This moment for life…

On Saturday May 12, 2012, I read excerpts of my novel to an audience of friends, and my family who came all the way from Jamaica to hear me and my fellow MFA classmates read. My partner, who is my biggest fan, was also there documenting the moment with our video camera and regular camera as well (yes, we are a couple that believes in documenting awesome moments. Soon it’ll be our baby’s first everything!). Anyway…where was I? Oh yes! My MFA thesis reading! In that moment I took to the stage knowing that this is it. This is the moment. I spent two years in my MFA program honing my craft and now, I was given the chance to read it aloud to a full auditorium of faculty, parents, and students. People leafed through pages of our bios, circling names of their loved ones. Others used the programs to fan themselves. But they were all there for one thing. To hear the MFA graduates read our work. As a MFA’er, you imagine this as a reading at your book signing at Barnes and Nobles, your name brandished across the spines of hardcovers, then later, paperback second editions, bestsellers nonetheless. Of course we all aspire for this (even if some of us want to admit it or not), so we all use this chance to capture—even a minute glimpse—of a distant premonition of success. Our readers unknowingly sat in the audience, destined to select our books off the shelf someday.

So it was in this thought process that I stood poised, elegant in a recently bought dress in front of my audience, my future readers. I thought of Toni Morrison, Zora Neale Hurston, Audre Lorde and other women of color writers before me. Yes, I thought, breathing in the Jasmine scent of my sweating armpits, this is it. The beginning. My beginning. Everything felt surreal when I leaned into the microphone, opened my mouth, and heard the words on the page echo into the consciousness of my listeners. Each word had an effect, tumbling down the aisles, thick with my accent, moving across rows un-apologetically defying the humble decorum I once assumed in the beginning of my immigrant experience. I met the eyes of my smiling mother and grandmother, aware of them squaring their shoulders and elongating their necks amidst the foreign audience who know their daughter and grandmother as more than an Alien. My words incited heads to tilt to the side and elbows to align with knee caps in an effort to move closer to the source. People stopped fanning, stopped circling bios. They paused long enough to listen. To savor. To appreciate. I remained poised at the podium, taking it all in. For I reasoned then that this--—me standing there in front of an audience, reading my work--—was what I was born to do. I took deep breaths and delivered the story the way it was meant to be heard. After my reading I was greeted with applause and “great job!” However, nothing beats the feeling that resonated inside. It was a feeling greater than anything I’ve experienced in my 30 years, quickly swelling my chest, quickening my pace, and reducing the earth’s gravitational pull so that at one point I felt like I was flying. It welled up inside me and when I looked at myself in the mirror I was able to name it. This feeling. I used my fingers to try to touch it, tracing my reflection in the mirror, my upturned lips, the dark onyx pupils in my eyes sparkling as if newly polished. I could look inside them and see me smiling, see me radiant, see me proud. See me.

I’ve accomplished my dream of successfully completing a writing program. I have expressed many times before on this blog how meaningful writing is to me, and the fact that I pursued my passion and took it to a higher level makes this experience even more visceral. I savor each moment, collecting each experience during the two years like precious stones. I’ll treasure them. I’ll also use them, knowing that my moment doesn’t stop here. There will be many more moments in life when I’ll feel accomplished. Like now. There will be many more moments in life when I’ll smile at that woman in the mirror. Like now. But what I’ll learn from these bursts of joy, these moments in life, is that I am responsible for creating them. God has blessed me with this talent, this passion, this drive to succeed, and the right people in my life to encourage me. BUT. The rest is up to me.

Now as I prepare for graduation I know in my heart that I’ve achieved something significant. Something amazing. I have a completed my first novel, which I’m currently shopping around to agents as well as a collection of short stories. Whenever I mention this to people, they raise their brows and say, “Girl, you really wrote your ass of in that MFA program didn’t you!” And I’d smile at them, like I smile at myself in the mirror. I tell them that I was given a second chance and I chose not to waste it. I chose to honor it and work hard. God has blessed me the opportunity to pursue my dream and I went for it. It was a leap of faith that I’m happy I took with the encouragement of my partner. She made me realize that I was given a gift and I’d be damned if I take it for granted. With this in mind, I’ve begun to submit my work to every literary journal I can possibly think of. I start from the top—the big dawgs like the New Yorker, Kenyon Review, Granta, etc. I decide that even if I get rejected, I’ll wear those rejections like scars, beautiful in their own right, for they are reminders that I’m actually doing something—that I actually tried. And I’ll try again. And again. And again. Every writer has suffered rejection and so I will willingly give myself that opportunity too. For I am a writer. A real one. Now, more than ever. I’m living, breathing, sleeping, eating, being a writer. And my mantra now: Real failure is NOT trying at all. So I'll keep writing. It's only the right thing to do.

