On this page are my creative and personal writing pieces. For more formal, editorial/journalistic pieces check out my blog. It is based on the material, topics, and places we visited in my Freshman Discover New York class.
last night i dreamt my death.
Part I
Last night I had a dream. I mean At first that’s how it seemed But really it wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare And frankly I don’t want to share But I will, because it was important. It made me see things different. For what seems like my whole life I’ve been among the clouds like a kite. Yea I’m flying high, but I’m alone. All on my own. Depression is what some would call this But that’s a word I like to dismiss I hate that word, but mostly the weight it carries. When the world hears it they see you different, very. But yeah among the clouds I’m found. Believing things would be better if I weren’t around. Yeah I’ve thought about suicide I fantasized, romanticized, but ultimately realized. Because ironically, my dream awoke me from a problematic fantasy. It even brought me closer to my spirituality. I’m telling you, God finally spoke to me. And here is what he said. |
Part II
I woke up one morning. To hear my cousins and sisters snoring. I smiled at the realization. I was on a family vacation. But then the tone changed immediately When I looked up to see a gun pointed at me A woman I did not recognize And for some reason she wanted to cause my demise. Her gun had now become an axe. She raised it high above her head, and hacked Away at me. I was dead instantly. Above my remains she was. Soaked and dripping in my blood. A monster Who fled the scene avoiding capture. Just in time to save my family. But way too late to save me. My parents unaware, asked “Where’s our daughter.” Then they learned that I had been slaughtered. I watched their faces twist with pain. And it hurt so bad because I was to blame. Yes I was dead, but my somehow soul still remained. I could see and hear everything they were saying. But they couldn’t see me. Despite how loudly I screamed. I never got to say goodbye. So I had make them recognize. To my mom, I appeared. I told her that she shouldn’t fear And scared, she was not. She saw me and I thought “I’m not really gone, I’m still here with her I don’t have move on” I watched, I lingered, I stayed. But finally my mother had to say, “Baby this isn’t healthy, I love you, but this isn’t where you ought to be. You’ve died, and passed away. In a different realm you must stay” She was right but it hurt. It felt like I had been shirked. Like my own mother didn’t want me. Now, I finally ceased to be. I took it for granted all my life. Remember how high I flied, as a kite. Alone in the clouds convincing myself I was meaningless Believing that I was truly purposeless. Being that I was dead I had finally got it through my head How I was wrong. Why did think this way for so long? |
Part III
But today I am no longer asleep. My dream, no my nightmare has ceased. Awake and in fact alive Relieved, I breathe a sigh. It took dying for me to understand That I was actually dealt a beautiful hand. Even though I am often unaware I have a family that truly cares. Yes that’s me, flying high Among the clouds, soaring the skies But then it hits me and I realize That without a string no kite can fly I looked down so that I could see What was on the ground below me. To my surprise it was my mother Using all the strength she could muster To hold on tight And guide my flight And she would not dare let go I was never alone, and this I now know. |
this chemically altered society.
She was born with coarse hair. You know, that cotton textured hair, that Brillo pad hair, that nappy hair. At age three her mom pressed her hair with a hot comb for the first time. She had burn scars on her ears for weeks. But her hair was straighter, and she was pretty that way. At age seven she got her first relaxer. It burned and she bawled. But the hairdresser told her "Don't cry, you'll look pretty after." And she did. Throughout middle school and high school she continued this relaxing process every two months. And she didn't cry anymore because she really did look pretty after. You see, her mom told her that her hair was unmanageable, unkempt, unprofessional. Her peers told her that she looked better with straight hair and her boyfriend? He didn't date girls with nappy hair. By college, her hair started to thin out. It was damaged and it did not grow anymore. But it was still straight and she was pretty that way. But she couldn't help from wondering what it would be like to wear her natural hair. Would she cease to be pretty? Would she cease to be herself?
This anecdote is jarring. It bothers me, and I hope it bothers you too. Let me explain.
