This is an old journal entry of mine. Although I feel that it reflects a past self, a viewpoint that I had about "things". I feel pretty much that way now. Call it truth or a slow growth, it is a truth committed to paper at that time, and I'd like to share it with you.

How it all Comes Together

He said I was too quick to love. I can't help it that my heart took me there. He said I miscalculated, misquoted, misunderstood.
Another will say I'm too concerned with self. Concerned only with that which concerns me.
They say that I think I'm better than they are, that I want too much and that my standards are too high. Unattainable even.
"...remember who you are, what you are..." Black, a nigger: they will never accept you, value you or love you, not like we can.

How do you think that makes me feel? Truth is some of this is factual, though addressed with ill intention, provoking an ignorance I do not embrace. I love too fast, I'm all too preoccupied with aesthetics. appearance and image. Though I've tried to keep that aspect of my personality hidden from view. And yes, at the back of my mind, Belief  lays dormant, half awake and half asleep. he rises just long enough to remind me that to them I'm just another jungle bunny. The clothes I wear, the intensity and intelligence of my stare nor the type of language I speak won't change what they see when they look at me. The ever present superiority of the white mind will forever be exercised and validated by society. No, he said, they weren't concerned with me. Not interested in my buried history or my peoples long forgotten royalty. For them it remains a myth, an idea, a fantasy like that of a Black Jesus or the poetic genius of the late Tupac Shakur. Nonsense, all of it.
So what does that make me?
Some non-intelligent nobody?

They have had their moment to speak. But the right response to all of this does not come all at once. bits and pieces of a possible reply come to me at random moments. Most of it does not make it past my lips. Instead, knowledge and understanding bobs to the surface, assisted by dreams, various conversations and quiet introspective moments when I am alone and away from the world.
Much like a magic wand, pencil comes to paper, thoughts take form, questions get answered, frustrations and tensions release; topics of interest are addressed.
The headaches subside, the clenching of teeth decreases dramatically, and again I feel that I have taken my first breath of fresh air. In that moment, I am beyond peace and without regret for what was expressed. I will not apologize. My feelings have been hurt too.

Let them say what they want to say. My truth is worth more to me than gold. So what if most of what I mean to say can only be articulated by the use of this unforgiving journal format.
My gospel will release me.
Tomorrow is my heaven.
I lay my head and rest, for what is to be will be.

Africa Me

Here's a penny.

Here, take what's mine and all I own.

Here, take this diamond,

Here, you take this gold.

Strip my people of everything.

Fuck them right!

They don't deserve to be happy,

sheltered or given opportunity to elevate.

Africa is the land I come from.

It is the land of my people.

Every time you take from her, you steal from me.

Anytime you voluntarily spread disease, you infect me. 

When you pretend she does not exist, you dismiss, me.

The All-seeing Blind

Disturb me not.
I am busy.
Busy with life and the endlesss pursuit of love.
Too busy to see you.
Do not call me by my name. I no longer respond to it.
Nor do I you.
Understand me friend,
Busy is what I am.
Busy maintaining my composure.
Busy yourself while I cover  my pain.


Art of life

...sadness you own me.
sweet melancholy needs be.
some things seem to have no meaning until they begin to get you down.
being alive is poetic.

The Color of Colour

A blanket that covers the day,
Shadow going my way, dark and warm, my protection against all.
A captured, enduring whips and chains,
withstanding the pain, the burn; making a place for itself in a colorless world?
This colour never goes away, it never fades.
Solid, dominant, and forever.
Not persuaded, it never blends in, it cannot go away.
Color is a deep, and much set in stain.
Evolution has rendered it great.
Time will/may not ease its pain.
But never, never again will it
stock the basements of your ships.
Forward, forward and back to greatness. 

#poetry

(Hand-me-down)

To be haunted by possibility, choice, and

circumstance is a wretched thing,

Damaging to the mind, body and spirit.

Once a promised potential fruit of the blessed tree

I live another day regretting, trying to forget the burden,

while at the same time re-adjusting the weight upon my shoulders.

It is not right to feel this way. Such pity.

Such lingering bitterness

With an aftertaste of jealousy. Which way is it supposed to be?

I don't know.

The matters of fact remain

And I dare not make vocal the complaint.

So I commit it to paper and ink.

I give my burdens to you.

This excerpt, from Miss Tourist, is a story filled with caribbean folklore & images of village life common to most islanders. Although some details are born out of real memories, the story is all imagined...enjoy.

