No Woman No Cry Page 21

  Sometimes you’re pulled into your past, and you want to go back to the streets you ran as a child. Every once in a while I drive over to Greenwich Park Road and reminisce. When I was a child, a local madman would often write on the part of the cemetery wall facing our house. One day he wrote “Black Police Brutality,” and those words are still there! To find where my house was—because the houses and fences are different, in fact the whole landscape is different now—I just look for that graffiti, and when I see it I know I’m in the right place. But my plum tree is gone from the yard where we used to sing and tell stories, and so are a lot of people we grew up with and worked with in Trench Town. As Bob sings, “Good friends we’ve had/good friends we’ve lost/along the way.” Tata’s kitchen, on Second Street, where Bob used to sleep, is being restored so that it can be used as an exhibition center; the Jamaica Tourist Board has invested money in it to try to capture the moment of Bob Marley’s time in Trench Town. (I like to go there to visit the spot where Bob and I first made love.) But I was told recently that visitors have been discouraged from going there because of the violence.

  Still, each time I want to remember—or make sure I never forget—I go and stand next to the wall that says Black Police Brutality. Back then, young men sitting on the sidewalk would have to get up and run when they saw a police car coming, whether they were thieves or not. We didn’t see white people being hit by batons and being threatened: “Get out, get out, get out of the road!” And it wasn’t white but black police who were brutalizing black people. You can imagine the madman picking up on all this and just putting it on the wall. I first saw it when I was ten, I’m fifty-six now and it’s still there. And what it says is still going on. If anything, there’s even more brutality than ever within the area.

  Can anything good come out of Trench Town? That was always the big question. Of course I did, as did many more like me. But one recent morning I heard a Jamaican politician on the radio, speaking about how the people in power must realize that Trench Town is still there and still in trouble. Though the standard of living has risen, and people there are better off these days than we were in the fifties, with nicer houses, cars, and clothing, the reality is that living in certain areas you’re still in trouble after all these years, still targeted by the police, and still in a place where brutality exists, just as it did when Bob wrote “Concrete Jungle” and “Them Belly Full (But We Hungry).” Jamaican society remains set up as it was.

  Everyone knows that education is the key to a peaceful, productive society, yet a family still must pay to educate its children beyond the primary grades, after about age twelve, unless each child gets a full scholarship. Even with the benefit of a half scholarship, as I was given, my brother had to leave college so that I could go to high school. You have to be in high school by thirteen or you’re looked down upon, which means there’s no question of “saving up” for school. You have to be clean, your shoes have to shine, and you still have to buy your books and your lunch and your uniforms. Suppose you can’t afford these things? Where do you turn? People come to the Bob Marley Foundation with long lists of books their children need. We run a program that lends books: We get them and give them to students and when they finish with them we collect them and give them to others. We see this as a duty to help support families and students; still, there are many more people who remain not only out of our reach but out of the reach of others who could help.

  In my opinion, women leaders are what a country like Jamaica needs. That’s the only change that might make any difference. Over the years it seems each time elections come around, the political situation explodes into violence, and poor people start killing off one another in the rural and city ghetto areas. It doesn’t change; you never hear of them killing one of the ministers for not living up to his obligations, but they will go and kill their brother or sister to get a vote or prevent a vote.

  There are already qualified women serving in our government—Babsy Grange is a strong JLP member; Beverly Manley is another powerful force who I believe worked well with Michael Manley when he was prime minister, and that’s the PNP side. There’s also Portia Simpson, who could be the next prime minister, because she’s very strong. Each time I see her, I say, “Sister Portia, please be the one to ease the pain!” People still look for the good woman behind every strong man. We need to bring that good woman forward, especially in Jamaica, where we have been so far behind. Women do have a very strong authority that is not being used. They’re meant to be leaders also; government is not just a man’s job. It’s important for us to move that good woman from behind to beside—and sometimes in front!

