Speaking in Tongues

lish, lisp, his glish

must come clean

from mi mouth

roll over mi tongue,

through mi lips.

What a bangarang, eh?!

lawd, is so Mr. glish is,

laden wid grief, mad fi lick mi

wid him punctuation and grammar.

I before e, heheeeeey!--

but no, on my tongue,

it have a duel with

modder tongue,

they arguing over spices

both claimin' spaces,

hisglish an' modglish.

Lawd, they not easy

though, eh?

Is a' inheritance from

"the bad-minded English"--

a generation glitch,

[...]

Seeing Double

Have you ever searched the corners of your room for answers to your questions only to find that the corners are as empty as you are? It hard when you searching for answers. It hard. It always hard. Harder than rain in the winter and snow in the summer. It hard.

I wonder who makes the questions so hard and then put the answers in hiding? It hard. It hard when you find yourself stuck and you don't know how you get stuck. It always hard. A woman can get stuck in a big city. A woman can get stuck in her own mind. Her own pain can destroy her, and no one has to look at the wreckage. In a big city you don't have to look.

When you walking down the street and you see a homeless man, what comes to mind? Bum. Here, i have to freeze off me arse just to make a shilling and i should pass it on to him, for what? Did you ever consider the psychology of that man? Like him probably saying to himself: "Cho, it too cold to work so i will sleep on the street for free, where it safe and dry, and depend on the Toms, Dicks and Jane Does in this city."

That man probably just like me. Searching for answers; only, he searches in the weather beaten feet trampling refuse smelling asphalt thinning cracks of the city.

Here's a Story

Everyday is a struggle against the odds: the odds of getting an MA in English. Sometimes i feel so fragmented, i'm amazed that i have been able to stay whole instead of being fed to the wind like debris caught in a storm.

Another Academic Muse

At what point in our lives do we stop blurring? When do we become crisp individuals? What must we do in order to end these fuzzy identities--to clarify just who it is we really are?
--Douglas Coupland, Girlfriend in a Coma

I happened upon this quote while reading Girlfriend in a Coma, a book filled with dark humour and an apocalyptic sensibility. I'm not too far in, but it had me thinking about that quote, especially how it relates to my personal experiences as a graduate student in English. I am realizing that the further up i go in the institution the more blurry i become, the more it doesn't really matter who i am. I become a slave to the system in such a way that i am producing essays, research papers, argumentative strategies for discussion but it provides no meaning for me, especially when i begin to survey my own subjectivity as a "crisp individual." I know that this sounds a lot like life in the big city, or even nihilistic, but i think that it is a bit more complex than that. I feel an incredible rush of excitement and satisfaction when i produce a paper and i am usually very happy with the returns, but for no apparent reason, at times i feel lost and confused. The truth is: I realize just how phony the whole system is and how complacent i am, moving to the same phony beat as everyone else. I guess that is what happens when you lose a sense of meaning and purpose in your work and your entire life becomes obfuscated by this burring: the inability to see who you really are.

I am writing a paper and i have reached the end; i am supposed to be happy at the finished product because it is coherent, the argument is solid and the structure is great. Instead, i start thinking about the next paper that i am to have done in a few weeks and i try to think about the "new" language i will need to successfully produce that argument. I have to create that new language while producing a sense in the reader that i have mastered the topic/language. But, really, getting an excellent mark has to do with how well i can argue that i am right; it does nothing, it changes nothing, it challenges nothing--at the end of the day, it goes into a drawer and takes its place with the pile of other papers i'd already written, and it stays there.

Higher learning institutions thrive on showing you how insignificant you are; how minuscule to your professors, your superiors who "know everything." They keep you in place by making you aware that you can't know everything, and if you're black like me, that you won't reach anywhere. It's survival of the fittest. The university is one of the most brutally racist, sexist, elitist, Eurocentric, xenophobic places on the earth. yet it praises itself on being the best door to a world of opportunities. In the end, it doesn't matter who you are and the University becomes a big business that owes you nothing...

I survey the drawer, then finally, i manage to get-up and open the door; i enter the parts of my house that aren't filled with phony people and phony principles. My daughter sees me and calls, "mommy, mommy!" She runs up to me, and as i take her into my arms, she starts to sing me a song; suddenly, i realize who i really am, and my world isn't so blurry anymore.

I have met some amazing professors, students and writers who are not in the least bit phony. And that is why i have survived, and still surviving, the traumatic alienating effect of higher learning.

Jennifer Hudson: Carol of the Bells

Merry Christmas! I admire this lady so much. She's a great example of what talent and dreams can do :-)

"the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams"

A plaque i have on my living room wall and walk by everyday without noticing. I noticed it today...

Heart Beat

['Unedited' creative writing i did in high school; found it on a disk i had in storage]

I never thought that Jamie could hurt me, no, not in a million years. We were supposed to be the perfect couple, utterly flawless. Now all that we’ve shared for the past eight years was coming slowly to a close. As much as I would like to forget the entire scenario and pretend nothing happened, I couldn’t, it was already planted in my mind. My mind raced, my heart thud, I cursed myself for being so sensitive. Damn Jamie, damn him to hell! I almost said aloud. I steered the car into the driveway and sat transfixed, the ignition running. I couldn’t think, concentration was impossible, I ached inside. Once inside the house, the house Jamie and I shared for eight years, I retired to our bedroom to claim my possessions. Jamie must have come in early for I heard the shower running, though I could not recall seeing his car out front. I searched frantically for my suitcase trying without success to control my anger, fear, anxiety or whatever it was that I felt. Half way through my packing he came in whistling bringing the sweet smell of after-shave with him.

“Hi honey, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said casually.

“You won’t hear me go either,” I said bitterly.

“Why, are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, someplace where I won’t have to see your lying cheating face again,” I yelled.

“What…”

“No, let me finish, for eight years I remained blind, blind because the love I had for you pulled the wool over my eyes.”

“What the…”

“It all adds up Jamie, now it all makes sense: the condoms I found in your jeans, you taking in your sleep, the pictures, those phone calls, showing up late for dinner because you had to work late, you bastard!”

I hurled a vase freshly filled with white roses at him, but it hit the wall instead. Furious I strolled past him, haling my suitcase behind me.

“Cathy I can explain everything if you just give me a chance.”

“Explain, explain?” I laughed, refusing to look at him. “Well maybe you could explain why you have being after my friend Joan for the past two months.”

“Whoa, whoa, did she tell you that? She’s the one who has being coming on to me and when I told her that I’m committed to you she backed off a bit,” he said calmly.

“Cathy I love you, I always have and I always will, I would never want to destroy what we share,” he said, taking the suitcase from my hand, as I stood motionless.

“ The condoms you found were meant to be used with you since you have being complaining about taking the pills, me talking in my sleep I can’t really explain but I’m sure it had to do with my up coming plans for us.”

“Oh, Jamie for the past few weeks we have being so distant, I thought I was losing you.”

“Wait, Cathy, let me explain everything. Those phone calls were totally work related and platonic, I never lied to you about missing dinner because I had to work late, and I wouldn’t do such thing, I swear. The girl on the pictures is my cousin Leona, I was going to show them to you but you found them first; I’m so sorry, Cathy.”

“I love you Jamie, I always have, and I always will,” I said smiling.

“Now that’s better. Are you still leaving?”

“No,” I purred, “not for a long time.”

Life, Death and Salvation

Life is hard. Then you die. Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you. Be grateful it happens in that order.
--David Gerrold

They say that only salvation can save us, make us whole. Only salvation is everlasting, and can take away the void in our lives. That empty spot, deep within our soul. They say that salvation is free. That it is the Almighty's plan for us. I am ready for that salvation to wash me all over, and set me free. Make me whole. Is salvation ready for me?

Child

['selected' poems i wrote while on mat leave in '06; Child, Higgla and Kiss of Death; enjoy]

Take these words,
Put them inside your heart--
Momma loves her child
Pappa loves his child
Eat, breathe, keep these words
Until you open your eyes,--

Higgla (a tribute to Louise Bennett-Coverly)

Mango, banana, pumpkin dry
Two fi twenty
Four fi twenty-five

“Hi miss, Yuh look so nice
Buy someting fra mi nuh mam,
Look how yuh smile bright an’ nice."

