Katia D Ulysse – Page 11 – VoicesfromHaïti ~ Nou bèl. E Nou La.

February 13, 2013February 13, 2013

Black History Month: The Little Rock Nine, Wayétu Moore, and Fabiola

It was supposed to the beginning of a new school year–a season charged with expectation and optimism, not a time to be caught in other people’s petty, stale, yet violent wars.

The year was 1957. Teachers, good and refreshed, had prepared thoughtful and engaging lessons. Governor Orval Eugene Faubus–hellbent on preventing children of all colors to sit together in the same classroom–had prepared his own lesson so meticulously that it took federal troops to help him modify it.

Uncertain of his own power to defy the Supreme Court ruling that outlawed segregation (Brown v. Board of Education), Governor Faubus summoned the Arkansas National Guard to hold back little Elizabeth. For extra reinforcement, mobs of grown men, women, and their children took aim, firing their sharpest insults and threats.

Elizabeth Eckford had wanted only to go to school–like most ‘normal’ high school students. Holding her books securely against her chest, she took careful steps toward Central High’s front door.

Bullies disguised as everyday white-folk had gathered to teach Elizabeth their own rigorous lesson. Their objective: Student will be so completely traumatized and terrorized that she will run/walk/stumble as far away from Central High and everyone’s sight as swiftly as possible.

The bullies won that September morning. They pumped their fists and spat as Elizabeth walked back to her bus stop, leaving Little Rock’s Central High School. The girl’s face was set like stone. But like any stone thrown violently into a body of water, Elizabeth Eckford caused concentric circles to form and spread.

When Elizabeth returned to Central High weeks after she was forced to walk away, eight other determined students had joined her. The hate-mobs returned as well, but they were like paper dolls in a hurricane. The winds of change would scatter them; history would be made.

Millions of black students walk into schools today with an opportunity to learn because The Little Rock Nine dared. Elizabeth and her schoolmates were like nine stones hurled into the seemingly infinite ocean of racism, causing concentric circles to spread so far and so wide within the Civil Rights Movement that we see them even today.

This Black History Month, VoicesfromHaiti honors Melba Pattillo Beals, Minnijean Brown, Elizabeth Ann Eckford, Ernest Green, Gloria Ray Karlmark, Carlotta Walls LaNier, Themlma Mothershed, and Terrence Roberts: The Little Rock Nine who risked their lives for a chance to go to school.

We honor Wayétu Moore. This lady has made it her business to illuminate the mindpath of children from countries with low literacy rates. Moore’s young publishing company, One Moore Book, delivers children’s own stories to them.

Wayétu dedicated the first cycle of books to her beloved father and the children of her native Liberia, saying: “I will never be able to give my father back the twenty years he spent working to educate us, or the home and life in Liberia he lost. I repay his sacrifice by honoring the education he fought for and offering my art to the world, with stories that make the histories and narratives of my people come alive. . .”

One Moore Book’s current series is dedicated to the children of my beloved Haiti. The six books in the series are written by Maureen Boyer, Edwidge Danticat, Michele Jessica Fievre, Cybille St. Aude, Ibi Zoboi, and Katia D. Ulysse.

Finally, much honor and respect for a little girl named Fabiola who lives thousands of miles away in Toupatou, Haiti. Fabiola does not go to school, not because a stubborn governor has deployed guards to keep her out. Fabiola is a modern-day slave: a rèstavèk. Learn more about rèstavèks in Haiti. Read and share Fabiola’s story. Support One Moore Book’s Haiti Series by buying all six books!

Every child deserves the chance to go to school.

I am Riding by Michele Jessica Fievre ~ Illustrated by Jean Patrick Icart-Pierre

The Last Mapou by Edwidge Danticat ~ Illustrated by Eduard Duval Carrie

Fabiola Can Count by Katia D. Ulysse ~ Illustrated by Kula Moore

A is for Ayiti by Ibi Zoboi

Where is Lola?

Maureen Boyer

February 5, 2013February 2, 2014

How I Become a Baltimore Ravens Fan in the Hospital

When I found myself in the operating room for emergency surgery three weeks ago, I saw a blinding light at the end of a long, narrow tunnel from which deceased relatives beckoned lovingly. Ok. I didn’t see a bright light. There was no tunnel and no dead family members either, but the Baltimore Ravens’ logo was everywhere.

There I was–stretched out on a gurney for the first time in my life. I was scared and in serious medical trouble, but I all heard was: “I can’t believe that guy fumbled the ball!”

My surgeon-to-be wore blue scrubs with his name embroidered above a Baltimore Ravens’ emblem. The bird’s sharp eyes pierced through me, wanting to know: What’s your favorite football team now, hon?

The anesthesiologist’s disposable cap did not conceal the purple and gold Ravens thing underneath. What did I expect? I was in the official hospital for the Baltimore Ravens team. I was in Ravens’ Land.

And this was not the time to mention I wasn’t a fan.

Two and a half weeks later—the very week of the Super Bowl–I had to be readmitted for complications following the surgery. The nurses and their assistants, the phlebotomists who drew more blood than I knew I had, the room attendants: everyone was a Baltimore Ravens’ fan. They wore birds on their hats, birds on their T-shirts, birds on their scrubs, birds on their lab coats, and birds on their shoes. The purple birds watched me from every corner.

The days blended into one another. The nurses and their assistants shuffled in and out–at all hours, wearing their purple this and that. By Super Bowl Sunday, I was like the woman in Hitchock’s The Birds. The very air had turned purple and black.

“Are you excited about the Super Bowl?” said the person who had come to check my vital signs. “This is the big one. We’re gonna get that trophy tonight. It’s our time. Go Ravens!” She gave a big smile.

I nodded and tried to smile, too. I’d attended my share of Super Bowl parties in the past; the commercials, wardrobe malfunctions, and Half-Time Shows were always fun to watch. I had never dedicated a minute to any specific team; I was not a football person. When Super Bowl Sunday came around, I cheered for the team no one believed would win. And that would be that.

“You want to watch the game?” the Vital-Sign person asked me.

“Sure.”

She touched a button on the remote control, and the room came alive with the announcers’ excited voices.

“We got this!” Vital-Sign did a little dance before leaving.

Ten seconds later, I was asleep. When I opened my eyes again, Byonce was on stage. As fantastic as she was, I slid right back into another medicated sleep.

My nurse was in the room now, adjusting the IV drip. My eyes opened a little. Then I heard: “Welcome to the Third Quarter!”

Against my will, I focused on the screen to watch with awe how this Ravens guy ran from one end of the field to the next with the football secured in his hand. Never in my life had I seen an athlete run with so much determination. The too-big guys who like to block other players could not touch this runner whose name was Jacoby Jones. This man was lightening in purple.

When the announcer explained that Jacoby Jones had set a new record with his 108 return kick, I understood why Baltimore was bird-wild over the Ravens.

Soon afterwards, there was a blackout in the stadium in New Orleans. I wondered if Byonce’s electrifying performance was to blame. I wanted to watch Jacoby Jones play, but sleep carried me away again.

I woke up to what sounded like fireworks in the distance. The new stranger in the room stood with a trash can in her hand. “I’m here to clean your room,” she said cheerfully. Shaking with excitement, she added: “We won the Super Bowl, hon!”

“Great!” I whispered. “Congratulations!”

Photo from www.reuters.com — reuters photo

“I knew we would win,” the lady went on. She set the trash can down without emptying it. “I knew my Ravens would bring that trophy home. If anyone don’t like it, they can put a ring on it.” She giggled. “This is monumental! Mo-nu-men-tal, hon.”

Her joy touched something inside me. I was thrilled for her. It was as if she had been on that field with Jacoby Jones, running with the football under her own arm for a record 108 yards. She picked up the trashcan again and held it as if it were the Lombardi trophy. “Go Ravens!”

I didn’t speak the words, but was thinking the same: Yes, Go Ravens!

__________________________________________

Thank you, C., for posing for that picture with your Joe Flacco jersey.

January 25, 2013February 12, 2013

Dr. Maya Angelou, MLK, Pres. Obama, Kita Nago, and Nadège Fleurimond?

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. ”

M pap fè yon pa kita, yon pa nago.

