Terror

Sometimes I choose to do things that leave me with macabre sense of doom.  Moving 3,000+ miles away from familiarity to the unknown is one of those things.

I'm scared.

Today is Garvey's 5th birthday and it's that thought which finally pushes the tears from their eye side waiting room rolling down the surface of my cheek, and finally,soaking into my sweatshirt.  He has no idea that I'll be back. That I wouldn't abandon him for the world.  I know he's just a dog, but that knowledge doesn't make leaving him any easier.

Terror is an ant that crawls beneath your skin when you have no idea what's next.  It crawls from the dermis through the subcutaneous tissue, and settles in an organ or two.  Rooting around and kicking up dirt until it chooses to settle somewhere for the night.  The next morning the same ant, along with its holographic brethren, wakes up and the fear begins again.  Only this time it feels like there's an ant hill throwing a kegger in your digestive system.

No matter how often anyone tells me I'll be okay it won't mean anything until I feel it.  "The things we must learn before we do them, we learn by doing them."  I just want to be okay. I just want people to like me. I don't want to stand in front of the mirror criticizing every centimeter of myself.  I don't want to care about what people will think, but I do.

My dog likes me.  Having him would make this so much easier.  On an extra scary day I could come home and lay on the floor and fall willing victim to his loving assault.  I won't have that safety net.  That sucks. How can I remember to be enough of myself in the midst of all this terror and change?

Really?! Really.

I loved yesterday -- until I went to leave work.  Two of my students, who always help me carry my stuff to my car, were performing our usual Monday evening ritual when I saw a post-it note stuck to the window of my car.  I walked up recognized the hand-writing and went, “ Are you serious?”

My life is intentional.  I prefer relationships and conversations I’ll remember instead of those that discuss the daily migration of the clouds and sun.   I’m more likely to ask my students “What sustains you on the inside when all else falls away,” than some random awkward time filler of a question. 

My jewelry is intentional.  I wear a silver necklace with a star chain.   It is the same one I gave one of my favorite (yes, we all have them) students.  My bracelets all have stories.  The silly bands are from my girls, I bought one in China, one in Thailand,  another at place in Chicago, another at the The African Art Museum at the Smithsonian, and yet another is from my trip to Jamaica.  My love for stories decorates my body like a Christmas tree.

Yesterday wasn’t difficult for me at all.   Well, I did tear up when I drove past the Reese’s plant and the smell of peanut butter and chocolate nestled into my sinus cavities. I almost cried again when a co-worker came in on his day off to give me gluten-free cookies and say goodbye.  But, for the most part yesterday was a blast.  My kids chased me with water balloons (some of which burst, a lot that didn’t), helped me create a playlist of their favorite songs so I can remember them, I skateboarded like a kid for three hours with shoes and even barefoot.  At devotions the girls shared their favorite memory with me. I was kinda surprised that 99% of them were violent i.e. “Ms. Whit remember when I stole your shoes, hid under a van and you drug me out screaming like a crazy woman and then we wrestled?!” When I see myself through the eyes of others I realize I’m a complete maniac.  The girls loved it when I was driving a van down Springboard drive, screamed at the top of my lungs, “ROADS ARE FOR PANSIES!” and drove off-road into a baby cornfield with my sweet little cherubs screaming like recently acquired kidnap victims.

That being said…

The past three years of work has been reallllly weird for me.  I dated a coworker (...yeah yeah I know don’t shit where you eat…whatever… lesson learned). I also became friends with another coworker.  During our relationship for reasons that are drizzled throughout this blog, their relationship became inappropriate.  I handled it well. We talked about it in therapy, discussed how he was just reliving the cycle of every other failed relationship, and then we tried to work through it. We broke up, got back together, broke up, got back together, broke up yada yada yada et al infinite.