Today, I can honestly say that I’m happy and proud of myself for trying. This Friday I’ll walk across the stage to receive my second Master’s degree—the ONLY degree most meaningful to me—my Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, Fiction from Sarah Lawrence College. Cheers to the beginning of a special journey!!!!  Nicole

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Giving up Male privilege

Like any elite club masculinity establishes its eligibility criteria with strict rules against those who dare diverge from it. Fathers train sons in preparation to be inducted into this club. Grueling drills begin as early as two years old when the boy child, still witnessing the world through wide, glassy eyes, is taught that he is different. The realization of this difference is seemingly unpleasant when he’s told not to cry, for crying is for girls. It’s in this moment that the child makes a life altering decision. The sogginess of his diapers perplexes him more, but he is suddenly given an ultimatum that will crystallize in his mind. It’ll grow big enough to be chipped away into a crown. The heaviness of it he’ll try to manage throughout his life.

So what about the boy who dares to be different? The boy who dares to take off his jeweled crown and places it on the head of a goat? The one who has been raised in a culture where masculinity is a prized possession? A power to be executed. Masculinity varies according to culture. In some cultures, the women ought to be submissive. In others, the women are seen only as sex objects. While in most, gender equality is that distant goal that glistens like an unattainable star.

Jamaica happens to be one of those countries where masculinity is perceived as sexual dominance.

Often in our music, male artists describe the violent ways in which they’d have a woman in bed. And women, of course, dare not challenge this notion unless if they’re enlightened feminists. Usually the ones who went to UWI or who had left the Island to be college educated and had come across Women Studies courses. In fact, women dancehall artists like Lady Saw for example would encourage “rough sex”, making the whole grit teeth experience a badge of honor. For a woman who cannot satisfy her man in such violent ways—or dare I say, allow herself to be literally raped—becomes the laughing stock, “the wifey” who gets dumped for “the matey” (aka. the other woman) because she can’t satisfy her husband in the ways the violent sex lyrics of the songs imply.

Also, it’s very rare that women voices get heard. Yes, we have a woman prime minister, which is seen even in the western world as progressive. But so many of our women live in secrecy. Incest and rape are high among our women. Yet, it’s hushed, kept quietly like that monthly visit from Aunt Flo. Discreet. It’s treated with care, the way one treats a wound, covering the gaping hole with hopes that it’ll disappear. But it never does. They’re raped again in songs. Over and over again, sandwiched between stereos and boom boxes. At that point the women can’t do much about this violation except to succumb to it. Gives it dominance over her life. Survival of the fittest, right? She begins to incorporate it as a way to be more desirable, to please. Walks away from the dancehall feeling nothing. Just a deep resentment for the woman who dares to raise hell about the lyrics. “Hush yuh mouth an’ suck it up,” she whispers sharply. For isn’t this what she was told as a girl who once cried to her own mother who told her the same thing? Just hush…

Meanwhile the boys are patted on the back for number of girls they score with. But more than the numbers is the technique. For the typical Jamaican man who adheres to the lyrics of the dancehall hates the concept of cunnilingus, fearing he’d be deemed an abominable sissy or “chi-chi”. He likes to thrust viciously (as reported in lyrics) into the woman like she’s a stuffed cushion and not a human being to prove this point. This point he proves not only to himself, but to other males who themselves would dare not admit to succumbing to their woman’s needs in bed. Such is the elite club of masculinity that men would literally die emotionally, physically and even mentally to be a part of it. To be considered “one of the boys”.

