Inferior musings

I remember the inferior feeling i had sitting around the Moroccan family in their home in Targuist, Alhucimas, having just arrived from Europe with their fridge, mattresses, Nutela and even Cola Cao… because after all, nothing could be bought there in their “aldea” it seemed, only the essential bread, maybe olives, tea and a few other items. My friend and I had arrived before them having taken a different route so that we were able to witness their arrival, looking very European in their brand name clothing, smelling of sweet perfume, and carrying especially those gifts and other curiosities which seemed to be a luxury there and which were so symbolic of Europe. I had become a spectator and just another Moroccan looking on at this welcoming spectacle which took me back to Trinidad and being the same spectator to relatives arriving from the US- according to instructions from my mother, we were to treat our “guests” “who came from so far” as royalties.. we were to answer to their every beck and call, we were to do whatever they told us, get whatever they needed, give up our beds, even our full meals sometimes.. and we would oblige to all this with a mixture of bitterness and awe. They would pick at the roti handed to them, complain of the annoying mosquitos and the boring local stations and laugh at us when we weren’t familiar with the popular music groups or slang or tv series that everybody was talking about. Our trini accents and bad English would be the butt of jokes as they tried to imitate us, laughing at our backwardness as they saw it.. Although I must admit that our way of speaking also held a certain charm and exotism for them, for sure enough, on their return to the Big Apple, they would also be speaking with their “funny” accents and comment to us the laughter it provoked from their West Indian friends…

This all came back to me sitting on the sofa in the modest house of my friend´s aunt, taking in the spectacle of the arrival and coming to terms with the sudden inferiority that overpowered me when I saw the pains and troubles the single aunt was making to ensure everything was perfect, like bringing out several dishes to please the little son who was picky and grumpy, or practically washing the hands of her “guests” before they sat down to eat.

Later another bout of inferiority would slap me in the face as I realised I was not fair enough to be attractive to the men there who saw “brown skin” as almost equivalent to ugliness… maybe this is an exaggeration on my part due to my wounded pride. .and once more, this took me back to Trinidad where fairness cream was the in-thing because nobody wanted to be dark, marry a dark man/woman.. at home, comments like “he so black and ugly” would be accepted as truths and milky-white skin was heralded as desirable, superior, beautiful.. we all knew it, it seemed, accepted it, sadly and worse of all, interiorised it..

This psychological trauma is what continues to characterise many former colonised peoples, from Indians to West Indians to Africans in general. Fanon did say that to rid oneself of this psychological trauma, the colonizer had to be killed.. he, a Black West Indian who had married a white French middle class woman.. these are the contradictions which fascinate and haunt me..

Aisha canturreaba las palabras de la canción que no podía quitar de su cabeza- Un dios maldijo la vida del emigrante/ serás mal visto por la gente en todas partes/ serás odiado por racistas maleantes…. Estas palabras con el ritmo tan llevadero la dejaban tranquila; era como su antídoto del día, pensaba. Aisha recién había descubierto al grupo y compró el disco sin vacilar para tener más cerca este consuelo solidario... Con el grupo, se imaginaba cantando, casi gritando, eufórica en el metro “somos distintos, somos iguales”; o cuando caminaba por la calle, “pero en la calle nadie lo sabe…”; pero ya en la puerta de su casa, su entusiasmo ligero se resignada a un casi silencioso “pan para todos, tenemos hambre…”, “pero los ricos no lo comparten”. A Aisha le encantaba la forma de bailar del cantante, como si sacudiera de encima todos los prejuicios, todos los dolores; como si en un trance, entraba en otro mundo, su propio mundo, donde ya no le afectaba nada de nada…
Hace ya un año que vivía en España. Aisha no lo podía creer. Cómo pasa el tiempo, decía … y cómo había cambiado, pensaba. Ya no se reconocía, España le había contagiado de su espíritu luchador, vulgar, urgente; con su vivacidad regeneradora, despertaba en ella todas esas emociones de amor, de libertad, de vida… no había vuelta atrás pensaba… Aunque quería a su país, pensaba quedarse aquí, aunque sabía que no iba a ser fácil sobre todo cuando venías de una comunidad marginada, despreciada, caricaturizada… de una comunidad que tantos años vivió bajo protección de España, de un pueblo que vivió siempre en la sombra de esa mítica España, tan cerca y tan lejos…

