I have been told from the time I was a child (and I also heard it from a caller on Newsspin recently) that you are assigned to be a rose or marguerite, depending on your birthday. There was some internal conflict because although my birthdate in December determined that I should be a marguerite, everyone else in my house was a rose. But I am the only one actually named Rose. It felt like a sort of betrayal that I would have to shout, “Vive la Marguerite!” knowing full well that I didn’t mind if my namesake was living too. But then the La Rose festival always falls during the school summer holidays and so, by default, I only ever got to celebrate the La Marguerite festival on October 17 with a select twenty or so students.
But even then my dislike for La Marguerite was cultivated into passionate detest because I was never permitted to be one of the royal members in the procession. There were always about six princes and princesses, and my teachers religiously ensured I did not make the final cut.
Quite opposite from my straight As and representing the school in every academic competition, for some reason there was nothing I could do in my own capacity to be chosen as royalty. Of course, there are other important characters in the act performed every Marguerite Day: the chantwel, police, doctor, nurse, teacher and the designated fainter who could only be revived by the scent of a marguerite flower. I eventually got the opportunity to play the above-mentioned role when I was about to leave primary school; I was determined to do a good job.
The day came and I hopped on the bus heading to the Vigie Playing Field with the other costumed students. All the first and second district schools gathered there, taking turns to perform the La Marguerite songs and shout after an imaginary La Rose group. My dress was plaid with purple and white and my hair neatly combed into about twenty, long “corkscrews”, a hairstyle I requested because it was my first time having an important role. I remember almost every detail of that day, even that I disobediently bought an icicle and was mortified when I learned the event was televised and my mother might see it on NTN.
The event ended and we went back to the school after missing an entire day of classes but with just enough time to reenact the procession, fainting and all, for the rest of the school. But, I began to protest because I developed a headache on the way back and felt weak. My teacher insisted, “A little headache you have; can’t you just do it one more time?” I really didn’t feel like I could but I was eventually forced to. Oh, I was so very upset. I dragged myself along the procession and when I got my cue to faint, closed my eyes and fell, with no intention to be as dramatic as I had been at Vigie. But seconds later I could only hear myself screaming and feeling bothered and panicky by all the hands that were trying to grab me and pull me up. I felt a pain in the centre of my head and had no idea what happened until another teacher vigorously dunked my head under a tap and I saw the water dripping red from the ends of my curls. Yes, I officially had my first and only “burst head” of my childhood.
But it doesn’t end there. After already having a headache, now amplified by the added pain I felt in the middle of my head, yet another teacher walked me to the Gros Islet Polyclinic without calling my parents, even though we went past my house on the way. The doctor checked my vitals and inspected my head. All I knew was that he was making it worse by pulling the strands of my hair around the source of pain. I heard the snipping of scissors and the teacher was coaxing me to stay still while I felt the doctor pressing and piercing my head. By now the pain was completely horrific and I remember receiving
a painkiller afterwards. Then I was given a Capri Sun and instructed to walk home; alone.
Any parent could imagine my mother’s dismay when she saw a piece of bloodied gauze stitched securely to my head. By the next day the story was even more elaborate at school while students swore with their lives what they saw that put my blood out. It ranged from crab gandy to “a stone pointy like the Pitons”.
I wasn’t allowed to participate in La Marguerite the following year. Personally, I think it was a lesson learned, that I should only celebrate the La Rose festival since I never belonged with the marguerites. And for my parents, they now knew how irresponsible my teachers could be.
— Writer: Rose-Marie Rampal