  As for me, these days I just want to be myself. People ask: “Why do you still go to the market every Friday or Saturday at 6 A.M.? You don’t have to go to the market, send the helper!” No—I don’t think so! I’m glad to have the time to be able to do that now, to do what I love to do. My friends at the market enjoy seeing me; I sometimes shoot videos there with everybody singing and dancing.

  Even at this age, things are still unfolding, life and work continue to open up for me. Trying new things is as important as carrying on. About eight years ago an American lecture bureau contacted me—there had been some requests for me to speak about the life of Bob Marley during Black History Month. For a few years, with my girlfriends Dahima and Eleanor Wint, and with Errol Barrett to assist us, I traveled to various American universities where we spoke about Bob, showed pictures, and held question-and-answer sessions not only about Bob’s life but about Rastafari and Africa. I got so relaxed and well into this that I looked forward to every Black History Month—until I found that I was talking more than singing and began to wonder whether I’d lost some of my vocal range because I hadn’t been taking time for any vocal training. I had to ask myself, where am I going? But the students came out to the lectures—whole classes even attended—and the record company was pleased because they then wanted to hear more of Bob Marley’s music and went out and bought it. So this was an incentive, to know that the love was still there.

  The students’ favorite part of my speech was the story about Bob coming through the window of Aunty’s house—it would bring laughter and “Oooh!” and “Oh no!” And after, during the questions, there was more about “What did Aunty do?” and “How did you and Bob feel about that? Were you upset for a long time after? I know, I know!” These were young people’s questions, because they’re about the same age as we were then and doing the same things. So it was fun for them to know that Bob and Rita also did that. It humanizes, makes the superstar a real person, just a normal human being with a special mission. And knowing Bob, he would have liked that too. That was him—for him, the sympathy was most important, this is what made him what he was, this was what he cherished.

  Looking closely at myself, regarding myself as a person who needs my attention, has now become a priority. You live long enough and inevitably you reach a point where you realize you have to take care of yourself as well as you take care of everyone else. Being a Leo, I tend to really go heart out for other people and their needs, to overlook myself because I feel I have the handle, but that’s when you get cut by the blade. Some people think that because you have the handle you’ve got the whole—but that’s not all of it. You can get lost in every day every day, and you think you’re supposed to. Because you have the handle; you’ve always done that, and that’s what you have to do. And you’ll just keep on doing doing doing—and only at the end of the day will you remember, wow, I didn’t take time out to meditate …

  The one thing I almost forget to do is to take care of me, because right now I’m diabetic, all because of the stress of working, bad eating habits, sometimes not being able to eat what you’re supposed to, because you have a meeting or you’re on the phone and so you miss lunch, or your next meeting is right at lunchtime. Until the doctors announce: high blood pressure, diabetes, watch out …

  And then here comes menopause—for laughs! I can understand why t
hey call it men-o-pause. It may really put you on pause where masculine relationships are concerned. You may find you’re not the same girl, you may even lose your zeal and your want for lovemaking, though it could be the men who really step back—they pause! They pause if you’re not so attracted to sex anymore, they pause when your hot flashes become miserable, and aaarggh—you don’t want to see nobody today!

  But life continues and I still sometimes want to be loved. Though after you’ve been there and done that, and know this and know that, you may want to take a break. Faced with this new life, new touch—touch me somewhere else, baby, that feels good—you realize you still have feelings. If you have a partner who really loves you, there are moments you can cherish, without anything to prove—you don’t have to prove you can do it because you’ve done it! All this is why I’m saying I really need to look out for me now. Because here I’m looking at grown children and grandchildren, who want to keep me active: “Grandma, you have to take us there, we have to go do this, we have to do that!” And I’m certainly not going to give up!

  I didn’t start singing publicly again right after Bob passed, I couldn’t have, I’d have gone crazy. I couldn’t leave the work of the foundation. There was no way I would have walked away from it. I had to stand up for his rights—our rights—and defend them, pursue them, and carry them on.

