Words are never enough to describe the sheer impact another person’s life has had on another. These connections are what we live for. What wakes up in the morning and keeps us grounded in the person we were, are, and is becoming. They push us to strive for the impossible; to live freely accepting all that life brings.

These were the mornings I lived for; I must have been around 7 years old. These were such glorious days; filled with glee and excitement.  All four of us ( Me, Lucie, Thaina, and Melinda) bunched together in the car waiting for that moment of the thrill.  Your spirit was beautifully infectious. You would be there, and always will be ingrained in my memory as the man who taught me to fly.

As we drove to school along the inside road in Delmas 33 which leads to 75, there would be what seemed like the most humongous hill( at least it appeared as so at the time). And as you would sneak in to it, revving up the car in preparation..  I would close my eyes in unbelief, my breath would quicken in excitement and anticipation.    As we ‘ d zoom up to the very top of the hill the car would fly. The car would suspend in the air for what seemed like hours and we would cheer in excitement.  I would hold my breath and my heart would stop in awe . We defied gravity.  We were flying.

And now as I look at the world, everything seems attainable.  I mean hey, I flew at 7 years of age! I defied the impossible. I can fly.  One would never realize the impact these simple rides had on how I now view the world .

 Thank you for teaching me to fly.

May you forever rest in peace, 
 Danemark Jacques

Have you ever ventured to see the world through the lens of an another ? 

As I sit here clenching my over-sized bag to my chest in what seems to be the midst of  1,000s of people...I find myself lost in the dreams of the factory worker who just completed a 12 hour shift this morning, who bows his head in hopes that one day he will come home early enough to tuck his daughter to sleep or leave home late enough to share a warm breakfast with his beautiful family.

 I get lured in by the sweet melodies of the penniless lady who sings with her heart in hopes that one day her lingering odor won't tell her story, nor the spare change she receives from her sympathetic audience, but that one day her aspirations to tell her story to the world, to move nations with her God-given gift will come to fruition.

The aromatic perfume of freshly brewed fair trade coffee awakens my senses... as I gander upon the oh-to familiar "wall street junkies" dressed in their rent priced suits as they juggle the morning paper in one hand , blackberries in an another, intense cravings of handling vast amounts of money and determined to risk a mouthful of the national economy.


Then of-course, my commute to central Manhattan wouldn't be complete with out the wide-eyed tourists equipped with their fanny packs,who travel like schools of fish; and who's excitement is contagious to all whom bear eyes upon this color-coordinated bunch. They remind us, that we are in what most believe to be: the greatest city in the world but assuredly the most populated. Their awe-stricken anxiety honors this city's influence over global commerce,media, art, fashion, research, education ,entertainment and more. They are ready to devour as much they can...

And yes at times I pinch myself because I wonder if this is reality. Millions of people living their lives in hopes of the realization of something greater, thousands of people wandering from one location to another , hundreds going through the motions...

And as I sit here I can't help but pray, pray for each and every one of them because their stories are imprinted and my hopes that their hopes (whatever they may be) are realized

-Chrivi
can also be read here: Through their eyes

“Nothing can describe the withering horror of this. You feel lost, sick at heart before such unmasked hatred, not so much because it threatens you as because it shows humans in such an inhuman light. You see a kind of insanity, something so obscene the very obscenity of it (rather than its threat) terrifies you. It was so new I could not take my eyes from the man’s face. I felt like saying: “What in God’s name are you doing to yourself.”  Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin

Getting lost with in these pages as an early teen opened the doors to unfiltered emotion, understanding and duplicity. Through his story, I found mine.  These words not only uncovered the underlying’s of my present but those which had yet to be lived. 

Growing up in a predominantly black country it was easy to overlook the obvious. I was not unaware of the color of my skin, it simply didn’t consciously dictate the lens with which I had begun to understand the world around me. When I began university, I was met with a very different landscape; one saturated with people who visually held little resemblance to those whom had colored my journey thus far.

