“I felt extraordinarily sad and overwhelmed and holding back tears became a struggle.”
“I have a headache.”
“Feel like hiding.”
“Every time I stand I feel like sitting.”
“Breathing kinda heavy.”
“Never felt this socially anxious since form 5.”
“Feel trapped.”
“Shivering inside.”
“Heart beating fast.”
“Felt like short breath attack-hasn’t happened since I was 8.”
“As spooked and shot as I felt when alarm went off this morning.”
“Something’s wrong with me.”
“Paintings everywhere.”
“Don’t want to give up and go home.”
“Realised that I paint and write more when uncomfortable and stressed.”
“Books, lots.”

These were all comments I wrote down last night. I don’t usually post notes shortly after a very emotional experience. I tend to delay, and often times during that delay I start to feel even more ashamed of how I felt/reacted and therefore I never post what was written or share what was felt.

Since being in the air a few weeks ago, flying to England, I’ve gotten into this habit of jotting down how I feel…especially when I’m feeling very emotional. I’ve never posted any of these ‘jottings’. They usually tend to sound rather pathetic when I get back to my “Strong Kalifa” form …and I conveniently ignore the fact that I ever felt a certain way.
The quotes above were all chronologically written. I wrote as I experienced, often with a shaky hand. However, there is one line I left out:
“Keep playing in my head- “My mother will never have a house like this.””
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
I tried to. But. I couldn’t stop it. From the time I entered my supervisor’s house that thought took over, and try as I might, I couldn’t get rid of it. I became nervous, excessively so, and almost instantaneously the party I was looking forward to for days turned into a nightmare. 
My mother will never have a house like this.
The house was gorgeous. There were lovely paintings, lots of books, and many fancy looking things. It looked like a screenshot of something from HGTV after an expensive makeover…and all I could think of was “Mummy would love this”, “Mummy wants a gorgeous house” and “No-one’s home that I’ve ever visited back in Trinidad is this beautiful”. I never expected that a nice house could trigger me in that way, especially when surrounded by such great company and a gracious host, but it did…and I became sad, frustrated- slightly depressed. It just went downhill from there… “Your life isn’t nice”, “What can I do to make a home this beautiful for mummy?”, “I’m not home!”, “I’m not accustomed to fancy things”, “I look awkward”, “I’m stupid, I shouldn’t be feeling this way…especially when everyone is so nice, kind, friendly” , “You’re overreacting”.

I walked to the table where everyone was, but I felt like I was going to throw up. I went to the bathroom, closed the door and just started crying….and I kept thinking “Kalifa, you’re overreacting”. “Why are you so emotional?” “You’re so weak, stupid, oversensitive and unappreciative to come to a party and then disappear into a bathroom to cry.” “You’re pitiful!”. “Pick yourself up and get back out there!”

But the more I chastised myself, the worse I felt until I eventually thought… “You’re not supposed to be here at Cambridge. It’s too nice for you. You’re not strong enough to handle this.”

By this point my heart was beating faster and breathing became quite difficult…this lasted for a while -a long while- and people began to notice that something was wrong. I went outside, frantically trying to regain my composure. It helped, but only slightly. By the time I came back inside my heart was racing and I couldn’t breathe properly enough to speak a decent sentence…and every time someone found me in my sad state, and tried to comfort or help me I felt extremely embarrassed and often said that I was just sick, nervous or overwhelmed. “What would people think if they knew the full truth?”, “What are they thinking now?”

I eventually calmed down enough to go back to the group, but I couldn’t look anyone in the eye, because I felt intensely pitiful and ashamed. I could barely speak because I still found it hard to breathe.

But then the girl in the picture suggested that we move to a more secluded couch. I was reluctant, but I went…and I spoke to her: s…l…o…w…l…y. She hugged me, held me, tried to empathise with me (succeeded at it to the best of my knowledge) and listened to me until I eventually just broke down crying and said it…what was jotted, written and unwritten. My heart began to beat slower, and slower until I could breathe again. I felt like a weight was lifted and I was extremely grateful. I didn’t know how to properly say thanks…and my attempted response didn’t justify the magnitude of the gift.
The rest of the night was wonderful!

I couldn’t help but think though: As emotional as I feel, as out of place as I feel, as incapable as I feel, as insignificant as I feel (sometimes)….. 
As much as I may have embarrassed myself, as much as I may have acted like an emotionally immature ‘idiot’ (maybe)… 
I wasn’t alone. I’m not different beyond humanity. I was surrounded by some of the nicest people resident in the UK; people who noticed that I wasn’t feeling too well, people who tried to help me feel better, people who go out to lunch in groups and invite me, people who support each other, a person who values me enough to invite me into his home, cook for me and entertain me despite being leagues above me in personal accomplishment.
People.
I was surrounded by people; and tonight, more than ever before, I realised in my heart of hearts that even though we have different things, different experiences, different prospects, different looks, different tastes, different accomplishments…we still have the same emotions. We still have each other. We still feel empathy. We still have love…and we’re all immensely capable of sharing it.

