Categories
Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

What did that homeboy call me?

We got to the dorm, and a young man of African decent came up and held his arm up, not the usual handshake I was used to.  He smiled and promptly said,
“What’s up dawg?”  I stopped for a second, did I imagine it or did this fool just call me a dog? Believe me, there was no brotherly love for him at that moment. He was short, no more th…an five foot seven, and I wondered how this little man could be a ball player. He was a little confused when I did not shake his hand, but hey, this fella just called me a bloody dog. Anyway, I was guided into my dorm room and I swear that room was made for little people. It was so damn small I could stretch my arms out and touch the bloody walls.  There was a bunk bed on one side, and with one glance I knew I would be sleeping with my feet hanging off the end, maybe five, or so inches.
  The next day I woke up around five o clock, normal for me, and looked outside. The sun was bright, and the sunshine was almost like home. I thought, good weather for a run. So I went back to my room, put on shorts and a t-shirt, hell, I was going to enjoy a nice before breakfast. I stepped outside and immediately my skin felt like god and the devil was having a tug of war match. Then, a sensation like needles pricking me ran through my body. I turned and walked like a mummy back to the room and stood in front of the heater thawing out my frozen tropical joints. Being that cold was not natural, someone had to piss off God for him to create this kind of torture, to tell you the truth, twenty years later, and I am still defrosting from that first morning.
That night, I got calls from women who were on Christmas break. I was surprised, but the other ballplayer explained that basketball was king here and people virtually worshipped the players. I told the women not to call again, you may ask why? Well I did not know who they were, and was not about to let my guard down. Later I wanted to kick myself because some of the women were quite beautiful.

Categories
Storyteller Storyteller's Videos

I am a Dirty Immigrant

Book trailer

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00E91DDE6

Categories
Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Wash the Black Off

Now something that seems to rear its ugly head in dating around here is racism. I have heard some of the most asinine statements ever. I was talking to a friend of mine. She was white, of course. I was not interested in her although she was pretty. Well, who am I fooling? She was stunning. I was having a conversation with her when she stated that she would never date a black man. I asked her why. She stated that she was raised to believe that interracial dating was wrong.  I told her that was not a good enough response. Hell, she was not making any sense. She then told me that her parents would not approve of it. She further said that she would never disgrace her family by dating a black man. Now here is a woman who was married three times, each to white men. All three treated her less than human and here she was telling me that even if a black man treated her with respect, she still would not date him. One day this same woman confessed to me that she’d had an intimate relationship with a black man a couple of months earlier. She said that after she was done, she went home, ran a really hot bath and stayed in there for five hours. Just to point out, she was not from the Wild and Wonderful City. No, this was someone from the City of The Useless Nut. Whatever that brother did must have had a profound effect on her, because she seemed to get overly excited when a brother walked by. She even tried to seduce me by taking a picture of herself and showing me. She was surprised I had no reaction at all.

Categories
Storyteller

Good morning folks,

Hope you woke up feeling like you are riding on a horse with wings.

Categories
Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Funny Ole Lady (From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant)

Funny Ole Lady

My mother-in-law had a classic reaction, but before I describe her reaction, let me say that this woman was the most spiritual Christian I ever met. She was one of the few people who sincerely tried to make me feel like I was part of the family. The first time she saw a picture of me, she grabbed her chest and proceeded to perform the best Fred Sanford impersonation an old white woman could do. In my head I heard Red Fox’s raspy voice coming from the little white lady saying, “This is the big one baby.” Two hours later she invited me to their Thanksgiving dinner. That woman loved to hug, which was strange for me because my family was not the hugging type. She would squeeze so hard I felt my bones pop and crack. She had long gray hair that came to her waist, dark eyes and she was constantly telling stories about her life. The first night I slept at her house, she did something that scared me shitless. It was about 4am and I was fast asleep when I heard the wooden floor creak, so I opened my eyes. Her silhouette floated into the room and stopped at the foot of the bed, her long hair swaying gently as she stood. I tensed up; hell, I was ready to be whacked over the head. After a few seconds, she squeezed my toes, turned and walked out of the room. Later my ex-wife told me that that was something she did. It was a loving gesture, and whenever I stayed at her house, I would be woken by the creaking of the floor as she came in to squeeze our toes.

I had many confusing conversations with her mother because of the vast difference in accents. She once told her daughter that I was crazy because apparently instead of saying yes, I said no. I never found out what I was agreeing to, but for the longest while she would ask me questions, then wait to see what my answer would be.  That cheeky old lady was playing with me. I wondered why she was always smiling whenever we had a conversation.  

