Happy Frisner. Photo by Chantal Regnault, early 1980s, Brooklyn
Tomorrow is not promised, so hurry up and find something ‘health-giving’ that you can love enough to stay awake past the world’s bedtime.
People are too busy with their own issues to care if your shoes don’t match your handbag. So, skip the shoes and the baggage. Bring your troubles to the drums and dance like you’re Jean Léon Destiné and Prince combined.
Master Drummer, Catelus “Ti Tonton” Laguerre. Photo credit: Kesler Pierre
If for ten thousand reasons you find that you must cry, do it with all the joy you can fake.
And if by some necessary coincidence you should find yourself in Brooklyn, NY, tonight, run to Roulette. Lose all preconceived notions about Haiti and Haitian Drum Music.
Ditch that inhibition. Overindulge in rhythm. Tonight’s celebration features the BONGA and TIGA. Father and Son musical geniuses.
Photo credit: Tequila Minsky
Two years ago I found myself at the First Annual Call of the Drum Spirit by accident. I can still feel that night’s vibrations. If you can make it to Roulette tonight, consider yourself among the fortunate.
When Master Drummer Frisner Augustin passed away in 2012, he left a palpable void in the community. Patrick LaFrance, one of the founding members of the Gran Chimen cultural center in Brooklyn, remembers the legend as a humble man with an enormous sense of humor.
Photo by Lois Wilcken, asotò drum image from Alfred Métraux, design by Kesler Pierre,
“He played from his soul,” Patrick said. “Frisner would share his knowledge with anyone who wanted to learn the drum. Sunday afternoons , you know, in Brooklyn, can be tough. With Monday morning’s realities coming, you need a distraction. Frisner would show up at the center, and it was like medicine. We waited all week just to hear him play and teach us a few things. Frisner brought the Lakou to Brooklyn. Sundays were good with Frisner around.”
Well, thanks to Lois Wilkens and a fierce ensemble of drummers, this Saturday night may be the best Sunday afternoon yet.
With my luck, I would not have been the one pardoned at the White House this morning. I can see me now: nice and golden brown; a ton of stuffing between my legs. A freshly-sharpened carving knife on stand-by. Every eye is on my neck, breasts, and thighs. No thanks.
But I am thankful.
I am thankful for my true family, for great friends: old and new. I am thankful many of the flowering plants in my garden think it’s still summer. I am thankful for my neighbor Jude’s cat, Perdita Trouvé. She and our male cat, Gray, love each other. They’re not interested in making babies; they could not, even if they tried. They’re just good neighbors. They welcome and accept each other’s oddness. The world could learn something from them.
Baltimore, MD-4/8/15 – Reema Alfaheed, left, at home with her younger brother, Ahmed Alfaheed, 15, look at videos depicting the Iraq refugee camp near the border with Jordan, where they lived for six years after fleeing Baghdad. Amy Davis/Baltimore Sun Staff Photographer – #2383
I am thankful for the opportunity to teach amazing students who come from war-torn countries, and still thrive. I get to use a part of my life to let hundreds of young people know how awesome they are—no matter what the critics say. I am thankful.
I am thankful for knowing how to read, and for writers who tell stories so juicy I curse the fact that I need sleep to live.
Felicie Montfleury 8/15/1921 – 4/1/2012
I am thankful I knew Felicie Montfleury, my Nenenn/Grandmother. She passed away three years ago, but our bond is stronger than ever. I understand her much better now. She had this notion that “Family, Love, and Loyalty” were action words meant to be conjugated in the present tense.
My only regret is that I didn’t bury my Nenenn in her signature talon-kikit stilettos. I can picture her now, skipping across the sky. I can see her colorful scarf fluttering in the breeze.
When I visited my Nennen’s grave a few days ago, I noticed the message chiseled on her neighbor’s shiny new headstone. The black and white photograph introduced me to the deceased.
This lady, I.H.B., looks very much alive in the picture. Her kind face is pillow-soft. She gives the warmest hugs. She likes to cook. Thanksgiving Dinner is always at her place. She is strict, but fair. She takes pride in knowing how to set a table properly. She wears talcum powder at night. Her housecoat is folded on the footboard. She applies a light layer of Vaseline on her lips before going to bed–an old habit. She owns several bottles of perfume, but wears only Chanel No. 5. That bottle is half full. She rolls her hair at night with sponge rollers: pink. She holds the rollers in place with a white mesh hairnet. She owns an alarm clock, but means to give it away.
I.H.B. wakes up before dawn. She makes breakfast: one egg, one slice of bread, and a cup of mint tea. She eats on China that is three times as old as she will be when she dies. She does not worry about dying someday. She understands death is a part of life. This is why she gives thanks every morning and night.
I.H.B. wears pantyhose, even in summer. She knows how to knit, but does not. She owns two raincoats and two umbrellas—in case someone else needs to borrow them. She treasures her old friends, many of whom she has not seen in decades. She packs snacks in her purse, in case someone she meets needs something to eat.
