I hate the feeling when your heart decides to drop the anchor, shattering your hips and causing a bit of your spirit to leave through your hair at the back of your neck.
Let me explain.
I hate family gatherings.
Its not because I hate my family but its because I feel so alone, most of the time.
Not only is everyone way older and way younger than me but they all speak patois.
The language of the island that I claim where I’m from but only when white people surround me.
But when I get home, reality sets in and my heart decided to drop the anchor, shattering my hips and causing a part of my spirit to leave through my hair at the back of my neck.
From the front of my neck to my mouth I want to shout to the gullies that I am one of you too but the more thanksgivings, christmases and july 4ths that pass, I realize that those gullies don’t have ears, and those gullies, will never let me feel more a part of the family that I am already a part of.
Every joke and every story that is told has the same message to me.
I will never be one hundred percent Jamaican.
And for every joke or story told at the dinner table, you can bet that my heart decides to drop the anchor, shattering my hips and causing a bit of my spirit to leave through my hair at the back of my neck.