Those who dare to break out of these norms are often questioned. Scrutinized. The effeminate gay man, for example is a walking death sentence given the hyper-masculine fear they incite. The mere glimpse of feminine behavior in these men sparks an attack—sometimes violent, depending on the community or neighborhood. Other times the insults are verbal. But contrary to the adage “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never harm me”, words do hurt. And the wounds are lasting. The more masculine gay men on the other hand often pride themselves for “passing”. They know that their male privilege is more valuable than let’s say, showing open affection to a male partner. But at some point they get paranoid, afraid they’ll be found out. Hence the cyclical abuse that happens in these relationships driven by the internal conflict of living up to a certain standard of masculinity.

Now in walks the transgendered woman. Once a boy. The ones who dare to openly challenge masculine norms, having enough courage to stand up to it, give up their coveted passes. One transgendered woman I know says the day she decided to live as a woman was the day she knew she was doing something big. She walked away from her privilege on a pair of four inch heels, never looking back. Not even once. “Honey, I’d rather pawn that crown to get my nails done,” she said with frank sincerity. Never mind that she’ll be giving up a lot.

Those coveted passes that come with a) higher pay (as men are known to get more pay and raises than women), b) the ability to be assessed for your intellect and skills, and not be objectified c) the luxury of getting more respect from both men and women, d) the higher probability of getting a promotion, e) the absolute certainty of tenured faculty positions. The caveats to this include: lucrative publishing deals, having your name embellished as the leader or pioneer of some sort in your field, mentally jerk off and be patted on the back for it, sit at a table and expect to get the most servings of food (whether or not the server is cognizant of their own biases). And the list of privileges goes on.

The real heroes in my eyes then, are the people who could care less about having these privileges revoked. The transgendered women who are the ultimate revolutionaries. They’ve been fighting this gendered fight since they were young. Girls trapped inside the bodies of boys. Girls unable to fathom the mental and emotional abuse of a boy deemed “different” from his peers. Girls beaten and taunted because their boy body acted in ways they feel. Girls ostracized because unlike other girls, they couldn’t express simple attraction to boys without being beaten. Girls unable to use the girl’s restroom because to the world they were boys. And boys had their places, still do, on top of the totem pole.

And still, the fight continues given that women say to these transgendered individuals: “Why? Why give up your privilege? Why not just continue wearing your male costume and fake it?” Little do they know or understand how hard it is for a transgendered individual to come to terms with this themselves. Subjecting them to gender roles they're not cut out for is like silencing them, taking away a big part of who they are. Perhaps those women born female at birth, the ones inclined to ask these questions, can’t possibly believe that someone who was born a male would dare give up his privilege. Perhaps these women watched their brothers be told to go discover the world without penalty, without responsibility, without obligation. While the women get stuck with feeding and taking care of the parent(s) who imparted this dichotomy. Perhaps these women were survivors of rape or incest and have struggled thereafter with getting in touch with their feminine selves.

So a man’s willingness to look the way that might attract perpetrators to more than just his wallet is foreign to them. For being born a woman hasn’t been a luxury for many. From menstrual cramps to breaking glass ceilings with force. However, this resistance or questioning of how a man could possibly want to be us shows how we’re socialized to think. In a world so polarized by gender, the suspicion of anyone who dares to break this barrier is a reflection of one’s internalized biases.

Nicole © 2012

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Living my life like I'm chosen...

You know that girl who good things always happen to? Yeah, the one in high school who got voted prom queen and valedictorian? The one with the easy smile who had everyone kissing the ground she walked on?

So…

Slowly but surely I’ve risen above comparing myself to others. There’s always going to be someone prettier than me, smarter than me, or who is a better writer than me. I shrug my shoulders and call that life. However what I take from living this life is valuing my own journey. I have been chosen to be a vessel for the voiceless and by all means I want to honor that and appreciate it. Being chosen is a luxury that comes with self-acceptance. A mindful recognition of my own capabilities. My strength.

Years ago I was that child who thought I was too dark to be favored. Too nappy-headed to be called beautiful. Too shy to be acknowledged. Too clumsy to be given tasks. Too awkward to be a part of the in crowd. But now I rise out of myself a phoenix. I don’t look back to mope on what should’ve been, I look back to gain momentum. To push myself forward. To reflect in this light---Its rays warming my skin, sinking into my pores, and awakening something in me. The little girl perhaps who now stretches and yawns like a glorious princess. Her eyes flutter open and she wonders where she is and how she got here. She rips off her old dress and dances naked in the sun, its rays pouring down on her like rain. With outstretched arms and her face toward the sky she skips and rejoices.

