Skin Hunger

He had the most perfect falsetto she had ever heard… a distinctive combination of power and pure melody that sat comfortably in the upper register.  His delivery of “Stay with me” was moving, plaintive, dignified, raw, human.  She listened to it on and off over a period of about 3 weeks, loving it more with every rotation. But yesterday she just couldn’t get enough of it.  And this morning she woke up singing it. It’s like that sometimes.  She would get up with that song on her mind, and find herself singing it in the shower as she readied herself for the day ahead; her “soundtrack for today” is how she referred to these feelings set to music.
This Sunday morning her daughter had school business to attend to, so chauffeur duties dominated her list of things to do on what should have been a lazy Sunday in bed. She cranked up Sam’s plea as she backed out of the garage.
Guess it’s true, I’m not good at a one-night stand
But I still need love ’cause I’m just a man
These nights never seem to go to plan
I don’t want you to leave, will you hold my hand?

Oh, won’t you stay with me?
‘Cause you’re all I need
This ain’t love, it’s clear to see
But darling, stay with me

Why am I so emotional?
No, it’s not a good look, gain some self-control
And deep down I know this never works
But you can lay with me so it doesn’t hurt


“Well you’re loving that song” her daughter commented dryly.
“There’s something about it that keeps tugging at me. It’s such a human, painful, honest confession… He’s obviously hurting and willing to compromise by having a superficial sexual encounter just to keep the pain at bay even for a minute. That’s a rough place to be in. I hope never to find myself there”
“Well you’re married, so that doesn’t apply to you, Mom.”
“Married people get lonely too, Hon.”
She looked sideways at her mother.
“Remember when our marriage started breaking down? It was a very lonely place… There was so much tension between Daddy and I. There was a huge ocean of resentment, hurt, anger, pain. Even the simplest of exchanges was difficult, tedious and loaded with double meanings and things left unsaid.”
She kept talking as the memories flowed, unbidden, as if they needed to be given a voice to set them free.
“Skin hunger.  That’s what Sam was talking about in that song. Have you ever heard of skin hunger? That’s the basic human need to touch and be touched.  Premature babies have a significantly higher survival rate when they are allowed to rest on their parents’ bare skin. Sam wanted to feel physical contact with another human being. He needed it.”
She inhaled deeply… she couldn’t stop now.  She pressed on.
“During that incredibly rough period, I had to go to the doctor.  He was on the phone when he motioned me in and told me to have a seat.  I was in no rush.  I smiled at him and sat down.  He mouthed an apology and indicated that he was wrapping up.  It was apparent that the person on the other end was in no hurry to let Doc go. He mouthed another apology as I sat there just enjoying a moment of having to do absolutely nothing.  I waved him off with a smile: take your time, Sir.  He seemed to be offering reassurance and after a few more minutes, he simply reached out and rubbed my ankle in yet another attempt to make amends for not attending to me sooner. That simple gesture startled me out of my skin. In that moment I realized that it had been so, so long since I had felt the simple touch of another human being in a kind context. I wasn’t hugging you or your brother apparently… probably too engrossed in my own confusing and painful fog. My mother wasn’t nearby. And whatever energy I had was one hundred percent allocated to my duties to you guys and my job, trying to control the things that I could actually control.  As he rubbed my ankle, the tears came. I literally had to pinch my palm to stop the flow and gain some control. I shifted in my seat, coughed, wiped my eyes all in an effort to hide my reaction and re-center. He eventually ended his call, and we went on to deal with the real reason I had come to see him that day.”
“Awwww, and you’re crying now, Mom.  Why?”
“Sweetie, I don’t even know. You know that things are much better with Daddy and I now. But that was such a low, low period in my life.  The memory of how horrible a time it was is obviously still there, and I’m having some strong residual feelings. I don’t fully understand why I’m moved to tears. Perhaps I needed to simply exorcise them by giving them voice and wings.”

“My mother would likely be appalled at this discussion!  How can you share these things with an 18 year old?” She countered her own self: “My daughter’s smart enough to understand. This is life and she needs to know that if and when she has a similar experience, that there’s nothing wrong with her. And that her own mother, who always seems so capable and omnipotent, went through and came out on the other side. She need never feel less than because of her own humanity.”

She wiped her eyes and selected the song again.  She cranked the volume with an apology to her daughter and sang along with Sam. With empathy. Loudly.

