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.
Following the only successful slave rebellion in the history of the world, Jean-Jacques Dessalines–one of the Haitian Revolution’s fearless leaders and founding fathers–became governor-general of the independent nation. Later that year (1804), Dessalines decided he wanted to be Emperor instead. The coronation of Emperor Jacques I took place on October 8. I would be born on the same day, exactly 96 years later.
Becoming emperor did not win Dessalines too many admirers. On October 17, 1806, he was ambushed and assassinated. Dessalines was so loathed that his killers threatened to punish anyone who might have been inclined to bury the mutilated body.
Défilée carries Dessalines’ mutilated body from the street.
Of course, it was a woman–an equally fearless woman–who ignored the threats and rescued Jean-Jacques Dessalines’ body from dogs in the street. She did what no one else dared: She buried the desecrated remains of a fellow human being. For this, she ought to be considered a founding mother. Wasn’t she as brave?
Nearly two hundred years afterwards, a disgraced man whose seemingly diabolical decisions did not win him too many fans in Haiti and in the Diaspora also died. Ironically, this was the same disgraced man whose father purged the Blue from our nation’s first flag–Dessaline’s Blue and Red flag–in exchange for black. (Dessalines’ Blue and Red are once again the colors of our flag). The disgraced man has gone the way of the ancestors, too.
Catherine Flon, Dessaline’s goddaughter- sews Blue and Red to create an independent Haiti’s first (and current) flag
The deaths of those famous men are considered notable. One of the two’s life will be commemorated each year with heartfelt appreciation and pride. The other will be remembered perhaps with great disdain. Either way, nothing will alter the fact that in death and in life the two men (and myself) have one thing in common: October. Nothing will alter another undeniable fact: Once upon a time, they and we were all just a bunch of cute little babies with big bright eyes that gawked at God only knew what.
Notable Lives.
Some of the people I know dreamed for years about becoming parents, long before the babies came. The ones whose babies came as complete surprises cried the same tears of joy as those who planned. And when these sons and daughters arrived—via the foster care system, adoption agency, or mommy’s belly, most babies are met with adoring looks, gentle kisses, and applause. New parents take and share thousands of photographs of their adorable little ones; they are proud to show off these tiny beings now their very own to cherish, care, live, fight, and—if necessary—die for.
The moms and dads I know are of various shades and nationalities. They call God by different names. They serve different food for dinner, they swim in different oceans, but they have one thing in common: When it comes to protecting their children, these very nice parents will switch from sweet to dangerous in a fraction of a second. At the slightest whiff of danger, moms and dads who can goo-goo and ga-ga with the best of them morph into enraged animals. Touch one hair of the head of their children, and God help you.
Having taught in some of the toughest schools in Baltimore, City, I’ve met parents who teach their children to respect themselves, their teachers, and the school where they spend huge chunks of their time. I’ve met parents who look the other way when their children cheat on tests and steal from teachers’ wallets. I’ve met parents who care so much about their children’s education that they spend hours volunteering in the classroom, helping crazy-busy teachers meet everyone’s needs. I’ve met grandparents who are committed to raising children orphaned by drug-addicted or incarcerated parents. I’ve met parents who come to school high as run-away helium balloons to complain about someone insulting their kid. I am moved and inspired by all of them. I know people who work in adoption agencies who pray every day for the children to find loving (and permanent) homes. No matter what the circumstances are, most parents can agree on the fact that babies are just plain precious. And innocent.
Of course, many of these precious babies grow up to be hardened criminals, but the majority does not. They lead productive lives. Notable lives.
Have you ever heard a three year old say he/she would grow up to be a dictator, a murderer or a junkie? “When I grow up, I want to be hungry and cold. I want to live in a cardboard box under a bridge.” What child would say that?
The parents I know want only the best for their kids. Even when the good babies turn into bad adults, they remain precious to someone. Every felon in jail, every evil-doer, every dictator was somebody’s cute little baby once.
This year, as with the other hundred Octobers before it, I told myself I would have a party. I hadn’t had a birthday party in two decades. This October would be different. I would not feel guilty about having a big cake with my name written on it in shimmering curlicues. I would enjoy blowing out the candles. Champagne glasses would sparkle on the table. There would be laughter. Music. I love to throw parties for other people; why not show myself some love. I would celebrate being above ground one more day. Every breath is a gift. I am here. Alive and grateful for it. Why not celebrate my own life?
My birthday came and went as the others. I didn’t have a party—for the usual rationalization. I will have a small celebration before 2015 comes; I hope. After all, I could have been one of the many people who passed away during October 2014.