"Is plenty water grow dem yuh know mam.
Wha’?
Say yuh nuh waa dem fa dem look pwoile?”

“Look ya nuh missis
Nuh mek mi tell yuh ‘bout yuh lice.”

“A yeseday mi pick mi mango
‘an mi banana come straight from Martinique
Whe’ the sun nuh tap shine!”

“A bet yuh a de same one
Who gwine bawl dung
Mi price--”

“Ga lang yaa woman
Wid yuh rucutuntun behind
Haul yuh tail out a mi stall
Fa no freenis nuh de dis side!”

Kiss of Death

I rise high in the sky
My time
Has come
To lie
Beneath
The sheets of life

As I glide
Pass ancient stories
And lies
I smile
To see the gardener’s eyes

Open wide--
I ride the waves
Ten thousand feet high
I spy
The wounds of an unborn child

Come my loved ones
Let us sing and cry
For this old, old withered land
Must die!
Alas, I must go so good-bye
I have waited for that mile long kiss, for a while.

'Phishing' for Identity

I received e-mails, three days in a row, asking me to activate my online banking with RBC Royal Bank or else my account will be deleted within 24hrs. And i thought that my e-mail was "protected." I am supposed to go to the link provided and enter my client card number and password. Fortunately, i know fraud when i see it, so i didn't 'click'. But what about all the people who do click? Well, here's a link to a dictionary's definition of phishing; it's the least i can do to prevent others from falling prey:

Phishing: definition, usage and pronunciation - YourDictionary.com

I won the lottery several times in the past, but never claimed any of the winnings. I also inherited millions from philanthropists all over the world, and never claimed it either. I have to say that these e-mails are usually quite convincing. But what is it about me that attracts fraud? Funny, I never get these in my Hotmail account, only my University account.

Strange Mood

I guess my professed compulsion to write is waning, not! I have been scrambling to find time lately, although i'm supposed to be on holidays. That 700pg book that i'm to have read over Christmas (among others) puts a smile on my face, not! OK, so i guess i'm jealous of all those people who get to go on "far away" trips while i'm stuck here; i may as well say it now and get it over with. (Note transition) I love my daughter but i've tried giving her up for adoption several times but no one will take her, even though she is a super kid whiz (or is it whiz kid?). Besides, daddy won't let me. She's such a sweetheart (scroll up/down, look to the right) isn't she? Yuh want har?!

Okay, so, that major essay is coming on quite lovely, ah... ah mean, slowly. If i could only write a bit faster! The thing is, theatre is not exactly by comfort zone; I wanted a challenge; besides, my comfort zone was getting, well, comfortable. I am also taking a theory course and it's way, way out of my comfort zone. I guess that's how it is when you challenge yourself. Actually, i don't regret taking them at all. I am learning quite a bit (sure, Jerisha).

I've done all my Christmas shopping and i am happy to report (note irony) that i have spent over $500 on gifts, actually, make that six, i sent a little something for mi moms. My mom sent me some beautiful drapes that she made herself. She is very talented. If only some had rubbed off on me...I would be ri...no i'll save it. Why do black folks think about money all the time? Because we never have enough! Dah!

As usual i have to cut this one short because i have bigger fish to fry...i mean, not fish fish, but, you know, fish...

2 face - African Queen

Sometimes we, black women in all shades, shapes and sizes, forget just how beautiful we are; we want to change our hair, skin colour, body--
we don't need to.

You are a queen and there is no need to change Y O U. Love yourself--love your hips, your lips, your nose, your toes-- you are special.

Red Dust

Mother left.
She said God will
take care of us, and
that we should pray.
But we can't,--
God won't listen.
Or maybe she will.
To the sound of our feet against
the earth, hardening each step,
each mile, each time we travel.
To our hands, cracked
bleeding like water from a
spring, only, less hope in it.
To the hair on our skin
suffocating, afraid to grow,--
blinded by the haze.
Mother said that we should
Pray, but we won't.
Because, God, he's inside,
underneath, our skin.
behind our eyeballs,
in respite, from the world.

I Am Glad...

I spend my days doing RA work and working on an essay due Jan 3rd. My essay is on Djanet Sears' HARLEM DUET and Aime Cesaire's A TEMPEST, both are incredibly important plays for black theatre and postcolonial studies.

I am glad that my blog has inspired friends on a conscious level (those who have come to me and said so and those who haven't). I am also grateful that they have encouraged me to keep writing and thankful for their kind words about talent that i didn't know i had. I hope that i can (and will try my best to) live up to those expectations and good wills.

I am always thinking about "stuff" and sometimes i am most inspired by the silent, nonspoken realities of people's lives which don't get covered-- whether in the media, literature, normative Truths--where ever it is out there. How do we live and make sense of our lives? What causes us to live past pain, and why do we exactly? My blog is a way for me to make sense, especially my creative blogs, of the things that i don't exactly understand precisely because of their complicatedness. It is always a strive towards an understanding of someone or something; of voice, pain, love, history, race, gender, class, poverty, death, birth, survival. Aime Cesaire says that he became a poet by rejecting poetry, French poetics. I think that reflects my consciousness as a writer of sorts. On the one hand, writing for me is healing, and on the other, it is an outright rejection of the mainstream western way of "doing" poetry. I never liked studying poetry because of the genre bound rigidity and technicality of how it has been taught. But i love a poem that makes me think, long after i've read it and closed the book; in a way, that's also how i feel about novels which is why i approach a novel like a poem and a poem like a novel.

Inside Out

Is the anger in me
the ebb, flow of anger,
deep within me,
they should have told me,
warned me, even.
Yea! how 'bout warning, eh?!
'bout the scar of mi flesh
all over me.
The wound of being.
I look,
back, wonder
'bout that wound
like the searing of flesh
in a prison-house.
I scream, i fight,
i get mad.
Ain't nobody know pain
like black woman
she pass on pain
like ulcer, in bloodline.
When she wails
it carry fire to burn hell over,
and water fi she children, no suffer.
But, there is a crushing power
over me.
It feeds on me.
If i could rip this flesh,
burn this flesh,
kill history.
We want to burn history.
She born with anger--
was fed
from my mother's breast--
she lost her anger, chose to forget.
The forces on me tell,
say i must never forget,
long as i breathe.
Breathing is hard when you're angry
when you fight everyday.
I must learn to breathe everyday.
Everyday my flesh confronts me
condemn me.
If i could transform it,
exchange it
for a dead history,
maybe she won't suffer,
the next line.

My Snow Story-- Nov 22

Cold? I was stuck outside for over two hours last Thursday trying to get home from class: no bus, no taxi, no one to pick me up. I was swearing up and down and told a colleague on Friday about my incident, that i was afraid of getting frostbite and that i'm fed up with the cold. She gave me a surprised and weird look and said that there was no snow storm and that it was not cold but a nice -15!

Thanks,Ward , for reminding me to blog this terrible experience :)

The Agenda

So, tonight at 8:16 sharp, a bit late but, okay, i tuned in to The Agenda with Steve Paikin on TVO. It was a round table of sorts: four black women, 'successful' black women, i must add, and two 'successful' black men. What was the topic? The status of "Today's Young Black Women." Now, lets do a quick check list/run down of the kinds of precautions that any educated host would take:

The Blacks called upon are

1. From diverse backgrounds with diverse histories and experiences
2. Diverse in their opinions about blackness and race (one woman said that she grew up "raceless")
3. All agree that there are systemic problems in the "black community"

Okay, so we are good. No one will be criticized for being essentialist. But what do all these "black" people have in common? They are all being called upon to explain and account for black experiences, barriers and level of success in Canada (especially Toronto, the dominant loci of black hyper-visibility) against the backdrop of the systematic media violence that promotes blackness as hostile, criminal and dangerous. These men and women are pulled together to counter--explain everything from slavery to the role of the church as a moral centre in black life in Canada. Indeed, the called upon ness of these black men and women is part of the same narrative of the media base "black problem", a part of the same narrative of each speaker's 'race' and 'otherness', a part of the same narrative of Canada's covert (ethnic) multicultural marginalization, a part of the same narrative of the migrant subject as uprooted, displaced and problematic. There is no way out, it seems as if blacks will always be trapped; trapped in the doubleness of having to live and, then, simultaneously, having to explain to white Canada how it is that they live, with the popular stereotypical views always lurking in the background. I think that what needs to be changed is the systematic ways in which blacks (and people of colour, in general) always have to explain and account for themselves. The revolution should start with the government taking care of its peoples (not 'citizens' as is generally expressed: some are "permanent residents") through an anti-racist-educational-and-economic-system approach.

