Recently, I had decided to risk taking a break from studies and go back home (Jamaica) for a weekend to attend a funeral, a concert and to see my family and taste 'our' food; to sort of reconnect and refresh myself from a debilitating case of homesickness. I was walking to the Taxi stand to get home, having lost track of time liming at a friend's place catching up on all I had missed with them, while being a student abroad for the past 6 months. The driver who stopped for me, impatient as the light had changed beeped to hurry us along (what transpired after could only be because he had thought he was waiting for two customers not one). I headed into the car and after I said morning, he [driver] proceeded to ask why it was that he [my friend] had to walk me to the bus stop. I responded with "because we were still in a conversation"- or at least I began to, as in true ignorant fashion, he did not allow me to finish before repeating the question twice, coming to a halt at the bus stop below the light, at which point for brevity let's just say he asked me to leave his car, all the while stating his hate for "people like you and him". I left his car, almost responding in kind and closed his door... He was about to and did drive off, before his apparent crony in the front seat convinced him that "is really slam di batty boy slam yuh car door" whereupon he came to a halt yet again, now in the middle of the road, venting his upset at my disrespect of him. When I responded that I did no such thing he came out and around to me, brandishing a sharpened screw driver. He then, while continuing his soliloquy came into my space and hit me in the face, sending my glasses flying to land in the grass behind me. It was open handed, and it did not really hurt, in fact it convinced me that if it were a fair fight I could have trounced him with energy to spare; he was an unhealthy man, whose bulk is more attributable to food and alcohol as opposed to brawn. I'm sure he realised this in the same instant I did; because he again brought attention to his screw driver and his friend, holding the front door, at the ready to jump in. It set my teeth on edge to let it go, but I stood there. I stood there as he shouted to other taxis heading in opposite direction to turn and come down the route, that he had just expelled this "Batty man" from his vehicle and encouraged them to do the same. He then, vindicated in his self-righteousness, swaggered to his seat and drove off. A taxi man behind him, who had stopped to witness the event, and looking at me with the unmistakable stare of pity asked if I was headed on his route. I wasn't, but I put all my gratitude at his quiet support in my decline and thanked him. Shortly after I had got into another cab, and a quarter of the way home I realised my vision was blurred and my eyes stung. I knew I had no urge to cry and checked my face... my glasses were not there! Jolted, I asked the driver if I came in wearing them. He said no, and I begged him and other passengers to turn back, as I needed them - stressing that they were not style accessories, and it was beginning to hurt. The other travellers, no doubt high from their weekly obeisance of church and likely feeling magnanimous, allowed for the return. I found my lenses in the low grass, unscathed, a few inches from a steaming pile of animal excrement. Thankful for that small mercy, I took them, cleaning the lenses in my shirt as I returned to my seat to the applause of my fellow passengers who considered it lucky that though I was careless, the Lord made my glasses stay unmolested so I could come back and find it; especially as they "looked so stylish and expensive." I didn't answer, and beyond a hushed 'thank you' when I exited said not another word until I was in my room telling my father good morning
I am tired...and despairing of finding any place in my own mind to retreat to from the lashes of a cruel reality. It is not that my experience caused some immense awakening; I had seen abuses: prevented a few, had to sit through some, and some are so gruesome that they leave a stain on my soul that no amount of prayer has or will be able to exorcise from me - but the question remains... how does one even find strength to breathe anymore?
Monday, 9 March 2015
Thursday, 1 January 2015
2015...
A new year is at it's dawn...
and I stand without resolution. I say that I am working on happiness and fulfillment... but CHRIST I feel I don't know what that means anymore...I am not rudderless, but I feel so lost
Saturday, 20 December 2014
A Lament
A Lament
With eyes that once
Held the spark of suns
And lips that spilled
Gems from unspoilt gums
I watched in proud fascination
Your growth
Your passion…
O wayward child,
O wilful babe!
Weaned from milk -
now venom you crave.
I must say that
And it is true
Your change it did
Stem from me too
And thusly I present of myself
My back
For lashing
O wayward child
O wilful babe
weaned from milk
now venom you crave
I sit and watch,
I stand and gape;
And worried, I,
Myself did hate
Until I did with clarity
See you
And not me
O wayward child
O wilful babe
you chose your ilk…
You, I cannot save
With eyes that once
Held the spark of suns
And lips that spilled
Gems from unspoilt gums
I watched in proud fascination
Your growth
Your passion…
O wayward child,
O wilful babe!