But first, who is she? The thing is she's me. And you, and every other black girl out there. Fighting the endless battle of acceptance. No, we didn't start this war but here we are. Soldiers. Or victims?
I'd like to pose a question. Actually, two. Why is she pretty that way? Maybe because of her mom, or her peers, or her boyfriend. Maybe it goes further than that. Maybe its the deeply embedded self-hate that is a by-product of the slave trade. Yes, this may be. But my second question is, why does it still persist today?
It's Fear. The fear of being rejected by society. Not cooperating with it's textbook standard of beauty. Because according to this standard, "Natural hair doesn't work for everyone. It just doesn't flatter most people." And we accept these statements. We wholeheartedly agree. But how can someone's natural hair not "work" for them. How can the way your grows out of your scalp look unflattering on you? Let me put it this way: Can your skin color simply be unflattering? Can your facial features not "work" for you?
The tragic thing about the modern world is that some may say yes. And just as the "solution" to unkempt, nappy hair is a relaxer, the "solution" to an unflattering skin tone is bleaching cream and the "solution" to undesirable facial features is cosmetic surgery. But these are NOT solutions. They are not solving problems, but instead creating more. Because they don’t only physically alter and damage people, but they also damage their psyches.
So again I ask, how do Hair Relaxers--registered carcinogens that corrode the hair cuticle and scalp, have a pH level of 12, and contain the same ingredients as sewage drainer and paint thinner--make one prettier? The simple truth is: it just doesn't. No chemical, and no surgery can fix the damaging beauty ideals of our generation. It takes us. Me, you, every other black girl out there, and every other person out there. And with that, I urge you to be soldiers, not victims.
This anecdote is jarring. It bothers me, and I hope it bothers you too. Let me explain.
But first, who is she? The thing is she's me. And you, and every other black girl out there. Fighting the endless battle of acceptance. No, we didn't start this war but here we are. Soldiers. Or victims?
I'd like to pose a question. Actually, two. Why is she pretty that way? Maybe because of her mom, or her peers, or her boyfriend. Maybe it goes further than that. Maybe its the deeply embedded self-hate that is a by-product of the slave trade. Yes, this may be. But my second question is, why does it still persist today?
It's Fear. The fear of being rejected by society. Not cooperating with it's textbook standard of beauty. Because according to this standard, "Natural hair doesn't work for everyone. It just doesn't flatter most people." And we accept these statements. We wholeheartedly agree. But how can someone's natural hair not "work" for them. How can the way your grows out of your scalp look unflattering on you? Let me put it this way: Can your skin color simply be unflattering? Can your facial features not "work" for you?
The tragic thing about the modern world is that some may say yes. And just as the "solution" to unkempt, nappy hair is a relaxer, the "solution" to an unflattering skin tone is bleaching cream and the "solution" to undesirable facial features is cosmetic surgery. But these are NOT solutions. They are not solving problems, but instead creating more. Because they don’t only physically alter and damage people, but they also damage their psyches.
So again I ask, how do Hair Relaxers--registered carcinogens that corrode the hair cuticle and scalp, have a pH level of 12, and contain the same ingredients as sewage drainer and paint thinner--make one prettier? The simple truth is: it just doesn't. No chemical, and no surgery can fix the damaging beauty ideals of our generation. It takes us. Me, you, every other black girl out there, and every other person out there. And with that, I urge you to be soldiers, not victims.
Old Notes.
The following are a collection of old writings saved in the Notes app of my iPad. They are raw, unedited, and possibly unfinished.