Being Different. 
I think that I’ve only mentioned it once before: the fact of being black…here. Trinbagonian…here. Most times I don’t think about it, but every once in a while, maybe whilst walking down the road, maybe whilst sitting in a classroom and gazing from left to right, maybe when someone stares at me for too long of a period, maybe when I can’t maco a conversation that’s in a different language or maybe when seeing someone’s brown hair blowing wispily in the wind; I remember that I look, and am, ‘different’. I remember that in almost every situation I can easily be described as ‘the black girl’. That description is way too vague to work in Trinidad, or anywhere in the Caribbean for the matter…but here ‘the black girl’ is as detailed a description as is necessary on most occasions.

Does it mean anything to be ‘black’… here? Do I experience things differently than non-black/non-Trinis…here? I’d say ‘Yes’. We can pretend that we all experience this world in the same way, but we don’t. Our culture, our family, our accent, our skin colour, our personality, (etc many times over) all affect the way we experience the world and the way the world ‘experiences’ us. 

My hair is different…I was asked whether it comes out of my head like that and whether it was real. I smiled. I guess that even amongst black people natural hair is the exception rather than the norm. I said ‘yes’.

My way of interpreting words is different… An English man asked me a question/statement and I began to answer and then stopped midway through with a very confused look on my face. The person was apparently telling a joke, and the other English person in the room seemed to understand it. I was completely clueless, but I pretended like I had an idea of what was going on. The other person then laughed and said that ‘You’ll have to get accustomed to the (joker’s) humor’. I chuckled…I think. They seemed oblivious to the fact that I didn’t understand a word of what was going on. (I’ll probably just get accustomed to being confused). 

My skin pigmentation is different… Someone noted that there is so much variation in my skin colour since my palms are fair and my skin is dark.

My accent is different… Sometimes I have to repeat things. I think that maybe it’s less my accent at times and more the way I speak. I speak slower and sound stupider here because my mind is constantly set to ‘DON’T SPEAK DIALECT!!!!’ mode. So, I speak with more of stutter, I fumble more often, I speak softer…and I’m pretty sure that I sound a lot less confident (not that I was particularly so before) than I do in Trinidad.

My way of eating food is different…I’ve sat in halls and just watched people eating. It was fascinating. I’ve never seen so many people not use a spoon or spork all at the same time before! I’ve also never eaten with a knife and fork so often or casually before (breakfast..ah mean!?!) Knives and forks are usually used in fancy restaurants in Trinidad and even there I tend to feel rebellious and a strong desire to refuse to use them. I would defiantly think “What treachery is this?? I shall use a spoon or fork in my right hand!! If I must eat meat, I will hold it, bite it and then lick my fingers!! That thing that can’t fit/be broken apart in/by a spoon shall be held, and bitten into smaller chunks, not sliced with a knife!!” I’m not so defiant here. I’ve submitted… and I think that I stare at my plate and concentrate way too much on eating because of it.
It’s instances like these that make you aware that to some people, many people, maybe even to most you’re a window. They’re a window to you too, and I certainly have done quite a bit a peeping since coming here…and have made a couple people smile because of my seemingly stupid or ‘duh’ provoking questions or reactions. When you’re a window, and often the only accessible window into a ‘different’ world, you feel pressure to remain clean and clear. You don’t want to present a dirty or distorted view because in some cases that’s the only view that will be seen.

Here is another quick sketch. The girl in the red cardigan is supposed to be me. I figure that this is probably how I might look sometimes when walking by on my way to the department or library…
I have a lot of readings to complete, and I was going to start (visited two libraries-borrowed two different books), but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to draw something. I’ve been putting it off for probably a week now, and I figured that when I drew this was probably the time to get that ‘feeling’ out of my system. 
Before I came to the UK though I was hoping that the first thing I drew or painted would be awesome… like maybe my most perfect piece yet…hasn’t happened. I’ve only done sketchy stuff. I guess it’s because it’s been a bit difficult to spend hours upon hours on a piece. Maybe as time passes and I settle in more I can manage my time better… not sure if that will happen. I’m kinda in a state atm; became rather frustrated yesterday actually. There is so much freedom to do and explore here, and my mind has been darting in so many different directions that I’m a bit overwhelmed and uncertain…I guess though that that’s the best kind of frustration to have.

…and here, instead of Orientation Week they have Fresher’s Fair. The top is Cambridge University, the bottom is UWI. At Fresher’s Fair you can sign up for a bunch of societies/groups. They take your e-mail address and then send you messages inviting you to a ‘squash’. Squash has nothing to do with the game, or the vegetable…it actually has to do with squashing stuff, apparently into juice. Now, you don’t actually squash fruits at ‘squashes’, but apparently the term derived because people drank squashes at these ‘first meetings’/squashes. Squash, the drink, is a kinda juice thing.
You get free things at Fresher’s fair here too….and the ever present RedBull was also there. I think that they’ve identified University students as a solid market and they’re holding on tightly…apparently all around the world.

I took these pictures (obviously at different times). The top one is Cambridge, the bottom one is Port-of-Spain…it’s still kinda difficult to watch it (T’dad pics), but I don’t tear up anymore.
(iPod photography  )