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Monday, February 24, 2025

Explosive memoir on legacy of mothers who abandon daughters

by

IRA MATHUR
324 days ago
20240407
Dr Camille U Adams

Dr Camille U Adams

IRA MATH­UR

Dr Camille U Adams, who has pur­sued her pas­sion for cre­ative writ­ing and lit­er­a­ture since her days at Bish­op Anstey High School, has writ­ten an ex­plo­sive mem­oir–How To Be Un­moth­ered, about Trinida­di­an women with a lega­cy of moth­ers who “con­ceive and aban­don their chil­dren.”

The writer who has ex­ca­vat­ed her life for her writ­ing says “Deep trau­ma isn’t easy to face. Not since An­nie John (by Ja­maica Kin­caid) has a Caribbean work of lit­er­a­ture show­cased an evil moth­er as my mem­oir does. I am writ­ing to that 13-year-old girl who need­ed some­one to say it’s not just you.”

With a PhD in Cre­ative Non­fic­tion from Flori­da State Uni­ver­si­ty (FSU) and an MFA in Po­et­ry from the City Uni­ver­si­ty of New York (CUNY), Dr Adams, whose up­com­ing mem­oir is a fi­nal­ist in the Rest­less Books Prize says “All the moth­ers in my ma­ter­nal fam­i­ly line aban­don their chil­dren. Caribbean re­al­i­ties, like Caribbean fam­i­lies, live be­hind gauzy, white cur­tains where ug­ly truths are cov­ered up. The How To Be Un­moth­ered nar­ra­tive be­gins with me at nine when, for once, I’m not guard­ing my moth­er from my fa­ther knock­ing her out cold. In re­venge, my moth­er sends me down the drugs and rape-laden Covi­gne Road. De­sert­ed at 13 when my moth­er se­cret­ly left, I be­gan trac­ing my un-moth­er­ing lin­eage across five gen­er­a­tions.

“In How To Be Un­moth­ered, I re­flect on the mul­ti­fac­eted cru­el­ties of this moth­er who sub­jects all her daugh­ters to ne­glect. My mem­oir re­veals my dawn­ing re­al­i­sa­tion of trau­ma across gen­er­a­tions. No daugh­ter is al­lowed to es­cape. Our so­cial con­duct is hinged on se­cre­cy, on nev­er bring­ing shame. And too few rent the veil. We save face. But I am a storm. I do not com­ply with the norm of Caribbean writ­ers, some­times com­plic­it, hid­ing be­hind fic­tion and not ap­pris­ing the world. Caribbean writ­ers are con­ceal­ing the do­mes­tic and so­ci­etal abu­sive ills vis­it­ed up­on our girls.”

How To Be Un­moth­ered was in­spired by Ja­maica Kin­caid’s se­mi-au­to­bi­o­graph­i­cal nov­el An­nie John, where Dr Adams “fi­nal­ly found some­one who told the truth, my truth, of my abu­sive moth­er. The one rel­e­gat­ed to my head. The mal­treat­ment had to go un­said. J Brooks Bou­son ar­gues Ja­maica Kin­caid is still bound to her shame. Kin­caid’s end­less rep­e­ti­tion evinces her in­abil­i­ty to con­front and work through the past. Sim­i­lar­ly, af­ter near­ly thir­ty years, Rox­ane Gay is writ­ing about her gang rape and de­fen­sive weight gain. Like them, my mem­oir re­veals our ug­ly truths.”

Ex­cerpt from How To Be Un­moth­ered ex­clu­sive­ly for The Sun­day Guardian we mag­a­zine.

‘Mas Does Start At Memo­r­i­al Park’

“Why yuh doh wear yuh cute lil Car­ni­val suit, she said. This moth­er who read my re­luc­tance to go down de road and moved on to per­sua­sion to goad me in­to want­i­ng to de­liv­er her from her hus­band’s fists and feet by reach­ing in the par­lour to buy a tin of pi­geon peas that she sud­den­ly say she need to make Sun­day lunch for dad­dy to eat even though is just yes­ter­day we went in the gro­cery.

Just yes­ter­day that we bring home bags and bags af­ter I nag mum­my to not feel sad and let we go shop for the week at Kel­ly’s. She didn’t need to ca­jole. This moth­er. I am her not-first daugh­ter, it is enough to be told.

But my lit­tle Car­ni­val suit con­jures hours at mum­my’s side while over it she laboured and sewed and de­liv­ered it with pride.

Hours of me sit­ting at the edge of the bed in the lou­vre-fil­tered sun­light, lis­ten­ing to al­ways-have-yuh-own-mon­ey life lessons while the press­er foot sped to get the bias cut just right.