Weaned from milk -
now venom you crave.
I must say that
And it is true
Your change it did
Stem from me too
And thusly I present of myself
My back
For lashing
O wayward child
O wilful babe
weaned from milk
now venom you crave
I sit and watch,
I stand and gape;
And worried, I,
Myself did hate
Until I did with clarity
See you
And not me
O wayward child
O wilful babe
you chose your ilk…
You, I cannot save
Monday, 30 June 2014
Per Ardua Disceri...through pain I learn
My father hit my mother.
it such a matter of fact phrase isn't it? and yet something that would almost bear not being noticed when I say it. Of course, there is the customary impotent rage that flashes across your eyes when the words hit home; and a minute -ten minutes? of upset are your reward for paying attention. I waver between acceptance of grim reality and a rage that makes bile rise in my throat, and despair that makes moments of reflection a life rending ordeal.
My father hit my mother.
I say it in reflection on her life, a candle snuffed nigh two decades now, and I feel a weariness...a resignation...it is fact, and regardless of emotional evocations, it is unchangeable past.
One my earliest memories is of her being hit.
We had just moved out of the back room of my grandmother's house, to all the way across the street (I was utterly adamant I still lived at number 13: I had developed an outright hatred of number 12, even though my best friend at the time, Marque and I now lived in the same yard). it was spacious: I now had my own room at all of 4 I think, and my sister slept with my parents; this little creature that cried at all hours and never seemed to smile at me (I am surprised I remember not only such musings, but the detail of my living arrangements). I was to be bathed that evening, and in one of my apparently few moments of true difficulty, I refused to be bathed and had hid myself. my father, home from his workshop, came into my room, saw that my mother had indulged me my rebellion then asked why I was not yet ready for bed...they stepped into what should have been the living room, but was a home workshop, and I, jumping to observe through a cracked door, saw him hit her...and the dull thud of his open backhand against her inspired in me a hatred and fear that was nurtured with time.
I do not remember intervening
I recall going to comfort her, feeling afraid for her (My father was never shy to hit me, and I accepted that with what logic I was taught: boys got hit, but you should never hit or kick girls, even if they did it first or you're playing a hitting game). My fear was that she was more hurt than I was when I got "beating," and what's more, that he would come back and see her crying and give her "sumn to cry 'bout" (in this then new world where girls, indeed big women got licks surely they got the same "shut up and tough up" speech, right?). far from consoled, she got very frightened and sadder on seeing me finding her this way, and I was sent right to bed, with the promise we would go visit grandma Goya for a mango and pencil. my attention and cooperation easily bought, I was off to bed before our exchange was seen by him.
I took the blame for that incident wholly
I was a very observant child, who was known to move suddenly from wild untamed exuberance typical to my age group, to a sombre quiet stillness as I made sense of the world. I remember sitting and reading some violently coloured childhood tome and stopping to realise that if I had not been willful, had not resisted to taking my evening bath, she would not have been hit, would not be blamed. this slowly became "she took my beating." to me. in my upset at her taking my punishment, I went and remembered asking her why she took my lick...I remembered that sad smile, but to this day do not remember if she had ever answered me with words.
My mother had a light but rich alto voice
So at odds with everything above as to seem tangential? my mind moves in enigmatic circles. My mother was a great singer of hymns and lullabies. she was on the church choir (we were full Gospel baptists) which rarely sang more than two part harmony (with occasional "bass"-never tenor- when a singer's husband would grace the rostrum), but relished reprising those pieces that would make fire shoot up your bones with excitement at the thought of heaven, or fear at the thought of damnation. To my memory she was always ready to sing, and her "choir book" (funnily it was branded a "Quire book" and so for years I thought "Quire" was what she sang in) ever handy to reference as she sang beloved hymns spirituals and gospel songs, from sheets written in her loopy, neat hand.
