Three officers Sandys'
The Three Prison Officers Sandy. The follwing was written arond May/Jun 2003.I hope it speaks for itself!
It has happened again. Prison Officer Winston Sandy was gunned down in Laventille. There is a myth that lighting does not strike twice. Someone needs to tell that to the Superintendent of Prisons; recent events with their Officers have proven otherwise. This, as a warning is an unapologetic, self-serving writing. I was tuned in to the WLIB –Trinidad Hook-up, and like most listeners was moved by the pleas of Mr. Greaves for the safe return of his daughter. Unlike most I empathized with his anguish. I understood his helplessness and frustrated anger that he directed at the local law enforcement officials. Then the news announcement came: Prison Officer Winston Sandy had been murdered in Laventille, his brother had asked for police protection. I was left numb and shaken. Not again!
This is the story of the three Officers Sandy and the response their collective stories has elicited. A friend of mine once said that her father had taught her that there was a great difference between being human and being humane. It is human to sympathize with another. It is humane to empathize. Unfortunately it took this recent tragedy to truly drive that message home. I ask you to put yourself in the shoes of these families as you read this. The first Prison Officer Sandy was gunned down in front of his home in Laventille. He was given a burial with official honors. Prison Officer Sandy was Atwell Sandy Jr. This Prison Officer Sandy was gunned down on December 11th 2001. Prison Officer Sandy cheated death once the day before on Dec10th, 2001, the first time the strangers came looking for him. This is the story I am most familiar with. Prison Officer Atwell Sandy Jr. was my brother, three years my junior. Even he did not believe the treats leveled at him from both sides within the prison system. Unfortunately another law enforcement officer, a Custom Officer was not. He was at home that afternoon. I am not sure how that Custom Officer was buried. Like the records pertaining to my brother’s death they were unavailable in the archives of the local papers that could be checked via the web. I do know the system- the government, the politicians, failed him and others who try to uphold the law. The one line that I remember from the collage that has become the aftermath of my brother’s death is a statement attributed to the leading Prison official, “ threats from prisoners was a risk associated with being a prison Officer.” The threat maybe, but the officer’s address and schedules? These should not be available to Prisoners. I remember writing in my journal that I was living my father’s fear.
The second Prison Officer Sandy is retired Prison Officer Arthur Sandy. As children, my brother and I would worry for a day or two after seeing movies on prison outbreaks, or on hearing of prison disturbances. We never really believed that Prison Officer Sandy, our uncle was in any danger. I remember falling to sleep to the sounds of my father and uncles arguing politics. My uncle’s death was never really an issue. We lived in Trinidad, not some South American country after all. That was why, I reasoned that my brother’s superiors did not take the death threats he received as seriously as they probably should have. My uncle outlived the prison system, then last month I was told that he was in a coma. Like Mr. Greave’s daughter the medical system was inadequate and too costly to deal with my uncle’s kidney failure. Since then I’d separated myself from direct contact with my family. The emotional trauma, had taken its toll, I needed room to breathe and heal.
I am angry with myself. ‘All that it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’ I swore that another mother would not have to bury her son. Another family would not mourn. Another nephew would not cry. Another wife would not beg to be taken. I swore that I’d do something. Just… after I healed. … After I was more financially stable. …After I found my voice… literally. What, I wonder had been the response of the Greaves’ family prior to this? Music man Derrick has intoned that he and his brothers are strong members of the community. Will it take personal tragedy for everyone to act? The afternoon my brother was shot, I had visited a local food store on Flatbush Avenue. I remember my nonchalant attitude to the questions posed to me, by an elder as to which side of the political debate in Trinidad I stood. Like many I was disenchanted to say the least with the ‘rum and roti’ politics. I do not know that gentleman’s name but two hours later his words rang true, “It is your business, eventually it is everybody’s business.” I pray for the safe return of the young woman and others like her. There is not just the financial cost that these families will incur. What will be the emotional cost? I have started moving forward healing, towards doing something. But for another Sandy family I am too late.
