Every morning and every evening Avó came out of her kitchen, synchronizing her daily rhythm to attend to the needs of the garden. She greeted each plant one by one because who else did she have to talk with these days? The scantily dressed telenovela stars on TV hardly minded what suggestion she had to offer. The radio jockeys powered on with too much reggaeton regardless of her protests.
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I pack de tools under de house before walking to de door. Is like my head carrying my legs. I cyaan believe how I tired so. Not even on de days when I use to work on de farm I tired so. Nothing in de cooler and I forget to take ice from de farm. Ice or no ice is juice tonight with dry bread. Breadfruit taking too much time to cook. Ain’t nothing like brown dried bread with lime juice in de night when you hungry.
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Roberta Stoddart’s richly complex oil paintings showcased in The Bertha Room, prove that it is dark under the metaphoric flotsam of Wide Sargasso Sea, darker still under the shade of the palm tree’s symbolism, and perhaps darkest of all where racial, familial, patriarchal, and post-colonial trauma festers muted and unseen.
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Throughout my childhood and adolescence, it was clear that reality was the cornerstone to be avoided at all costs. Investigating nothing, ashamed of everything, we were never to remember.
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