Sunday Mornings

Here’s an example of a piece I wrote that came from the prompt, “I remember”. This is an example of how you can use generative writing to develop ideas!

I remember waking up every Sunday morning as a kid and hearing old-school reggae music playing from the living room, a telltale sign that my mother was currently in the process of cleaning the house.

As a Canadian with Jamaican parents, there are a lot of things about the culture that isn’t explained to me, like why the dancing skill seems to skip a generation. Who was the unfortunate person that find out that raw ackee was poisonous? And most importantly, does every Jamaican mother blast reggae as she cleans?

When I got older, I discovered that this ritual I thought was unique to my mom was a common thing in Jamaican households. I remember reading a Twitter thread with the phrase “you know you’re Jamaican when…” and finding commonalities.

“You know you’re Jamaican when…

…you suck your teeth at the slightest inconvenience.

…You think eating ackee, salt fish, and fried dumplings is a great morning breakfast.

… you wake up, hear reggae or gospel music, and know it’s time to clean the house.”

I remember smiling as I read my own experience through the words of strangers, many of whom were children of Jamaican immigrants like myself. We shared in the exchange of these cultural experiences that connected us all to a motherland we barely knew.

I both hated and loved this weekly ritual. I hated it because I was a lazy kid who didn’t want to participate, but I loved it because of the smell of the Lavender Pine-sol my mom used to clean the floors. I still remember that intoxicating fragrance as it would travel from her mop bucket, up the stairs, and into my room. I still associate that smell with my mother’s labour of love.

When I’d still be in bed and hear the music, I could just imagine my mother downstairs in her head wrap, old t-shirt, and pyjama bottoms wiping down the kitchen counters, swaying her hips, and singing along. I’ve seen her in these moments of joy many times before when I’d get up early enough to catch it. She’d have a huge, wide smile on her face. When she’d see me, she would drop what she was doing, grab my hands, and get me to dance with her as she sang Beres Hammond’s “Rockaway”. 

One morning, I remember creeping down the stairs and seeing the empty space at our front door. The shoes and door mat were gone, which meant there was a 50% chance the floor was wet. Of course, there was only one pair of shoes per person, unless you wanted my mother to ask you if you were a spider and that’s why you needed multiple.

“You know you’re Jamaican when…”

I craned my neck, trying to catch the reflection of possible water on the ground. If I woke up too late and she already started, it could be a 15-minute wait for the floor to dry before I’d be able to eat. 

“Hurry up,” my mom said, wringing out the mop and spreading the smell of lavender into the air. “I didn’t wipe it yet, so pass quickly.”

“Success!” I thought as I tip-toed across the cold floor, ready to make myself some eggs, but being careful not to mess up her clean kitchen. My mom got back to work, wiping the floor as she hummed along to Maxi Priest’s “Close to you”.

Some mornings, like this one, I would get to the kitchen and my breakfast would be already waiting for me in the microwave. Ackee and salt fish with fried dumplings.

“I ate already cause you took too long,” she said from the foyer, “but I made you a plate so all you have to do is warm it.” 

Another labour of love.

I believe now that she did this ritual not only for her children but also for herself. These were the few moments when I could see true peace on her face, which was usually stressed from being an immigrant, single mother of 4 with 2 jobs. Just mopping the floor, singing to herself, and engrossed in her own form of mindfulness as she practised her favourite mantra, “cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

As an adult, I brought that Sunday morning ritual with me into my own space, participating in this great, Jamaican custom, so one day my own kids could go on social media and say “you know you’re Jamaican when…”.