Last Bording Call for Flight 595 to Shame

Stopping at a nearby shop I infrequent for various reasons now historical, I was drawn into converstaion with a man I recognize. Well, I know him, I suppose, but in the shallowest sense of know possible. I know they call him short man. I know he lives somewhere 'bout dey and I know he drinks too much.

So, coming out of the shop with my mustard and juice, I lingered too long and became the object of his romantic confessions which started almost sweet but deteriorated quickly, him having a slippery grasp of the english language. It went something like this: "I like you- don' mind you does pass me wid barely a shout and it would hurt me tuh see you hurt. Fuh trut', yeh... if you d'in pain, I would tek dat pain in my own heart. I see-rious...if you have problems you can speak wid me, yuh know, fuh real. But I is a man who does shy from girls like you, sight? And too besides when I does see you, you always rolling wid some udda man and I does respect my bruddas propety. But still, if I had you fuh my self, Jah knows, I would never let you out of my control. I got real love for you. No lies."

I thanked him and wished him a good evening.

A converation of this nature is something of a daily occurence for me. Most of the time it comes from the lower end of the social stratum as their dignity is somewhat less fragile, but in quiet surroundings with less of an audience a "better man" will lavish me with the same speech making corrections to the gammar and employing more exciting and ambiguous vocabulary.

A man has license to say anything doesn't he? He can confess love, appeal to guilt, appear vulnerable, pour out his soul... and the next morning wake up- claim it was all a game to get a little pussy and damn it's not his fault if the bitches are naive. Men just don't have to stand trial for their words. They're never accused of being damaged or scorned. They don't get branded pycho. In fact, their pathetic love-hurls actually enable them to score! Even faced with rejection their candour rewards them with a gentle bandage and a butterfly kiss of compassion.

Thank you. Good evening.

Then Friday night I was with a friend when he received a text that went a little something like this "How can you treat me like this? Leaving me to go with her. After all that's happened between us. I hope she fucks you as good as I think I did. (that's a direct quote) I like you blah blah blah but you hurt me boo hoo hoo." And from out of the mouth of a woman the same words holler- pathetic, desperate, run away before she boils your bunny. I felt so sad for her. I found her shame most painful. Except now I'm thinking what if she woke up the next morning and claimed it was all a game to get a little doggy and damn it's not her fault if the cocks are naive?

A woman is to be coy. She's to be calm. She's to sustain her mystery. A woman is to be aloof. She's to be guarded. She's to control her emotions. For whatever a woman says, a man will always pass it through the mental detector and query any alarm that suggests needyness. Whereas a man who is open and honest and passionate and candid and emotional and communicative- he sails through security, his bags don't get checked and he ends up getting it on in the loo.

I thought back to all the times when I might have been the author of that text. When I should have acted cool. When I came across as foolish. When I ran them away because of words and to be honest, I thought of enough incidents to fuel the shame plane. But now that I've had a chance to pick at the double standard and consider who I am I think back to the times when I might have been the author of that text and damn, I'm brave. I'm fucking hard core. And despite what all the words might suggest- I have no need for any pity. I got me under control and if it's scary it's only because I've got the Vincent Price laugh in my heart. Woooah ha ha ha ha ha !

Debridement of National Narcissism, Please.

I'm always weary of how much we blame others for the filth in we culcha. The national psyche is a case study for Peck's People of the Lie. But then the nationalism and pride-of-self in Barbados makes it treasonable to even blow on the religious zeal of Bajanism. So we preserve our illusion of paradise by becoming the worst kind of xenophobes. Hypocrites with absolutely no ownership and conscience.

Everything ugly, everything 'sinful', everything stinking of rot, is attributed to outside influence. Smut- it's the Jamaicans. Thieving- it's Guyanese. Racism, Prejudice, Inequality-it's the Brits and slavery. Ruthlessness, Apathy, Greed-Americans and globalization. If it were not for the world beyond the sea we'd be walking with Jesus along the sandy beaches, eating fruit from off the trees and singing Kumbaya. If it were not for MTV and BET and CNN and HBO we'd be freakin' Adam and Eve before the apple.

I say we because I earned my stripes in BIM unlike those who were born into flawlessness but I'm being presumptuous. My navel string is not burried here and so I will always be tainted by my past. In fact, I suppose, I am the enemy robbing you of your cultural perfection-envious of your close proximity to God. And do I sound bitter? How dare I sound so! I can hear it under your breaths... "Why don't you carry your white foreign ass home!"
Only thing- this is home.

This is where I grew into a woman; this is where I bore my child; this is where I learned to think; this is where I surrendered. This is more than twelve years of my life. It's become me.

But twelve years or not, I can't let go of those formative years up north. I can't pretend that my roots aren't elsewhere. And I can't look at this country from inside a rose coloured fish bowl and pretend our shit smells sweeter than everyone else.

We're thieves, racists, backstabbers, liars and cheaters. We're disloyal, uncompassionate, shallow, unforgiving and malicious. Bajans. It's we culcha. And yet despite all these things, I love BIM and I find my way to laughter. I endure year after year with new discovery of how happy I am on this rock. Shit, we're only human. My arms are too full of sins to carry stones.

But this culture HAS to debride itself of the national narcissism that promotes self-deception, guiltlessness and rationalization of evil. This denial of a conscience- this sweeping under the rug has got to stop. We need to take responsibility for our choices, for this island and own it right or wrong. Not because of some divine punishment in the form of a tidal wave impending and not because we won't gain entry into the pearly gates to drink milk and honey with the saints but because we're blessed and we're wonderful and we have so much to be thankful for and absolutely nothing to be ashamed of... except, of course, our disgusting lack of shame.

