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What’s in a name? A whole effing lot.

In African American interest, Bahamas, Barbados, Caribbean American interest, Caribbean interest, Caribbean news, Dominican Republic, Entertainment, Family, Grenada, Haiti, Humor, Jamaica, Michelle Obama, President Barack Obama, Relationships, Trinidad on March 11, 2009 at 4:16 pm

I’m not a mother. I’m fickle about motherhood. I don’t go all goo-goo, ga-ga about the prospect of motherhood. Actually it scares the shit out me. Motherhood is a big f%#king deal, and people who are nonchalant about this privilege simply don’t get the task at hand. 

With that said, (channeling one of my fave cousins who loves that term: with that said) I feel it’s importance to give a baby a proper name. Mama MJ taught me well. A child’s name is important as it’s the doorway to their identity, their personality. It’s called nomenclature. There should be a story or meaning behind a name. Not: I’m not sure what it means but… 

Or I just named him or her Baby X cuz…

Ask Mama and Papa MJ why they named their five children their specific names and prepare to hear stories – several of which are quite riveting.

A baby’s name should be fluid. It should fit with the middle name if there is a middle name and last name. I once dated a guy who’s first name was Mshindaji; middle name Mustafa; last name Grant. 

My reaction: WTF were your parents thinking? Where’s the melody in that nomenclature combo? 

And I get it. MMG’s Black Panther parents were caught up in the black power movement. They wanted to reaffirm their blackness through their child’s name. But Mshindaji + Mustafa + Grant = yuck. Nasty. Barf!

Names are like fashion. When you mix and match, you’ve got to be careful that it doesn’t come off sounding kooky. Plaid and polka-dots don’t work no matter the color scheme. 

Idiosyncractic as it is, the name combo Barack Obama works simply because it sings. Barack + Obama. Barack + Obama. Barack + Obama. First and last name fit perfectly. It helps that his first and surname are from a distinct religion/region. Michelle Obama also works but imagine if our First Lady was Condoleeza. Let’s say it slowly. Condoleeezzzaa Obaaaama

Gross, right?

And with that said, let’s segue to a story that underscores why I feel it’s important to give a child a sound name or one that has meaning or a damn good story. After all, they’ll have to carry that name for the rest of their lives unless they’re willing to spend ducats to legally undo the damage you’ve selfishly imposed on them. Might as well give them a a name they can feel proud of versus one where they’ll spend most of kindergarten and beyond cringing during attendance roll call. 

With that said, I present to you Marijuana Pepsi Jackson

Police years ago pulled over a young woman who rushed through an amber traffic light. “I’m about to arrest this person right now,” the irritated officer radioed to a dispatcher. “She’s telling me her name is Marijuana Pepsi Jackson.”

It’s the truth. Marijuana and Pepsi are her legal first and middle names, and the Beloit woman embraces them as a symbol of her struggle to succeed and to help other children overcome obstacles.

No Mary or Mary Jane or Mary Wanda for her. It’s Marijuana, thank you, she’s told bosses, co-workers and friends over the years, and even wore it on nametags at work.

See what I’m saying? – MJ

 

 


Rihanna resurfaces in Mexico & Barbados newspaper runs editorial expressing “outrage” at Chris Brown

In Bahamas, Barbados, Caribbean American interest, Caribbean interest, Caribbean news, Dominican Republic, Grenada, Haiti, Jamaica, Politics, Relationships, Trinidad on February 27, 2009 at 6:37 pm

The People Empowerment Party has emerged from its cubbyhole with an editorial on the Rihanna/Chris Brown fiasco. 

…We believe we need to publicly express the deep, collective sense of outrage that we feel about the terrible injustice that was inflicted on her. When we see Rihanna, we see our own daughters, sisters, nieces, girlfriends, cousins and grand-daughters, and we are profoundly angry that one of our womenfolk should be treated in such a disrespectful and brutish manner. Rihanna’s hurt is therefore our hurt as well, and we must do something about it.

…In our own nation of Barbados, male violence against women is so traditional and so widespread that it has come to be regarded as simply part and parcel of the fabric of day-to-day life. The sad reality is that Barbadian women are raped in their own homes by male family members and friends; females are raped on dates; and the spouse who does not prepare the meal on time or who is suspected of having another man, is far too often subjected to the wrath and blows of the physically stronger male.

