Tag Archives: caribbean

a memory filing system

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I recently returned from celebrating my papa’s 100th birthday. It was great going home ;the  sun, sea, food and the parties!! My papa  is an early 1920’s ( we think) baby, raised in the countryside of the island.  His parents: farmers by trade would wait until their children were walking and talking before getting them registered in the capital. Now this trek was expense and time consuming so at times families would take two kids at a time , giving siblings three years a part the same birth year ( trippy right?).  This was bad , yet not as bad as registering the child’s name.

Family: Hello , we would like to register our son

Clerk: okay, child’s name

Family: Linden

Clerk:  okay , Lindell

Family:  No , we said Linden

Clerk: I think Lindell, sounds better

Family: But that is not what we want

Clerk: Trust me this is better

Family: We don’t want  to name our son named Lindell !!!

Clerk: It will grow on you

Family: What??!!!

Clerk: Trust me , NEXT!

Anyway , my papa has endured 100  years of life , still walking & talking,  I like when he tells this story. He is one of the few people in my country that have  their real name as a pet name  which makes him extra unique. I  enjoy when he ruffles through his memory  bank and produces an interesting story that may make senses to locals and pearl clutching to others.  I think about the change in his skin  protrusion of views, the delicateness of his skin and how he feels cold more often. He is worried about his stories . He is concerned about his family. He is daily living in his memories. The way he wrinkles his forehead  while pulling  out a file, review the content inside  whether about him as a boy , a ladies’ man or his change of life  with religion. He  loves his stories , shares his stories . I wonder who will share mine?

The power of words

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When death is coming, what is the feeling one feels at that moment? Is the feeling different when another is taking the life versus one taking of self versus life just naturally ending?

Children of the sea has my core trembling with what ifs. I could have lived this story. My ancestors definitely lived this story. This story is happening around me through the internet.

The drive for freedom , the fear of torture full of delusional narratives , the dynamic shift of a family with elitist values mixed with fight or flight sending me into tears.

Children of the sea , nothing separting you from the stars but a dingy boat that is loaded beyond capacity in hopes of a tomorrow. Loving someone so deeply that you write, knowing there will never be a reunion in this life.

Children of the sea, the thirst for power overruling sense of humanity. The lust for dominance , the greed of money leading to acts that were taught through slavery used to bring curses into fruition.

I am only one chapter into Krik Krak and all that floods me is fear. A novel that should be fiction is full of the modern-day reality of our world. The past will never leave us because we prefer to ruminate in it instead of learning from it.

Do They Know?

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I wonder if when a person leaves this realm do they truly know that you loved them because you didn’t say the words despite your actions or if your actions seem awkward and your words meant truth? Do they know the truth when you have intentionally ignored them , birthdays and holidays -never a word. Do they know or do they learn the truth in the possible afterlife many of us have been taught to believe in . I think about my encounters with those close to me passing . I have mainly arrived after the fact. I have never seen a person slip out of this realm in a wake sense. I have seen those in a coma state , resting and waiting . I think of this at times because I don’t want the idea of dying to be scary to me. It cannot be because so many people that I truly love are there. If they are there, why should I be afraid to see them again, if there is an again.

Do they know in that final moment or is really just shock and then nothing? We are mortal and are adamant of representing immortality. There are those of us who really have no idea of when the last breathe will happen , then there are us who are in areas that make this thought center stage. The knowing that resting is not possible. The sound of explosions, the entering of buildings that are on fire, the profession of cleaning a window on the 250th floor, the idea of just crossing a street or the fact your skin could guarantee no tomorrows if you ask for help in an area that is prejudice against you. Will they know that they were loved? Will they think of you? Is there an inner journey that seems like the quantum realm to the living be at a crawling pace for the departing?

The idea of spirits coming back for unfinished business is nice to me, yet I think is not real. I like the idea of my ancestors journeying with me , after all I am their wildest dream. Spirits , if real , are seen as bystanders when good and active tyrants when evil. Why are good spirits always so helpless in movies and evil is without bounds? This is a poor mindset that the media has given us. One thing I have noticed with the idea of spirits is that they were evil because of abuse thus they form a pact with higher evil resulting in multitude of films repeating the story in various forms. I want spirits to be real because I want to make sure my loves know I loved them even though they did know; I want to say it to them to ease my soul. It’s selfish, I am human.

I doubt that the spirit world is real because following the ideas we created about angry spirits , there would be no Europeans walking this realm. So many ethnicities have been wiped out by this group of people thus they wouldn’t be. I cannot comprehend the idea that they would allow the oppressors linage to continue. So , my ancestors are possible not spirits. However, it is through the storytelling of spirits one’s ancestors are kept close, dying can have some balm, and abstract thought can thrive. The thoughts felt and dreamed may be DNA; the passing of organic material infused with new material in a new era. It possible could be explained by science. Is it their anger, fear, joy and countless emotions I feel or am I delusional? Either case I know never respond direct if a voice call my name that I cannot see, be mindful when beating the drum for I could be calling the dead and keep a white candle on standby.

