Jenda: A Journal of Culture and African Women Studies (2002) ISSN: 1530-5686 REMEMBERING BERYL GILROY

Carole Boyce Davies

Blue aerogramme letters from Mrs. G. still remain on my desk. Not moving them seems to assure her continued presence and concretize my disbelief that she is gone. Mrs. G. would always write to see how the girls and I were doing, offer advice, a funny story or try to get my take on something significant to her: Why was Paul being attacked in the U.S.? What did I think of her latest manuscript? How was Ricky? When are you coming to London? “This summer as I planned!” I continued to tell her, not knowing that she could not wait that long.

Mrs. G. had a knack for calling me just when I needed to talk to someone of her wisdom. She offered the best advice when I learned of my mother’s ill health. And she always laced our conversations with stories of her grandchildren, her latest accomplishments, humourous quips, stories of her childhood, some of which appear in Sunlight and Sweetwater. Often, assuming the liberty of women her age to pronounce on anything they felt like, she would drop statements about the healthy need for a good sex life, and in the process would lament the times when she was too bothered to go to bed with her beloved Pat who died before she could show him fully how much she loved and appreciated him. Something she told me in our last conversation remains: “It is often difficult to find sisterhood in the company of sisters.” Above all, Mrs. G felt deeply from her years of practice as a psychologist and her observations as a black woman enjoying her “third age”: that black women needed to be loved, that dominant culture often marked us as unlovable; and that we had to struggle deeply to find love and the ability to give love in return.

I first met Mrs. G, as she wanted my children and I to call her, at the Caribbean Women Writers Conference at Wellesley. She sat away from the “madding crowd” quietly observing the to and fro of the young writers or those whom she felt were angling for recognition without having done the work which assures recognition. She reminded me of some of my mother’s “cousin family,” so, not knowing who she was, I went up to her and told her so. That must have endeared me to her. We have been friends until this parting. She liked my intellectual work, valued my comments as I valued hers. She sent my children presents, often made sure she gave me something small whenever I visited her (“When I die my children are going to get rid of all of these things so I need to give something now to people I care about”) and I spent many pleasant days in her company in her rambling house on 86 Messina Street in the Kilburn area of London. She was always planning to get rid of this house and move to somewhere smaller but all who knew her knew deep down that she was never really going to move. That house was part of her identity. We spent many hours talking about literature, writing, life, men, children, the Caribbean, the works.

In 1992, I spent a semester in London with the Binghamton London program. Upon arrival, I had made contact with Jan Shinebourne who informed me that Beryl had heard I was there and was expecting me to see her. My own project at that time was to study black women writers in Britain for a chapter in my book, Migrations of the Subject and I interviewed Mrs. G. and several other of the writers there. I also invited Mrs. G to talk to our students. After her visit, the more curious students ran to the library to see if this little, aging black woman, was really as famous a writer as I made her out to be. One of them (Brian Ripley Crandall) came back with the news that Beryl Gilroy was the author of about 14 children’s stories, ( then) 4 novels, 1 autobiography, Black Teacher and much more. He promptly arranged an interview with her for his project and left completely enamored of her. Since then, I have read all her new books in manuscript form. She liked my feedback, and I was careful not to give too much - not wanting to interfere with her creative vision. In 1995 again, I spent another semester in London and similarly visited and spent time with Mrs. G. This time, my daughter Dalia would skate over to her house from our place in Swiss Cottage to have a literature and writing lesson once a week. She developed a close friendship with my daughters as well and they knew they could talk to her if they needed someone who cared.

So, I cannot imagine Mrs. G. not being there anymore. For the last decade or so, she has been a constant in my life—always hospitable, kind, supportive, friendly, welcoming and similarly embracing anyone connected with me. Mrs. G had been preparing herself for her passing in her last years. She told me not too long ago that after last year’s bout in the hospital in which they thought she was going to die, she did not see herself having that much more time anymore and above all did not want to live handicapped by illness and disability. Her last letter said: “This has been my worst winter for me in London ...” Above all, Mrs. G. wanted to join her beloved Pat to whom she dedicated all her books. I am sure she is happy now to have crossed over safely. “See you next lifetime, Mrs. G!” (Carole Boyce Davies)