She does not tighten her grip on her purse, when she walks past a group of loud loiterers dressed in saggy pants and black hoodies. The loiterers offer to help her carry her groceries. She does not need help; she swims like a champion five times a week at the YWCA. She wants the loiterers to know she is not afraid of them. She wants them to know she trusts them. “Thank you, children,” she says.
The “children” are twice as tall as she is. They weigh fifty to one hundred pounds more than she does. The children say, “Yes, Ma’am.” They are grateful for this lady whose name they believe themselves unworthy of speaking. They know she loves them; they are grateful for her presence. They will never know that I.H.B blames herself for their plight. They are her grand-children, the children of a thousand former students. They will never know she thinks of them still.
I fell in love with my Nenenn’s grave-side neighbor, as soon as I read the inscription: “If you can read this, thank a teacher.” Even though I.H.B. is long gone, I knew I was in the presence of a hero. I am thankful someone like her lived in this world. And if Susan Sontag was right, now that I’ve taken I.H.B.’s picture, we’re connected.
I am thankful. I hope one day I will have touched half as many strangers’ lives as I.H.B. did. And still does.
“All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.” Susan Sontag
I used to be an optimist. When things were bleak, I used to look for the proverbial silver lining. Not today.
When I see what is happening to Haitian people in the Dominican Republic today, I don’t feel particularly hopeful. That another part of the world would rather self-destruct than heal is not surprising. Xenophobia is universal.
I wonder what would happen if the United States ruled to purge itself of every person of Dominican origin born after 1929. How would the rest of the world react?
Thousands of Dominicans with Haitian blood have lost their right to exist in the DR. They are forbidden to attend schools. They are denied birth certificates. They are stateless. No word yet on what will happen to the buried bodies of Haitian-Dominicans who died between 1929 and now. Perhaps they will be exhumed and deported.
The Haitian government’s plate is more crowded than usual. Yes, it is. It hasn’t been easy, but progress is evident. There are more paved roads on which the barefoot and thirsty majority may sleepwalk. It’s refreshing to see coats of colorful paint on the sprawling shanties. The Caribbean sun dances a new dance on those spellbinding chrome and glass edifices. Flying air-conditioned automobiles carrying VIPs strike fewer pedestrians than before. Farmers marvel at the ultra-modern grocery stores from which they cannot afford to buy vegetable they once grew. There has been so much progress since the earthquake, I should be ashamed of myself for not being more optimistic. When situations like ethnic cleansing in the Dominican Republic arise, I should seek the silver lining.
After all, we get new silver linings in Haiti all the time. Why, just the other day we had a mile-long silver lining sewn to drapery for a brand new, albeit temporary theater. The awestruck audience cackled like children at the circus. Imported entertainers contributed to the advancement of the Haitian people by spewing profanity and grabbing their glow-in-the-dark, frowning-clown-face-covered crotches. The ring leader led the audience in a chant that mocks a mother’s private parts. Haiti’s private parts.
While Haitian-Dominicans sleep in fear of violence, foreign-born entertainers arrive in Haiti to use the Haitian flag like a rag to wipe sweat off their backs. I can’t say I blame them. They are invited guests. VIPs. Maybe I’m just jealous. I’d always wanted to meet the president of my country. I’d always wanted to sing for my country. Perhaps one day I’ll get to hold the flag and sing a new song for Ayiti. Who knows? I used to be optimistic. Not today.
I love the International food store, even if I have to drive too many miles to reach it. I get plantains–my American husband is now better at frying them than I am. I find mangoes from Haiti, Peru, Pakistan, Guatemala, and elsewhere. I buy cinnamon from Greece, mint from Israel, rosemary from Palestine, cilantro from Costa Rica, pears from Korea,tomatillofrom Mexico, and my favorite:thanh long, a tangy dragon fruit from beautiful Vietnam. This International food store isn’t the sort of spot where you might wish to linger. It’s huge and untidy–like a bustling outdoor market. The customers speak myriad languages, but somehow we understand one another. (A little unsolicited advice: Avoid that store on Saturday mornings, unless you enjoy playing Ring Around the Rosy with other drivers in the tight parking lot). There’s no place to sit, sip a latte, and read your favorite newspaper inside the store. It’s a food market. They sell food. No Wi-Fi to help you stay connected to your online identity, just bins upon bins of savory treasures begging to be discovered. The best part: I can buy enough ingredients to create a number of my Chef-wannabe meals for under $50.00! Seriously.
One of very few characteristics which the international food store and the Safeway around the corner have in common is they both keep the shelves around the checkout lanes stacked with candy. Children from every country in the world speak the same language, when it comes to sweets. They fix their gaze on the thing they want, point all fingers toward it, salivate, and scream. Hunger and desire transcend language. The children continue to scream, until their adult capitulates. That one parent who dares utter an unequivocal no is the demon du jour. I was lucky my daughter didn’t care for candy.