GRIT in World Cup 2014

The USA can totally beat Belgium later today. Yes…I said it. At this stage of the competition, it takes more than a good defense, sure strikers, and a sound midfield strategy. Look at how Algeria held off Die Mannschaft yesterday… Think of how NED had to FIGHT with every ounce of mind and body and soul to win this weekend past (God bless Robben). I come back to the theme of GRIT: that relentless attack, that hunger to win distributed throughout the team, that mindset that says play on until the Fat Lady sings, regardless of the score line at present, that ability to transcend pain, heat, discomfort, attacks from the opponents all in support of that one over-arching mission…that job to be done…TO WIN.
Have you ever looked into Dempsey’s eyes? Have you observed the way he communicates and directs the team on the field? Have you observed how leads by example…playing on with a broken nose, demanding and expecting no less from his team. And they respond to him. It is such a clear example of leadership in action, literally. He just happens to be the captain, but there are other teams that have this function residing in someone other than the captain…It doesn’t matter, Ladies and Gentlemen. This is “Distributed Leadership”. Bottom line: every team needs that standard bearer, that nucleus around which everything coalesces. The USA has that.
Anyhoos, all wha gwaan, BELGIUM! mi seh 
ps. Have a good game, Tim Howard 

about things Daddy told me….

Daddy is an imposing figure: 6’ 4 ¾” and at least 230 lbs, 230 lbs that he carries very well.  Sean Connery looks like my father.
I am the eldest of six.  My mother was a nurse, but for most of my life, she was a stay at home mom.  She is a phenomenal woman.  She raised six children and continues to provide love and support to all of us even though most of us are married with our own children. Daddy was an army officer, and spent a great deal of time outside the home on assignment and on duty.  
If I had to choose one word to sum up to describe Daddy it would be “dutiful”.  He was a conscientious provider, protector and supporter.  He was (still is) a fundamentalist, evangelical Christian and he did his best to pass on his beliefs in word and deed to all of us.  And even though Mummy did the day to day nurturing and raising of the children, a lot of what I am today, how I feel about myself and my approach to life are as a result of things my father said to me.  I found myself telling my own daughter about one particular thing he once told me this week, and I started reflecting on things my father said.  Tomorrow is celebrated this side of the world as Father’s Day, and I thought it would be an appropriate time to share with him, and you, the impression he made on me with some of the things he said to me.

“TELL THEM TO GO TO HELL”
I was about 14 years old.  We were at the pool.  We spent a lot of time at the pool.  I loved the water….had been swimming since I was little. That day, there were strangers at the pool.  Daddy noticed me sitting in the shade watching everyone else enjoy themselves.
“Why aren’t you swimming?  You love the water” he remarked with concern.
I squirmed. I tried to evade his question.  You see…I was fat, and very, very self-conscious of my beyond average body type and size.  I eventually caved and mumbled something along the lines of “I feel funny swimming with all these strange people around….”
He said: “What? What?  Listen: you swim! If anybody looks at you for a second longer than you like, you can tell them to GO TO HELL!” 
I was shocked!  My father, the Preacher and the Soldier, gave me permission to tell anyone who made me feel funny to GO TO HELL.  Man!  I didn’t swim that day.  But I felt all warm inside.  Daddy was on my side.  It wasn’t all that bad.  I’ve never forgotten that.  I dealt with body issues well into my 30s, but I never forgot the day that Daddy gave me permission to tell them to go to hell.
“DON’T STAND ON THE SKYLINE”
We have such great memories of all the hikes that Daddy took us on.  He used those opportunities to teach us the finer points of map reading and field craft.  My poor navigation skills today are in no way related to my upbringing!  We climbed Catherine Peak, Mt. Horeb, Clifton Mount and Blue Mountain Peak. 
“Look up there.  That’s the skyline.  Do you see how easy it is to see the trees that are on the skyline? In war you never stand on the skyline unless you are waiting to be rescued.  The enemy will pick you off before you know what ‘s happening.”
I have never forgotten that.  Do your job. Don’t jockey for visibility unless you are very clear in your mind why you are deliberately putting yourself out there. And when it is time for you to be seen, stand up tall on that skyline and wave for all you’re worth.  Enough said.  You get it.
“I LIKE THE WAY YOU WALK”
“I like the way you walk, Kelly”
“Huh?  What do you mean?”
“I like the way you walk. You walk like you mean business.  You stride!  I like that”
I wasn’t aware that I had a walk.  I wasn’t aware that I strode!  But Daddy was.  And he was impressed.  And that was enough for me.  To this day I walk as if I own the land. In another life, I was responsible for a warehouse with over 60 men.  I used to assemble them all together on a regular basis to keep them in the loop and to give them the opportunity to give me feedback as to their own issues.  I’d walk into the middle of the assembled group and chair that meeting.  After I left that job, I was told that the female security guards who were posted in the warehouse, and who remained at their posts during those meetings would say that they loved how Ms Mac would just walk up… just stride up!… and stand up and take charge.  They said that they felt so inspired after those meeting, even though they knew I wasn’t speaking to them…that it was so awesome to see a woman take charge in the way that I did.  Selah.  Daddy told me that he liked my stride. So I kept striding.  I stride on today.
“YOU’D MAKE A FINE OFFICER”
I was 16 and trying to decide what to do with my life.
“You’d make a fine officer, Kelly”
What? Who me? You’re crazy!  No way!      
And I had no desire to leave my very strict and regimented childhood just to enter another strict and regimented life in the military.  But I was touched.  And I’ve never forgotten.  You see, to my mind, Daddy was THE BEST OFFICER IN THE WORLD.  He was so handsome in his army uniforms…all of them, any one of them…from his number ones to his fatigues.  He was so capable.  I saw him on parade.  I heard him on the phone.  I saw him with the men when I visited his office, when they come to the house, when we visited various military bases across the island.  My own daughter remarked that I’d be totally scary as an officer when I told her what Daddy said. Well I never became an officer, but that the best officer in the world told me that I’d make a fine officer…well… it meant that I was pretty good, and I’ve never forgotten that.
And there’s so much more that Daddy taught me. He remains one of my biggest supporters (he thinks I can sing!).  He once told me and Little Sister: “You girls could rule the world!” and I think he really meant it!  I’m told that you named me Kelly. We now know what Kelly means. There can be no retreat, no surrender. 
    
