Tag Archives: writing

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.

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

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.

_____________________________________________________

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.

________________________________________________________

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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