 Miss Tourist

by Mark James

Looking at the ordeal Mercy was frightened and curious all at the same time. There was so much blood. Octavia was born at sunrise the next mornin’. She never make a sound or cried for three days. Everybody looked at the baby girl believin’ that somethin’ was wrong. Every time she opened her mouth to breath, or yawn, all-ah-dem suck the air from the room and open dey eye like owl, bracing for what they hoped was natural. We called her Redd for short and Mercy was never more happy to be called sister. Poor Ms. Antoinette was never the same after that. Lawd know that woman was way too weak-bodied to have any more chil'ren. A woman need more than just a husband and some chil'ren’ to keep. She need a strong mind, support and understanding too. She ain’t no horse or dog to be breedin’ babies like that. Octavia was born in September. By November, Antoinette was pregnant again. Daddy wanted a big family and Mother wanted to please him. Ask me how I know all that...

...Well by now ah hope yuh know d’story. Antoinette: kickin‘, cussin’, screamin’, takin' the Lord name in vain. Mayor: outside d‘house drunk, talkin‘ ‘bout, “ah not takin‘ mey wife down dey fuh dem people tuh kill she!” Junior, he best friend and gamblin‘ partner tryin‘ to reason wid him. “Okay, okay ah rest meh case...”, Junior was tired of arguin’. After Redd, Daddy wanted a son. One year later, Criest, the one and only brother was born. “She say she happy but ah go hear ‘bout she and dat man and dem chilren she keep givin‘ crazy name to.” Cleva was busy waggin‘ she tongue in Sunday
morning market. “Gimme some cassava and pig tail please. Aftah dat meh money done.” She was talkin‘ to Mavis but everybody ‘roun‘ she could hear plain what she was sayin’. Miss Mavis lookin‘ nervous because she know dey lookin‘ at she as if she supposed to make Cleva hush she mout’. “ Ah mean, who does name dey chile aftah Jesus! What kinda crazy shit is dat? All I know is it wrong, somebody should tell she ‘bout she self. And Old Lady Dr. encouragin‘ stupidness, furthermore ah ain’t goin‘ ova dey to help she again. Ah wash meh hands a’dem people.” She shakin‘ she head left and right. She two lip push out. Dey leavin’ d‘market. She all d’way wrong for spreadin’ talk and she need to mind she business sometimes, even if some of it is fact. To tell yuh d’truth, aftah Criest come people start to murmur about the Norwood house and the people in it. They didn’t start acting like complete jackass right away, yuh know. Good God fearing Christians don’t operate like that. Daddy could care less, he was havin’ more chil'ren to be proud of. It solidify he manhood. Mother, on d’other hand was slipping gradually into a strange kinda sadness. Old Lady Doctor give she something to calm she nerves but ah not sure if it go work. It didn’t help dat people was spreading rumor ‘bout how Mayor traipsing ‘roun’ wid loose woman down by d’tavern aftah work. Every week he had less and less money to buy food and mine he chilren. “Any man who can’t take care of he seed is worthless in my opinion, ah don’t care how good lookin’ he is, jus speakin’ meh mind,” said Cleva
as she passed by the Norwood house. She and Ms. Mavis had come down d’road to go ‘cross d’ravine to buy eggs, so dey start up dat chat. Antoinette sweeping d’veranda so she was doin’ all dat loud talkin’ out of spitefulness. “Good Mornin’, neighbor,” Say Cleva. “Mornin’,” Say Antoinette, pausin’ long enough to adjust a headscarf coverin’ her hair. “Ah goin’ ‘cross by Mr. Braithwait to get eggs for in d’mornin’. How yuh keepin’?”  Cleva inquired. “ Ah good, can’t complain. How Junior?” Cleva was thinking other thoughts but out loud she say, “He good, he home listen’ to a cricket match on d’radio. Yuh know dem man and dey sports.” Then the air get silent. “Well anyway ah go talk to yuh latah gurl, ah have a pot on d’stove,” say d’head wrapped woman. “Okay den.” Cleva stood at the Norwood’s gate to look Antoinette up and down before she walk away. Then, under her breathe she say: some people have no shame. She walkin’ back way she come from. Look like she forget she was going to buy eggs. Ms. Mavis follow behind she like she stray dog lookin’ fuh scraps.
The Trinidad Guardian and dey reporter man was watchin’ Doctor Eric Williams at his house on Mary Street. Apparently, he was makin’ plans behind the backs of the other Ministers in he cabinet. Hundreds ah kilometers away on Red Hill, people didn’t need no newspaper to bring news; they had Cleva.
Cleva, Ms. Patsy and Ms. Wendy standin’ on d’corner. Hands on hips, knee slappin’: They gossipin’. Cleva talkin’, “...if ah lyin’ God strike meh down! Yes gurl, Antoinette pregnant again but that is old news.” Wisperin’ and leanin’ close she take a look ‘roun’ creatin’ anticipation. “I hear dat dem Creole people who own dat land that Mr. Braithwait been squattin’ on, gurrrrl, dey sen’ him notice to get off dey property, Mmmhmm.” So then Ms. Patsy chime in, “Oh Lawd, dey really comin’?” Cleva say, “Yes gurl.” “My goodness,” Ms. Wendy shakin’ she head left and right, “Bacchanal in d’village.” Well, doh say ah didnt tell yuh, dis was bound tuh happen eventually. Commess comin’ down on we head, unexpected like bird-shit from above. Well, Mr. Braithwait say he not movin’. "D’powers dat be go have to kill meh. This is my land! Mine! Leh dem come fuh meh..." He cuss and carry-on talkin’ to himself, waving a cutlass dat he forever sharpenin’. So d’steel glistenin’. He ready for war. Some of what he sayin’ in Patois so Mercy don’t understand what he rantin’ and ravin’ about. Only old people does talk that talk. She walkin’ home from school. She fumblin’ to open the front gate to her parents house but she turn ‘roun’ just in time to see him goin’ back ‘cross d’ravine. Still cussin’ dem Creole an’dem. A fortnight later, Mr. Johnny Winston Braithwait would go missing.
