I am a Rock. I am an Island.

As I look at the happenings in my world these days I am understanding my dad more and more.  Strange that I should.  I’ve ALWAYS identified more with my mom than he.  But there are things that can only be reviewed by the adult mind of a parent when thinking back on ones childhood to make sense.   I remember not fully understanding my mother’s pain when my dad died.  This man who emotionally seemed to hold her down all our lives.  Made her feel bad about herself.  Dalliances with other women.  Never lending to the vision of them moving out of the “hood”.  I guess back then we saw it as being liberated.  Then I got married and lived with Earl.  It really was one thing to date him and see him often and what not.  Living with someone and calling that person your lifemate really changes things.  After only months of marrying and living together, I started to see him as an extension of me and I an extension of him.  There was a comfort-ability there I’d only achieved with blood family.  He saw the whole of me.  Not just the prettied up me that folks got to see when I came outside; but the dull, boring, possibly annoying, home body me.  And loved me anyway.  He became a better friend to me in marriage than we had been dating.   I thought on how I’d feel after a year of being married if he’d died… and my heart sunk so hard….  It’s only then I thought… well then… how about 38 years?  Even if it wasn’t all bliss all the time… the routine alone has something to say for missing a lost loved one.  Of course I only came to that realization after she too had gone… not too long after telling us she really didn’t have anything to live for.  That burnt a hole in my heart… and I’m not quite sure I’ll get to the point in my world where I’ll understand that commentary.  I hope I never do.

But back to understanding my dad.  All my life, Daddy was this… lofty ideal…  I couldn’t put a stamp on who he was or what he was.  He was there… he worked hard.  But he found so much more enjoyment outside the house.  So much so that he’d come home and I suppose be reminded of all the things he was running to the outside to get away from.  Family. Responsibility.  Rigamarole.  At least… that’s what I thought.  But living here now… the ONLY person in the whole edifice that doesn’t share a blood line with anyone else but the brand new baby… I’m understanding my father more.  Growing up, we were literally SURROUNDED by my mother’s family.  All the aunts and uncles we met and knew were my mom’s brothers and sister.  Grandma that raised us was her mom.   Only living Grandpa was her dad.  Countless cousins that surrounded us were from her side of the family – be it Grandpa Osmin’s family or Granny’s side.  I would sometimes wonder where Dad’s family was – but they were mostly all in Haiti still.  The ones that did come visit – my cousin Marlene and my uncle Gabriel – i remember with fondness.  Maybe mostly because they made an effort to come up and be a part of the family.  To get to know us in some way.  By the time his sister, my aunt Yvonne, moved up and lived with us for sometime, I was already grown – an adult so it didn’t really matter to me and I considered her presence more of an inconvenience because she got my room and I had to sleep in the living room for the length of her stay.  But while I was being raised I remember mom’s family coming to live with us for months at a time as they made their exodus to the Americas.  As a kid I thought nothing of it.  It was fun.  More family… more stuff to do and people to talk to.  But now I think about my dad…. cornered. In a house full of “family” that wasn’t his family.  His only relation was to those little rug rats running around.  No family in the city… state… country…  No one who knew him from before he was a husband or a dad or an American, even.  Just his wife’s family.  And their chatter.  And their ways.  And their togetherness, which you seem to be perpetually outside of.  None of them understand how stuff was done when he was growing up in his particular household.  His father had passed when he was just 11 and they had to make it happen w/o an adult male presence in the household.  Dad had to learn how to cook so he could help his mom.  Being the youngest and the only survivor between he and his twin, he loved his mom extra much.  Shit.  We barely felt it when his mom died and he traveled down to Haiti alone to bury her.   How alone he must’ve felt in that realm.