For other weary adults waiting to pay and dash to the next errand, management proffers Red Bull, Guarana, coffee, Ginseng, ginger beer, and my favorite:Cola Champagne.
Whenever I see a bottle of Cola Champagne, I have to whisper The Serenity Prayer. Word in my family is that I nearly overdosed on the stuff as a infant. We owned a grocery store; there were cases and cases of Cola Champagne around every day. My dotting Papa, against my mother’s wishes, would put a little cola in my baby bottle–for flavor. “She loves it,” he would argue. I would laugh uncontrollably–so I was told. My mother didn’t find humor in any of it. I sided with my father, of course. As soon as he wasn’t around and someone tried to pry the half-cola half-milk baby bottle out of my mouth, I turned into a cross between Cujo and Regan MacNeil from The Exorcist. (My father doesn’t care for Cola Champagne anymore. I think I does pear juice now).
Here I am now, saying hello to the cashier while placing item after item on the belt. My throat is dry. Seeing those bottles of Cola Champagne puts all kinds of thoughts in my head.
I notice a bottle of something called Fizzy Sorrel Drink next to the Cola Champagne. Fizzy Sorrel Drink looks good and cold. I place one on the belt–I would try it. Just in case, I would require an antidote, I picked up a bottle of Cola Champagne. Ok. I bought two.
As soon as I leave the store, I open my bottle of Fizzy Sorrell Drink and take a long swig. I see something else on the label. It’s a French translation: “Boisson à L’oseille.” And just like that, the universe shifted.
L’oseille. Sorrel. Lozèy! Elementary, my dear Watson. I solved a great mystery. Finally!
A Haitian woman who will soon celebrate a century of living is known for exclaiming, “Se lozèy!” at those moments when someone else might shout “Wow!” or “Get outta here!” or “Fantastic!” or my mother’s favorite: “Quelle Merveille!” The phrase became associated with the soon to be 100 year old the way “This is the big one, Elizabeth!” is associated with Fred Sanford; the way that “Damn, damn, damn!” belongs to Florida Evans, and “Yabba Dabba Doo!” is Fred Flinstone’s alone.
“Se lozèy!” Finally, I know what it means. Yay me!
Not quite.
I always worry that the elderly is being left out of the “Build Haiti Back Better” campaign. Our granmoun are the backbone and cornerstone of society. Women like my grandmother who passed away April 2, 2012, carry volumes of history books inside their heads. Once they’re gone, mountains of treasure go with them. That’s something to worry about, when you consider that the majority of people now living in Haiti is under 30 years old. I guess this makes 50 the new 90. Scary. I would consider myself beyond fortunate to have a genuine 90 year old explain life to me, based on experience.
Stumped. I call my Mother. She’s considerably younger than 90, but she is wise and wonderful. Thank God! The woman carries so much information in her head, you’d think she had a computer for a brain. Yes, we all have computers in our heads; the difference is my mother knows the password to hers and has mastered enough of its functions to be able to stand on her own feet today.
“Alo, D—” she says.
After the preliminaries, I tell her about Fizzy Sorrel Drink.
“Did you drink it?” she wants to know.
I don’t answer. I already know what she’ll say.
“Don’t swallow things just because you’re curious about the taste. If you see somebody jump from a bridge, would you jump too– just to see what it’s like? What is this sorrel? Never heard of it. I hope you didn’t ingest it.”
I don’t mention the Malbec. Forget about that pamplemousse, ginger, and rum potion I discovered in Haiti recently. I continue: “The label says Fizzy Sorrel Drink is Boisson à l’oseille. That ‘s French for lozèy, right?”
Mother dear sounds a bit annoyed, as if to say: “How can you not know what lozèy is? Didn’t I teach you anything at all?”
“Sure you did, Ma.” It’s just that I’ve forgotten the password for my own brain computer, and can’t reset it until you tell me what lozèy is.
“It’s a plant that grows wild in Haiti. If you want to make the kind of soup that will keep your family around the dinner table, put some lozèy in it.”
“Is lozèy some sort of magic or medicinal plant?”
“It has medicinal properties.” She listed various ailments lozèy has cured throughout the generations, and then said: “As for magic, lozèy could probably draw enough flavor out of a grain of sand to make your taste buds dance konpa for hours. That’s what lozèy does. It wakes up your food. If you want to know about herbs and spices, start and finish with lozèy.”
“Food is like an unlit candle, until you put Sorrel or lozèy or l’oseille in it.”
“Lozèy is like the match you need to light the candle. Back in Haiti, it grew like weeds. Now, you probably have to go to an international food store to get a few leaves.”
My mother is right, but as a gardener known for her green thumb, I know what I will plant this summer. Wish me luck.
emporary theater. The awestruck audience cackled like children at the circus. Imported entertainers contributed to the advancement of the Haitian people by spewing profanity and grabbing their glow-in-the-dark, frowning-clown-face-covered crotches. The ring leader led the audience in a chant that mocks a mother’s private parts. Haiti’s private parts.
