calm confusion

I stood there scanning my book shelf. Old, disjointed memories come flooding back, like tiny lapping waves against my ankles. I could see my old copies of A West Indian Narrative, Summer's Lightening, Miguel Street and Annie John. I think about the times when these books filled not only my shelves but my life. When the stories consumed me, shaped me, made me. I feel a pain ripping through my chest, as I hurt inside from the neglect of having not touched them for many years. I could feel the tears, as I pick them up one by one and remember deeply, sensually, the reasons why I feel. Today I sometimes wonder who I am. Life did unexpected things to me, sometimes gently pushing me along, sometimes harshly shoving me ahead. Today I see someone I have come to love and respect, not a shadow of the girl who fell in love with books, but a woman, solid and strong in her beliefs shaped and accentuated by writers of past generations. Then there is a new me. The one that walked beside my spirit,...

I can already smell the hot air rising up from the roads after a rain. I can see the lady fanning her corn on the side of the highway, smoke encircling her as she tries to get the roast under control. In the distance I see a cloth banner hanging from the Claxton Bay flyer over, it says...Welcome home rampaul, yuh mudda cant...and I sigh happily as if it were written just for me. I imagine driving down the highway, in awe at new things, buildings, less grass, a new horse running madly along near Caroni. I imagine getting to south passing Southland Mall..we cud go there for dinner ker, wuh yuh think? mom says to me placing her hand on my knee...yuh mad or what! We drive past the big tree in Palmiste, my coconut man standing next to his truck, his dirty tight, white shirt exposing his dark, hairy belly, while he wipes jelly from his lips. Nasty grocery makes me smile.. we cud get some wine there for tonight yes... We drive past Fong's mansion, wave and nobody inside and keep heading r...

My first move was to run down de road and buy a pink and grey yoga mat. I was very excited about my first yoga class. I pictured a group of people standing in front the Taj Mahal in dotis and wife beater vests, the wind blowing lazily, and Mahatma Ghandi directly us in unison to become the change we want to see in the world. I already had my outfit picked out. My blue hemp rasta t shirt, black tights and pink slippers. I walked up de road with my mat and bottle of water and into the classroom. Looking around, I tried not to react outwardly to what I saw. The little guy to my left decked in nylon tights, squashing his balls into the crease of his pelvic bone and thigh, the guy next to him coming up to about my waist in height, covered in tattoos from the tips of his ears to his knees; the surfer in board shorts trying to look like he walked into "how to be a dickhead 101"; the lady who needed 4 mats... I was so excited! These are my people, where have they been hiding! ...

Every lunchtime was like an outing. We would leave the office in search of food, either walking towards Park Street from Henry Street or up towards Living Waters on upper Frederick Street. Any route however, was bong to give us some excitement. The first lunchtime I went to Living Waters Community with a co-worker proved to be the precedent for everyday after. She was small, feisty and would only stop talking long enough to roll her eyes, purse her lips or swing steadily from one hip to the next to illustrate her point. "Let us go to Living Waters Nadine, we can get a good meal and also some spiritual guidance, I feel like you might need some today." "Arrite." We would walk out onto Oxford street and the heat would hit us instantly, melting the cold air from our bodies and causing streams of sweat to leak down our back. "Well yes papa, I could use ah Cokes," she says fanning herself with her open hand like an imaginary fan. I follow suit. We turn left and ...

Not many people know a place in Trinidad called Massahood Junction, but this is where I grew up. If you think Penal and Caroni behind God back then Massahood Junction is God backside. Nestled between the tiny towns of Fyzabad and Siparia, it is a quiet, eerily calm village that is home to a large population of Muslims. My Dad spent all his life there and my mom sister and I lived there until I was 11. It had everything you could possibly need to have a perfectly planned out childhood. A large, dry, crack infested, overgrown cricket ground that doubled as a cow field, a crazy Soucouyant living right next to the cricket ground so you had to close your eyes and run past every evening, a green wooden parlour where you could buy red mango and a dust covered bottle of Wella women's perfume, a few elderly couples that would pelt you with stale hops if you laugh in front their homes, a van to take all the children to school, a Mosque to spend every evening in prayer, a drunk called Office ...

My first vacation was with 3 old ladies, my mom and her youngest brother. I was 4 and we went to Curacao and Aruba and it is the only memory I have before my sister was born. I can remember small patches of scenes like a slide show with black slides every few minutes. The black slides were eventually replaced with the memories of my mom, grandmother, two great aunts and my uncle, all of whom have their own versions of the events. My uncle always called me Nawaw and I would never question why. Then at the age of ten i found out the reason. " We went to this restaurant in Aruba and she was sitting holding the menu over her face hiding from me. The waiter kept touching her curls and when she realised what he was doing she started to flirt with him , batting her eyes and making weird faces. Then the waiter asks her her name... 'Nadine!' 'Can you spell Nadine?' 'yes! N - a -w -a-w!" 'very good!' and since then she was always been Nawaw." My mom has...