Oh, and what percentage of the Canadian population would have received this (positive) counter-discourse to the stereotyping of mainstream media? The same percentage that would have happened to "tune in" and/or were randomly switching channels and decided to take note of TVO's 'agenda'.

Stress-metre Decreasing

My hobby went home to bury his dad; I am handling everything better than i thought. Everything's going well otherwise and i am feeling a little bit more in control of my life (perhaps because academic pressures have subsided somewhat). My daughter has been cold free for two weeks and i am happy for that as well. It's funny how the little things in life are what makes you happy, at least in my case.

I watched some reality TV last night: "The Bachelor" finale/final rose ceremony.
I am a sucker for romance even thou i know its not "real." The "bachelor" did not pick any of the final two ladies which is fine especially since he wanted to be honest about his feelings; but why lead the women on and have them believe that he genuinely cared about them (and not as sisters) and then dump them? He actually said that he didn't see anything in DeAnna that he wouldn't want in a wife, yet he sent her home broken hearted. My first reaction was: "Okay, he's either gay or crazy." I won't be the judge.

Sick Day

Mi sick lacka dawg...

Not a good week for me; my head is pounding like a road drill. Tylenol does nothing for me; and what's the fancy name for runny nose? Rhinorrhea-- i have that too. I am freezing even though the heat is up 30 degrees. Whatever Jaylah had i certainly caught the adult version of it! No coughing though (i'll take the headache over the coughing). I had to miss class today due to my overwhelming headache but that's okay, i needed the break anyways (unconsciously, am i happy that i'm sick? consciously, no!)

I am smiling my way through the rest of November.

Note To Self
Smile throughout the year.

JJ Being JJ

Halloween





This one cracks me up :)
Looks like she's meditating, shhhh.

My Life, Revisited

Guess it's time for an update, eh? Well, my lack of "updates" is just me trying to refrain from lamenting my life. Nothing new happened over the last few weeks, instead, everything is to my detriment, cyclical: home, school, home, school... with research, presentations and (Jaylah, my sweetheart's) appointments and illnesses in-between. Graduate school takes a lot of the "fun" out of learning, i find. I'm just not cruising along like i used to and it's more work overload than anything else. And you realize just how pathetic it all is when you cannot afford to take your face out of a book long enough to send an e-mail, make a phone call, curl up with your significant other...or you run the risk of "falling behind". I said i wouldn't come on here and lament but, there! I wanted to take a trip (back home) this Christmas, soooo bad, but i have a ton of work that i have to get done during Christmas, not to mention catching up on my RA/GA work; so i'm lamenting that too. Life's just NOT EASY, is it?

On a more uplifting note, I will be taking my daughter trick-o'-treating tonight, so i'll be closing the books for three hours. Stay tuned for the photos...

All Work

Busy as a bee, these days. My life is crowded with work, work and more work. I'm up to my neck in readings and i have two presentations this week (one was yesterday so one more to go). I am not keeping up with my RA hours which means i will be playing catch up in December. Single people i know can't imagine what it must be like to run a family and do full-time study. They tell me there's light at the end of the tunnel. This is one long tunnel.

People/books to read in the near future

White Teeth (2000)-- Zadie Smith, black British writer
The Unbelonging (1985)-- Joan Riley, black British writer
Small Island (2004)-- Andrea Levy, black British writer
Wish I Was Here (2006)-- Jackie Kay, black Scottish writer

Citizenship

Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
Derek Walcott

Well, not exactly "to the vein". I became a Canadian citizen just yesterday (as opposed to being a (West Indian) permanent resident). I'm eager to find out how i will feel being a citizen and all. The euphemism they use nowadays is: your "adopted homeland"...

There's the issue of belonging: do i feel like i belong, now? Nah. When i go back "home", i don't feel like i belong either. It's not that i don't want to feel like i belong, it's just that that feeling escapes me; belonging is not easy. There is also the two-faced narrative of belonging and unbelonging to contend with: (1) Afo-Canadians (ah, the politics of the hyphen) have a long Canadian history and are, therefore, rooted here. (2) The (only) two official languages (and founding cultures) are French and English. Now, that's fucking confusing. I won't get started on the multicultural politics cuz it'll never end. There's also the acerbic feeling that i've cheated the people from 'elsewhere' who don't get a bite from the apple of firstworldness. *Sighs*, i better get use to my complicated status.

Thinking through Race

"Every writer should feel free to write about any and all subject matter as a part of their creative impulse."

This is the general energy prevailing in class after having read a novel written by a white Canadian male author about Native Canada, cleverly disguised in multiple voice narration.

Professor XY (white woman): "If everyone (Blacks, Natives, Indians-- minorities) write only about their own identities then it can lead to a ghettoization (emphasis mine) of the literature they produce."

Why do i find this problematic?

On a Separate Occasion

Same idea that everyone should teach everything and race shouldn't factor into who's teaching what. A black person should be able to teach a course in renaissance literature in the same way that a white person should be able to teach African literature without there being a race issue. That's fine, except:

Me (black woman): "You cannot look at a person and not see race."

Professor Q (white woman): "Yes, true, but the colour of a person tells you nothing about that person. I see black when i look at you but it doesn't tell me anything about you except that you are a minority; i am a minority, too, in Toronto (emphasis mine)."

Why do i find this problematic and ironic?

Silver Moon

She hails the saccharine--
scented intimacy
of his quivering flesh,
rising.
Savours,
mingles, with the primrose
of his kiss (chiffon affair),
oh, that kiss--
like a thousand snowflakes
on a burning blade!

Red, always red hue
or blue, or yellowish blue
sheer pad of desire
like brewed chocolate
through hungry fingers
abated, and flowing--
she rides, the floating
shadows, alone.

Academic Plans

I have been very busy lately. I've been trying to blog everyday but, evidently, that hasn't been working. I decided a few days ago, after a very long and hard inner debate, that i will not pursue my Doctorate immediately after my MA. I know, i am surprised too. I still find myself planning for it though, and it makes me realize just how committed i am to that goal. It actually feels weird to think that after next summer i'll be taking 2-4 years off from the (dream) world of academia to enter the(real) world-- does Shakespeare's green world and world of supposes ring a bell? Among other things, i want to spend time with my daughter (when you're doing your PhD you don't have time for your family, really), I want to do some writing and i want to, perhaps, start-up a business and get some cash rolling in. I am thinking about starting up my own (private) school or something along those lines. After all, i feel like that's what i should be doing for the rest of my life. The trick is-- in a corporate capitalist economy, i have been told-- how to enjoy your career while making a business out of it. Hmm, we'll see. I feel like i am mourning the loss of academic learning because i haven't quite adjusted to the idea yet. I think my decision is final though. Funny how you can't always chase your dreams. I guess, in a perfect world you could.

An ECard for JJ

You are as sweet as caramel
and as precious as a gem
you are the throb in our hearts
and the courage in our stride
you have been both a challenge and
a blessing, as young as you are.

First, you entered the world with a bang
and, then, showed us you were ready
to move us with your charm.
You are truly an angel
as you never failed to brighten
and lighten our hearts,
with your happy-go-lucky,
persistent smile

We really hope no one will pinch us
to awake from this dream of
having you as our great big bundle of joy!

Love,
Mom and dad

JJ's Health and Dev.

JJ was hospitalized from Friday morning until Saturday evening due to wheezing and breathing problems. It was her first time so asthma was not yet a diagnosis. She did extremely well despite her illness and cheered, "wee, wee, wee", when paramedics wheeled her out of the doctor's office (even while she was using all her muscles just to inhale and exhale). All the nurses and Pediatrician at the hospital were enthralled by her alleged ability to articulate, and everyone who had met her declared, seriously, that she was an advanced one year old. The Pediatrician told me that JJ is no regular 17mths old and suggested, among other things, that i start her in a Montessori school when she turns two. Oh, she counts to twenty and knows and says a whole lot (too much to make a list). She's very perceptive and responsive and i can't wait to meet her parents (we, the alleged parents, can't remember being "advanced" at such a young age).