The lonesomeness wouldn’t be so bad if when I did reach out to family, it was well received.  But they all sit there on their high horses all talking about “YOU don’t call.  YOU don’t write. YOU don’t visit.”  I guess I’m the only one with a phone, a pen or email and a car.  Either that or all their avenues are incoming only.  These same people I mentioned above who were all about family when they lived with us… fell away when mom died.  And I’m not sure what they expected of me.  Folks get confused because I LOOK like my mom but I am not her.   We don’t do things the same.  We don’t really have the same mannerisms.  And her tolerance for BS was way higher than mine.  My tongue is sharper too.  And it was mostly silenced out of respect for HER.    But now that she’s gone — all of them can get it.  They want to NOT answer their phones when I try to invite them to the baby’s christening – then FUCK them.  They want to wait upon invite after invite after invite all to just NOT show up then criticize that I don’t try hard enough?  FUCK them.  They want to never act like their phones work going out.  FUCK THEM.  I have narrowed my circle significantly.  The only family that tries to keep the ties: Domi.  Tante Sisi.  Ollie and his mom.  Oncle Vava (and i know he doesn’t stay in touch because of that ugly BITCH wife of his). Even Ginette who is only a family member by marriage stays in touch more than supposed real blood relation.  That’s it.

The rest of the so-called family can heed this message:

The original nuclear died off with Mom and Dad.  All the nuclear i need is here.  Hubby.  Baby.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

-Simon & Garfunkel

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She is not Me. She is not Mine.

So many things I’m learning and coming to terms with as I go through this motherhood journey.  I feel like I’m experiencing a whole new world.  And I am.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that this little girl isn’t me.  I look at her and instantly the memories of pictures of my mom holding me as an infant; me chillin in a crib with full winter regalia ready to go outside; rosy cheeked afroheaded baby new to this life.  I look at her and I see myself.  But really – I need to stop that.  She is not me.  She will be completely different from me.  As she’s a completely different person.  I can’t keep projecting me and my experiences on to her.  She’ll experience a world unlike the one I grew up in and that will make her different. better. stronger. more courageous. more ambitious. more action oriented.  I hope.  And my purpose is to help her build the foundation for that.  She isn’t here for my entertainment or to fulfill some gaping hole of a need in my soul.  I’m here to help her now.  Whatever my life was before shouldn’t really take precedence anymore.  It IS about her when it’s about HER.

This also means that she isn’t “Mine”.  Little voices in my head revolt when I hear about the experiences she has when I’m not around.  Being paraded around the block by her grandmother and coming into contact with various people that I may or may not know… may or may not approve of.   And this voice starts to rant on in a jealous tone.  “I didn’t ask for all that to happen.  Who said it was okay for her to be in so&so’s company?”  And I have to step back and remember – she isn’t MINE.  She doesn’t BELONG to me.  She belongs to the world.  As much as I am her mother – E is her father, MaCora is her granny, J is her uncle, etc.  And she’ll experience all of us differently – but she doesn’t BELONG to any of us.  She is her own spirit.  Her own entity.  I have to come into respecting and honoring that and somehow still making sure there are boundaries for her protection.  I guess I’ll get to figuring that part out as I go along.

There’s a whole lot of feeling around in the darkness on this.  I’m at a loss for my elders to ask advice.  The elders that are around (E’s, mostly) advise me not to go reading a 100 books on the subject of parenting and try to focus on having my own experience with her.  But as per yesterday’s blog… my own experience seems to have whittled down to 2 hours on weekdays and who knows how long on weekends pending on the weekend.

I might have to get some counseling.  There’s too much on my heart and in my mind.  I gotta get ahead of it all before it overruns me.

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Trade Off.

I had a seriously strange dream last night.  I don’t remember a lot of the details, but the gist of it was this.  I was given the choice to exchange pieces of my life time for a chance to bring back my deceased loved ones for that period of time.  So – if I gave up one day off of how long I was going to live, I’d get to see my grandma alive again in this instance for 24 hours.  More time given up… more time to spend with that loved one.   In the dream, I deliberated it for a very long time.  There were so many factors that I needed answered:  Would the person be in the same health as they were before their demise?  Would this be a wrenching of their soul out of heaven?  I weighed options for so long in the dream having just given birth to my little one… thinking – the time I’m taking away from her having me as her mom on this earth… but… she’d get to know and see her grandmother…  It was such a huge conundrum because I know at the end of the day it will NEVER BE ENOUGH.  And I’ll experience the loss all over again when she has to go.  The first time around I know – even KNOWING the end is coming doesn’t cushion the blow.  And now… so will my daughter – because I know she’d LOVE my mom… there’s no question.  But at the end of the dream… my mom was there.  I don’t know how much time i gave up, but i fear it was a LOT.

