Rest in Peace Verlinda Joseph

Today, I remember Verlinda Joseph.

Well, that is not entirely true. Verlinda Joseph is brought to me; I did not go looking in the past on my own accord. I remember vaguely the first time I heard her name. I recall only my mother's fear, disgust, and palpable anger. I lived with my grandmother and her daughters (my mother and aunt), and then there was us, their daughters. The big women were talking and shaking their heads in sorrow and disbelief that a young girl was murdered. Murdered. At the time, nuance was lost. My understanding of death then was that she would not be able to play, read or have fun. I was 11 when she died. She was 13.

The news report published today, on the 21st anniversary of her death, says that the court has found Verlinda's father guilty. Using DNA evidence of the sperm inside her body, Eugene St Romaine, after years of denial, years on remand, and years on bail, is brought to justice.

When I was 21, I stood outside the courthouse with the other reporters attempting to glimpse Eugene St. Romaine. I stayed out on Jeremy Street from 9 am, afraid to eat or get distracted, and I made sure the cameraman was alert. I needed to see this man's face.  Near 3 pm he walked out, handcuffed to another prisoner. His face seemed almost kind. He looked gentle. He walked head bowed until he jerked the prisoner who was handcuffed to him as they were heading back to the Bordelais Correctional Facility vehicle. Perhaps, the other prisoner wanted out of the spotlight and was embarrassed by the screams of "bouwo!". Maybe, the prisoner ahead of him did not want to be attached to this man in any way. All criminals are not the same. Eugene pulled the prisoner, who was walking briskly ahead of him, as anger flashed across his face, but he was forced to do a little jog to the waiting vehicle because the prisoner seemed to be in a rush to hide.

That day he was granted $60,000 bail.

I spoke with Verlinda Joseph's aunt immediately after.

Ana Stephens said, "If y'all have evidence on somebody, y'all should use it. To put him out on bail and make it drag on, I don't think there is any justice for my niece."

I only feel for Verlinda. The struggle that child went through in her last moments. Somebody that was meant to protect you rapes and kills you on your way to mend your school uniform.

The ineptitude of our legal system and the delayed justice should be what pisses me off. Instead, I am stuck on two things: her school uniform and her name.

The school uniform stands out to me because it represents hope, youth and innocence. Her going to mend it on that Monday morning makes me think of her own hopes. And there is something that children know well: early morning errands. Going to buy bread from  the slow-moving, coughing bread van, getting last-minute "junks" at the nearby shop, and mending your uniform quickly just in time for school is integral to Caribbean rural childhood. Did her mother also shout her first name loudly to hurry up and come back? Was there a "Verlinda! Hurry up before you're late for school!"

Something about that uniform really gets to me.

When does a name become something more? When does a name become a movement or a message, or a calling? I don't know. 

But I do know that Verlinda Joseph is not just a name.

Verlinda Joseph is a warning.

Verlinda Joseph is a feeling.

Verlinda Joseph is a fear.

Verlinda Joseph's name has become the term for an otherwise un-named/ shameful  part of our society that we are afraid to look at;  afraid to admit.

That hollow dread when we see our children, nieces and cousins getting taller with budding breasts. That fear that makes you watch her a little longer, craning your neck as she turns the corner, the fear that makes you speak kinder or harsher because you know. You know she is not safe, the way you weren't safe or your mother before you.

Verlinda Joseph is a message to us, and the message takes the form of wherever we find ourselves in this country where violence against women continues unabated with no justice or justice long overdue.

The message is there are men who sleep with their own daughters, raping them. There are men who believe they own women's bodies. 

The message is, as a mother, will you believe your daughter? Will you even see it? Will you act?

As a community, are we doing enough? What more can we do? 

Our leaders glibly accuse each other of raping the country, not understanding the power of language and how it affects women who cannot even utter that word, which is their truth. 

Verlinda Joseph's name is a verb. It is a call to action. Not to march, necessarily, but it is an individual call to action.

Let them mend their  uniforms, let them wear it, let them grow, let us live. 

Rest in Peace, Verlinda.