Gravity When I was little girl I told my parents that I wished I was white. And their reactions were one of the most heartbreaking things I'd ever seen. They blamed themselves. They actually blamed themselves. They wondered if migrating was a good idea. They believed America to be this wonderful land of opportunities, but questioned "Is it worth having our children feel like they're not good enough?" At the time my five year old mind couldn't comprehend...couldn't feel the gravity of that moment. But now, I do. And it's bone-crushing. It weighs down my shoulders every day. It cripples me. Jamaica, a cultural melting pot where the color of your skin doesn't define you but your character does; also, my parents' home. This is what they knew, and this is what they taught me. So why did I still beg for relaxer? Was it because my classmates called my hair nappy? Or maybe because I was told that I was cute for a black girl? Perhaps it was the blonde hair and blue eyes of every Barbie doll I'd ever played with. Or could it possibly, just possibly, be the systematic institution of racism that permeates the media, the education system, the legal system, and just about everything else in western culture? I'm glad that I don't feel this way today. And that, among other beautiful things, I definitely do blame my parents for. November 16, 2015 at 1:48 am |
Untitled i sink and it is dark and i like it. December 24, 2015 at 10:59 pm Descension it made me see things. things i didn't like. but that doesn't matter anymore. it never did. i see now the stairway to oblivion and I descend.. October 26, 2015 at 3:11 am When Did I Become a Sailor? Clarity is unattainable as I drown in the obscure and the funny thing is I don't remember the voyage to This Sea. November 30, 2015 at 6:57 am |
No Reflection.
To be fair, it was always hazy. Always blurred. Nothing but a dark, undefined figure. He could never quite make it out. But it was there.
Not this time though. This time it was different.
The image had faded completely. Gone. He stared into the Mirror and there was no reflection.
Where did he go?
He didn’t know. And he didn’t even want to. Because it had never been a clear image to begin with.
But what if he did find it…and it finally was? What if the haze was gone and he could see the figure in its entirety? How could he stand across from his reflection and look it in the eye?
How can one face one's own self? Is it even possible?
As it was, he had no reflection and he’d accepted that. Because the alternative was too terrifying to even consider.
But there was still something he did not know.
At the most fundamental level a reflection is confirmation of existence. If something exists, then it has a reflection—that in which outsiders can perceive.
So he was from then on nonexistent. And he wasn’t even aware.
Not this time though. This time it was different.
The image had faded completely. Gone. He stared into the Mirror and there was no reflection.
Where did he go?
He didn’t know. And he didn’t even want to. Because it had never been a clear image to begin with.
But what if he did find it…and it finally was? What if the haze was gone and he could see the figure in its entirety? How could he stand across from his reflection and look it in the eye?
How can one face one's own self? Is it even possible?
As it was, he had no reflection and he’d accepted that. Because the alternative was too terrifying to even consider.
But there was still something he did not know.
At the most fundamental level a reflection is confirmation of existence. If something exists, then it has a reflection—that in which outsiders can perceive.
So he was from then on nonexistent. And he wasn’t even aware.
Untitled.
Am I good? Am I really? Because I don’t believe you. I just don’t see it.
Okay, I’ll admit it. Sometimes I do fall into the delusion. And for a season, I become great.
But just as quickly as I rise, I fall. And then I am no one. I am back in my rightful post. I am where I belong—in the shadows.
I’ll be honest here. Im not very fond of the shadows. But I can’t just leave. Its not that simple.
I am both the captor and the prisoner. How does one escape such a paradox?
Okay, I’ll admit it. Sometimes I do fall into the delusion. And for a season, I become great.
But just as quickly as I rise, I fall. And then I am no one. I am back in my rightful post. I am where I belong—in the shadows.
I’ll be honest here. Im not very fond of the shadows. But I can’t just leave. Its not that simple.
I am both the captor and the prisoner. How does one escape such a paradox?
the day everything became nothing.
It’s dark outside, but it isn't dawn, dusk, or midnight. See, the sun no longer rises and the Earth no longer spins. The moon is absent, and so the ocean lies still. The wind has ceased to blow, and the birds have silenced their songs. The seasons are no more; now, there is only Winter. All the world has become immutable.
The planet boisterously declares its new state of catatonia and I have no choice but to hear it. Oddly, no one else does. No one else notices. They wake. They eat breakfast. They get in their cars. They go to work. Then, return home to sleep. This cycle is repeated over and over, as if things are the same. As if the laws of physics still apply.