My Fave Author

Or, the Immigrant Woman

Since i have been fixated, over the last couple days, on the subject of the immigrant's presence in Canada, i decided to write about the one thing/person that helped me to keep it together in my early years as a student. I want to say that Dionne Brand is the most honest author i know. She tells it like it is, and you either take it or you don't. She was the first person who told me (through her work) that it's o.k. to be honest about how you feel, and to get angry if you have to. And, for that, i respect her a great deal. Her politics is so far reaching and i could always "return home" to her prose.

A Post 9/11 Dialogue about Race

Or, a Conversation about Friendships and Race

Black woman (in reflection): " You know, in all my years at University, i've never had a white friend, you know, like a good friend that happens to be white. I've had East and West Indian friends, South Asian, black, and Jewish friends but never any white."

Black man: "I can tell you why: most whites still think that they are better than blacks, therefore, they don't want to be your friend, unless, of course, they think that they can use you for something, or if you are famous like a celebrity or something. They think that 'you' should want to be their friend."

I've being thinking about this dialogue, and 'meanings' of it for the last two days.

The 'System' of Education

Literature, in the meaning of the word we have inherited, is an ideology. [That is, a system of specific class beliefs, images, values, and practices that functions to reproduce the dominant social order]. It has the most intimate relations to questions of social power- Terry Eagleton

When i wrote my politically charged article, "Black Statement or Writing Resistance", in March 2004, i wasn't thinking about "Truth" and the dissemination of knowledge; at least, not in the way that i think about it now. As an undergrad majoring in English Literature, i never came across teachings that dissected the canon and looked at it as a socializing tool. It is only as i read parts of Terry Eagleton's, "The Rise of English", that i came to this orgasmic realization. When i posited that "English courses perpetuate[d] my oppression" as a black female immigrant from working-class background, it was no overstatement. In fact, at times i felt as if i was going mad (with either fury or captivity, depending on the day). Speaking from my own location as racialized and socio-historically constructed being, i can easily say that each person needs a door, a way through which they can enter the world, the different worlds that are alien to them. The trouble i had rested in the fact that that door was lost to me, closed in my face, i couldn't find it. And it fucked me up quite a bit, psychologically. When that TA wrote my name on the board, in my first year, to explain to the rest of the class what/who race was, it fucked me up quite a bit. The door was closed in my face when i raised my hand to ask who/what was the "object" and who/what was the "subject" and she wouldn't let me in to the meanings of those words, in to the dissonance and discord that floated around in those words. I didn't know this at the time, I only know, now, in retrospect. Apparently, as i now come to realize, ideas of race, class, gender, space, place, history, geography and the dissemination of knowledge have never left me.

Waves of Opportunity

1. Received a letter from York saying that my essay did not win an award.
2. Received a cheque for $10 from the Ministry of Finance to help support my daughter.
3. Received advice on how to improve my SSHRC proposal.

Miscellaneous

1. Finally figured out what Bakhtin means by "dialogic Imagination".
2. Still wondering what Barthes smoked (that made him so smart?)
3. Need to go make dinner, now!

The Nature of 'Being'

There are times when i reach my own level of perfection: holding down school, running a family, giving to others when i can, pray, reach out to people, reach inner peace et cetera. But sometimes the changes in my life, as a go through different stages, make me question whether perfection is what i should be striving for. And i am reminded of this through the ghosts of fallibility that lurk in the shadows of my existence.

Excerpts and Things

Today was the usual busy day for me. Woke up, prepared breakfast, prepared Jaylah for the sitter, did some RA/GA proofreading, blah, blah, blah...

I spent the rest of the day trying to figure out what the hell Structuralism is, and thinking how privileged Barthes is to have the power to "kill the author." I sometimes wonder what these theorists smoked. Other than that, my day went fine. Actually, that was my day... no pressure though :)

Here are excerpts from the "long poem" i wrote this summer:

[...]

To see identity
de facto by default, the war never ended
The struggles, victories, barriers
The progress, regress, detours
taken.
The paradoxes of a stigmatized culture

Many came to escape war
poverty, repression. History
Yet, the havoc of flight is near
In this free democratic place
the presence of a black face, threatens
the v a l u e of an e s t a t e

The new false consciousness
misremembers history
The damage has not been lost
A new ‘ism sucks like a leech
on the surface of their existence

[...] ah, the irony of place
Guns in ghettos less disrupting
The rhyme, easy distinction
It is an old fight, this fight over space,
place

[...]
“We cannot let this happen to our children”
Our children, she says it with such conviction
as if it does not depend
on residence, on words

The s e m a n t i c s of language—
to live outside
the word: to consume in nothingness
language is death
Survival is unsure
Survival is fiction

Troubled area. At risk. Violent
[...]
The dreaded, unwanted appendage
of a city turned red, read
in the language of poverty, she sees
the carnage of the city [...]

To be classified, categorized, colour coded
It’s been here
It’s in the history of the place—
the history of the people of the place
There are no gatekeepers

Over the horizon of their oppression,
the sun rises
It touches the zenith of their fears
It descends upon hopeless dreams
The son never rises. Still, they dream

She, along with other West Indian mothers,
came—
were summoned, transported, shoved, HERE—
they arrived, are arriving
It is a cold place

They’d been traveling for years
migrating, moving
made to move, migrate, travel
It is an isolating place, insular space

Back. When
Aaron’s black babe bathed in blood
it never sucked
the sweet solution of its mother’s breast. So.
A f r i c a, raped, escaped
full bloom

Back. Traveling back
Freak. The hot hot tot, hotten hottentot
To be raped by language, traded, branded black
Outsider, outcast, outlandish
The black hottentot

“The sea brought us, them, hErE”, she knows, but. Still.
“A man was shot in the chest…” she stopped listening.
Unlistened. Switched channels
Tulips are in bloom—
She never cared for l i p s

She m o v e d HERE long ago
She remembers
the smell of salt. Lime.
human excretion

Not much has changed, much not
failed
promises delayed
Swindled race, Christian gain
Paid sins
no deaths were recorded

Here, there, where they live, they pay
she knew, knows
Trenchtown, Tivoli, Harlem, Bronzeville
Soweto, KwaMashu, [...]

[...]

The smell, rotten
stench of paucity
cold hugs, blankets
warming pain, stoned
hearts weeping, calling, wanting

[...]

But
the voices she hears are muffled, by
silences, sirens and streetcars

[...]

Africville, Negro Creek Road, the maroons
The Arrivants are still hErE
troubled, tainted, undone by language
“We are ugly, but we are here”

[...]

911

Yesterday, the inevitable, or perhaps, evitable, happened. I was helping my step-daughter with her homework while combing my daughter's hair when, suddenly, i started having some serious chest pain and heart palpitation. I was getting cold sweat and couldn't concentrate...
so i called 911. It took 15minutes for the whole thing to subside and only did so when the paramedics came and supplied me with oxygen. Since it was concerning my heart, they said not to take any chances and so they rushed me off to the hospital. After six hours and numerous tests, fortunately for me, my heart was ok. I did not have a heart attack but something that would make me feel as if i was having one: an anxiety attack. Never had it before and wouldn't like to experience anything like that again; it was a very scary thing to have experienced. They told me to take it easy and work out my life so that i will have less stress. All in all, i felt like i was in a nightmarish episode of HOUSE.

Thoughts of a Lone (Wo)man

When the tide of your life rises eight feet tall
who will you call?
when the willows whisper small
sufferings that will come
who will take the call?
when the waters soar within to disturb
the sweet comfort of your home
who will heal?
when sorrows visit your doorstep
without warning
who will deliver?
when the fringes of hope that
you have fails to conquer
who will listen?
when you surface from your
lowest low
what will be your answer?
when you no longer have sails
for your ship of troubles
where will you travel?
when the wind sweeps the neat
plans from your projects
where will you find ground?
Are you prepared to make it
alone?