My mother was a bullied woman
Between my father and the choir mistress (who inspired abject terror in me and seemed to hold the same sway over my mother), my mother did not really catch a break. My father's mother, who lived across the street seemed taken with her, but this was the woman for whom the sun rose and set with her son, and now that his wife had produced a miniature replica of him, how could she not fold this woman to herself welcome her with open arms?
-I should not allow myself such reflections, but often I return there, and I am reminded why I intensely disliked my reflection or close to 10 years.
My mother was a mischief maker
she would get this twinkle in her eye, and a smile that said something was up before some prank or other would then be played, some joke shared or some surprise given. I remember and am told the stories of how her sister, my aunt Janet would visit and the house would be turned upside down in the merriment, and they reverted for a time to children, surprised they had grown up and proud yet awed at the bodies they now inhabited; bodies that (in my mother's case) could and have borne children to term, even as they were still acclimatizing to their states of maturity. I beam when I remember after her passing I would be accused of having that same glint of humourous mischief, though in much less supply than my younger sister, who if anything, is the self imprint of her mother on this world.
For a year after her passing I felt abandoned
You would think that I would find the first line of this post more painful to write...but in actuality, that line above was...even as I typed it I erased those nine words more than thrice...and my reason is...complicatedly simple.
To say that, in the face of care and support my family gave in that year or upheaval seems petty and selfish, so very thoughtless and even cruel to all their kindness.
But feelings do not always coincide with logical thought.
It was never the case that I was ungrateful for their care and concern, I am still moved that they took me in...my feeling of abandonment stemmed in the absence of my sister and father for that period...I was told later in life that I chose to not live with him, that I chose to separate from his side of my family in that intervening year...and I find the notion that this could have been interpreted as best for me very disappointing in my father, who I try to forgive his choices given his youth, and me my fear of him despite then logic being on my side...for a year I had very distinct thoughts my simple mind cycled through:
-My father did not want me
-My family blames him for my mother's death
-My family (at least the matriarchs)knew the full extent of what took place in our home and did very little.
-I was just like my father and hence was doomed to become a fear inspiring aggressive bully
-Auntie Norma and her children were nothing at all like my grandmother, and their love lacked the softness I was used to, but was the environment I may have needed to cope with all that I had stewing internally
My family treated her death and trials very openly, discussing details with me that I was in retrospect, too young to know, despite having maturity enough to appreciate it.
Why did I share this?
I do not know that I ever intended to share this bit of mental rumination, and I can say it was not asked of me... but I felt like having it inside and not exorcised eats at some small part of my being in a very real way, and fosters dark thoughts even as I am learning to let more light in.
So I guess this post, if anything, made me a little lighter, and hopefully you a little less mystified at those thoughts I fall into when I grow silent.
the years have taught much, and more things occupy my silence now, vying for the fore of my mind. maybe one day I won't feel the panic at being asked "tell me what you're thinking" at family gatherings or in groups where the mask isn't enough to discourage inquiry. Until then, if you've read this far, thank you for "listening"... if not, well, to anyone who has, I am honoured you deigned read.
it such a matter of fact phrase isn't it? and yet something that would almost bear not being noticed when I say it. Of course, there is the customary impotent rage that flashes across your eyes when the words hit home; and a minute -ten minutes? of upset are your reward for paying attention. I waver between acceptance of grim reality and a rage that makes bile rise in my throat, and despair that makes moments of reflection a life rending ordeal.
My father hit my mother.
I say it in reflection on her life, a candle snuffed nigh two decades now, and I feel a weariness...a resignation...it is fact, and regardless of emotional evocations, it is unchangeable past.
One my earliest memories is of her being hit.
We had just moved out of the back room of my grandmother's house, to all the way across the street (I was utterly adamant I still lived at number 13: I had developed an outright hatred of number 12, even though my best friend at the time, Marque and I now lived in the same yard). it was spacious: I now had my own room at all of 4 I think, and my sister slept with my parents; this little creature that cried at all hours and never seemed to smile at me (I am surprised I remember not only such musings, but the detail of my living arrangements). I was to be bathed that evening, and in one of my apparently few moments of true difficulty, I refused to be bathed and had hid myself. my father, home from his workshop, came into my room, saw that my mother had indulged me my rebellion then asked why I was not yet ready for bed...they stepped into what should have been the living room, but was a home workshop, and I, jumping to observe through a cracked door, saw him hit her...and the dull thud of his open backhand against her inspired in me a hatred and fear that was nurtured with time.
