Sylvia Wynter's Dream

White Blood Cells and Foreign Matter

By Natalia Downer (@nataliadcreates)

The teacher says, Take out a notebook, or journal, or whatever you feel comfortable writing in. We’re going to do a writing sprint.

Here we go again. The dread of having to come up with something on the spot. Yes, I’m a writer, but these things don’t come that easy; inspiration isn’t all that forthcoming on a whim. And what’s worse…

I want you to write about a memorable place from your childhood.

I know for a fact that I’m more or less going to be the sole individual whose sprint doesn’t include anything relatable. My piece is going to be foreign. From what you previously told us, you want us to be truthful, that way the information should be able to flow easily because we’d be writing based on a real event. You jokingly tell us that there is no wrong answer, to stop overthinking, and to just write.

My classmate asks, Miss, can we write about a place that used to exist but doesn’t anymore?

You answer in the affirmative, stating that it is acceptable so long as it was a real place. I sit in anticipation waiting for you to give us the go-ahead to begin the five-minute sprint. Some students complain about not knowing which location to write about; some cannot decide among an array of options. But as for me…I know from the start. One place pops into my mind, and as much as I try my best to think of somewhere else…McDonald’s remains at the forefront of my core, meaningful memories. Of all the places in Jamaica that I could have had sweet memories attached to, of all the places in Jamaica that I could have written about, McDonald’s – a foreign conglomerate – was real to me.

Begin.

I write with ease, the words flowing like the moving pictures in my mind. I see the drive-thru, I write about the drive-thru; I smell the maple syrup on the perfectly browned pancakes, I write about the smell of the maple syrup on the perfectly browned pancakes. I write about McDonald’s – a place I identify with, a place that I ate at almost every day, a place whose food my tongue was accustomed to.

You say, Times up! Who would like to share?

I hesitate. I do in fact want to share because I have a beautifully written piece filled with descriptions, and detailed enough to make anyone imagine…to make anyone remember. But will they remember? Did they experience McDonald’s as I had? Did they experience it at all? I shift my mouse from the ‘unmute’ button and hold my tongue. I remain safe behind a screen.

Come on guys, don’t let me have to pick one of you. This is a judgement-free zone.

I believe that it is, but something in me tells me that I should feel ashamed of what I’ve written. I let a few classmates go first and, of course, one mentions her grandmother’s house in the country. She recalls being woken up early early in the summertime when children should get to sleep late. Almost everyone chimes in saying they experienced this too…I don’t relate. I end up sharing my piece anyway, and the teacher applauds my details and descriptions.

A classmate types in the chat, You must have travelled a lot.

Did she forget that McDonald’s once existed in Jamaica? I correct her telling her I’ve never stepped foot on a plane or a cruise ship. Another classmate suddenly remembers that there was in fact a McDonald’s in Jamaica. I get my hopes up. Nothing more is said, and we move on to the next student’s piece. I think to myself, if it were acceptable to write about foreign things, more people would know, and those who knew wouldn’t be afraid to tell.