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Last Year Cali, This Year Calabash
June 04 2012
I don’t expect you to remember, but around this time last year I took a trip to Oakland, California and it changed my world! I met so many other brown queermos and bathed in the sun and drank nettle tea from the garden every day. It was such a beautiful and eye-opening trip for me.
Well I can’t believe it, but it has been almost two weeks since I left Toronto for my rip to Treasure Beach, Jamaica. A couple of years back I remember reading or hearing about a literature festival that happened in Jamaica every year that had days of amazing writers from the Caribbean and I swore that when I could, I would go
Fast forward and this year fom May 25-27 I had the honor and the pleasure of attending the 10th annual Calabash International Writer’s Festival in Treasure Beach, St. Elizabeth, Jamaica. I was thrilled to be present for readings by: Kerry Young, Carolyn Cooper, Marcia Douglas, Alicia McKenzie, Maaza Mengiste, Victor Lavalle, Anis Mojgani and more. In addition to the scheduled performers and authors there 2 hours of open mic on the Saturday and Sunday and let me tell you, I was floored. There is such strong talent coming out of Jamaican poetry right now that I could feel the excitement flowing through my veins to my heart and becoming inspiration.
During one of the open mics I had the opportunity to read and I took it, reading a very personal piece entitled Mad Black. I wrote it a little while ago while going through some nervous times and dealing with the Medical Industrial Complex while being a queer black woman on social assistance. Not fun. Anyhow, it was what I had on hand and while it may not have been my first choice I went along with it and was glad I did. The reception (based on applause, haha) was mixed and I felt a wave of shame and embarrassment for reading something so vulnerable. I was comforted and reassured by my traveling companion and then later by a man who approached me to talk about the subject matter and to tell me he thought it was a brave move I had made. Blessings.
The festival was just one part of my trip as I stayed in the rural town both before and after it. We stayed at a little villa and beach cottage called Cacona. It was one of a string of well-priced and hospitable cottage/bed and breakfast types lining the beach. I can’t place what it was that made me choose it for our destination but I did and am glad I did so. It is a smaller, out of the way place so was empty except for us for the first few days. In that time we got to know our outstanding host Alicia and her not-quite-two year old son Dream. It was beautiful. Just sitting on the patio or out in the red dirt surrounded by mewing, too skinny kittens and this small family felt so right. Between Dream and all of the festival babies (and their mothers), my womb was throbbing throughout the entire trip and now I can still feel yearning of motherhood creeping around my consciousness. Le sigh.
Something else that really has stuck with me is the sense of national pride that I experienced there. This year marks the 50th anniversary of Jamaica’s independence from Britain and the LOVE that people have for the well being of their people and their country is pretty rad. I mean, I just have no lived experience of people caring so much and fighting so hard for, say, Canada. Being “Canadian” means not a lot to me because of my position as both a descendant of slaves and a settler on Native land. Tres Complique. Coming here to Canada was a difficult and important goal for my family. It involved saving and spending what little money they had as well as the wrenching separation of mothers from children for as long as ten years at a time. It is a hard place to be resting in these days: not quite here (canada) not quite there (jamaica).
I’ve returned from my trip feeling grounded in my own strength and invested in learning and living more of my Jamaican roots. I learned so much about history, activism, the environment and all of it just grabbed a hold of me and won’t let go. The nation has swept me up in its pride and capacity for social change. The more I learn about my own anscestral heritage and its complex geography of connections, the more I want to learn about Jamaican histories.
There’ll be more on this as my memories settle and my ideas formulate. I’m sure of it. xo
Filed under About Me
Wild Etta
For three days every week, Charlotte nannies for Oscar and Etta. Oscar and Etta are kind of magical, precocious, loving children. The kind you come across once in a lifetime and are so grateful for.
Oscar 4, is bright and questioning and endlessly compassionate. He’s thoughtful and knows how to take care of himself. For example on one afternoon Charlotte came into the living room to find Etta wearing all of the hats she could reach, dancing, screaming and sticking her tongue out; what we call “Wild Etta”. Oscar however, was pressed against the wall facing her with his dimpled hands covering his striking green-gold eyes.
