Irie (Greetings)

I go by the name Jeanie, not sistren Jeanie, just Jeanie. You see I’m not a Rasta. I am a stateside white girl whose roots are Noblesville, Indiana. Hardly a yardy.

So why a Rasta blog page, you ask?  For a very good reason, because I felt a need to tell my story, just like some of you want to tell your story. My life has intertwined with a wide variety of cultures; I find it very interesting to see different perspectives on how people perceive things. It is good for the soul to come together with people that are different than you. It gives you more tolerance and understanding.

one family

When I first turned on to reggae I was fresh out of college, I say out of college and not finished with college because I decided it was just too cold to go back.  I lived in a van pretty much on the streets of Key West, a far cry from the rolling hills of Ohio and Indiana. The year was 1980; Bob Marley was still alive, at least for another year. I broke up with my on and off again boyfriend and started seeing a singer of a band. His name was Bob and he sang reggae. Wouldn’t that of made a great story if it was Thee Bob. Sorry but this was a white guy named Bob in a local band, but I loved to hear him sing. My favorite song was ‘By the rivers of Babylon’, a Jimmy Cliff favorite. Over and over again I would plead for him to sing it to me, and he did. From that day on I was in love with—not Bob, he was short lived—no I was in love with reggae. It gets into your soul and you happily just cannot shake it.

For 28 years I have saturated myself in reggae music and culture. I owned a Rasta store on the island of St. John in the Virgin Islands with my partner of 19 years. We sold anything Rasta for 12 years. I knew the music well, I had to if I wanted to sell it, but not only that, I wanted to know it well.

My partner is from the Island of St Kitts. We have two children together and raised 2 more of mine and 4 more of his together. In the summer we had 8 yoots (his only came for the summer). We cooked many ital pots in a yuraba (clay pot). We lived half of those years in a shack we built in the bush, only to later build a concrete house in the bush. Our children grew up outdoors in the Caribbean air. It was a good life. I home schooled many of those years (not me, the kids), ran the Rasta store and a children’s store, taught childbirth classes and was a midwife, the only homebirth midwife on St John at the time. We swam in the ocean and hiked the trails. I went to new moon circles and drumming circles.

So you see I may not be a Rasta but I do have a few stories to tell. I am sure we all can be a Banton (storyteller) when we slow down enough to remember. I am hoping you will jooks a likkle and tell your story. One Love.