A student I taught in form two recently hanged herself. Of course some people are going to take offense at my saying she "hanged" herself because they think I should have said she "hung" herself. This is because they are not aware that when we speak of persons doing this act to themselves, or having this action done to them, the correct word is "hanged". "Hung", on the other hand, is what we do with picture frames, clocks and pieces of art, as well as other things we may have "hung" on our walls and in our kitchens, bedrooms and anywhere else. Of course this does not apply to you, dear reader of this blog, because only intellectuals read this "stuff". Ha ha.
The beautiful thing about writing blogs is that no one can dictate what you write. You put on the page whatever-under-the-sky-you-want-to, and how ever you want to put it, and no one can tell you to remove it or change this or that. You are your very own agent. It is beautifully free.
The student was only fifteen years old when this tragedy happened in the bathroom of her home early one morning less than a week ago. I will be attending the funeral. She was calm, quiet and intelligent. It is sad. Rest in peace, dear Zaria.
I was one of the Kittitian poets who read our work last night, October 25, 2013 at the "OLD BOYS SCHOOL Hall" Victoria Road, at a fund-raising event staged by a local organization. Some of the nation's "recognized Kittitian poets" (as stated by the master of ceremonies) were there to "present" their work.
My piece was titled "Why I Admire the Chinese", a brand new piece I wrote only on the eve of its presentation. It was very well received by the "highly sophisticated" audience, (again, the words of the Master of Ceremonies, Miss. Unoma Allen, a leading female calypsonian of the nation). The work of every other writer there, too, was well received and beautifully presented.
I have always believed that I would die young. I now consider myself no longer "young". People keep telling me I "look young", but I think they are attempting to pacify me as I face my twilight years. I thank them for their generous comments, but I do not believe them.
My mother succumbed to the ravages of breast cancer over fifteen years ago. She was fifty-three years old. A wonderful woman loved by every person who knew her. I am beyond my mother's age, and, frankly, I never expected to get this deep into time. My doctor, (whom I visit simply to make sure am okay) tells me I am going to live a long time as I have none of the "diseases that kill people"; and he listed those diseases too.
I did a scan of my organs- which the doctor says are in perfect working order- but this does not mean life may not simply decide to swat me like a fly and be rid of me. I am of the age when things may simply decide to break down because they have basically had enough, and there is not a doctor on the planet who could do anything about it.
We are all gonna-go, but I believe in leaving footprints in the sands of time--- footprints or something in sand, or on concrete or paper----. I have decided to leave the scribbling of my thoughts and ideas whether they are good or bad, right or wrong, understood or misunderstood; they are my ideas; my footprints; my musings; my thoughts which will not die when I leave, but will remain long after I have made my exit from this swirling planet.
This is why I write books and blogs. This is why I really couldn't care less who likes what I write or who hates it. It is my footprint. So when I write plays such WHEN MAN MAKE WOMAN HEART TURN HARD LIKE IRON, and Marla- the only female character in the play- consistently terrorized by her live-in boyfriend, Sadam; terrorizes her for no reason other than that he is man and she is woman. He calls her name, and she comes crouched in fear and trembling before him, pleading with him not to hit her again. He promises not to hit her only because his dead mother came to him in a dream and told him not to. He then commands her to go make him a sandwich and a glass of lemonade. Marla crawls to the kitchen in terror and obedience. She makes him a cheese sandwich which she wipes on the floor and under her arm; chews the cheese and spits it into the sandwich, and in plain sight of the audience, she then proceed to make him the lemonade but spits into the cup.
I do not care who thinks this play is gross, and I think something is wrong when a man- ( for it is generally men who grouch about the play)-think Marla's actions appear to be more gross than the terror and brutality which she endures inside her home.
At the latest performance of this dramatic presentation on St. Kitts, a prominent male personality was heard to complain that Tatem should not stage the play again. The women in our audiences love the play. One of these women (who seemed happy that at last men are confronted by their evil doings through drama presented in a hard-hitting manner that makes them sick) turned to the annoyed male patron and told him that the reason he did not like the play was because he beats his woman.
Perhaps she knew something that I didn't.
See you in Personal Ramblings 2
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