The people did come. About a dozen or so come drivin’ down the hill in two fancy car. They look white but dey not white. Dey have good hair and dey talkin’ good French talk. Dey don’t ask
anybody nothin’. All dey say to Mother and Daddy was “Good Morning.” At least they have manners. Dey walk near the ravine and start pointin’ and talkin’ to one another. For a week dey come, dey talk fancy talk and take measurements, and dig up d’land. Dey knock down Mr. Braithwait wood house but keep he chicken. To this day, nobody know where Mr. Braithwait gone to. Regardless, the men went to work, and the women did what women do. The chil'ren stayed in dey place did what dey were told and only spoke when dey was spoken to.
Mayor and he wife was arguin’ more and more everyday. He stay gone last night, come home d’next mornin’, change he clothes and walk out d’door and didn’t say a word to anybody. Antoinette was eight and a half months pregnant now. Old lady Dr. say she have to stay in bed because she not well enough to move ’roun’ like dat. By the time the baby start to come the woman was delirious and talkin’ nonsense. Mercy was helpin’ bring water to the old woman when she notice her face frown up. “Go and get Father Cummings fuh meh chile, please.” By d’time Mercy come back with the priest, Mother was dead. The baby was squealin’. Daddy was nowhere to be found. We name her Evelyn Ann Norwood.
Mayor get up one mornin’ talkin’ ‘bout  the people ova’dey by ‘cross the ravine makin’ too much noise fuh he to sit down and read he newspaper in peace. But that was just another excuse for he to walk out and leave the chil'ren so he could go out and do he business. It been a year now since dem people come and start to build. Now that Antoinette dead and bury in d’groun’ everybody in Red Hill say dey comin’ to see how Mayor doin’. Especially all  dem unmarried, man-hungry, fast-ass woman. Some say dey comin’ to visit Old Lady Dr., since she only one house over from the Norwoods. Liars. Look at dem: “All yuh cook today? Ah bring some fry bake and shark.” Next one come, “Mayor, yuh know if yuh need meh tuh come and help wid d‘chilren is ok wid me.” Or, “Ah was just passin’ through to get some ointment from d‘good Dr.” But is not dat, dey jostlin’ for position, makin’ dey’self available just incase Mayor get lonely and want to slip up under dey dress for a night, maybe more.
Today, dey cuttin’ ‘way all that bush on the other side’a d’ravine. So people comin’ to see d‘unveilin'. Since none-a-dem kya talk fancy french talk dey figure as long as dey eye-witnessin', it be d’next best thing. That house was like ten house put together. D’kind dey does call mansion or estate. Old Lady Dr. say it look like slave house minus d’slave to wok in it and the cane fields in d’back of it. Plenty goin’ on ova dey. Bridge buildin’ ova the ravine now so dey goin’ and comin’ just like dat; deliverin’ materials and garden plantin’ and chandelier climbin’ to the ceilin’. But nobody livin’ in it yet. It was such a big distraction. People walkin’ past here before they go to church, just to see what else put up and paint up, lord forgive dem. Mercy was big girl now. She was nine; lookin’ like Antoinette look in that black and white picture where she makin’ first communion or somethin’. Evelyn is the only one who don't seem to care ‘bout who that is in d’frame. Mercy, Redd, Criest, and Evelyn takin’ dey cues from Daddy. He don’t even mention Mother. he just work, eat ,shit, sleep and drink. So everyday for the last year, Mercy stay focused on keepin’ a tidy house and seein’ to all who in it. Then she walk up d’road and do the same for Old Lady Dr. The routine was set. Uninterrupted. Mercy over by the old lady helpin’ she kneed flour to make dumpling. The elder, peeling provision and soakin’ pig-tails so dey could make soup. Is Monday. Just like dat, Old Lady Dr. gettin’ bad feelin’ in she body. She stop what she doin’ open d’Bible flat on the table and smoke out d’house to ward off bad spirit. Dey leavin’ to go take some soup ova for Daddy, is lunch time now. Talk been goin’ ‘roun’ ‘bout Antoinette sudden passin’. Some say is Mayor who break she heart and kill she, some say is natural that she body just couldn’t take all dat jammin’ from makin’ baby all d’time. Another mouth say is d’twin babies dat come back an’kill she.
Six o’clock d’next evening, the same two fancy car pull up outside. Old Lady Dr. drinkin’ she coffee. Mayor eyes heavy wid sleep from working early mornin’ construction job. D’chil'ren playin’ in d’yard. Hear dem talkin’ in foreign. A man wearin’ a white shirt-jack and blue pants step out from d’back seat of d’second car. He a white man, or at least he look like one. He walk ‘roun’ to d’left side of d’car, dat facing we front yard, and open d’door. Is a woman, we can’t see what colour she is; she have on too much clothes for d’heat, black, boots, long sleeve blouse, leadin’ to lace gloves on she hand and long skirt for ballroom dancin’, or funeral, down to she ankle. Big wide-brimmed hat on she head and a long veil that go past her shoulders. Dey start walking toward d’new bridge. That is when Old Lady Dr. drop ,and break, she teacup and saucer.