My father and I drove deeper and deeper into the hills of Pennsylvania. The air was mossy and foreign. With each second that passed by, my heart’s pace would quicken. As I let myself ingest the greenery which enveloped us, I found a fleeting security.   Armed with a map in hand, in search of the town I would one day call home, I found solace in my naiveté…

Moving to the middle-of-no-where Pennsylvania was probably the first time in my life that no longer felt as part of the majority. Now, the norms were olive toned and spoke in foreign garbled tones labeled “Americanized”. They were completely consumed by their milieu, as I had been of my own. With each step, and experience I became more and more aware of the skin I was in.

I was homesick within hours of stepping on campus. From the first day of orientation, to my first day of classes I couldn’t help but gaze at their monotony. My dark foreign tone was sparsely sprinkled across campus. Which brought about slight discomfort as even those which resembled me seemed as distant as the Caucasians which made up the majority.  I felt lost and exposed.  I was alone in a pool of  American students .I assumed their stares were as well intentioned as my own, as I couldn’t help but gawk at their mannerisms and philosophies while attempting to uncover their mystery.

While I was met with initial confusion and anxiety, my assimilation was seamless. As I quickly learned my discernment, education, and past experiences molded a fitting foundation. This became the natural step to my journey.  Each step, a step into the unknown... Unaware of how intricately prepared I had been to a soak up and unwarily understand that which I was met. 

It fascinates me how simple experiences can illuminate the deepest realities that otherwise remain hidden. As I made my way through immigration yesterday, I impatiently stood in line for what seemed like forever.  Eventually, I noticed a dark immigration officer seated at the end of the room. He would flag down seemingly random people in line and have them jump to the front to be served first. I didn’t think much of it at first, as I have definitely been guilty of skipping my fair share of lines. After it happened three more times in less than 15 minutes the people who had patiently waited alongside me began to get furious. Their hushed murmurs had now escalated to exaggerated groans of frustration.

As I observed the reactions to this man and his choices, I began to feel slightly uncomfortable. I began to question myself. Why wasn’t I flagged up to the front of the line? What was wrong with me? The only distinguishable factor of his selections was their skin tone. They were all mullato.

Growing up in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, where our society is painted primarily by the stark differences between the rich and the poor, it was easy for me to overlook the racial constructs and barriers that existed alongside economic ones.

Having fallen victim to subliminal messaging  my daydreams turned to hopes for lighter skin. I had been bred to believe that a lighter skin tone would carry acclaim, beauty and success. And I believed it to be true. I speak now with much hesitancy because such thought is dangerous, self-destructive and volatile; not to mention shameful. I didn’t understand how then I had drawn these conclusions I just knew that it was as it was. And it was accepted by populace which surrounds me without question.

At least three shades darker than most of my peers, I quietly envied their golden caramel complexions. Growing up my hair was so  grenn (coarse) that at the tender age of 7, my mother decided to chemically process in hope of making it more manageable. It was constantly compared to the grit and grime of a foutbòl (soccer) field, while my lighter toned cousin with cheveux sirop (hair that flowed like honey) was continually admired and coveted.
I still recall my friends and I proudly tracing our ancestries back to the European colonizers as if it were the highest of achievements, and completely ignoring our African ancestry as if our chocolate pigment didn’t voice a worthy narrative.  At our delicate ages, maybe we were simply mimicking the voices of those who trained us,  our conceptions of this world learned from society and enforced by each other.

And these are the dominant narratives of society?

Growing up, racism always felt so removed from the realities that bore weight in our everyday lives.  It was never really spoken of or given much mind. My understanding of race was entirely skewed. My circles of acquaintance scoped the whole spectrum of races, so of course things of such nature had little to do with me. I was comfortably “color blind.”
I believed I maybe had bigger problems to solve; hungry toddlers with out-stretched hands, sun parched skin, and orange hair which boar witness to frail malnourished frames dejectedly hangingoff the side of our cars.

But as I look back racism:

• an irrational bias towards members of a racial background, the belief that all members of each    race possess characteristics or abilities specific to that race, especially so as to distinguish it as inferior or superior to another race or races

…was inherently interwoven into the lens with which I was trained to understand the world.