The editorial from PEP closes with this: 

The PEP is now therefore publicly urging such organisations as the National Organisation of Women, Bureau of Gender Affairs, Young Women’s Christian Association, Barbados Christian Council, Barbados Bar Association, the Business and Professional Women’s Club, Barbados Association of Office Professionals and the Barbados Association of Retired Persons, to come together in a mighty alliance and to launch a major multifacted, national programme aimed at tackling all aspects of the syndrome of violence against women. The PEP would be delighted to join or to collaborate with such an initiative.

I’m underwhelmed and on the brink of stoicism over the whole ordeal. It’s like I’m totally opposed to domestic violence but this incident is suffering from pontification overload. Everybody has something to say and no one except for Rihanna and Chris knows what fully transpired. 

Then there’s the whole Caribbean massive, let’s band arms and support Rihanna song-and-dance. Meanwhile West Indian countries like Barbados doesn’t hold itself accountable for the pervasive sexual innuendos in music that degrades women.

Among those not minding their own are former drug dealer Jay-Z, the Senegalese pedophile Akon who had dry sex with a 15-year-old at a concert, and Donald Trump who dropped Ivana for a younger woman. *See comment below*

“From what I understand about abusers, they never change. Now, that’s a pretty sad comment, but they never change. I would tell her [Rihanna] to get the hell out of there.”

Platitudes. Platitudes. Platitudes galore! Sounds similar to what’s said about womanizers, Trumpster. Please, STFU. 

And the tabloids are gobbling it all up. 

I’m getting a bite to eat. Jerked chicken sounds good right about now. – MJ

Chronicle of Nina Sky: A Caribbean gal’s dating tales in South Florida.

In African American interest, Bahamas, Barbados, Caribbean American interest, Caribbean interest, Dominican Republic, Grenada, Haiti, Jamaica, Relationships, Trinidad on February 27, 2009 at 5:22 pm

Make way for big, sexy and horny.

 

The Dating Chronicles of Nina Sky All characters chronicled are completely fictional (not really). Any resemblance to actual people you know is strictly coincidental! (Then again, I might be talking about you). 

“Big bro Sexy/Lil bro Horny” I met this pair via the Internet. I don’t believe in Internet dating but I had to give it a shot because technology is all around us so why not?

So Big bro is pretty much everything on the list that I described. He’s tall, thick, got a goatee, caramel colored, 35 and bald. I mean perfect for me.

He also has qualities that are on my extended list (that’s the list that has ALL my requirements).

He has a job!!!!! He is goofy. W e watch the same kind of TV shows. We like the same kiddie cereal, he believes in God. I mean this guy is too good to be true.

I signed up for this website that is similar to MySpace but definitely better and he’s my friend on this particular site. Messages site via the site led to our exchanging numbers and talking on the phone. The conversations are great. He doesn’t bore me and I’m always laughing when we talk.

So all is well, right? WRONG! Herein lies the rub. He has a live-in baby mama. They are no longer together, he said. She plans to move out. I should have left him alone and went about my business at this point, right? Well I did not; I decided to keep him as my friend on that unnamed site where were chitchat and ish.

It gets better ya’ll. His live in girlfriend, aware of our cyberchats, has tried to “friend” me on the Website. I declined. She’s emailed me in an attempt to urge me to “please leave her family alone because this website is just a game”, and he will never leave her.

I’ve told her that I agree. I know this is a social Web site. I’ve also told her that we live very far away from each other and have never met “so calm your self down. I don’t want your family, boo.”

So Big bro Sexy (aka teddy bear) and I continue to chat innocently from time to time.

Meanwhile, his younger brother – Lil bro Horny – has asked me to accept his friend request. (Cliffhanger!!!)

 I’ll fill you guys in on that next week.  – Nina Sky

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Chronicle of Nina Sky: A Caribbean gal’s dating tales in South Florida.

In Bahamas, Barbados, Caribbean American interest, Caribbean interest, Caribbean news, Dominican Republic, Grenada, Haiti, Jamaica, Relationships, Trinidad on February 26, 2009 at 2:58 am

Whatever happened to Pouchon? 

 

The Dating Chronicles of Nina Sky All characters chronicled are completely fictional (not really). Any resemblance to actual people you know is strictly coincidental! (Then again, I might be talking about you). 

I’m about to nickname myself unlucky in love cause every man I meet has nothing I need and everything I don’t want like a wife, kids (with an attached mother, or the lack of a job).