The third Prison Officer Sandy entered the story at this point. I was in fact working on a proposal to raise money for medical equipment and expenses for Caribbean countries when I heard of Officer Winston Sandy. As of this writing I am still trying to ascertain if there are any connections. It does not matter. I have found all Sandys’ are related via a couple of generations and the island of Tobago. At the least he is my brother via another mother.
Unlike most I will not excuse myself. My father taught my siblings and I that we were our brothers’ keepers. I remember my father using his time-off, and his own money to pave the road so that my mother and the other families would not have to walk on treacherous mud encased embankments politicians thought was sufficient. As a child, I recited stories of David’s face off with Goliath and other biblical heroes, till I knew Daniel’s fear in the lions’ den. I wonder what he would have done in the face of bullets. I give thanks to the legacy of Dr Eric Williams and his compatriots. They were a generation, who at my age refused to accept things as they were. My N.Y College professor thought I had been privileged to have the best private, not public school education. So while I may not follow the rules, I know to type a letter and in the least pick up the phone to make a call. I am an adept public speaker, at the least I can tell a good piece of gossip. Like any Trini whose bones have stood in The University of Woodford Square, I know how to formulate a sound argument and stand by it. I’ve been fortunate to have the ears of some of the top community and political activist, only too willing to share their expertise and contacts.
Unlike most I have no excuse.
Like Mr. Levy, the host of the Global Village I believe in taking care of your own. I may have been more fortunate than he, to be told directly of the power of the media. While I understand its use to economically empower my people and myself. I am probably better able to see his power from the vantage point of the sleepless nights spent praying for justice. Or at the least an opportunity to avenge my brother’s death. Maybe it is the voice of my mentor gently prodding me to transpose my grief to actions, “Speak baby girl …speak!”
Speak of what and how? Don’t get me wrong, I for one am in debt to Mr. Levy and his co-host. In the days after my brothers’ death theirs were the only voices that reached me. I still have childhood memories of activists using whatever platform available to tell the story and spread the word, from the Mighty Chaulkdust to Muhammad Ali. Who am I to dictate the choices, Mr. Levy or anyone else makes, when I myself, am unable to do just that?
Just when I found my voice another brother is dead. I long for the days when journalists took pride in investigating, not just reporting. Maybe someone would have asked why. Why & who put a hit out on two law enforcement officer? Who was bold enough to have attempted them both on the same day? I’m tired of these crimes being blamed solely on returning nationals. Let’s face it. They have neither the contacts, nor capital to bring drugs and guns seemingly unchecked, yet they have become the boogey men of the Caribbean. Show me the money, at least the proof! Give me at least the appearance of justice… as Burroughs did! How did criminals get, not just the addresses, but also the schedules, of two Prisons officers? How can neighbors, who call New York to tell who was doing what with whom, behind closed doors, can’t on won’t, see these strangers being dragged in the open, or strange movement in their neighborhoods!
Maybe with this newfound voice I should call for the resignation of the Chief of Prisons! At least twice he has failed to protect those under his command! Should I rally and garner the support of my generation, to still the wails of mothers and fathers mired in grief? Then who will protect my mother, the friend, who blamed my brother for doing his job, for standing in integrity against prison corruption? His fellow officers, who know the truth, but awaken with nightmares, were silenced in fear for their own life. I am wont, from past experience, to believe the newspaper reports, surrounding this recent murder! If nothing else the deaths of The Officers Sandy serve as a deterrent to those who may be considering serving their country. To be fair at this time I am unaware of any direct link between the two officers.
It is said that the good Lord does not give you more than you can handle. After numerous sleepless nights I’ve questioned that wisdom. My aunt, on her last visit her reiterated her belief, that God would not abandon the cries of a praying nation. My own mother has expressed the belief that God and good would prevail. Would it then be blasphemous of me to say, “ You’ve prayed now get of your ‘@*’ and let God work through you?”
As I said, this is an apologetic self-serving cry for my country. At the least I can start the dialogue with others like myself, who found through tragedy that it was my business. I still am unsure what role I am to play. Maybe I can start by assembling the supplies needed to fight for the sole of my Caribbean. So when it is your son or daughter, mother or brother, you’ll know what to do. Let’s start the dialogue. I’m sure that, on behalf of the family of Officer Winston Sandy, The Greaves family and mine, your empathy is requested!