Happy Father’s Day, Dad!  Thanks for being the Father you are. I love you.

GUEST BLOGGER: MISS WORLD! and her tale of having a cheap parent.

She did this a couple of years ago… I discovered it on her blog. I got permission to post it to my Facebook wall then, and now I’m sharing it here.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did 🙂  She really, really, rocks.

Oh, the joys of having a cheap parent. (cont’d) From Rachael to Mom

August 13, 2011 at 7:35pm

As I get ready to tag along with my mother to bookstores, shoe stores and uniform stores this weekend in preparation to slave away for another 10 months (hoping you can get how excited I am), I declared to her multiple times in ADVANCE that I was picking the stores and I was choosing the items, much to her dismay, because it’s become quite obvious to both of us that I inherited NONE of my mother’s cheapness. Read this story and enjoy the shock, horror and embarrassment I felt one year ago! 😀
It was mid to late August and we were finishing up back-to-school shopping. Since all the major textbooks were bought already, we decided to stop at a Woolworth to pick up stationery and art supplies from the wide array of low-priced, slightly to moderately damaged, made-in-China inventory. Halfway through shopping, my mom tells me to go and look for notebooks. I automatically head for the nice, decent looking Mead hardcover ones.
“$129 for one? That’s not SO bad…”
Meanwhile, my mom immediately heads for the Clearance section, and she just so happens to see a stack of 7 notebooks, all wrapped up nicely in plastic; $550 for all 7, which is actually a really good price for 7 books. She knows the store wants to get rid of the books quickly, explaining the cheap price, which obviously meant there must be a flaw somewhere, but the price was just too good (cheap?) to resist. Also, at the top of the stack, the BACK of one book was showing, not the front, which also should have raised a red flag. One book would cost around $80, and for my US followers, one book would be around 93 cents, making the total cost of all 7 books come up to about $6.50. 7 Mead books would cost $903 ($10.62 US).
A $353 difference? I knew there was NO WAY my mom was budging on this one. While we’re paying for the stuff, the cashier says to my mother:
“You sure you want these books? The pages tear easily”
“Yes, we’ll take them!” She even turned to me and curtly instructed: “Handle them with care.”
Ugh.
“Well, it won’t be so bad”, I thought as I walked out of the store.
Boy, was I dead-ass WRONG.
The Saturday before the first day of school, I was packing my bag with some of the stuff we’d gotten from Woolworth. As I tore the plastic off the books, I made a truly terrifying, shocking discovery that immediately triggered my “pissed off” senses.
Spiderman.
I started panicking as I frantically looked through the rest of the books. 2? Spiderman. 3? Spiderman. 4, 5, 6, 7. All 7 books had Spiderman on the front cover.
My mom had bought me 7 Spiderman books.
Pissed off as all hell, I took one and showed it to my mom. She started DYING of laughter. This wasn’t helping at all. (“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize! Well I’m not buying you new books!”)
To make matters worse, my brother kept on begging me for one for weeks! >.
My lunch group laughed at me when they asked me why I had Spiderman books and I had to tell them why, and I kinda had no choice but to laugh along with them. I even started cracking up when I was writing this!
The second day of school I immediately headed to the school bookstore and bought 7 more Mead hardcover books and used them for more major subjects like Math and Physics. When I carried the Spiderman books, I carried them face DOWN at all times. But the most gut-wrenching experience I had with those books was when I had to make one of them my English Language book. Whenever I had a piece of work to submit and everyone would put their books on the teacher’s desk at once, I just put mine up there really quickly without looking into my teacher’s face. You don’t know how it killed me inside to do that :$ (and that cashier was definitely right about the pages)
I can now emphatically say DAT NAH REACH ME AGAIN DIS YEAR!

