No Shame November

Naivety. Believing that ambulances were free and pure white Christmases.

Naivety turns into cold nights without blankets. Innocence slowly changing into ignorance. It is that, that kills me.


We were desperate. Any little thing we felt, we called love. I always wanted to be the one to meet him waiting for me. Not me waiting hours outside, feeling like I've made a mistake.

"If it feels right then it'll just come natural."

Forced.

Everything was forced.

 Everything within myself screamed no but I dragged my body through it. Aimlessly. Shamefully. At least he always was. Never held my hand. Nor did he tell anyone.

A secret.
I obliged.
He can't be totally at fault. I'm the one who lied. To myself. Whole-hearted deception with a mask painted on to make it seem like nothing was wrong.

This is love. Lust eats you alive from the inside. I'm hollow. Body flailing and swaying. Another piece stolen, shattered, and spread. Who is she now? On her knees frantically trying to put the pieces back together while he glares down at her and nods in pleasure. Yet no trace of it on his eyes. This is happy. You become so tuned into his satisfaction, you neglect yours.

It doesn't matter, you don't matter.

No longer hanging from a thread, but endlessly falling. I'm not sure if I want to fall into nothing or finally plummet. I'd rather dangle. At least there was some kind of connection there. No matter how thin.

Hunger. Never satiated. Keep going. Don't stop. Overdose. Refill. Start again. "Do you like it?" I hate it.

Lost. So far gone. Disconnect. Disengage. No warmth here. Just come (on) already. Funny how this all happens while we're the most "connected."

The insidious onslaught of guilt.

Every.

Single.

Time.

I never knew why. It plagued me. Shame follows her. Walking in as one person. Shirt tossed. Jeans strewn. Peeling off. Picking off more and more pieces. Walking out another.

Half-wrapped present. Half baked. Half sewn. Half glued. Half. Half-personed. Who am I?

Lost. Arms and legs bound. Lips silenced by the pain. I creep inside the recesses of my brain and try to remove myself. I can't stop the tears as the already-crumbling finally crumbles. In his hands. To my expense.

I can never be a flower.

It's hard to believe the word "beautiful." Even harder to believe the word "love."

Not when trapped,desperate,shame,dirty,fucked,ugly,putrid all rush in at the same time. It's hard to see the "ever-after" with "happily" tacked on somewhere. Where's the fun in forever if it doesn't exist? What's the point in tomorrow if it never comes?

But I'm free now. Right? No longer chained. Only by memory am I reminded. I guess I'm free.

I feel so funny. I feel so sad.

Lust Gluttons

You can't go through life constantly testing the waters because you'll never jump in. You'll always stay in the safety zone, sticking a couple toes in and quickly pulling them back out when it's not desirable. You'll never have the courage to dive in and see what its like to swim. You'll never get a chance to see what it's like to plunge to the very bottom and make your way back up.

 I've met a lot of people like this. Within the realm of casual dating and "hooking up", guys and girls here get their chance to test everything out. There's nothing wrong with sampling the goods. Yet, if that's all you care about, just sampling the goods and moving on to something else and repeat, what is there to get out of that? No one wants to be tied down in college especially not the first couple of years, but what I don't understand is why keep up with the game for so long?

It's a cycle that breeds off of instant gratification.  The all-too-familiar "Hit it and quit it" phenomenon is widespread. I'm slightly surprised at the trend being so popular among women but if Rihanna can sing about "Cockiness" and Rude Boys, I guess that explains it. Either way, is there anything fruitful to come out of that? The constant "drive by" relationships? Then again, who wants to attach so much meaning to something that's so easy to get?




"Lust gluttons" I call them. Thriving off of pride and the actions are excessive of lust. The cheating. The lying. The growing numbers of "bodies." Hyper-sexed. Over-sexed. Till eventually we've overdosed. Desensitizing so much that we are romantically numb. We haven't the faintest idea of what love is yet try to correlate it to what we hear in songs or see on television. We like pictures and post memes but miss the whole concept entirely. By circumstance, experience, or otherwise, WE are fifty shades of messed up. Emotionally raped. Over and over. No one wants to go in too deep. No one wants to afford the energy nor the time. No one wants to feel the immense pressure of love for fear of getting crushed. No one wants their minds to go there, but have no problem letting their bodies do so. So we splash around on the outside. We try every fish. Feeling like we are full, yet walking around as hollow shells of ourselves. Only exisiting but never really feeling alive. Never satiated. Always wanting.