You see, I was never chosen for the earthly things. The exclusive groups and whatnot. Yet, as I begin to accept everything about myself I’m beginning to see others gravitate toward my energy. I’m beginning to see doors open up, emails streaming in, strangers stopping to give me second looks, smiling. For this new me walking this earth is living my life like I KNOW I’ve been chosen.

Somewhere in the depths of my prior insecurities I’ve dared reach to find my crown. It still glistens. Good as new. I now wear it like a queen. And everyone is taking notice, including the Almighty.

Nicole

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The concept of a “Big woman”

In the Caribbean when people refer to a woman or a man as “Big” it means they’ve matured, their fruits ripe and on display for the community and the world to see. “Big” means you have arrived on that step where adulthood begins. No longer a child. The expectation now is to harvest wisdom from seeds of mistakes. Work hard so that the fruits of your labor come out tasting sweet. And continue that climb up the ladder, sun beating down your back, muscles fatigued, sweat pouring down your face.

Something happens to a person when they turn 30. My birthday was in September and since then 30 has shown me a few things, some of which I'd love to share.

30 has struck me with conviction, reminding me of my mission. The urgency of it.

30 has incited me to look deep within and reach out to the little girl inside, the one I had forgotten about when I used to aim to please others.

30 has given me the strength and confidence to cut toxic people from my life without looking back. Even if they happen to be long time friends. Or blood relatives.

30 has crowned me with an appreciation of my beauty. The beauty I took for granted. The beauty I often used to deny even as women did double takes and men stumbled over their egos to impress.

30 blessed me with a deep love and appreciation for my parents who now look to me for advise, their proud stares obvious when I answer them back with the wisdom they taught me. My successes reminding them of the sacrifices they made.

30 has reinforced my capacity to love and to receive love.

30 has rejuvenated my wanderlust and desire to go on new adventures. Even if it means traveling all over the world. No longer do I wait to think about it. I go.

30 has given me the audacity to do what I’m good at. Writing has always been a part of me and now I dare commit and flourish from it.

30 has allowed me to stand firm in my beliefs as a fighter. But it has also taught me how to acknowledge my emotions and say out loud how I feel so that nothing defeats me.

30 has shaped me into the woman my great-grandmother said I would become. The feisty, intelligent, fearlessly talented woman she concocted with her Maroon blood. The woman I’m still working on.

30 has reassured me that perfection is for gods. But the ability to acknowledge weaknesses and personal limitations with the intention of learning from them, is what makes me a Big Woman.

Nicole

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Hello 2012!!!!

In less than a five hours 2011 will be over and 2012 will be here! A big year for many, many reasons. 2011 was the year that I sowed many seeds. I worked diligently, watering them everyday. I sought the right elements to help me nurture them: Great friends. A good mentor. A wonderful support team. My partner. In the last half of the year the seeds started to sprout, rising above the soil toward light. 2012 will be the year when I see them burgeon into dreams.

It's time. It's about to happen. I'm standing on the edge of glory and as the ball drops tonight, I'll be an effervescent firework, ready to light up the world!

Nicole

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To Althea, my classmate at St. Andrew High who made me realize something wonderful...

My yearbook pic, Circa 1998

This Thanksgiving I was in a reflective mood. Of course the day says it all “Thanksgiving”. I’ve always been thankful, but for some reason this Thanksgiving took me on an interesting journey. I journeyed along paths that I hadn’t been on in years. Paths that made me realize now how blessed I am. Paths that had faded with life, concealed, colored sepia like old pictures.

It was the image of my high school’s Annual Award Ceremony that stuck with me. Images that were snapped over a decade ago. I was twelve, then thirteen, then fourteen, then fifteen, then sixteen. Five years of images. All superimposed. Prizes and certificates were given to the brightest and most talented students. Although this was Jamaica, I still knew then that it was America’s Thanksgiving Day because I sought escape in cable television. I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade religiously every year as I ironed my school uniform. The Award Ceremony started at 2pm. I would get there early to line up with my class. All the girls giddy with excitement as if we were preparing for the Academy Awards and were nominated.

