My Carlen

My Carlen turned Seven yesterday. When we first "met", he was Four years old. I saw his little self looking up at me - so to speak - on that November afternoon after church. The head of Compassion Canada had visited Harvest Oakville, and our pastor had made the call for us to consider sponsoring a child through that organization. I think the focus was initially on children in Ecuador. But, closer to the end of the service, we were told that by the end of the other two services that weekend, all the children from Ecuador had got sponsors! But there were many more from other parts of the world.

As I perused the pictures and profiles on the table in the lobby that Sunday, I was not even sure what I was looking for. Each child was in need. The younger the child, the longer the $41/month commitment. A sponsor is in it until the child turns 18. Still, when I saw Carlen, from Kijiwetanga, Kenya, I kinda knew. I'd finally decided to come up with a few criteria, or I'd have spent the entire afternoon deciding. So, I wanted someone born in April - we could kinda celebrate birthdays together. And, I wanted a little boy. Carlen actually reminded me of another little boy I used to babysit years ago in Jamaica. There he was, standing with his hands by his side, decked out in a school uniform and looking up at me. His card said he was born April 27, 2007. Nice. :-)

Even though it's not an adoption, I still think of him as my Carlen. I must've mentioned in a post several months ago how touched I am by the endearment, "My Claudia". Once upon a time, someone called me that. "How is my Claudia?" He'd said. I liked it. A lot. And it still makes me smile when I remember it. I don't even think he'd ever watched the movie, "Water for Elephants". I dunno. It was from that that I'd heard the term, "My Marlena," and it had kinda given me goosebumps. So, when I'd heard, "My Claudia," you can imagine my warm delight.

Anyway, he's my Carlen. After all, his letters (via translator) sometimes say, "Your son says hi." Isn't that beautiful? The first time I read that in one of his letters, tears came. I had had a very bad day. I dragged myself to the mailbox and found the letter waiting. When I read that line, I just melted. Remember the movie, About Schmidt? He writes that last letter to his sponsored child, Ndugu. Then there's that scene - the one where he reads the letter from Ndugu. Yeah. It was kinda like that. Except that I don't write spilling my guts to Carlen about life's moments of disappointments. Too funny. It's always good to hear from him - what he's been up to at school; at home; at church, and with his friends and family. Lots about his favourite this and that. How he'd like to be a pilot when he grows up...

On one occasion when I'd sent extra funds for his birthday, he sent back saying he was thankful for the money. He had used it to buy a school uniform and a few school supplies. I found myself talking to him out loud asking why he hadn't bought himself a nice present. But, I guess, those were "nice presents".

You know what is a nice present? Realizing you make a real and positive difference in someone's life. That was my birthday present from him.

Happy Birthday, my Carlen!



Claudia
www.cyopro.com
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I'm Not “Back-to-Africa” Black

I’ve had this poem in mind for a few months now.  Recently, sis asked whether I’d yet penned it. So, in time for February’s first post – and, please don’t get me started on how I really feel about Black History Month – here is:

 I’m Not Back-to-Africa Black 

I'm not back-to-Africa Black 

Now and then I still hear talk of

“Black people going back to Africa”

But, in that event,

Who would help me pack?

Moving is not an easy somet'ing

I should know.

I've moved to and lived in and worked in 

Three different countries now.

A whole heap of arrangements would need to be made 

And, quite frankly,

To call a spade a spade

I am way too comfortable

To go through all that hassle.

Remember “Seven Miles of Black Star Liner”? 

Who took into consideration the amount a wi who 'fraid o' water?

And would probably suffer from sea and other sickness

On the way to wi Modda

Land. 

Then what?

Although things and times have changed

Maybe plenty still holding on to that dream.

More power to them. I mean that.

But, for me, that's not my scene.

If more of us were to be honest

When faced with the question?

From the comfort of our Diaspora homes

We would say no to repatriation.

Don’t it?

Some may argue that my not wanting to go back is backward

That's okay.

No point in trying to convince them it's my choice

It's not up for discussion, anyway.

But, let me pretend for a second

That I were at all up for the journey

That I were at a crossroads

And someone was there to usher me.

I take it we'd be flying in

With people at the airport to meet wi.

My preference 

For residence

Would be Kenya

Near my son, Thoya.

If not, then west, in Ghana

Some friends from there 

Used to say they know somebody 

Who I fava.

And then I met their friends and

After the pre-amble 

They too told me that they knew people I resemble.

My response was always, 

"I have that kinda face."

Apparently, I'd fit right in – if for nothing else but like-countenance.

I wouldn't necessarily feel outta place.

But, I'd jolly well have more than

Like-countenance going on

What exactly would I be doing on the continent in this year of our Lord?

Would I be expecting "Mama" Africa

To take me under her wings?

Would she owe me anything?

Or, would I be expected to "bring back” something?

Would she even recognize me 

The offspring of those that left?

Beyond my look-a-likeness and skin colour

Would I be too bereft

Of pertinent sensibilities and a certain sense of self

Having only an idea of Blackness

To which I am supposed to properly relate?

But, having not had the “appropriate” experiences –

African American and such –

Just can’t?

Africa of yesteryear is, in many ways, no longer.

And, not if, but when,

She realizes I don't quite fit in

Like her other children

What then?

For both our sakes I'd have to seriously consider

Packing 

Again 

Relocating

Again

Back to the Diaspora.

Kraasiz!

(By the way, friends’ pictures of Ghana

Look like places in Jamaica

The… Step-Motherland?)

I’ve been influenced and shaped

By myriad frames of reference

Raised by parents – and the village

Standing on the shoulders of those strong enough to stand tall – 

And, even those whose backs bent a little –  

Under pressure.

To whom much has been given

Much is expected.

I don’t have to go back

To give back.

I am not back-to-Africa Black.

I am here

And, thanks to modern technology

Geography is now history.

Born in Jamaica

Living in Canada

Relating to my son in Kenya –

Kijiwetanga.

Blessed by the Almighty. Jah.

Selah.

-Dnafcnatgada

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Baby Love

There are several people in my life who are expecting. I've had the pleasure of sharing, in some way, shape or form, in their lives. It's one of the reasons this post will be a short one. This weekend was all about prepping for the baby shower for someone in my family. It was a surprise shower and, oh yes! She was indeed surprised.

Apart from her, my son's mother in Kenya is also expecting. Yeah. That'd be the mother of my sponsored child, Carlen.  He "wrote" to ask me to pray for his mom and for a safe delivery. He's a sweetheart. A couple of friends from church are in the family way, as well. One of them said her's in due in April. Well, I just hope she does have him/her in the best month of the year.

Like I said at the shower today, a quote I've used here before, "Babies are a great way to start people."  But, I shall leave you with quotes from my niece who just turned four. When we asked her to say something for the video (and longevity), she stuck out her index finger toward the parents-to-be and said, "You have to be careful with him, because he's delicate!" (She just got a baby brother.) And, the cherry on top? When asked what should they expect when the baby comes, "You should expect...love."



Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro