Today, we are gathered to celebrate and give thanks for the life of Patricia Rose Richards, affectionately known as Patsy by those who respected and loved her.
Our mother was well known throughout our beloved country, not as a famous doctor, lawyer, architect, or engineer, but as a mentally ill person; and colloquially – and crudely so – dubbed as a “crazy woman.”
She became mentally ill in 1976, at the age of 29, shortly after giving birth to her fifth and last child, Casper.
Though our mother had five children, two of them were adopted at ages one and four, and she raised three of us. Patsy’s daughter, Dianne predeceased her in 1996, after giving birth to her daughter Cheyanne
It was my sister Blondelle and I who faced the greatest hardships, being raised by a mentally ill single parent.
While society often saw her as a useless lunatic, my sister Blondelle and I held her in high esteem, as our gem; our unsung hero, the wind beneath our wings.
Despite enduring her psychosis at the tender ages of 9 and 7 and half years respectively, and the attendant societal ridicule, scorn, and stigma associated with her mental health illness, we never scorned her; we were never ashamed of her; we never demonized her.
She was – and is – our mother.
A mother whom we loved and protected during her vulnerable periods from the time we were youngsters.
For those, who may not recall, let me recount that Patricia Rose Richards was born on October 18, 1947.
Her parents were Novelle Hamilton Richards and Alice Elizabeth Richards née Lake.She received her secondary education, first at Bishop Anstey High School in Trinidad, where her father was serving as a Minister in the Government of the West Indies Federation.
Later, she attended Antigua Girls High School here in Antigua, where she is remembered as “bright and quiet”.
Her schooling was shortened, not because of any mental illness or lack of capacity.Our mother was obviously able and capable.
But she became pregnant in fourth form at Antigua Girls High, and there began a series of incidents that created her illness of depression and eventual mental disorientation.
As youngsters, Blondelle and I defended our mother’s dignity.
We actually had to physically and verbally fight a slew of vulturous adult men who sought to sexually exploit our mother’s mental health vulnerability.
To this day, I am astonished by – and grateful for – the courage, fearlessness and fierceness of my then seven-year-old sister, in vigorously chasing rapacious and predatory men.
Blondelle pelted them with objects, including stones, and even used pails of water as weapons to chase them from our home at Bishopsgate Street.
If it wasn’t for our diligence and courage in the instinctive response of children to protect their mother, who was by then a quiet hapless, vulnerable soul, she would have become a victim of repeated rapes at the hands of those heartless, vulturous men.Blondelle fought for me too.
I was of the misguided view, that I won all of my several fights at school until my sister Blondelle recently reminded me that an older boy, the late Barry “Big” Williams, had me down for the count at the community shop, Donald’s shop.
My younger courageous sister suddenly appeared, joined the fight, and turned the tables in my favour!
To this day, she watches out for me as we watched out for our mother.
Our mom experienced many trials and tribulations during her life.
She suffered the trauma of losing her own mother and separation from her family at the tender age of 9.
This was followed by teenage pregnancy and subsequent eviction from her family home for “having a bastard child.”
Our mother ended up on the streets of Grays Farm as a child, without the skills or mental maturity to adequately fend for herself.
She met my father, Harold Browne, in Grays Farm.
He quickly fathered two children with her.
At age 20, our mother had three children and then a total of five by age 28.As an unmarried woman with five children, she was ostracized by all of her family members with the exception of her helpless eldest brother, Novelle Richards Jr., who was an alcoholic, and her brother Dr. Winston Richards, who assisted her, from time to time, with remittances while he was living and working in the United States.In addition to her struggle as the sole breadwinner for three children, our mother had to cope with the additional stress of domestic violence and severe economic deprivation from protracted unemployment and deadbeat fathers who neglected their responsibility to their children.
These myriad issues created psychosocial problems and depression, which were left untreated for some time until she eventually disintegrated into irreversible psychosis.
I share these experiences of my mother with us today, not to dwell in the past, nor to lay blame at anyone and I do so without any bitterness whatsoever.That experience, horrible though it was, occurred at a different time in our own society’s understanding and tolerance.
