Tag Archives: poetry

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

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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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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