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when Love (opportunity) comes Knocking: The Day I shook Desmond Tutu’s Hand

“When love comes knocking at your door, you must be very sure that you’re ready….”
Miss Dee Dee Bridgewater said it perfectly:
But this story is not about Love.  But it’s about being ready.  Let’s rewind to 1987… I was a first year Agronomy student at UWI, St. Augustine campus.  Excitement was in the air. Archbishop Desmond Tutu was going to visit our campus. Nelson Mandela was still imprisoned.  But Archbishop Tutu and Mrs. Winnie Mandela were the faces of the fight against Apartheid.  Archbishop Tutu was going to deliver an address and I was determined to be present.  Details were announced. Capacity and security issues dictated that only faculty, executives of the Guild of Undergraduates and select invitees could attend the ceremony.  I just knew that in spite of my status as a mere first year undergrad, I had to be there.  I made no noise.  I begged no one.  Something deep down inside of me KNEW I had to be there. 
On the day of the ceremony, still saying nothing, still making no noise, I bathed and dressed in my pretty little white dress.  I remember it vividly.  I put on my blue shoes and my blue earrings and my blue eye makeup.  It was the 80s after all!  I remember my fellow Trinitarians looking on in amusement as I readied myself to meet Archbishop Tutu.  To be clear: I didn’t have a plan.  I just knew that I was going to meet him, and so I had to get ready. 
I headed out in the direction of the JKF Auditorium, the venue where the ceremony was going to be held.  I had to walk past the Guild of Undergraduates HQ.  There was a flurry of activity, easily discernible as I drew near.  Remember, I had no plan, so I just drew nigh to the guild HQ to see what was going on.  Someone thrust a cap and gown into my hands and said hurriedly: “ You’ll have to iron this quickly if you plan to join the procession”.  I didn’t miss a beat.  I replied: “No problem!” and I literally ran back to my hall of residence.  I ironed like a girl on a mission.  My fellow Trinitarians looked on curiously: “Kelly: are you part of the procession?”  I had no time to waste on explanations or justifications.  I merely nodded in the affirmative, head down, unwilling to jinx the opportunity that had landed in my lap.
Fast forward to the ceremony in the JFK Auditorium.  I slipped in line.  I mimicked those in the procession…faculty and guild execs, and slow marched up to the top.  I wasn’t flustered. I wasn’t overwhelmed. Remember I KNEW that I was going to be at the ceremony.  I didn’t know how, but I knew I had to be there.  I got ready.  I was prepared.  And I didn’t flinch or blink when the opportunity presented itself.  I’m pretty sure that I was the only first year undergrad that was in the procession that day.  I ended up in front of Archbishop Desmond Tutu and I smiled broadly, bowed my head in respect and shook his hand.  I shook Desmond Tutu’s hand.  And I proceeded along, keeping time with the procession, having learned a life lesson, a bonus to meeting the venerable Freedom Fighter: don’t wait until the opportunity presents itself to get ready.  Get ready in anticipation of the opportunity.
Since 1987, I’ve prepared ahead of the opportunities that eventually presented themselves. In every instance I was ready to catch them and run. You don’t wait until you have a car to get your driver’s licence, do you.  We bought a lot of land and got house plans drawn up four years before we made the move to build… and that move was prompted because I had witnessed a murder from the house we were living in.  “You must be very sure that you’re ready!” I did a 180 degree turn career wise by getting professional certification in Supply Management just after my son was born.  THAT move opened doors for me that I couldn’t have imagined!  Today I’m back at school, studying something completely novel to me, and I just know that it is a preemptive move for an opportunity that is going to present itself.  And guess who’ll be there, ready and waiting to catch it and run with it !
“When Love (or opportunity) comes knocking at your door, you must be very sure that you’re ready!”