In our present-day society, this experience should serve as a means to cultivate a more empathetic and supportive environment for mentally ill persons.
It should also summon the men in our nation to consider the psychosocial impact of their abuse and irresponsible behaviours toward women and children.It is evident that the traumatic experiences my mother endured would have caused the downward spiral she suffered and, also, affected the children she still bravely tried to raise.
Luckily for Blondelle and me, at an early age we developed the coping skills and resilience necessary to successfully avert the psychological scars associated with a childhood in which we lived with our mentally challenged mother and our uncle, Novelle Jr., who was unemployed for most of his adult life because of the effects of alcoholism.Though we had not reached full consciousness at the ages of 9 and seven and half, Blondelle and I regarded our mother, not as a deranged lunatic, but as a victim of circumstances, and we loved and protected her.
For all that she suffered, our mom was a remarkable single parent; a woman of courage, faith, strength, and resilience.
Though she struggled, and on countless occasions we had no food to eat, she tried desperately to provide for us as best she could.The scars of our poverty were manifestly evident in the deplorable dilapidated condition of our home, which had broken windows, no furnishings, electricity or pipe borne water. It also manifested itself in the scarcity of food and clothing and also in our physical health.
Her second son – me, who stands before you today – was hospitalized with malnutrition, which stunted my early growth to the extent that I only started to walk at age four.
Nine years later, her last son Casper, during her initial period of mental illness and in the absence of monies to purchase food, breastfed until he was about three years old; sucking every ounce of nutrients out of her sick, under-nourished body.The cross, with which she was burdened, not surprisingly proved too heavy to carry.
But, after many years of hardships and disappointments; in 1974 our mother found some peace and purpose in the bosom of the Lord.he converted from the Moravian faith and was baptized here, at the Wesleyan Holiness Church, as a born-again Christian.
She tried valiantly to live a model Christian life.
A couple of years into her steadfast Christian life, she was attracted to a suitor who promised to marry her.
Instead of marrying her, he betrayed her trust and left her pregnant with her last child.
That was a moment of shame and embarrassment for her, as she subsequently learned that her suitor was in another serious relationship, with young children in Clare Hall.
Already mentally and emotionally vulnerable, she was further psychologically broken by the betrayal.
Nonetheless, she continued to worship and serve God during the episodic challenges to her mental health.
Eventually, her worsening and, by then, irreversible psychosis, caused her to lose even the consciousness that had allowed her to worship.
Blondelle and I are the beneficiaries of the Christian values that she practiced, and which shaped our character.
She was indeed the wind beneath our wings.
She motivated us by instilling in us sound moral values of honesty, hard work, frugality, contentedness, and the importance of an education.
Even during her numerous episodes of mental illness, she insisted on our regular attendance at church and school.
We were so well-grounded in the value of an education that not even hunger kept us away from school.
Perhaps, the single largest contribution to my development was her decision to reclaim me from my paternal great-grandmother with whom I lived in Grays Farm for several years.
My great-grandmother, who was born in 1894, was old, illiterate, partially blind, and poor.
Though she loved me, she did not understand the importance of a sound education and kept me at home until age seven, unwittingly undermining my development.
My mother enrolled me at Villa Primary School at seven and a half years old.
During her periods of sanity, Patricia Rose Richards worked diligently in various minimum wage jobs at a couple of garment factories at the Coolidge Industrial Estate.
She also worked as a cashier at Omaha Bakery and Jeffery’s and Isaac gas stations on Old Parham Rd and Golden Grove respectively.
At an earlier time, she even worked at the government’s quarry “ponging” stones so that she could provide for herself and her children – such was the strength of her maternal nature.
All of her employers were impressed with the reliability of her work and her honesty, to the extent that they would reemploy her after her numerous periods of hospitalization at the now rebranded Clare View Mental Hospital.
At that time, the institution was simply known as Crazy House.
Allow me to share this story of our mother’s honesty and integrity.
While working at Omaha Bakery, she was given an allowance of a medium-sized loaf of bread on the days that she worked.
