The Art of the Everyday: Zippers, Seahorses, and Ice City Funlands

 

We are surrounded by masterpieces hiding in plain sight, waiting only for an "abstract eye" to pull them into focus. It is incredibly easy to get caught up in the rigid routines of daily life, seeing objects only for what they are supposed to be. But when we slow down and look at our surroundings through a creative lens, the ordinary world transforms into a playground of imagination.

This evening, on October 22, 2026, a simple plate of fried plantain became an unexpected gallery of art. Like many, I detest the line of black seeds running down the center of the sweet, caramelized fruit, and I usually cast it aside. To me, it has always resembled a tiny, organic zipper. But tonight, instead of throwing it away, I looked closer.

Against a stark background, that discarded piece of plantain shed its culinary identity entirely. In its deep amber and gold edges, I saw the rich textures of a curved guitar body. In the rhythmic, onyx rows of the seed zipper, the delicate spine of a seahorse emerged. With a slight shift in perspective, it even mimicked the proud, elegant tilt of a llama's neck. What most would dismiss as kitchen waste was actually a beautiful, intricate sculpture molded by nature and fire.

The magic continued just a few moments later at the window, proving that procrastination sometimes has its own rewards. If it weren't for my own dilly-dallying when it came to getting the windows cleaned, I would have never witnessed this magnificent piece of abstract art. Looking out at the evening sun making its fierce, blazing escape toward the horizon, I snapped a quick picture through the glass.

The camera caught the brilliant, bursting light reflecting through the water streaks and residue on the pane, and the view completely morphed into a fantasy landscape. The dripping golden lines on the glass instantly became majestic spires, glowing caverns, and frozen icicles under a brilliant warmth. It was no longer a simple backyard window; it had transformed into a sprawling, magical ice city funland.

Seeing that glorious city built out of dust and sunlight brought my mother’s voice right back to me. Whenever people would harshly criticize the poor, helpless, or those living in messy circumstances, she would firmly shut down the pretense by saying, “From the day I was born, I have never heard of dirt killing people unless it tumbled down on them.”

She was entirely right. Real creativity doesn't require a spotless museum or a pristine gallery; it only requires us to open our eyes, embrace the abstract, and appreciate the accidental wonder right in front of us.

Tah-Tah! Sometimes dirt holds the richest treasures.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2026

Spoonerisms, Malapropisms, the Unloyal Tongue, and the Common Sense of Rural Jamaican Farmers

Humans may need permission to cross borders, 

but the rainbow doesn't.

The Pretense of "Speaky-Spokey"

Language is a living, breathing performance. Often, we find ourselves caught between the rigid rules of the dictionary and the seductive pull of phonetic flair. It is a tug-of-war between standard speech and what sounds sweetest to the human ear—a stylistic stance commonly known in Jamaica as "speaky-spokey." When people prioritize a grand performance over genuine connection, they often fall into natural linguistic traps. A perfect example is the common misspelling of together as togather. Because the concept of unity naturally involves people gathering

in one place, the mind desperately seeks a logical pattern, rewriting the word to fit the concept. In linguistics, this is called folk etymology, but in everyday life, it is simply the ear outsmarting the pen.

When the "speaky-spokey" stance is weaponized to put on airs or establish a false social hierarchy, the performance almost always trips over its own feet. Pretentious language behaves much like bias or racism, serving as a tool of exclusion to decide who belongs. Yet, the ultimate poetic justice is how easily the tongue rebels against pretense. In an eager effort to impress, the overzealous speaker frequently stumbles into malapropisms and spoonerisms. This linguistic betrayal was perfectly captured decades ago at an alleged formal event, when a gentleman stood at a podium to address royalty. Looking out at the audience with the utmost seriousness, his unloyal tongue twisted the grand moment into a hilarious comedy: "Ladies and Gentlemen, My Quar deen."