Dressed in my pressed uniform, my hair neatly combed, every strand in place, I would watch girls in my class and from different grades go up to take their prizes on stage. The prizes were Best Student, Most Improved, Service, Excellence, etc. None of which I was ever awarded. The girls who were awarded these prizes got to shake the principal’s hand and stood in place to have their pictures snapped. Their shoulder length hair bouncing, loose ironed curls cascading. I watched them happily bounce back to their assigned seating, certificate in hand, smiles on their faces. Their necks acquired a certain tilt, bending their heads backwards, noses up in the air. They were destined for college, destined for top scores on the CXC’s, the A-Levels. They were even destined for the coveted opportunity to take the American exam, the SAT’s where they could apply for colleges like Swarthmore, Wesleyan, Vassar, Middlebury.

"Only girls like that get to go somewhere," said Althea, a fellow average student who sat with me in the back. "We'll never be on their level, so get used to this," she said to me. She kissed her teeth and rolled her eyes. Her words were like a slap in the face. Tears stung my eyes when she said it in response to me telling her that I would love to receive a prize the following year. I had never felt so infuriated, so resentful, so angry, so defeated. Althea must have felt the same.

Of course, I sat at this Award Ceremony every year wondering if I would ever be nominated for a prize. How did the teachers choose the nominees? Year after year I would study hard and do well on exams, yet I never got nominated. Never got a chance to shake the principal’s hand. Never had my picture snapped. Yet, I always showed up. Always had my hair in place, uniform ironed, shoes polished as if I were nominated. It was mandatory that average students show up. It was mandatory that we pretend to show our support by being on our best behavior. It was mandatory that we have smiles pasted to our faces and applause handy for when a lucky classmate, always the same set of girls, gets her award. Maybe Althea was right after all. In the back of my mind I wondered if this was how life would be. Smiles and applause meant for others.

The Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade floated on one year and I was late for the Award Ceremony. By then I had come to the conclusion that I’d never mount to excellence in my school, in my home country for that matter. I’d always be considered average or not good enough. Like Althea I would begin to give up. Begin to accept my fate as a "dunce darky". The British system kicked my ass and my self-esteem to a pulp. I couldn’t even look in the mirror without feeling ugly, because I wasn’t light enough, my hair wasn’t long enough, my parents were working class, I wasn’t smart enough. Just average. So I was late on purpose. Got my first detention because of it. But I didn’t care. At least I got to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in its entirety. America inspired me.

The day came when I decided not to show up to the Award Ceremony altogether. I was sixteen and fed up. Tired of seeing certain girls get prizes. Tired of being a good sport about it, because deep down something told me I’m great and just as worthy. To this day I can’t tell you where that voice came from, but it incited me to march to my mother and give her an ultimatum. Did I say I was only sixteen? “I will never make it if I stay in this damn country,” I said to her. She looked at me for what seemed like an eternity. I used the word “damn”. She hated when we swear. Yet, it was something else that silenced her. Something else that she saw rising within me. My growing frustration. “OK,” she said very slowly. “I’ll call your father.”

The next day I was called into my mother’s room. I learned that I would never be subjected to another Award Ceremony. I learned that day that I would be migrating to America in the summer to live with my father and start college. I learned that day that my mother had thought long and hard about this. I would finally get a chance to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in real life.

My freshman year of college I reveled in the opportunity of living in a country that doesn’t see me as “average”. My first semester in college I got straight A’s. My second semester I won an academic scholarship. My second year I made the Dean’s List. Four times. Little ‘ole me. The one who never once got nominated in high school for a piece of paper or a handshake that promised to validate my excellence. I was having a ball in college. In college I learned I’m a brilliant writer. Something that I was discouraged from in high school after an English teacher read my college essay and said it was crap. Said the Queen wouldn't be happy with such colloquial terms. Fuck the Queen, I thought. Uhm…excuse me miss, but I got into Cornell University with that letter. Thank you very much.

