When Laughter Was Loud

I didn’t set out to tell stories about Guyanese family life. But some memories insist. Especially the ones filled with chutney music, curry on the stove, and loud laughter.

They tug from another time and demand attention—beautiful or not, they quiver behind my ribcage and play themselves out at night when I seek refuge in sleep.

There are so many things I feel are of little consequence these days—wrongs and rights, justifications, anger, separation.
These things matter very little. But stories… memories are what you leave.

They are boxes to be opened and touched, to be traced and colored, to be tasted and to be told.
They are legacy and they remind you of a time when laughter was loud.

So I retrace the dusty roads of my past, pull at a thread here and there, and I look back with gentler eyes.

My parents are gone now, but evidence of them stirs often—asking to be remembered, forcing me to cast my voice and tell their stories. Tugging at these bold memories of a Guyanese family living in America.

This story is bound to move back and forth, up and down. It doesn’t want to travel in a straight line.
But then—whose life is a straight line?

Time travels in a strange fashion—in wrinkles and over wrinkles, buoyant like wood on water. And so too moves this story.

Stay with me, and after a while, you too will move as this story moves.

I want to enter into this in a measured, leisurely way—for I do not want to be overcome by all that isn’t there.

The Way It Used to Be

Memories can pull one under or lift one up—like summertime.

Every single weekend, somebody had something going on. You didn’t even need the phone call—but it came anyway.

“Dis is yuh fadda.” Really? Announcing himself like we don’t know his big mouth.
“Wha yuh got goin’ on this weekend nuh gal.”
 “Nothing.” That was the only answer—expected, accepted. You know you didn’t make plans on purpose cause they already done tell you last weekend – “oh, yuh mudda a go mek pine tart next week, mus come ova fuh some.”
Yeah you knew before the phone call came – a little bit more pleasantries and then;
“Ok, mi gon see yuh dis weekend, then.”
“I love you.” “ I love you too.”

Hang up the phone, stew yuh teeth, mutter under your breath, “dey, havin’ sumting, again. ” Then proceed to drag your partner into it with you.

Another Saturday spent on the back deck—siblings, spouses, children, parents, and whoever else they—the parents—decided to invite over. And yes, it could literally be the Pepsi delivery guy from the supermarket because my dad felt sorry he didn’t have family to hang out with.

That actually happened.

The minute you slam the car door shut—you hear it. The chutney music.

The bass from the stereo is too loud, and you can tell someone’s already had a few drinks and is dancing barefoot on the deck.

Yeah, that would be my dad too.

You can hear the noise of the conversation wafting into the street—and you wonder if it’s too late to run.

Sometimes you ease in through the front door, where the scent of curry and bleach assaults your senses.
Yeah, the floors have been cleaned again. With bleach.
Always with bleach. Always.

Chutney music. Curry. Bleach. Bickering.
That’s what told you you were home.

Because no matter how many people were coming over, the house had to shine—like mom’s pride was polished into the wood floor.

The curry’s already on. Garlic, onion, garam masala.
Somebody’s complaining: “Curry again?”
“Yuh don’t gat to eat it, always complaining.”

You don’t need to ask who’s cooking—you know.
You can tell by the scent, the rhythm of the spoon hitting the pot, and the muttering under her breath:

“Dem kiss-me-ras children… Ayuh tek care of ayuh children, nah?
And somebody come wash de dishes! Why me always gat to do everything around here.”

Yeah. Mom’s in the kitchen and she is stirring up future family memories alongside her curry.

The back door is sliding open and shut, kids running in and out, up and down.
Voices overlapping like waves—Guyanese patwa and English mixing mid-sentence.
You try to follow one conversation, but catch ten.
And you’re keeping up with all of them.

Laughter is already building—that big, from-the-belly kind.

And above all of it, like a steady drumbeat: our father’s laugh.

Sharp. Strong. Unbothered.

Even when things were hard, his laugh never cracked.
It filled the room like a hymn.

Ayuh Know How We Guyanese Family Does Do

Eventually, everybody ends up on the deck.

Somebody getting chastised for something, somebody giving cut-eye,
somebody telling somebody off—loud, public, and with feeling. That was just standard protocol.

And my mother—quiet, reserved, proper—would sit at the edge of it all, mortified, wondering why most of her children tek afta de fadda.

She’d try to contain the chaos with one of her signature lines:
“Yuh skin yuh teeth-nah all skin teeth ah laugh.”

Silence. For about a whole minute.

Then:
“Let we tek another drink, man.”

Glasses clink. Mom stews her teeth. Noise returns. And the real bacchanal starts:

“Wah goin’ on with so-and-so?” 
“Yuh hear wah happen with uncle so-and-so.” 
“Oh gawd gal, lemme tell yuh.”
“You guys gossiping again?”
“Who tek de las’ piece a chicken?”
“Oh ras man, how yuh get suh fat?”
“Ah gud living.”
“Me nah drink dat cheap stuff, man—where yuh hiding de good ting, na?”

And if you looked around for the spouses—the ones that weren’t Guyanese?
You’d find them all huddled together, nursing their drinks quietly, having their own little side conversation.
Because if you’re not Guyanese, believe me—you done lost right after the hugs and kisses.

Eventually, somebody would start dancing.
Didn’t matter if there was music or not.
One wine, one two-step, one waist move, one go down low—and it was a full-blown party.

“Wha kinda cheap-ass stereo yuh got?”
“The valume can’ go higha?”

That would carry us straight into the evening.
Then some drunk fool would light up de fire pit.
We’d all gather close, bellies full, plates scraped, drinks half-finished.

And finally we would start moving to close out the day, taking a good half hour to go around and hug every single person – that was a ritual. That and being sent home with leftovers, because my mom never cooked just for that day, that event.

No one ever left empty-handed.
You never left our parents’ house without food.

Even if you protested, even if you’re drunk and can’t carry it to the car—they’d still find a way to hand you just a lil something else in foil. Memories of food and love, when laughter was loud, wrapped neatly in a little parcel.

Because in our house, a full plate meant a full heart.
And if you didn’t leave laughing, they’d at least send you home with leftovers for tomorrow.

Dem dis a tru tru Guyanese family stories. That’s how we does be.