The Impromptu Lecture Hall

True wisdom, however, has no need for an artificial accent or a superficial stance. This account is rooted in a specific time and place—my parents’ shop, situated right in the quiet square of a rural Jamaican district. The family’s living quarters were affixed directly behind it, and our back-and-forth entrance was a sturdy wooden door and a privacy curtain, used for when the door remained ajar. This shop was a vibrant village academy. It is essential to honor the people who made that space what it was: the hardworking local farmers. Simple in appearance, they possessed a deep, sharp common sense and were remarkably well-informed. Sometimes after a long day tending to the land, they would gather in the square, turning the shop counter into an impromptu lecture hall for history, geography, Bible study, mathematics, and grammar. The final authority was never far away; a standard dictionary and a well-worn Bible sat permanently within reach to settle the score, keep everyone honest, and ground the farmers' lively debates in verified truth.

Guarding the Threshold and the Brown Soap

The village academy was also a masterclass in domestic decorum, managed through the clever art of the minced oath. There is a long-held belief among the oldest folk in Jamaica that children raised on shop premises inevitably see, hear, and absorb everything—both the good and the bad. The common island sentiment was plain: "Pickney weh grow a shop always bad." People assumed the location would corrupt a child's behavior, but my siblings and I were raised by alert, aware parents who fiercely defied that stereotype. Whenever the farmers' debates grew too argumentative or passionate, my parents saw to it that the thick, sturdy wooden door was shut tight to prevent us from hearing the raw language of the square.

Our household code was strict, and young ears were aggressively protected from what were then considered forbidden words: blasted, damn, hell, behind, and backside. If my father needed to let off steam or issue a warning in our presence, he bypassed vulgarity entirely with playful, coded phrases. To use a swear word such as “hell,” he would split it into "H E 2 Sticks." It was a sweet-sounding code that wasn’t understood at the time, until adulthood arrived and I figured it out on my own using my fresh listening skills.

Decoding the F-Bomb Culture

But there were other words that seemed completely innocent to us as children, yet would cause our parents to go absolutely livid. We were threatened many times with having our mouths scoured with rough brown soap if we ever let words like "freaking," "frig," or "frigging" slip past our lips. To a young child, these phrases felt like harmless, comical slang. The elders never explained why they were so deeply upset, and many peers who don't know foreign languages still have no clue to this day.

It wasn't until my adult years, mixing with different cultures and traveling abroad, that the translation finally came to me. I realized that the phonetic weight of "frigging" and "freaking" directly mirrors the pronunciation of the ultimate F-bomb in the German language, rooted in historical vulgarity. Those old-time people may have had a sailor’s mouth when provoked, but they banged it in a deeply respectful manner. They knew the raw truth of what those words represented, even if they kept the reasons to themselves.

Eggs, Young Ones, and Eternal Truths

To demand absolute honesty in my family when a household wrong affected everyone, my father would hold up a belt and deliver a cryptic, high-stakes agricultural riddle: "It is either eggs or young ones in here tonight."To a child, it sounded comical. To the adult looking back, the biological truth was clear: whether the egg was fertilized or not, the raw action was identical—meaning a storm of discipline was coming unless someone took immediate accountability. Guided by childhood memory gems deeply embedded in my conscience, the path was always clear:

"Speak the truth and speak it ever, cost it what it will.

He who hides the wrong he did, does the wrong thing still."

Hearing those words echo in my mind, conscience took control, forcing ownership and preserving the peace.

Dissolving Borders, Honoring Common Sense

Traveling is itself an institution, serving as a profound academy that introduces us to the complex culture of languages. Stepping across geographical borders reveals how easily standard terms can cause an unexpected culture clash. Referencing "inverted commas" to an American colleague who has only ever known "quotation marks" can evoke robust laughter, transforming a routine workday into a cross-cultural comedy. Even the modern digital tools meant to assist our speech can become the ultimate "speaky-spokey" culprits. The ghost of the spoonerism lives on in the machine, as autocorrect acts like a mischievous monitoring spirit, turning an innocent reflection about an "early age" into a trapped "early cage."

