Growing up in Haiti, my siblings and I had the opportunity to go to a small Christian international school (CLCS), taught in English, where many missionary kids (known as MKs) from different parts of the world also attended. While we were fully inundated in Haitian culture at home and throughout the weekends, during school, we had a taste of something different. At an early age, our exposure to the U.S through both the education system and our summer travel there, led us to cultivate an awareness and appreciation of American culture. While these experiences shape and shake you, it didn’t fully prepare me for the trials and rigors of being an international student in the US.

As I look back at my CLCS experience in Haiti, I cannot help but reminisce on the feelings the experience evoked. I am grateful to my parents, who patriotically decided to have all of my siblings in Haiti, but nevertheless chose for us attend CLCS both for its Christian values and for the American style education it allowed us to pursue. My experience was one of being caught in two worlds, worlds that interacted only when necessary; I was an American at school and a Haitian at home.

 There was an endless tug between my worlds as I went back and forth, and at points, the lines would blur.    At home my siblings and I would dialogue in English, despite still living and breathing our Haitian surroundings.  The MKs would go back to their North American, European, or African value systems after school, while my siblings and I and the other Haitian students would return to our Haitian homes. We lived in a dichotomy. I remember going to school in pants when we had a sports activity, but due to our societal expectations my mother would always making sure that I changed into a skirt before returning home, because after school we  walked by the Christian mission where to wear pants would be unacceptable.

Among our Haitian friends, we didn’t completely fit in enough because we were the kids that attended the “American school.” When we were in the US, among our Haitian-American cousins, we didn’t completely fit in either because we were the cousins from Haiti that spoke English well ,knew enough of the culture, but had a stricter Haitian upbringing, which didn’t always allow us to be “cool.”

I remember being stuck with my elder brothers in the US during the 1994 Haiti embargo and going to school in Florida for a short timeframe and doing relatively well in school but taking time to socially fit in.

For an international student this experience is unique.  Whether working through getting a visa  to financing your U.S education, this is only a fragment of the experience. As an international student born and raised in Haiti, it was while attending school in America,  when I realized that there were differences between how I perceived the world and what others’ perceived of the world.

 Maybe I was just too naive, but somehow I guess I took for granted my acute awareness of many cultures. I thought that it was normal to be aware of cultures and differences. For the first time in my life I had people asking me questions like: Where is Haiti? Is it in Africa? How come you speak English so well? Hmm, you don’t sound Haitian? Aww, you’re from Haiti, I hear it’s very poor there – how was life like for you? It took me a while to realize that my culture and experience, which I had assumed that everyone was aware of, required some major explaining for many.

 I also had to understand what it was like living away from my home in Haiti and integrating with the American culture while simultaneously learning to keep and respect my own nature. I wasn’t just on vacation and couldn’t just dismiss the differences and/or misunderstandings and I wasn’t just reading about U.S. history in a classroom - this was real life , in a real culture where people had different understandings of my culture and theirs and me vice versa.  Did I ever get it 100% right? No, but I think going through the experience of being an international student , as many would attest, is learning a lesson of a lifetime, expanding your view of the world, and reconciling the differences between your beliefs and experiences:

·         From dealing with roommates with different backgrounds,
·          To experiencing snow for the first time, to missing Haitian food and wishing you could be home,
·          Navigating two cultures, describing things in cre-english (mixture of Creole and English) without even realizing it,
·          Becoming too American for your parents but still being too Haitian in many ways,
·         Being in awe of the questions asked of you then somehow finding the “right” or fitting answer, celebrating your culture at international student activities,
·         Sharing your experience with others that genuinely want to learn about your culture, dismissing ignorant comments,
·         Learning about the American culture through the eyes of people from different backgrounds and experiences,
·         Trying new things,  

and finally, just appreciating the experience as a whole.