  Still, even though I was mainly doing that, if I hadn’t kept up with a little bit of my singing career, I’d have gone even crazier. At the studio people were always so encouraging: “Mrs. Marley, please remember, you can stay here and do one song, and when you get time you can come in and do another.” So I was nipping little by little, until finally I said, “Look at this, here’s ten songs, let’s put out an album.” On it were songs I cowrote with Bob, some that other people wrote for me or that were cowritten.

  Also, people were always saying, hey, you should do a concert. And so gradually I found time to do this, and was inspired to keep on. Added to this was the fact that I started going all over the world for one reason or another—even just to meet lawyers to sign agreements—and was asked when I’d be available to do a show.

  The first time I went out as a solo was with the Fab Five Band. When I went onstage—this was long after Bob’s funeral—and the light was on me alone, I couldn’t help thinking, “Here I am again!” I had been pursued by Fab Five’s drummer, Grub Cooper, who was my musical director and has worked with the family for years as our vocal director for albums. When it comes to recordings, he does vocals, very specifically—and he writes, he’s the writer of my first big hit, “One Draw,” which became international and was one of the first 12-inch reggae records to enter the Billboard charts in America.

  That first solo flight after such a long break was a sign, a moment of “Oh my god, I’m really gonna do it!” Ever since—and that was a while ago—I’ve taken my measure from that moment. Because when the light is on you, and you’re on that stage, and they’re clapping, you know it’s still happening. Sometimes I’ve said to myself, hey, it’s unbelievable that I still have the strength. When I was forty I thought that when I reached fifty I wouldn’t be able to go on performing, but then fifty came and went and I’m still at it. Just ready. And with my focus on giving, it’s good to receive too, to accept that standing ovation and that smile.

  My fourth album, We Must Carry On, which was released in 1991, became a best-seller and was nominated for a Grammy award (you have to be a best-seller even to be considered for nomination, which I like because it really means that people are playing your music). So that gave me a push to tell myself, as the song says, “We must carry on, you must carry on.” To me it meant take the time for your career because you still have work to do. Carry on.

  I still tour, though not for long periods, because now I feel I must spend time with those thirty-eight grandchildren. Though I think they’d prefer to go on tour with me: “Grandma, I can play your drums!” or “I can sing with you, Grandma, I could be an I-Three!” I think they’re very well musically inclined. Still, I adjust my schedule for them. When I do travel, it’s often with some of the old crew from the days of being on the road with Bob. It feels good to work with some members of the Wailers. I think that’s important—as people say, sometimes it’s best to stick with the evil you know! And as Bob sings, “In this great future, we can’t forget the past.”

  I like touring for the fun of it, for getting up there and jigalooing—although I find I’m not jigalooing as much as I used to, because I’ve put on some extra pounds that I didn’t have when I was able to jig around! I’m fearing—oh my gosh, see fat me still jigging around onstage! But I hate to stand still onstage, I can’t stand still! Because when the music hits you, you’re feeling no pain!

  My most recent album is called Sunshine After Rain. I guess the writers figured it was time I started singing about love again, time for me to bring back that love to my voice. Sometimes it seems as if I was work-driven for so long, just like so many wives and mothers in the entertainment business, trying to ensure that their husbands and children understand that all that glitters is not gold.

  I’ve always had a hand in writing, and I’m really looking forward to writing or cowriting more songs, sharing my feelings with millions of women, millions of sisters. Lots of times women tell me, “Rita, if I hadn’t listened to you, I don’t know what I’d have done” or “Rita, your song helped me get through this” or even “Your music made me decide not to do this!” Even when I perform a song written by someone else, I have to put myself in it and change this word to that, just to be sure I relate to it, that I feel it. I don’t sing a song just because it’s bouncy or because it has a swing. I sing it because the words mean something, to me and to many other people.