Ultimately, our tongues—and our digital keyboards—are not loyal to our pretense. They betray us the moment we try to pop style or look important. But in those slips and rearranged words, we find a universal truth: real intelligence is grounded in common sense, honesty, and the ability to laugh at ourselves. Laughter is the fuel that keeps us moving, reminding us that rural family wisdom, our parents' moral compass, and the brilliant intellect of hardworking farmers will always completely outshine a flawless performance.

N.B. The ghosts of malapropism and spoonerism are still actively haunting us today, floating freely through our digital feeds. In fact, I was almost ready to hit publish on this very essay when I took a quick detour into social media, only to be struck by a viral citrus phrase on my timeline. A meme showed a modern touchscreen typo where someone declared, "I am eternally grapefruit," fully intending to say "grateful." While the scholars and others in our society will quickly label this a clever pun, it is actually a textbook modern malapropism—the hilarious act of a word tripping over its own phonetics. It was a hilarious reminder that no matter our station, the unloyal tongue remains the ultimate equalizer.

Tah-Tah!   Oftentimes we are grounded by the memories of our own childhood.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2026

Braving the Blackout Commute: A Retired Reflection on Daylight and Safety

 

There is a unique kind of quiet that blankets the world at six o’clock on an October morning. Sitting by my window with a warm cup of Maveric Jamaica Blue Mountain Coffee, I look out into the absolute pitch-black sky. For a brief moment, an old, familiar shadow of anxiety creeps into my mind—the ghost of a routine that governed my life for decades. But then reality catches up, and a wave of profound gratitude washes over me. I am retired. I don’t have to go out into that darkness anymore.

Memories of the Brooklyn Streets

Seeing the pitch-black morning immediately sends me down memory lane, straight back to my working years in New York City. For over thirty years, that early morning darkness wasn’t a time for peaceful reflection; it was a battleground against the clock. I remember leaving my apartment in Brooklyn when the world still looked like midnight. I remember the bracing, icy air and the eerie quiet of the streets before the city fully woke up.

In those early hours, the neighborhood was raw, unpredictable, and frankly dangerous. The streets were populated by people—both the houseless and the regular early risers—who acted as if they were living in an "Open Moon hotel." They didn't give an upstairs about who was watching, sleeping, or walking by as they moaned, screamed, and shouted their erotic requests to the empty air. Navigating that environment as a woman walking alone in the dark was a constant exercise in hyper-vigilance.

A Terrifying Morning on Flatbush

I remember one particularly fearful morning vividly. A brutal storm had completely flooded the New York City Transit system, knocking out the subway lines. Determined not to miss work, I had to drag myself out of the house at 4:30 AM in the pitch black, aiming to make it to downtown Brooklyn where I could board the minibuses and dollar vans heading into Manhattan.

As I walked out toward Flatbush Avenue, the air felt tight. Suddenly, a man across the street to my left shattered the silence, screaming into the void: “I feel like killing somebody this morning!”

My heart leapt into my throat, and I tell you, I almost wet my pants. There wasn’t another living soul on that block—just him on one side of the street and me on the other, wrapped in a terrifying vulnerability. I didn't look back; I just hastened my steps, practically flying toward Flatbush, the main street. The absolute relief I felt when I finally saw other people heading for Church Avenue to board the vans to downtown Brooklyn is something I will never forget. Life wasn’t easy at times, and sometimes, when the memory of that stark terror hits me now, a bit of silent, helpless laughter escapes. How did we survive it? Oh God.

The Crowded Shadow World

Most vividly, I remember the subway stations when they were working. Even in the dead of winter, when the sun wouldn’t dare show itself for another two hours, those underground platforms were already packed to the edges. Thousands of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder under the harsh fluorescent lights—sleep-deprived, bundled up, and waiting to be hauled into Manhattan for work. We were an army of commuters moving through a shadow world.

Navigating a massive transit system in the dark isn't just exhausting; it's a matter of safety. Crowded platforms, slippery winter stairs, and rushing through poorly lit streets add an unnecessary layer of danger to an already arduous routine. It was always less busy and significantly safer once the sun finally peeked over the horizon, but by then, most of us were already clocked in and at our desks. Today, as I watch my grandchildren stir and prepare to face that same morning darkness for school, I find myself wishing we looked at time a little differently.

