confession's hallelujahs

I wear laughter like a suit

sharp, creased, buttoned to the chin.

But beneath that starched grin,

a damn tag scratches my neck

Major depressive disorder with generalized anxiety,

words a nice stranger stapled to my file

eight years and several lifetimes ago.

Yet when I’m asked,

I replied with the practiced Patwah

I keep in my back pocket "Mi good, man,"

proving I’m tougher than Donkey Corn.

Inside, though, thunder rolled,

fire burn like a reggae intro.

Each beat, a pulse of fear.

My denial is a dancehall show, gaudy

massive, colorful and I stood on stage waving,

beads of performance running down my chest.

Crowds cheered the image.

Black man strong, Black man unbreakable,

Black man born of sunshine and island hurricanes,

So what’s a little sadness, eeh?

At night, the posse parks in a darkened lot.

Lights dull, music muted.

There, the panic crawls from my throat

like a blue crab hunting moonlight.

It’s a hard-shelled shame in daylight.

Therapist says, name the beast

but every name feels like Obeah,

a secret spell cast if spoken

So I nickname it "white rum"

because it burns clear, goes down smooth,

and leaves me speaking in slurred sermon

no congregation would hear.

Mama called from the country hills asking,

"Yu praying?"

"Yu eating?"

"Mind ova matta, bwoy."

I say, "Ye, Mama," while swallowing the Peenie wallie

flickering behind my eyes.

Men at the barbershop still joke

that therapy is for "soft bwoy."

I nod, fade into the mirror,

letting the clippers' hum mock my silence.

Church folk lay hands, douse me in hallelujah,

quote bible verses like prescription labels.

I swallow that too.

I drink the holy water with side effects

drowsiness, guilt, visions of myself

shouting testimony I don’t believe.

Some mornings I jog till my lungs burn,

pretending sweat is my penance

and the pavement a therapist’s couch.

I count passing cars like rosary beads.

One, the day I almost told my bredren.

Two, the empty pill bottle hidden in my glove box

like contraband hope.

I’m haunted by cultural ghosts

Marcus Garvey’s firm profile, Bob Marley’s smile,

Grandma’s rough hands harvesting callaloo under brutal sun.

They chant, "getup, stand up, stop yu foolishness."

I want to rise, I truly do,

but the red earth knows my name in patwah

and roots me down.

So I break the hush.

I speak to the digital,

carve my confession with keystrokes

in words that taste of mango and medicine.

Yes, mi feel small.

Yes, mi friad.

Yes, I am a Black Jamaican man

with a mind that sometimes floods like hurricane season.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll print them, carry them folded

like a parent’s note excusing my absences from joy.

Maybe I’ll hand them to a friend at work,

to my barber, to Mama over WhatsApp.

Or maybe I’ll just keep writing my confession’s Hallelujahs.

___________________________________________________

Patwah (Jamaican Creole, patois)

Eeh (huh?)

Peenie wallie (firefly)

Bredren (Brethren)

Obeah (Voodoo)

Donkey Corn (A hard Jamaican cookie)

Bwoy (Boy)

Friad (Afraid)