A Writer’s Blog

The point of writing, of course, is so that others will read. I can go on and on about the therapeutic aspects of writing, the sense of relief from releasing your thoughts, and blah blah blah. That’s what diaries are for. Does a blog really mean anything if no one reads it? What happens to my healing process when it’s tied to someone else’s response?

If I just write for myself, then none of it matters. It doesn’t matter how I write, when I write, why I write, to whom I write, or what I write about. There is freedom in not having an agenda. However, if I am not only writing for myself; if my words are somehow supposed to find their way into someone else and help him/her, then all of it matters. And if all of it matters, then I suddenly don’t have much freedom. I am now left to make decision and ponder things like, “what’s the point of writing this? Who will benefit from reading me talk to myself”.

Life’s Torn Apart

I got news today that my 14-year-old cousin may be coming to live with me. After nights of sleeping in the streets, her mom was able to place her in a program that will bring her to the US and out of earthquake ravished Port-Au-Prince… she was the only one young enough to send.

In an instant, I realized that my life would completely change. I immediately started making plans to teen-proof my home and my schedule. I had to buy the right foods; set funds aside for schooling and clothing; brush up on my creole; oh my goodness, I don’t have any Haitian friends I can leave her with in case of an emergency; and Oh My God… the emotions suddenly poured out of me. This girl has just experienced what my words may never be able to describe, and now she will be torn from her family, shipped to a foreign land, and forced to live with a complete stranger who barely cooks Haitian foods.

The past few days finally became too much for me to contain. Sitting in the parking lot of Costco, I cried bitterly. How tragic to be in a situation where you have to send your child away; where you can’t even allow yourself to count the cost. And how terribly sad to have to leave your parents and your siblings behind; without the luxury of protest, to lose your family after you’ve already lost your world.

Signs of life

In June of 2009, I visited my homeland (Haiti) for the first time in 21 years. During that time, I took a series of unpublished stills I called “Signs of Life”. Every image was of a remarkably stark scene, no one present, nothing breathing. But what I hoped to translate was that life still existed… a banana peel, an untied shoe, a half-finished bottle of soda. The point wasn’t whether someone was there, but that someone had been there and may be returning. The photos, though at first so sad and empty, for me held hope… hope that as a nation, we were not over yet… hope that there were still signs of life.

It is now January of 2010 and the world is in the aftermath of one of the most devastating earthquakes to strike my already devastated country. Through the shocked silence, my hope has not changed. My soul still longs for God to be glorified; my mind continues to plea for peace and political restoration; my heart does not cease to ache for help for the needy. And I find myself reading through the many articles and scanning the thousands of images, searching for the same thing… signs of life.

People watching: Interpretations

He whistles at her from around the corner. At first, she ignores, but then he whistles again. She turns around, with a curious look. She is surprised. “Hey, how have you been?” He places an arm on her shoulder and starts to massage her neck. He utters something about wanting to know how she’s doing. She seems confused, unsure of how to interpret his touch. He tells her to give him a hug, and she does… almost unwillingly, mechanically, like an automatic uncontrolled response. Her eyes seem to ask, “What the hell?” But she hugs him. And he hugs her… and he sighs… and he holds on a few seconds too long. Then, he lets go. She looks to him for an explanation. None. He proceeds to walk her to class.

She is smiling… she is interpreting… she is creating all sorts of fantastic meanings to his every cleverly intentional yet conveniently vague actions.

Something Like a cookie

Oh no, sugar craving… I need something sweet… Now… I want it so bad I can taste it… It’s a cookie… Ooh, a chocolate cookie… Mmm, no, no, it’s something cold… Not frozen you can’t taste anything cold… Sitting out on the counter for 10 minutes after two hours in the freezer cold… Starting to soften and melt cold… Oh, and it’s warm… Gooey fresh out of the oven warm… would almost burn your tongue if it weren’t for the cold sweat, warm… But it’s crunchy too… And not the stuck between your teeth till it hurts crunchy… Not the you can’t hear anything but the sound of your chewing crunchy… The barely present soft and nutty kind… It’s the perfect spoonful… But instead, I chew a delectable zero calorie piece of gum.