Siempre dejaba en Aisha un sabor amargo el recuerdo de hombres marroquíes ya europeizados que daban vueltas y vueltas en su vecindario de Targuist, en sus coches majestuosos con placa de España, ostentando orgullo, virilidad y dinero…las chicas se enloquecían literalmente, soltaban risas histéricas, hacían todo para destacarse…se ponían al tanto de todo lo que pasaba en España, hasta hacían el esfuerzo de memorizar unas cuantas frases en español para impresionar al pretendiente, por si acaso se les presentara el gran honor y privilegio de montar en tal máquina mágica y preciosa…
Aisha recuerda que también su corazón palpitaba fuerte al pasar por su lado este trozo de paraíso lento y provocador ... recordaba las palabras edulcorantes, la súbita tentación que surgía de su profundo corazón que no le dejaba otra opción que montar rápido, rápido en el coche…y dejarse al capricho de este “europeo” que hablaba de la felicidad, dinero fácil, vida lujosa.
Desde niña, veía con envidia los que volvían de vacaciones de Europa, cargados hasta rebosar de regalos, walkmans, móviles... con todas estas novedades que no causaban sino maravilla y admiración en los ojos desorbitados de la familia…

Promesas, piensa ahora. Promesas falsas. Recuerda cuando llegó aquí por primera vez, tras el largo e interminable trayecto de Alhucimas hasta Almería, su cabeza estaba tumultuosa, vacía… extrañaba a toda su familia, a su madre en el puerto gritando, soltando todas las plegarias posibles, suplicando al buen Dios un futuro seguro y feliz para su única hija…ay Dios…la ingrata la dejaba, la dejaba sola…cómo iba a vivir ahora, ya en el umbral de la muerte… Luego vinieron los días de soledad, de dolor, de inseguridad, de encerramiento en casa, todo el día, esperando la llegada de su esposo. Y luego en las noches, la brusquedad con que hacía el amor, el dolor y miedo que sentía, el inmenso dolor y luego, quieta, yacía al lado del hombre hecho bulto, intentando recuperar la respiración normal, intentando transportarse a su pueblo para sacar fuerzas con las caras familiares, en los brazos reconfortantes de su madre…

'La literatura no sirve para nada útil: solo sirve para vivir más.' Javier Cercas.

intellingent passion

All she wanted was his kiss. she felt like drinking him in, ebriating herself with his touch, his saliva, his tongue. she felt like having him raw, savagely and frenetically. she wanted him and was not afraid to make the first move. in fact, she felt that that was almost what he expected.. if not, he just went along, stopping at the right moment, backing out at the very last minute. then she discovered his secret.
he was also looking for passion. but not merely carnal passion which he could get anywhere, from the street prostitute to the girl next door who often showed him her nudity for free.. he was looking for intelligent passion. a beauty with a brain which was fast becoming a scarce commodity. he thought he had found that in her. but after a few encounters, he realised that this one was like the others, no different. a Samantha, a Jessica, a María. in fact, she had all the pieces but they seemed to fit clumsily together. so that when he asked her opinion on the death of the author or when he probed her understanding of certain concepts like free will, fatalism, essentialism, her cracks would become so evident, that he would immediately withdraw, afraid of breaking them altogether and causing an unwanted boomerang. he still felt a tinge of passion for that body, that smile, those warm hands, that childish laughter which both annoyed and fasinated him...but he would soon get bored in her presence...
She began to feel the distance between them growing despite their regular encounters. her charm no longer seemed to mesmerise him. she tried dazzling him with that gold bracelete or that new sexy lip gloss but he would always have a distant, distracted look that seemed to come automatically to his face when he was near her. words like "slow", "silly", "unrefined" would regularly blot their dialogues, leaving huge, heavy stains imprinted on her heart for days. she needed to let go a little, but she couldn´t.
love was swallowing her up, effacing her ambitions, blinding her insights; she was not willing to surrender to defeat, not again. He was the one for her..she only had to make him see that too...

amor asesino

Hush, hush,
Wish I could take your pain away
Wish I could share another dawn with you
Quiero ver el rojo del amanecer
Un nuevo día brillará, she sang

Sit in the hallowed halls of church
Shout at the silence
Revel in your sins
You are resisting,
You are free
Come, take my hand,
Lead me to your sanctuary
Light me a candle
Pay it forward