It has happened again. Prison Officer Winston Sandy was gunned down in Laventille. There is a myth that lighting does not strike twice. Someone needs to tell that to the Superintendent of Prisons; recent events with their Officers have proven otherwise. This, as a warning is an unapologetic, self-serving writing. I was tuned in to the WLIB –Trinidad Hook-up, and like most listeners was moved by the pleas of Mr. Greaves for the safe return of his daughter. Unlike most I empathized with his anguish. I understood his helplessness and frustrated anger that he directed at the local law enforcement officials. Then the news announcement came: Prison Officer Winston Sandy had been murdered in Laventille, his brother had asked for police protection. I was left numb and shaken. Not again!
This is the story of the three Officers Sandy and the response their collective stories has elicited. A friend of mine once said that her father had taught her that there was a great difference between being human and being humane. It is human to sympathize with another. It is humane to empathize. Unfortunately it took this recent tragedy to truly drive that message home. I ask you to put yourself in the shoes of these families as you read this. The first Prison Officer Sandy was gunned down in front of his home in Laventille. He was given a burial with official honors. Prison Officer Sandy was Atwell Sandy Jr. This Prison Officer Sandy was gunned down on December 11th 2001. Prison Officer Sandy cheated death once the day before on Dec10th, 2001, the first time the strangers came looking for him. This is the story I am most familiar with. Prison Officer Atwell Sandy Jr. was my brother, three years my junior. Even he did not believe the treats leveled at him from both sides within the prison system. Unfortunately another law enforcement officer, a Custom Officer was not. He was at home that afternoon. I am not sure how that Custom Officer was buried. Like the records pertaining to my brother’s death they were unavailable in the archives of the local papers that could be checked via the web. I do know the system- the government, the politicians, failed him and others who try to uphold the law. The one line that I remember from the collage that has become the aftermath of my brother’s death is a statement attributed to the leading Prison official, “ threats from prisoners was a risk associated with being a prison Officer.” The threat maybe, but the officer’s address and schedules? These should not be available to Prisoners. I remember writing in my journal that I was living my father’s fear.
The second Prison Officer Sandy is retired Prison Officer Arthur Sandy. As children, my brother and I would worry for a day or two after seeing movies on prison outbreaks, or on hearing of prison disturbances. We never really believed that Prison Officer Sandy, our uncle was in any danger. I remember falling to sleep to the sounds of my father and uncles arguing politics. My uncle’s death was never really an issue. We lived in Trinidad, not some South American country after all. That was why, I reasoned that my brother’s superiors did not take the death threats he received as seriously as they probably should have. My uncle outlived the prison system, then last month I was told that he was in a coma. Like Mr. Greave’s daughter the medical system was inadequate and too costly to deal with my uncle’s kidney failure. Since then I’d separated myself from direct contact with my family. The emotional trauma, had taken its toll, I needed room to breathe and heal.
I am angry with myself. ‘All that it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’ I swore that another mother would not have to bury her son. Another family would not mourn. Another nephew would not cry. Another wife would not beg to be taken. I swore that I’d do something. Just… after I healed. … After I was more financially stable. …After I found my voice… literally. What, I wonder had been the response of the Greaves’ family prior to this? Music man Derrick has intoned that he and his brothers are strong members of the community. Will it take personal tragedy for everyone to act? The afternoon my brother was shot, I had visited a local food store on Flatbush Avenue. I remember my nonchalant attitude to the questions posed to me, by an elder as to which side of the political debate in Trinidad I stood. Like many I was disenchanted to say the least with the ‘rum and roti’ politics. I do not know that gentleman’s name but two hours later his words rang true, “It is your business, eventually it is everybody’s business.” I pray for the safe return of the young woman and others like her. There is not just the financial cost that these families will incur. What will be the emotional cost? I have started moving forward healing, towards doing something. But for another Sandy family I am too late.
The third Prison Officer Sandy entered the story at this point. I was in fact working on a proposal to raise money for medical equipment and expenses for Caribbean countries when I heard of Officer Winston Sandy. As of this writing I am still trying to ascertain if there are any connections. It does not matter. I have found all Sandys’ are related via a couple of generations and the island of Tobago. At the least he is my brother via another mother.
Unlike most I will not excuse myself. My father taught my siblings and I that we were our brothers’ keepers. I remember my father using his time-off, and his own money to pave the road so that my mother and the other families would not have to walk on treacherous mud encased embankments politicians thought was sufficient. As a child, I recited stories of David’s face off with Goliath and other biblical heroes, till I knew Daniel’s fear in the lions’ den. I wonder what he would have done in the face of bullets. I give thanks to the legacy of Dr Eric Williams and his compatriots. They were a generation, who at my age refused to accept things as they were. My N.Y College professor thought I had been privileged to have the best private, not public school education. So while I may not follow the rules, I know to type a letter and in the least pick up the phone to make a call. I am an adept public speaker, at the least I can tell a good piece of gossip. Like any Trini whose bones have stood in The University of Woodford Square, I know how to formulate a sound argument and stand by it. I’ve been fortunate to have the ears of some of the top community and political activist, only too willing to share their expertise and contacts.
Unlike most I have no excuse.
Like Mr. Levy, the host of the Global Village I believe in taking care of your own. I may have been more fortunate than he, to be told directly of the power of the media. While I understand its use to economically empower my people and myself. I am probably better able to see his power from the vantage point of the sleepless nights spent praying for justice. Or at the least an opportunity to avenge my brother’s death. Maybe it is the voice of my mentor gently prodding me to transpose my grief to actions, “Speak baby girl …speak!”
Speak of what and how? Don’t get me wrong, I for one am in debt to Mr. Levy and his co-host. In the days after my brothers’ death theirs were the only voices that reached me. I still have childhood memories of activists using whatever platform available to tell the story and spread the word, from the Mighty Chaulkdust to Muhammad Ali. Who am I to dictate the choices, Mr. Levy or anyone else makes, when I myself, am unable to do just that?
Just when I found my voice another brother is dead. I long for the days when journalists took pride in investigating, not just reporting. Maybe someone would have asked why. Why & who put a hit out on two law enforcement officer? Who was bold enough to have attempted them both on the same day? I’m tired of these crimes being blamed solely on returning nationals. Let’s face it. They have neither the contacts, nor capital to bring drugs and guns seemingly unchecked, yet they have become the boogey men of the Caribbean. Show me the money, at least the proof! Give me at least the appearance of justice… as Burroughs did! How did criminals get, not just the addresses, but also the schedules, of two Prisons officers? How can neighbors, who call New York to tell who was doing what with whom, behind closed doors, can’t on won’t, see these strangers being dragged in the open, or strange movement in their neighborhoods!
Maybe with this newfound voice I should call for the resignation of the Chief of Prisons! At least twice he has failed to protect those under his command! Should I rally and garner the support of my generation, to still the wails of mothers and fathers mired in grief? Then who will protect my mother, the friend, who blamed my brother for doing his job, for standing in integrity against prison corruption? His fellow officers, who know the truth, but awaken with nightmares, were silenced in fear for their own life. I am wont, from past experience, to believe the newspaper reports, surrounding this recent murder! If nothing else the deaths of The Officers Sandy serve as a deterrent to those who may be considering serving their country. To be fair at this time I am unaware of any direct link between the two officers.
It is said that the good Lord does not give you more than you can handle. After numerous sleepless nights I’ve questioned that wisdom. My aunt, on her last visit her reiterated her belief, that God would not abandon the cries of a praying nation. My own mother has expressed the belief that God and good would prevail. Would it then be blasphemous of me to say, “ You’ve prayed now get of your ‘@*’ and let God work through you?”
As I said, this is an apologetic self-serving cry for my country. At the least I can start the dialogue with others like myself, who found through tragedy that it was my business. I still am unsure what role I am to play. Maybe I can start by assembling the supplies needed to fight for the sole of my Caribbean. So when it is your son or daughter, mother or brother, you’ll know what to do. Let’s start the dialogue. I’m sure that, on behalf of the family of Officer Winston Sandy, The Greaves family and mine, your empathy is requested!
posted by Bonnie Sandy - @BadasseBS -The Early Days Of Blogging at 1:27 PM
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