-Sophia

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

When I moved to New York City in June of 2006, I was equally bright eyed and terrified. For the first time in my life – just days after my high school graduation – I boarded a one-way flight out of Haiti, leaving all that signified lakay behind. You don’t realize how small Haiti truly is until you leave. Everyone knows everyone – and just when you think you don’t, their family name tells the story.

“Tu es de quelle famille?”

As I moved onto my new college campus, I marveled at my massive new class of over 8,000 students (my high school’s senior class consisted of 10). I clung to my identity for dear life – how else does one stand out in this crowd? My flag hung proudly in my dorm room and I may as well have introduced myself to everyone with “Hello, I’m Haitian, nice to meet you!”

“But, you don’t look Haitian.”

There I was, already feeling like an outcast in the city I predicted would welcome me with open arms. There I was, accepting the harsh reality that I would be tasked with defending self and country at any given turn.

I ask: “What does a Haitian look like?”

The answer to that question is consistently met with a sprinkling of stammers and an apologetic “I didn’t mean it that way…” – or they paint a picture of the countless negative images they’ve seen of my beloved country; how all they have ever known of Haiti is that it’s a third world country with dirt poor inhabitants who live in shacks, have tattered clothing, and use their thick accents to beg for deliverance via foreign aid.

I could have, like others, neatly tucked away my Haitian-ness and no one would have been the wiser.  I could have flown under the radar and been just “another” black girl. But what matters is that I refused.

“But where are you REALLY from?”

I like to think of myself as an unofficial ambassador for my country, ma patrie. I share my beautiful photos and memories of the Haiti I know passionately with anyone who will listen.  And yet, people continue to feel sorry for me when I tell them where I am from.

Do not pity me.

I was fortunate enough to grow up in one of the most beautiful countries in the world; cradled by its majestic mountains, anointed in its crystal turquoise waters, and nurtured by the wholly pure fruits of its earth. I value the importance of family, community and solidarity. I’ve relished in the joys of mango and kite season, the unadulterated beauty of the countryside. I’ve tasted exotic treasures in the flesh – not as artificial flavoring; the sweet bite of sugarcane, the refreshing sip of coconut water in its shell, and juicy papaya from my garden.

Do not pity me.

My history is rich and my future is bright. I’ve lived through moments so beautiful they would spark envy, and moments that would make the average person cringe.  So when my mother worries about me in the Big Apple, I must remind her…

I am your daughter; Capoise, fiercely elegant and strong enough to weather any storm. If they didn’t think I looked Haitian before, they will be sure to see it now – in my coffee-colored skin, the flash of my smile, the passion in my voice, the pride with which I carry Haiti in my heart.

The resemblance is clear as day.

I am Haiti, and Haiti is me.


- Ella

Just as children subconsciously manipulate spoken words at times, rendering them incomprehensible to the untrained ear, growing up my friends and I fêted Kre-English. What is Kre-english you may ask? It is a hybrid of languages combining words and idioms from French, English, occasionally Spanish if you’re lucky, but especially Kreyol. It uses many English words and expressions. It is informal and can be considered a dialect of sorts-a dialect  which our parents fought with us daily over. Of course, as parents, they aspire for their children to be able to efficiently and correctly express themselves in languages; as parents they are always protectively seeking to correct and better. Unfortunately they missed the point: We had found a way to fuse both of our worlds!  We had created a safe place where we could understand whom we were becoming by constructing our own language, one that fused our disparate realities into a clear whole .

 “Globalization refers to the widening, deepening and speeding up of global interconnection, " an assertion which, begs further elaboration.  Swedish journalist, Thomas Larson states that globalization is “the process of world shrinkage, of distances getting shorter and things moving closer.” It is a movement wherein integration is fostered and development is transparent internationally. On an ever globalizing world, it becomes simpler to analyze ones changes, perceptions, and origins.