It con­jures, this lit­tle brown Car­ni­val shirt and short pants I am iron­ing, the hours I didn’t stay back af­ter school to dance and be fit­ted and cos­tumed for Di­a­mond Vale Kid­dies Car­ni­val band be­cause six o’clock loomed and my moth­er need­ed her yuh-such-a-wise-old-soul daugh­ter next to her at the Singer ma­chine in the af­ter­noon.

Need­ed her not-first daugh­ter to stay in the room to soothe the im­pend­ing doom of her hus­band’s re­turn from work whose boot crunch over the yard’s grav­el would jerk her fin­gers and knot up the thread.

It rep­re­sents, this lit­tle co­conut-tree print pants and shirt in which I am get­ting dressed, my moth­er’s present to Er­ic­ka and me. A gift of out­fits re­sem­bling the ‘Hawai­ian’ clothes of red-faced, tourist­ing yan­kees.

An out­fit re­sem­bling the trop­i­cal en­sem­bles for­eign vis­i­tors dis­em­bark­ing down Cruise Ship Com­plex in town does buy to say they fit­ting in among the lo­cals on their vis­its to our Caribbean isles.

An out­fit made of fab­ric pur­chased on a trip for Er­ic­ka and me in town down Queen Street in and out of Aboud Syr­i­an fam­i­ly fab­ric stores where my moth­er im­plored, al­lyuh choose what al­lyuh like.

It re­minds, this short Car­ni­val pants in­to which I’m step­ping that when I walk does ride up my thick in­ner thighs, of me pick­ing in Aboud fab­ric store a vi­brant pink and red bolt of cloth that I liked.

And my moth­er say­ing it so coskel, dat en go look too right. And her choos­ing an­oth­er and then find­ing its repli­ca. The same print but in dif­fer­ent colours. A bright lime green for Er­ic­ka and for me a dull brown of the same poly­ester with co­conut trees and the sun go­ing down. And I am nine and old enough to know what I like and re­mind mum­my my favourite colours are bright yel­low and ba­by pink. And mum­my skin up her nose and aloud thinks ent yuh doh re­al­ly like dis, yuh doh find dem colours too child­ish and pur­chas­es what she please as my spe­cial present of a non-cos­tume Car­ni­val out­fit for my sis­ter and me.

Yuh near­ly ready, mum­my asks me from the kitchen. She ea­ger for me to go down the road in the par­lour for the peas and I can feel her make-haste pa­tience short­en­ing as I am Dr. Camille U.

Adams 3 but­ton­ing up the shirt of this silky-slid­ing, mud colour, co­conut tree, sun­set­ting, Yan­kee tourist and they cam­era ever out­ta-tim­ing suit sewn es­pe­cial­ly for me for Car­ni­val ear­li­er this year.

And in the wake of her trill, I hear dad­dy grunt in his throat in the liv­ing room. My back fris­sons in fear. I hear the couch creak un­der his rest­less shift­ing po­si­tion that is warn­ing com­mu­ni­ca­tion to mum­my he go want to eat soon.

Hear the clink of wares com­ing from the up­stairs din­ing room of Tan­ty Ack­lyn and Un­cle Ken house above us as they done sit down to Sun­day lunch this af­ter­noon. Hear my younger sis­ters in the yard mov­ing on from mud pies and now mak­ing their toy leaves in­to cars that zoom over the gnarly, ex­posed roots of the cashew tree that I cut for la­glee to stick my school projects in my copy books when nei­ther mum­my nor dad­dy re­mem­ber to buy Elmer’s glue in the mid­dle of the term and I refuse to have in­com­plete home­work when my teach­ers walk around to look.

I squirm af­ter I turn my head to the closed door. Then shout Ah com­ing. And my re­ply slith­ers through the inch of space be­tween the wood and car­pet­ed floor.

It is my chore. Get­ting food. Help­ing mum­my keep dad­dy and his bel­ly in a non-beat­ing mood.” –End of Ex­cerpt

Dr Adams’s mem­oir How To Be Un­moth­ered, nom­i­nat­ed for a Push­cart Prize, is a fi­nal­ist in the Rest­less Books Prize For New Im­mi­grant Writ­ing and will be pub­lished by Rest­less Books in spring 2025. A full ver­sion of this es­say ap­pears in Pas­sages North.

Ira Math­ur is a Guardian Me­dia jour­nal­ist and the win­ner of the 2023 NGC Bo­cas Prize for Non-Fic­tion for her mem­oir, Love The Dark Days. Web­site: www.iras­room.org

In­quiries by au­thors can be sent to iras­room@gmail.com


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