More by austin clarke5/11/2023 ![]() ![]() Especially at night, she fumes about her husband, “lost or buried somewhere in America, in Brooklyn” seeking employment. Assistant Manager of Daytime and Supper Meals at Trinity College, Idora nickel-and-dimes it just above the poverty line, fantasizes about being Naomi Campbell and serves as Assistant Deaconness at the Apostolical Holiness Church of Spiritualism in Christ. As adolescence descends, posters of Marcus Garvey and Malcolm X appear on his bedroom wall. Adrift from the Barbados culture that nourished her, she fearfully prays for her teenaged son BJ to “stop dressing like a rapper walking like a penguin.” But ever since an Italian boy in their neighborhood accused him of stealing and he was hauled off to the slammer while still a kid, BJ has been trouble. ![]() ![]() The “more” that Idora wants hardly seems like much: a brighter future, mainly. Idora Morrison is on the verge of drowning in the maelstrom of Toronto. Clarke ( The Polished Hoe, 2004, etc.) presents a rant/lament about the West Indian immigrant experience that teeters between dazzling and numbing. ![]()
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