“Oscar are you ok?” Asked Charlotte, worried for the little man allergic to the world.
Oscar uncovered his eyes and looked at her,
“It’s too funny.” He replied.
Charlotte smiled and her heart kicked around inside of her chest with love for these children. Of course she thought, as she remembered that sometimes when things were too much for him to process, mostly funny things, Oscar just took a little break by retreating behind his eyes. Smart, charming self care tactic.
Where Oscar was quiet and thoughtful, Etta 2, was…untamed. On the other side of her nestling, affectionate self was an endlessly entertaining and unpredictable gremlin.
With her brother in half-day school, Etta had free roam of the house, with Charlotte of course, until they left to pick him up. There would be breakfast, getting dressed and then play play play until naptime. Even naptime had it’s own perfect schedule. Once the hour started nearing Etta would grab Charlotte’s hand and motion to the stairs, where sleep happened. She would sleep undisturbed until she awoke calling “CHOTTI!”, ready for the afternoon.
On this particular day, Etta had gone down for her nap as usual and was sleeping soundly, as usual. As the time went on however, Charlotte noticed that Etta was having a remarkably quiet nap. No murmers, whimpers, soft singing. So she crept upstairs making sure not to step on the spot that always creaked too loudly. She listened outside the girl’s door – nothing.
“Etta are you –” She whispered as she slowly pushed open the door and her hand flew to her mouth to cover the loud gasp that escaped.
Between her and the crib were the following:
footy pyjamas including snap buttons
teddy bear
pacifier
stuffed bunny
afghan, blanket, sheet, under sheet – all from crib.
underpants
diaper
These items lead a jagged trail to the crib where Charlotte arrived just in time to see the naked Etta squatting and peeing onto the vinyl covered mattress. She was smiling a crooked grin.
“Wild Etta”
Charlotte only had a minute to stare in disbelief before she had to hurry to restore the balance in time to pick Oscar up from school. As she picked up the wildly distributed clothes and blankets she could not figure out how this 2 year old child managed to wrestle with bottom to top buttons, diaper Velcro, and a fitted sheet. She couldn’t get a clear image, much less ponder into what erupted in this little girl’s mind to make her take such drastic actions. Charlotte couldn’t guess if the pee was the end goal or just something that happened as a flourish.
Etta watched, nonplussed as her masterpiece was delicately dismantled and put back on her bed and body. When asked, she had no explanation for her actions and just answered
“Chotti!”
With that, Charlotte couldn’t help but smile as she swept up the goblin princess into a tickly embrace and hurried to get Oscar. Or as Etta called him – Osky.
Filed under Read
R.I.P. Adam Yauch
Sad to say that one of the members of one of my fav bands has died. Adam Yauch, founder of the Beastie Boys lived with cancer for three years before dying today in his native New York.
here’s the obituary:
Filed under About Me
Oh Oh Obeah
Recently me and a date went to a showing of Obeah Opera by Nicole Brooks, an a capella opera taking place during the Salem Witch Trials. It follows the story of 4 slave women accused of being witches for practicing religion and spirituality other than Christianity, such as Obeah.
It is the best theatre I have seen since last year’s Eating with Lola by Catherine Hernandez. Which caused me to bawl and floored me with it’s exploration of histories and our elders.
It feels like this play arrived right when I needed it to. For the past few months to a year I have been on a quest to find my ancestors. My grandmother is one of my primary people and she knows just about everything about my family. Except, of course, what came years before her. Being poor black people in the late 19th century into the 20th, there wasn’t a lot of record keeping occurring in my family’s favour. Birth, death, marriage certificates don’t exist. But there are legends.
I grew up hearing the term “Obeah woman”, learning to believe that these were wild and unruly women of Jamaica. They weren’t to be trusted.
Brooks’ deconstruction of where those fears and judgments came from spoke to the conflict I have been experiencing between what I have been taught and my longing for the traditions of my ancestors.