Expired "Free" Time

First day of classes and, to quote Ward, i'm already "swamped and struggling to breathe". I still need to get a routine going. The aches and pain that i feel while walking from one end of the campus to the other made me realize the kind of shape my body was in. After all, i stayed home all summer; the funny thing is, i thought chasing my daughter around, everyday, would be all the exercise i needed! Now, i guess the joke is on me. There is no way i can possibly fit gym into my schedule, at least not right now; maybe not ever! Who said motherhood, marriage and higher learning could work? Oh yea, oops, that would be me! Actually, it doesn't, i'm the one who makes it work. I can't take all the credit, but most of it :) Now, if i could only get my husband to believe that...

tsk, tsk, tsk

Busy day for me. I ran around to do some last minute shopping and to fulfill some last minute appointments. I need a break! Given that classes begin tomorrow, i guess i will have to wait a while:). Summer went by fast, though. I did get to throw in some entertainment but i'm still thirsty. I have a couple movie and theme park passes/tickets that i planned on using before September, and here we are! Gee, i need to take it easy or i will grow old before i get young. Oh well, I will throw some fun into this coming weekend...

Autobio

My life is one big everlasting debate
a poem that doesn't rhyme
an open novel
a linguistic deformation
a sociogenic edifice
a house with too few windows
a game with too many rules
a story without closure
an ambiguous clause
a sophisticated struggle
an unsettling dream
an open battlefield
an irony
a meeting place
a metamorphosis
a site of trauma
a rebirth
... dissonance

Dreams and Things

I fell asleep last night with the face of the moon pressed against my window pane. The sky looked barren and emitted a kind of strange desolation. I got out of bed and fumbled with the curtains at my window to get a better view. It suddenly occurred to me that i had not seen the moon, let alone stars, for longer than i cared to imagine; after all, gongoozling at the celestial body is not exactly a pastime in a big city. I opened my window for a preferable view but only so i could further study its uneven pale face. I soon realized that there were no pimples or wrinkles, except a few minor scrapes here and there. I retired shortly after to the comfort of my pillow top mattress with a blithesome feeling of discovery that you can only get from the physical world. Eventually, i was able to fall asleep, and sleep did come easy but not without companions. I had two disturbing dreams. The abridged version of the first is that, for a reason i could not understand or, perhaps, remember, one of my incisors had fallen out and another was loose and pulsating. I held on to the one intact partly because i did not want to lose it, and partly because the pain was agonizing. The other dream was less painful but equally questionable: i was having a bowel movement over a long period of time with three other individuals in the same room impatiently waiting their turn. Luckily, i awoke to the piercing sound of my alarm clock and with only a sudden urge to urinate.

In West Indian culture, each dream has a meaning, good or bad. A dream is also considered a dose of luck for the dreamer, since it can be a solemn call for lottery winnings. There is a dream interpreter in every West Indian family, religious or non-religious, who is always willing and ready to tell you exactly which subconscious symbol matches a number; and the interpreter does not have to cajole anyone into buying a ticket; it is expected that you would not want to miss the chance of winning, and would, therefore, buy...(to be continued).

However...

sometimes we are our harshest critic. I am still very much in love with academics (in spite of our recent quarrel). I am still trying to figure out who i am, really. And my brain is always working overtime...

Academic Musings

As i embark upon this new and exciting journey called graduate studies, i am, again, thrown into the corner of my own meditations about higher education. While it would be quite an accomplishment for anyone to receive higher learning, the (abstract) reality and truth of what such learnings actually do to the human element inside us is nothing short of a systematic moulding. What i'm trying to say is this, and it frightens me to the core of my being:

When people become academics, it broadens the gap between them and the not-so-accomplished "others" in a way that is at once both a (capitalist) conspiracy and the workings of an intellectual cultism. I am thinking about the cons of academic learning, here, for i grew up hearing the pros. What happens is you go through a long period of undergraduate indoctrination wherein you learn various theories and literary practices through the political views of various professors whose views, in turn, reflect the dogma of the university as a whole. When you are being indoctrinated, you think that you are actually learning because you are told to "think critically". The irony is that, in the end, when you sit down to write an exam, or an essay, you are told that you have to "support" your opinions and "cite" sources because it reflects academic integrity and shows how talented you are. What students don't realize is that as they "cite" and "support" their "opinions" they invariably mirror/mimic/reproduce a knowledge system that is equipped with the glorious power of a (contained) intellectual tradition. By the time you begin to have an opinion, you not only realize that it is not your opinion but the branch of knowledge you have come to associate with, you also notice that opinions come after influence.

O.K, let us say that you decide to go further, and you wish to pursue the Arts. Now, you are a part of an academic elite, you can now do something which up to 98% of the world's population cannot do: you can comfortable speak in an abstract language which only a few people like yourself can understand, you help to maintain an elitist pool of knowledge (and maybe add to it) and you could close your eyes to the gaping gap between yourself and the uneducated poor; in other words, you can close your eyes to concrete reality and never be asked to open them; unless, of course, you decide to use your "credentials" to work for Red Cross, UNICEP etc. You may say, "i will be an activist!" But how far will your "activism" goes, and who will most likely be left out?

When we use words like "academic musings" we are already in a different fan club. We belong to, or at least, trying to get into, the club of "privileged decision makers" and "movers and shakers of the world", whether we know this to be true or not. Some say that poor uneducated abused women are abused because they do not have an education. Well, o.k., education/indoctrination gives you some choices, but. What happens when the abused woman goes to find help and is turned away because of red tape, perhaps, who knows, there is a waiting list at the shelter? Who, then, becomes the "problem" to society, the drunken husband or the educated service worker who is also under the guidance of her more educated "superior"? What about other things like having a government that ensures that all the people it is supposed to be "protecting" have equal access to food, clothing, shelter, jobs, medicare, libraries, technology and the pursuit of happiness? Surely, the well being of citizens should always come first, or at least, be on the top of things. But what does this have to do with higher learning? Academic learning shows you the gap between the past and the present, it gives you intellectual tools to notice the difference and then subtly helps you to widen those gaps and differences. So, if we must have it, an academic education should not be our only education, i'd say. We should also learn about the core of what makes us human, that is, vulnerable mortal flesh with a brain, a sex drive, and an insatiable appetite for progress. Academics must be introspective and self-critical.

Academic learning can make us all hermits, in some a sense. And whether we cripple beneath it, crumble, or reign supreme over it, we must understand that it's a language/knowledge cult, and that there is nothing "equal" about it. A medical doctor can spend three minutes with a patient (and not so much as call her by her name), and in this three minutes, examine her and hands her a prescription without explaining a diagnosis or getting to know her personally because he's not paid for all that trouble. The greatest task for all of us, i believe, is to find an equilibrium between higher learning and "other" learnings: that would be quite an accomplishment.

Nativity

The theorem of confinement
sits on the brow of each native,
on the wings of creatures
painting cirrus across heaven.
The halo of the native is the curse
of the fallen saint. There are no gods
for scavengers who raid the
earth, for in sin they must
rest: the cauldron of despair

The natives embark on
a journey befouled
by an invisible rod,
their decampment marred by
limestone pebbles and sulfur.
Their feet carry the sounds
of migrants mauled by
rough times

Their gazes avert to an
empty dream
as their eyes congeal the sorrows
of mass murder.
Hardened souls,
the neologists had thought
about them
for the native sees nothing

They cannot see themselves,
they are not allowed to,
their lives elude transparency.
Blinded by the beam of history
shining upon their land,
a land without soil, bearings
not to be found.
The natives are lost in time.

The lines of their palms are
the (new) fixation like
brick walls cascading,
a mirror without reflections.
Their wrinkled skin stretch to
fit rows of expressions of
the Ashanti, Apache, Yoruba,
Mandingo, Kalinago, Ibo, Cherokee,
Blackfoot, Taino, Cheyenne, Inuit,
Creole, Métis...

They see the hopes of their ancestors
betrayed
they must not remember.
The songs are dying, slowly
they will have no voice to sing praises
the beating sun recalls their destiny,
the cages of their minds

Ask the natives,
their lives are open like
fresh wound
deep with goo to fester
and spread like wildfire
but the cards show they
must live to conquer...
the cards show, they must live

Anxiety, Plus

Oh my, i'm nervously excited about starting GS next week. I keep wondering if i will be able to handle it; you know, all that "serious" work. Truth is, i wondered the same thing when i started my undergrad, and here i am. I am very intellectually insecure but i'm the only one who knows that. I told one of my professors that i was shy to speak when she invited a guest lecturer (*embarrass*) and i believe she was surprised :); i don't know, i certainly become a different person when i write. I feel more free to be honest and could care less what other people think when i'm being ethically or morally open-minded. As soon as i begin to verbalize, i almost become too cautious.

