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.:)

The best day ever

IF YOU HAD THE BEST DAY EVER IT WOULD END WITH NOT BEING ABLE TO TAKE THE CAPSLO K OFF OF YOUR IPHONE.   IT WOULD START WITHAN UNINTENTIONAL 5AM WAKEUP, MOVE ON TO MOVING A COUCH YOU BOUGHT WITH YOUR EX ON YOUR OWN, GRADUATE ROTO CRYING IN THE BASEMENT OF YOUR APARTMENT BUILDING , AND SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN YOU WOULD LEAVE YOUR KEYS IN YOUR CAR FOR 4.5 HOURS AND LEAVE WORK AT 10PM TO FIND YOUR BATTERY IS COMPLETELY DEd.    YEAH, IT WOULD GO SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

Moving

So tired.  I feel like the moving will never be done.  This monumental task is overwhelming because I'm packing for four places, Jamaica, Pittsburgh, Seattle, and right now.

Some things go into storage, some things are going with me in the car, some are being mailed.  I remember when I lived in Pittsburgh and just drove to different places and threw my stuff out at dumpsters.  I kinda wanna do that now.   Yeesh.

Again

My mother is INFURIATING.  Out of nowhere, and I literally mean nowhere, I receive an email from her that says,

"Hello!

(Insert her first name here, yes, her first name, not  'mom'."

So I respond with,

"Hi..."

It's been about two years, give or take a month, since our last interaction.  We'd made plans to come together for lunch. I called to confirm and she forgot.  Now,  being forgetful is understandable. However, this is the same woman who forgot to show up to my childhood. I would spend entire performances looking for her in the crowd. At one show in particular I even waved to someone in the balcony because I thought it was her.  I almost missed the bus back to campus because I looked around for her.  I was finally forced on the bus.  When I returned to my student home I called her and apologized for not seeing her after the show, we'd had to leave.  She told me that she'd forgotten about the show and never showed up.

This is also the woman who, when I was 19, sent me an email saying, "...you're 19 years old I'm sick of walking on eggshells to pacify your attitude....have a good life."  That bitch has written me off more times than I can count.

Our last attempt at a relationship ended on my terms. She forgot me, like she had so many times before, and I told her how it made me feel.  She interjected some defensive statement of, "I will not be spoken to in this way... blah blah blah."  I hung up. Sent her a text message that read, "Fuck you," and that was it.

And now I'm trying so hard to be healthy. Scratch that. I AM healthy.  My relationship with what's his face is over and done, I've dated here and there, I have great friends, I don't run and hide when someone makes me angry. I've grown-up, without her.  And yet, here she is again.

My mother is the only person that can bring tears to my eyes without being present.  It's like there's a switch embedded in my already disgustingly putrid polluted DNA ( my ADPKD was a gift from her).  It's like she can flip that switch and make me shrink into a ball whenever she wants. She can cripple 27 years of strengh, and make me fall to my knees like Samson.

 I'm sitting here like a fool with tears running down my face because of an email.

The rest of the conversation went like this:

Her- Leaving work. Is it presumptuous or is it ok to say hello sometimes?


Me- That depends on what you're presupposing. 


Her - I am seeking permission to say “hello” from time to time.


Me - Why?


Her- Well, now that you have opened a pathway for others to contact you, maybe you will allow me to say “Hello” and by doing so I will know that you are alive. Instead of getting that information from second hand sources.


Me - I didn't open a pathway. You found, or somehow obtained my email address. I've never been in hiding, nor will I ever be. I have a website for crying out loud, anyone can Google me, and as a result, contact me. I'm not some Luddite who spends their life hiding from anyone.

As far as knowing that I'm alive, why do you need to find that out from me? Why aren't your previously sufficient second-hand informants adequate? 

I'm perplexed by your initial motivation to reach out. If you merely wanted confirmation that I was alive, my response of "Hi..." would have been enough and this discourse would not exist.

And so I ask again, "Why do you want to say hello from time to time?" 

