The Writers Block

A Short Story

Not too many thoughts today but while taking a trip on the bus this story came to be.

So here is a short story or the beginning of a longer one.

…………………………………….

In the sweltering heat, my sister and I stick to each other like the mango juice on our kitchen countertops. Cuddled together, unwittingly, on a queen bed in the middle of Brooklyn.

Though the heat is not from the humidity back home or due to the summer season. The heat is from the makeshift sun that clanks in the corner of our room, in our aunt’s house, in a neighborhood that is thought to be undesirable.

For the most part, my kin and I resemble two praying mantises. Not in stature, however, since most of the women in our tree leaned short. Moreso in the way that our aunt would always ask “ou te manje?” [you ate?].

With exception of our hips that flooded jeans. In a way that someone who wasn’t of our complexion would claim was crass.
Nonetheless, we found it normal, the many shapes that women we knew who looked a bit deeper in color took on.

The broiler-like room we slept in would sometimes break me out of my slumber. Where I’d stay wide eyed, staring at ceilings yet to be buttered, thinking of a maybe future.

Wide eyed and nauseous at such a sadistic thought, a new day.

fin, for now.

happiest Saturday.

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From the heart

Young and illiterate.

Since I was a little, small, petite, tiny, and infantile girl, I have loved words.

In particular the ones that were new to me and seemed too (or is it to?) complex for me to understand. I wish it was more socially acceptable to stop someone in the middle of their rant or retelling of their day and ask them what that impressive sounding word they used meant.

On my walk home I would dream of breaking into a soliloquy. I’d disturb onlookers by delving into madness, screaming of how many different ways you could call someone a pretentious jackass.

Of all the beautiful and pointless words that make sentences seem far too convoluted, “idiosyncrasies” is the first one I remember being intrigued by. I was in middle school, I forgot what we were reading or how I came across the word, but it stuck out.

Idiosyncrasies.

I thought at the time that perhaps the word described someone foolish or idiotic. Or maybe it had something to do with the syncing together of things. In reality the word “idiosyncrasy” is defined by a way of thought or behavior that is specific to a certain person.

So, there is a chance you have many idiosyncrasies, it seems mine is claiming to be a writer while struggling with my grammar. Still, I write, even if at times poorly.

I am not infallible however, so I did get a copy of “The Blue Book of Grammar and Punctuation” but I’m looking for some good editing tools as well (and I’m open to suggestions).

…..

Alongside improving my grammar, I wanted to talk about critique.

You will meet a million people with commentary on a life that is not their own.

Critiquing something is not inherently wrong, there might be those with more knowledge, whose two cents will finally make a dollar for you. However, there may also be others that will push advice through delusions of grandeur and clenched jaws. Who will shout boldly their unapplicable advice, dipped in high-minded contempt.

You do not have withstand degradation from anyone before receiving their guidance. Though you should keep an open mind, you do not know all, least you be the kind to dish out advice that is of no use.

You don’t have to take my advice either though, I have much to learn. I must have made at least twenty grammatical errors in this post alone.

Happiest Saturday.

A sincere question, is this considered prose?

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The Writers Block

Daughter of No Nation

I remember the times when I would get the question, “What are you?” and, with greased, stained lips from my aunt’s griot, I would answer, “Haitian.” Of all the answers I received back, the most stomach-churning was, “No, you aren’t”, as if all I knew wasn’t Cream Razac, Avon sales, fancy church hats, and pungent food that stuck to my ribs.

I suppose culture or identity is more than that. Perhaps it’s knowing how the grains of sand feel on the mainland’s public beaches compared to the coasts of Atlantic City, or even Labadee.

I speak Creole, but in the distinct way of someone who grew up on Martin, 106 & Park, Alan Cavé, and Usher. The deep pang in my stomach when people question my identity feels as though I were an orphan, as if I bore no resemblance to my parents’ thick accents or their pilgrimage from donkey rides to the MTA.

I wonder if the painted pictures in my mind of Haiti, the smell of the mountains or the sweet tang of pomegranates littering the roads were just fan fiction, recreated from my father’s sharp memories of home. Over time, I grew comfortable with the idea of being Haitian-American.

My experience with Haiti has not been through a long flight or street vendors, but through my parents’ unique lexicon, inside jokes, my dad’s pride in sharing the history of 1804 and the first independent Black republic, and countless other moments. My Haiti has always been living, breathing, and evident during family gatherings in the beautiful way my name is pronounced.

But with the loss of my father comes a deafening fear of losing myself. He and my family are my “Haiti,” and I often fear I won’t translate it well, that in the future, my Haitian identity will be too faded to be tangible for my children, nieces, or younger family members.

I see my culture in my aunts, my mother, and my dad. I know they deserve eternal rest, but selfishly, I grieve the loss of my tethers to a homeland I have not yet felt beneath my own feet.

