I only began writing stories after I moved to Los Angeles, Southern California, in October 2003. Coming here to Hollywood, the birthplace of America’s movie industry, struck me as a completion of my creative life circle. Mind you, coming to America was never part of my dreams as a youth. In my native land of Guyana, going to the movies was a major form of entertainment. As former British colonial subjects in what was then British Guiana, we watched lots of British movies and documentary films. After we gained independence in 1966, the screening of Hollywood productions rose to prominence.
Another favorite pastime was listening to serialized stories on the radio. But my strongest connection with storytelling was with the written word. From the age of eight years old, books became my best companion. The magical worlds of Enid Blyton provided an escape from anxieties and fears born of warring parents and the tumultuous adult world in public spaces. The mysteries in the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys stories were easier to solve than the racial divisiveness corroding the soul of our small country.
My immersion in the world of storytelling ended when I entered the convent. At twenty years old, I dedicated my life in the service of my God. That’s me as a young novice in the photo on the right. Recommended personal reading focused on the spiritual life. Apart from the biblical texts, the writings of Thomas Merton, an American Trappist monk, topped the reading list.
For the next seven years, I lost touch with the latest works of fiction, movies, as well as pop music. During those years, I wrote lots of letters to relatives and friends who had fled Guyana for more secure distant lands. In addition to teaching art to high school students, I channeled my artistic creativity into making religious banners and diverse posters for convent and parish events.
My artistic creativity withered when I left the convent. Set adrift, I groped for reeds in the swift river currents of secular life. Three years later, marriage brought new meaning and direction to my life. That’s me, second photo from the right, on our wedding day at our parish church signing the marriage register. I believed then that we would stay together “till death do us part.”
Motherhood was consuming and complicated. Living conditions in Guyana became harsher. We migrated to Brazil with our two sons, then two and four years old. After four years of struggling to stay afloat amidst rising currents of monetary inflation, my then husband returned to Guyana, abandoning me and his sons in Brazil. I clung to God, my strength and light in the darkness that engulfed me. The photo with me and my sons was taken the year I had regained my self-confidence and self-worth. It would take almost twelve years before I could reunite with my family. Except for my father, my mother and siblings had migrated to the United States and Canada.