Every weekday morning, I walk along St. Nicholas Terrace to the City College campus on 135th Street and Convent Avenue. I often listen to music, call my mother, or finish up a reading assignment, but sometimes I let myself think. I smile, too, because I think of my maternal great-grandfather, Bruce Mackinnon Iles, who lived here in Harlem for most of his adult life.
Bruce was born in 1902 to a wealthy family in Port of Spain, Trinidad. His father, Henry Mackinnon Iles, was a prominent attorney and owned quite a bit of land around The Savannah, a beautiful centerpiece of Port of Spain. The Savannah is like Central Park in New York City. It’s where world class cricket is played and where Carnival is hosted annually before Lent. Henry also owned the land in which the famous Hilton Hotel, also called “The Upside Down Hotel,” stands today. The lobby of the hotel is on the top floor and guests travel down the elevator to reach their rooms. (My mother and I stayed at this hotel on our recent trip to Trinidad.)
My great-grandfather Bruce spent his early childhood in Trinidad. For a wealthy family, the eldest son goes into his father’s occupation and the second son is destined for the military. Bruce was the second male child. His older brother Julian, though, left Trinidad for law school in London. He left at the right time for their father, Henry, had many mistresses and illegitimate children. Bruce’s mother, Julia Grace, had enough and packed her whole family’s bags to accompany Julian to London. Henry Mackinnon Iles was left in Trinidad with all his mistresses and children. He eventually died there.
Once in London, Julia and her children were living lavishly through Henry’s money. Unfortunately, after myriad bad decisions, Henry succumbed to debt, lost his license to practice law, and also lost all his assets. The family in London no longer had adequate funds to stay in luxury. My great-grandfather Bruce decided to move to New York before his family were to accompany him. New York, to them, was a land of opportunity.
I walk through Central Park every Friday afternoon. Sometimes I close my eyes and dream of The Savannah in Trinidad. I see old men playing chess, university students bickering over politics, cricket players, children, young women swinging to calypso during Carnival. I see Bruce, a child, crying over melted ice cream and my great-great grandmother, Julia Grace, saying, “Baby, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
Bruce came to New York City on a ship from London, England. He had long ago abandoned the idea of a military career and was too distracted by the potential opportunity to be found in New York. Immediately, he met my striking great-grandmother Olga Carew and after a quick courtship, he married her. They started a family of three children: my grandmother (or my Lala) Gloria, Grace, and Horatio (H.O.). They all were born within a six-year period from 1924 to 1930. Bruce’s family, including his mother and sisters, eventually made their way to New York. They all lived together in an apartment in Harlem.
For them, and for most of the families at that time, money was an issue. Bruce could never hold a steady job. He worked as a floor finisher, a photographer during the WPA (New Deal) period, a laborer in the Brooklyn Navy Yard during World War II, and even as an actor. He had a booming voice and British accent. But of all de special talents dat we Trinis possess is de way we talk dat ranks us among de best. Although he could never hold onto a job for long, his most impressive positions were brief stints as a staff photographer for Life and Look magazines. My Lala always talks of her father’s photography talents.
In all the photographs I’ve seen of my great-grandfather Bruce, he always looks angry. He was at odds with everyone; Bruce was abusive to his wife Olga and his children. My Lala says he was “a spoiled brat, but could never afford to be one” and she talks of his terrible temper. Although Bruce was bad-tempered, perhaps I understand why. I think of all he had to deal with: constant moving, family drama, problems with money, missed opportunities. Bruce was undoubtedly a violent and angry man, but he was also a frustrated intellectual and photographer who could never rise to his potential. He was unhappy. Of course, his unhappiness can never be an excuse for his behavior and the damage to his family that ensued.
Bruce led a solitary life; he read alone in his room despite the large size of his family. In 1956, the year my mother Diane was born, my great-grandmother Olga left Bruce to live with my Lala and help with her first (and only) granddaughter. Bruce finally knew what it felt like to be truly alone. Now, we laugh when we talk of Olga leaving Bruce. We say that she embodies the old Trinidadian saying: Better fish in di sea dan wha get ketch. The saying means that there’s always a better lover than your current one.
My great-great grandfather’s life was sad for he had promise, but could never overcome his own disappointment. He let frustration run his life. In 1983, Bruce died from a combination of arthritis and complications caused by consuming too much aspirin over the years. He was eighty-one years old.
I asked my grandmother Lala if he was ever content. She answered, “You know, he was sometimes. I only remember him smiling when he was taking pictures or organizing his materials. He was a brilliant photographer, Alexis.” I finally saw some of Bruce’s photographs. My favorites are those taken of my grandmother in Harlem in 1942. I look through them on my way to class at City College. My Lala, beautiful and eighteen years old, smiles and stands next to Shepherd Hall in one of the pictures. In another, the light catches the left side of her face as she sits on the quad near the Compton and Goethals building. And for a moment, I think it’s me.
