It didn't work today

Dear Power Greater than Myself,

It didn't work today.

I couldn't keep the memories at bay. The river overflowed its banks.

Even my dreams fill up with splashes and swathes of Mama every night.

And all around me this thing called life continues with its sham friends and true pain and dirty gutters with rats running wild...

And me scurrying between ceilings of apathy and boredom and insane laughter.

Hoping to climb over these miserable miscreants that pile up at the mouth of hope...and lightness...

It didn't work today.

I went back to Adia, Maverick Sabre and Paolo Nutini - those unfaithful lovers who watch from the corners and dark shadows and beckon with familiarity.

I went back to moments too stark to mention here and people that no longer are.

It didn't work today.

But Harley kept me company.

Where were you?

Making Plans, Making Peace

When I started this blog, there was no terribly ambitious goal in mind.

I had some feelings that were being felt, I knew words that could describe what I was feeling. So there you go, match made in heaven.

It's been more than a month since Mama went to the place where I am not quite ready to go. On account that I don't know where it is, not sure I know the people there, definitely not sure that I would want to hang with them. Except for Farida or Dad. What's the dress code like? Are fishnets vogue? I'll consider it if cowards are not allowed.

So yes, this blog is not really about my life and how or what I am. It's not about me being sad, having a different kind of upbringing, or about my mental health.

It's about bits of me, my perception of the world and the bitches who took over after Jesus left.

It's also about shoes, and food and sex and relationships and love and death and gays and friends and gays who are my friends and the challenges that come just because you are alive. And pasta.

It's also a lot more complicated than what I just wrote. And as silly as having a conversation with Harley. My neighbour's dog that I adopted. Not Wystan's brother. Or the motorbike that Dog the Bounty Hunter rides.

Did I tell you it's also about Love?

It's about the odd kind of love.

Not the syrupy-sticky kind First formers at Nations Facebook about. That one makes your teeth fall out.

It's not even about the married kind that men and women and now men and men and women and women do. To fight loneliness. Or demons. Or fear. I never thought being afraid of the dark is a good enough reason to get married.

It's about Love that can stand alone. Not need the props of security. Finding one's self. Soul mate. Of completion. Or the stuff that songs are written about. Come to think of it, I believe songs about love are really lies about love. Except maybe for "Ghetto Love" by Macy Gray. Now that is truth. About Love. About Humans. Or maybe not.

I've begun dreaming again. Which is brilliant considering I sleep badly. Dreaming. About little things. Baking a cake. Losing some weight. Growing a butt.

And every now and then, Farida stops by. Those are the best ones.

So tomorrow, I'll write some more. I'll let you know how it goes. But you've got to come back. And hey, there's also a pact.

When you come here, come naked.

See you at the edge of dawn.

The Present is Not a Gift

I thought I'd let the voices in my head nap. They are like babies. They need baths, cry a lot and wake you up in the middle of the night. I slept through it all, until tonight.

And now, they're all quiet. They are sneaky, these voices.

One minute they scream,  "Stand up and be counted! God dammit!" Next minute, "Move along now, there's nothing to see here, mind your own business." I get tired, not confused by the choices. There should be something in the middle. Not as noble as "Be the change you wish to see", never mind I never understood it;  but more like " Grow a pair already!"

There is nothing noble about courage here though. Courage now requires a colour. And a side. And a careful weighing of the odds. I am fascinated by how many of my countrymen are ready to start a revolution. They all live abroad. How easy they can name the waddling ducks, the bleating sheep, the racist bastards. Open the papers and everyone has a solution, shame not one can name the problem. At least not openly. And so they prance around with names. Corruption. Nepotism. Racism. Poverty. Indians. Blacks. Soup drinker.

It's a curious thing I find that we say Indo- Guyanese and Afro - Guyanese. Can't recall any Indian here saying I am Indo - Guyanese. What does that mean anyway?

But back to the naming of parts. We seldom hear friend. "My ticket to stardom." Enabler. Racist. Martyrs. Heroes. Father of the Nation is no longer true. So too is Leader of the Opposition.

The landscape is filled with shift-shapers. We want a revolution but we don't want to go to war.  We want less corrupt politicians and public officers but we drive without licenses, evade taxes, are power hungry and have status pusses. We want this dear land of ours to "develop" and get better but we send our children to foreign schools and watch them get high on the "empire state of mind" and we applaud them loudly.

