Author Archives: The Writer V

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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The Writers Block

A Young Amateur Writer

I woke up this morning with the worst realization that I am kind of lost and fearfully hopeful. Being organized (ish) has blessed me with a lot, and it has helped me immensely in surviving and making sure I “made it.” As I am aging, I’m surprised by how unsure I feel about what “making it” means or what survival versus “living” feels like, and if there can be a difference in an ambitious but often transitional society. Anyway, that’s something I want to get into next week.

This week I want to break down some of my perfectionism and write something imaginative. If it’s crap, at least I wrote something. If it’s amazing, it’s because I intended for it to be.

I was mulling over a possible character name during my T ride, but today, let’s say “Drapo” for our main character, since I write this looking over at the Haitian flag pinned to the wall above my desk.

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DRAPO, a fictional story

I.

I have always loved reading; it was my first sweet escape. Books have a particular smell to them, almost like aged clothes but with a hint of something I can’t describe that reeks of nostalgia. The worlds that can be painted through a series of words, paragraphs, and novels have always amazed me. On my worst days, the smell of books and library buildings’ gentle hums bring me comfort.

There’s a hum that buildings make when the AC is running, an artificial wind that makes a beautiful white noise. That’s probably the reason I always fall asleep; it’s like a lullaby. A sweet son—

“Are you homeless?”

A sweet song… interrupted by a stocky, pale librarian, with silverish wired glasses, locked on her target in mild disgust.

“I’m sorry? Oh no, I just, I just fell asleep.”

There is a pause before she answers, her wrinkled frown coming into focus as I am jolted awake by the increasing look of annoyance on her face and the reality of an empty library, left cold by more sensible patrons who left before the fluorescent signal of day’s end from the outer streetlights.

“Well, I see you sleeping here often and I’d like to talk to your parent when they come to pick you up.”

“Should you really be paying that much attention to a stranger?”

“Ma’am.”

“Fine, I’ll get him for you, but his English isn’t very good.

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That’s all I have so far, I’ll keep thinking about the character drapo, I hope you have a wonderful week.

-V

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The Writers Block

Mousey & Young

My favorite picture of me and my sister is of us sitting close, faces together, in our matchy-matchy Christmas dresses by the beautifully decorated tree, credit to my mother’s impeccable eye for gaudy yet girly design.

I love my sister’s gap and the milky brown tone of her face. I chuckle when I see that picture; she looks so much like the older sibling, and I so mousy, a bright smile, but quiet just the same.

I have a complex view of quietness. I enjoy it, but sometimes it’s pulled from me by well-meaning strangers. It’s often viewed as weak or slow, but it’s my favorite sound after a long day.

Quiet. Often used as a slur for a person unsettlingly at peace with their own company or just socially awkward. Or…?

Quiet,

floods over me more recently. I used to think it was when I plugged in my earbuds and floated into my own world. But it muted my mind, just my loud escape.

Quiet,

and well-behaved, often celebrated by some elders for being so well-trained, respectful, unproblematic, crushed into a figure so small and barely noticeable. Like fine cutlery, only to be fully admired when its owner deems it fitting.

Quiet,

to some people who’ve yet to defrost, I appear to be nothing more than my quiet nature. But how loud and boisterous I am with the ones who melt me. Though, global warming is inescapable, and I find myself less cold but still cautious.

Quiet, be quiet.

I usually am, but today I’m really in pain. Can you listen this time? I know I’m often silent—

silenced, by my own discomfort with overwhelming you. It might just be a one-off thing, a bad day?

Quiet, be a good girl, be nice. Behave. A woman shouldn’t be so angry. Forgive and get back in your trap.

Quiet, don’t act like you don’t have your own issues.

Quiet, ashamed of my mistakes.

Nuanced as it is, I will say the quiet part aloud too.

I see my flaws, but I won’t bury them with yours,
silently suffocating under the weight of the rug I was swept under.

Quiet and gracious, not to ignore the trampling of the elephant in the room,
but because I won’t carry on like a martyr from the ring of mockery.

I don’t often speak unless I’m really in pain. Please don’t make me…
Hushhh. How do you expect to be married if you don’t allow some mistreatment?