Meredith M. Gadsby, Secretary, ACWWS

I have grown quite accustomed to receiving a letter from Dr. Gilroy at the start of each New Year. Her last letter, dated 11th Jan. 2001, is addressed to Dr. Meredith Gadsby, in full acknowledgement of completion of my graduate program. Dr. Gilroy believed in acknowledging Black women’s accomplishments, and was no doubt proud to say that she had participated in my development as a scholar. My first encounter with Beryl Gilroy was in 1996 in Miami, at a meeting of the Association for Caribbean Women Writers and Scholars. Mrs. G. was sitting quietly, contemplating the possibilities of an early departure, because she was suffering from chest pains and sunburn. After informing me that I looked like someone she knew she seized this opportunity of our first encounter as an excellent teaching moment. I was, at that moment, embarking on the study which later became my dissertation, and Mrs. G., intrigued by the subject, gave me, in 15 minutes, a brief history of the cultural importance of salt for African Diasporic peoples (with specific ritualistic references) and the roots of the idea of being “worth one’s salt.” I wrote down all she said like a mad woman, hungry for more information, desperately trying to record every single word.

When I met Mrs. G. one year later in London, I was studying for my comprehensive exams and conducting research on Black women writers in London. Mrs. G, or Dr. Beryl A. Gilroy, Ph.D. Ed. D. F. I. Ed., M. Ed., as the return address on her letter reads, was a master teacher. She loved teaching, she told me, and knew quite early that she was good at it. During my interviews with her in 1996, she taught me a great deal. I first sat with her at a Cork’s, a small bistro off Tottenham Court Road, to discuss her life and work and soon found that the woman I was speaking to was a psychologist, former head teacher and the first Black head teacher in London, a private tutor, a poet, novelist, widow, and mother, all at the same time. Before I knew it, she was interviewing me, and I was telling her everything. We were so comfortable, and so enjoying our talk that I traveled home with her by bus to 86 Messina Avenue in Kilburn, talking all the way.

What had begun, as an informal interview, soon became one of the most intellectually engaging and enjoyable days I have ever spent with anyone. In the end, we recorded two hours of interview, after Mrs. G. had given me explicit instructions on how to better formulate my interview questions. Since that meeting, my trips to London were never complete without a phone call and/or a visit to see Mrs. G. These visits were never a chore, for she was a pleasure to be with. When I realized that she enjoyed me as much as I enjoyed her, I was honored. Mrs. G. even insisted on meeting my partner, so that she could “psychoanalyze” him herself, and give me her educated opinion on whether or not he was an appropriate match for me. I dutifully took him to her house last October. In true Caribbean elder woman fashion, she hustled me away into the kitchen after an hour of laughter and discussion to let me know that she “approved.” At the end of her letter she wrote of the excellent academic progress of her grandchildren, and the beautiful book of her poetry her grandson compiled for his sister Cora’s 13th birthday. “I gave her ‘time’,” Mrs. G writes, which to me is precious.”

Mrs. G. gave me time and much more. This year brings with it the loss of two powerful women in my life, Dr. Beryl A. Gilroy, and Millicent Eudora Gadsby, R.N.S. (my aunt), who passed away within weeks of each other. Mrs. G. had even counseled me on how best to deal with the inevitable loss of my aunt. Both women shared more with me than I can ever communicate in a piece of this size, or than I could ever communicate in words punctuated with. I try not to miss them, for they are always with me. What I will do is channel my longing to sit with them once more into a passion for teaching and learning. Dr. Gilroy would have expected nothing less.

Passing Days

Across the chasms—Time and Space,
I have not seen my young friends change
From green-growing saplings
To gnarled and burdened relics of old age-
Dust-dry, slow of deed and thought.
I assume them
Set in tight, deep-burdened nights,
Mindless! With impotent voices
That withered inch by inch.

I have not seen their hair turn white
Yet bright with tears of grey,
Nor heard the slip-slip-slurping
Of their man-made teeth,
Unreal to mouth and tongue.

I have not met them deaf to greeting
Not heard their joints rebel against
The passing of the years;
Tongueless from their discontents and longings,
Tuneful from their sighs. Uncertain as they shuffle by.

I assume their salad days and mine,
Are fragrant dreams of dancing times.
As we mourn the passing of the past.
Such moments fade, I do report
For every day makes life a sport
And tags its quiet disappearing.

Beryl Gilroy
30th of August 1974
(Published in Joan Anim-Addo ed., Voice, Memory, Ashes. London: Mango Publishing 1999)

Copyright 2002 Africa Resource Center, Inc.

Citation Format

Davies, Carole Boyce (2002). REMEMBERING BERYL GILROY. Jenda: A Journal of Culture and African Women Studies: 2, 1.