Two steps forward, one backward
Sing me that song,
Amor en blanco y negro
Love me in black and white
Only you can kiss away that sting,
Only you can penetrate me
Merge my pain and sorrow
Into a fairy tale happiness

Why do you hate me?
All I want from you is love
I have so much to give you,
I dedicate my life to you
Look- I´m writing your name with my blood
I won’t ever let you go…

I have reached my end
I’m calling out to you
Won´t you listen, won´t you listen
I´m whispering
in a whimper
I dedicate my life to love
Love..love..love…

chaguanas

Chaguanas, central Trinidad. dirty streets. families or crippled folks begging. pirate music everywhere in carts that quickly disappear at the site of police, that reappear in the middle of the streets or at the side of the market or at the entrance to the busy gas station. maxi taxis that spill over and the conductor that spill out soliciting passengers- family! sweets! round d road? short? Munroe Road?. street vendors- drinks, pastries, panties, false handbags, shoes, toys, false everything. Beautiful women in clothing so tight you wonder how they were able to get into it..smells of KFC mixed with the stench of clogged drains, mixed with the honking of angry drivers, mixed with flies and music and chattering. eyes that meet and introduce themselves, men who steal glances at the women´s behinds darting quickly over to see if their wives noticed. Sleepy Chaguanes rise up to the challenge of modernisation.

Forgotten

I remember the first day of school. i remember how my mother left me and said she would be back shortly and i only saw her again in the evening. in a way, it felt like a betrayal that would repeat itself many times. like the time she left me infront of Hilo supermarket, told me she would be back in a few minutes which turned into an hour or at least that was how it felt.. i remember thinking maybe she forgot where she left me or maybe something happened to her and she would never be back or maybe she ddint want me and had abandonned me there... i remember going to the dentist and removing all my teeth (or almost) and returning home, numb, not knowing exactly what had happened, only that there was alot of blood and something was very wrong. i remember the many visits to the dentist after that and the immense fear i had inside, so much so that i would throw up every time the spit suction was put in my mouth... i remember trying to learn to swim and the immense fear i had that i would drown so that after a semester, i still failed the exam...i remmeber trying to play volleyball or even badminton but because of bad coordination, i was just lowsy and would only help my side loose... i remember not being able to let go and let be.

do you remember when you shit yourself in grade one? you needed to go to the toilet baad but you were too afraid to ask permission or even move and then u begged it to not come out but then you couldn´t help yourself.. then when the smell was evident, you still refused to let yourself be humilliated so you sat there until the teacher went around smelling everyone, until she got to you...then they took you home, putting sheets of newspaper on the seats so it wouldnt smell of shit. do you remember that reading competition you entered and didnt know you had to answer questions after which you couldn´t do and so, tried to copy from the girl next to you? Do you remember how you were ashamed of your lunch at school and would prefer to starve than take out the oily brown paper which your mother had so carelessly wrapped the roti in? or the time you lied and said you had peanut butter and jelly sandwich and even showed your egg crumbs to the girl next to you insisting it was peanut butter? do you remember all the times you would steal small things from the supermarket and secretly give it to your teachers so they could like you? or the times you would remove all the labels from the Grace tins from the shelves to trade in for the Grace schoolbag which the rats eventually destroyed because you had left your food in it from the day before? Do you remember the times riding to the little market and trying to escape the dogs who smelled your fear and seemed to be waiting for only you? or the time you grudgingly went to deliver milk and the dogs rushed after you pulling your skirt down?

or the time in the school yard when jokes were being circulated about your no-teeth mother? Or about your raisin legs or about your large nose which seemed to overpower your entire face?

Well, these are the bits and pieces you wanted to have erased. Done!

I know adding quotations is not very original...but there are some which seem to express what we feel inside but just can´t bring to the surface, or some that we identify so much with that we don´t want to even dissemble it for fear of dismembering the idea...or some that that just takes us to this strange land and leaves us there for a while, with a mild breeze on our face and body.. here´s one of them i like from The History of Love by Nicole Krauss-
Now that mine is almost over, I can say that the thing that struck me most about life is the capacity for change. one day you´re a person and the next day they tell you youré a dog. At first it´s hard to bear, but after a while you learn not to look at it as a loss. there´s even a moment when it becomes exhilarating to realise just how little needs to stay the same for you to continue the effort they call, for lack of a better word, being human.

