The Blogger Reflection Award

When I first start blogging, I did feel as if I been talking to meself. Then I discover other bloggers…and…

...suddenly…click…click…

…the whole world open for me!

I discover people in faraway places who feel the same pain, loneliness, anger, hate, love, joy like folks here. Circumstances, culture and socialization might be different; skin, colour, hair texture, they so varied. But when you take away all o’ that and get to the core of who we be, we’s the same.

Pain is pain. Joy is joy. And as we say in the Caribbean, ‘madness is gladness.’ Everywhere.

All you bloggers make me think about these t’ings, and how I wish I can give this award to everybody, the same award that Pat bestow on me. The Blogger Reflection Award. But them rules say choose five people. I decide then to choose five who plenty o’ you might not know though I got them in me links, and one or two does drop a comment to me sometimes.

According to what I read, “this award should make an individual reflect upon five bloggers who have been an encouragement, a source of love, impacted you in some way, and who have provided a Godly example. In other words, five dear bloggers whom, when you reflect upon them, you are filled with a sense of pride and joy...of knowing them and being blessed by them.”

So…as we does say in Guyana, lookee deh deh, deh…look it here…

Geoffrey – Jamaican in Miami. He come across as a gentle soul who believe in the One Love message. Plus he got a cool sense of humour. And he can write! What I admire about Geoffrey is the positive way he blend he Caribbean culture with the culture in he new home. This blending, and he One Love philosophy, show up in the chil’ren book he just publish, Grandpa Sydney’s Anancy Stories.

Anna. She is a tiny, li’l ‘Merican with the biggest heart ever. One time, when me blog went tumbling down, she rescue it and she offer tons of help. I feel as if I been imposing on she time, but she never let me feel that way. And Anna does write in ways that make me drool…even when she is sad about the monotony of life, she sing out with celebration. [I wonder though when she gon realise that That Cat does rule she life…]

Stephen Bess does write pages o’ wonderful stuff about African-American writers, musicians, artists, history. Sometimes I sense a tinge of sadness in he about the past…but I don’t think that Stephen let history make he bitter. He write a post, Thinking about Thinking, that sum up who he is. “People often think of Monday as a day they would rather skip, but I look at it as a new start. I think to myself, what will I do to improve myself for the coming week? What will I achieve?”

“Sure Woman Dawn.” Well, lemme tell you, words can’t say enough how proud me is to know this gyal. Even though she live in Canada now, I want everybody to know that she is from me land. Guyana. Every month, without fail, Dawn produce this Sure Woman website dedicated to helping women: “We believe that sure and confident is what we become when we embrace ourselves, realize our strength and live up to our potential while taking it all in stride and remembering to laugh.” And yes, Dawn got a great sense of humour!

Nicholas Laughlin. Nicholas is from a neighbour land, Trinidad. He got a blog full o’ “observations, discoveries, complaints, questions, obsessions, textes trouvés”; I does go there when I want to jolt me thoughts, discover Caribbean writers, news, ideas, artists, when I want to delve into me Caribbean-self. I never ‘talk’ with Nicholas, but it got something fine and sensitive and ‘thinking’ about he that I appreciate, especially that ‘thinking’ part. And the self-effacing sense o’ humour.

Well, I ain’t know if anybody who get this award gon do this same, but here is what you got to do, if you so wish:

1. Copy this bit of the post.
2. Reflect on five bloggers and write a least a paragraph about each one.
3. Make sure you link this post so others can read it and the rules.
4. Leave your chosen bloggers a comment and let them know they’ve been given the award.
5. Place the award icon on your site [which I still ain’t figure out how to do, heelllp!]

A modern tale

Once upon a now time, it got a gyal who believe in love and romance.

When she was a chile, about five years old, she get a book name Sleeping Beauty. She love this book so much she walk around she home clutching it in one hand, hugging it close to she li’l chest. One afternoon, she read the book again while she mummy sew and she daddy laze on the wood floor, trying to doze.

She daddy look at she reading the book. He snicker. “After she sleep for one hundred years, she mouth must smell so stink,” he say.

That whole afternoon the li’l chile stay very vex with she daddy for saying that.

As she grow up though, she get to realise the truth about what she daddy did say. She learn too that princes don’t rescue gyals, that no gyal should depend on no man to save she.

She parents set a fine example, both o’ them pool ideas and strength to build they li’l family business, and she mother is a great brain in the enterprise, writing them business letters and meeting people. After the daddy pass away the mother conduct business very capably, and she try to teach the gyal whatever she can.

Unfortunately, in Guyana where the gyal grow up, not plenty women got this good luck, and the gyal see too many women out there dependent on men, sucking on to them for they money, waiting, hoping for salvation. And because of poverty, too many women go up for sale in one way or another, and them men pick, choose, refuse all the gyals they want. Some men keep two, three gyals at one time.