   

Dear Monica Lewinsky:

Dear Monica:
It’s been a while! I was pleasantly surprised to hear you this past week.  It’s hard to believe that so many years have passed since you were introduced to the world.  Listen: I for one have no problem with your decision to do the Vanity Fair interview.  If this is what you have to do today as part of living out your Best Life Ever, then so be it.  Hell, so many people have spoken on your behalf, put words into your mouth and told your story over the years.  Your time now!
Your own story illustrates the hypocrisy that exists where women and sex are concerned.  Bill was the married one.  He was the boss.  Today he remains an uber celebrity, making speeches, being warmly welcomed everywhere he goes.  Yet, you seem to have faded into the shadows, seeming to live every day in apology for something that you participated in years and years ago. 
I can imagine how difficult it has been for you.  It started off so heady and exhilarating, didn’t it… repeated flirtatious encounters with the very charismatic President.  It probably knocked you off your rocker every single time it struck you that this man that is flirting back with you was The Bill Clinton! That he saw you, complimented you, paid attention to you was almost unbelievable to you I would imagine. Those encounters probably became the high and focal points of your days.  In those moments, you were unable and unwilling to comprehend the likely consequences of any fall-out.  That doesn’t make you a bad person, Monica.  It makes you human.  Let me repeat: it makes you human.  It is over time that most of us build up our own self worth and become less dependent on the validation of others. I think that I can identify with what happened way back then.  And I’m pretty sure that there are many more like us who do identify and shake our heads sadly at how the fall-out affected you in particular. And there’s no need for us to re-hash the fall-out. You lived it.  You felt it.  Those close to you did too.  That certain knowledge probably caused huge amounts of pain and guilt and regret for you.
 
I’d see you in the months and few years after you were publicly drawn and quartered for things that many of us had done and were lucky enough to crawl away from in private.  You bravely tried to tell your story, but I’d see the sadness in your eyes.  I’d see the slightly bowed shoulders.  I’d hear the constant apology in your voice. And then we didn’t see or hear from you.  My heart went out for you back then.  I wanted to tell you that it could be ok.  I wanted to tell you that you were no worse a person that any of us out there.  I wanted to tell you that you could get through this and emerge with dignity.  I wanted to say to you: “I can imagine how tough this is.  Here’s a hug”.  I really did.
I have done things that I am not proud of, Monica.  And what I am going to say next is not meant to be a lecture, or admonition, or anything like that.  It’s simply my story, and if you can relate or find use, go right ahead.  I had to accept forgiveness from God first.  I eventually did.  And then I struggled with trying to forgive those close to me that had hurt me.  I really wanted to forgive and move one.  You see, cerebrally I accepted and believed that living my best life ever would never happen with bitterness, resentment and anger tying me up.  Every day I got up and asked God to help me to forgive.  I acknowledged that I wanted to forgive but that it was so darned hard.  I tried. I spoke to my shrink.  Some days were better than others, and then on other days, the hurt would just rush in and I felt like I was right back at square one.  And then I read a book by Gary Chapman about Apology.  It was very useful, but the real benefit for me didn’t come until near the end of the book.  It struck me like a lightning bolt that I couldn’t move forward until I forgave MYSELF.  Long story short, I purposed to forgive myself.  That doesn’t mean that I pretended that I had done nothing wrong.  That doesn’t mean that I didn’t accept responsibility for my actions.  It simply meant that I accepted that in spite of what I had done, I didn’t have to live with guilt forever more.  I went through a process that took strength and humility to forgive myself.  And that is why I cannot sit in judgement of anyone.  And that is why I cannot allow anyone to judge me.  What I did does not define me. Not in the least. 
You have the same name as my own mother and her mother.  They are formidable, awesome people.  I suspect you are too.  Live strong, Monica.  It’s past time for you to take your finger off the pause button of your life and live your best life ever.  Don’t look back, Love.  Don’t look back in remorse and regret over what some would call (maybe you do too) your lost years.  Living your best life ever starting today can more than compensate for those years.  This is Your Story.  Own it. Learn from it. Tuck and roll.
I can tell that there are people who have shown you unconditional love through this period.  My own mother remained my biggest cheerleader and rock.  My aunt was another huge support, who barked at the opposition when all I wanted to do was cry and regret.  When you feel weak, remember them. 
You’re obviously a smart woman who still rocks the most fabulous hair!
Photo Courtesy of Getty
I wish for you every good thing.
You are not alone.
Love,

Kelly

Negril’s 7 Mile Beach… here today, gone tomorrow… or not…

About a year ago, I did a post speaking to beach erosion in Negril.  Read it here.  That post had pictures of a severely eroded shoreline right by Negril Tree House Resort, Negril, Jamaica.  I took those pics April 2013.  In March 2014 we returned to Negril Tree House resort and I noticed something different.  Where water once lapped up against the bar, there was solid at least 25 feet of powdery, white, gorgeous Negril sand.  The beach appeared to have magically extended.  Naturally, I started to ask questions of the staff.