The dream kept me tossing and turning all night long as my heart who longs to see my mom again wrestled with my mind that knows it’s best not to unearth the dead… literally.  So I asked the question on Facebook to see what others think.  I’m sure some movie house will steal the idea for a movie down the line – they always pick at my brain for the best ideas *snickers*  But it was such an interesting situation… because I always say I’d give anything to see my mom again…  But would I?

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What’s the big deal, Haitians?

As much as I would have liked to ignore what’s going on around me, this is something that caught my attention not so much because of what was said — but moreso because of the widespread reaction as a result.

On Friday morning, I got a text from a few of my Haitian comrades stating that Rosenberg of the HOT97 morning show had made a statement to the tune of “I’m HIV Negative because I don’t mess with Haitian Girls.” I’ve worked in radio too long to believe these kinds of things at face value. I’d worked at HOT97 too long to believe everything that came across my blackberry or email. I asked my friend if SHE actually heard him say this. She responded, “No, but 3 of her friends heard it and wrote to her immediately.” After making a few calls and asking some well placed questions, the truth came out that something was indeed said – by Cipha Sounds, not Rosenberg. Here’s exactly what went down in that few seconds. K. Foxx was talking about a benefit she attended where they introduced Sir Richard Branson’s new condom, designed to bring awareness and stop the spread of AIDS in Haiti and that she brought them some of the condoms from this function. A quick chuckle and under his breath (but into the microphone) Cipha quips (this is the actual quote people…) “Well, I don’t mess with Haitian girls, so I’m fine”. Immediately his co-hosts reprimand him for being disrespectful, Rosenberg makes a joke about the condoms themselves and everyone moves on.

Now, having worked there for many years and having interacted with Cipha Sounds, I know that he was just doing what he thinks he does best – being the class clown. What he doesn’t realize is how very old and painful a wound he stuck his salty finger in and twisted in that moment. So in case you’re reading, Ciph – here’s why my people are seriously enraged at what seems to only have been “a one-liner”.

Flash back to the 1980s (I’ll do a truncated version because I know how the attention span can go pretty quickly). AIDS awareness is on the rise and is striking fear in many a good red blooded American’s heart. They’re trying to pin the blame for AIDS wherever they can find it. And it seems most logical to pin the source and nexus of the disease on the places that seem to be most heavily affected. Back then, various countries in Africa and my dear homeland, Haiti. It was widespread in the news and media that these were the places to place blame for this scourge ravaging our planet (oh, and Gays. right). Well – who doesn’t believe what’s in the media? Or at least – how much less was it questioned back then. In 1989, I attended St. Francis Preparatory HS (GO TERRIERS) and there was a massive blood drive. 13 years old and excited to do something to help my fellow man, I had my parents sign off on the permission slip and marched proudly into the auditorium where they had me fill out another form before sitting down to submit my donation. The form, in triplicate was about 8 1/2 x 14, mostly demographic information and 2/3rds of the way down the page there was a section that stated “Ethnicity”. First question in that section: “Are you of Haitian Decent?” Me, back then? I PROUDLY checked off “YES”. I was never NOT proud of my heritage. But I was also a little slow on the draw. When I finally got up to the nurses they shared every reason with me why I shouldn’t give blood. “Oh… it looks like you’re coming down with a cold.” “Your blood iron is a little low.” “You seem like you’re feeling under the weather, maybe you should sit this one out.” I almost thought nothing of it until my friend Jean came and told me they said the same thing to him… and a handful of other Nouveau Haitians (1st Gen American Born) stated they got the run around too. Then it made sense to me. We had been “profiled” by that little question on the form. It was so ingrained in the masses minds that we were to blame that it had made it on to a form that designates willful giving to help save lives. I was so hurt, I vowed NEVER to donate blood in this country ever again.