Prejudices, discrimination, and antagonism were directed against someone of a different race even when the race was no different than my own. My irrational biases brought torment; admitting that to this day ,I  subconsciously struggle to judge by the 'content of one’s character" rather than the "color of ones skins "brings me confusion. I have become my own jailer. Perhaps my struggle is accentuated by a society that believes that it has transcended race,that has achieved some vaunted post racialism.

Within a society where representation of so-called perfection cloud the media outlets and educational sectors how can one expect to see the world as anything else? How can we choose to be of equal worth as my lighter counterparts, when all that I see dictates a different narrative?

Chuckling I shake my head in embarrassment, I must be slow for subjectively internalizing these outdated truths.  ...The loud groans were no longer aimed at the dark immigration officer as my daydreams had once again got the best of me. “ Next in line!” I looked forward in surprise. The little lady that had patiently stood behind me had jolted past me in annoyance of my delayed response.

-Chrivi

A wiser man once said “Freedom is an illusion,”   we carry with pride, one that pushes us to attain the impossible, and it continuously cultivates an air of control coveted globally. Consumed by the prospect of constructing our destiny and ultimately discerning our fate, we sit expectantly. Playing God we blindly roll the dice while making decisions, those same choices that alter the future of our lives.

Ultimately are we really the masters of our destiny? Are our decisions free from constraints? Free from influence? Are we alone in this world? Are we moving independently through society unbound by anyone and anything?

I ask these questions, because as I respond to them I am baffled, by my misplaced autonomy.  Are my decisions ultimately my own? I am free from influence?  Am I bound to anyone or anything? Is this what I want? Will this make me happy?

 I know only what I know.

  What I do know is, is within the most intimate moments  of solitude and meditation I feel connected, that I find comfort in the knowledge that I am never alone, That I blindly make decisions in coordination others.

Am I alone in this construction? No, we are interconnected, continually making decisions in coherence with one another. We are fundamentally social beings.

There is an example I have heard a few times which recently resonated with me.  One of the most intimate decisions we can ever face the choice to take one’s own life, to commit suicide. From what we see this decision is ours.  From the basest point of view this choice is ours alone, intensely personal.

French sociologist, Emile Durkheim underwent a groundbreaking sociological study on suicide. He argued that suicide, this seemingly personal act was caused by social factors not individual ones. Observing that the rate of suicide varied with time and place, Durkeim looked for causes linked to factors other than emotional stress; he studied from the degree to which people feel integrated into the structures of society to their social surroundings.  He argued that suicide rates affected by the different social contexts in which they emerge. (References :Anderson, M.L. and Taylor, H.F. (2009). Sociology: The Essentials. Belmont, CA: Thomson Wadsworth)

Research has consistently proven this.  Within the  small area of western Missouri about 50 persons commit suicide year after year for over 20 years.What is this telling us? Why are about 50  people killing themselves, every single year within this specific area? There are invisible strings compelling these people to end their lives. While yes they are faced with an intimate decision, there is another piece to puzzle? The matching numbers are revealing something greater.

 I had struggled with body image for quite some time. Making sense of what I needed to look like or feel like at times left me confused. This struggle manipulated my relationship with beauty, food, appearances, control etc.  At the height of this contortion, I questioned my validity in this world. Wearing a mask and letting my seemingly imperfect image dictate my identity. I felt isolated.

Frequently I felt that I was going crazy by torturing myself, but then I realized I was not alone. I felt comfort from someone I had never even met. Her poems allowed me to step outside of my head authorizing me to take a step back, and take a moment; a moment to analyze the cords which had subconsciously formed a strong hold on my heart.  The strings I had latched on to and what they were telling me about myself. Layer after layer I peeled the roots of the virus which had threatened to take my life.

When I finally garnered up the courage to share my struggles, I was again surprisingly met with comfort, empowerment, and strength. This strength that was not nurtured by isolation, it was fortified by our unity.

Others just like me, were struggling. Others were internally grappling with the idea of who they needed to be. What they should like? And how that determined their worth.

I was not alone. We are not alone.

“… in the moments of our deepest isolation we’re holding invisible hands with others. When we could easily feel most cut off from the world, we’re actually holding hands with people we may never see.” Dr. Sam Richards.

-Chrivi