“De sea did tek it weh, and it gi we back now”.

“A so it go enuh…give and take”.

So there was no addition of sand?  No one came and dumped sand here to reconstruct the beach?”

*laughing* “Noooo, Man…a so it go.  It just come back so.”

There’s the bar in the back ground…see how much sand now between bar and sea

That low concrete ridge is where the sea used to lap up against…only glorious sand now

No sea encroaching here anymore….at least a brand new 25′ of white sand

Ok, then.  I really want to understand what is happening here.  This last week, Negril has been very topical in the news. This commentary in the Sunday Gleaner of May 5 gives a useful summary and perspective I think.

And you know my  love-affair with that piece of Paradise that was simply gifted by God to us. We didn’t have to buy it. We didn’t have to make it.  All we are asked to do is two things: enjoy it and take care of it.

I already enjoy it. Please help me understand what is happening so I can do my part to take care of it.

the Back Story

I was tired.  I wanted to get home.  I had struggled for the past couple of days with thoughts of my role on the team…of feeling like I don’t fit in…of feeling under utilized.  These are heavy themes for a forty five year old woman who is facing up to the possibility that she is not being all that she can/could be.  I was always the youngest and brightest in the room. Now I’m just another middle aged woman in middle management. But that’s a whole ‘nother story.  And sure, the story is far from being over.  But in the meantime, this place that I am in sucks. And I am ready for a change.  But am I really? Will I have the courage and energy to make the change happen?  Because I KNOW change is possible, but I also know that I have to be an active participant in it.  Indeed, I may have to play the lead role in making it happen.  But I repeat, that’s a whole ‘nother story. 
So I was tired.  I schlepped me and my knapsack and my handbag down the aisle to 18F and sure enough, there she was sitting in 18F. I mustered a smile and said: “I think you’re in my seat”.  She flashed her cheap, long, jet black weave, batted some long, obviously fake eyelashes and clicked her long, bejeweled, multi-coloured tips on the arm rest: “Eeh hee? A your seat dis? Bwoy, mi just grab a seat enuh. A weh mi fi sit now?” I prayed silently: “Baby Jesus give me strength, because mi naw gi up mi window seat, and mi nuh have di skills fi tek on dis gyal yah now.”
 