Quite simply, this is a story about, feeling alone despite your surroundings. It is also about point of views, and understandings...this excerpt is from the following: A Perspective

A Perspective

by Mark James

Marlene:
Santa Cruz, who does leave Belmont an’go live up in d’bush in Santa Cruz? Marlene was hot as a coal-pot iron. She slammed chairs into floors and doors into walls, she lost one side of her good gold earrings as a result of her antics that afternoon. She cursed Granny and Daddy for letting chi'ren who thought they was grown woman run game in she house. Threats were hurled at the two remaining girls. Afterwards, she prayed for patience and understanding, she asked God why? What had she done to deserve such ungrateful children. Granny and Daddy looked at each other then she went back to reading her Psalms and he, to his Daily News. People had always disappointed her. Her own father, Daddy Sanchez, left her, her mother and her brothers behind to pick up with God knows who else. He say how he just kya be bothered wid woman an' chi'ren. Marlene don't even remember what he face look like sometimes. Her first husband left, though no fault of his own, gone nonetheless. Her daughters and her son, all disappointments, all almost gone. No peace, why couldn't Marlene discover peace, she was forty-five years old and still, uncertain as to how she might get a bit of it.
Childhood was out of the question. It was beat out, weakness and tears forbidden. The flame reduced to less than a flicker. Women hated and scorned, men waited their turn for an opportunity, that only little Marlene was unaware of. What becomes of a child deprived of knowledge? She morphs into an adult with nothing to offer, except rules, unexplained directions, and a readied hand to punish; she is left with the remembered sting of the hand, or the belt, left with questions she dare not ask, unrealized answers, immobilizing fear. The why, unanswered. The "how comes?", neglected. The burdens held close like a suckling baby who knows nothing but the urge to do so.
It was a bondage like no other, her father had come to the island via Venezuela looking for work. "Hear-Say" gone and tell everybody in Trinidad how he run from the law and hole up in Nariva near d'swamp; that is why he so mean spirited, because he was never able to have the life he truly wanted.
What make bad matters worse is when he went and marry the Carib girl with long pretty jet black hair. Is like she was so in opposition to he character that he was hoping some of the goodness would rub off on he too. But God help him. It didn't serve to make he no more happy than he was before. Within a month she was pregnant, then here come little Marlene, red-hot and burning like flames.
To Mr. Eliseo Sanchez life was never fair, or good, happiness was meant for fools to consider, and he was no fool, and so happiness went away for good. Jhoka felt like life could get no better. She had a man to call her own, he had given her a baby and his name. The year was 1925, the end of Crown Colony rule; nobody, not a soul could care less about what was happening elsewhere if it wasn't impacting a he, a she or a them. Like the British empire, Eliseo's presence was, apparently, less and less, yet the psychological noose tugged and tightened against Jhoka' s sun stained neck. Her idealized view was augmented when Daddy Sanchez came home drunk one too many times threatening to kill the baby if she didn't put it away somewhere. Refusal to do so resulted in a hot slap to the face and a knock in the head, Jhoka's body slamming into a wall, the baby girl crying and screaming on the floor and Eliseo planting himself and his source into the recipient of his passion and rage, resulting in the creation of Te'Amo, the first born son. Crown rulership was of no consequence but plans to get from under Eliseo's hand were starting to form in the mind of Jhoka De Luna.
Who needs to feel worth in Nariva? It was a valid question, with respect to these circumstances.
Almost always, desirability, usefulness and value are brought into question, mostly from the people around you. Community, parents, could make or break a young child. Jhoka had none, she felt that she had no merit. And so Marlene got very little self-assurance from her mother. Too many lashes absorbed, too many daydreams interrupted, too many 'hush yuh mout' gurl an' do what ah say!" It was to the point that Marlene began looking in the mirror more and more, seeing less and less of the person she thought she was meant to be. Reflected back, she saw Jhoka, her mother instead. Education too, had no worth but for some reason, unknown to man, Jhoka let Marlene go to convent school. Somehow she felt the need to address the why not/what could be worse than this life? Silently. Prodded by moral sense or God. With no fuss or talking she took Marlene all the way to St. Joseph, and left her there.
Daddy Sanchez beat Jhoka when she returned to Nariva after dropping Marlene off. For one, it took too long for her to get back in time to receive him at home, two, she had no permission from him to do so, three, the fact that she was smart enough to know where St. Joseph was let alone get to and from it made him angry and scared. He knew she must have heard of the school through the nuns work on the island, never in a million days did he think she would leave this place if it weren't with him leading the way.    Six ways from Sunday, like the plague he tortured her. He rested on the seventh, just in time to pray, Hail Mary and Our Father his sins into vapor. Returning home four years later, Marlene discovered what was left of her mother, Daddy Sanchez gone, his last wicked words left dangling in the air like a clothesline, too far to reach, mocking you. Jhoka was almost unrecognizable, except for her hair, all natural beauty had vanished along with the once held hope in her eyes. Somehow Eliseo had them now, maybe in his pockets or under his feet, who knows. Marlene had been known to those in her life by the names given to her, affording her an identity, a place, a categorizing of the life she'd have. She went from a young Ms. Sanchez to Mrs. Robert St. Claire, then to Mrs. Walcott. She wished she knew who she was before having a name, maybe then the interpretation would have less residual effects on her guilt riddled mind, body, and soul. Presently, thirty years later, she is sitting alone on the side of the bed that she and Llelwyn Walcott share, wondering where the match to her earring was, the question, still unanswered, what had she done to deserve this outcome? The silence of her mother and her husband brought about feelings of remorse and more questions. How much of her father did she have in her? With everything she had done to prove she was not in his likeness, she ended up here, feeling less like the abused and more like the culprit. Looking up from her hands that held one gold stud earring, Marlene prepared to tidy herself in the mirrored bureau only to see in it her fathers face. From the living room where Granny and Daddy sat, they could not hear the soft tap, tap, tap, of the other earring falling to the bedroom floor.

