blackgirl on mars: notes on a life in copenhagen (or how my alienation brings me closer to people).

Dear Daddy, Sometimes when I sit at my kitchen table in silence, a cup of tea in front of me, I envision you sitting right opposite me. See, during moments like these, you never died four years ago. Instead, you battled your depression, reclaimed your health and decided to come visit me here in Denmark to see your grandson. He looks like you. It's something about his eyebrows and the slight buck-toothed laugh that remind me of you when you used to call me "sweetey girl". He's got your fight too--and it's a challenge when he gets mad. Once he took my clothes and was about to throw them out the window! Yes Daddy, Kai reminds me of you. I remember those days when I'd come visit you. It was when I was in college and I'd come by after a night of partying and we'd hang out, listen to Roy Ayers and I'd take a nap on your bed. You had a big ass tv and still liked to watch your gameshows. You wore worn denims and canvas sneakers. You were still vain abo...

My mother´s maiden name is Balbirsingh. It is a Sikh name and aside from our family in Trinidad, there is only one other family with the same name. But they are Indian and so don´t mix with us--we are a family of pot hounds, mix-breed. So in Trinidad there are only two groups of Balbirsinghs, my family, the mixed bunch, and then another bunch, with the doctor as the head, who again, wants nothing to do with us. I find this funny. My family finds this funny. My family, much to my chagrin, likes to talk about how mixed we are. In truth, I am just as East Indian as I am African and this comes from my father´s side as my mother´s. My father´s grandmother on his maternal side was a pure East-Indian who married like 7 times, all to creole (black) men. She lived in Sangre Grande and I met her when she was in her 90s. What kind of woman owns her own house, marries not only 7 times, but marries only to Black men when she herself is pure East Indian? I come from this line of women. On my mother...

There’s something eerie about a place that seems to have more concrete than people, something chillingly distant—as if it is a place that gives birth to seriel killers. But I am sure Lyngby is a charming little town with a warmth present which I was not imaginative enough to find. I am also willing to admit that it is not fair to judge a town through early morning eyes. However, let it be known that even after a few hours of work, after being slapped awake by the maniacal fluorescent lights of my job and the sharp smell of cleaning liquids, I could never seem to stop thinking that Lyngby seemed to be plugged into artificial resuscitators, and why for chrissakes, couldn’t somebody just pull the plug? But let’s keep the perspective here—again I admit it’s not fair looking at a town from the sleep deprived eyes of an early morning cleaner—someone who takes the train in the semi-comatose state one finds oneself in at 6.30 am and have but a still sleeping city to greet her. But as I exit t...

People always ask me what Danish people are like & a few years ago, while I was caught up with my own issues of unhappiness and sorrow, I probably would have answered with a shake of my head and say, "Well, they're Danish." I knew I was generalizing, and hated doing so, but it was easy to do and as far as I could tell, I wasn't hurting anyone--or so I thought. When my son and I returned from New York City this summer, he said a few things to me that made me think. First of all, you gotta understand, when we stayed in New York, we stayed at Marie's on 154th Street--a beautiful brownstone full of books, amazing artwork and people. At Marie's Kai met play directors, writers, painters, editors, agents, sales directors, actors--All of whom just happened to be Black. And he loved it. He loved it, I suppose, cause he got to see others who looked like his mother and who, from what he could tell, valued his mother highly. What child doesn't like to see that, ...

I grew up Catholic so when I was a little girl, I read all these books about women and men who willingly let themselves burn at the stake out of their love for God. I read about beautiful women who rejected wealthy, handsome men because they would rather be bar-b-q'ed than divulge in earthly pleasures. I grew up with this crazy story of this woman who gave birth without having sex (HUH???) for a God who not only didn't even ask her, but didn't even have the nerve to show up himself and announce that hey, you know what, you're gonna be having my baby. Nah. She just kind of had to carry the burden of being pregnant and luckily, as the story goes, she had a guy to protect her, you know Joseph, the carpenter (every one loves carpenters!) So it's no wonder I got this Catholic Girl complex. I even went to Catholic School in Trinidad. I mean, I swear, the other day, I was looking at this picture of myself and I was ADMIRING my flawless forehead. I mean, I was amazed at ...

Chillin is... listening to Beastie Boys and watching your son break dance. Chillin is... Sipping a good glass 'o wine...(it makes mommy smarter!) Chillin is... thumbing through your brand new copy of Sable that just came through the mail, and reading all about Nawal El Saadawi & Gwendolyn Brooks (Thanks Kadija!!!) Chillin is... blogging while your son gets inspired to write a song. Chillin is... thumbing through the new books you just bought: (while L.L. Cool J's I'm the Type Guy plays)... C.L.R. James "Letters from London", which you discover was written while at Bloomsbury which is coincidentally, the neighborhood you will be staying at...and Samuel Selvon's The Lonely Londoners...cause you know what? Chillin is living and seeing the world Brooklyn, Trini style...In other words, I jus' limin... I'm out, the lab