Bon Dimanche.

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About Mer.

The Jungle Poem.

On a visit to the jungle/zoo (kind of)

I wonder if, in the mundane of lunch breaks and star market coupons, people know the magnitude of their influence.

A couple of weeks ago, after debating whether I should bother after a long workday, I ended up attending a writing workshop. A free-write time for poetry, it was awesome. After ruining the sublime atmosphere the instructor had set by barging in late, I read a line from a poem that really touched my heart.

“Grace” by Joy Harjo, in which my favorite lines were;

The haunting voices of the starved and mutilated broke fences, crashed our thermostat dreams, and we couldn’t stand it one more time. So once again we lost a winter in stubborn memory, walked through cheap apartment walls, skated through fields of ghosts into a town that never wanted us, in the epic search for grace.

I’ve always loved the beauty of words, what new ones you can happen upon in a thesaurus and pretend you’ve known for years. But mostly, I enjoyed the vivid feeling of these lines, and it inspired my own during our free-write time.

The Jungle poem was written for my loved one and their time in the steamy wilderness of Blanc which they endured.

………………………………………..

Recently, I have been thinking about the zoo and your unexpected trip there, especially since you have never been the spontaneous type.

The translucent snakes that wrapped around your body.

A blood thirsty cobra gripped your throat, and a garden snake at your nose that poisoned you with O2.

Their hisses were ominous but not like the slow, almost peaceful whispers of snakes on Nat geo or like tea kettles reaching climax.

More like a creeping whisper, to the pace of pre-war apartment buzzers or sympathy claps begging for early show endings.

I remember then how much you hated the zoo. Maybe scared you’d be a lost cry in the faux bird calls that filled that stale jungle.

Perhaps you felt pity for their encampment and after spending time with them realized you too felt like an exhibit.

I wish I could tell you that even if people saw your resemblance in the panther’s roars and your booming voice, they would never be an exhibition that could hold the uniqueness of your being.

Happiest Saturday / Juneteenth

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About Mer.

Myel Man

How do you say “honey” in Creole?

Myèl.

I don’t remember who I asked for the translation of “honey,” but I have loved the way it sounds ever since. Myèl (mel) sounds like it would be a sweet nickname for a friend you adore. One who is open and kind and loved by most, but short for Mellanie or Melisma.

It even drips from your cupid’s bow so sweetly, myèl. Sometimes Haitian Creole can sound so boisterous, but the sound of myèl is so soft. It reminds me of crushes and slow burns.

I like to pace or walk and get lost; it was roaming the aisles of shoes I didn’t need that I smelled something familiar. The scent that sits in my cabinet, which stuck to my spoon this morning when I was making tea.

You were very handsome in a non-traditional way for our local. Hair too dark, a face too blemished, and a nose too wide, but still, you reeked of honey.

You told me your name, and it was simple, but on wash day, you still stuck to my roots even after clarifying. And when I sat down to do some work, I wondered if you were the type to respect a woman’s grit or independence. Or if the books that lined your shelves were a fly trap for women to distract them from your secret animosity, pollinated by an old heartbreak.

But when we sat on splintered park benches to chat, I noticed, alongside your perfume, your eyes swirled with a honeysuckle brown color that I wish I could indulge in. I recall thinking how nervous you seemed and how I found it sweet and wondered why someone so amber mostly wore black.

I was so distracted by your manuka nature that I bypassed the crystalline parts of you. How I wished you could be more patient or open, but by that time, you had already fully turned to myèl.

When I get sick, I take a tablespoon of myèl and think of you, though now, after so long, you remind me of honey.

Happiest Saturday, thank you for reading!

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About Mer.

Dark Cellars of Hope.

On hope, desire, and dream catching.

In high school, I wrote a short story inspired by the book “Living Dead Girl” by Elizabeth Scott.

It was a pretty dark read, but I felt a deep longing to experience the freedom the main character felt towards the end of her story. I envied the brightness of her reaching the reality of hope imagined and finally escaping her captor; the warmth that illuminated those chapters produced a deep ache in me. She was able to leave her prison, allowed to make her own decision on her life, no matter how brief.

A brightness I tried to replicate through my own story about gypsy girls and the turmoil of traveling so often with their mom. It was then that I realized my own talent as a writer, though my English teacher’s feedback brought me back to earth with a simple “that was very creepy”.

I think what really stuck with me was her hope. It may have been tied to the author trying to illustrate her stunted development, but the desire to “keep hope alive” in difficult circumstances was impactful.

However, I was younger when I felt that way, and in becoming a woman, I see it a bit differently.