They started dating 3 months after we broke up. That was hard, not gonna lie.  Something like four months later they got engaged. That was hard, not gonna lie. Granted, I did call it like 4 weeks into their relationship, and my coworkers were super sweet.  They called me at home so I wasn’t blindsided when I got to work the next day.  Even though I shook their hands and offered my congrats things were super weird …like really weird.  With the help of friends, my journal, and lots of conversations with myself in my car, I got through it.  I got to a really healthy place.  There are some things that stung. Like when I had to use a laptop at work, opened the lid and found a note that read, “You are loved,” in her handwriting. It was his computer, oops.  I remember leaving that same note and others like it throughout his things for him to find. I was lame. 

I’m a big believer in the “Woman code,” or the “Bro code.” Don’t get involved with a friend’s ex, sleep with their significant other, or use their underwear.  She violated that and it hurt for a really long time.  It hurt more than anything he’d ever said or did to me.  She and I sat down and talked about it and I asked her for the space and time to heal.  She consistently had a hard time honoring my requests.  She’d rub my back, or caress my arm at work.  She’d insert herself in my conversations.  She’d call me after work and say asinine things in an effort to rebuild our relationship.  She would talk to my coworkers about my relationship with him and tell them things he’d said to her.  It was weird she was weird. Because she didn’t give me the space to heal and be okay it took three times as long for me to get over it. 

So yesterday when I saw this note on my car window I was like Seriously?!  I read it and the words were nice, but really? Stop trying to hijack my day.

So I went over to the mailboxes, and wrote a reply that read exactly like this:

*insert her name here*

You don’t get it.

You’ll never get it.

Jéhan

Then I placed her printed oddity into an envelope along with mine and put it in her mailbox.  The end.

Seriously?  Get out of my life.  You’re like the gnat that flies in my face that I can’t swat because PETA will come after me with bloody paintbrushes.  When I’m not at work or on campus I don’t think about either of you.  When I’m there, your presence permeates my skin like an acidic lotion because you continue to spew yourself down my throat.  I’ve been mature. I’ve ignored the angry part of me that wanted to cuss you out, slash your tires, and put sugar in your gas tank.  I’ve reminded myself that you’re just naïve and I can’t hold it against you. I’ve remembered that we have to work together and I have to humor your stupidity for the kid’s sake.  I’ve kept the lioness behind the electric fence. But I’m not on payroll anymore.  Knock it off.  If you cross the line again like say I dunno show up at my door in Seattle, send me text messages, or even email me. I will weather the sting of that electric fence.  You will see me for who I’m completely capable of being.  You will understand boundaries.  All bets are off.  No holds barred.

Crocodile Tears

Today is my last day of work, weird.

I saw my girls yesterday and they presented me with a poster of pictures from this year by the dumpster where I was throwing something away.  How sentimental.  :)  They gave it to me and asked me if I was going to cry when I left. I went, "Uhh, probably not? I don't know. Why? That's weird, why do you want me to cry?" Their response, " I dunno...we cried making this."

They want me to cry so they can see how much I care about them.   I don't know if I'll cry. I'm not a crier, at least not in that sense.  There will probably be a salty oil spill on the plane on the way to Seattle that will terrify those around me.  I'll think of them and their poster and my dog and my friends and Middleswarth Barbecue chips and I'll be sure I'm making a big mistake.  While dating what's his face we would go to these pre-marriage therapy sessions (seriously, thank God for those) and he would talk about want to see me more vulnerable.  How he, in so many words, wanted me to cry more.  I remember being totally baffled like, wait, you actually want to see me cry.  Both he and the therapist tried to explain that it wasn't about the tears, it was about me needing him.  He wanted to feel needed.  That never sat right with me.

My goal for today is to write something so the girls will know just how much I care about them.  I'll urge them to measure my love, not by the tears on the last day, but through every interaction we've had over the past year.  I will miss them. In fact, I already do. I just wish they could understand that this is for me. Me leaving my alma mater to move across the country to a city I've never been is a decision I'm making for myself.  I want them to make similar decisions throughout their lives.  They should be loving, kind, benevolent, and philanthropic, but at the end of the day they need to make decisions that will benefit them so they can benefit others.