An Obeah woman/man, beyond what I knew and what wikipedia says : is a term used in the West Indies to refer to [someone who practices] folk magic, sorcery, and religious practices derived from West African, and specifically Igbo origin.
I have just recently put down this amazing book on Caribbean religions that gave me such impressive knowledge about all of the different locations the slaves came from in Africa and how it influenced their descendants. Not surprisingly, many of the religions in the islands come from the traditions of the first slaves to the region. The connections just go so far back and I am so thirsty for more of those connections to live in my brain and in my blood.
Obeah Opera answered some of those questions and heartened me to know that there are so many other diasporic folks that are looking far, far back in search of directions forward.
Filed under About Me
frustrated
I am not a news hound but there are items that catch my attention and hold on for good.
A couple of weeks ago, a Toronto Police officer shot and killed a mentally disabled black man on the streets of a residental neighbourhood. He was being held at a nearby hospital for a 72 hour assessment and somehow escaped and was found roaming the area in a hospital gown, no shoes, holding a pair of scissors in each hand. Those were his only weapons. There was an outcry, a vigil, but still no answers as to why the officer reacted the way he did – three shots point blank at a lost and disoriented man. After he had been fatally shot he was tackled to the ground and restrained. Read the article if you like.
Not weeks later, another mentally ill man went missing from the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. This man, George May is white, has been convicted of murder and institutionalized at the above. It was not his first time escaping from a psych facility and both times, an alarm went up, police were involved, and he was returned presumably unharmed. The police involvement however differs in that when May went missing the police were called in to help find him and bring him back.
I try not to call racism unless I have really thought about it but RACISMRACISMRACISM!!
more later when i am not so frustrated
Filed under About Me
parkdale paranoia
This has me quite rattled. As a woman, queer woman, woman of colour I sadly have practical reasons for being scared of walking alone at night. I avoid it at all costs unless the distance is short enough that I could run if I had to. I hold my keys between my fingers in case someone gets to close. I am going to buy pepper spray.
This woman was in her OWN HOME. This man was determined and had a target, it seems. I am feeling for her so much, I want to know if she is ok, is going to be ok. I want to reach out to her somehow to tell her I have been thinking of her constantly.
The fear of the outside is one thing but to imagine this situation is, I haven’t found the words. As it is I check my locks fastidiously; I scan the surrounding area of my house to see if anyone is lingering in the shadows. This event has crumbled what security I felt I had. I am still processing this news…
Filed under About Me
year of the dragon – bring it on.
Guess what?! I got into school! As of this September I will be attending George Brown college for ASL and Deaf Studies, hooray! It all happened so fast. Like a lightening rod, one night me and a couple of friends were chatting about getting older, futures, maintaining our sanity…somehow the topic of me as an ASL interpreter came up and both of my friends (bless their hearts) both exclaimed “YES! Why haven’t we thought of this before, you would be so good at that!” well I didn’t waste anytime, got my application in and the rest is history.
I am connected to a wonderful, sexy, vibrant crip (disabled) community. It has embraced me throughout my journey with fibromyalgia and the fall out of that reality. So I am around ASL frequently, and particular, a certain interpreter who changed what I knew of sign language. She is charismatic, emotive, earnest and expressive. Whenever I have seen her interpret I have been moved and find myself watching her as much as the performance, lecture etc.
Within the interpreter community, there is definitely a slightly homogeneous demographic. I come to ASL as both an interested and committed student as well as a queer woman of colour and activist. I have found it so grounding when I am at an event and the people in the room represent where I am coming from. Black. Homo. Disabled. There are so many other bits to me of course 😉 but it can feel less alienating when you look around and aren’t the sore thumb.
Little Dragons
With that out of the way and a direction beginning soon, I have a teeny tiny bit less stress and am overflowing with creative ideas.
I have recently started three new sewing projects: quilted zine library and computer sleeve, and a patchwork table-cloth. I don’t have images yet but that is my next step. (I am writing on an aging, grey haired laptop)
Samples and in-progress shots to come.
