlets to hand out.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Allan Coombs’s Office, King Street, Kingston
On rally day, there’s always a lot to do, and we begin before dawn. Fortunately, Victoria Park, where the rally will take place, is only fifteen minutes from Allan’s office. As I turn onto King Street, beneath the beam of the streetlamp, I see Byron waiting outside with a few other volunteers. I’m impressed—not only is he early but he also followed my suggestion to wear dungarees, a simple shirt, and a Panama hat—and the look suits him well. As I come closer, I see he is holding a Thermos and a grease-stained brown paper bag that smells fantastic. I left my apartment in the middle of the night without breakfast, and with such a long day ahead, my stomach is growling. I hope he brought enough for me.
“Good morning, everyone,” I greet the four volunteers with Byron and introduce him without mentioning his last name. I don’t want to spend half my morning explaining how—and why—a man named Tynesdale is joining us on rally day. Their frown lines are already deep because he looks like a white man.
I unlock the office door. As the group enters, I direct them to their various workstations, reminding them of their tasks—from coordinating speechmakers to mobilizing workers and distributing materials. Given the remaining jobs, more volunteers will arrive as the morning goes on, but my mission for the morning is to train Byron.
He is the last to enter the main room. “I brought you breakfast,” he says. “Cooked ackee, fruit, saltfish, and bammy.”
That’s exactly what I thought I smelled. I take the bag from his hand. “Follow me. We’ll be working in here,” I say. “This is the pressroom.” I open a heavy door, keeping a close eye on Byron’s reaction. When I see his eyes widen and the shock on his face, I feel a sense of satisfaction.
The pressroom is enormous, stretching nearly a full block, and the front door of the office on King Street offers no hint of its true size. Rows of long tables, three letterpress machines, and rolls of paper on racks line the far wall. “This is where we print the pamphlets, and we arrange them on these tables so volunteers can quickly refill their carriers,” I explain.
I direct Byron to the pile of newsboy bags with wide shoulder straps and deep gussets. These bags are ideal for carrying pamphlets, newspapers, and other materials required for a rally or demonstration. “I brought my knapsack,” he says.
“That’s mainly for storing your items,” I respond. “Are you familiar with using a letterpress machine?”
He grimaces. “Sorry, I’m not. But I’m eager to learn.”
“No need,” I smile, pleased with his answer. “I was just curious. We have people who are skilled with the letterpress. It won’t be part of your assignment for today, which I wanted to discuss with you in private.”
“Oh, okay,” he replies slowly.
“Have a seat.” I walk over to one of the tables, sit in a folding chair, and open the bag I took from Byron.
He sits, and as he settles in, I enjoy a forkful of ackee and saltfish and a few bites of bammy. It isn’t as tasty as my mother’s, particularly the dumplings, but I shouldn’t criticize a free plate of food.
“You’re hungry.” He smiles.
“Yeah, I forgot to grab something to eat,” I grunt, then realizeI had forgotten my manners. “Thank you. I appreciate the food.”
“You’re welcome.”
I swallow another mouthful and wipe my fingers on the paper bag. “This rally focuses on the issues affecting agricultural workers—right up your alley, Byron, because it includes workers from sugar and banana plantations. It’s another reason we’re heading to Victoria Park. Easy access for workers, and late August is the perfect time to spread the word.
“Our rally will begin with speeches from the main stage, and we expect a large crowd—a huge crowd. But this isn’t a nightclub in New York City with microphones. We do what we refer to as call-and-response. People farthest from the stage and in the middle of the crowd won’t hear what’s being said without it.”
Byron nods. “That makes sense.”
“We don’t want the crowd to stampede the stage out of frustration. Volunteers will hand out pamphlets, but not everyone will read them. So, you have a strong voice and good lungs, right?”
“I do.” He puffs out his chest playfully.
“Seriously, we can’t afford any mishaps. There has been an increase in arrests throughout the Caribbean—riots at a sugar estate in Trinidad and a sugar strike in Saint Kitts this January. Protests broke out in May along Jamaica’s northern coast. Some describe the riots in Oracabessa among banana workers as a show of unity within the labor union. People have been hurt. People have died. We don’t want a riot here. No injuries or fatalities. That’s why your other role, besides call-and-response, is to keep an eye out for troublemakers.”
Byron looks puzzled. “Who am I keeping safe from whom?”
“Both sides. The call-and-response volunteers are positioned to spot and prevent trouble, whether it comes from the police or demonstrators. And as I’m sure you know, plantation ownershire professional troublemakers to attend our rallies to stir up chaos. With how you look, you might be able to keep the coppers in line.”
