The Reason Behind My Voice

Photo credit: Cash Macanaya on Unsplash Do you write people off or do you take them as they? While on my much-needed hiatus, I was able to do some introspection about life, people, and the spaces I occupy presently.  Photo by Dom Aguiar on Unsplash Earlier this year, I experienced a great betrayal (at one point or another, most of us have experienced this or will - it is part of life). I won't go into much detail, but it was from someone I held very dear and in high esteem. In the end, I realized that not everyone sees you as you see them.  People are complex - not complicated but dynamic.  Photo by Jeffery Erhunse on Unsplash If we are honest, we will admit that the people in our lives hold different roles for different folks. Someone we may deem as a hero in our story may very well be a villain in someone else's. I am sure that you have played a villainous role in someone's life. And that is perfectly fine because people are complex - multifaceted.   Take a ...

Photo by eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger on Unsplas h It took me a while but I am finally woman enough to admit it. I used to be afraid of being happy. I was afraid of experiencing joy.  It might seem silly, I know. But cherophobia is more common than we care to admit.  I think much of my fear stemmed from the false narratives I was fed as a child. "After laughing is crying" I would often hear. Whether it was on the basketball court, at school, or home. It did not take long for me to associate joy and sadness. I came to view happiness as a preamble to mourning. Photo by eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger on Unsplash After hours of playing basketball or swimming in the river without my mother's permission, I would come home to a waiting belt. No matter how much I enjoyed myself that joy was overshadowed by the punishment.  I had my first and only birthday party at 12 years old. I enjoyed it. But soon after that, I lost most of my friends who came to the party. Part of me wished my mo...

Annie Spratt on Unsplash I once wrote a poem about succulents. But the truth is I was writing about myself and my story. Indeed, I had come a long way and progress looked good on me. (Poem can be found in my book Bonfire available on Amazon.com) As we celebrated the stories of many women and how they changed the narrative, I began thinking of my story. Many will try to convince you that they know me or know my story. But albeit, I beg to differ. The truth is no one knows my story like I know my story. And no one can tell my story like I can tell my story.  I never wanted to become a teacher; that was my mother's dream and pretty soon it became mine. I handled that dream like it was an heirloom or a rite of passage. Something handed down to me and by all means, it would enable me to lift the family name, rinse it from the mud and hold it towards the sun.  Teaching would be easy. Everyone would be proud. They would all be happy for me. These were my thoughts. This was not so an...

  Photo by Eye for Ebony on Unsplash It is the story I hear at almost every family gathering or every other weekend when I decide to go home. My mother tells this story the best and although I have very vague recollections, I can attest that there is truth to it.  She says that as a child, I would not fall asleep at night unless she came to tuck me into bed. It was then that I would demand she sang me a song. She recalls there were times she would send my father to tuck me in but I would not relent. I wanted her to come by any means necessary or there would be sleep for none of us.  Between laughs, she recalls how tired she was from caring for four children during the day but I would have none of it. I would not be happy until she began to exercise her vocal range. She sang songs about her faith, our folklore, and nursery rhymes. The little spider went up the water sprout countless times and I am not sure if he/she ever made it out.  My mother hardly ever made it to...

  Photo credit: Humprey Muleba As a child, I looked forward to my father making it home after a long day at the farm. I remember staring at him and cupping my face while he ate or did something around the house. He knew that look. He knew I needed to hear another one of his stories so he would quickly complete his task or tell me one of his famous tales between bites.  I recently reflected on my relationship with my father and my relationship with storytelling. I love stories; it is carefully knitted in the fabric of my being. It brought me great joy to sit and bask in his well-crafted stories. My father is masterful at what he does and it still brings me great joy to listen to him even now. It does not matter that I have heard one of his stories before. I will still listen again and again. Until he grows tired of telling them (I hope he does not) because the truth is he will not always be there to tell me stories of his youth; of when he met my mother or when my brothers and ...

Photo Credit: Wherbson Rodrigues The senseless killing of George Floyd has sparked protests across the United States, parts of the United Kingdom, and Canada. Those present at rallies and marches have been calling for the end of racism, defunding the police and justice for black lives which were prematurely ended. These calls are very timely and these protests have been a long time coming.   These recent events made me realize how many systems around the world have been built to keep Blacks suppressed; whether subtle or out-rightly. The system has not been kind to us; it never was. We were taught to hate the color of our skin. We were taught that the lighter your complexion the more beautiful you were and the more favor you would find with "kings". We were taught that the straighter your hair was as a black woman, the greater your chances of finding a good husband and climbing the social ladder. We were taught to hate our gods and not to mention our ancestors. We were...

  It Gets Better!                                       Photo credit: Nappy As the curtain closes on Mental  Health Month, I felt led  to share my story with my readers. But before I go any further, I would just like to remind you of a few things.  Mental Health Awareness is important.  Your mental health is important.  Your thoughts matter.  You matter. It is no secret that there is a common but undeserved stigma attached to mental health. Whether or not we want to admit it, everyone  has mental health. Just as one is concerned about their physical well-being, the same should apply to their emotional well-being.  However, this utopia does not exist and many of us neglect to take care of our minds. Being raised in the Caribbean I have noticed that we do not talk about our feelings, we do not share what is bothering us and we seldom reach out ...

  Photo credit: Javon Swaby   I had so many plans for this year! This was supposed to be my year of revival, releases and recovery. I thought for sure had seen enough down days and I had been educated at the school of hard-knock for long enough; it was time for graduation.   It was much to my dismay when this lock-down was  issued and my plans had to be placed on hold. I did not plan for this. Where did this set-back fit into my plan? After all, 2020 was really supposed to be a movie. I had to learn through the disappointment, through the pain and loneliness. As a writer, you learn to see the good in everything but when you are "in medias res" this can be quite a task.    If we are to be honest a lot of good has come from this lock-down.     Photo credit:  Kehn Herman   It has made us more creative.   As creatives we are taught that the world is our stage and we must always be prepared to perform, ev...