Realistically, her hope was from a place of delusion or primal need, somewhat parallel to the idea of the “strong black woman”. That is why hope can feel so sadistic sometimes. After experiencing things not working out consistently time and again, even after honest trying, are you really being hopeful or just naive?

Something that can be even truer if you have felt “robbed” of certain milestones. If you were sheltered or “parentified” young, does it make sense to explore passions after becoming an adult by age, even if you performed maturity since adolescence?

I have become so unsure about many things; childhood feels distant, and hope feels very stupid, but it burns beneath my skin. The desire for my own agency, my own right to fuck up my life or make something of it as I see fit.

I love and hate hope; it is very foolish to have, but it has the potential to push you toward your deep passions. I just struggle to know if they are fervors fit for an adult or if it is the younger me acting out like a child.

Optimism has been my lifeblood; it has been a friend since I was very young. I’d dance in my room and hope the future me was happier, but I’m slowly learning that hope can only be a gift if you allow yourself to imagine past its potential to bring joy. It has to be more measured, in the daily trying to unravel what you desire for yourself, instead of when you are a different, more competent version of who you hope to be.

I really hope that you get to be the version of yourself you always wished to be, even if it feels frivolous to pursue. I just hope that our dreams, like children, get to explore and someday mature into a version that may be unexpected, but alive, nonetheless.

Have the loveliest weekend.

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About Mer.

a young foodie

Since scraping my knees and making mud pies at recess, I have loved the beauty that is food.

When I was younger, I got the best “ear itch” from the sound of my mom’s spoon scratching the bottom of rice pots and the smell of legume that some people hate.

I loved the end of my stomach grumbling that signaled the end of our long church services, a hunger satiated by the bite of a pâté. The layers of grease that painted our lips as we bit into the softness of spiced meat and crusted shells. It was heaven.

We used to hear so many compliments on my mom’s cooking; I beamed with pride when I heard the grating of fish scales against butcher knives in the kitchen. I miss the times when my siblings and I ran around the house, salivating at the smell of food filling our home.

Sitting at our dinner tables, we were just kids eating what our mom made.

When life changed, and mom couldn’t be around, we stopped eating food on kitchen tables, and likewise I stopped feeling so much like a child.

After working, school, cleaning, and forgetting to be young, I sometimes hated the idea of making a meal for that would be later critiqued for taking too long. After my parents’ divorce there was a time were my mom absence, cooking and food felt ugly. Kitchen tables turned to couches, sweets used to numb outer pain, and food aroma turned burnt from the amateur nature of a teenage cook.

When I say I love food, I sometimes get a look. A look of — obviously you do— it does make me chuckle sometimes because I often mean the nostalgia, the unity, the sense of pride that comes with a good meal.

Time seemingly heals all wounds, and I have started to love the smell of hot grease, tears from onions, and the beauty of food.

I hope you get to enjoy a warm meal with the people you love, happy Sunday.

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About Mer.

Another Level Up

On leveling up and womanhood.

If you’ve played Mario Kart, you may have used Princess Peach as your player. Perhaps something within you connects to her pink ball gown, inelastic blonde bob, or fighting a man three times her size. A mess, truly.

Peach, however, was still successful and, through many iterations of the Mario universe, has leveled up to her very own solo game. She has inspired me to write on the topic of “leveling up” as a woman.

One of the unconventional aspects of my personality is my tendency to be confused by embarrassment. Mostly, because things are largely trivial; why should you feel shame for honest missteps or the ignorance that comes with growing pains?

From genuine friends, a sugar lashing can grow you. However, I notice the desire to optimize your being, not to be male-centered but still alluring, successful but effortlessly so, enviable but not in a pompous way, can sometimes lead to a life wrapped in cellophane.

The pressure for perfection hit me the hardest after a tough season of life. At the time, I developed a self-improvement kink that now still lingers. The catalyst of this said kink was a myriad of opinions on my personality, decisions, and being. So much so that I forgot that I didn’t within myself feel much shame on these honest missteps.

I think the complexity of self-improvement can be its potential to better people but also sterilize.

When I speak to some of the closer women in my life, they ooze beauty. The same women who have goals yet to be fulfilled or fulfilled in a messy way.

A single mother but still a devoting and excited one, a part time student soon to graduate, or a single woman who is an amazing community member. I don’t want to degrade these to underdog wins; I just believe “leveling up” is a personal journey. Especially in womanhood, where we are often lambasted for our mistakes more harshly.

To be better than yesterday is an admirable goal, but please let it be for the sake of your true reflection and not a portrait painted by well-meaning projections.

I hope you do level up, but I admit I no longer know what that looks like. There is no true marker for success or failure. Though, as you grow, I hope that is authentic to you. Slowly or quickly is of no consequence, just as long as you persist.