Categories
Stories Storyteller

A story about evil Ju Ju by my brother Raphael Charles

Sukuya story:  It was that time of the year when my vacation was due, 1999 there about, and I decided to spend the time with Dad in Morne Fendue. When I got to his house he told me that I would have to sleep in another house he rented a little further up the road in Rose Hill. The first night I slept in that house, I had a terrible time, I just couldn’t sleep, something was wrestling with me, I cried out but couldn’t hear myself, I fought and fought whatever it was, it was strong, cold sweat poured from my body, there was a frightening feeling of something evil in the house, I didn’t sleep that night. The next day I spoke to Dad about what I experienced, he just laughed it off telling me it was probably something I had eaten. The same thing happened on the second night, it was only after reciting Psalm 23 that I got some relief. At about 9:00 am, that morning I left the house to go down to the other house where Dad was for bre…akfast, on my way down I met a little old lady, she was sitting in the doorway of a house, she called out to me “good morning sonny, how are you” I stopped and told her that I was doing all right, she then asked me who I was, and I explained to her who my father is and that i was spending some time with him. She then said to me that she and I were related, and she called a number of names to prove what she said. We talked for a while, then I told her I had to leave. As I turned away I heard her say, “Young Man, whenever you go to bed @ night, you must sleep with your underwear wrong side.” I was shocked, how did she know that I slept with or without underwear? It means that she had to be in the house attempting to do her thing with me. Well, I did not take her advise, and for the rest of the time (Two Weeks to be exact) I slept like a baby every night in that house. I never saw that little old lady again, but that experience showed me that the ligaroo and the sukuya were not myths or stories conjured up to frighten little ones, they were real people, going about doing the devils work.
Categories
Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Blackanova (From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant)

I heard the same sentiments from a couple of women I sat next to everyday at work. I was a little taken aback because these women were always being extra-friendly with me. Anyway, I expected that from the older of the two women. The younger one took me by surprise because she tried her best to portray an understanding of the plight of black people.  She joined the conversation by stating that she did not believe in the mixing of races. This woman was a Jessica Simpson look-alike or wannabe, whichever way you see fit to categorize her. She stated emphatically that she would not allow her daughter to date a black man. I did not say anything at first, but when she insisted, I had to respond. I wanted to know why she felt that way, but she did not have a viable answer for me. I insisted, and she said that the children are the ones who suffer, so I informed her that it was people like her that made it hard for children of mixed origin.

She was speechless, her eyes rolling around in her head as she searched for an answer.  She finally attacked my failed marriage, stating that it did not work because of our color difference. To tell you the truth, I had to stop and take a breath so as not to explode. Once again I had to explain to her that it was people of her mentality that made mixed relationships hard to maintain. I also let her know that it was not the ethnicity that ended our marriage. But still she insisted. Hell, I even heard her say that if a black man painted his dick white, she still would not sleep with him.

I was not defeated in my effort to show her that color played no role in how people feel about each other. The following day I embarked on a campaign of flirting. I was more tenacious than a politician, and from the beginning I knew I had her attention.  I used my writing skills to woo her, using exotic images from my island. Every day she would come in and try to get my attention. She would swoon like a schoolgirl, always looking for my approval with what she wore or what color her hair was, and believe me she changed it daily.  I laid on the poetic charm until I knew she was addicted to the attention, and then I stopped. Her reaction to me stopping was a little hostile, the wrath of an ignored woman. At one point I was walking by her when she told me to kiss her ass. For someone who would never date a black man, she sure seemed a little perturbed about losing the attention.

Categories
POEMS Storyteller

Here in the crispy cool morning, I find my daydreams, here in the crispy cool light, I start my new chapter.

Categories
Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

US

UK

 

Categories
POEMS Storyteller

Johnny Revolutionary

Johnny was a good man,   That was not Johnny marching in the military parade,   That was not Johnny, shouting “Long live!” in the political rally,   That was not Johnny sitting on an armored car screaming “Power to the people!”   That was not Johnny, 19 years old, four children already.  That was not Johnny shooting an AK rifle into the air.   That was not Johnny, creeping around the bushes playing soldier,   But that was Johnny, laying still, with a sculptured smile on his face,   The old lady said “Dats wha happen when you put down de bible and pick up a gun,   Johnny was a good man.