Written with racial tensions as a core element, this story tells so much about the way I see my homeland. Religion, superstition, class, gender roles and history are all major topics of interest. Tomorrow, Please God, an excerpt.

Tomorrow, Please God
By M. James Cooper

I had a dream the other night. One in which life as we know it took a turn for the worse. The next morning, as always, things seemed as it should; except for the clouds. The villagers went on with their day: oblivious to my dream of course. I mean, it was rainy season. Ms, Mary was rubbing her leg in anticipation; the local weather vane she was. "Mornin' neighbor!", she said "Right'o Mother Mary, mornin'!" I responded to the old woman, and moved on. Head to the sky looking for God knows what, my mind was attempting to find the missing pieces of the dream. That is, until Mayan started looking all up in my face. Lupe was standing right behind him, adjusting her hemline and such. "What happen to you boy?" I stared blankly in his direction, then back to Lupe, still primping. She decided her hair was better let down instead of pinned up. Looking at me she said: " Ah want to be free. From all restraints." Answering my unasked question with a slight smirk on her face. The girl knew what she was doing. I hear Mayan talking to meh but, clearly I was not giving him all my attention. I was transfixed by Lupe's beauty. She knew her power. She was the only one who could get into my head and push my dream sideways like a sliding glass door. Keen, she knew, that going to work at the factory required less, not more. Long flowing hair and a peasant skirt was hardly proper attire or even safe. "Boy come before we n'up late!" My friend, curiosity spread across his face. "Yeah man, ah comin'. Leh meh just full up this canteen first." The two walking ahead of me, slowly, steady looking back at me as if they thought I would disappear from existence, if they went too far too fast. At the standpipe, I filled my canteen with cold early morning water. Reluctantly, I allowed my dreams to enter my head again. The day went on as usual.
Work was work, long, monotonous and filled with dread. Talk about lay offs and how them damn coolies taking ova the place continued to fill the space around me. Things was changing and like most men I felt hopeless. "Mr. Boss-man say 'not to worry' wid he lyin ass! Ah doh believe that shit! All they want to do is placate my ass wid ch'upid talk." The other men nodded, some disagreed, some were unsure. "But Larry wuh we go do? Strike? Hope the union go back we up? If they don't want we here no more I say we take the money and leave the wok!" One of the men said. Larry looked at Mayan and nodded. Mr. Boss-man was turning the corner wid he crew. Here he come with that stupid grin on he face. As if to say we were to trust him or something. "Ay, fellas. What good today?" Nobody say nothin' to him. Every man head down in he lunch pail or sippin' from a thermos. Only Mayan and Larry eyeballin' him. "Oh, ok. I see how it is. When all yuh ready to talk come see meh nah..." The bell to return to work sounded. Backs turned, feet shuffled and lunch pails snapped shut. Mr. Boss Man' s voice and presence were no longer a concern to any of the men, it seemed.
That evening I returned home having made a decision. I was going to quit the factory, and take the package offer with partial pension. Sylvia, would never know why. I myself wasn't a hundred percent sure. Motivated by fear and superstition I put extra money in her hands, hoping to assuage my wife with the purchase of new curtains and church clothes for Easter. Sylvia and I never had any children, the house was ours and we both had skills to bring in money aside from my job. But we both knew this was less about us and more about everyone else. How would the town survive the inevitable. Racial tension was on the rise. "They" were taking our place. Government was on their side. Or was it that blacks had lost focus. Either way, Mayan and Larry were planning to retaliate against the threat of change.