What is this new trend of jobless men who think they can push up on a precious jewel such as myself? Just because I am over thirty (33 if you’re wondering) it doesn’t mean that I am desperate.

I’m not just going to allow any old boob to get at me. I want what I want and if I can’t have it, Jesus and I will have a long serious talk. What I have realized in my 33 years of living is that I have a “type”. I’m still discovering myself. Isn’t that amazing? Well here’s the type of man that will have me giving him a second, third or fourth look. I love teddy bear men. All skinny men need not apply.

I love men who are super thick and squeezable like “Charmin”. He must be taller than me, at least 6’1 and above. I prefer his complexion to be caramel, mocha, or cappuccino-colored (although this is not super important, it’s still a preference). I love bald men (especially because black men in my age range are already losing their hair. Why not go bald my friend? It’s sexy! If they haven’t lost their hair yet, then I love a man with well-kept dreads. I also love facial hair. Not the Santa Claus beard but a nice ‘goatee’ or a Rick Ross type beard.

I prefer him to be at least 2 years older than me. (This is negotiable as well but grandpas need not apply and if you can be my son, stay away!) I do not have the desire to be a “cougar” to any cub and I definitely don’t want to be labeled your “MILF” either!

Last time we spoke I told you about a couple jokers that I met. No one promising right? We’ll this time I have a whole slew of jokers that I’d like to talk about. Let’s see. Oh, “Pouchon”. The last time I told you about him we were supposed to meet right? I met him through a mutual friend and we talked on the phone. He said he was coming to the state where I live and we’d hook up. He told me he had a plane ticket and we spoke the day before his departure.

The next day when he should have been in my state, I heard nothing. Well I called him and no response. I called him later on that day and still nothing. I thought that was weird. Later on that night I received a text asking me, “Who is this?” My first thought was ‘Uh oh’ he has a wife or girlfriend or something who found his phone and the text we had been sending each other back and forth. I text back something to the effect of, “If you don’t know who this is then apparently you don’t need to know.” The response from obscure person: “This is his brother and he’s been in an accident”.

Turns out Pouchon was OK but in the hospital though I was unable to get the name of the hospital where he supposedly was admitted from his obscure brother. I was so torn because I felt a little responsible because Pouchon was en route to see me before the supposed accident that led him to the hospital instead. Then I thought maybe he was a mass murderer and God stopped him from coming to chop me up into a million pieces and putting me into his suitcase. LOL! So after we (myself and the obscure brother that is) texted each other, obscure brother called me and that’s when things took a real weird turn. Pouchon’s “brother”, who I didn’t know existed until that day, sounded exactly like Pouchon. He even texted like Pouchon (misspelling the same exact words) He also said some of the same things like Pouchon.

To make a long story short, he told me that his brother told him about me and that he liked me and saw my picture and wanted to date me also. I was like WTF is going on? I just told him to tell Pouchon to call me when he felt better and hung up on that joker. Well a week later the real Pouchon called me and told me his “brother” had his phone and he was really in the hospital and a whole bunch of other crap that I don’t remember or care about. We still text from time to time but he has nothing to say to me so I just text him back when he ask me the same questions over and over How are you? Fine. How was your day? Good.

End. Of. Convo. 

– Nina Sky

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St. Valentine aka the Scribe

In Humor, Relationships on February 14, 2009 at 1:13 am

The Onion is always good for a hoot. Check out this spoofed Valentine’s Day letter written by the saint himself, St. Valentine. Very funny. Have a wonderful Friday and a spectacular Valentine’s weekend. LaBay hearts you! 

Is it Valentine’s Day already? My word! How the time does fly. I might have missed the day entirely had I not caught a glimpse of all the young couples walking hand in hand this evening, filling the tables of every fancy French restaurant in town. And what better way to celebrate this fine holiday than sharing a scrumptious, fixed price, three-course menu with your beloved? Lord knows that’s what I’d be doing tonight if my head hadn’t been severed from my body in the third century!

I’m sorry. I hope all this talk about my gruesome martyrdom doesn’t put you off yourmoules du jour.

On this special day for lovers young and old, few things can top a gourmet meal served by candlelight on small, tasteful plates. It’s much more intimate than cards or candy, and it certainly beats meeting a grisly end at the hands of the Church’s enemies. So by all means, enjoy your duck confit and chocolate mousse while you stare into the eyes of the person you love. What a romantic way to celebrate the 1,739th anniversary of the day I was bludgeoned to within an inch of my life and then publicly executed!