I do not want to be fine cutlery, only allowed to speak when given permission. You praise me for being so good at listening, but when I ask for the same, you stay… quiet.

Silence is a beautiful thing, it allows for moments of reflection, but sometimes it’s forced, when voices are trampled over in pride.

Still, there’s this pressure, a pressure to appease others’ discomfort with a nature that is not inherently wrong, not inherently sinful. Shrinking yourself to fit their expectations, to be more palatable, seems less like an act of grace and more like a painful death. Sure, there are conditions, complexities, and nuances, but ultimately it kills slowly.

So, though I love my ability to be silent, I will no longer be

mousy
but quiet, yes.

Epilogue

There’s beauty in not needing a reason, a trauma story, a diagnosis.

But sometimes, there is. And there is beauty in knowing that too.

More than conquers, but Jesus wept.

It’s not black and white, or gray—maybe much worse than that, a muddled brown.

Not everything needs to be pathologized (as some point out), but it’s okay to get the help you need to understand yourself.

I hope you get to enjoy some quiet today.

I wrote quiet as an ode to the complexities of quietness, sometimes as it is seen in women. I share it with you with no subtext; it is not related to one instance but reflecting over a lifetime from my adolescence up to today.

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The Writers Block

On the purpose of UB

Hello, and welcome to “The Unblended.” This is a space where I share my thoughts and reflections on life, personal growth, and the journey of authenticity. My faith is an integral part of my worldview, and it naturally influences my perspective.

My aim here is to explore a range of topics with honesty and vulnerability. I believe that faith and life experiences intertwine, and I want to share how I navigate that intersection.

“The Unblended” represents my desire to share my genuine thoughts and experiences, acknowledging that growth is a process. I’ll be reflecting on various aspects of life, and sometimes those reflections will touch on faith and sometimes they will not. I recognize that not everyone shares my beliefs, and I welcome diverse perspectives.

For those seeking deeper insights into biblical teachings and Christian tradition, I encourage you to consult with your church leaders, as they are well equipped to offer guidance on matters of faith. While I may occasionally reference Scripture, I do not claim to be a pastor, theologian, or prophet. I’m simply someone who values the beauty of words and writing, viewed through the lens of my faith.

I am not asking you to follow me as I follow Christ; I am still at the back of the line and trying my best, and I encourage you to do the same.

1 TIM 1: 15-16

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From the heart

Young Yet Older

The change in weather signals that the start of spring is soon to come, and it’s evidence, alongside the sound of groans as I get up from bed, that time waits for none.

I’m reminded of my father, a living time machine. When I visit home, I love to rub my fingers over the grey spikes that now litter his scalp. I feel the weight of nostalgia when I embrace him, remembering moments from my childhood: dancing on his toes, the look of disappointment on his face when I was distracted by everything but what mattered, the one time I saw him cry, and now, the strange WhatsApp messages we share. He’s always been an old man who yells too much, but now he’s fragile and forgetful, so much older than I remember.

I set out to write something poetic on youth and aging, but lately, something else has been weighing on me. I’ll write, assuming that if it’s meant to, the right people will read and understand to whom I’m speaking.

I think of dim sum, craft nights, and the sting of betrayal.

It’s hard to ignore the contrast between the people who once filled my days with joy and those who have become the source of my pain. There’s a heaviness in seeing people I once looked up to turn away from me, distorting the truth or using my flaws as weapons. Some probably didn’t intend to hurt me, but others seemed to take pleasure in pointing out every fault. It’s a bitter realization that those who were once so close can now feel like strangers.

Despite all this, I remind myself that guilt, though painful, is not our enemy, it’s an invitation to grow. I’ve learned that our mistakes, no matter how big or small, can’t erase us, but they reveal parts of us we often try to hide. Our insecurities, fears, and weaknesses come to light when we face the truth of our human nature.

I know that many of you are good-hearted, though like all of us, flawed and in need of growth. Still, I hold onto the hope that we can all do better. I want to offer grace, and in return, I ask for the same. I’ll do my best not to harbor bitterness or remember the passive-aggressive comments, and I ask that we try to meet each other with kindness, even when it’s hard.