The Cost of Permanent Daylight Saving Time

This brings us to the endless, modern debate over clock changes. Lately, there has been a heavy push in Washington, such as the Sunshine Protection Act passed by the U.S. House, to make daylight saving time permanent. Proponents love the idea of later evening sun, but they often forget the human cost of the morning. Permanent daylight saving time would mean that during the winter, the sun wouldn't rise until mid-8:00 AM in many places. It would doom millions of early-morning workers and school children to a perpetual, hazardous blackout commute.

Organizations like Save Standard Time argue for the exact opposite, advocating for permanent standard time to ensure our mornings remain bright, predictable, and safe. Having lived that dark commute for the better part of my life—and having faced down the dangerous unpredictability of those pitch-black blocks—I wholeheartedly agree. Morning light isn't just a comfort; it is a shield for the people who keep our society running early in the morning.

Earning the Dawn

As the daylight saving time clock change approaches on Sunday, November 1, 2026, I am content to let the lawmakers argue. My days of fighting for space on a crowded subway platform—and dodging the volatile guests of the Open Moon hotel—are beautifully in the past. I give immense thanks for the decades of strength that got me through those grueling, and perilous mornings. As I take another sip of my Maveric Blue Mountain coffee and look out at the dark streets, I smile. The darkness can stay outside—I’ve officially earned my dawn.

Tah-Tah!  Light comes from darkness…birth to a new life.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2026

P.S. If you think the early-morning characters on the street were the only ones making noise, you don't know Brooklyn! Scandals are practically built into our track record. Who could forget the infamous building over at 7201 Ridge Boulevard in Bay Ridge? It literally made city history for racking up the highest volume of 311 noise complaints for loud lovemaking—with the windows wide open at 4:00 AM! Whether it's on the sidewalk or behind closed doors, Brooklyn has always had its own, very loud, unfiltered rhythm. 😂📣

Tom Drunk But Tom Nuh Fool: The Weight of the NaRRA Package

Dear Jamaica, I am worried about the strong financial reveal that has been bestowed on the CEO of NaRRA. Jamaica is already pregnant with other concerns: nepotism, corruption, and ginnalship, and now this hefty salary for NaRRA’s CEO. The bedrock of public trust in any democratic society relies heavily on the concept of shared sacrifice. When a nation navigates economic rebuilding—balancing tight public sector wage agreements while recovering from the severe impact of natural disasters like Hurricane Melissa—the fiscal decisions of leadership are placed under intense public scrutiny. This recent disclosure regarding Ambassador Antony Anderson has ignited a profound debate about economic fairness, governance, and national priorities.

According to official government announcements, the NaRRA CEO is slated to receive a staggering basic salary of $40 million JMD annually. When factored alongside a 25 percent performance gratuity, a dedicated state vehicle, and a comprehensive security detail, the total package climbs significantly higher. For ordinary citizens, this allocation does not merely represent a bureaucratic number; it represents a sharp, uncomfortable contrast to the day-to-day economic realities of the average Jamaican worker.

The magnitude of this compensation package becomes even more glaring when evaluated against regional and local benchmarks. The NaRRA executive salary completely eclipses that of the nation's highest elected official, Prime Minister Andrew Holness, whose adjusted salary stands at $28.6 million JMD. Furthermore, it dwarfs the salaries of prominent regional heads of state, including Barbados Prime Minister Mia Mottley, whose annual compensation equates to approximately $16 million JMD. When an appointed administrative head commands resources vastly greater than the elected leaders of sovereign Caribbean nations, it raises deep structural questions about the true metrics used to value public service.

This stark disparity hits an incredibly painful chord when weighed against the current cost of living. The average public sector worker in Jamaica earns a modest baseline monthly salary, often stretching every single dollar to navigate inflation and domestic expenses. To witness an elite administrative package scale to such heights creates a sense of systemic alienation. It breeds an environment where terms like nepotism, corruption, and ginnalship move from casual street vernacular into targeted, deeply felt criticisms of institutional governance.

