Tag Archives: books

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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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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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

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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