  That very first album I did after Bob passed was the hardest. It was like getting over everything that happened. Most of the songs on that recording session are there because I allowed myself to sing, and Grub Cooper had said to do an album but take it slow, one song at a time. “Do some of your old songs,” he suggested. “Do some of Bob’s songs. Do the songs you actually love.” Because I hadn’t been able to express my hurt, my grief. Everything had been deflected into work, too much work to think. Every day it was, you can’t grieve now. You can’t grieve now, you have to wake up feeling strong to have this meeting. You can’t grieve now, you have to fly here to meet with the lawyers. You can’t grieve now, we have a meeting in New York with the administrators. My grieving was always “can’t now, can’t now.” So Grub said, “You know the best way to express your grief—or you’re going to go crazy—is to sing. Sing!”

  I thought, wow, that’s exactly what Bob said, his last words to me just before he passed. And, prophet that he was, he must have seen the future when he wrote “No Woman No Cry.” He must have known he’d have to “push on through.” But he also must have known that when he was gone, everything was “gonna be all right.” So I started to sing, as he told me to do, and just as he said it would be, everything was all right. And I’m still singing, and it still is. All right! Rastafari!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rita Marley is the founder of the Rita Marley Foundation. Rita was married to Bob Marley in 1966, when she was nineteen and he was twenty-one, and she remained his wife until his death in 1981. The mother of Bob’s children, she performs worldwide. She makes her home in Ghana.

  Hettie Jones is a poet and prose writer, author of numerous books, including How I Became Hettie Jones, a memoir of the Beats and of her former marriage to LeRoi Jones (now Amiri Baraka). She lives in New York City, where she teaches writing at New School University and the 92nd Street Poetry Center.

  COPYRIGHT

  “No Woman No Cry,” words and music by Vincent Ford. Copyright © 1974 Fifty-Six Hope Road Music Ltd./Odnil Music Ltd./Blue Mountain Music Ltd. (PRS), adm. by Rykomusic (ASCAP). All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “Nice Time,” words and music by Bob Marley. Copyright © 1968 Fifty-Six Hope Road Music
Ltd./Odnil Music Ltd./Blue Mountain Music Ltd. (PRS), adm. by Rykomusic (ASCAP). All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “Chances Are,” words and music by Bob Marley. Copyright © 1968 Fifty-Six Hope Road Music Ltd./Odnil Music Ltd./Blue Mountain Music Ltd. (PRS), adm. by Rykomusic (ASCAP). All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “Stir It Up,” words and music by Bob Marley. Copyright © 1972 Fifty-Six Hope Road Music Ltd./Odnil Music Ltd./Blue Mountain Music Ltd. (PRS), adm. by Rykomusic (ASCAP). All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “Zimbabwe,” written by Bob Marley. Copyright © 1979 Fifty-Six Hope Road Music Ltd./Odnil Music Ltd./Blue Mountain Music Ltd. (PRS), adm. by Rykomusic (ASCAP). All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “Smile Jamaica,” words and music by Bob Marley. Copyright © 1977 Fifty-Six Hope Road Music Ltd./Odnil Music Ltd./Blue Mountain Music Ltd. (PRS), adm. by Rykomusic (ASCAP). All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “Mix Up, Mix Up,” words and music by Bob Marley. Copyright © 1983 Fifty-Six Hope Road Music Ltd./Odnil Music Ltd./Blue Mountain Music Ltd. (PRS), adm. by Rykomusic (ASCAP). All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  “My Girl,” words and music by William “Smokey” Robinson and Ronald White. Copyright © 1964, 1972, 1973 (renewed 1992, 2000, 2001); 1977 Jobete Music Co., Inc. All rights controlled and administered by EMI April Music Inc. All rights reserved, international copyright secured; used by permission.

  “Play, Play,” “Who the Cap Fit,” and “Misty Morning” © Rita Marley Music Publishing. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Copyright © 2004 Rita Marley Productions, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 1500 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.