Leadership by example means ensuring that executive compensation reflects the economic landscape of the population being served. When the salary of a single regulatory boss threatens to "choke" the public sensibility, it underscores the urgent need for a more balanced, transparent, and equitable approach to national resource management. True progress cannot be achieved when the top tiers of administration operate in an economic vacuum while the foundation of the nation is asked to continuously tighten its belt.

Tah-Tah!  Be reasonable in your decision making process to ensure your country is in a stable economic position.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2026

Mout Opin, Tory Jump Out: The Danger of Broad-Brushing a Culture

 I woke up this morning thinking about the actor Da'Vinchi’s recent interview, and it brought back memories from more than a decade ago when a Japanese official labeled Americans as "lazy."

Recently, Da'Vinchi, who is Haitian-American, sat down on a podcast and broad-brushed Americans—and by extension Black Americans—as lazy and incompetent. It makes you wonder: did he have one bad personal experience and decide to label an entire population based on it? Or is it a deeper cultural bias?

As the old Jamaican saying goes: Mout opin tory jump out. Once you open your mouth, the truth of your thoughts jumps right out for the world to see. You can't criticize the very community and culture that supports your career without people noticing the contradiction.

What are your thoughts on his comments? Is it an unfair generalization, or is there a disconnect in how different parts of the diaspora view work ethic?

Tah-Tah!  Freedom of speech is a right but sometimes it becomes a whip.

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2026

Buried Alive: How Tech and Texting are Collapsing Global Education

Looking out my window this Sunday morning, October 4, 2026, the sky is a heavy, blanketed gray. Dark clouds and thick fog have completely swallowed the mountains in the distance, hiding them from view. It got me thinking about how often the most important things in life can be obscured by fog—including the future of our children.

Lately, I’ve been stepping away from the biased, politically divided noise on social media to focus on a much deeper crisis. The spark for these thoughts came from a recent discussion in a WhatsApp group, where my friend, Dee, shared a heartbreaking reality: children are sitting for their CSEC exams completely unable to read or comprehend the test papers. 

It seems that reading and foundational learning have become obscured by a modern fog of tech dependency. Here are my raw thoughts on the current state of early childhood education, from Jamaica to across the globe...

The Lost Art of the Foundation: From the Island of Jamaica to UC Berkeley, USA

Lack of proper early childhood education in Jamaica has failed our children. They are arriving at and graduating from high schools without fundamental reading skills. To compound and worsen the situation, along comes texting with its acronyms and shortcuts—not to mention modern technology and calculators.

Students are sitting for major, final exams completely unable to comprehend the language of the tests assigned to them. That is absolutely, positively true. I have been closely following all the reports. It is as if learning to read has become a taboo. They are far more invested in GYSM, LOL, YOLO, BOBDL, and BC (which certainly doesn't mean Before Christ anymore!). MNL! 😂🤭

This isn't just happening at home, either. Outside of Jamaica, institutions like UC Berkeley recently reported a similar predicament regarding their incoming students. They are struggling so heavily with basic math concepts that there is a loud call for the revival of standardized testing to figure out a system to bring them up to scratch.

The core issue is that students have become solely dependent on modern technology. I recall in my early years at infant school, learning by rote was a big deal. Today, there is no such thing.

Growing up in rural Jamaica, the elders always warned us how vital it was to learn to read and write. They used to tell us, "People will write your name on a bulla cake and give it to you to eat without you even noticing!" In actuality, they were warning us that if you are illiterate, people can feed you absolute crap—cow's pancake—and you won't even know the difference because all you see is that it's round like a bulla.

Today, AI, "samfi scifi," and rapid tech improvements have completely taken over. We are letting our youth be fed tech shortcuts, leaving them, as the great Buju Banton sings, Buried Alive... 🎶🤖

Tah-Tah! Reading is the key to success. 

Grace Dunkley-Asphall, Copyright © 2026