Words

Sunday, June 7, 2009

These words are a mystery to me. They exist. Somewhere in the back of my mind, somewhere in my memory and the imagery of my subconscious. They exist in the pauses I take before speaking. In the in-between-moments: the moments before I get out of bed and face the day. The moments between my dreams and reality. The moments when everything is so soft and undeveloped and painful. They exist beneath the band aids of composure, the upper layers of strength I’ve gotten so good at displaying at times when I am scared or plain old clueless. I’ve even convinced myself of my own manufactured strength. These words must exist in the hesitation of steps. The this-is-never-gonna-happen-so-why-set-myself-up-for-failure postponement of movement. The heaviness of limbs. The discomfort of skin. The shame of lost opportunities.

These words exist in the wrinkles of my fingers - their roughness that resembles my mother. I used to think that lotion could cure defective genes. Now, I’ve convinced myself of the story of my hands. The determination of my mother who worked seven days a week scrubbing tubs, removing condoms off of hotel rugs, changing the sheets of sloppy American tourists again and again in order to take care of four children by herself. The roughness that comes from cleaning. My sister and I counted work every weekend arguing over whose turn it was to wash the dishes, clean the bathroom, mop the floors. My brother never had to do anything because he was the only boy in a Caribbean household without a man. I carry roughness in my palms, but did I earn it?

An old roommate once said that life is all about stories. I didn’t believe her then mostly because her stories were exaggerated and contrived, framed around the pretense of shocking, turning heads, making people remember you. Her stories were about the here and the now. Her crackhead mom. Her newly pierced clit. Her bisexuality. Now, I understand that nothing is really so wrong about sharing what you truly feel is amazing about you. As long as you are saying something.

Though I still crave the organic nature of accidental revelations. I met a man once, the brother of a friend who was so great at small talk, relating to the everyday nothing stories that he failed to mention his porfolio as a US government worker in Iran. Of course, finding this tidbit out after having talked to him for a while, gave so much more weight to the actual person, and not to his job. His modesty just made everything else glisten.

There is nothing so refreshing, so sexy than a person who’s amazingness is spilled in unamazing bits of conversation, their story passed on by someone else to someone else. It is better to be talked about than not at all, as the saying goes. But if you are not willing to talk about yourself, will other people do a just reflection? And doesn’t your importance show more when people want to hear from your own mouth, your own beliefs, your memoir, your autobiography, what lessons you’ve got to share to assist the rest of the human race in discovering what you’ve found, achieving what you’ve achieved? If you don’t believe in yourself, who will believe in you? Are these cliches too simple to describe the thin lines between self-confidence and arrogance? Modesty and insecurity?

As much as I try to be tangible in my identity, as palpable as indelible ink, as consequential as a summer hurricane sending tin roofs jettisoning from wooden houses on stilts, the worst part of me is sniffed out and exaggerated like a cubist portrait, the plains of reality distorted: eyes jutting out of my forehead, lips next to nose, neck cut and bleeding into a bucket like a decapitated cock. I remember my idea of beauty being distorted as a a hostess in Osaka, Japan. My salary man clients called me Bahamamama. In such a homogeneous country with the same small bodies and delicate features, I was their closest bet to Carmen. They liked to watch me dance, but they didn’t want to dance with me. I wasn’t white or tall or Russian enough. This made me want to eat less. Until one night, when I massaged the muscle spasms on the boney back of a friend of mine who’d lost 40 pounds off her 5’9” frame. She was the blonde American bombshell hostess with a personality that overpowered her emaciating frame. That night was the first time I worried about her. It was also the night I decided I didn’t want to become like her.

I have a lot of stories. It would be impossible for anyone who knew me to tell them all. For I’ve lived them all in different places, in the company of very different people who, in turn, made me a different person accordingly. The problem is: which ones do I want to tell? How can I convince you that they are interesting? Or better still, how do I convince myself? How do I make them pop out into 3D images from their matted down, elegantly latent resting places? How do I revisit them without shame. How do I cut through the baggage of lost to get to what I have gained? While I was in college, I prided myself in asking why to everything. This is an introduction to gaining the critical thought process to answering those questions why, and defining who I am through those answers.