What annoys me most is a seminar in which nobody talks and we all just show up because of the participation marks and could care less if the instructor speaks for the entire three hours. To sit and listen to an instructor for three hours is more excruciating than getting my wisdom tooth out; not because he/she isn't doing a great job, but my attention span is not that long. In my first and second undergrad years (which are the listening years) i would often dream and wake-up to reality many times over before the period would be up. It's amazing how, somewhere between dream and reality, i acquired knowledge.

I like when i can look forward to a seminar, and when it's over, wish the next one would be the following day. I'm weird like that :). I have to get over my shyness though. Sometimes i get so nervous before i speak that when i do begin, i am, literally, out of breath. And my contributions are often times productive, i would like to think. Oh well, we all have things we have to "get over". Now, if i could only get over my fear that the MA program will be unmanageable...

Ten Things and a Poem

Here are ten things you didn't know about me...

1. i have been to the Cayman Islands
2. i received 100% on my citizenship test
3. i make my best decisions in the shower
4. i don't care for flowers
5. i don't gamble
6. i bite my nails
7. i dream a lot
8. i can't swim
9. i 'm faithful
10. i like diamonds

Accursed Romance

As a girl, she'd met him.
He took her, tempestuously
raped her, made her want him
she hated him.
He saved her, ruined her
she opened, like a jasmine
to his promises, kisses
playing for keeps, she couldn't.
He was her secret,
her "little white lie",
her escape, her jewel
her confidante.
They played chess, naked
with words, without language
he touched her, she cried
in pain, in ecstasy, in hope
that nothing was lost
between the sheets
of her heart, feign.

My "Fix"

I finished watching "Millionaire" and "Jeopardy" and needed a fix (i don't drink or smoke, i watch tv) so i scanned the channels and bumped into "Miss Teen USA 2007". Actually they reached a milestone this year: they gave the title to a brunette instead of a blond! Good for them! I'm much better at the "millionaire" questions than the jeopardy clues, maybe because i want to be a millionaire :). But that's ok, i'm more than happy with the little that i have. Some people win pageants, some people win money, and some people write blogs; who said life wasn't fair?

I'm feeling a little anti-establishment tonight, can't stand red tape.

Over the last couple days i have been reading and working on my proposals of which i now have one page (single space); one more page to go!

I had some shrimps for dinner today, again. I've been having it once per week for the past two weeks. I was allergic to all seafood except codfish and tuna. A couple weeks ago i tried shrimp (haven't had it in 10years)and realized that i didn't swell up, so i was happy and had it again, and again, and again. The next step is crab and lobster; scary. One step at a time. Now, if only i had 20/20 vision...

Making Preparations

Today i will be reading, reading, reading, and focusing on my SSHRC and OGS proposals.

Free Will

We should strive towards our own perfection.
In other words, we should strive to be our best self.

Mr. Dean

My prayers and thoughts go out to everyone in the Caribbean who have, and will have, experience the wrath of hurricane Dean. The Caribbean has taken too much beating from natural disasters; the man upstairs probably forgot to do a roll call to see who have had enough. I mean, since the arrival of Columbus, the roll call seemed to have stopped in the Caribbean sea. The man just bring pure bad luck wid em from Europe, cho. It's seems like Caribbean countries are set to beg their way through history since damages from natural disasters are always in the millions. Every time these countries try to stand there is always something there to beat them down. Residents can only watch in fear.

As usual, only the tourists can leave. Natives have never truly had the luxury of "leaving". I can just imagine the loss that the poor will face, not to mention those living on the edge of cliffs and close to the shores. People who have nothing before the hurricane will have nothing-plus afterwards. I spoke to my sister-in-law last night and she told me that hurricane Ivan almost lifted her house off it blocks and it was category 3 on a 5point scale. My sister's house was flooded from Ivan as well; this time she is reluctant to face Dean. I encouraged everyone to stay strong and they all agreed that they will have to. They refused to be beaten down in spirit by Mr. Dean.

Looking Back

I accidentally (?:)) came upon an article that i wrote for the University news paper over three years ago. Darn, i was pissed back then (still am about a lot of things).
Here's the link http://tao.ca/~cupe3903/web/documents/criticaltimes-1-5.pdf

It's on page 4, entitled, "A Black Statement or Writing Resistance"

NOTE TO SELF
Keep writing.

A Lousy Day

I did not do anything constructive today. In fact, everything i did was personally destructive: stressed over the uncontrollable, stressed over the controllable, got so darn pissed at Children's Services that i could barely contain myself.

NOTE TO SELF
Because i am perfect (and i mean this in the humblest way possible), it doesn't mean that everyone else is.

The "L" Word

"If two people love each other, there can be no happy end to it." - Ernest Hemingway

"Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden where the flowers are dead." -Oscar Wilde

Amidst all that is happening around us
i desire to think about love tonight
about how love makes us human,
both vulnerable and strong
about how love hardly negotiates
or compromise.
To love, and be loved
is such an amazing thing
it gives you stability, eases your pain
but it also makes you ache inside.
When you experience love,
it's like floating through air
with the clouds cushioning you
and drying away your tears.
Ain't nothing like love,
ain't nothing like the smooth,
sensual movement of love over your body.
its touch, its stroke, its rhythmic flow
through your brain.
Ain't nothing like love
it's like sunshine peeking through a storm,
it's a surprise and call for truce.
It hits you hard, and leaves you breathless
Ain't nothing like love
It smells like the first day of April
and the and the last day of Christmas.
It never leaves you cold but feeling warm
and peaceful inside.
Love is to die for
love is for keeps,
but never, ever, wear your heart on your sleeve.
Love must be genuine, and it usually is
when it has matured.
Mature love is less magical but no less heavenly
if you take the time to show the person you care.
The meaning of love is in its temper,
if it's angry love you have to think it over.
if it's shy love just give it wings
if it's disguised in a smile or small gesture
give it life
if it's stubborn give it time
love never fails, though it surrenders
in the battle of love the soul is often the loser.
Take heed to love and remember, all is never fair in love.

It's called LIFE

It started out as a very good day, actually. I woke up a bit late but, nevertheless, well rested. I went out to arrange daycare for my little princess as i will be heading out to grad studies pretty soon. After such formalities we went out to lunch; i decided to enjoy the outdoors as we are usually cooped-up inside ruining her summer. I made mac and cheese for the princess' dinner (it's her favourite), and stir fried rice with shrimp for the rest of the family. We watched "Baby's First TV" together with daddy and big sister, and we all ended up having too much water melon as we were very hot and thirsty; mind you, we do have central air, but for some reason, someone turned it off, and the whole time we couldn't figure out why we were so hot. Anyways, it's up and running again. I watched "Last Comic Standing" at 9pm because i enjoy a good laugh, and because i actually find it quite relaxing. My husband received a phone call from his sister at around 10pm. His father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. As a matter of fact, today is not a good day for the family.

Lights, Camera, Conscience

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all" - Hamlet

"I think we have to own the fears that we have of each other, and then, in some practical way, some daily way, figure out how to see people differently than the way we were brought up to." - Alice Walker

"Thou shalt not be a victim. Thou shalt not be a perpetrator. Above all, thou shalt not be a bystander." - Holocaust Museum, Washington, DC


Besides taking a trip to the doctor, and coming face-to-face with the red-hot scorches of the outside world, and grappling with some very hard personal decisions, and succumbing to an endless parade behind my daughter because she vowed to never keep still, and praying that the headache that she was giving me was just a phase, and wondering why life was so hard, and wondering why my life was so hard, and realizing how problematic it was for me to say that my life was so hard....I happened upon my own personal meditation about conscience and fear...

When i thought about the responsibilities that i had as a citizen of the world, and the fact that sitting on my couch reading a book written by an highly acclaimed author didn't exactly placed me in a position to do anything, call me crazy, but it made me think long and hard about my own complacency in allowing families living in cardboard boxes, children going hungry, children not having access to education and so on, it made me think long and hard about my own complacency in allowing these things to happen because i did nothing.