“Let me see what seat you got on your boarding pass den nuh?” I said in as friendly a manner as I could. 
“Mi get 18D”.
“Oh, cool!” I chirped brightly.  “You’re in the aisle seat right here.”
“Mek me come out so you can come in” she said side-eyeing me. “Yuh look like yuh need di space fi come in yah so”.
“Bitch, watch your mouth” I chuckled silently, knowing full well that Latisha, Laquanda, Ladasha or La-SUPN LIKE DAT scored 100 with that reference to my, ahem: “full bodied physique”. LOL! “Yes, thank you. I need all the space I can get”. 
I squeezed in (yes I did) and Miss Thang placed her narrow, blinged out behind in the 18D. She kept looking at her phone. She kept jumping up out of her seat, looking towards the front of the aircraft as if she was expecting someone.  She kept rummaging through her bag.  She kept clicking those acrylics.  She fingered the huge gold plated, crystal encrusted 3D heart thingy that hung from a cow chain around her neck. She made a call and I heard references to late flight, missed earlier flight, di bag dem, blah blah blah as I tried to tune her out, wishing that we about to land in Kingston rather than just taking off from Miami. By this time, she had now taken her seat and was keening back and forth with her arms around her belly, head gently bumping on the seat in front of her.  I paid closer attention to my kindle and pressed as far as I could into my seat.  Lord.  This was going to be a long flight.  Sigh.
18E arrived, and he slid into his seat with ease.  Miss Thang and 18E struck up and easy conversation.  She was so hyper and looked as if she needed to just talk.  She couldn’t keep still. He borrowed her phone and made a call. Turns out that he saw a pic of his woman come up on her phone when he entered the number and he was positively mystified. Well I confess, so was I!  See, by this time I knew that they didn’t know each other and I too wanted to know how come! She explained that: “a one app me download, and once di person yuh call deh pan Facebook, dem pitcha come up and dem location too…even if yuh and dem ah nuh fren!”  Well, at this point, I was positively mystified!  So mi just join in di niceness too and start probe Miss Thang for information about the app.  So we’re all now friends.  We cuss the attitude filled flight attendant girl who refused to make eye contact when giving out di likkle free drink dem. She says that if she copped an attitude like that on her job at the nursing home, she wouldn’t have no work.  “When me ah clean up di old white people dem, and dem stinkin shit, yuh tink me can skin up me face? Hell naw! Me haffi grin an’ bear it! If dem old people could look afta demself and nuh shit up demself, den I wouldn’t have a work!” Me and 18E nod sagely, and agree that customer service is critical and that Miss AA could stand to do a refresher course.  
So we’re all getting cozy and bonding and then Miss Thang makes an announcement. “Mi ah go see mi Baby!”
“Really? When last were you home?”
“Four year now since me come home”.
“Wow! So how old is your baby? Boy or girl?”
“She a 6”
I quickly do the math. “So that last time you saw your daughter she was only 2! A baby! She couldn’t even talk! Dang, Gurl!”  Yes…I said “Gurl”. We were like that now.
Tears filled her eyes. 
“Yuh haffi do wha yuh haffi do.  Mi miss har. Mi di have a likkle problem wid mi green card but mi just pay one lawyer man fi straighten it out, and see mi yah now.  Todeh ah har birthday too!”.
At that point, we were simply two mothers. Two women with children that we loved.  I said to her: “I bet yuh never sleep last night.”
“How yuh know?” she looked at me with incredulity.
“Because I have children too.  And I can only imagine how you are feeling”.
By this time the tears were right there. And we looked straight at each other. Listen. We do the best we can for our children.  That best looks different mother to mother, situation to situation. But the motives remain the same.  She described that she was surprising her daughter and her sister and how she felt nauseous. How she hadn’t slept for the past two nights, filled with anticipation, anxiety and joy all mixed up together in one complicated mass of emotions. How she missed her earlier flight because she had to repack her overweight bags, filled with birthday gifts and clothes and stuff.  How she paid American $350.00 to carry all her stuff. How she is so grateful to finally be able to do this.  How she missed her daughter’s father’s funeral due to her green card issues when he was shot and killed last year. Her jumpiness and skittishness all made sense to me now.
I was sincerely moved.  I noticed her gorgeous smile. I was drawn in by her unpretentiousness. I was made comfortable by her frankness.  I connected with her authenticity.  I looked into her eyes and understood. Mother to mother.  Woman to woman.
“There are the lights of Kingston” I pointed out to her, wishing that I had let her keep the window seat.  After all, seeing your home after 4 years is something to get excited about. She literally jumped out of her seat, leaning across 18E and we both bumped heads looking through the window, squealing loudly with joy.  I saw a few heads turn in thinly veiled disgust.  But at that point, it really didn’t matter to us.  
We knew the back story.  And that’s the thing.  There’s always a back story.  Assume that.  Don’t let’s be so quick to rush to judgement. To label people.  To need to put them in box before we decide if we can let them into our space or not.  Perhaps we should instead suspend judgment.  Simply accept until the person provides a valid reason to do otherwise.  The back story counts.
“God is good” I said to her. “May God go before you and smooth your path and may your reunion be more that you imagined it would ever be.  May God grant you the Perfect Two Weeks back home”.

That was it.  We said goodbye in the Customs Hall.  I was anxious to get home too.  I hope she’s hugging up with Baby Girl, flashing her hair, dressed up to the nines and unapologetically letting her joy hang out.  This is Chapter Happy of her Back Story.

about responding and saying sorry

There are two phenomena that I observe too frequently these days, and I am pretty sure that they are deeply rooted in our national culture.
PLEASE ANSWER ME!  🙁
The Customs official simply did not answer my email the first time.  Nor the second time.  Not even the third time.  And it wasn’t because he felt as if he was better than me.  Nor was it because he couldn’t bother.  He couldn’t find the information needed to provide and answer and so he thought he couldn’t answer.  How do I know?  I got him eventually via phone and this is what was explained to me.
The Supervisor downstairs didn’t answer my email the first time.  Nor the second time.  Not even the third time.  Like the Customs official, he didn’t have the info to answer what I was asking.
The Buyer didn’t answer my query about the timing of the shipment.  Not because I had pissed her off one time too many (at least not in this instance), but because she didn’t have the info.
So why is it so difficult to acknowledge the email and explain what is happening? WHY? Even if you don’t have the answer that you feel the person is demanding, just give the answer you can nuh…please? Please?