Somebody’s precious babies we were once. No matter what we’ve done or haven’t done, someone somewhere loved and cherished us; perhaps not our own parents–Lord knows it takes more than giving birth or fathering a child to earn the titles Mom and Dad. But someone cared enough to wish us the best.
Felicie Montfleury 8/15/1921 – 4/1/2012
Everyday the newspapers make special mention of those whose death are considered Notable. These notables tend to be politicians, former presidents and dictators, movie stars, musicians, famous authors, sport figures, scientists, technology geniuses. What about all the other deceased people whose pictures don’t make the front page? What about the ones who cannot afford a few lines in the obituary section? Are their deaths not notable?
photo by kdu
To all those born in October, Happy birthday to YOU! And to those who have died: May you rest in perfect peace. To surviving family members, you are in my prayers. And even if news of your loved ones does not go viral, please know that they will not be forgotten. Someone somewhere will remember their names. Always.
I don’t know about you, but I get so excited about Independence Day Pumpkin Soup that I make enough to feed a small village.
I usually grow my own pumpkin for the occasion. “It’s not pumpkin. It’s squash, you moron!” someone gently pointed out recently.
Thank you much. I’ll keep that in mind.
Anyway, I wake up Thanksgiving-Turkey early to concoct my Pumpkin Soup. The last thing I would want is to run out, when that lucky 3 thousandth guest arrives.
By the time I remember that the small village is actually 3 thousand miles away in beloved Haïti, I have to face the perennial dilemma: What can I possibly do with a vat of left-over soup?
For many days afterwards, the soup is resuscitated the way certain families defibrillate Thanksgiving birds: think turkey sandwiches, turkey casseroles, turkey and eggs–yum! Turkey cookies–double yum! This year’s pumpkin soup’s unmistakable aroma filled our house, while outside worlds congealed under that Polar Vortex thing. How grateful my family was!
I don’t have a problem ushering old turkey bones to a trash bin. Throwing out pumpkin soup, however, is another matter. My conscience takes every opportunity to remind me that pushing pumpkin soup down the food disposal is tantamount to dumping my heritage. Besides, what is so wrong with freezer-burnt soup carefully thawed—say, three or four weeks post Independence Day?
I say “Bon Appétit,” while presenting a steaming bowl to my American husband. It hasn’t even been two weeks since the soup sat on its first fire. The man’s eyes grow wide with what I can only describe as panic. “Do we have anything , anything else to eat in this whole-entire house, honey?”
“Sure, sweetheart! There’s a nice divorce lawyer in the neighborhood; I’m dialing his number as we speak. I’m confident he has a briefcase full of suggestions.”
Sometimes you have to stop and smell the roses, even if they’re artificial. For three days, a man on stilts towered over stick-on orchids, synthetic hibiscuses, plastic sunflowers, and a throng of revelers garlanded in polyester leis. A carnival of flowers—in the tropics—ought to be ablaze with, say, fresh cut flowers. But when that country suffers from acute deforestation, you have to make do with the faux kind. And if you happen to be a flower snob like someone else I know, Haiti’s soil is just begging for you to roll up your sleeves and plant a few good seeds.
Pictures of smiling officials surrounded by a bevy of carnival queens in kaleidoscopic gowns grace the news. Frowning critics want to know what there is to be so giddy about in a quake-ravaged country. They counter the flowery images with grim reminders that hundreds of thousands still live in tents, prompting the president to defend the carnival’s hefty price tag while clean water remains a distant dream. Perhaps the Carnaval des Fleurs was not about clean water. Or flowers.
This was the first celebration Port-au-Prince had seen since the massive earthquake nearly totaled the city back in 2010. Those photographs of dancers gliding merrily in front of the sagging National Palace can’t be real; are they? The abysmal poverty just beyond the ornamented float route is very much a reality. Perhaps the dollars that were spent on the festivities could have fed the hungry instead.Still, how much is too much to pay to see a people celebrate life for a few days?
In my country we have a saying: “Aprè bal, tanbou lou.” Indeed, drums are heavier when they’re being hauled back from the dance. The more elaborate and enjoyable the ball, the heavier the drums feel afterwards. But we have another saying: “Men anpil, chay pa lou.” Many hands working together make heavy drums feel light.
Haiti’s last Carnival of Flowers took place so long ago, few people had even heard of it. Perhaps Haiti—like an ancient tree that was cut down—has sprouted new roots and is pushing her way up from under mounds of dirt.
Perhaps all the seemingly unnecessary merry-making on roads soaked with the blood of quake victims in the not-so-distant past is an example of how life always triumphs. Perhaps Port-au-Prince is the birthplace of paradise regained.
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.