Is that how we really want to live?

Where is the fullness? Where is the feeling of being whole? Where is satisfaction in taking the risk of letting someone in and they turn out to be everything you wanted? What's so wrong with choosing wrong the first time around? Or second? Or third? Fourth?

I blame "Trust Issues"

Everyone has them and we're crippled by them.

Suddenly, we're all philospohical geniuses who can synthesize love with a couple of rhymes and verses. Yet, we can't even process the notion for ourselves. Often mixing up what we need and what we want. What is right and what feels right. What we think is love and what we know as lust.


We are the Lust Gluttons. Lord help us all.

Identité

From the moment I stepped foot on campus, my identity was always questioned.

It was at a Penn African Student Association (PASA) meeting that probed it. While in discussion, everyone knew exactly what country they wanted to be identified with. I had to question myself, "Who do I identify with?"

I was born here, in the United States. My mother is Trinidadian. My father is also American with some Bajan roots on his father's side. Although this is the case, I could never comfortably claim who I was.

A lot of friends back home disregard their American-ness and embrace their Caribbean or African heritage. Don't get me wrong, being well informed of your roots gives you an upperhand in uncovering yourself with a historical reference. Therefore, when asked "Where are you from?", sometimes I'd say Trinidad. It wasn't exactly wrong. My mother is the one who raised me so I inherited her Trinidadian culture and knowledge. Whenever asked for specifics, I'd claim my mother's region, my mother's city, and my mother's road. It's like I was living a foreign life vicariously through my mother's past. People liked using countries as a common-ground, especially in the Caribbean. Basically, if we shared the same island, we probably went to the same primary school together and are probably long-lost classmates. In the states, it's just a way to locate and belong to your country-people. Friendship by association. It was automatic.

After a while, it didn't feel quite right. So, I just started telling people I was born here then mentioning my mother being from Trinidad. It was more of a mouthful yet much more accurate to say. I'm fine being a Yankee*. Trinidad was always in my back-pocket when needed.

As many may know, the Black community at Penn is small (I use "Black" loosely here). Therefore, the Caribbean population within that community is especially scarce. Seeing that being Trini is a part of me, I want to find others here too. It's only natural. There was an instance where, during introductions, I heard this guy speak and I could tell by his accent alone that he was Trini. So, bypassing the whole "Are you from Trinidad?" scheme, I asked him, "Which part of Trinidad are you from?" In the coldest tone possible, he replied "Which part of you is Trini?" Ouch. I've been caught. An American claiming Trinidad being called out by a native. Mama's background can't save me now. It was amazing how strong my urge to defend myself was. He was only a stranger, I had nothing to prove to him. But when he only saw me for the American I was and didn't even bother to consider any Trini in me, I felt offended. It surprised me how hurt I was by this.

I never want to come off as fake or false-claim when speaking of Trinidad which is why I had only been mentioning Trinidad ever-so often. I never want to be one of those people who name every calypso song and soca monarch. Who wear red, white, and black religiously. Who put on this fake accent that only seems to come up whenever they're conveniently around Trinis. To me, those people feel like they have something to prove and by doing this, they're proving how much they're NOT.

I don't do any of those things. Yet I got called out like I did.

Am I allowed to be nationalistic of a country of which I was not born in? What's so wrong with being proud of my mother's homeland? I love the spicy-sweet rhythms of soca. It is the melodic perfume that is so gracefully accompanied by the aroma of curry and tamarind. I love the tantalizing pang of the steel drum and the vibrant singy song accents of the people. Why can't that be a part of me although I'm not directly tied to it? More so, why couldn't I do this without being disapproved by others? That eludes me.

I've tried to look at my home country from a different standpoint. Initially, claiming America just didn't seem like enough. Trinidad is a part of me, supposedly false-claimed or not, I'm going to embrace it. However, American values and morals, although not always agreeable, I must accept as a part of me as well. Although I have tried, to completely disregard that part of myself would be crippling to my identity. Finally, it clicked. This is who I want to be. The two (Trini/American) can co-exist.

I am young America, I am black America, I am Afro-America, and I am Caribbean-America. All entities exist as one, intertwined. Who says I have to be one or the other. There are no defined lines. Everything spills over and mixes in with one another forming me and molding me into my identity. Trinidad is no longer in my back-pocket and neither is America. They are both kept close to my heart. This is me.

So, let me re-introduce myself. I'm Shakele Seaton, a cute little Yankee with a zest of sweet T&T.



*term used by Trinidadians to define an American