I went to the grocery store last night, in search of a particular item. The place was packed with people shopping for New Year’s parties. The lines were endless. The shelves were almost empty; people were stocking up—in case some unexpected event forced them to barricade themselves inside their homes for all of 2016. I can’t blame them; the world is full of crazy surprises nowadays.
I decided to try my luck at a nearby 7-Eleven. I asked the cashier if they carried the item I needed. He said, “sure.”
“Fantastic!”
The guy said: “I detect an accent. You’re not from here, are you?” You know I welcome every opportunity to say “I’m from Haiti.”
Catherine Flon, Dessaline’s goddaughter- sews Blue and Red to create an independent Haiti’s first (and current) flag)
The man’s eyes widened. “Sak pase? Nap boule!” he said. Now, it was my eyes that popped open. “You speak Creole,” I asked, with the excitement of a kid on Christmas Eve.
“Of course, I do.”
“How did you learn to speak my language?” I wanted to know.
“I lived in Haiti for many years. I taught English at a school there. I was in Saint Marc.”
A line of shoppers formed at the checkout counter. We both looked at the people, and returned to our conversation. He needed to get back to his post. I went with him. As he worked, we talked in Creole. “I’m so happy to meet you,” he said. “I don’t have anybody to practice Creole with.”
“Neither do I,” I wanted to say but didn’t.
“Where in Haiti are you from?” he asked.
“Petion-Ville.”
“I know Petion-Ville very well. Where in Petion-Ville?”
“I went to Anne Marie Javouhey,” I began.
“Oh yes, that’s right next to Lycee Petion.”
“Yes!”
Do you know Eglise Saint Pierre?”
“Of course. It’s a beautiful church. I used to go to the park across the street all the time. It was peaceful there. I want to go back someday, Incha Allah.”
“You have an accent, too. Where are you from?”
“Ethiopia.”
“Now, that’s a place I want to visit one of these days.”
The man continued: “You will, Incha Allah. God first. Everything comes after that. People say Haiti is horrible, but that’s not true. It has a lot of problems. The government needs to figure itself out, but Haiti is a beautiful place. The people are genuine and generous. Forget about the food.”
“Ah, you ate too much griyo?”
“No griyo for me. I’m Muslim.” He reached for my hand to shake it. “My sister, you made my day.”
“Mine too.” We’re both smiling like diplomats.
“You have to come back to visit, Incha Allah. I’m here every day.”
“I will.” And I was not fibbing. I had to go. We shook hands again. I walked out, thinking how wonderful it would be if all of us in this crazy world could let people believe in whatever they choose. What a world it would be, if we could just shake hands and let one another live in peace.
It’s amazing how our side of the island tends to bring people of all races and nationalities together. I love that about Haiti. Happy Independence Day, my dear!
Nou Bèl. Nou La! T-shirts Get the T-shirt. Spread the message.
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.
May is Haitian Heritage Month. It’s packed with holidays: Labor and Agriculture Day, Flag Day, National Sovereignty Day, and (the most important of all) Mother’s Day!
At home and in the dyaspora, compatriots commemorated Premier Mai (May First) in many ways, including dressing up like the patron lwa of agriculture: a peasant farmer who answers to the names Azaka Mede, Kouzen, Zaka, among several other affectionate monikers. If having a green thumb means that everything you plant grows, then Azaka Mede is green all over. Every seed he drops in the soil yields a bountiful harvest.
Another famous personage with a serious green thumb is First Lady Michelle Obama. For many years now, she has shown the public that cultivating land is hardly synonymous with poverty. You’re not a peasant for growing your own food. Au contraire . . .
We’re all connected. Yes. I’m not talking about Linkedin, Facebook, and other networking sites. We’re connected in the way that we’re not so different from one another. Dr. Maya Angelou, in her historic “Human Family” poem, puts it this way: “We are more alike, my friends, than unalike.” But what in the world could Dr. Angelou, MLK, President Obama, a new movement in Haiti called Kita Nago, and a certain Nadège Fleurimond possibly have in common? Come with me.
To say that Martin Luther King was just a guy who walked around (a lot), asking folk to treat one another fairly would be a transgression. Also, whether or not you voted for President Obama will never take away from the fact that he is not some dude who ‘tried out’ for president, and won. Twice.
We’re all part of the human family, but you’ve got to admit there’s something a little extra special about family members like Dr. King and President Obama. Don’t they seem to possess an extraordinary sense of. . .je ne sais qoui? People like that are beyond audacious and resolute in their mission. It’s almost as if they exist on a different plane.
Let’s step out of history books and ‘other planes’ for a minute. Zoom in on Brooklyn, New York. See that tomboy-at-heart lady in the pretty dress and uncomfortable high heels. Note how she scans the room to make sure everything is perfect. Here she is at so-and-so’s baptism, first communion, wedding, and a fancy event for some big-shot official. Her name: Nadège Fleurimond. What makes her more alike than unalike with. . . say. . .President Obama? Two words: Kita Nago (The ‘a’ sounds like alpha; the ‘o’ sounds like bravo).
Stay with me.