Lilith turned Eve

M often thought that life had no meaning anymore for her. it was now more than three months since she discovered her husband was having an affair with a beautiful, elegant and sophisticated young woman. she was close to 35 and she felt old, unhappy and very alone. She knew she couldn´t confide in her family, not even her brother whom she adored. She remembers how she felt when she discovered their messages which her husband had naively saved to his computer, she still remembers the way she felt when she saw all those words her husband never once said to her, how she felt numb, like life had all but stopped. She remembered calling him- because he was away on a supposed study trip- and faking she was very ill in the hospital just so he could come home and confront her wrath... but he never showed until days after with some lame excuse like his phone was turned off...

He eventually told her he broke off the relationship, although he was bitter, harsh and extremely cold towards her now. He would often call her witch, old fag, nut case and a dunce. This was the only man she had ever lived for in the last 12 years. she couldnt imagine her life without his presence, although admittedly, she knew she was always alone.. always has been.. didn´t he tell her earlier on that he never loved her and only saw her as a mother? Wasnt she the one who helped and nurtured him all along his career, so that he could speak five languages, publish many books and also pick up young girls....

She didnt have the guts to leave. she couldnt leave. So she stayed and hoped that things would get better, that he would realise he needed her and wanted her with him. So she stood her ground and tried not to crumble each time he told her how stupid she was, how ugly and unattractive she was... how annoying she was.. many days she would just sleep under her covers and not get up until many many hours had passed...she didnt even feel hungry anymore..he had lost all her zeal, all her confidence, all hope... why didn´t she see this coming, she would often ask herself. why did this happen to her? What did she do wrong? didnt she give him everything, sacrifiing that dress she loved, or that visit to the hairdresser and that much needed balm for her sore feet? All that so he could could participate in this congress, or speak at that university, or do a course at that institute.. when did she become blind? Wasnt she the same woman who knew how to charm men and wrap them around her fingers and play with them like puppets on a string... wasnt she that same woman who left many a man dreaming of her eyes and her body at night? And when did this all change she asked herself?

What was left for her? She knew she couldnt leave him. she had pleaded with him to reason, promised to change and be what he wanted, she would smile when he insulted her, despite that raw pain that ebbed at her insides...she was willing to do anything to remain by his side.. because after all, a lonely woman was worse off...

News (noticias)/ “chisme” (gossip)- where do you draw the line?

More and more, gossip pieces and other trivialities are taking over and usurping what we have traditionally known as “news”. Like the other day, I was laughing with some friends about a story- the way it was reported of course- from the Trinidad Express newspaper about a thief who broke into a grandmother´s house and stole her Christmas gift and even slippers. The story went on about how the shameless thief broke into this very old, poor lady´s house, lamenting at the state the country was in etc.. I mean, where do we draw the line here? Why can´t they simply report the story without giving us generous doses of their lamentations, moral comments and other paraphernalia? One friend smirkingly remarked that in “small island Trinidad”, that was what passed off as news- “chismes” and other anecdotes… of course it is unfair to judge the quality of a newspaper by this isolated story and that’s not the point anyway… just that more and more, we are becoming indifferent to diluted, poor, distorted and frivolous reporting…that what goes on, for example, in Victoria Beckham´s life takes precedence over say…some disaster or some more edifying news piece about art or culture etc… which brings me to what I wanted to write about. This is the headline that caught my eye and gave me a good laugh even though I didn’t read the entire story- La madre del niño obeso de Asturias murió de anorexia. Los abuelos reclaman la custodia y acusan al Gobierno del Principado de "rapto". It was all so surreal reading the little extract. That a kid, whose mother died of anorexia, was 10 years old and weighs 100 kilos!!!! Is this a record for extremes? Did the mother revert to starving herself with the daily mirror-confrontation of her obese kid?! The story only gets weirder. After her death, he was taken in to live with his grandparents, but he was removed by the government of Asturias in order to be put under a diet regime. Ok, now here’s the thing- the grandparents are crying kidnap! and “encima” they make a comment like this one- estaba gordín, pero sano como un coral. Hahah!! Who are these people kidding? Or maybe with age, their perceptions have become hyperbolically distorted?! So this is the kind of news pieces we are more and more being bombarded by…which we content ourselves with daily in a world that is more fantastic than real. No wonder García Marquez gets so much good raw material for his magical realism from the very reality which never ceases to amaze…