As you might have read, things have been really tough lately. Pretty much the last three years have been struggle in terms of my health and happiness. But something has shifted. I don’t know if it is the stars, the earth shifting or what. I have been feeling a little better (mentally) and am finally getting close to getting help with the pain problem. I am excited to create, still having some writer’s block but hoping it will break!
I feel like life could actually be possible…in this moment anyway.
xo
ps – we also got a new foster dog who I am falling in love with. you can read about him on my dog blog http://blackgirlbigdog.blogspot.com/
Working hard lately to get my little projects done, zines and quilts and things. I am learning for the first time how complicated and confusing photo-copying can be. I have managed to mis-copy at least one page 3 times so far!!
So on Tuesday I stopped by a FedEx Kinkos to get the last error fixed. Normally I do my photocopying at the small mom and pops close to where I live. There is one at the bottom of Roncesvalles Ave, Quick Copy I think, the fellow there did my first zine for me and has been great since.
However here I was. I had about 45mins – 1hr to get it all done because I was mid-nanny shift and the little rosy cabbage had just fallen asleep for napping.
Get my shit done, go to check out and this happens (trigger warning: sexual harassment)
FedEx Man: “mg (my comp user name). And what does that stand for?”
Me: (deadpan) “my name.)
FXM: And what’s your name?
Me: (stutter, try to think up a fake, tell him it’s none of his biz but-) Melannie.
FXM: G?
Me: My last name.
FXM: (loudly) Melanie Omoro! (who??) respect, respect..
Me: um, who is that? (he is taking FOREVER to finish the transaction, I just want to bolt feeling trapped)
FXM: You know, you look familiar – did we go to school together?
SERIOUSLY?!?! at most, I could pass for 35 AT MOST. but really, I feel like I look precisely late twenties. This man, however is easily in his mid-late forties, also black.
Me: I doubt it, I am a lot younger that you think, apparently.
FXM: Ohhhh so your saying I’m old?
************sighsighsigh************
Me: I dunno, maybe you have a wise beard.
What I should have said:
Yes. I think you are far too old to be coming on to me with my baby when I am just trying to get my work done. Put your cock back behind the cash register and back the fuck off. but I didn’t, and am feeling kind of shitty about it.
FXM: You’re not in your forties then, but in your thirties?
Me: sure. (feeling trapped and uncomfortable, trying to sooth a just waking up baby, want to yell, become violent)
FXM: (suddenly in a west indian accent) A biiig woman now wit’ her own baaaby!
Me: Yeah, he’s cute.
end of transaction
Gettin on my coat I hear “buh bye Melannie buh bye” in a baby voice. I look behind me to see asshat waving and trying to convince his co-worker that he knows me.
I am over it! I have been over it since it started. Black men: just because we might check the same box on the census doesn’t allow you to disrespect me by starting a coversation just to get laid.
PISSED!!!
**this is a constant occurrence in my life as I am sure it is many others. I welcome and encourage comments.**
Filed under About Me
text to bff re: will power
In the spirit of honesty, I just wanted to share this message I sent my darling friend sm. They are my most strident supporter and are always encouraging me to post/publish more of my meandering thoughts. so much love.
Trigger Warning: addiction
Almost a whole bottle of wine and craving cigarettes. The lure of blinding intoxication is thick, both weighing me down and speeding my heart beat all at once. Suddenly all of the sherrys, ports, flavoured liqueurs bought for guests and french cooking have become glass goblins. They jeer and beckon with sinister merriment, advertising a good time. I want to resist but all of the bottles are open and my inner demons are thirsty. I feel electric and dangerous like a vampire queen flush and in heat. Aching for ecstasy but the warmth from my groin has died. Loins dried from inattention and fear, my brittle petals have fallen and been crushed underfoot. In this darkness, in my shroud of despair I see in the distance a sparkle. A flicker of light reflected on amber glass – filled with the distilled, aromatic balm. A remedy for remembering. I stand poised above its surface, daring myself to dive.
Fold a Fitted Sheet 