I've kept her out of my life because she breaks my heart.  When she's in contact with me I can't help but think about the relationship I've always wanted, but can never have.  My thoughts linger on her Freudian obsession with my brother and equally Freudian dismissal of me.  

When she's in my life I want to sit in a corner and mope. I weep until my body shakes.  A long time ago I made the choice to live a different life.  Yet, time and time again she returns.  I don't know that I'm strong enough to have her in my life, and live it the way I want.

If this is some sort of test, or game, I don't want to play.  

:

The Dream

I remember it now.

I was in a car with some guy. He looked a lot like the actor who played a shut-in on October Road.  I knew he was going to kill me.  For some reason I was in love with him… I think he was in love with me too -- I’m almost sure of it.  But, he didn’t believe me… he didn’t think that anyone was capable of loving him. So he drove and talked about everything but the murder.  He would look at me with the sweetest eyes, but told me I had to die anyway. We arrived at his house and he had a circular saw and was about to saw into my left arm.  Coincidentally, that’s where my tattoo is…the one I won’t interpret to anyone.

Then a couple came from nowhere and we were able to fight him off.  I was so terrified about him coming after me again I kept saying that we needed to make sure he was dead. So we fought him and I beat him in the face, multiple times, with a rock. Then we ran, and I was in L.A., running down a street.  I found a building, ran inside tried to find the elevator but was stuck inside the boys bathroom stall. I remember trying to pee with roller skates on.   All-of-the-sudden, I was inside the green room of SNL and actors with wigs were rehearsing their lines and I hid behind a door watching them, but never getting caught. I knew he was coming after me though.  It was only a matter of time.

Really?

I keep having dreams that someone is trying to kill me.  I can't even see the person, but I spend the entire night running for my life.


 Great.

--

To complain about an abundance is like spitting in the face of God.

Living

I’ve always loved the Tim McGraw song, “Live Like You’re Dying.”


When I was kid I desperately wanted a skateboard. My mother never bought me one. I did, however find an old broken one in the woods across from my house. I would roll down the sidewalk on the one half I could find completely oblivious to the lurking dangers of tetanus and its BFFLs.

A few weeks ago I bought a longboard. I’ve been skating on campus sometimes with kids, sometimes without. One of my students skates with me every time I go out. We’ve since developed a following. There are now a total of about 9 girls that have asked to skateboard with me. They’re learning slowly. It’s cute. I’m glad that I can teach them something that I wanted to learn to do.

The undercurrents of adult delivered criticism are good intentions and humor, but it’s amazing just how many people tell me I’m too old to skateboard. Is that it? Am I too old? Is it because I’m a woman? Is it because I’m a woman of color? Either way, that mentality sucks. I don’t ever want to stop myself from doing something I want to do because of age gender, or race.

I saw my mother deteriorate sitting in the lap of her dialysis machine. I don’t want that to be me. I don’t have a choice. A day will come where I have to have my blood slurped from within, cleansed and redeposited. It scares me a bit. It makes angry. But most of all, it makes me sad. I don’t want to acknowledge my impending imprisonment. I want to accomplish things in life slowly, and methodically. I don’t want to be ruled by a genetically imposed timeline. It’s not up to me though.

Mary Catherine’s death floored me. When I think about it, I just want to sit in the corner of my couch and cry. She meant a lot to me. I missed her last time I was in Pittsburgh. I intended to see her on my way to Seattle. I can’t. She died. So much has happened in the last few weeks and it’s overwhelming. Relying on God is overwhelming. Not having a plan for August is scary. What will happen when B.O.L.D is over? I’m trusting God… I’m trying to trust God. It’s hard.

I can’t help but feel alone. Again. As usual.

My 27th birthday was yesterday. It was a good day. The girls at work were sweet. They screamed happy birthday at the top of their lungs. They were kind, wonderful, everything I could’ve wanted for birthday companions. A friend bought me a cake and a card. It was nice. No regrets.