Hopefully, someday, they'll forget about measuring love by crocodile tears. They will, instead, recognize it in the words and actions of those around them.

 

"Going to the chapel...

...with no intentions of getting married"

I'm totally at that point in my life where an impressive percentage of my friends are floating into wedded bliss, promising to float into wedded bliss together, or entering into long-term relationships with the hopes of, yup, floating into wedded bliss.  To be honest, it's freaking me out. I've gone to two weddings in the past few weeks and they've been good to me. Watching my friends say their vows has been wonderful. Their stories are often stories detailed in comic books and fairy tales.

The thought of getting married literally sends me a bubble guts care package.  My stomach urinates acid into my throat, the moisture in my mouth evaporates, and my jaw clenches like a pitbull with a meaty snack.  It could have something to do with only recently learning how develop relationships with men that aren't painted with childhood issues stemming from my horrible relationships with my brother and dad.  Or maybe it's the fact that my first hardcore relationship showed me that there are men who are completely unrelated to me who are just as, if not more, toxic. But I'll leave that to the experts to figure out.

It's not that I don't want to get married. I do.  I think. Just not now.

I can't help but wonder how people got it so right.  How they're at a point in their lives where they can say,  "I want to be with you and no one else foreva' and eva' Amen." Whaaat?! My grandparents have been married for 56 years.  Yahoo! But, there are like three or so illegitimate children sprinkled into the pudding. What? Why?  Seriously is it that hard to say, "I promise to love and uphold and yada yada yada insert wedding vows here," and mean it?  You married that person. Why would you cheat on them? If something is pissing you off, tell them.  If your needs aren't being met emotionally, sexually, board game style or whatever TELL THEM.  Don't cheat. That's not fair, it's not nice.  I'm not sure I can forgive cheating.  It's like unforgivable.  You might say, "Well Jéhan, then you're not ready to get married, love is unconditional." Yeah okay. Then you're right.  I'm not because, hello, cheating can't be filed under the same unconditional love category.

Maybe that's the crux. I'm not ready to say the things I need to say to have the marriage I want.  I'm just not ready.  I'll take that over the constant knocking thought that maybe I'm just not the marrying kind.

I wanna go home

A friend recently wrote on my fb wall, "you have 650 friends...how loved you must be!!" Sidebar: The fact that I deleted 200 “friends" recently and I'm at 650 is a little weird.  Nonetheless, I am indeed loved by many.  J

The past two and a half weeks have been bananas, in a good way.  I've been traveling all over the place to visit friends and family.  I'm exhausted.  The kind of exhausted that greets you with morning with a vertigo handshake.

I drove to State College to visit an old friend...perhaps one of the oldest and most intimate.  She was in my student home when I was in middle school and I chose to go to my high school student home because she was there.  She was who I wanted to be when I grew up. She listened to the Doors, and Grateful Dead, and I'm pretty sure she's the reason I developed a crush on Kurt Cobain.  Somehow she got our houseparents to allow her to get a bird and keep it in our room.  I love(d) her dearly.  It's funny how some people just feel like home.  I like that.  People who feel like warm chocolate chip cookies and milk.  

I'm staying with a family who I met through work. She was my co-worker, then my friend, then my boss, then my co-worker, then just my friend.  She's pregnant with her 2nd child (I hope labor happens soon because she might just go nuts).  She and her husband have introduced me to what it's like to be amazing people and raise a child.  Their son is one of my favorite beings on this planet. Here's to hoping that baby number two graces us with his presence before I head out to the Pacific Northwest.  

On June 5th two of my friends from college got married.  The bride is one of my best friends.  I think it's because we both have a similar grasp on the frailty of human relationships. We expect the same kindness from the world that we give, and tend to take it personally when it's a bit stingy giving it back.  The wedding was comfortable.  It was gorgeous. It was them.  Friends and family were in attendance.  The music was straight from a playlist on one of their iPods if either of the had one. I met and got to know some of their L.A. friends and it was cool to put names to faces and spend time with the other bridesmaids.  It’s the people like that that make me want to live in L.A. But then I remember that the soul of L.A. is cracked and burned and would eat me alive if I spent too much time there.     

