"Earlier this year, I finally met Jamaica Kincaid, my all-time favorite writer from Antigua, when New York Arts’ hosted “The Year of James Baldwin” a 15-month celebration of the author’s essays, plays, and activism.
After her panel discussion, I ran up to Ms. Kincaid, hugged her and asked her why she never responded to an email that I
sent her years ago detailing the similarities of her life to my mother’s and my strong ambivalence of being at once Antiguan and American, and quite frankly, not feeling like either most of the time.
One of the fast friends that I made at the event snapped a pic of Ms. Kincaid and me and emailed it to me. It would be a few days before I opened it up and become deeply saddened by Ms. Kincaid ‘s resemblance to my aunt, who, like my mom, had done her time in America as a nurse and had returned to Antigua to go “rest sheself.” Mama Kincaid’s beautiful brown skin had no cracks, but did exhibit visible folds and creases.
I worried.
I worried about what would become of Caribbean literature when Kincaid put her pen down for good. I mean, who would write about hating their mothers, colonization, white supremacy, isolation, the wretched effects of unattended loneliness, and human suffering in such a hypnotic and uncomfortable way that overwhelms, comforts, and transforms?"
~ Tonya Garcia
- See more at: http://madamenoire.com/449534/naomi-jackson-tiphanie-yanique-two-contemporary-caribbean-writers-must-know/#sthash.7GQA730I.dpuf
"Earlier this year, I finally met Jamaica Kincaid, my all-time favorite writer from Antigua, when New York Arts’ hosted “The Year of James Baldwin” a 15-month celebration of the author’s essays, plays, and activism.
After her panel discussion, I ran up to Ms. Kincaid, hugged her and asked her why she never responded to an email that I sent her years ago detailing the similarities of her life to my mother’s and my strong ambivalence of being at once Antiguan and American, and quite frankly, not feeling like either most of the time.
One of the fast friends that I made at the event snapped a pic of Ms. Kincaid and me and emailed it to me. It would be a few days before I opened it up and become deeply saddened by Ms. Kincaid ‘s resemblance to my aunt, who, like my mom, had done her time in America as a nurse and had returned to Antigua to go “rest sheself.” Mama Kincaid’s beautiful brown skin had no cracks, but did exhibit visible folds and creases.
I worried.
I worried about what would become of Caribbean literature when Kincaid put her pen down for good. I mean, who would write about hating their mothers, colonization, white supremacy, isolation, the wretched effects of unattended loneliness, and human suffering in such a hypnotic and uncomfortable way that overwhelms, comforts, and transforms?"