Ow, how the gyal heart does ache in sorrow for them women who ain’t got the education, the know-how to help theyselves, to evade the long-reaching, tight-squeezing hands of Poverty. Gyal try to teach whatever she can, to any woman who want to learn a skill; she encourage, push, nag women into getting up and making something for theyselves. And when they listen and do, she feel as if she accomplish the greatest deed in the world.

Recently, a neighbour, Exotic Gyal, lend the gyal a tongue-in-cheek book, ‘Politically Correct, The Ultimate Storybook’ by James Finn Garner. Some o’ them stories is about women who fight up and carry on and start they own industry. Cinderella ain’t wait for no prince to find she glass slipper, that’s fo’ sure.

Yesterday, a slumbering Sunday afternoon, the gyal settle down to dig into this book. As she turn them pages, something inside she just ain’t feel…what is the word…right. She feel as if something disturb she equilibrium, shift it a li’l bit. She think, I ain’t like this, I ain’t too like this at all, they tampering with me well-beloved myths.

Gyal switch on the tee vee.

And what she see showing?

Pretty Woman.

And what the gyal do?

She put down the book and watch Pretty Woman for the umpteenth time. Sigh and laugh and enjoy. For the umpteenth time.

Why?

She just ain’t know.

And this morning, she and Rehanna the cleaning gyal, discuss how, when a gyal want she man to do something...or not do, she got to nag and beg and plead and whine. It ain’t matter how good and sweet and kind he is, he gon do it in he own time...or not. If he feel like doin’ it...or not.

Mm-hmm, once upon a now time, it got a gyal who believe in love and romance.

And reality.

The red book

Some birthdays ago, me cousin give me a red linen, hardcover book with ‘acid free’ pages. “Happy Writing, Love, Lis,” she scribble next to a li’l blue ink heart. Recently, I been doing more, extra writing in this book, rather than on this blog.

Plenty times, while I write in this book me mind does feel as if it gone into a li’l trance; I only know that me hand hold the pen, the pen move along lines, pages turn. Only when I read later, many things get revealed to me. I discover thoughts I been hiding from meself about situations, about people, thoughts that come from pure instinct; thoughts that emerge after I dive into them pauses between people’s words and actions.

The book is a healing book, it help me to cry blue ink tears in the shape of words, like the tears I cry for me beautiful cousin Lis, for the pain that she going through. In this book I shout all the insults I want to at the muck who betray she.

The book does help me to diffuse anger, overcome disappointments; it help me to throw secret tantrums, sometimes I have battles with meself and the book help me to win. And it help me to celebrate love too.

Some days I read in it truths that I already know - the red book only confirm them for me like a mirror confirm the me standing in front of it. But instead of showing me face, me hair, me hands and body, the book reveal me insides. This book, (just like me other books that I done write in from cover to cover), is quite frank; in fact, it remind me of my best friend in the whole wide world - straight, sincere, honest. The other day, the bleddy red book show me some petty things that I do and say. Oh, how I did cringe when I read that.

No point sulking with the darn book though, it always just sit there wherever I leave it, on the chair, on the table, on the bed, unperturbed.

Thank you

Dear Blogger Team, especially Karl,

Thank you for fixing that li'l glitchy blogging problem so quickly for me.

"Tears in your rum" songs

Every Sunday morning, like religion, them songs does croon on we two solitary radio-stations, songs that tighten throats, giddy-up hearts and make tears sproing from even jaded eyes. Hank Snow, Hank Williams, Sarah Vaughn, Brook Benton, Patsy Cline, making you fall to pieces. I ain’t gon lie, even though them songs older than me by years and years, I like they smarmy-marmy, smoochy-woochy love and hearts shredding-up in agony.

Today, them songs spin me back to dusty-haze, child-days in we countryside where one, long straight road link villages, rice fields, trees, houses, rum shops with men spilling burning, salty tears into bright yellow drink.

Li’l chile me, li’l gyal cousins and older gyal cousins, spending holidays with Nanee and Pa, used to stroll along the road in gold-sun afternoons before supper. As we go past the rum shop, a li'l concrete-and-wood business with two doors that open out to the world, we would keep we heads straight. Good girls mustn’t look at men who drink like that.

But we sneak looks anyway, catch glimpses of thin East Indian men with hot red eyes, black hair falling over faces that change from mourn-full to yearn-full for them older, now-blossoming gyals walking on the roadside. Some of them men curve they hands ‘round Invisible Sweethearts and dance; some sit and stare into rooms that only they coulda see, they expression crease-up in pain as if something in there hurting them so bad; most o’ them coulda barely control they heads, they bob forward, move back, bob, back. And all o’ them men, they eye-water falling into they rum, they swallow it and spill it again. Jim Reeves was, is they favourite. "Put your sweet lips, a little closer to the phone…tell me do, you love me true…"

Love…rosemantic love, I been thinking today...what it is about it that would make we put we parched, cracked lips to burning sands to suck it up if we think we gon find it there? So many of we can’t give even one drop of it, we so craving it for weselves, and too besides, we just ain’t know where, how to find it. And plenty o’ we rum shop men, they drink and drink and drink and just can't seem to get full.