The wedding in Jamaica was quite an experience as well.  I stayed with family and went to the resort in the evenings for the festivities.  Capitalism is such an odd experiment.  It’s allowed the people of Jamaica to live in poverty while the foreigners with wealth benefit from the countries natural resources and tourism.  It’s hard to see.  I’m planning on spending a lot more time in Jamaica over the next few years.  I have to do something to benefit my country. I’d also like to help reconnect other Afro-Caribbeans in the States to their roots.  You’ll have to check out www.19more.org for updates.

I write this to say that even though I’ve been homeless, literally, since May 25, 2010, I haven’t felt that way.  Yes, it’s been a little hard to iron my clothes on a friend’s bathroom counter, pack for a three day camping trip from my car, and leave my dog with pretty much everyone I know in Central PA, but I’m still okay.  I’ve moved around more often than *insert famous musician here* on a farewell tour.  I used to feel lost and empty.  But in adulthood I’ve made friends with my lifestyle and have realized that the people who are supposed to be in your life will be in your life regardless of distance.  My definition of home transcends the Reaganomics era building surrounded by a white picket fence.  Home, for me, is a feeling not a place.  For once in my life I get that.  

Tell me how long the train's been gone

It rained yesterday. Unlike any storm I’ve seen of late. The water assaulted our itineraries and sent everyone, but the crabs, inside. You see, there are crabs in my yard. No, that’s not some ill-phrased innuendo. There are literally crabs in my yard where squirrels should be. They dig holes in the ground for cover and bite chunks out of the mangoes that fall from trees.

The house is exactly as I remember it except smaller. Isn’t that how it always is? Our childhood enlarges its memories and our adulthood stomps them down. My uncles showed me how to pick fruit from our mango tree, and how to pick out the ackee when it burst open; if you pick it before it’s ripe it can kill you. Uncle Balla picked me sour cherries from the tree and I spat my seeds into a crab hole. I identified the breadfruit on the ground before they could teach me as a way to show them that my Yankee pickney blood hadn’t completely overtaken the islander in me.

The projects in the states scare me because those housed within know, just as much as I do, that I don’t belong. They can smell me approaching as an anteater sniffs out its prey. It is at their edges that I transform into an innocent island girl. One who is ignorant of their mores, seeking only to observe. Here, I’m tentative for different reasons. I used to belong but that was long ago. My patois flowed effortlessly from my lips and I could cuss you if the need arose. Now, my years have made me hesitate. I can feel home creeping back to my lips. My jaw relaxes and my tendency to smile is even faster. My granma fell and broke her hip and now she is afraid to walk. When I came back to the states I had to fix my words and now I’m afraid to talk. My accent is an awkward half-breed. Some words come out patois, some in broken English and even more are pimp-slapped by the judgment of my lips and they fall short of inquiring ears. After an “Eh?” encouraging me to repeat they fair better, but the nervousness doesn’t disappear.

My cousins Danae, Safiyah (say-fee-ah), and Qadera (Kah-deer-ah) are all gentle with me. After spending a few short hours with them Qadera told me she loved me when we dropped her off and Safiyah clung to my neck and told me she wanted to stay. Is that what it’s like to have blood family? An immediate acceptance? Once they heard the word “cousin” their allegiance was mine, and mine theirs. I wanted to talk to them about the things I hint at with my students. I wanted to make sure they knew how beautiful they were, that being intelligent is wonderful and they should never hide it. I don’t know if it was because of my newly established familial moniker, or because of the internal clock that has begun ticking. Either way, I enjoyed its presence in my system.