And in Linden, there are people who will die for a cause they don't understand. For a people that will never be grateful. For a history that will never be written. For a change that will never come. Instead we will sing a few hymns, make a few speeches, write a few letters, establish committees, invite "massas" and then head off to German's. Or Beacon. The soup is always good.

This Process

It's difficult to write with my glasses on. Words seem to get stuck in my nose bridge. The keyboard is not a big help either. I prefer paper and pen. Words flow better from black ink.

Writing is scary.

Bad grammar is the least of my fears; saying I'm all for ghetto love is the space between. And beyond that the black sea of suppressed thoughts and high opinions that never see the light of day. These few hours of writing have taught me patience and new appreciation for the genius that is Ruel Johnson.

I always thought I knew words, lots of words. Now I struggle to find the right words.  The wrong ones can leave you confused. You'll wander in the wilderness for years wondering why you don't fit the meaning of the word, the label. You'll waste days searching for homonyms.

Whore; loved by many men? Bitch; tough? Liar; misunderstood? Indisciplined; bored easily?

Before this process, words were not weighed by me.

I would pause before cussing someone out though. More for emphasis than remorse.

I feel the most rebellious when I cuss.

My mother only said "shucks."

My best friend Megan tends to get palpitations when I start.

There is a certain rhythm to cussing out loud that is better than music.

There is a freedom that is insane in cussing.

Consider this: one cannot be mistaken or misunderstood when one swears.

Nothing beats a really good "Fuck you!!" And no amount of bitch, liar, whore, thief, two-faced, coolie, blackman can ever match one of my "Fuckers!"

I don't like saying shit though. Characterising anything as shit (except the real thing) suggests a process. And thought. Most of the shit around rarely has process. Just mind numbing dumbness.

I also don't like hearing shit. My wiring gets faulty hearing shit. Especially from politicians - even closet ones, or defenders of democracy. Or Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses. And especially not little girls at schools in their complicated relationships and mothers who want to be their daughters' best friends.

I couldn't think of how to put a sentence together to tell my mother that I am having sex. I am not a prude. And yes, I do have sex. Regularly. I am not telling my mother that. Are you nuts?

I think the old ways were better. When you had to choose your words when you spoke to your parents. All this vomiting of words around me now makes me uncomfortable. You may be flawed or damaged or whatever rass now because you didn't say the words you should have back then. But look on the bright side, you had time to process it; the years have given you time to find the right words.

I can now properly ascribe certain words words to me. I'll start with two:fucked up.

Red Roses & Hossanas

"Life is a gift."

I've heard that often, didn't stop to think about it. I don't lose sleep over cheesy phrases. Y.O.L.O., and other such crappy #JustSayin sayings are tedious.

The preacher made me me pause though. What do you do with gifts? How do you treat gifts? Do you put them away in a corner? Do you go " what a piece of crap!" Do you give them away? Do you throw them out? Hide them at the back of your closet? Does it sit ON your cabinet? Do you show it to your friends? Strangers?  Proud of it? Like it? Hate it? Embarrassed by it?

Makes you think, doesn't it? 

I do understand now that I have been given a gift. Some power greater than the Universe, more brilliant than Darwin's Theory, and with enough of a sense of humour and extreme bravery decided that me, Wanita Zalina Huburn, is worthy of the gift of life.

Wonder how the conversation went before the decision?

Am hoping it went something like this: She's gonna suck her thumb. Okay. Have a temper. Cool. Hate cats. Eye roll. Not giving her an ass. Then give her boobs and hair. She's gonna be temperamental, spoilt by her Dad, hate house work, mouthy, hate porn. Um really? Have a penchant for words. You don't say. Wont think much of men, have  a tough time with authority, lack patience, swear a lot, drink gin, give her Mother a headache. Will throw in a few vices.Okay, but she still doesn't get an ass. Can I give her big calves?

Rite. Get on with it.

For 38 years, I've disparaged and disrespected this gift. I chose to measure this gift by the pleasure it brought me. It's come up short. There is no pleasure in dissatisfaction. I've been so busy counting my losses, the what ifs and couldhavebeens, that I've had little time to appreciate and be grateful for what I have. And I have alot to be grateful for. 

Parents who put up with my weirdness, sisters who make me speak creolese so I don't think I'm pissing on clouds just because I "talk on radio", a brother who is crazier than me, 4 nephews who when they are altogether make me wanna boil my head and friends who know when I'm up in my tree but still climb up to hang with me. And that's the tip of the iceberg.

What I did not recognise in 38 years became clear yesterday; I've been given a gift. Am pleased as punch.