At my Cornell graduation my mother flew up from Jamaica. She had a certificate in hand. “What’s this?” I asked her. “I forgot to give this to you.” She presented it to me in a large brown envelop. I opened it and read the certificate out loud. “St. Andrew High School for Girls, class 6R, student nominated for academic excellence and service.” I couldn’t believe what I was reading. The certificate was issued a few months after I migrated in June, 1999. My graduation from college was in 2003. Four years had past. Had I gotten it years before when I was in high school, I would’ve probably not felt I needed to migrate to America to be validated. To have my gifts be recognized. But I did. And I’m glad I did. I didn't get a certificate then, yet I pushed forward. I achieved what I set out to achieve because deep down I knew I could. I learned in the process that no one or nothing can make me feel worthy but me. I may not have been nominated for excellence in high school, or felt I couldn't accomplish anything; but God worked it out that today, at this very moment, I am blessed. And have accomplished a lot. So far. For this I give thanks.

If Althea could see me now. I would give her a hug. I would say to her girl, thank you. "Only girls like that get to go somewhere," Althea had said to me then. But I would let her know now that she is worthy to succeed. That she has always been that girl. Worthy.Me today, Circa November 24, 2011

Nicole

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Status Writers vs. Contract Writers...What's the use of these terms when all I wanna do is write?

"What good do your words do, if they can't understand you?" Erykah Badu

I was ruminating on this thought as I write. I just read an essay by Jonathon Franzen who was adamant about making a differentiation between a "contract writer" and a "status writer". A "status writer", he says, is a person who writes with no intention of being understood by a certain group of readers; a person who seeks to build his/her reputation among the elites by indulging in literary masturbation and leaving readers behind in the dust. While a "contract writer" on the other hand is a writer who is invested in engaging the reader; someone who is passionate about reaching at least one soul because they have something to say.

But the implicit question here is, who gets published? Who determines what's art? Who are the people who decide? Is it the masses or the suits behind sliding glass doors overlooking fifth avenue and Central Park? Is it Granta or your local newspaper? Is it the New Yorker or The Mississippi Review? Is it your mother or the head of Random House? Is it the women in your church or the men with thick glasses who shop at vintage stores, read the New Yorker, and ride their bikes across the Williamsburg bridge? Clearly, if you can reach both the church women and the academic liberals, then that means you're a good writer who should not be labeled or put inside a box. As a writer, you also have to know who your audience is. For example, whenever I turn on my computer to write, I picture that brown lesbian girl in Jamaica or here in Brooklyn who I'd want to read my book, a version of myself that never had the opportunity to read work by lesbian authors of color about lesbians of color, which had nothing to do with threesomes, sex, and more sex. I'd also like the homophobic Christian to pick my book up and identify with some of the emotions and turmoils queer individuals go through. That we're not about parades with half-naked people running around in the streets, but human beings with souls.

In my opinion, art isn't art if it doesn't touch the souls of individuals. There must be something humanistic about our art/writing that speaks to the reader, whether he dresses in a suit everyday or jeans and t-shirt. It doesn't matter. Also, I don't believe that one should put themselves in either categories of status versus contract, because in my opinion we have the ability to merge the two. For example, Toni Morrison is a writer who appeals to the elites and the masses. How does she do that? Well, she writes from the heart. She writes from a place within that pulls from her experiences with people and with herself.

As people, we're complex beings. So complex that not even our mothers who have known us since birth can label us if they should try. Because as individuals, we're still learning about ourselves, all the different elements, shades, that make us unique. So it is with this understanding, I believe, that a writer who is successful in touching the hearts and souls of readers draw from. As readers you're allowed to become voyeurs into the lives of these strange individuals who are not so strange when you begin to see yourself, people you may know, or think you know. So, back to the initial argument: "Contract" versus "Status" writer isn't a valid judgment for Jonathon Franzen to make given that at any given point people can be who they want to be, depending on the height of their career, the pressure to live up to labels, the need for affirmation, the lust for fame.

But the person (writer) who is most affected by all this smoke is the person (writer) who is forgetting one important thing: The readers.

As my favorite artist of all time, the great Erykah Badu says: "What good do your words do, if they can't understand you?" And I shall add, what good do your words do, if people can't understand you and IDENTIFY?

Nicole © 2011

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