Collection 1: "A Walk to the Jetty" by Jamaica Kincaid

The nightie I am wearing, with scalloped neck and hem and sleeves, my mother made with her own hands.

Why, I wonder, didn’t I see the hypocrite in my mother when, over the years, she said that she loved me and could hardly live without me, while at the same time proposing and arranging separation after separation, including this one, which, unbeknownst to her, I have arranged to be permanent?

Why, I wonder, didn’t I see the hypocrite in my mother when, over the years, she said that she loved me and could hardly live without me, while at the same time proposing and arranging separation after separation, including this one, which, unbeknownst to her, I have arranged to be permanent?

She had now degenerated into complete silliness, hardly able to complete a sentence without putting in a few giggles.

My mother had arranged with a stevedore to take my trunk to the jetty ahead of me.

And all the while she said to me, “A girl like you will never learn to sew properly, you know.” At the time, I don’t suppose I minded it, because it was customary to treat the first-year apprentice with such scorn, but now I placed on the dustheap of my life Miss Dulcie and everything that I had had to do with her.

They talked about things in such a strange way, and I didn’t see what they found funny, but sometimes they made each other laugh so much that their guffaws would bound out to sea and send back an echo.

My father paid our fares, and we joined a line of people waiting to board.

I dragged myself away from her and backed off a little, and then I shook myself, as if to wake myself out of a stupor.

I went back to my cabin and lay down on my berth.