On  01/xx/2003

I felt cold that day.
The day I got the news.
No one ever wants to be
Reminded about things
Of which they have no control of : ( you should'a known better).
Mortality and disease and evil politicians
And airplanes that suddenly
Crash into buildings.
But that day as I sat in an orange armchair,
Located in a small rectangular room,
I was reminded
That none of us have our hands on the final draft of the script
Or even the permission, nor the authority, to rewrite it.
Is it fair?
Or is it simply a matter of
Free will,
Choice,
Cause,
And effect.

This was recently found in a journal. Not sure why I wrote it but it sounds good to me. No title, but I think I just found one...

Equality

Those singular yet dependent
Components will aid in acquiring
The desired attention;
Making others recognize me, that I was standing here, all along.
They will open their eyes and ears,
Lift their heads and know,
My skin black,
My eyes brown,
My soul lifted, my heart light,
My future, right.

This excerpt from "I Not Mad At'all" came about as a result of my observation of women in Trinidad during my younger years. I spent a lot of time taking in scenes and listening. This is just a small, reimagined picture of locals and their day to day lives.

I Not Mad At’all

by Mark James 

Nobody wanted what I had anymore. People find they’self going down in Town, not to buy cloth from Jimmy Aboud or Patrick’s. They wanted brand new fashion styles that look like what they see on American TV. Marcel sayin’ how I get too high and mighty now and how I chargin’ too much just tuh make a jacket fuh he wedding next month. D’man much rather have somet’ing that look like what everybody else wearin’ than have a custom tailor-made original in he closet. I still goin’ and buy my fabric and do what I know how to do to d’best of my ability. Ah mean, after all I didn’t go to Ms. Mary’s  Sewing School for Tailors and Seamstresses for nothing.
Maybe she think I is some kinda asshole or something. Please excuse my language. But ah does get so mad when people think meh stupid. How I go give this woman the dress I make fuh she; she want me to give it tuh she fuh a party coming up tomorrow night because she don’t have nothing else good tuh wear, and not get paid for all the fabric and time and effort I put into it. “Ah mean, is just $65.00! Come nah, ah go pay yuh nex’week.” Brenda Pierre must think she slick, same one who take d’last outfit I make an’go wine-up and skin-up and drop she ass down on d’foor in some fete then come back with it ripped to complain ‘bout how it wasn’t made properly. Ha! These people really know how tuh cross me.
I put my business together on my own. After Fredrick leave me because he say ah’ barren and kya make no baby for he to be proud of. He call he’self leavin’ me as if I’go shrivel up and dead just because he take’way what between he leg and go two avenues over to where I know he wanted to be in d’first place. A woman have to stand she ground. My mother didn't raise me to beg no man tuh stay when he not wantin’ to be kept. My mother, God rest she soul, left this house to me so when he look me in my face and threaten to walk out, I sit my behind down in this chair, in front of my sewing machine, push meh skirt between meh legs, reach over and turn up d’radio and start workin’ on finishin’ touches for d‘bridesmaids dresses I was working on at the time. I hear him say somt’ing or another, probably cussin’ me out good, I don’t give a damn, eventually he leave. My shop set-up right where d’front gallery used to be. Extension put onto the front’a d’house and glass window add on with a new sign and price list to let people know how much things cost. Mr. David do a nice job fuh me, yes. Although I think he was a’lil sweet on meh and was hoping to pick up where Fredrick leave off. I was very proud, of d’buildin’ ah mean, and also for not givin’ into weakness. Man doh have shit with dem. That was ten years ago. I keep up my place nice, as best I could. Do everyt’ing myself after David help get it started. I decide tuh just put all d’things that people doh come for in d’window. It go’sell! My work speaks for it’self.
