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Storyteller

The Naked Drunk from I am a Dirty Immigrant

I never saw crack-heads on the island. Mainly drunks, some people love their fire water, but if you ask me, they are just as stupid and equally as dangerous. I was on the beach chilling, watching some kids play football – soccer to some of you. I saw a drunk in ragged old shorts and no shirt. That man was the skinniest person I ever seen. He looked like the rum was drying him up. He was using a cutlass to open a green coconut, but he was swinging it recklessly, becoming a danger to those closest to him. One of his friends tried to take the cutlass away from him and he became belligerent. More of his friends tried to reason with him, but he began swinging the weapon wildly.

Call Babylon!” someone shouted, and the melee escalated. The drunk was not swinging at anybody who came close to him. He was screaming something about the devil and evil angels.

The police arrived but even they could not control the raging drunk. They shuffled around as if doing some kind of voodoo dance, then the drunk broke free and ran for the ocean. He splashed into the emerald-colored water, still holding the cutlass. He swam or waded until he could not stand, and then he started sinking. The police had no choice but to go after him. They reached him, grabbed the cutlasss and dragged him back to shore. When they got to the shore and laid him on the sand, laughter erupted when the people on the beach realized that he had lost his pants in the struggle. His little Dexter was exposed for all to see. That made the drunk furious. He started to fight again. He broke free and began running down the beach with the policemen in hot pursuit, followed by the crowd, laughing and shouting. They finally caught up with him when one of the policemen dropped him with a perfect football slide. But now that they had him down, they hesitated, not wanting to touch his naked body. They finally had to when he tried to get back up. You have never heard such cursing and screaming in your life as they carried him off the beach and to the police station.  

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Storyteller

Multi tasking day

Today the plan is, edit, watch a cricket match, GGGoooo Windies, work on query letter, watch the World Cup, edit, World Cup, more editing, hmmmmmm  oh yes, get it all done. .

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Storyteller

The World Cup

ohhhh the world cup reminds me of me and my brothers watching it, Pele, oh the great Pele, how we would make a mess of Mommy Charle’s living room. Throwing cushions. Yelling at the TV, knocking over drinks, and ever so often, a curse word would escape, then one of us would run to the living room door to see if Mommy Charles heard it, because if she did, that was the end of football watching. It was one of the few times she would let us go wild in the well put together living room.

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Pics with verse Storyteller

Good Evening me people

Good Evening me people

Its the relaxing hour, when the world begins to get quiet, and you can here the crickets, chirping, and the frogs croaking, and the sky is on fire. In the distance, someone is playing some calypso music, rhythm for so. In the field behind the house, cows are mowing, calves are responding, chickens are clucking, bats are heading out for the night. A crowd walks by arguing about the football game that just ended. Oh yes, thus begins the tropical night. Thus begins the hour of simmering down.

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Pics with verse Storyteller

Saturday Beach day

Saturday Beach day

Beach day, when all us young people would rush to the beach, and all the Sagaboi dem would try to pick up women, and all the cricketers and footballers would start up games alone the three mile beach, and venders would try to see their good to the tourists, and cops would make sure that the horny teenagers are not making out, and Grums the village drunk will run down the beach, trip and fall because his pants had dropped to his ankles, and a group of friends would be dancing to the calypso music from a boom box, oh yes, Saturday was always beach day and beach day means lots of good times was had.

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Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

The Brothers From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant

Let me tell you about some of the encounters I had with the brothers. Though not as negatively profound, there still was an attitude of “you are not one of us”. One thing I learned real quick is that if a black man dates a white woman, some black men assume she is a “brother lover” so they did everything to conquer her.

In the fall of nineteen eighty-six, The Coal Miner’s Daughter and I were standing in line at the cafeteria of the school. One of the football players, Specs I will call him, decided to “Mac” on her. I guess he thought there was no better time to try. Hell, I was standing right there, so I guess he was trying to make a fool of me because he occasionally turned to his jock buddies laughing. They wanted to teach the immigrant how it was done. The second time he turned to his friends, The Coal Miner’s Daughter handed me the tray and walked off. He stopped talking to his friends turned around with this stupid grin on his face. “What time you want me to ……….,” he asked as he turned around and stopped dead in his tracks when he realized he was talking to my chest. I could see the disappointment in his eyes when he he saw that he was not looking into the chest he wanted to. “Is seven good for you?” I asked, then blew him a kiss. His glasses almost fell off his face as laughter filled the cafeteria as his friends dogged him.

I was called every name in the book by some of these gentlemen. African booty scratcher, dirty Jamaican, starving Ethiopian – of course none of the above applied because I am a frigging Spice Islander. I was not mad about the way they treated me. I knew that people who felt like they were being oppressed usually deflected their lack of security on others; been there, done that. Now you may derive from my tone that I am a little perturbed with the brothers. Well to a certain degree I am. Where the hell were they when a white president ordered the invasion of a black nation? Did they take to the streets? Did they express solidarity? As a matter of fact the army that invaded the island was sixty percent black. Now there is a perfect example of keeping people separated by culture. The only brother that showed interest in our plight was Harry Belafonte. Thank you my friend; it was the humane thing to do.  

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POEMS Storyteller

If I could

If I could I would reach up and catch a shooting star

And the world would stop for a moment.

I would swim to the depths of the ocean and stay there

For as long as I can, hide myself from reality

I would build my house at the top of Mt. Everest

Slowly let myself fall asleep for lack of oxygen

I would jump off the world’s highest waterfalls

Float in the air and watch my life in the falling water.

I would stamped with the elephants on an African plain

Feel the earth shake as I bounced around their feet like a football

I would kiss a beautiful woman until my heart stopped

And I was dead in the moment

I would sit on a graveyard and feel the souls of the dead

Enter me, torturing me, as if I was their only hope for salvation

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Stories Storyteller

What I am thankful for, my memories.

Oh oh I am getting sentimental, what am I thankful for, well my memories, Playing cricket on the beach with Desmond Charles and Raphael Charles on Grand Anse beach. Getting my butt beat at sprint races. Watching my big sis Kathleen Whitehead and Mommy Charles baking up a storm on Saturdays and getting to lick the batter from the cake mix. Hanging on the blocks with my friends whistling at the village girls ha ha, Jumping up to calypso music during carnival, going fishing on Sundays and then cooking a good waters on the beach, sneaking into the priest’s quarters and drinking the wine he he he, playing football at the old guides hut. Watching the village drunk stumble by, his pants falling to him ankles and him not knowing. Sneaking in the Neighbors yard and picking all his mangoes, then running after he comes out. Helping Mommy Charles prepare Christmas dinner.  Blazing boboli with the rasta and them. Thankful for growing up on an island full of great beaches and sunshine and dancing and smiling people. Many more memories, too much to put on here. That’s what I am thankful for my memories.