I lost the power.
Until this moment
I never realized.
For so long,
I had him wrapped
Around my finger,
All I had to do
Was say the word,
Call the shot,
And he obeyed.
That was the type
Of bond that existed
Between us,
One where he’d do
Anything to please me;
I’d do anything to keep
Him under my spell, Read more…
The Jamaican Revolution: How the Jamaicans brought the 100 metres back to life
Reblogged from Marshterful Writings:
The 100 metre race is and has always been the prime event of the Olympic and athletics World Championships events, there is no doubting that, but there was a time when the race seemed to be losing its fandom and was…
Celebrating my birthday with my friends Toni-Ann and Svet at Negril Village.
A week after celebrating my birthday on January 30, I don’t feel a day older than the first time turned 25! This past week has been a profound reminder that I am loved and I’m left feeling beyond grateful and totally inspired. Since moving to New York almost a decade ago, I’ve seldom had a happy birthday. The last two found me miserable, at home alone, homesick and in tears. This year, however, my birthday was beautifully spent.
The lovely birthday card I got from my one of fave Jamaican “bredren”.
My day got off to cheerful start thanks Read more…
My sister Sancia seeing me off at the airport in Barbados Jan ’13. Happy birthday sis!
I had a melt down two days ago. Two days before my 3*th birthday. I’d awoken from a nightmare where a dear friend had told me, “You’re over-the-hill, girl, you’re old.” Just a week ago, I had discovered my first grey hair – of all places at the front of my head – and that sent me into a panic. Ever since I turned 30, or perhaps as early as 25, I’ve been in a state of denial about aging. Sure, there are those times when I embrace my age and experience, but for the most, I simply cannot believe that I’m already this old! Where did the years go? Read more…
It’s with bittersweet feelings that I write this piece. As I type, I’m sitting in my “window seat” on a Jet Blue aircraft, which took off from the tropical shores of my beautiful homeland Barbados to return me to my adoptive home – exciting, but wintry New York City. Moments ago, as the blinding sun beamed through this tiny window, I squinted to get my final glimpses of paradise, clicking away on my iPhone camera to preserve each image for posterity. Even after almost a decade, every time I leave Barbados, I cry. Yet, I am always eager to embark on the new adventures the Big Apple has to offer.
This was my most emotional “home for the holidays” trip. Much of my time was spent with my immediate family, visiting relatives, dear friends and long-lost friends. Not that I don’t usually do so, but it featured more prominently on this occasion, with me limiting my usual attendance at countless social events. I reunited with people I had not seen in 10, 15 and in some cases almost 20 years. I met new additions to my family or friends’ families – children born since I moved to New York. I connected in person with Facebook friends who have now become friends, ran into former journalistic colleagues who’ve been promoted or have changed jobs, and saw folks that I’d almost forgotten.
Enjoying the view from Speightown boardwalk, Barbados.
I was warmly welcomed into the home of my first boyfriend’s parents; his mom still keeps a framed photo of me. One of my best friends and his wife took me out to an exclusive event, another drove me around the island showing me all the developments that have been taking place in my absence, others invited me over for lunch, dinner and even to stay over, and some took the trek to rural Barbados through potholes, sparsely lit streets, along cane fields and off the “main road” to my mom’s house just to see me.
There are many stories I can write about these “reunions” and over time I probably will, but the one I’ll share with you today is when for the first time in 15 years, I saw my favorite teacher from secondary school (high school). For each of us, I’m sure no memory of that pivotal period of our lives is complete without the thought of at least one teacher who in some way positively impacted our lives. As a student at Louis Lynch Secondary (formerly Roebuck Secondary School), there were a few teachers I admired, who helped mold me into the person I am today, but there’s one only one I called my favorite teacher. His name is Addison Cadogan. Mr. Cadogan was my Social Studies teacher. He taught me from first form – age 11 – until my graduation. I could go back to those early years and tell you why Mr. Cadogan holds such a special place in my heart, but I have a more recent memory that will show you why!
I awoke this morning to the icy rain and cool 20-something degrees-temperature of New York City. It’s Christmas Day. My third in the Big Apple. Well, that’s not exactly true. While I might have started today in New York, I’m now miles away from there; the place I’ve called home for the past seven years. It’s 10 a.m. now and as I write, I’m soaring about 35 thousand feet in the air, gliding through fluffy white clouds and over boundless waters. By the time this piece is posted, I would have arrived at one of the most beautiful places on earth. Read more…
Why can’t I get over you?
Despite everything,
I miss u like crazy!
A day doesn’t go by
Without thoughts of you.
I get mad sometimes
When I think of the hurt you caused
Deserting me when I needed you most.
I tell myself you’ve given me
More than enough reasons
To let go, move on and forget you.
But inexplicably, I’m still in love with you.
To my chagrin I admit,
I love you unconditionally.
It’s like you stole my heart from day one
And I’ve been fighting a losing battle
Ever since to retrieve it!
I want to and need to let you go!
I’ve tried with all my being.
I’ve prayed that you be
A distant memory, if any at all.
I’ve sought every measure of distraction
Compiled all your heartless actions
To fuel animosity toward you.
I’ve struggled to forgive you
As you’ve proven yourself
Less than human and unworthy
Of my friendship and love.
Yet though my head screams, “Let go”
My heart says, “I’m all for you.”
Why can’t I let go?
-by Maquita “Queenie” Peters
~ I Keep it Irie ~
For KMEM.
An African American family celebrating Thanksgiving. Courtesy Corbis Images
It’s challenging when drowning in depression to rise above it and focus on reasons to be thankful. This is my ninth consecutive Thanksgiving in the US, although 10 in total and one would figure by now I’d be over the sadness that comes with spending such holidays by myself. I’d always envisioned that if by this age I were still living here, I’d be happily married with a family of my own and finally truly celebrating Thanksgiving. But as the sun sets on another Thanksgiving Day, I’m like McCaulay Culkin in that 1990 top draw comedy, “Home Alone” except there’s no laughter being derived from within my four walls – only tears. Living in a foreign country away from all my relatives and closest friends is especially felt on days like today. Read more…
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