In all of this, I will always cherish the good memories:

Talks about babies growing from a pear to a watermelon, weekend trips to the beach, nights watching Single’s Inferno, YA game nights with confusing prompts, prayer circles, stories of stealing boats with friends.

They are etched into my heart, and I will carry them with me. But I also recognize that some relationships might not evolve in the same way they once did. You’re always in my prayers. I am just not sure if we should make any more memories together. Maybe we will, or someday awkwardly greet each other and talk about how time flies.

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The Writers Block

A Young Grateful Lover

The outside of my windows is lined with small snow hills. I had to bust out my snow boots. I like them—they weren’t too pricey. I love the sound of snow boots marching on snow; it’s a specific crunch that I can’t quite satisfy with words. Even so, it’s nice to kick them off and feel the heat emanating from inside my beautiful room. I have curtains now lacy and white. Something small, but it makes me feel so welcome when I get home. My home doesn’t have much charm on the outside; it’s a bit too modern and cold, but I like it. I’m grateful for it. The sound of snow under the weight of my feet and curtains I chose, reminds me of the things that I love currently as I keep moving forward (in body but more so in busy mind).

I remember walking into an old university library, where a random man told me I looked move (mo-veh or mean), but my sister always squeezes my cheeks when I visit and tells me how cute I am.

My family loves me. I feel it in their voices and in the way they love me through my stubbornness. I carry them with me everywhere. This connection manifests in subtle ways. When I hear someone speak English in a mellifluous Creole accent, it reminds me of Mel, of honey, of my aunts, and my parents. When I hear women who speak way too loudly than is appropriate for public, I think of my cousins who are always shouting over the phone, speaking over each other but somehow piecing together jokes and stories well. I enjoy observing my family dynamics, particularly how they joke with each other and how no one stops to ask me why I’m so quiet but lets me join in when I’m ready.

I recall laughing loudly in an old church, and while someone once told me my laugh wasn’t very ladylike, I’ve come to love it as part of who I am. Better than the sound of tears, I suppose. Tears signal to others that something’s wrong, but now I’ve learned to appreciate the sound of my sobs. They melt the veneer of the fake happiness I sometimes wear.

“Whoever told you your eyes were pretty lied.” I adore the look of my eyes in the sun; they are like amber pools of brown. Likewise, I love how colorful and funky I dress; it’s how I feel on the inside—loud, bold, tasteful, and slightly unsightly.

I love that I’m persistent and will find a way to move forward, even when I can’t see the first step. I know how it can be viewed as too forward, but I have no intention of leaving my desires behind, only to regret what I didn’t pursue.

These are my current gratitudes—for myself and for others. I hope to have much life to live, fewer regrets to make, and greater changes to embrace, along with questionable decisions to navigate. But today, I will be grateful for the fact that I like the reflection in shop windows as I walk by, living life in my own quiet world.

I’m grateful for all the ways God has made me, and a reminder to you: though flawed you are wonderful. Let no one take that from you. Don’t let anyone who hasn’t taken the time to truly understand you tell you that you’re full of yourself for loving the reflection you’ve worked hard to cultivate.

This year was difficult, but I am grateful for the unwavering support of those who truly care for me, the unmeasured peace that Jesus has given me, and the continued journey of learning to love myself alongside my growing pains.

I am still often skeptical of people, my faith, and the future, but I am less anxious about being misunderstood and I pay closer attention to those who truly take time to understand me.

May the new year good or bad bring gratitude.

3 Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, 4 and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, 5 and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.

Romans 5:3-5

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From the heart

Young & Perfect

Perfection is an interesting concept—difficult to attain, seemingly foolish to desire, yet something I have often strived toward. I hear ‘nobody’s perfect,’ but it’s hard to believe, especially considering that for much of my life, I was not often given the gift of being childish. I don’t mean this in a patronizing way, but as a woman who has been told (in a well-meaning way) that I am ‘mature for my age’ since high school.

My mother is stunning, still beautiful in her older years, but she’s not as soft-spoken as she once was. She has deep wrinkles beneath her eyes, evidence of a life that’s been through hell. Her hair, though, is frozen in the 80s, styled in an Elvis-like slick-back. I remember the day we found a place to live outside of her cream-stained Mazda. It wasn’t much—a small room at the end of a hallway. It had to fit my mom, my brother, my sister, and me.