The loaf of bread, with a little margarine, if there was any, became a breakfast staple to be shared among herself and her three children every morning.
Notwithstanding the inadequacy of the single loaf, she never took or stole a single bread or bun from the bakery.
Instead, she taught us to be honest and contented; a value Blondelle and I maintained into our adult lives.
Blondelle and I grew up as the poorest among the poor; we were undeterred by our deprivations and there was an overarching state of peace, happiness, contentment that existed in our home, masking the gravity of our hardships.
However, there were some in the community who recognized that we were actually struggling to eat as youngsters, and they extended a helping hand during that vulnerable period. We are eternally grateful to them.
However, we had to work in return for the assistance.
Though today, the work we did as children, would be considered child labour, it helped us to understand the value of hard work and survival skills.
My sister Blondelle became a home domestic assistant to the late Teacher Bell, who provided her with meals. I became the community errand boy, conducting different chores for many individuals to earn a piece of dread bread, a little “scatta”, or to earn quart, (twenty-five cents), which I would use to purchase a half bread and butter; and happily and gleefully devoured, washing it down with copious amounts of water from the public standpipe.
Sometimes, our meal was simply a mango or two; a few plums, or guavas from our neighbour’s fruit trees.
In the absence of anything to eat, we would settle for a “little wind-pie” and pipe water.
Evidently, the public standpipe was a constant and a “belly fuller.”
Occasionally, when things were good, we would upgrade to a little ‘brebich’, or sugar water.
Again, I share these insights into our upbringing, as a source of inspiration for others.
No matter your station in life, or the challenges with which you are confronted, continue to soldier on with determined optimism for achieving a brighter future.
Do not allow the circumstances of your past to dictate your future and be assured that with God’s grace and guidance, all things are possible.
Better days are invariably in the future of the resilient and courageous.
For our entire existence, Blondelle and I have had to fight to confront and overcome the stigmatization, discrimination, and denigration of having a mentally ill mother.
However, we were blessed with the emotional power to surmount those challenges.
Let our mother’s life experience and our role in her life, be an example of how we should embrace and love those among us with mental challenges.
I trust that the emotional power exhibited by my sister and me during those challenging times will serve as a catalyst to end the stigmatization that society places on mental illness.
Persons with mental health illnesses, like other ill persons, or perhaps more so than others, deserve the love, affection, and support of all.
We loved and cared for our dear mother from the time of our earliest consciousness, into adulthood, and up to the time of her passing.
If I may now say a few words directly to my sister…
Blondelle, our family is eternally grateful for your dedicated service, love, and care for our mom.
We know that you sacrificed the quality of your own life to selflessly care for our mother until her sudden passing.
We are eternally grateful, and I say to you today in public; I love you unconditionally.
May God continue to bless and keep you safe from harm.
My dear sister, I know that you are an extremely contented person like our mom, with modest needs.
However, I wish to assure you that provided I am alive, you shall never be in want.
I have your back until death do us part.
Our family is united in grief over our mother’s passing, and we continue to trust in God even during this time of loss.
We thank God for his grace and direction over our lives which could have taken a turn for the worse, based on the myriad of challenges we have had to surmount, and we pray for his continued blessings and guidance over our present and future generations.
In closing, I am reminded of Isaiah 40:31:
“But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings as eagles;
they shall run, and not be weary;
and they shall walk, and not faint.”
This verse captures the essence of our mother’s struggle and resilience.
She faced her trials with unwavering faith and instilled in us the strength to rise above our challenges.
Her soul has transitioned to eternity in its new form; liberated from the burdens of her ephemeral mortal body.
She is in a better place.
She is gone but will never be forgotten.
We will remain close to our mother by keeping her ashes until our day of transition arrives; where we hope to join her in the city of everlasting life.
We love you, mom; may your soul rest in eternal peace and rise in paradise.
On behalf of my family, I wish to thank everyone who extended warm words of sympathy, sent flowers and cards, and to those of you who joined us here today.
We truly appreciate your kindness, your care, and your support.
Thank you and may God bless you all.