Go on, have another bite. Savor it.

I bet some of you are on your very first date. Lucky you! The moon is full, and the night seems ripe for romance. Also, I notice you all still have your heads attached to your shoulders. Bravo. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few of you little devils snuck out before the last course to do some midnight kissing by the lake. Just don’t forget to settle your tab before you go—you wouldn’t want to get caught by a police officer or a servant of Claudius II during a time when minor offenses were settled by violent beheadings!

From The Onion. – MJ

Diaries of love won, lost & won again: A countdown to Valentine’s Day. No. 1

In Haiti, Personal, Relationships on January 21, 2009 at 5:27 pm

 

Gregory, my first boyfriend

I never talk about Gregory.  Until now, he’s been a part of my private self. I have a lot of things tucked away in that innermost part of me. I imagine the good and bad memories kept to myself are disorderly stacked on one another – a heap of confusion buried deep inside that only I can decipher. But memories of Gregory, I’d like to think, are neatly folded in a special corner in my heart underneath a soft stream of warm sun rays. I’d have it no other way. 

I was 10 when I met Gregory. He was in my sixth-grade class at a public school in Brooklyn’s East New York neighborhood. He was Haitian American just like me. He loved to smile just like me. He had lots of jokes just like me. Gregory was zany and zealous with an infectious laugh. His dark brown eyes sparkled when he smiled and dimples simultaneously sank into his creamed-colored skin.

Made. Me. Melt.

He was cuteeeee, cool; not arrogant, and he wanted to be my boyfriend. 

At the tender age of 10, I wasn’t allowed to date or even posses innocent feelings of love. My elders would reluctantly lift that ban when I turned 18. But until then, I was to ogle only my books or face the possibility of being sent to live under the tutelage of some no-nonsense relative in Haiti.

It was the first time that I outright defied my parents thou-shall-not-look-at-boys rule. I’m glad I did. Gregory and I spent a total of one school day as a couple. That spring day, during recess, we hung out close to the school’s fenced perimeter, taking in the view of its massive concrete courtyard. We could see our classmates chasing one another, playing double-dutch, and hear faint prattles in between gurgles of laughter.

We were shy about our relationship. Gregory played with my fingertips with one hand and bounced a blue handball with the other. I just smiled at him and sometimes clumsily threw my girly come hither look in the opposite direction at no one or nothing in particular. I was a shy kid brand spanking new to the concept of having a boyfriend.

Several days later, I was to become acquainted to the reality of death. Gregory’s death.

As many deaths are, it was sudden; and as all deaths are, tragic.

That warm day before Gregory died, I distinctly recall the nervous laughs we shared in the courtyard followed by love notes exchanged during class. He kissed me on the cheek when school dismissed. His kiss was soft, gentle. He walked toward the B12 bus stop looking confident. His dirty navy blue backpack bobbing to the movement of his bouncy steps.

My heart, virtually in unison to Gregory’s fading footsteps, went pitter-patter; my stomach felt slightly queasy from the realization that we were an item.  My first boyfriend. 

I promised to call him that evening but dozed off earlier than my usual 8:30 curfew. I learned the next day that at about the time I had gone to bed, Gregory’s younger brother had set fire to the apartment where he and three brothers lived. His mother had been doing a night shift at work and the babysitter supervising in her absent was paying the next door neighbor a quick visit when the tragedy unfolded.

The apartment quickly filled with smoke, suffocating one of Gregory’s three brothers. He, my first boyfriend, my childhood sweetheart, endured third degree burns to 70 percent of his body. 

I have a scar on my right hand from a first-degree burn received when I was four. My brothers had also been playing with fire. At 10, I was able to compute that a third degree burn to 70 percent of ones body equaled a slim chance of survival. 

Gregory lived for two days after the calamitous incident. His mother loss three of her four sons. The surviving sibling would receive a series of skin grafts.

The news rocked my school where they all attended. 

I was devastated. Crushed. My 10-year-old heart forever altered, irreparable. 

The evening after the school principal broke the news to my sixth-grade class, I sobbed in my room for what felt like hours. The world felt so bleak and I thought how unfair it was that God could allow me to feel happy one day and empty the next. 

I never forgot Gregory. I learned a lot from his death, the most important being that life is short and love is sweet. It’s best to always cherish every minute spent with that special person because at any given moment, it’ll be your last moment together. Make it memorable.- MJ

Diaries of love won, lost & won again: A countdown to Valentine’s Day.