If you care anything about Haiti but have not heard of the Kita Nago movement, give it a little while. Kita Nago continues to sweep across our side of the island, gathering thousands of followers. “But what the heck is it?”
I read an interesting definition that included the words “mysterious” and “strange.” Ah, but that article has vanished from the Web. Now, that link takes you here. Not bad.
Others call Kita Nago a cross-like thing of mahogany that weighs close to a ton, which someone decided would make a great symbol for unity among Haitians. Thousands continue to carry it across the country. The destination is Ouanaminthe–a 430 mile trek from its place of origin, on foot! That’s roughly 17 back-to-back marathons.
People are confused by Kita Nago. Some are ashamed of it. Some are proud, and wish they could walk the miles with fellow countrymen. Some don’t like Kita Nago simply because of the words’ obvious connection to a certain ‘ancestral’ religion. One thing is clear: Kita Nago won’t stop until it reaches its destination. Google it.
Get a thousand online definitions, but if you want to know what Kita Nago really means, find that elderly Haitian in your circle, Ask, Seek and Knock–ask. Our ‘granmoun’ elders carry volumes of this stuff inside their heads. Run and get those stories before the undertaker comes. In the meantime, here’s what my own Haitian mother told me:
When people say: “M pap fè yon pa kita, yon pa nago,” they mean “I am not moving. I am not taking one step from where I stand. You cannot make me move. I shall not be moved. I am resolute in my belief. You cannot unravel this faith in me. M pap fè yon pa kita, yon pa nago. Nothing you do can force me to alter my course. The dream I hold is my life-mission. No army will deter me from accomplishing it. M pap fè yon pa kita, yon pa nago.”
Now, focus your lens on a jail cell in Alabama not so long ago. See that man leaning on the bars? Can’t you hear Dr. King saying to himself: I shall not be moved. I will not relinquish this dream. No matter what they do to me, I will not abandon this mission. This movement is far bigger than I. They can kill me, but they cannot kill my dream. M pap fè yon pa kita, yon pa nago.
When President Obama ran for office the second time, Romney and Ryan wanted him to just go. Politely. They probably didn’t care where Obama went, as long as he abandoned the idea of being President of these United States. Again. Can’t you see Mr. Obama shaking his head? Can’t you hear him saying: No, no, not yet. I’m not leaving. I will not be moved. Or removed. ‘And I am telling you, I’m not going. . .’ M pap fè yon pa kita, yon pa nago.
Let’s go back to Brooklyn, New York. Don’t forget we are all more alike than unalike. Wait. Adjust the rear-view mirror. Go as far back as 23 years. (If you weren’t born yet, don’t worry; Google it.) Nadège Fleurimond was a 7 years old kid then. Her father had brought her with him from Haiti. No one said the words, but everyone knew the little girl would grow up to be a doctor. A lawyer. Something respectable. She would make the family proud. She would realize what they had not.
Adjust the rear-view mirror again. Look closer. It’s now 2003. There’s a grown-up Nadège in starched cap and gown. Diploma in hand–courtesy of Columbia University. It was not easy to earn that degree in Political Science, but she had done it. She was on her way to a smashing career as a. . .cook!
“You’re crazy!” her father had screamed. “You get that big degree, and all you want is to be a vending woman. You want to be a mashann like the ones on those filthy streets in Port-au-Prince? You want to waste your life? For all my sacrifice, you dreamed only of being a maid?”
“We rarely speak to each other now,” Nadège allows of her relationship with her father. It’s complicated. “He had his dream for my life; I had my own.”
Not everyone dreams about becoming a world leader, a poet, a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer, or whatever. “I want to be who I am,”Nadège continues. “And when the opposition gets to be too much, I believe in myself that much more.”
It’s been 11 years since Nadège fought to fulfill her dream. Fleurimond Catering is now a thriving business; she could not be happier. “I am not here to save the world,” Nadège explains with her infectious smile. “I take pride in bringing people together and representing my Haitian culture the way I know how. I follow my heart. We need to allow children to dream for themselves. When everyone tried to shake my dream out of me, I told them No. This is my path. I believe in myself enough to work for this. You can’t make me move. You don’t have the power to stop me. ”
I went to the grocery store last night, in search of a particular item. The place was packed with people shopping for New Year’s parties. The lines were endless. The shelves were almost empty; people were stocking up—in case some unexpected event forced them to barricade themselves inside their homes for all of 2016. I can’t blame them; the world is full of crazy surprises nowadays.
A line of shoppers formed at the checkout counter. We both looked at the people, and returned to our conversation. He needed to get back to his post. I went with him. As he worked, we talked in Creole. “I’m so happy to meet you,” he said. “I don’t have anybody to practice Creole with.”
“Of course. It’s a beautiful church. I used to go to the park across the street all the time. It was peaceful there. I want to go back someday, Incha Allah.”
“I will.” And I was not fibbing. I had to go. We shook hands again. I walked out, thinking how wonderful it would be if all of us in this crazy world could let people believe in whatever they choose. What a world it would be, if we could just shake hands and let one another live in peace.