January 1, 2013February 8, 2013

Carline Ruiz And the New Revolution

Cecile Fatiman stood among the men at Bois Caiman and gave them the courage they would need to accomplish the impossible. Marie-Jeanne Lamartiniére put on a male uniform and fought alongside the men to bring about the only successful slave revolt in history. Catherine Flon, by the light of a candle, sewed the first Haitian flag. And after Dessalines was assassinated, Marie Sainte Dédée Bazile (Defilé) was the only one bold enough to gather his remains and give him a proper burial.

It’s been 209 years since the “1804” has been branded on every Haitian’s heart and mind. Even if parts of our country are now scuffed beyond recognition, the Pearl of the Antilles did shine brilliantly once. That much we know. But what would Marie-Janne Lanartiniére say if she saw Haïti today? How would Dessalines react if he saw all the foreign nationals roaming freely on Haitian soil; many with guns in their hands. Would Catherine Flon cry? It’s been 209 years since they gladly died to give us our freedom. What would Dédée Bazile say to us today?

One of the best quotes I heard in 2012 came from Leonie Hermantin. She said: “Don’t just wrap yourself in a flag, do something.” I love that quote because so many of us wrap ourselves in the Haitian flag but do nothing to help fix the mess our country is in. Our culture’s pants have fallen below its knees; we point fingers at “those people,” and yet we do nothing. Strangers have bottled up our culture to sell it right back to us. We pay high prices for goods that belong to us. What would our our ancestors say?

Yes, the flag looks fantastic on our heads and on our backs, but who’s rebuilding the National Palace? Who is taking care of the orphaned babies? Who’s working to get the displaced from under the tents and into homes. Who’s selling our legacy acre by acre?

Our great-grandparents left us land galore; now when we go “home,” we have to rent a little spot from a stranger, and pay in U.S. dollars. Is this the new Pearl of the Antilles? Manman Flon, speak a word to us.

On this Independence Day, VoicesfromHaiti remembers the legacy of Cecile Fatiman, Catherine Flon, Marie Sainte Dédée Bazile, and Marie-Janne Lanartiniére for standing up against the worst kind of abuse. We celebrate also all people who carry a torch in Haiti’s name. We celebrate the politicians, the lawyers, the judges who work for real justice. We celebrate the young people who are searching for life. We celebrate the hundreds of thousands who passed away as a result of the earthquake, floods, and hurricanes. We remember the ones who lost their lives for no particular reason. We applaud our authors, our poets, our teachers, and our students who study by the light of the moon. We bow down to the grandmothers and grandfathers in whose heads the history of Haiti lives. We honor Haiti’s glorious past, and we celebrate the new journey.

We say ochan for one of the boldest women who collects the remains of Haitian culture and breathes life into them: Ms. Carline Ruiz.

Carline was born during a thunderstorm in Port-au-Prince, in 1969. From an early age, all she wanted to do was dance, sing, write, and tell stories. When she was twenty years old, she became part of the group KNK: (konbit neg kay); at the same time she co-founded ADJAH: (Association for the development of young Haitian Artists).

Carline, along with a few others, kept Haitian culture alive by teaching more than four hundred children traditional dance, drumming, theater, and craft-making. The following year, Carline helped to create one of Haiti biggest folk bands: Boukan Ginen. The band would go on to represent Haïti all over the world.

“If our culture disappears, we will forget who we are,” Carline says, And when that happens, we will become a lost people.”

Carline continues: “The way we as Haitians and Haitian-Americans can preserve and promote our culture is by educating the young people. We must teach our foreign-born kids what it means to be Haitian. We must teach them our history. Our youth today lack a sense of pride. Too many young foreign-born Haitians shun their own culture; they would rather say they’re from anywhere but Haïti. We need to teach them to embrace who they are. It is our civic duty to promote Haitian culture; to teach the new generation the way of our ancestors; to keep our tradition from disappearing. No matter what tragedies we endure, we have to continue to promote our legacy. Our ancestors told us that together we are strong. If we lose our identity, we will be divided. Everyone will speak a different language; we will not recognize ourselves. I say let’s work to preserve our identity. United we are strong. Now more than ever, we need to come together and do the work before us. Or watch ourselves fade away.”

_______________________________________

Carline Ruiz is the founder of Rhythm, Dance, et Traditions. Her forthcoming CD is a tribute to the women of Haïti who continue to fight for our art forms and cultural freedom.

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