The Nameless Thing

Stef and I
Stefan and I at the UG School of Medicine’s Award Ceremony for the Class of 2015. He was awarded for being the Best Student in Paediatrics, the Best Student in General Surgery and for graduating with a Distinction.

Life was not made to be rushed through. I try to savour the minutes and hours and days because I know that when they become months and years I won’t be able to remember them all. We don’t remember days or anything in its entirety. We remember moments that touch us in some way.

Yesterday I was in a rush. I burnt a dress I’ve been wanting to wear for a long time and ended up wearing something that I hated with a passion. Usually, I don’t fuss much about clothes. But last night was special. Last night I watched my partner get coated. So now I’m stuck with introducing him as Dr. Stefan Hutson.

I am extremely proud of this man because of where he’s come from and what he’s endured to finally make the dream real in the end. I see he’s been posting that the best dreams happen while you’re awake. He’s right. Dreams don’t magically happen. We’ve got to be awake, conscious and constantly working until the dream becomes real. Dreaming is hard work.

When I first met him, we had an exchange (I won’t call it an argument because for me arguments are spectacular and beautiful things) about me meeting his mother and the nature of our relationship. Here’s part of what he said to me: “What? You need a contract to make it official?” (See why I like him?)

You see, I think this is something we’ve all been guilty of at some point. We try too hard to define everything all the time or rather to give it a name. I’ve found that the most genuine things, the things that will see us through our entire lives are not so easy to name and definitely don’t need a contract.

Sometimes I think that love is not love anymore because of how it’s portrayed in popular culture. So when we begin to feel those unexplainable things, the things that reach deep inside us where we never let anyone see, then sometimes it’s good to just feel, to just let it be and not worry about the what or why or after.

Last night was about him, not me. My dress didn’t matter. And because my dress didn’t matter in any way, I’m the luckiest woman alive. Because when I looked at him, the only thing I looked for was the happiness in his eyes. And I know that when he looks at me, he doesn’t see the dress, he sees me.

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New home, same life

Window View Diamond
View from my front window at sunrise.

 

My family and I finally moved into our house in the Diamond New Housing Scheme. I can’t say that I like it nor can I say I hate it. The traveling is hard and the morning traffic is harder but the place has a certain quietness to it that I like.

It’s been a long time since my mother, younger brother and I have shared a home together. At my age, I think I’ve spent too much time chasing life and chasing causes and not enough time seeing the people I love. A big part of loving people is witnessing their lives and caring about what you witness. I’ve been working on it.

And of course, I’ve got some interesting neighbours and naturally I’ve got that one neighbour that’s the epitome of jackassifiyishness. Almost every weekend they vibrate my windows with their huge music box while their battalion of children back-ball and juk the floor, the wall and each other. Sigh. I’m trying hard to mind my own business.

Just before the rain started this morning, I helped my mom wash. We used blue-soap, hard-brush and scrubbing-board. These days I look forward to washing with mom. I’ve seen her age these last few years and it forced me to accept that my time with her is not endless. Time is not endless for us.

I wait up for my brother at nights now and we do dumb things or watch pointless TV. I’m watching him become a man and I know that I won’t always be around to witness his life first hand. There’s no telling where life will take us. My mother’s eldest sister has lived in another country for most of their lives and they haven’t seen each other in years. One day, distance may stretch between my brother and I and we’ll fill that space with memories and Skype and annual visits.

This is also the first time in more than 15 years that I haven’t lived with Nani. She is there in her house and I am here in mine. Sometimes, it feels as if our worlds are not the same and never were and never could be but every now and then we meet and we laugh. Laughing makes everything better.

Life will never be perfect and happiness is not constant. But who wants that? Seriously, perfect and constant are predictable and boring.

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Stop run ya man’s phone, email and facebook!

Trust is not a one way thing.

It’s ironic that people ask me for relationship advice. You’d think I’m some very experienced woman with enough ruined relationships to serve as a sort of guru. I’m not.