This, I observe in horrified amazement. How can they not see what has happened? How can they continue to function in a world where everything has stopped?
I can no longer sleep, or wake, or eat. I, with the Earth, have become fixed. Watching and waiting is all I do now. Watching the continued routines of the others; seething with jealousy as they remain blissfully unaware. Waiting for everything to begin again. But it never does.
The agony of waiting is unbearable. Even though everything has stopped, it doesn’t seem that time has. I still hear the deafening sound of it sluggishly ticking by. Each minute seeming longer and emptier than the prior.
Yes, I have tried to get through to the others. I have knocked on their doors, only to have them open it and stare right past me. I have left notes on their driveways, only to have them walk past like there was nothing there. I have ran through the neighborhood shrieking as loud as my lungs would allow me, only to have no one hear me. They cannot see me. They are not living in the same reality as I.
This brings me to the conclusion that my waiting is for naught. My hope for everything to begin again is futile. Because this was the end of everything and the beginning of nothing. I am imprisoned in this ghost world, and my inmates are merely shadows on the cell walls.
With this realization something else stops—me. My identity, my existence, and my consciousness harden into stone, then crumble into sand. As with everything else, I am no more.
College Apps.
Everyone loathes the college application process. Its tedious, its stressful, and it all comes down to one thing--the decision. Despite this, I've seen some good come out of it. For me it was my college essay. To this day it is one of the works I am most proud of.
When writing we often embellish, or exaggerate. You know, literary license and all that. But this essay is perhaps the most honest thing I've written. I kid you not, when I wrote this I cried. No, I sobbed. Each word was felt with every fiber of my being. It was a cathartic and changing experience (sounds a little dramatic, but pure candor here).
Lastly, I am by no means a sentimental person. I keep to myself, and internalize most things. So sharing this piece is not easy for me. That said, I do hope you enjoy.
- - -
When writing we often embellish, or exaggerate. You know, literary license and all that. But this essay is perhaps the most honest thing I've written. I kid you not, when I wrote this I cried. No, I sobbed. Each word was felt with every fiber of my being. It was a cathartic and changing experience (sounds a little dramatic, but pure candor here).
Lastly, I am by no means a sentimental person. I keep to myself, and internalize most things. So sharing this piece is not easy for me. That said, I do hope you enjoy.
- - -
To Live
It was crowded. We were all dressed in black. There were cakes, casseroles, condolences. This was a funeral. My uncle had passed.
It had come as a shock, really. His wife, my aunt, had gone on a trip and returned home to find him dead on the living room chair. It had been his favorite chair. The family was notified, and a service was promptly put in place. Relatives from all over the globe flocked to Long Island. I was one of them
They wept. On the phone, on the plane, at the service, and at the reception. But my eyes remained dry. I didn’t shed a single tear. I was rigid, motionless, unaffected. But why? My uncle was gone, and I did feel it to my core. I just couldn’t react; I didn’t know how to. So instead I watched. I observed. It was the only thing I could do.
Eventually, all my observation struck a chord.
The burial was over and we returned to the house for dinner. I saw my aunt. She was smiling. But how could she smile at a time like this? Nevertheless she glided through the room greeting, embracing, hosting. But soon she didn't seem to glide. She staggered, she shook. She grabbed hold of the chair--his chair--and collapsed into it. And then she wept.
It was hard to watch. It was hard to hear. And although I remained statue-like, my heart was pounding. It was aching. It had finally come crashing down on me. My uncle was dead and so was a part of my aunt. I knew all of this already but I hadn’t actually understood the implications until now. Many of the guests rushed over to my aunt's side to comfort her, and in the midst of all this she looked up and made eye contact with me. Her eyes were crimson, glassy, and full of pain. So much pain. They pierced into my soul, they saw through me. I too, began to shake. My state of catatonia had ceased and I bolted for the bathroom. In there I wept.