I’m tempted to stay here, not because of the beauty sold in magazines and airline commercials. Rather because I feel myself filling up. My cousin listens to me when I say she “muss bade” before we can watch tv. I am introduced as “yay-ahn.” Eric’s daughta legitimizes my existence. I belong. I don’t feel the need to justify my presence as I do in the States. I just exist. My auntie Herma (erma) cooks me breakfast and I am satisfied. My tongue has long craved the bitterness of ackee, sal’fish, green banana, dumplin, and hot tea. The sweetness of sweetened condensed milk satiates my desire for food. I don’t snack. My skin is smooth and soft from its saltwater bath and sandflea exfoliant. I see what is happening in my country and I am hard-pressed to find a solution. That may be why I am enamored with Marcus Garvey.

I am indeed torn between many worlds, which seem better off without my presence. “No man is an island,” or so they say. I was born in the States, raised in Jamaica, brought back to the States, my parents divorced, my mother moved, I went away to school when I was eleven, and have yet to settle down. I don’t know where I belong. Everywhere I go seems right when I am there. Perhaps it’s time to hibernate. I’ll embrace myself in a cocoon of safety where my intellect can rest, my heart can restore and my body will find its place. I am the blank tile in Scrabble that works with any word, but has little value. I don’t understand myself. Not yet, perhaps, not ever.

I think the struggle will be helping others, and myself, find peace with that.

Jamaica Day 1

Yesterday was tough. I went to bed at 12:00 am and awoke at 4:00 am to leave my apartment for the final time. My bones wore weariness like an invisibility cloak, heavy despite its transparency. Around 4:45 am I left to walk to the airport. It was a nice walk, but I was nervous about catching my plane on time. I got to the long-term parking airport and was able to catch a shuttle. The trip to Atlanta was impressively uneventful. My trip to Mo-Bay was equally so.

When my uncle and I spoke on the phone last he asked me what I would be wearing since he hadn’t seen me in about 20 years. I told him I’d be carrying a pink bag and I look just like my father. I struggled to get through customs because I didn’t know the address. It turns out that the people behind the desk not only knew my uncle, my grandparents, and my aunts, but one of them lived down the street from our house.

Humid air similar to the suffocating thickness of Japan greeted me like an old friend. I drank in the condensation and felt at home. Nervously I looked around for the uncle that I’d practically never seen. A driver asked me if I was Nancy, I told him no and continued to browse the drivers. Finally, a man with eyes like my Uncle José walked up to me. Before I could speak he said, “Yayan?” (That’s how they pronounce my name… I smile every time I hear it). Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me close and said “You look just like ya fadda. “ To spite the heat our embrace was long. To spite us, that embrace left us drenched in sweat. He told me to stand at the corner and wait while he went to get the car. I watched my uncle walk away, and smiled because I knew this Jamaica. The one they were selling on the plane and in airports, the one that greeted the dozens of married or engaged couples as the worked their way through customs was built. This one, the one I remembered was grown. It grew out of the hearts of its people.



We drove, talked, laughed, and it was ordinary. He filled me in on the civil unrest and we talked politics. I found that I cared more about the politics here than in the states, perhaps because this was paralyzing dysfunction, whereas the governmental inadequacy in the States is slightly crippling for some and functional for others. At one point silence settled comfortably.



The closer we got to my parish the land became familiar. Not socially constructed familiar where you pretend you recognize things to be polite. Rather raw familiarity. I recognized a road where I walked barefoot as a toddler. My street brought back memories and I knew the house as we approached. My Uncle Jo sat on the porch and I jumped out to greet him. He’s always full of jokes and smiles. He’s no exception to the adage that the funniest people are often sad inside. The more I’m around him I see it in his actions. He’s an attractive man with a quick wit that got his doctorate in something having to do with Math and Science when he was 26. I grew up with him so he will always be familiar.



I don’t want to spend my whole trip living in words. It’s easiest for me, but I think what’d be best is if I just shut this puppy down, sit on the porch, drink hot tea, read a book, listen to the reggae blasting from someone’s house, and wait for my uncle to pick me up. At some point today, I’m going to plait my hair. It’s nice to look around and see women with their hair in plaits. In the states I always feel so strange doing it, but here? No problem, man!

Here is a picture of my cousin Danae (sp?) she's in grade 1. I think I'm creating another Apple lover.:)