I also thought about my own political views which surprised me because i didn't know that i had any. When i thought about all the people who went up against powerful authorities and risked their lives in the name of revolution and change, even while knowing that their own lives were at risk, it made me feel more like a coward than i had ever felt. As i sat on my couch, i thought about this. And i realized that i had never felt more powerless in my entire life; and like all people with a conscience, i thought: "what can i do?", only to hear my own voice echo my own incapability. I didn't have the weapons, or resources, as they say, that i needed. I came to realise that my only weapons were my words. And nothing hurts more than a willingness to do something, and understanding the pressing need for something to be done, only to find that you could have only written a blog about it and move on. Cold, isn't it? I wondered how my life would have been different had i been so circumscribed by the rations of history (and the lord knows my life had been much circumscribed).

My only solace, and conclusion if you will, was that: knowledge gives us all a conscience, and it is also knowledge, not ignorance, which causes us not to act. A friend once told me that i always tended to put other people's need before my own. Maybe that's my problem, or, maybe, just maybe, i'm just being human.

Stories, Essays and Friendships

I woke up early this morning, well, not too early, around 9am as i went to bed past 1am last night. I was up doing nothing in particular. I like stories a lot, so i urged my hobby to tell me stories :). He insisted that what he was telling me were not stories but reality; in the end there was a long debate between us about what was a story and what was, in fact, reality. I could not convince him, try as i might, that when we re-tell something that happened in the past we all add and take away from it to create our own version, and that that in itself fictionalizes the "reality" of what we were telling.

He told me about two men who went into the bush to cook (flour) dumplings. While one was cooking the dumplings, the other went fishing for shrimps in a nearby river. When he was away, the dumplings, when cooked by the other man, came to nine in total. Soon the second man came with his catch and found that the first man had already cooked and shared the dumplings: five for himself and four for the man who went fishing, and he insisted that he got five as he was the one who cooked them. The other man thought that was unfair and asked the man who cooked to divide it equally so that he got four and one half, but the other man disagreed. A fight ensued between them, and, in the end, the man who cooked stabbed the other man to death over one half of a dumpling. My hobby insisted that this was a "true" story. Yea, sure. I'm a sucker for stories; i'm hoping my daughter will also be a sucker as i have quite a few to tell her when she gets older!

I have three or four essays that i have to lengthen so that they can be published and i know that i have that to do but i can't seem to get started. And i had the entire summer to "get started". When classes begin next month i won't have time, and they will get pushed aside until next year and i cannot allow that. So, i promise myself that i will start tonight (fingers crossed).

My best friend is no longer my friend, it seems. I'm not sure why, but that's the least of my concerns right now. I've learned that if people make themselves inaccessible to you, ain't no way you gonna reach them. God knows i have a good heart; i never kept many friends while growing up, but the few that i had were always dear to me, regardless of our differences. I hope the aforementioned have a long and prosperous life.

Beyond Pearly Gates and Picket Fences

I am writing this blog out of a profound sense of grief; almost like a parent who does her best to parent her child only to find that her child develops into someone she can no longer recognize, and she constantly thinks about where she went wrong, or if it was something she had said to the child, or didn't say, while it was growing. This blog is for those who like stories and never stop listening, even between the raindrops...

HERE'S A STORY

There is so much good in the world, yet some of us can't find it.
There is so much love in the world, yet some of us can't feel it.
There's always enough to go around but we don't spread it.
Why are we so selfish and possessive?
Why do we allow others to feel isolated and do nothing about it?
Love and kindness are free, yet we don't share it.
Life doesn't have to suck for those who don't have IT.
People who are hurting often show it, yet we turn and look the other way.
Pain is universal, yet specific.
Pain is individual, yet affective.
Can't we, each individual, take time to listen?
Can't we take time to hear the silenced stories?
Can't we say "fuck you" to social differences?
It's complicated, but it doesn't have to be, if we, each individual, won't let it.

Reading and Housekeeping

So, yesterday i cleaned and moved around some furniture. Today i did the laundry and continued reading Cormac McCarthy's BLOOD MERIDIAN in prep for my grad-English-lit class next month; it is, by far, waaaaay far, far, the bloodiest and most nauseatingly disgusting book i've ever read! I won't give a full review because then i would only be exposing myself for torture. But, boy, it's nasty. The setting is 1849 wild wild west, American frontier, manifest destiny kind-of-idea complete with the hunting, scalping and massacring of Indians. Every couple of pages, the reader is treated to gruesome murders, mutilations and all manner of body butchery. Men are eating raw buffalo liver, raw mule, raw horse meat, raw whatever *puke*. I'll stop there. What kind of imagination does this author have??? I know the book is based on real historical events, but lord! No wonder he avoids interviews :( . One blurb (in the book) about the author says, "McCarthy is a writer to be read, to be admired, and quite honestly- envied." Yea, sure, whatever. The book is extremely well written, but i wouldn't recommend it, unless you have really good control over your gag reflex!

On a more palatable note, I had some really nice baked chicken for dinner today, and guess who cooked? Moi! I know, i'm just so full of myself :) I don't enjoy cooking though. When i get rich i will be sure to hire a chef, that's it. I can handle everything else :) Hmmm, i will leave you with a happy note:

Roses are red, or yellow, pink, white... whatever,

violets are blue, i think,

sugar is waaaay too sweet,

and so are you!

...by the way, i did finish that Margaret Atwood book, ALIAS GRACE. Yea, the one that weighs 12pounds. It's thick, but superb. I'm not a huge Atwood fan, yet, but she is an amazing writer, simply amazing...

Ramblings about Remembering

You know that you are _____ when the lonely blank pages of a book can no longer contain your (life) writings and you need the public space of the world wide web to announce who you are and what you're about. The thing is, i spend way, way, too much time inside my head for my own good. Ha! Is there anyone else out there like me? I feel a bit special, but it's a weird kind of special. I am also caught up in the modern need to record and remember and i'm not sure why. Many people thrive on forgetting, like my mom, who remembers nothing (or pretends not to). I can't help but think about the trauma of amnesia, to permanently and completely forget. Forgetting, voluntarily, would be like killing a part of yourself, wouldn't it? The task, then, is not just to remember, but to figure out what parts of yourself to kill. Some people cannot afford to forget even though memory is sometimes painful. I remember when i first got my ears pierced at around six years old; i even remember the horrid pain and the twitching and crying that ensued as my sister passed the needle and thread through my ice frozen ear, inside our outdoor kitchen. Yet, i cannot remember what i did that night or the following day. Hmmm, it is probably a good thing that we can't remember half of our experiences, which is where stories from older siblings and grandparents while you curl-up-under-a-blanket-in-the-dark is always a treat better than ice-cream! But don't we always tend to remember the really good and the really bad stuff that happened to us? I mean, who remembers the name of their 3rd grade teacher? I know i don't. So, yea, this blogging thing could be the next best thing to (the trouble of) remembering...

Peaches, Please

She hopes she dreams she wants to take a bath in the tub of ease without worry she's faithful grateful needs to end the struggle as a child she cries in the corner of her dreams to be awake she eats nothing she walks for miles she fetches water labours long without before meals she's tired and needs to rest she cannot rest before she sleeps she tastes hunger on her lips and sucks her own tongue to quench her thirst she tries to live but dies each day as mama takes solace in another's arms she yearns for love while she sleeps on the floor at night to the stirring lullabies of mosquitoes ants nest beside her she studies the noise of crickets, bats and dogs and prays for daylight she cries each day for rescue but hears the footsteps of a stranger next to her she sees her future in the haze of her dreams for she dreams, many.