In Relationships on January 21, 2009 at 3:54 pm

 

I didn’t mean to check the calendar for what I think is the worst holiday ever but I couldn’t help myself. It was on my mind.

I counted some 25 days or so until Valentine Day’s.

Sigh.

Boo.

Thumbs down.

I hate Valentine’s Day.  It’s a crappy holiday that makes people – whether you’re in a relationship or not – feel crappy. Couples – because I’ve been part of such a unit before – feel pressure to up their lovey-dovey antics even if they’re not in the mood. You know like say when there are unaddressed issues weighing down your lovey-dovey creativeness and you’re brooding and  just not in the mood to pretend that things are OK because in actuality they aren’t. And then effing Valentine’s Day arrives and you’re like, holy cow, I’ve got to put this aside and show force some love because that’s what I’m expected to do on this day and if I don’t, I’ll be blamed for ruining Valentine’s Day and I’m not trying to bear that one. 

For singles, the pressure is no less. You’re single. People look at you sympathetically, not realizing that in so many ways, you carry the prize. Heck, you may not even realize it yourself so you moan and whine and wonder what’s that girl or guy have that I don’t? Why can’t I find someone to cuddle with on Valentine’s Day? Fug. I’m not knocking companionship but let’s be honest here, many of us have no clue how to be individuals nonetheless share ourselves with others. Often, the end result is a convoluted relationship suffused with too many senseless arguments, or frustrations, or neglect, or an willingness to listen, or forgive, or move on, or have heart-to-heart talks even if the subject matter is painful, or exponentially grow up, or do simple things to show you care like check in on someone if they’ve abruptly left the room and are uncharacteristically in solitude for more than 10 minutes in another part of the house. Yeah, like checking in to see if that suddenly absent person is indeed OK and not just surfing the Internet elsewhere due to a sporadic urge to get on the World Wide Web by way of dashing out the room…it speaks volumes. 

But enough with all of that. Here’s the skinny. I plan to post lovey-dovey and not so lovey-dovey entries about love to commemorate this kooky holiday that I think is a whole lot of dog poop. Most of it will be personal in one form or another. 

I’ll write this lovey-dovey stuff because I wholeheartedly believe that love is a gift from God that we dumb humans often misuse, you know like by say installing a holiday meant to convince people that they should hold their breath until culprit holiday arrives then partake in consumerism in order to show love to the economy their loved ones. – MJ

Friends

In Relationships on January 2, 2009 at 4:58 am

How many people can we really call our friends? Think about this carefully. Not everyone we view as a friend is a friend. You might have their best interest at heart but do they reciprocate? I recently learned that even though a supposed friend does something seemingly kind for you it doesn’t mean that that person’s a friend. I’ve learned that people can do kind things but still harbor ill feelings. In other words, they can do something nice for you but still dislike you. I’d like to call it the old Othello-Iago/Cain-Abel (take your pick) effect.

Now why would someone cloak their disdain for you while pretending to be your friend? Many of these obvious reasons are just plain dumb: This foe garbed in sheep’s clothing might be jealous of your hair, car, house, clothes, relationship, financial wealth, etc.

Sad. Like most of you I know with God plus hard work anyone can reach their fullest potential. If someone lacks something today, no need to fret and harbor jealous feelings. You may receive those same blessings tomorrow.

A friend to me is someone who is there for you through trying times, doesn’t harbor jealous feelings, helps you when you could use a hand, and gives good advice. There’s also that person who you might not see or speak to in years but when y’all speak, it’s as if time hasn’t elapsed.  – MP

To be or not be…with a Caribbean beau that is.

In Caribbean American interest, Caribbean interest, Personal, Relationships on November 30, 2008 at 2:00 am
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Island fare: Jerked salmon, macaroni pie, rice and peas and salad

“Can you do it? I can’t. I can’t date a black American guy,” one of my friends proclaimed in between bites of a cheeseburger she ordered from a burger dive in Brooklyn’s Fort Greene neighborhood.

It wasn’t the first time I heard this sort of admission but for some reason, it stuck. Perhaps it’s because my friend’s parents are by way of Jamaica and the South, and it surprised me to hear her share such sentiments.

Perhaps it stuck because it suddenly dawned on me that this sentiment was repetitive. I’d heard it expressed in various circles quite often. 

