I envisioned days sitting in a coffee shop or on a park bench using figurative devices to construct scenes that whisked readers away to fantastical destinations. I desired to have words and imagination at the core of my being; to write daily and learn new words with the opportunity to share them with readers. I craved a space that would facilitate me playing with words and writing thoughts with like-minded people. So, I enrolled into J-school. Though I have gotten excellent grades so far, the romantic expectations I had of a life in Journalism is slowly fading as I pull closer to the finish line.
I am a frustrated writer. I adore words and the power they contain to provoke thought, trigger emotions and inform. Yet, the style of writing for news reporting is stripped of the imaginative and uninhibited world of words that I adore. If it is not concise, it has to be clear, or just devoid of emotions and opinion. My creativity is yoked into being a staccato expression of thought that falls in line with all that has gone before and all that will come after.
So what do I do now? Should I throw in the towel and quit because my expectations have been slapped silly by reality?
It is not within me to quit, I instead have decided to focus on the merits of this new lane that I’m in, and continue to learn and grow.
It is a year since I have been away from Jamaica and oh, what a year it has been.
I’ve made new friendships, but still support those I created in Jamaica with phone calls, BBM, Facebook, Whatsapp and Skype. I have been assigned the role of ambassador in social settings when my accent reveals my nationality. This is a role I’ve been happy to fill, because I have been allowed to debunk some of the myths people have of Jamaicans. I have been asked questions ranging from my relationship with my family to how Bob Marley’s music affected my life. One particular question that floored me was if Jamaicans know about Canada. I simply smiled and said yes then walked away to prevent any further interaction. To my new friends I am the official litmus in determining if a smell, sound or taste labelled Jamaican is authentic.
My assimilation into the Canadian society required me to disrobe of some of the bigoted world views that I inherited from my fore-parents. I have been confronted with other lived truths and experiences that have forced me to re-evaluate things I have held as true. I started my journey on the 21st of December, 2011 at 5:10 p.m. from my parent’s house in Jamaica and I am still travelling.
Possibly the most frequent question I’ve been asked is if I miss Jamaica. I’ve often responded with a reflexive yes, but recently it hit me that I was lying.
I don’t miss Jamaica.
I miss the familiarity it affords me.
I miss my family, friends and the memories I created while growing up.
I do not miss Jamaica.
I don’t miss the need Jamaicans have to police your behaviour, dress-code and speech.
The suffocating value system that we cloak in black, green and gold and use it to suppress expression and individuality.
Since my journey began I have pierced my ears and I am contemplating a tattoo.
I have a fire-engine red pants in my closet and a jeans so tight it requires a special dance to get into them.
There are things I have done and expressed that I was afraid to consider in Jamaica.
I surprise myself at times, but it gives me a great feeling that makes my heart smile, a rush that makes me feel like I am alive and living. The thought of shelving these inhibitions I have developed over the past 365 days scares me.
I’ve said I love you more in the last 365 days than I have in my entire life. I have cried openly with members of my family and have fearlessly exposed my vulnerability in ways I dreaded. This journey I am on has taught me more about myself than I cared to know.
I have heightened my relationship with my sisters and made me realize how much I love them. My younger sister sent me a card on my birthday which made me cry. She has never expressed the words she wrote to me and just reading them forced me to realize how much I took for granted. I also realized that had I not been away from home, I may never have read those words.
My mother is my life. Yet, I would get annoyed when she told stories that I have heard a thousand times before. Now I long for them and laugh my ass off as if I am hearing them for the first time while listening to her on the phone thousands of miles away. I picture her warm eyes, the smell of vanilla that I attach to memories of my mother and the way she smiles while reliving these memories as only a mother can. My father and I are also different. He is no longer the man who I fought on a daily basis as a teenager, but instead has morphed into daddy. A man with his own insecurities who never grew up with a father but was required to play the role without a script. Our conversations has become meaningful since I have been in Canada. I recently saw a picture of my dad and it forced me to deal with his mortality. My father has aged so much within a year. The implications of this realization were not lost on me and all his vices seemed irrelevant in that moment. I have him now and I plan to make it count.
This journey has brought people of various faiths into my life, Muslims, Sikhs, Buddhist, Jews and even Atheist. I have been able to sit and listen to world views and lived experiences that challenged many of the things I questioned, as well as things I held as true. I grew up in church. I taught Sunday school, worked at church camps and served two years as Youth Director, but I had major issues with the tenets of the faith I was socialized with. Surely this will cause many conflicts with family and friends, but I am ready to live with the consequences of my actions that are decided by my perception of the world.
Just a year and already I can document changes in my life. We often tell people, “don’t change, because I love you just the way you are”, yet change is inevitable, even the dead changes.
I am changing and this fact excites me. I look forward to where this journey takes me and how much growth I will experience…and it r the truth.