Aileen say she comin’ tuh see me today. I like her just fine but she never have not’ing but bad news to talk. Sometimes ah does get sick a’dem t’ing. Last time she leave here I was so depressed. “Dickson mother dead, yuh know...How dem chilren bad so, ah go hear bout dem, by next year either dey dead, or in jail, mark my words...Yuh know Susan big daughter Natalie, she pregnant! No man to marry she, is a shame...” Just thinkin’ about she comin’ here to run she mout’ and ah gettin’ a headache. Once in a while she does gim’meh good information. Ah know she was outside long before ah stop sewing to answer d’door. Always draggin‘ she two foot on d‘pavement, too much in a hurry to stop and put on proper shoes so she have on what supposed to be house slippers. Latch on meh gate bangin’, foot scraping d’road and she mout‘ goin‘. “Eh, heh is so? Watch yuh’self wid dem t’ing all that glitters is not potential gold baby, yuh betta pay attention.” She was talkin‘ tuh my next door neighbor Rose. Aileen live three streets over from me, yuh would t’ink Crescent Avenue was where she house was, seein‘ as how she know everybody and all a’what does go on behind dey closed doors. She knockin’ on d’storefront door, she big ample hips steady jigglin’ since she can’t stop quiet for twistin‘ and turnin’. As always she bring bad news and some good news, not much’a d’good though, she tellin’ me how Hazel done put out Fredrick from she house. “Why you tellin’ me ‘bout he? I doh want tuh hear ‘bout that man and d’woman he done lef’ meh for!” I was heated. So mad ah gone and mess up d’stitch on some pants ah was makin’. “Girl hush, ah not trying to upset yuh, I know yuh doh want he again.” Aileen put she jaw and she two lips together and let out long sh’tupes as if to say she wasn’t considerin’ me and my feelin’s ‘bout Fredrick anyway. So I let it go and decide to laugh when she start to describe how after hearin’ loud noise and cussin comin’ from inside d’house, Hazel and Fredrick come stumblin’ out the front door into d’yard; she on-top a’he wailin’ on he ass good, she even manage to damage he face up, all dem nice gold rings he buy for she wid my money en’up as weapon. Boone had to come drag she off him. Some sayin’ they never see Hazel so, she was mad like hell. Always more tuh d’story, especially where dat man is concerned. But, he no-longer my problem. Say what yuh want ‘bout Aileen, she is a good friend, d’only one a’have.
Three years now since I had a man to call mine. In between Fredrick I had some suiters here and there. Nobody to talk ‘bout just somt’ing to do tuh pass d’time. I was no slouch in d’looks department, had a shape on me dat make man mout’ water. Most of d’time dey call meh stuck up or lesbian because I doh give dem no sex. More and more I thinkin’ about Fredrick since I hear the talk from Aileen last week. Where he is and who he wid, as hard as it was to know he was leavin’ me and why, it was somet’ing about knowin’ he was goin’ to be taken care of dat put meh mind at ease. It crazy, I know what yuh thinkin’. Life not always d’easiest t’ing tuh make sense of. Next time Aileen come over, I let she in and listened to bad news, some had sequels some had sad ending. I was thinkin’ up a happy endin’ to a story I done conceive on meh own when I ask her this: “So yuh hear anymore concernin’ Freddy and Hazel?” Aileen raise up she voice, “Oh is ‘Freddy’ now, ah t’ought he name was ‘good-for-nothing son-of-a bitch!'" “Ah just askin‘ a question, so much for makin‘ conversation...” I wasn’t sure I believe meh own self much less if ah did convince Aileen how little interest I had in a man that left me for another a long time ago. “Anyway girl here yuh two piece-a-curtain fuh d’kitchen, just gimme $25.00 and call it done. Aileen pay me and start to lift she big ass from off d’bench that was pushed up against the wall where all my pattern cutouts hung from. Before she leave she say, “Don’t make me a liar, Sandra. You is d’only girlfriend I have that ah does blab to everybody ‘bout how smart yuh is when it come tuh man and who could run she own store without help from nobody else. If he was here, none-a-this would be standin’.” She waivin’ her hand around and pointin’ to the four walls of the Ms. Sandy’s Dress-Shop. After she gone ah thinkin’ hard and lookin’ around d’room at all the years of hard work and sacrifice in front-a-meh face.

