Tag Archives: #comingofage

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 I Love Lucy, 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.

Standard
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.

Standard
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.

Standard
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

Standard
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.

Standard
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

Standard