I once had an argument with a woman in a shop over $500. She insisted that I hadn't paid her. I insisted that I had. We went back and forth, neither of us able to concede to the other. My side of the argument was well supported by the crowd that had gathered saying "a so she do it all the time".

Tamara Scott-Williams

Her side was bolstered by the fact that she stood protected by layers of metal grill, separating her from the unruly, and the other people that were in the shop with me. It was so awfully frustrating, I, and my side, reached the point where no argument, no reasoning would convince her that she had robbed me blind. She started to cry (crocodile tears if I ever saw some) and I started to burn with rage.

How dare she come to my country and abuse me? How dare she steal from me my hard-earned cash? And how can she be so barefaced about it? Oh, I was so mad. So mad that I felt so helpless. In such a temper, the only relief I could think of was to 'tear off my clothes'.

Until that point, I never fully appreciated the expression. I had never understood until then how, on occasion, we women could be reduced to such indignity. But oh, I wanted to, so badly. I was so mad, and there was no relief in sight. I was just one step away from showing the crowd that had gathered, my "motion". Tra la la la la.

What stopped me? Well, my husband showed up with my children, wondering what was taking so long. And offered me the solution as he saw it: call the police.

Calling the police meant either I would be hauled away for attempting to defraud her of $500 (not in front of the children, dear) or she would be hauled away for stealing my $500 (I couldn't do that to another woman, not for $500). And I didn't relish the thought of spending all afternoon at the police station either, so I let it ride. And I deleted her from my fast-reducing list of places to shop in Jamaica.

The other reason I kept my clothes on was shame. Pure and simple. At that point in my pilates-free existence, baring my all would have resulted in the thief behind the counter laughing her head off, and the gathered crowd running for cover. Hardly the reaction I desired.

If I had a fabulous body I'd have ripped off my bodice and shown the world my Natori's. I would have bared my flesh in defence of my honour. She had my money. I wanted it back. And nothing, not even the clothes on my back, would stop me.

(My mother's probably having angina at this point, but hold on, there's a point to be made).

The point is that living conditions in Jamaica have forced us to cross, or come dangerously close to crossing, that invisible line into "socially unacceptable behaviour".

I know it is true of me and the deacon. Forgive us both, it is the prevailing conditions, and not anything we learned from our parents at home or from our teachers at school. It might have something to do with those 'evil forces' that our security minister Peter Phillips says is responsible for all that's wrong with Jamaica. All the violence. All the crime. All the time.

When it comes to getting by and making a living in Jamaica, for the deacon and I, it's 'Out with Emily Post's Guide to Executive Manners' and 'All hail Malcom X's: "By any means necessary".

That a Reverend (a Reverend!!!) has decided to return to active politics as a representative of the people only three years after reportedly resigning over some embarrassing business dealings is bad enough. And what does it say about us that we let him? How is it that we just let it slide. When did socially unacceptable behaviour become acceptable? Have we lost our collective sense of shame?

While I may not understand much of the highly sophisticated inner workings of finance, religion, or politics, I do know how to use role models to chart my own path.

If I use the examples set by the leaders of our society, I can: use as collateral property (which I don't own), to negotiate a loan (which I'll never pay back) ostensibly to finance an investment (that will invariably fail), but will instead deposit the money and earn high interest for months on end, and then when I'm found out I'll blame it all, at my age, on 'youthful exuberance' and be given a committee chairmanship well beyond my capabilities as proof of my employer's faith in me. A piece of cake.

And I've got to do this quickly for I have just received an estimated light bill for September. An estimated bill over $45, 000 for estimated usage, the likes of which my house has not seen before.

To add insult to injury I read where JPS says 40 per cent of us steal electricity, hence the excessive light bills. How dare Mirant come to my country and abuse me? How dare they steal from me my hard-earned cash? And how can they be so barefaced about it? Oh, I'm mad. So mad and I feel so helpless.

My husband says I'm to write them a letter and say that until our electricity meter is read, we are prepared to pay only what we were charged at our last meter reading.

Sure, I'll write that very nice letter, which will probably get us nowhere. But since shame is fast waning in the make-up of my character, all is not lost. I'm going to JPS to get them to reverse the charges, and if they don't I'm going to tear my clothes off.
Maybe then I'll get their attention.

Executive Class

Gardens with Gravel

Death to the Mullet!