Rebirth is the first short story produced by me in 2007, this is an excerpt, enjoy

Rebirth

by Mark James

Legend has it that she woke up and was there. No concept of time was taken into consideration then or after: no assistance was offered, no questions asked with regard to what seemed like her sudden existence there on the island. The other beings knew her path and purpose, at least so they thought, and the Gods did not explain their meaning and intentions to lesser figures. Their laws were ever-changing and yet to be written.
Life began when she opened her eyes and was there. Lying on her back as if washed up and left behind by the rapid tide. The light was blinding. The trees, like lazy beasts, nodded their heads and waved their arms as if in protest of some unknown occurrence. Waves crashed upon her body removing some of the sea moss and other things coiled upon her frame. Not realizing that she was one of many there, Irene suddenly saw what she supposed was human, come into her line of vision. From the left, it moved in to block out the sun: “Get up chile!” Janice exclaimed. Irene obeyed. She slowly arose and stood erect. It was as if some unseen force was in control of her mind and limbs. Her eyes roved about taking in the scene, a vast ocean that sat neatly upon a distant horizon, Large stubborn ocean rocks resisting the push of waves or the sway of  hot and persisting winds that beckoned them closer inland. She opened her lips to speak but her voice wouldn’t come. It would take days before her spirit took its place and become housed within her body. As she continued to observe her surroundings Irene realized that Janice was nothing like her. Janice’s face resembled the human form and so did most of her body. She was childlike in appearance, clothed in a simple cotton shirt and a skirt of the same material with worn and uneven edges. And she wore a large hat that shrouded her face in shadow. Oddly enough Janice’s feet were pointed in the wrong direction. Irene was suddenly scared and not knowing why, she backed away from the dwarfed woman’s image. Irene’s eyes darted from the form before her, then to her own, scanning for defects. “Chile, you act like you never seen a Douen before,” Janice sucked her teeth and then continued, “you better come on girl, people been looking for you and I can’t speak for dem but I don’t have all day.” With that said, Janice turned and headed north. Irene followed her, bewildered. And then the sun went down. That is how it began.
Within a week, Irene’s voice made its way into her. It was a painful process. Some days she would drift off unconsciously and then awaken suddenly to find herself back where she began, by the water. Sometimes she would be completely immersed in it, other times her feet and legs were covered in it. One time she awoke panicked and unable to breath realizing that she was in head first. Irene never knew how she got there. As each day passed her throat and ears and the glands that assisted their function would hurt a little less.  The yellow sun would rise and set seven times before Irene could speak her first words.
Immediately she fell in love with it, the sound of that voice, the melody of it, the base and pitch and overall tone complemented the rest of her well. She knew it and so did everyone else. But something was amiss. The girl did not know what it was but she would soon find out. In the meantime she would discover the rest of her; she found new and exciting things about her body. Her skin was the color of her favorite food, molasses. Like her skin her hair was black and shiny, long and unending. For a girl her age she was quite tall. Her eyes so brown and evenly set into an oval-shaped face that lent itself greatly to her beauty. After all, she was blessed by the sun.
She would lay in the sun everyday for hours. Its closeness brought her peace and made her feel alive and connected to this place. She called it Father. It spoke to her only and no one else heard them; their language was misunderstood. Janice was amused and the rest would laugh and say things like “That one, she crazy, don’t know why she layin’ in the sun like dat” The women on the island observed Irene with curious wonder as they scurried past her collecting water from the river to wash, cook, etcetera. She paid them no mind, Irene was too beautiful to care, besides, her and Father were busy planning her future.
At night when Father was away, Irene would take stock of the rest of the island and its inhabitants. It was an alluring place that existed somewhere between Venezuela and Martinique. Gone were the days of European rule, now she and the others could roam freely. No chains and shackles and clogged imaginations to weigh them down, no screams to wake then at night, no cane fields to toil in by day. Just peace. As glorious as the day was, the night was full of mystery. Irene was a child approaching womanhood and so the night held wonders she was yet to understand.
It seemed during the day, there was no one around but her, Father, and Janice. Irene loved Janice, and had grown accustomed to her strange looking feet. But night absorbed the child; she could not look into the water and see her beauty then or talk to Father. She could see everything else. At night, large balls of fire scorched the sky, left and right they flew, telling no one where they were headed. They had faces by day but she could not recognize them by night; they dwelled in the bushes when father was around, exiled from the rest of the population, Irene never knew why, much less who the beings were and Janice refused to get into it. All she knew was that Janice and her wagging finger had instructed her put salt around the house every night for protection. It was her obligation.