I do not remember intervening
I recall going to comfort her, feeling afraid for her (My father was never shy to hit me, and I accepted that with what logic I was taught: boys got hit, but you should never hit or kick girls, even if they did it first or you're playing a hitting game). My fear was that she was more hurt than I was when I got "beating," and what's more, that he would come back and see her crying and give her "sumn to cry 'bout" (in this then new world where girls, indeed big women got licks surely they got the same "shut up and tough up" speech, right?). far from consoled, she got very frightened and sadder on seeing me finding her this way, and I was sent right to bed, with the promise we would go visit grandma Goya for a mango and pencil. my attention and cooperation easily bought, I was off to bed before our exchange was seen by him.
I took the blame for that incident wholly
I was a very observant child, who was known to move suddenly from wild untamed exuberance typical to my age group, to a sombre quiet stillness as I made sense of the world. I remember sitting and reading some violently coloured childhood tome and stopping to realise that if I had not been willful, had not resisted to taking my evening bath, she would not have been hit, would not be blamed. this slowly became "she took my beating." to me. in my upset at her taking my punishment, I went and remembered asking her why she took my lick...I remembered that sad smile, but to this day do not remember if she had ever answered me with words.
My mother had a light but rich alto voice
So at odds with everything above as to seem tangential? my mind moves in enigmatic circles. My mother was a great singer of hymns and lullabies. she was on the church choir (we were full Gospel baptists) which rarely sang more than two part harmony (with occasional "bass"-never tenor- when a singer's husband would grace the rostrum), but relished reprising those pieces that would make fire shoot up your bones with excitement at the thought of heaven, or fear at the thought of damnation. To my memory she was always ready to sing, and her "choir book" (funnily it was branded a "Quire book" and so for years I thought "Quire" was what she sang in) ever handy to reference as she sang beloved hymns spirituals and gospel songs, from sheets written in her loopy, neat hand.
My mother was a bullied woman
Between my father and the choir mistress (who inspired abject terror in me and seemed to hold the same sway over my mother), my mother did not really catch a break. My father's mother, who lived across the street seemed taken with her, but this was the woman for whom the sun rose and set with her son, and now that his wife had produced a miniature replica of him, how could she not fold this woman to herself welcome her with open arms?
-I should not allow myself such reflections, but often I return there, and I am reminded why I intensely disliked my reflection or close to 10 years.
My mother was a mischief maker
she would get this twinkle in her eye, and a smile that said something was up before some prank or other would then be played, some joke shared or some surprise given. I remember and am told the stories of how her sister, my aunt Janet would visit and the house would be turned upside down in the merriment, and they reverted for a time to children, surprised they had grown up and proud yet awed at the bodies they now inhabited; bodies that (in my mother's case) could and have borne children to term, even as they were still acclimatizing to their states of maturity. I beam when I remember after her passing I would be accused of having that same glint of humourous mischief, though in much less supply than my younger sister, who if anything, is the self imprint of her mother on this world.
For a year after her passing I felt abandoned
You would think that I would find the first line of this post more painful to write...but in actuality, that line above was...even as I typed it I erased those nine words more than thrice...and my reason is...complicatedly simple.
To say that, in the face of care and support my family gave in that year or upheaval seems petty and selfish, so very thoughtless and even cruel to all their kindness.
But feelings do not always coincide with logical thought.
It was never the case that I was ungrateful for their care and concern, I am still moved that they took me in...my feeling of abandonment stemmed in the absence of my sister and father for that period...I was told later in life that I chose to not live with him, that I chose to separate from his side of my family in that intervening year...and I find the notion that this could have been interpreted as best for me very disappointing in my father, who I try to forgive his choices given his youth, and me my fear of him despite then logic being on my side...for a year I had very distinct thoughts my simple mind cycled through:
-My father did not want me
-My family blames him for my mother's death
-My family (at least the matriarchs)knew the full extent of what took place in our home and did very little.