In another instance in my life that burns this sentiment deep in my heart, walking into my building one day, I saw a man talking to someone outside before entering the building. I caught a hint of a familiar accent, but I’d never seen this particular man before. The Haitians in my building were all “family” – everyone watched each others kids. As far as we were concerned, all the kids were “cousins” and the moms and dads were “aunts” and “uncles”. I figured he was coming up to see one of our families. We both got into the elevator alone and as the doors closed, I asked him shyly and with respect “Hello sir, are you Haitian?” His reaction will never leave me. He started to back into the corner…. as if I was going to do something to him. I had to quickly allay his fear, “No, no no…. I’m Haitian too…. I heard your accent…” Immediate relief washed over him and he said ‘Yes! yes I am! Oh, wonderful – where are your parents from, do you speak Kreyol…. ” all the regular parts of the conversations between countrymen.

We weren’t always on Eastern Parkway waving our blue and red on Labor Day (think about it – those of you who’ve been around long enough). For a VERY long time, Haitians on a whole were ASHAMED because what the media had pinned on us and we kept to ourselves. I hate to hear that Haitians only come out now because Wyclef made it cool to be Haitian. We come out now because America’s memory of the pain they inflict is a short term one. And we were finally allowed to just live and be proud of who we are and where we came from.

My post is not directed at Cipha, really. I don’t agree with what he said, but I also don’t believe that he understood the magnitude. My post is more so to those who have reacted with “It was just a joke, get over it.” My question to them is – then when is enough enough? At what point do a people rally against insult and injury? When they start to stone us in the streets? Burn our houses? Bomb our land? Then? Then is it alright to rally together to tell the world, “HEY – STOP IT. WE ARE A PROUD PEOPLE and will NOT stand for your slander.” No. I think this is enough for us to be angry. And now, those of you who read my blog know why. Especially after the year we’ve had. Truly in poor taste to kick a people while they’re down. But… some places have a history of that.

*

Separation Anxiety

My dream-self got left again.
It happens every so often. I drift to sleep- sometimes even in my Earl’s arms only to awaken in Dream Vicky’s nightmarish reality. This time it seems some Reeney character had made her way into the house and into Dream Earl’s heart. And while he vehemently denied doing anything, she draped her self all over him with words and actions. Saying that she loved him and needed to be with him and there was no other for her and the time they’d spent together meant the world. Dream Vicky was chasing this girl around yelling like a crazy person for her to get the fuck out and don’t ever come back and stop breaking up my home and what the fuck bitch. Only at the end, for her to saddle up behind Dream Earl and wrap her hands around his chest — like I do in reality to the real world Earl — and hold him tenderly…. and he did nothing to attempt to break free. Dream Vicky looked at the two of them and realized… SHE wasn’t the one that was wanted in this situation. And spared no time reacting. The argument was taking place in my mother’s old bedroom and Dream Vicky stormed into my old bedroom and started pulling out Louis Vuitton luggage (nice goin dV) to begin packing … all the while wondering where she’ll go. Who’ll want her now? How will she start over…..? Have all the years meant nothing? There’s so much more to leaving now, isn’t there? What about the 22 dream embies on freeze? What about the fact that dreamE doesn’t want to even try? NEVER MIND WHO he decided to leave me for…

What will it all mean?

I finally woke up from it but replete with all the heaviness and sadness of a real fight and real separation. The real Earl came to comfort me and reassure me that he’s not going anywhere and that it’s me and him for life. And while that was good enough for Real Vicky – I worry about my Dream self. And what she’ll do now… It ressurrected this sensation in me from a post years ago. A picture that I found postsecret.com in 2005 that resonated with me then…and seems to resonate with Dream Vicky now…

I think there are negative contrails out today… everyone is feeling… down.

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Solitude

“In my solitude… you haunt me…. ”
– Billie Holiday

This past sunday was a factionista brunch to bid adieu to our sweet Tinsel Top. She’s moving to ATL to start a brand new life for herself there. I get all full when I think about it… about where in life she was when I met her… how EXTREMELY FAR she’s come… I’m just… so proud and so happy for her and so sad that she’ll be so far… But more excited for all that’s waiting for her there.