So, do they know that you loved them? Maybe

Will I ever get my answer to this ? Yes

Will I be able to share it ? No

Because some things of this life are meant to always be pondered.

Happy Hallows Eve.

Forms & Forms

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The body is a form that is so interesting on how it can be honored in one culture and seen as ugly in another. I think about this as I go clothes shopping. I walk around the store looking at styles that I think I would like to try on because Europe is the land of no refund just exchanges. The clothes are tight.  My chest area is stretching the material that is supposed to be my size. I tried the top that is bigger than my size and now my chest is comfortable and my waist swimming in fabric. Dresses and pants cannot not  go over my thighs. If I get pass thigh level jumping its useless because the bum is not fitting . Let’s say the jump works the waist is not for my waist. I am not that curvaceous yet clothes shopping in Italy is only for the flat and thin-thin. 

I look at people’s forms here. I see women that  have little to no shape , looking frail and clothes holding their shapeless frame. I see women that have some shape only wearing stretchy  jeans and oversized tops because form fitting has forgotten them. I mainly see women that are struggling to stay thin by smoking and counting calories; a cappuccino is empty calories and yet for some, a meal. 

I look at the men and the bodies are two big extremes: super skinny guys  or poorly shaped guys. I am conditioned by my North American understanding of good physic . I look for men that are defined and sculpted which honestly are very few in Rome and most of Italy. People workout, however, the diet and regime are not to build muscle. I miss seeing men that looked sculpted from  precious stones . I miss eye candy.  Men here wear skinny jeans no difference to the States. I miss admiring men that look physically strong, not bodybuilder but lean muscular physical trainer strong. 

In this world my frame has no placement. I am considered too big, yet I wear what is considered a small in the States. I have a beautiful face and have  high desirability features;  the problem is it’s not enough for me. I require depth of my  beauty to my mind. My mind is missing the banter of interesting wit.

Why are Italians considered good lovers when they haven’t stamina ? Like any country there are always some who have it and many who wish they did. Women here are said to be “lifeless”, not my words.  They look at foreign women as “experienced”, again not my words. The sexualization of foreign women has been the narrative here even in modern  tv shows. Foreign women are temptress corrupting the  good Italian boy. She walks around with her confidence and somehow, she is a whore on the prowl for a good Italian boy. The idea that men here call themselves boy has always been odd to me, but that is a discussion for another day.

So, the foreign woman at times plays down her sexuality that is supposedly overpowering the men so their mothers can sleep at night. Sex is not that great , it more about the affection that they give. Over the years, I have heard and experienced enough to get this idea. Affection is why they are considered lovers. He may not be good at sex because his knowledge is based on what his culture told him what it is. The overly dramatized shows with half naked women, giggling about nothing with verbally abusive men that at times got physical with them. Every film has a cheating man that the woman takes back in the last 5 minutes of a ridiculous story.  Just like men in other countries . Here the idea is affectionate men that cheat yet don’t have much to really offer sexually but give affirmations of love are enough. It makes them keepers.

In contrast, Caribbean men are mostly full of stamina and sexual pleasure but no ideology of affection . The art of tantalizing a lover is considered unmanly. The culture is bursting with  lyrics of lust however the core moralities are of religion thanks to white Christian values via the United Kingdom. The men are seen as great lovers because they can fill the gap in the bedroom. Their form is of great curiosity and fetish in foreign lands.  Whether they know it or not they can find the spot and bang it to oblivion with dedication.  They can dismantle a woman’s life with a single move of the waist, yet his tenderness is kept at a distance. His nurture is not for show or hard to find. He is not big on holding hands  or overtly eccentric words of  devotion thus their form is what takes center stage. These types of men, these Caribbean men are my lineage for I am from the land of wood and water.

My country automatically creates these 5 Italian responses that I have heard over the last 10 years:

“ Che Bella Jamaica!”

“ ma… dov è Giamaica ( where is Jamaica)?”

 “Ah, Bob Marley!”

 “Marijuana !”

     and

 “…do they all have big dicks  because I saw the documentary on the tv”. *

This line of thought has mainly been men , men curious, men wondering about women with melanated glistening skin.  They wonder how they compare and some wonder if it is even worth finding out to understand if the sexual prose of a Caribbean men is true. They all have seen this illusive documentary that I haven’t found yet. This documentary that once aired on Italian tv putting fear into men to NOT bring their partners to Jamaica.  Since I have a form they are attracted to  and I have been with a Caribbean man that has the  form they feel is threatening.  These men fixate on the exotic superfreak ideas that are innate to them and thus I am placed within their category of  women to lust and fear. I pity them and at times tell them the tales they need to hear so the legend can live on. Be aware of the Jamaican man if you want to keep your girl.

