Kern Carter's Blog, page 73
November 27, 2021
behind his eyes
when i went to see my son today he had something going on behind his eyes
i wish he would just talk to me
but his silence always lies
he’s so much like me that i can probably guess what he is thinking
he’s afraid to say so i smile to reassure
he just stares at me unblinking
i wonder what he thinks of me that his caution won’t let him say
he doesn’t seem uncomfortable
i’m always the nervous one when we play
maybe i’m reading too much into the mind of a seven year old boy
he talks to me when he is ready
and it usually involves a request for a toy
still i wish he would just talk to me and tell me what’s on his mind
frustrated i can only smile because
when i see him, my own words and thoughts i can’t find
© Ryan J. Pearce 2021
[image error]behind his eyes was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
Wasted Days in Foreign Places
An analysis of home
Photo by Paul Hanaoka on UnsplashThe first words I often find myself uttering to people are, “Can we please speak in English? I don’t understand that language”. Regardless of where I go, regardless of who I am around it seems like I am always surrounded by a cacophony of people willing and eager to change me. To make me not just adapt to their culture, but assimilate completely, leaving no traces of my former self behind.
The thing is: I’m an immigrant. Since I was born I’ve lived in 7 different cities and towns across 3 different countries in Southern Africa. And it has been both pleasure and pain. It has been something that both broadens your mind and lessens its vastness.
In one of the most dangerous places in the world to be a foreigner, a 10-year-old me saw someone being burnt alive on the news because they weren’t from here and so, supposedly, a job stealer. I’ve watched protests filled with masses of people urging immigrants to “go back where they came from”.
I have been called and witnessed family members being called xenophobic slurs.
I have had both friends and family refused help from the police because of where they were from or where they weren’t from.
And so, it’s hard to regard this place as home but at the same time, it’s hard to regard any place as home. You could say I was ripped out by roots when I was a baby, from what should have been my home and planted in places where it was impossible to grow — the soil was too foreign, too harsh. And so, no matter how long I stayed in a place it was impossible to blossom there. It was obvious to them that I was different, I spoke with a funny accent and looked different to the way they did. They didn’t want me there but what they didn’t realise is I didn’t want to be there either. I wanted to be somewhere where I felt like I belonged. But where was that place?
It took years and years of searching to realise that I had a home. It just could be found in the bossom of things and people rather than an actual place.
For me, home can be found in the smile of my mother.
In the muddy paws of my dog.
In the laugh of my father.
In the squeaky couch, we’ve had since we were five years old but refuse to get rid of for some reason. This is all home to me.
Home can be found anywhere. And when you do find it, that magic place where your roots can spread and your flowers can blossom, that magic place where you belong — you do your best to never let it go.
[image error]Wasted Days in Foreign Places was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
November 26, 2021
Why I Hate Dia De Los Muertos
Dia de los Muertos is a yearly tradition, but I didn’t celebrate it this year.
November 25, 2021
Editor Picks — Our Favourite Posts On CRY
Hello again, and welcome to another edition of Editor Picks LOL. We love doing this and we know you love seeing which pieces we choose, so without further adieu.
KernMy choice this week is an absolute gem. Samantha Peynado wrote a piece titled The Voices In My Head Want Me To Disappear and WOAH. What’s so special about this piece is that it’s actually really deep, but the way Samantha constructed her writing feels light and easy to read. Favourite excerpt:
The voice in my head tells me “I am doing too much.” So I listen.
I tell my family I need a break from school. Their response was I need to quit my job.
“School is the only option.” So I listen.
Three months into the semester the voice in my head is convincing me that I am happy.
I can do this.
With tears falling down my face and a chest full of molasses.
I am struggling to breathe.Safia
When I read “Canada-born. Trinidad-raised. How music harmonized my identities” I felt transported into Gloria Blizzard’s world as she described how starkly different her childhood was growing up in the Caribbean from her teenage years on a military base in Goose Bay, Labrador. The post is about finding home and Gloria takes us on her journey to finding what that means for her so beautifully. My favourite excerpt:
What if home is not a place, but a sound? What if the way home is following the music? What if in the simple act of listening, I have landed?[image error]
Editor Picks — Our Favourite Posts On CRY was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
Five Reasons Why I Take Myself Out On Solo Dates
“There are some places in life where you can only go alone. Embrace the beauty of your solo journey.”― Mandy Hale
November 24, 2021
Am I The Ocean’s?
A mixed race immigrant child of immigrants tries to find a place to belong.
Nostalgia
Photo Credit: Lilit Sargsyan, ArmeniaThe sudden rain takes me back
across thousands of miles
of sweet memories.
Memories pelting my senses
like hail leaving its marks on
an innocent roof.
A roof which protects
those who want to stay dry;
I stand outside and look up to the sky.
The sky, suddenly so porous,
Leaking rapidly and generously
without regard for my heart.
My heart is wide open, absorbing
every drop and exuding
nostalgia so thick I can smell it.
The smell of rain takes me
straight back to the summers
of my Armenian childhood.
Nostalgia was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