So as we were sitting there catching up on our lives and tv shows and celebrities and pleasantries, we happened upon the story of how I discovered that I now am allergic to Alka Seltzer – how i seized up from an anaphylactic reaction one night choking on my couch, worried that I’d die all alone (Earl had chapter meeting that night). And Icy says “Well… who are you talking to these days? Because I certainly didn’t know about any of this.” The rest of them nodded in agreement. The conversation moved away from there quickly enough for me not to have to actually provide an answer. But I’ve been asking myself ever since. Used to be that I’d consistently be posting my thoughts here at least. But as I was making the transition in jobs, I didn’t want to divulge too much. So I internalized a lot. For months. And I am trying like hell to break out of not blogging anyways… but in terms of talking to any given human beings on a regular basis… the one person who heard from me every single day whether it was by phone call or visit was mommy. There was never any “bringing her up to speed”. She had the CNN hotwire on my life. Always. And as I look around – I don’t really know who in my life has that, aside from E… and truly, that’s by virtue of the fact that he has to see me every damned day. Poor kid. I always remember wanting someone in my life who got the every day phone call to shoot the shit with for hours, text nonstop through out the day… read each other’s blogs…. share similar philosophies on life and if not we helped each other get there (where ever THERE is – mentally, emotionally, spiritually), first person I think of when I get some free shit to share with… the one that’s always down to hang because we were both home and bored…. down to roaddog on ridiculously long trips… But I think that I fail myself for wanting ONE person that wants to do all of that. I have someone for all of those scenarios. I’m lucky enough to have several individuals that can all step in and individually fill those voids. And I should be and AM happy for that. It just makes for recapping the same stories…. A LOT. LOL! Maybe… in this 140 – 160 character, best friend eliminating society… this isn’t the time or the place to look for or want that or need it. Brief touch ins should be enough. But I feel that my life is lacking in that way.

I’m re-evaluating so much lately. One often meets their destiny on the path they took to avoid it… I looked a how lonely mommy was all the time. How down on her self and situations she stayed and never highlighted the amazing accomplishments she made in life. How ultimately sad she was, no matter what. And I don’t go so radically as to do the opposite of everything she did in order to avoid the consequences… Though…. I find myself being just as quiet as she was lately. When amongst groups… I spend more time listening than talking. I’m becoming increasingly more private with my thoughts and actions (outside of having a blog the whole world can read). I’m internalizing a lot more emotions and sensations. This can’t really be good. I’m not sure what to do.

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My eyes are Green… ’cause I eats a lot of vegetables…

It’s really good to recognize something for what it is. Even if it may be shrouded as something else.

Last night wasn’t actually a bad night. Just some not-great things happened in it. I got home after an extremely productive day at work and the Hubby was cooking dinner for me. Sweet and thoughtful and wonderful. He made chicken patties so we could have a little picnic dinner. I ate them… They were delicious. But something didn’t sit right with me ultimately. I got a horrid tummy ache and felt out of sorts. I wasn’t my self. At 9:00PM I was contemplating turning in for good for the night. Which I did, but I didn’t stay down. The tummy got worse and so did my demeanor. I was just miserable. Eventually the hubby made me some hot tea which I drank quickly and I sniffed some Peppermint oil and was able to stay down for a while. Part II of the torture came in. Remember that Drake obsession? Well, I’m now convinced that there is something subliminal in the music. Because it’s haunting me. No matter what I do – it’s the only music I hear in my head. I listened to nothing but Gospel yesterday (Help – everyone who knows ME? knows it was for work — it’s just not my cup of tea). And somehow the long tones held for the Lord couldn’t scrub my brain clean of Drake’s music all night… it was juggling between verses with Nicki Minaj or duets with The Dream. It was actually KEEPING me awake. Which is a sure sign it’s time to put that album AWAY. But… the night doesn’t stop there.

Part III of the torturesome night comes in the form of a dream. When I finally did close my eyes long enough, I found me and my hunny strolling through the streets of some town. Just chatting. At one point, we sat down on the steps of a town house. Pretty house but was old school… needed some repair. Outside, there was a great big Yellow valance hanging down from the outside of the topmost window down around the entrance. The house felt familiar and comfortable so we sat on the steps talking. In the middle of our discussion some people come out of the house — looks like they’re going for a night on the town. They look familiar… but I think it’s my mind playing tricks on me. The lady passes by and I smile at her and she smiles back. The gentleman passes and gives me a huge hug and continues on his way. I don’t find it to be strange at all. Just some friendly people in this dream realm. We decided to walk into the house and make ourselves at home (I know right?) but they left the doors open. We sat in the parlour room and watched tv and chatted over beverages. Suddenly I hear the chatter of children and I look up. There’s a man standing there in an orange sweater and blue jeans and another man in a white v neck long sleeve and jeans. They are assessing the house. I look down next to my hubby and there’s a woman sitting next to her with the eldest of what looks like 2 baby girls. The youngest one is cradled in the orange sweater man’s arm. He finally turns around and it’s JC. I gave him a most evil stare and said, “what are you doing here?” and he flippantly responded “I’m in the market for a house.” “Not this one,” I returned, “It’s not for sale.” And he frowned up his lips in assessment and mumbled “they need to….” I glanced at the babies… I couldn’t see their faces… But they looked happy and sunkissed and perfect. I glanced at the hubby and he was gone… I stood up and walked out of the house and asked them all to please follow me out – the house was now closed. JC shrugged and gathered his family and friend and left. Almost sucking his teeth at me on his way out. The bile bubbled up in my stomach and woke me.

I know I’m only footsteps away from the things I want in life. The things I’ve been chasing. But I’m only human. I guess deep down inside… I’m envious of people who seem to have things … I must think they don’t deserve. It’s not my place to decide those things. But… I’d be denying a very real and essential part of me if I tried to pretend that all of me is okay with it all of the time. I am slowly realizing my dreams. It’s happening. But every now and again, when I look into my dream mirror… I allow myself to feel what I suppress in my waking life.

It’ll be funny to reach back and read this post when all my dreams are fulfilled. I’ll think… “How silly was I to ever doubt….”

*

Nightmares, much?

Horrid…. terrible imagery last night.

As I slept, I dreamt about an island in the night. A small island, covered in palm and plants and the camera of my mind circled over the island. There was activity in the center the land… firelight… drums… an ancestral ritual and dance. Getting in closer, we find those natives dancing about the fire in ceremonial dress chanting and pounding the earth with their feet causing a unified noise through out the island. And the closer I got the more intense it became until one of the natives let out a blood curdling cry that announced the event’s commencement. I suddenly found myself in the center of this event in a bamboo contraption that perched me so that i was 4 feed off the ground, but it had no SEAT per se. My belly was HUGE with child and I had on a white linen garment with shells and beads – although dusty from the moving terra and dancers. In front of me…. my mother on my left side. my grand mother at my right. my right foot planted on my grandmothers left shoulder and she held me tight by my knee and my left leg on my mother’s right shoulder while she did the same. They both moved towards me which placed me in a squat position and told me to push. And although I was scared to push, their presence assured me that I didn’t have anything to fear. I pushed… but didn’t give it my all. I didn’t really feel anything. The drums beat louder and my heart was pounding in tandem. “POUSSER!!” my mother implored (which means push in french) and I felt her grip on my knee tighten and her move closer and this time i PUSHED and something came out… a red bloody mass attached to me with a long bloody cord… not like what I’ve seen on the stories or in books… My mother took the main mass (which normally would have been a baby) and carried it away which only gave my grandmother mere seconds to cut the bloody cord, which she did swiftly. No sooner did she cut the cord than was my mouth FILLED with blood… Cheeks puffed out trying to hold all the blood that was suddenly in my mouth. Not spitting it out because I sense that it was important to keep it there until the proper vessel was presented, I wanted to ask my grandmother who was still there – “where is my baby?” and she looked at me almost sympathetically, but didn’t respond. I looked at the bloody trail that was left behind by my mother carting away the bloody mass but couldn’t see any trace of my mother. I started to break down. The blood leaked out of my mouth onto my white, dusted garment and I fell to the floor where more blood began to pour out of me from all orifices. And the dancing became more intense with the chanting and the final scream of my grandmother with white shaman face makeup…..

And i woke up.

I’m shaken because my GRANDMOTHER normally comes to give me good news….

I have NO idea what this is supposed to mean…….

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