 

 

 

*honorable mention response: “Impossible  that Usain Bolt is fast, its drugs , no?”



impasse in the morning

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He’s staring at me then looks away. He saw me walking to the café and watched me walk in . I made my order, ” Un cappuccino senza schiuma, cornetto semplice e un succo di frutta( albioccia ) – a tavolo, grazie”. I paid and left to choose a seat. He was watching me again. Why do I feel awkward? I mentally wanted distance between me and him despite him being 10 feet away.

I sat and began to open my book. I was re-reading the same paragraph and feeling his gaze every now and then. Does he want to speak to me? I realized his gaze shifted a bit to the left of me . She was also avoiding his connection . He looks left and right , only at us and us at him and quickly at each other . We are doing this exchange with no malicious intent just indifference; we’re at an impasse.

The three of us are acculturating the breakfast culture knowingly. It is not the breakfast we would be having in our home countries. In fact, our meals would have been similar yet different and overall comforting to us all. Are they thinking like me or is it just the body language we share? The woman and I possible consciously or unconsciously are trying not to see him. He makes us know that he sees us. The guy who is watching is African. He’s dressed in a beige light jacket, polo and jeans . He placed his backpack along a tree as he leaned on a car in front of the entrance way of the bar , speaking softly into his earphones; waiting for change from passerby and people leaving the bar. He’s chill and his presence somehow changes things.

I begin to think about my privilege, I’m struggling inside. Why do I feel an unrest of his presence? It’s stupid. The waiter arrives with my sweet simple breakfast and I take a sip of water. I look at it. I say to myself -this is not a breakfast. A real breakfast would be ackee and saltfish with a side of fried dumplings ,freshly kneaded, with boiled banana. I like my idea of breakfast however I live here.

I wonder about his origins. What would his breakfast be if he was home? Does he ever make or have that breakfast here? I know he had an Italian breakfast before waiting for change. He also does as the Romans do. I began to wonder if he got bamboozled into believing he would be better in Europe or came on a dream. Since the gate keeper is Italy he probably got stuck here. Most , if not all are trying to go north to other countries. There are fewer migrants now in Italy -barely in fact. The possibility of a balanced life here as a migrate requires pure blessings and beauty.

She was maneuvering her phone, not for a selfie, but for a way to block her connection with him. I wondered about her breakfast too. Would it have more substance and heartiness? Does he make her think about home? It’s like he reminds her that she is a foreigner too. She’s North African. She is dressed conservatively modern with a cream blush hijab. She’s lighter than the guy and I. He just glances at us from time to time and talks nonchalantly on his phone and it’s powerful. Is he unbothered or is this happening? At one point she held her phone closer to her face and then decided to lay it down bending her neck with all her might . I think she feels as I do, her body language screams it . We see each other and avoid each other at the same time. Why are we dissociating ?

This is not the only time I have seen a person of ethnicity and looked away or stared at them with great anticipation here. The disassociation I learned from growing up Caribbean and living in the States has molded this doctrine into my upbringing. Many Jamaicans disassociate from Africans and African Americans and vice versa. In the last few years the division has started to lose some of its foundation. It is so engrained in us , mainly from colonization, to stay disconnected from each other . The disconnection reduces our abilities to create healthy economical, sociological and community bonds with the African diaspora . We are the latents in Octavia Butler novel Mind of Mind. The book is about telepathic people that were repulsed and magnetically attracted to each other. The father of them all had never tried to improve their relations thus they had to find a way to unite and be at peace with each other. I had to unlearn much prejudices taught to me and had adopted a way similar to Mind of Mind. I was free.

I remember my first year in Rome, when all thing were’ Bella Vita”. An Italian colleague at the time and I were chatting at a bar, similar to this one. A charismatic African guy was waiting for change. I asked him his name and what brought him to Italy. I wanted to know his story. My Italian was basic so I was relieved that he knew English. My colleague scolded me for speaking to him, ” Don’t do that , it will encourage them to interact more” and in a second breathe expressed that he was a volunteer for Red Cross for over 4 years and he felt so fulfilled with his work.

The experience was discomforting . I saw it over and over again and eventually I disassociated again. I had believed I was immune to such behaviour. I felt discomfort every time I did it. I wanted them to have what I had or more yet I mentally pushed them away. The inner fights of disowning their blackness from mine plagued me for the latter years here. I had an Italian partner, was adopting Italian ways with my Westernized friends and Italian family. I didn’t take the time to understand the impairment I had built separating me from my openness. I had lost some of me.

The Italian breakfast is a fleeting experience and so I was left with my thoughts , at this table , with this man and woman in a telepathic gaze standoff. I collected my things and gave him a couple euros. He smiled , ”Have a nice day, miss”. I smiled back. I turned to our other counterpart at the table and smiled , she smiled back. We had a chance and didn’t take it. If the circumstances were different we could have chatted together….possible , maybe.