I needed my marching uniform to support my Barrio.
The last semester of 1952 would be the last report card that I would receive from the National Institute. The chain of events leading up to this break with my prized ambition of graduation from this illustrious institution will soon be manifest. I had always hoped to follow in my Uncle Eric’s footsteps and continue on to my university studies. But, fate would have it another way. Continue reading
Image thanks to NASA
My first year at the National Institute would continue to pose challenges to my ever increasing desire to write. Writing was something I yearned to do during any moment I could find free.
There came a time in my stint at the Institute that there seemed to be a relative absence of teachers. This wasn’t unusual in most public schools, however, and the Institute was no exception. Consequently, we, the first year or First Cycle students of secondary school would end up having a lot of free time on our hands. Continue reading
The front entrance to the Instituto Nacional de Panamá hasn’t changed much.
It was early morning on the Third of November of 1951 and my first year at the National Institute. I joined my fellow patriots who were already assembled and lined up outside the school at the foot of Ancon Hill before the watchful eyes of the twin statues of the vigilant Phoenixes. Continue reading
Here is the newspaper photo of young Rannie McAlmon who drowned at Gorgona Beach on July 4 1946.
Back in the days of my youth when I knew nothing at all about religion and I was introduced to churchgoing by my paternal grandmother and aunts, I came up with the idea that Jesus Christ was the good Obeah Man. Continue reading
The incident with the cops and my neighbor Doña Dora had left a profound imprint on my psyche, as could be expected. So much so that the Cobert Junior I had once been would be prepared for another bout of mistreatment from my father, only this time I was ready to fight back at whatever cost. Continue reading
Image is of Magnolia Building,
where my Uncle Eric grew up and
died. Our apartment was the one
on the top floor in the middle of the
three apartments in the upper left hand side-
the one with the open door.
The habit of hanging around the school for lunch and evening study group with his classmates would be something that my Uncle Eric would get into the habit of doing since his mother was never home to see that he was well taken care of due to her always being at work. School then became for him (as it did for me years later) a more important place than our home. I can’t speak for Eric but with me, in particular, school became a place where I sought the nurturing I never received at home. Continue reading