Let's Talk Trash

Many people drown in the wilderness of poverty having the weight of their dreams pull them down until they hit the-rock-bottom of hopelessness. If there is such a thing as survival, it is individualistic. People do not "survive" as a race or gender or class, but as individual soldiers of an incessant war. The "right kind" of race, gender and class certainly does make survival a lot easier, but not always. Many of these soldiers walk around with a lot of pain in their memory; and since memory is history, the nightmare of it is always at bay and hovering over the present. The social aspect of insanity, for there is a social and psychological side to each individual, is the result of the pressure to stay in line with the other surviving soldiers and the inability to keep up. Thieves, prostitutes, pedophiles, spousal abusers, alcoholics, drug addicts, obese patients et cetera, all suffer from social insanity because the main organs of society have failed them, deliberately or not. The war on terror has been home grown as it started with slave revolts, race riots, civil wars, bra burnings and hunger strikes. Social insanity was there from the start, manifested in the attempts to overthrow/eliminate oppression in its varied colours. People have to live with the cards that they are dealt; some have the losing hand and others the winning. There are definite winners and losers regardless of what capitalism says. There will only be one Oprah Winfrey and one Bill Gates. Parents tell their children the same lie that capitalism tells them: that they can be anything they want. Even though they know it's a sham, parents tell their children because they desperately want to believe it themselves. The truth is, it's a toss what they will be; whether they will weather the storm of life like a stone or dissolve like substance in solvent depends on that toss...

What Time is it?

Time is an amazing phenomenon. I became friends with time in the delivery room and we haven't parted since. During labour i begged time for reassurance and pleaded for it's speed. I was consumed by time: the timing of contractions, breathing, pain. At times time stopped, as it was, in my mind. I became nauseated just thinking about time, and when my baby girl was delivered, time and i became even closer: "1 o'clock, feed her, burp her, change her ", "3 o'clock, repeat diapering, feeding and changing", "take a 30minutes nap and repeat procedure", "take a quick shower between baby's nap-time and eat, quickly", "limit yourself to your personal space and be sure to sneak in enough naps as time may run-out!"

At fifteen months old, my daughter still takes much of my time, or is it her time? I still chase time, always trying to catch up. Time has become an obsession, another person in the family. There's breakfast, lunch and dinner time, nap time, play time, story time, visiting time.... time is the master and leader. There is never enough time, still, everything takes time. I had never been more time sensitive: i constantly check my watch, CONSTANTLY; i am always in a rush to catch time because i simply cannot afford to waste time. My life sits behind the wheels of a speeding time, and there are no brakes so i cannot stop time! My time isn't my time and her time dominates all times. I resent time, but i need time as without time i would be timeless; this is why i cannot waste time.... oh, why did i.... what time is it?

In Good Spirits, They Say

Well, i am in a particularly good mood today and for no other reason than that i'm happy. Every once in a while i have these little bouts of joy that covers me like a sheet fresh from the laundry. I find that i have to entertain positive thoughts nowadays when all else seem to evoke havoc and mayhem. We are living in times when smiles and happy faces are running scarce like grains in the middle of a famine. I'm very glad that i can find some peace within me and that my family is together and strong. I hope that those who scarcely have joy in their lives will someday find its solace. I cannot bring world peace (though i wish i could) and i now believe that such a thing can never be achieved. Human beings, in my opinion, have a subtle propensity to evil and it takes the workings of numerous chemicals on the inside and numerous social workings on the outside for us to be "good". We are like wild bears ready to prance only to find that we are caged into certain norms and codes of conduct. I choose to believe this over the other theory which says that we are all naturally good creatures because i feel like goodness is something that we achieve after knowledge; and, even then, we still have to try our very best to "be good". I hope that in our daily struggles we can successfully fight our own demons and emerge, close enough, to, well... this goodness.

Red Light, Green Light

The answer,
it coils in the veins
of a single blade of grass

Mother and Child

A lone dry tear caresses her
cheekbone,
it carries her (woman's) pain,
the weight of years it bears,
like a crow.
She is haunted by the loss,
of stars
in the dark (deep-blue) sky
her soul, raped by death,
consents.
She tries to speak, but her words
betray her
her heart beats, but without life
she sleeps
only to find herself awake,
mad grief!
She died her son's death
the grave
is left open, waiting
by numbers
the hole, is now home.

Mobility Rights

I am having a lousy day. I am so tired. I will be taking my citizenship test tomorrow, it's about time. I only read the-book-they-sent-for-me-to-study once so hopefully that's enough. I won't start on the "Canadian History" that you get to study, i'm just glad they included the Aboriginal peoples. I planned a trip to go see my relatives in the US only to find out that i need to be a Canadian citizen to go there. God, it makes me think about the politics of mobility rights. Only a those with first class international status can travel the world. If you are from the "third world" and poor, forget it. There is so much injustice in this world sometimes it makes me wonder if the man upstairs is sleeping. I am tired of being pissed off and i rock my brain trying to figure out what i can do about it only to realize that i just have to let it go...

In other news...
i bought Margaret Atwood's ALIAS GRACE because i'm trying to read ahead for my grad classes. It breaks the record for the longest novel i will have read for an English Literature course. It stands at a whooping 561pages. But more on that later, when i get over my crankiness...

Breathe...

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"

Who is "the reader"?

I am staring down Lawrence Hill's BOOK OF NEGROES on my shelf thinking: "do i really want to start reading this?" It's pretty long, 469pages. I bought it five months ago with the intention that i would read it when i get the time. I know that it is supposed to be an important book for Afro Canadian history and that its contents represent fifteen years of research and hard work; after all, i had been to Hill's presentation on the book. The trouble is, just from flipping through the pages and stopping now and again to read a paragraph here and there, i am not connecting with the narrator. Who would have thought that connecting with a narrator would be so darn important to the reader? It's weird. The voice just does not... umm, it's not engaging. I don't know, i'm imagining an old African woman but the words on the page do not seem to be coming from her mouth...

It's not that i am intimidated by the length of the book, God knows, i've had my share of big books! I can usually tell from the first four pages, because you get a feel of the tone, mood etc., if a book is going to be great. Austin Clarke's, THE POLISHED HOE, is just as "big"; the difference is that as soon as i read the first four lines from Clark's text i knew, immediately, that i would be in for a treat. Almost instantly, i could see and hear Mary-Mathilda speaking and i recognized who she was and where she was coming from. I don't know, i hate to past a judgement on THE BOOK OF NEGROES so early but i just don't feel this one. Hence, its place on my shelf, and me glancing over every now and again savouring its elegance and sheer size among my other "slim" creative texts. Hopefully, one day i will summon up enough courage to read it. I feel my conscience kicking in a bit, but nothing distresses me more than having to read a book only to find it disengaging; that's just painful. Gosh, it's painful just to write those words. Anyways, if i'm going to have any shot at being a critic, i'd better start learning that being harsh is part of the game!

Loving Yourself

So, grad classes begin seven weeks from today, yay! My sisters are asking when will i be done with school and get a job. Truth be told, i wish i never have to stop. Ah, i'm such a nerd! Well, what can i say? I love learning. My high school motto was "Vitta Sine Litteris Mors Est " (life without learning is death), and given the history of my history, i never want to stop learning. I feel like my ancestors were denied access to literacy and book learning in such a way as to preserve their self-denigration and put a leash on their potential as a people. And that is why so many of us are still searching for ourselves. Lord! I feel like i am about to start preaching! The reality for many of us is that we have to finish high school, if we're lucky, and find a job, if we are lucky. See, when you have that kind of history you are already at the back of the line, and when the race begins, you have to jump over hoops and hurdles to get to the front; some people never get to the front. When i look in the mirror (and i don't look in the mirror often) i see a girl with a dream, a big dream, who has to use a whole lot of imagination to see herself at the front of the line. The reason she still clings to that hope is because that is all she has. She has no inheritance, except what history has handed down, and she has no treasures. When i think about all the people that i carry on my shoulders, the pressure isn't so bad. This is our journey. So when my sisters ask casually, "when are you going to finish school?" they have no idea that it is actually a "we" question, and they also do not know why i always respond with a casual "i don't know" answer.

For all you believers and dreamers, keep believing and keep dreaming. Always try to be your best self, regardless of what others think about you. Define you, and do not let others be the definers of you and your destiny. Your future is what you make of your present, and only you can change it. Love yourself, love yourself, love yourself. Then, and only then, will you begin to see yourself among others and begin to love them too. Set a goal, and work towards that goal. Live everyday as if it is your last, that way you have no regrets. Be a leader by example so that others will see, and shine from your light. Love your children and teach them the importance of family; guide them to be their best self. This is the road to happiness. When you get there, celebrate...