I’ve been trying out Substack so check it out: On Leveling Up – Princess Posts

Happiest Sunday

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From the heart, The Writers Block

My Daddy’s Vest

My daddy was born with a vest.

I’m not sure if it was in a warm bath or a hospital room where he first uncurled his toes. Or if he took his first breath in the hands of his doctor or his mere at home, all that I know is when they cut his umbilical cord, they forgot to take off his vest.

Maybe when he was young, as his sisters would dress him for kindergarten and walk him over with his hand held tight, they wouldn’t remove the vest since it was so big it never really made a difference to take it off.

I imagine as his legs lengthened and his afro shot outwards, as he answered math questions with a certain quickness that those who knew him would often comment on, that vest would shine with many colors. Like the technicolor coat we used to hear about in the old Abrahamic story of Joseph.

I wonder if he heard the same story when he used to go to the bible study, or what if he thought it was just a ridiculous tall tale. My dad is a practical man, but also a vault; you rarely know what he is thinking.

I imagine his seven sisters saw his vest and found it beautiful; perhaps they were even jealous, but ignorant to the fact that upon close observation, there were layers of cross-linked chains that lined his vibrant garb.

Maybe when escaping death at the beach, traveling from the warmth of Port-au-Prince to the frigid air of Jersey, or getting a divorce, the chains would increase in weight.

My father wore his vest with pride, I think, but I hated it.

Vibrancy can be deceptive, its beauty coveted but misunderstood. Everyone seemingly desires beauty but forgets the way it can objectify its host.

The beauty of his outer garments shone when someone needed him, or money, or advice, but the indents in his shoulders were ugly.

I longed for the day he would take it off, though in small moments he did when he was so happy at his surprise birthday parties or our family trips. I long for his retirement, for grandchildren, for old age, and worsened eyesight.

My daddy no longer wears his vest, but not by his own choice. I wear his vest to remember how amazing he is, but the chain-linked crosses inside, I will burn.

For J.R.B, my one and only princess, I love you.

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The Writers Block

Young & Un/Sheltered

I was chatting with someone earlier this week, and they asked me if I always wanted to be a scientist, and it gave me pause. Today I was considering writing about being young and “making it,” but I think the current title better reflects what I’d like to focus on: being unsheltered but somehow sheltered in a way that can make you a late bloomer.

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The first crush I can remember was a boy called BP. We were in middle school in sweltering summer heat; he was a sort of shade. He was so cute, with icy deep blue eyes (not the scary pale type), and he loved to play football, always yapped about it. I used to secretly hope he’d let me escape with him.

For whatever reason, he always stopped to talk to me. It confused me at the time because I didn’t dress in a fly way, just what we could afford, plus the clothes or out-of-style sneakers I would borrow from my cousins, who were kind enough not to complain.

During that kind hectic time in life, I always appreciated his sweetness and how he was not the “brightest” intellectually, but he made up for it in warmth. After school, when I waited for my aunt to pick me up, his face would light up, displaying his crooked but white teeth (all thirty-two), and he’d run to hug me. It always made me feel something. That something wasn’t love, but it was just something, as opposed to the buzz of sugar-coated nothingness that revolved around living with our mom.

It’s only as I get older and less certain of the future that I realize how sheltered we were. At times the past is fuzzy, other times it’s jarringly sharp, but a general theme I recall is the feeling of instability that came with seasons of being unsheltered. Unsheltered in a sense that sometimes we didn’t know where we would stay, but more so emotionally, fending for ourselves and trying our best to consider how much harder someone else had it. Being a sheltered child meant hope, believing that instability could be resolved by just doing the right things, but often in a narrow mindset of success, weddings, children, and humble endings.

In general, my sheltered upbringing taught me to see the world in black and white: you work hard, you don’t complain, you are grateful. This mindset is slowly eroding. I now feel a lot of guilt caring for myself, finding a million reasons to prioritize others’ emotions above my own. I sometimes struggle to set up my own space because my body recalls the fear that it won’t be mine for long, and I struggle to give in a healthy way when I’m deeply interested in someone, though I don’t think I’ve felt mature love yet, just puppy love and the kind that comes with friendship.

I just wanted to share that you can slowly unpack the parts of you that developed while you were sheltered. I will say it has made me very empathetic and creative at making cold places feel like home, and that is one aspect I desire to keep. However, I am slowly learning that I can be “selfish” sometimes and think about what I want in a way that’s balanced and not rooted in greed or being parallel with the Joneses.

I enjoy science. It is fun, hard, and stable, a few of the things I used to yearn for as a child. But I think when you grow up a certain way, you learn to dream for just enough, and it’s hard to see beyond that. I like the ability to see beauty in simple things, but I’m getting more comfortable not being so sure about everything. So, on my off days, I dream outside the box and write.

Happiest Sunday + end of a ramble.

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