Every time a woman in particular asks me for advice the conversation ends one way. She’s depressed and angry by the end of it and usually writes me off as a “cruel bitch”. I don’t mind. We’re not all wired to take the truth. So ladies, if you’re going to keep reading this, keep in mind that the truth hurts and pisses off even the most controlled among us.

Last week, one girl asked me if I thought her man was cheating on her. This is how the conversation went:

Distressed Woman – I think he’s cheating on me.

Me – Why?

DW – I saw some messages on his phone to this girl.

Me – I see. And how exactly did you see his phone?

DW – I went through it while he was in the shower. I know. I know. That’s wrong. But he makes me feel like I have to.

Me – Well, leave him.

DW – But I’m not sure if he’s cheating. He was telling her that he’d like to hear what she sounds like when she moans. Do you think he’s cheating on me?

Me – You need to ask him that. If you can’t trust him. Leave him.

Sigh. Shit like this irks me. Yes, it’s wrong to go through a man’s phone, his emails, his facebook messages, his wallet, his personal belongings. It’s a violation of his privacy, a violation of his trust in you and it’s an insult to yourself, particularly your intelligence.

Clearly, DW is insecure and has trust issues. But I wonder, just how many of us understand this concept of trust. How can you expect a man to be trustworthy if he can’t trust you with his privacy? I believe that trust is a two way thing. You get what you give. If your investments are shitty then expect twice as shitty returns.

Furthermore, such actions make you look desperate and demented. No man can make you feel like you have to reduce yourself to such a disgusting pile of patheticness. You must choose to become that thing. If you can’t trust him, you can’t love him; if you can’t love him then how the hell can you hope to build a lasting relationship with him?

So for all you ladies in that position, stop embarrassing yourself and womankind. Do yourself and the man a favour and just leave. There’s no hope for a lasting union there.

And while you’re at it, learn to love yourself enough to get some help. Become a woman of character, a strong woman who can be trusted and who deserves to be trusted. Who you are will attract the type of man you want.

So remember, trust is a two way thing. Happy hunting!

Sharing a quick moment with you while I’m on the go.
Sara.

Darwin’s Theory of Sexual Selection

Snapshot of my screen

Snapshot of my screen

Sweat slides steadily down my back as I sit cross legged on my hot, hot sheets. It’s a sweltering afternoon here at Craig Old Road and I’m neck deep in notes on Darwin’s Theory of Sexual Selection.

Just when I’m thinking my afternoon can’t get any hotter GPL blesses me with blackout. Ah yes, life in the country. Anyway, what am I doing eye balling Darwin’s theory?

Well, it all started with a story I read a while ago. A Russian man in his early 20s was attacked and murdered in the most brutal fashion. Beer bottles were shoved up his anus and a 20kg rock dropped on his head. Can you guess why?

He was attacked because of his sexuality. My vocabulary is not extensive enough to find a word which reflects just how terrible homophobia is.

And so, here I am doing some research starting with dear old Darwin. I’m trying to wrap my head around some facts before I really get started on my condemnation of homophobia.

Sharing a quick moment with you while I’m on the go.
Sara.

The Berbice Experience

Beauty, it’s something we all appreciate and something most of us Guyanese are willing to travel 1000s of miles in search of. But beauty, it’s right here in Guyana too and it isn’t very far away from the former Garden City.

It’s some time around 6am on a Saturday and I’m sitting in one of our infamous minibuses headed to Georgetown. It’s the first leg of my journey to Berbice. But it isn’t the crude jokes and loud laughter that I notice in this bus. Instead, I look out the window at the sprawling Demerara River. The gentle ripples on her surface are just beginning to glow from the kisses of the rising sun in the east.

Just outside Parliament Building there are a pocket of protestors. They’ve been camped out there for a few days and their aim is to show solidarity to the Lindeners. At the moment Linden is struggling through a sort of internal battle. But the thing that I do notice is that even in her fallen glory the former Garden City seems almost peaceful at this early hour.

Behind me is St. Stanislaus College. Even she is a sight of beauty in the morning light. But it isn’t the trees or neatness of her grounds that catches the eye. It’s the statue of the Virgin Mother on her balcony which grabs the eyes and reminds the heart of what this place once was before it took a steep plunge. And then he arrives for us.

The farther away we move from Georgetown, the harder it becomes for me to remember where I am. At Beehive, ECD there is a stretch of coconut plantation. It started my imagination rolling. I could almost see this place as it was long before independence and even shortly after.

As we make our way along the winding road that takes us through Mahaica, Mahaicony and then into East Berbice, I’m amazed by the slow rhythm of life that’s beginning to unfold. I can see acres of rice fields and then grazing grounds at Profit, East Berbice. It makes me think of endless grassy savannahs and small town life. My eyes see but my mind is finding it hard to remember that I’m still right here in Guyana and not so far from the city fallen from glory.

In New Amsterdam, I can see traces of the town as it was during the colonial time. Many of the buildings still have those intricately carved trimmings around the windows and roofs. The streets are small but neat and surprisingly clean. Yes, clean is a surprise after venturing out of the former Garden City. If I didn’t know where I was, I’d swear I’d taken a step back in time or I was in some other old world town half way across the world.

But more than these, it was the Berbicians who had a profound impact upon my perception of the Guyanese culture. The few Berbicians who we spoke to were very polite and overly willing to help us. Being largely unaccustomed to this level of kindness in Georgetown, I was amazed to be treated as good as a tourist by these people.

Again and again, as we continued to interact with Berbicians I realised that  these people were very genuine. This is who they are, they are kind, helpful people with a unique way of speaking. It seems that the farther away we get from the capital and her fallen glory, the happier and more hospitable the people become.

So before you go flying half way across the world in search of a new experience, how about you consider a drive to Berbice, eh!

Counting Sundays

I have been alive for just over 1000 Sundays. The thing is, I am not so sure how many of those Sundays I have spent doing something useful. But then again, it’s hard to really define “useful”.

This is something you should consider as well. How many Sundays will you possibly live for and are you using them well?  A while ago I realised that if I am lucky enough to live to the age of 70 then I will have approximately 3,640 Sundays to be alive. When you measure your time in terms of Sundays it is shocking just how limited it is.

So if I live to 70 then I have just over 25,000 days of life. Do you see where I’m going with this? There was a time when I thought I had millions of days to be alive. But imagine, all I have is a few thousand days.

I have been alive for just over 8,000 days. Imagine that! A whole 8,000 days have gone by and I cannot really tell you what I have done with them. Almost one-third of my life has just slipped by without me ever noticing it until now.

How do I deal with this problem? Simple. I will have to make the best of every day I have and not allow myself to slip into the motion of just going through life. I suggest you do the same. Make every day count, from Sunday to Sunday.

 

Shut the hell up and just apologise!

All my life I’ve waited for apologies. When my friend broke my favourite sharpener in a fit of anger I waited for him to apologise. When my best friend stopped talking to me in high school because I was not cool enough I waited for her to apologise. When I had my heart-broken (the first time) I waited for the universe to apologise. I forgot about those apologies though because they didn’t really matter.

Sadly, I grew into the sort of twit who’s always apologising to someone. I’m either apologising for snapping at them or stepping on their toe. Just this morning I had to apologise for walking smack into this dude. I really should try to look at where I’m walking. Tonight I even apologised to my cat because I ate the last bite of my bread without sharing it with her.

Regardless of how inconsequential apologies may seem, they are really very important things. Sometimes without quite meaning to we hurt the people we love most in the world. But instead of saying sorry we allow ourselves to joke about it. When you know you’ve done something horribly wrong, don’t even try to explain it away, don’t even attempt to open your mouth because you’ll just end up putting your damn foot in it. So shut the hell up and just apologise!