Check out my review of Hadiiya Barbel’s Goddess Glo Up!
Trinidad is a well established island nation known for their cultural rainbow, architectural detail, and of course oil and natural gas. Trinidad’s sister island Tobago is mostly a tourist attraction with minimal industry on the island. I wasn’t able to make it to Tobago, recently the leadership changed ferry companies and the trips are less frequent.
Keith led me around the island and answered every single question with honest insights. He told me about the colonial heritage as we walked among the breathtaking and extravagant Magnificent Seven.
My favorite story shared by Keith was the story of Nelson Mandela Park. My prior knowledge of Trinidad government from friends gave the the impression that Trini politics tended to be like American politics, so many cooks in the kitchen make it difficult to finish a dish. The painlessness associated with renaming this park spoke volumes to my understanding of the culture of Trinidad.
The park was once King George’s Park however, an unopposed recommendation to rename the park went through in record time. I gained meaningful insight on the mindset of the people.
I learned the difference between Calypso and Soca music. I realized my value for words outweighs my ability to wine for hours. I’m team Calypso.
My favorite piece of art I’ve ever seen. Click here!
placeholder:// placeholder:// placeholder://
Another highlight of my trip was my visit to City Living TT! Prime location and a balcony to die for City Living TT Is a beautiful space within walking distance of the the hottest part of the party scene in Trinidad and Tobago. The multi level home is ideal for solo travelers, small groups, or large scale kind of entertaining. However, if you are solo like myself the large guest rooms with en suite bathrooms allow for quiet, cool, moments in the midst of the party. The cool island colors were very welcoming and the iron gate helped me feel safe and secure as I partied super hard really far away from home.
There was only one window. The darkness of the night left the room dreary and lonely. The entire space was cold because of the nights eerie sentiment. Closing her eyes she remembered a brighter time. It was just a week ago. She was free to roam. Free to live. Outside of all walls without guidance or instruction she wandered. She stopped only when she was exhausted and that moment had arrived. Resting outside of a small hut she sat next to a bush of green roses. She had never seen such a flower and was enamored by the vibrance. Pricked by a thorn upon attempting to touch she sat patiently looking onto the flowers. In that moment one began to bloom. She watched as the bud unfolded in front of her petal after petal after petal. She couldn’t help but wonder when she would bloom. Opening her eyes the darkness returned and the warmth of the roses became a distant memory. She knew pretending wouldn’t protect her and chill would never keep her mind still. So she sat alone in the dark without a hint or a clue.
I’ve been called crazy more than I’ve been called my name. The latinos call me loco!
I don’t mind being mental.
If my name was Crazy what would be my middle name? It’s questions like this that cause people to think I’m crazy in the first place. But that’s just the way crazy people like me think. Is this what crazy looks like to you? You can’t keep up with crazy. Is this what crazy talks like?
I’m cool with crazy.
There are worse things to be than crazy. I would rather be crazy than ignorant. I would rather be crazy than loud. I rather be crazy than evil. I would rather be crazy than ugly – on the inside and/or out. Believe it or not I would rather be crazy than regular because then I would be the person calling other people crazy when I know nothing about the origins of their distinction.
I might be nuts you know?
For a while I thought crazy was my name. I never took offense to crazy or cray-cray. I never knew crazy was a issue until the world made me feel that way. I never realized the negative connotations with crazy till I heard an old lady talkin about me in the street. She whispered with her friends, “Momma should be shamed. Out here lookin crazy!” I kept swangin up the street and stopped in front of a store gazing into the window looking for the crazy. I cocked my head to the side where was the crazy, was it my hair, my teeth, my skin? I peered into my own eyes and searched for crazy from within.
I couldn’t find the crazy.
So I stopped searchin.
It was July. Trees were green.
Grandma sat on the porch smoking
and arguing with Pop about forever.
Although, there isn’t much to tell a grown man,
they learn lessons best from time.
I resented her for wasting words.
I only love Jesus more than words
and on occasion sticks of green
that help me pass the idle time.
Aaron approached the porch smoking
a black and mild one finger over the cigar like an old man.
After a brief pause he hit play. It began again our forever.
Sitting in my windowsill I often dream of our forever.
I could love him my whole life. Words
come easy when we’re alone. He’s my man
I’ll stack for us, I’ll share my pile of green.
Aaron is something special smoking
hot he looks up into my window smiling, it’s time.
I smile too, birds chirp and violins play. It’s our time.
I clean up a bit still thinking about forever.
Grandma yelled up “Girl! He out here, still smoking.”
No smoking allowed inside. The black bought me time.
Peaking down again we caught eyes. He’s wearing that shirt. It’s green.
I looked away, heard shoes on the stairs, then a knock, there he is my man.
He asked, “How are you? It’s time.”
I laughed “I know. I don’t know a lot but I know my man.”
I lowered the shade as Grandma nosily looked up green
with envy. We melted quietly into forever.
No need for words. No need for words.
We put out the fire and left the room smoking.
I raised the shade. Grandma still outside smoking.
No reason to be embarrassed he’s my man!
We put to rest sounds and motions, waking up language and words.
He yawned, “I have work later.” I inquired “What time?”
There was a time limit today on forever.
The sweat turned the lime sheets dark green.
I love words more than time. Even when it’s smoking hot in July, he is cool as a March shower my man. And as far as forever goes, we’re parked at the light waiting for it to turn green.