-I was just like my father and hence was doomed to become a fear inspiring aggressive bully
-Auntie Norma and her children were nothing at all like my grandmother, and their love lacked the softness I was used to, but was the environment I may have needed to cope with all that I had stewing internally
My family treated her death and trials very openly, discussing details with me that I was in retrospect, too young to know, despite having maturity enough to appreciate it.
Why did I share this?
I do not know that I ever intended to share this bit of mental rumination, and I can say it was not asked of me... but I felt like having it inside and not exorcised eats at some small part of my being in a very real way, and fosters dark thoughts even as I am learning to let more light in.
So I guess this post, if anything, made me a little lighter, and hopefully you a little less mystified at those thoughts I fall into when I grow silent.
the years have taught much, and more things occupy my silence now, vying for the fore of my mind. maybe one day I won't feel the panic at being asked "tell me what you're thinking" at family gatherings or in groups where the mask isn't enough to discourage inquiry. Until then, if you've read this far, thank you for "listening"... if not, well, to anyone who has, I am honoured you deigned read.
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Midnight wisdom...
"...The easiest thing is to die and give in to sadness. stop taking the easy road. you deserve a good cry, I know, but you gotta dust off and keep it moving. once you're done, whatever you feel you did or didn't do forgive yourself and whatever we've done to you (the people in your life and out ) forgive us, but release that negative energy. I love you. Good night"
I read this, a collection of messages a close friend sent when I communicated that I was in the slump and stupor of another failing. I hope I can do that, I shall try...but..am I able? seems only yesterday the year brimmed with opportunity happiness and promise...
I read this, a collection of messages a close friend sent when I communicated that I was in the slump and stupor of another failing. I hope I can do that, I shall try...but..am I able? seems only yesterday the year brimmed with opportunity happiness and promise...
Friday, 4 April 2014
I Saw Her Break...
I saw her break...
In the light of dying day
from desperate hope
dashed to a slow burn of despair
how will she cope?
In the light of dying day
from desperate hope
dashed to a slow burn of despair
how will she cope?
I saw her break...
as the lights dimmed
her eyes red rimmed
from her compulsive rubbing
dry rivulets she forced not to swell
as the lights dimmed
her eyes red rimmed
from her compulsive rubbing
dry rivulets she forced not to swell
I saw her break...
as I itemised, stacked
made real her isolation
as I swallowed the bile
salting my own March to damnation
as I itemised, stacked
made real her isolation
as I swallowed the bile
salting my own March to damnation
I saw her break...
as the room became the cell
cold and austere, her haven a hell
and for a moment I felt it
I acknowledged my fractures...
as the room became the cell
cold and austere, her haven a hell
and for a moment I felt it
I acknowledged my fractures...
I saw her break...
and I lost my indignation
lost all reason for upset
I...lost, and yet never knew
that there was reason for "winning"
and I lost my indignation
lost all reason for upset
I...lost, and yet never knew
that there was reason for "winning"
I saw break...
as the minutes ticked by
a lonely little girl who never dreamed
she could feel so alone...
and I broke with her
...as did the seemingly shatterproof universe that ensconced us...
as the minutes ticked by
a lonely little girl who never dreamed
she could feel so alone...
and I broke with her
...as did the seemingly shatterproof universe that ensconced us...
Untitled
I see you across from me
and I wish that distance would span
to the furthest reaches of time
because then,
and only then
could I run far enough to keep sane
There's a disservice of self
that takes place
when I stand in your presence
willing myself
and killing myself
with the idea that hell is nigh
Undo me, undermine me, time me
and cut me up sublimely
because then I could turn
and possibly run
I really should run
why do I feel tethered to this spot?
Slow burn of an age
this I hope, the turning of the page
would dissolve the endless night
and yet we are unwise
again, the refrain "unwise"
as we play in this brimstone's rain
and I wish that distance would span
to the furthest reaches of time
because then,
and only then
could I run far enough to keep sane
There's a disservice of self
that takes place
when I stand in your presence
willing myself
and killing myself
with the idea that hell is nigh
Undo me, undermine me, time me
and cut me up sublimely
because then I could turn
and possibly run
I really should run
why do I feel tethered to this spot?
Slow burn of an age
this I hope, the turning of the page
would dissolve the endless night
and yet we are unwise
again, the refrain "unwise"
as we play in this brimstone's rain
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