(Creative Writing Assignment) — Imagining an Indo-Caribbean Homecoming
I’VE BEEN DREAMING OF THIS MOMENT for as long as I’ve had a conscience. Of my own, that is. At eleven is when it’d dawned on me, just how many different groups of people crossed unfamiliar seas, in order for me to be me. I am the amalgamation of various nations, ancestors who dared to dream. And there are fragments of them, present in my appearance, interests and disinterests, personality, and style—down to these very seams.
Though the risks my ancestors took are, at times incomparable to the ones I do today, I can confidently say, that in their way, I dared to dream, too. I dared to plan a trip, book my ticket, pack my bags, and jump a plane—to tropics I hadn’t yet met before. In the physical, at least.’
I wonder how Mommy would react, if I called her for the first time since I touched down. It’s been difficult to catch each other on the same end, and equally as difficult to adjust to the major time difference. We’ve been texting since I landed, but I made no mention of where I was. I was awaiting the moment she’d randomly check my location and call in shock.
I laughed, shaking away the thought and readjusted to the present. I now stood in a bustling marketplace, in a part of the world that media has said to be heavy in car exhaust and other forms of pollution—except, the only thing I knew to be heavy, besides the footsteps of local people hustling on, and honestly some exhaust, was the pleasant fragrance of familiar food. Food that’s been passed down from my nana’s [maternal grandfather] race of people. Probably the one thing that could bridge a gap between a people.
A few moments more, and I was stuffing down buttery paratha with a side of savory aloo gobi. And as I chewed I thought about the flavors, and the thousands of people to make the journeys they did across the Atlantic, out of necessity. I thought about how I was now eating these things separate, but if I were back in Camahogne right now, the potatoes would be the filling of what we call aloo pie—an adaptation made by Indian indentured servants who wanted to make a core part of their heritage, and even the slightest piece of the homes they had no choice but to leave, as portable as possible.
enjoyed this piece, and would like to donate to a *self-supporting* caribbean artist & college student? mèsi! :*
monique’s digest
thoughts? favorite line(s), or part(s) of the story? let me know below, and thanks for reading!
𓂃 ོ⋆☀︎𓂃ᨒོ
written for my creative writing class, 19.01.26.
prompt: choose one of the following pictures and write a descriptive piece (three paragraphs or more). before you write your descriptive piece, write down all the things you might smell, hear, taste, see and touch if you engaged with the situation in the picture you chose.
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