“Mommy knows you’re upset; I’m upset too, so cry,” my mom said as my sister and I clung to each other in tears.

I’m not sure why we cried. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was uncertainty, or maybe it was just the overwhelming reality of the situation. But it was one of those moments that has always stuck with me, and I am reminded of whenever I watch “coming-of-age” films. I used to watch those movies and think how immature the main characters seemed when they struggled with something that, to me, felt so simple. But then I realized—maybe they weren’t being immature at all. They were just being kids.

It’s strange how those times can feel so frustrating in the moment—like how absent-minded my mom could be and how much stress that added to us as children. But now, looking back, I see that she was doing the best she could, and we were just surviving, doing the best we could too.

When I see my mom now, hunched over and frail, I don’t know what I feel. I know I love her, but in a way, I resent her for burdening me with the need to be strong. I stopped complaining or asking for help years ago, since it often never came. Perfection—or the illusion of it—has kept me stable.

“Why can’t you remember things for me? You know how stressed I am.”
“You have to think of a career where you can support your mom, too.”
“Why isn’t dinner ready, and why is the hallway such a mess?”

What I learned is that my needs are always secondary to others’, and my purpose became being the perfect hollow daughter. Perfection, however, is inhumane. It makes it difficult to know when to ask for help, and I struggle to relax or open up—even to the coolest people. Sometimes, I think I have to be perfect, so they won’t leave, just like when I was younger.

I’ve learned to rely on myself. It’s hard to trust others and even harder to let go of control. I’m praying to learn how to do this—so the next time I feel myself acting immature, I’ll allow it, wonder why I feel so childlike, and give myself the grace to not be perfect.

A random one today, but I’ll leave you this verse;

1 Peter 5:7 Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.

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From the heart, The Writers Block

On Being An Young Woman

A note on my current love life October 9, 2023:

This morning I was rejected by someone I thought was really cool. I liked his laugh, his voice, and always had this overwhelming desire to hold his hand. I share this not because it feels awesome but because for the first time, in relation to my heart, I didn’t lie to myself. I needed to hear a “no” to let go and I didn’t beg to know why or try to prove I was worth his affection. While it hurts, I feel like a woman who is determined to protect her heart even if it means I have to be vulnerable. I think with the next man I’ll even be brave enough to say how I feel from the jump.

A short one today but with much love,

V

My favorite memory from my rejector; The way he seemed to look at me like I was the only girl in the room (or maybe not).

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The Writers Block

Young & Troublesome

When I was younger, I would climb the ten-foot-tall trees outside our ranch-style home in Interlachen, FL. Interlachen is a small town filled with kind people. Memories of friends who always smelled like carrots, bus rides with the entire town’s youths after school, and church events held outdoors on the rustic plains surrounding the only church for miles still paint my mind. I remember in particular when our neighbor dug a large hole in their backyard, covered it in plastic, and filled it with water. We spent most of that hot evening in their makeshift pool. I loved it, like I’ve always loved the feeling of being free, playing in the sun all day, and enjoying life.

Currently, my feet are decorated with cuts and blisters, trinkets from days I hung from those towering birch skyscrapers. Reflecting on my moments of childlikeness, the person I used to be is hard to picture. I vaguely remember the joy of creativity and adventure. In the strange journey of adolescence, I lost my naivety and ushered in pessimism. Ironically, I used to take immense pride in my strength, seeing myself as resilient and pain resistant. Yet today, a growing reflection of myself is in the midst of learning to embrace me and extend parts of my brokenness to others. In an allegoric way the cracks in my heels have reached my heart, were I struggle to understand the emotions that flow from it.

In believing my vulnerabilities exist, even when they escape my understanding, I can share in true bravery the unpolished parts of me. I hope to comfort those who, like tiny puzzle pieces feel too difficult to solve, through accepting God’s love. Since entrusting God and embracing my brokenness has become less confusing and more nourishing. Not in the sense that I don’t feel lost but more that I know there is a hand for me to hold, who will love me even when I feel too complicated to be cared for.

Romans 5:3-4

1 Tim 1: 15-16

15 Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. 16 But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his immense patience as an example for those who would believe in him and receive eternal life.

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