Like an infant, I bawled. I felt, I was affected, I reacted. And then I realized I was angry. Inexplicably angry. How could a person breathe, walk, talk, and live one minute and then lie dead in a coffin, their body an empty vessel, the next? It didn't make sense; it wasn't fair! I met my own gaze in the mirror. I watched the hot tears roll down my cheeks, and I smeared them away with my shaking palms. An epiphanic thought crossed my mind, "Everyone in this house will share the same fate as my uncle…including me.” I was terrified. But it was in that moment, I grew.
Eventually I exited the bathroom, and reentered the living room. The mood had shifted. My aunt was still sitting in my uncle's chair but she was no longer distraught; she looked...at peace. The other guests carried on as before: smiling, talking, some still weeping. I looked to my parents, my sisters, my aunts, uncles, cousins. Then I too felt at peace.
Everyone in that house had an end, an expiration date. No one was exempt, or protected from it. It was inevitable. But it was okay, because I had figured it out. I finally understood. We all would die someday, and that is the very reason we all keep living.
In the event of loss, I gained something. A new perspective, an insight, a sense of maturity, an ability to ask “If today were my last, would I be proud?” And in response I think of the life my uncle lived. I think of the effect he had on people. I think of my own mortality. I think of the impact I too can have. And then I am inspired to live.
It had come as a shock, really. His wife, my aunt, had gone on a trip and returned home to find him dead on the living room chair. It had been his favorite chair. The family was notified, and a service was promptly put in place. Relatives from all over the globe flocked to Long Island. I was one of them
They wept. On the phone, on the plane, at the service, and at the reception. But my eyes remained dry. I didn’t shed a single tear. I was rigid, motionless, unaffected. But why? My uncle was gone, and I did feel it to my core. I just couldn’t react; I didn’t know how to. So instead I watched. I observed. It was the only thing I could do.
Eventually, all my observation struck a chord.
The burial was over and we returned to the house for dinner. I saw my aunt. She was smiling. But how could she smile at a time like this? Nevertheless she glided through the room greeting, embracing, hosting. But soon she didn't seem to glide. She staggered, she shook. She grabbed hold of the chair--his chair--and collapsed into it. And then she wept.
It was hard to watch. It was hard to hear. And although I remained statue-like, my heart was pounding. It was aching. It had finally come crashing down on me. My uncle was dead and so was a part of my aunt. I knew all of this already but I hadn’t actually understood the implications until now. Many of the guests rushed over to my aunt's side to comfort her, and in the midst of all this she looked up and made eye contact with me. Her eyes were crimson, glassy, and full of pain. So much pain. They pierced into my soul, they saw through me. I too, began to shake. My state of catatonia had ceased and I bolted for the bathroom. In there I wept.
Like an infant, I bawled. I felt, I was affected, I reacted. And then I realized I was angry. Inexplicably angry. How could a person breathe, walk, talk, and live one minute and then lie dead in a coffin, their body an empty vessel, the next? It didn't make sense; it wasn't fair! I met my own gaze in the mirror. I watched the hot tears roll down my cheeks, and I smeared them away with my shaking palms. An epiphanic thought crossed my mind, "Everyone in this house will share the same fate as my uncle…including me.” I was terrified. But it was in that moment, I grew.
Eventually I exited the bathroom, and reentered the living room. The mood had shifted. My aunt was still sitting in my uncle's chair but she was no longer distraught; she looked...at peace. The other guests carried on as before: smiling, talking, some still weeping. I looked to my parents, my sisters, my aunts, uncles, cousins. Then I too felt at peace.
Everyone in that house had an end, an expiration date. No one was exempt, or protected from it. It was inevitable. But it was okay, because I had figured it out. I finally understood. We all would die someday, and that is the very reason we all keep living.
In the event of loss, I gained something. A new perspective, an insight, a sense of maturity, an ability to ask “If today were my last, would I be proud?” And in response I think of the life my uncle lived. I think of the effect he had on people. I think of my own mortality. I think of the impact I too can have. And then I am inspired to live.