APOLOGIES ARE INFRA DIG 🙁

Lord have mercy!  When will we as a people recognize that to apologise for someone else’s discomfort or bad experience is not a sign of weakness?  It is not even an admission of culpability.  It is a refined, civilized and mature display of empathy and at its simplest level, is merely an acknowledgement of someone else’s disappointment.
The Head of Department did not apologise for her team member’s rudeness to an outsider.
The Customer Service lady did not apologise for the absence of that critical item.
The doctor did not apologise for keeping her patients waiting.

But they should have. 

Rasta is still a problem in 2014 Jamaica?

Rasta is still a problem in Jamaica? In 2014? Really? Here’s why I ask this…
Two weeks ago I was with a small group of third graders at my church’s learning centre where I volunteer. We were doing reading comprehension.  The passage under review was a story about a little girl who hated school because she had no friends.  The story went on to recount how she found another little girl who looked lonely at play time and how she struck up the courage to make friends with her and they all lived happily ever after.  Of course, we discussed the story and we had lively discussion, answering questions and rendering opinions about play time, friends and school. Much to their dismay, I then asked them to write a short story about what happens at  their own schools at break time. There were groans and moans: “me cyan write no story, Miss”. “How much sentence mek up a story, Miss?”  “Nutten nuh gwaan a fi mi school at breaktime, Miss”.  I answered every single question: “Yes you can write a story”.  “I will accept a 6 sentence story”.  “Use your imagination.  Write down what you would like to have happen at breaktime”.  Once they started, they couldn’t stop!  I helped with spelling and punctuation, but the ideas were all theirs. 
There’s a little boy in the class who I fell in love with from Day 1.  I will refer to him as Kimani.  That’s not his real name.  He is tiny for his age, has smooth black skin, and dread locks down to his shoulder.  Sometimes he lets them out.  Sometimes they’re in a neat ponytail.  He can read well.  He is lively. He dances like James Brown. Sometimes he looks sad though.  Sometimes he gets real quiet and doesn’t talk.  Sometimes he looks angry.  He always asks quietly if there is any extra food that he can carry home for his mother and baby brother.  I have always had a soft spot for Kimani. 
So they completed their stories eventually (I had to set a cut-off point for them…they just wanted to go on and on once they got started!) and then each child read their story to the class.  The first little girl, I shall call her Janelle, told of a boy in her class named Kimani that the children did not like because his hair was different.  She didn’t even try to hide the name. The real Kimani said: “Yes, mi know dem nuh like mi.  But ah nuh mi hair!”. She countered with certainty: “Yes, ah yuh hair!  Mi ask Lisa and she tell me she she nuh like yuh hair! Mi ask Rashawn and him tell mi she ah yuh hair too!  A yuh hair dem nuh like.  Dem seh yuh a Rasta bwoy!” I was stunned.  We discussed tolerance, empathy and that appearances ought never to be the basis of judgments.  I tried to be calm and neutral and understanding.  Then Kimani gave me his story to read.  He refused to stand up and read it aloud.  His story started off in the third person about a little boy who he didn’t name, but as his story went on, he slipped into the first person and named the boy Kimani.  Kimani was a little boy who didn’t have friends because everybody “hated him”.  It ended with Kimani feeling very alone and unloved. 

After class ended I hugged Kimani and told him that his different-ness is what made him great.  That he was to be proud of his family and his heritage and that he wasn’t to make anyone cause him to dim his light.  I told him to flash his locks when the haters start up.  I don’t know if this will make a difference. 

I didn’t know that rasta was an issue in Jamaica today.  Remember when Babylon used to hold rastas and trim dem? Used to lock dem up? When locks were infra dig in civilized Jamaican society?  So many middle class women sport locks today!  In my office, in my family, in senior government positions, women and men with multiple degrees, in traditional professions…so why is Kimani vilified for the same hairstyle?  Are dreadlocks are acceptable within the educated middle classes, but scorned in the ghettos, the very roots of the religion that birthed this look?  Is Kimani’s experience symptomatic of Jamaica’s bipolar society, so aptly portrayed daily on page 2 and page 5 in the papers? Is the scorn of Kimani’s hair style linked to bleaching practices in some way? And at the same time, why are locks de rigueur amongst the middle classes today? Is society confused? Are our identities split somehow, seeking to be what we really are not, to identify with something that we aspire to?