Of Jesus, Eunuchs and the Trojan Horse

Drawn in by the mannequin with double D breasts, Shackles and I entered the Twat Shop to browse through edible undies and lickable warming lotion. Saleslady, already peeved from having to chastize us for fondling the impressive plastic melons, assured me in her haughty taughty way that the chocolate and strawberry drawing pencils DO taste good, in fact, she'd bought her daughter a set based on the flavour factor alone.

I watched as Shackles, ever discreet, moseyed to where madame sex candy connoiseur was sitting in front of her computer assuming my friend wanted to size up her internet porn. But alas, Theresa Twat had her Christian minded attention focused on some hot and steamy gospel videos. I had this sinking feeling that we should run but the legs wouldn't move. With our shutdefuckup purchase of Irish Cream Liquid Heat we got a complimentary critique on our shabbyness as wives and mothers. Something about my child- the victim of my assailing selfishness, something about my life- a derailed train to disaster, something about her wisdom- happily giving her marrow through 4 years of marriage, something about Jesus- the light, the truth, the way. I think she just was angry I didn't buy the chocolate pencils.

On my way home today I was held up in a eunuch motorcade. Young men, no longer in school yet still without a thing to do but wait for the final bell to ring, joined forces of about 6 to 1 and entertained the Pine intersection by cuffing and kicking the shit out of boy solo. They then proceeded to take full advantage of the road works construction and armed themselves with heavy boulders- heaving and chucking them at the boy's back, chest and head. I hung up my phone, rolled down my window and hollered "LEAVE THE FUCKING BOY ALONE!" and then I leaned on my horn unil I was joined in concert by the line of dumbfounded eunuchs suddenly riveted by the idea of doing something. 6 against 1 paused for a moment to assess the sudden noise. The victim tore off running down the highway. All I can wonder is how many boulders us spectators at the Pine would have sat through before a reaction. Would we have watched from our air-conditioned comfort- the skull of a young man collapse into his brain?

We regurgitate our Sunday lessons interpreting the 'judge not' to be passive.
We attack the consumer with Christian propaganda and moral superiority surrounded by crotchless thongs and lubricant. We think our responsibility for the betterment of the nation is watching human injustice as if it were a flic at the drive-in then placing a call to Brass Tacks to compare our disgust in the youth of today. Where do we fit in to this picture? What mark do we want to leave here on this rock? What contribution are we hoping to make when we lunge at the unsuspecting with a Jesus vaccine in a ten inch syringe then sit idle as a young man is stonned to death on the sidewalk? Will we ever have the courage to stand naked in front of a stranger and let them see us for what we are- dirty little self-gratifying creatures? Can we take ourselves light, step up on the stage and bear whatever's thrown at us? Because the way I see it, until we get off that high horse we've been straddling- we're doomed to the Trojan fate.

International Women Aligned at the Seam

International Woman has been popping up at me all day, but just as soon as I take notice, she runs for cover again to be forgotten. And here, now, at the eleventh hour, I finally catch up to her, tired and almost out of breath. "What....what do you want from me?"

I look up from my desk and my eyes rest directly on an old children's toy I keep as a cultural reminder. It is the first time I'm struck that this isn't a symbol of my heritage so much as it is of my sex.

At first glance it appears to be a metaphore for motherhood. The baby Babushka in the belly of the mother and so on and so forth to the oldest, largest Babushka carrying all the weight of their generations within her. Upon further examination, however, it doesn't seem to be telling a story of motherhood at all.

When I was very young, just learning to write, I remember hearing about the cold war and perhaps I asked a question and perhaps the answer didn't penetrate properly but whatever happened in my head, I sat on the pink carpet of my room and I can clearly remember crying. I took out a piece of paper and started to make a list of the greatest concerns for mankind. Never the brain, I got it all mixed up. 'The 7 Wunders of the Wurld'. what is love, why is there war, why do we die? I don't think my poor heart was able to get much beyond that.

Now 20 some odd years later my wunders haven't changed.

I think back to the little girl I was then and the only difference now is that I'm bigger and can carry more weight. I carry the little girl, I carry her 3 minus 7 wunders, I carry the teenage girl, I carry her 3 times 7 blunders. I know that my Babushka doll still has some layers to add... but there are enough layers of the same now to recognize and admit that the next layer to come is going to be the same as the ones before- only bigger and able to carry more weight.

I think of the last episode I saw of Amazing race when the teams had to search frantically for the next clue in some belly of a room full of Babushkas and the chaos of it strikes a chord. Layers upon layers of mixed up women waiting to be put back together... Perhaps it's true that we weren't to blame for the disorder but certainly, we can't go on bemoaning the mess. The time is ripe for us to buck up and face who we are in this world; stop forcing together layers that don't fit; cease mixing ourselves up with the Babushka's around us. It's a long, tedious, arduous process, this humpty dumpty labour we're facing but it is beyond necessary.

There is nothing less fun and more frustrating than a Babuhska doll with mixed and missing pieces. Topless women who get used as change dish and ashtray, bottomless women spinning like tops. Anyone whose played with Babushka dolls knows that the pleasure is in lining them all up in ascending-decsending order and then putting them back together as one, bellies perfectly alingned at the seam.