My friend explained that she preferred to date Caribbean guys because they possess a certain je ne sais quoi. My cousin, in a separate conversation on the same topic, described that mysterious something as oomph.

“Black American guys seem to be one dimensional,” my cousin said. “Caribbean men have sex appeal, swagger. There’s something about the way they walk and talk. There’s an extra layer to Caribbean brothas. ”

I’m conflicted. On one hand, I understand such sentiments though to a lesser degree. I love Caribbean men. How can I not when my father and uncles are from the West Indies.

Caribbean men do possess an indiosyncratic quality that I think lies between the accented speech and seemingly innate confidence. 

The fact that these men tinged with mellifluous accents come from a region steep in African (albeit colonize) history make them interesting, intriguing, even exquisite. But there’s something equally beautiful, though in a different way, about American brothas, particularly those from the South. 

I’m not talking about grimy Lil’ Wayne and those of his ilk. I’m referring to the genteel bunch with degrees from Morehouse, ecetera. I’m talking about the ones who believe in God and family and love. Ah, yes, mm, mm…those Southern brothas. Those Southern brothas who love their mamas and think women should be given the utmost respect. 

I’ve never exclusively sought to date one kind of black man over another based on origin. That type of thinking strikes me as borderline jingoistic, not to mention a tad parochial.

Given the dearth of available bachelors on the market, I also don’t think black women can afford to be that picky. We’re already particular. 

I’m opting for a man who believes in love, family, and commitment. Origin is secondary. – MJ

Chronicle of Nina Sky: A Caribbean gal’s dating tales in South Florida.

In Caribbean American interest, Caribbean interest, Personal, Relationships on November 14, 2008 at 8:39 pm

*Major disclaimer, guys: Characters in this series are fictional, er, not really. Any resemblance to actual people you know is strictly coincidental! Hmm…then again, I might be talking about you.* 

First of all, let me begin with a shout out: “Big up to my Haitian massive!”

Now that I’ve gotten that pleasantry out of the way, let me follow with a caveat: I have nothing against my people. But I’ll never, ever, willingly date a Haitian man EVER again. 

I speak from experience. My last three boyfriends were bona fide Haitians, – straight from the island. You may think that sounds pretty pejorative, right? Wrong! I have what I feel are good reasons I’ve given up on dating Haitian men. 

  • They’re aggressive: At times they are very affectionate, which can be a good thing, right? Well, don’t speak too fast. Probably, when you’re dating them, this might be viewed as a plus but it when you’re ambling on the street and one grabs you to tell you that you’re beautiful then ask that you call them later, that’s beyond over confidence. I mean does that line really work out of the year 1985? 
  • They are extremely possessive: Jealousy is not an endearing quality in anyone. It’s especially daunting when you can’t exchange pleasantries with the mailman because your man thinks said mailman – innocently conducting on his neighborhood delivery route – is gawking you. 
  • They love you too quickly: Haitian men profess love in the first week of meeting you. Every one of my ex-boyfriends told me they loved me within a short time span. The crazy thing is they actually meant it. When they fall for you, they fall hard. They expect too much, too fast, too soon. They start talking marriage way too early in the relationship. Case in point, I met this guy recently. We’ll call him Pouchon (sounds like Pooh Shown). Well, I met Pouchon a little over three months ago. As to be expected, he told me that he loved me and wanted to marry me because he’s not getting any younger and neither am  I. What was I waiting for, he wanted to know? I was like “whoa, dude! I barely know you and you want to marry me.” Then he starts talking about wanting to move to the state where I live cause all his brothers and sisters are married and he wants to get married too. Priceless! 
  • After they have you in their clutches, they cheat: I’m talking more so marriage than the courtship part. After being married to their wives for a bit, they decide that it’s time to get some new booty. I don’t know this from personal experiences – at least I don’t think any of my Haitian boyfriends cheated. But, I do know that my father did, my uncles (notice plural) did, and my brother-in-laws also followed suit. My friends’ Haitian husbands also dabble in adultery, and if you’re married to a Haitian man, he’s doing it too. It’s a rite of passage ladies and I want no part of it. 

Now, please don’t misunderstand me. I LOVE all my Caribbean brothers especially my Haitian brothers. I just don’t want to date them. I’m an equal opportunity dater but I strongly prefer men who are Caribbean. Those from St. Lucia, Martinique, Guadalupe, Bahamas, etc., are so sexy and my choice du jour. – Nina Sky