My mother is one of the great mysteries of my life. Beautiful, determined and distant and I am my mother’s son. I suppose, in ways I am yet to understand, I share some of my father’s traits as well.
I have always felt my mother’s reluctance to take me to her birthplace. She moved to New York, before I was born, and I was raised as an American. It would be some time before I discovered my Caribbean roots.
She was a hard working doctor who never pursued the more glamorous positions that were within reach. I knew she was good at her job. She often received flowers and cards from patients and their families, but she kept everyone at a professional distance. She rarely invited anyone to our apartment. I had been to the clinic where she worked only a handful of times. I was kept busy with school, sports and martial arts and told very little of her history until, it seems, she felt I was old enough to understand. But what was there to understand I thought? Our conversations were often strained and I struggled with the belief that her near perpetual depression was somehow my doing.
On the occasions that she did share stories about her home I would learn cursory tidbits about family and of the rich culture, beautiful people, diverse cusine and beautiful beaches. It sounded like an island paradise full of potential, one that would benefit from the services of a willing, educated patriot. Still, I concede that a boy of almost eight is ill equipped to understand the challenges of being a single mother and immigrant, all he knows is the sound resentment he has for the things he doesn’t understand and the instinct to protect his protector.
There is much I remember about my first trip to Trinidad, not least of which was the picture my mother kept at the house on the island of a friend she called Nicholas. He was a tall white man whose skin appeared unaffected by the warm climate. I felt strangely close to him and I could tell that he and my mother shared a deep bond.
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