Side Note

I will be cussing shortly. Lots to cuss about. Littering, bad drivers, um corruption, James Bond who's a parliamentarian but doesn't know Neaz Subhan is NOT a director at NCN, the politics of revenge that seems to be playing out in Parliament, people who sit on the fence, enablers of corruption, Ruel Johnson and his effin' second book that I am waiting on and the woman who takes the orders at Royal Castle Drive Thru. She of the "dinner special done close." It's friggin 9 o'clock at nite!


Till next time.

Thursday

Today came. Nothing I did could stop it. Not even the rain gods helped. Today came.

I'm in slow motion today. My back hurts. I don't want to think. Words are difficult to come by today. I'd rather read. Or watch cartoons. Or be on a plane far from here.

Have to settle for reading the papers here. Corruption, fraud and barefacedness pervade this land I live in. It's all we talk about: on Facebook, on the phone, in the rum-shops and restaurants, on BBM. Talk. Who's done what, or doing what, who's doing who and how much of a doing in going on. Mostly speculative, hardly objective. It's so easy to be critical of the people we don't like. The papers are boring.

Tempted to play Zynga Slingo. Stopped playing most online games. Apparently, I played them to compensate for not achieving much in my real life. According Leonard Hofstadter.

Got a call just now. Unexpected. Of all the people, Maggie called. I was wrong about her. Thanks Maggie.

Gonna drink my coffee, and read more quotes from Leonard and try to stop time.

Then I'll pick up the roses and help send Mama home.

Stop Start

I'm tired. Sorrow drains you. Regrets cut you off at the knees it seems.

I'm surprised I'm still standing.

Opened the papers today and realised life continues anyway. Nothing stops for death. It slows you down though; makes you limp, bends your knees, makes your shoulders stoop, makes you fall on your ass or face, whichever comes first.

Today I want to get up a bit, want to fight back. It is not in my nature to cry so much. Doesn't solve anything. Messes up my make up. My eyes get small, nose red. The sounds are worse. It is not a pretty sight.

It is time.

Still at the Start

Sleep came after 3am. Not before I cried. Watched BBC. Tried to pray. Finally succumbed after 10 minutes of Kid vs Kat. I dreamt Mama. Can't remember what it was about. Or even if it was about her.

I question the tradition of the dead now. Try to make sense of it. Can she really hear me if I ask her to forgive me? If the coffin is heavy, does that mean she hasn't? Was my failure to visit her after her discharge on her mind when she died? Had she given up because she thought I'd given up? I don't like wakes. Can't remember if I ever did. I can't remember lots of things these days.

A butterfly came into my house the day she died. It's been there ever since. I tried talking to it. It didn't seem too interested. I cried harder. I worry about it dying and the implications if it did. Why did it come? Folklore says it's Mama come to visit me.  Did she miss me so bad that even death cannot keep her away. I hope she sees my sorrow.

I"m at work and my colleagues are the same. A bit noisy. Poorly dressed. A bright pink bra peeks through the thin white shirt worn by another. I'm well dressed. As if this somehow this makes me better than them. Coldplay"s "Fix You" is playing in my ear. It makes my sadness worse. No one has ever volunteered to fix me. Some have tried when I asked. Had to tell them I'm broken. How can you tell a clock's broken but can't see a human's not keeping time?

It's lunch time. My husband's coming to get me. We'll have lunch. And talk about work, and money , and bills. And I'll smile when he farts. He always does. We won't talk about Farida. He, because he doesn't know how. Me because I don't want to scare him.

At the Start

It's June 30. Dunno what time it is. But after months of dreading it, the call came. It was my nephew who gave me the news. "Are you sitting down? Mama is dead."

I could have been sitting, standing, out to sea, doing the downward facing dog, it didn't matter because Mama was dead. She was dead. Farida Khan is dead.

I'd known her my whole life. 38 years. Funny how death brings back the best of memories and the worse of memories.

She'd help learn my first letters and to write. She herself did not go very far in school. She'd seen me through nursery and most of Primary school; all good memories. She made me dresses and curled my hair and once she'd threw an old cabbage broom at me, the kind that was so old and tough, it had grown short. When it connected with my leg, most of it stuck.She cleaned me and gave me Milo to eat and made me swear not to tell Papa. It was the first thing I did when he got home. Tell Papa.

Then life happened as it so often does. I returned to my mother after years of living with Mama and Papa. With them I was Muslim and went to Madarsa and learnt Arabic and danced and went to Prince of Wales Cinema to watch Amitabh Bachan and Jaws and danced even more. I remember one school party. I wore a red all in one top with grey jeans and bright red rubber slippers bought from Uncle Tambee who sold cloth and shoes at Wales market. I had my plate and spoon and a plastic cup in a brown paper bag. All the way to my school I was conscious that I had no ass. 

I got to the hospital but my sister had already left. Mama had gone to the morgue. I did not see her. I'd left her the night before at midnight at Georgetown Hospital. We'd waited for almost 3 hours to get an attendant to take her for an x ray. Then waited some more for the Doctor to talk to us. He came after I rolled my eyes and acted belligerent.  He had a lisp. He told me she'd live through the night. She did, but died at around 11 o'clock the next day.

I remember telling my nephew to stop crying, that I am fine and calling Yusuf to come for me at work. It was my 6th day at the Guyana Chronicle. I was just getting into a groove. He came and I wasn't ready to go. My head stopped working.

I grew angry at my sister. Why couldn't she wait for me to come?  I called her. Where are you? Going home. Did you talk to the doctor? Wanita Huburn, Farida Khan is dead! I hung up. As if that was an explanation. It was my childhood all over again. I hated my childhood. I especially hate my sisters and brother. I came to them too late in life. I am the middle child. 2 sisters a year apart, me 7 years after, and a brother and sister a year apart 8 years after me. At 38 I am still no closer to them than the day I went back home.

Farida was married for 22 years, had no children then had an affair and ended her marriage. Papa had an affair too. For much longer than Mama. She'd spent years waiting on Govo to marry her. They broke up many times, there were other men, but she waited on Govo. Finally he came through. Lasted a few months. I think it broke her.

I watched on and didn't think about marriage. Or children. They both seem like things to avoid. I'd felt abandoned before, didn't think I'd want to go through that again. My Aunt Liz had a good recipe. Have your own apartment, have your man visit. Complain if he snored. Or wrinkled the sheet. It seemed perfect. 

In the months leading up to Mama's illness, I'd pray for it not to happen. I'd started 2012 almost broke and in debt. Work on my house had stalled. I thought it would get better by June. Then that cursed audit started. I looked for alternatives while the "truth" came out. Nobody tells  the truth. CEOs are the worse. I worried about paying my mortgage and staying on top of my bills. There was no one to turn to. 

She needed me to be there. I am not good with hospitals nor the smell of death. I did the best I could. I failed miserably.

Work became my priority; finding work. Steady work. Regrets filled my days. My nights were no better. There is nothing that makes it better. Not even a man in your bed. I thought about how alone she must have felt all these years. She'd fill her time gardening, visiting relatives, me, church and seemed to look forward to funerals. She'd call me up and say " Auntie Sattie dead" or "Ovid died" or some other person that I'd known from Long Pond. It's where I'd lived until I was 26. Seems like so long ago. 

There was a time when going home from Georgetown, I couldn't wait for the mini bus to get to Bell Vue. When it got there, I knew I'd be nearing home. I would get in a bus and close my eyes and woke up at the sluice. When I go back now, it looks like all the villages there gave up. I didn't like talking about Long Pond. Didn't want to hear about who's getting married, went to 'Merica or died. 

Long Pond and Wales were cruel to me. 

I've live for 12 years in 'town. The people here think they "know" me. They think they made me. They think it gives them the right to comment on me, about me. 

I was 18 when my Dad died. I woke up to his screams and couldn't bear it. Went back to sleep. When I woke again, he was dead. It seems my loved ones die every time I go to sleep. I've tried to keep watch over the years. But thieves still invade. Snakes come out and centipedes run around. It took a long time to find sleep. Now it is fitful.  

I've picked  a bone with my sister. How dare she not let me see Mama? How could you not know how insensitive it would be? How hurt I'd be? How much I'd want to see her? Sisters are supposed to know this! Dammit! But we haven't been sisters in years. Don't think we ever have been. Not any of us. How could I think that Mama's death would bring us together. And I am not ready to forgive again. Not even for Mama. At least not tonight.

Years after my Father died, I mourned his passing. I mourn him every day. Till now. Who says it gets better? You're wrong. I'd begged God to give him a space in heaven. I wasn't sure he'd accepted Jesus before his death. I traded my soul. I want to do the same for Farida. Can I trade twice? 

My excuse for not seeing her as often doesn't matter now. The debts are still there, I am still broke and the job still uncertain. The life that I thought I had to fight for is still the same. Filled with regrets and no closer to an answer.