I am a product of globalization. It has brought me insight, fluidity, and yet also added perplexity. It keeps me infinitely curious of the world around me, propelling me to new allegiances within broader networks of cultures and identities, connections that would have previously been impossible.  While my principal influences are rooted in Haitian culture which in itself is a “boullion” (a local soup, prepared as a stew which usually includes meat and seasonal vegetables, & thick noodles) of sorts,  a compilation of behaviors, beliefs and dogmas characteristic of a number Europe, Africa, and Native American societies, I am myself now a part of a more global “boullion”, one whose ingredients come from a limitless mix of spaces and places. 

I grew up in a country entrenched in a culture that was only partially my own. And I say this because throughout my life I have always identified with more than one culture. 

While my parent’s roots are predominantly characterized through their Haitian identity, they decided upon my conception that I should inhabit more.   I was born in the United States and grew up in Haiti. They saw opportunity and chose to seize it. As a tiny girl they enrolled me in one of the only American accredited institutions our country had to offer. This scholastic establishment afforded me the opportunity of an education which complimented not only academic expectancies of the country I inhabited but those which of wider world.  We were by definition a third culture kids, children who grow up amongst many different worlds.

In the early 1950’s, American researcher, Ruth Useem coined the term third culture kid or TCK  “ referring to children who accompany their parents into another society.”  I had teachers with both a local and international understandings of issues, an experience which afforded me the occasion to cultivate an attitude of curiosity. My classmates, while some where locals, many more had affinities to cultures and peoples which far differed from my norm. This mélange of truths, realities, and lives lived opened my core to the vast possibilities of human experience.  This opening , was also a loss of innocence as I thought would never find a culture to singularly call my own.

My upbringing became an elaborate tapestry of truths, values and behaviors . As I grew into myself, I started to understand the significance of my peculiarities, learned traits, openness and curiosities. But where do my affinities lie? If you were to ask me who I am, sometimes I can’t help but smile. I am Christina Victoria Jean-Louis.  What does this woman carry with her?  There is really so much to me. I am Haitian. I am American. I am curious. I am creative... the list continues. 

But which of these facets make up my core identity? As I walk through the streets of Port-au-Prince in many circles, I will always be the “blan.” (white/foreigner) while in the state, always labeled as the Haitian-American. Will I ever be Haitian or American enough? For a long time I believed this lie.  For a long time I struggled with developing a sense of belonging, commitment and attachment to any culture. This toyed with my self-esteem and identity.

I recently came to the realization that I have been asking myself the wrong question all along.  It was never about if I was enough, it was always about embracing my multifaceted being. I am cross-culturally competent; a citizen of the world. Those who identify with more than one culture know exactly what I mean.

 Taking the best of each of these cultures, values and truth to better myself and the world around me is what we are walking towards. At least that is what I believe. Limiting myself to the constructs and conceptions of others is crippling.  It keeps me from connecting with others, cultivating my curiosity, and embracing myself.

-Chrivi

The beauty of the Hispaniola, they called her. A dark Taino maiden, hailed as the cacica (chief) of Xaragua- amongst the five rulers  of Ayiti .  She was a warrior, while yet hospitable. She was without fear, confidently finding herself and empowering others in an ever shifting landscape, a transient landscape, once harvesting lush pure pastures, quickly shifting polluted by streams of greed and fear. Her areitos ( ballads)  came in as a cool breeze whispering  soothing words of direction:

“There are times to cultivate and create, when you nurture your world and give birth to new ideas and ventures. There are times of flourishing and abundance when life feels in full bloom, energized and expanding. And there are times of fruition and then as things come to an end. And finally of course, there are times that are cold and cutting & empty times when the spring of new beginnings seems like a distant dream. These rhythms in life are natural. They weave into one another as day follows night, bringing neither messages of hope or fear but instead messages of how things are.”

As I maneuver through the world my identity as her daughter remains constant, while all the while ruminating through all that I consume. 
…Our connections foster hope, my experiences nurture understanding; my spirit radiates light.

The question of how I relate to Anacoana is a fascinating one because while I feel intrinsically connected to her. My perception of her has definitely been sculpted by what I have learnt through textbooks, ballads and experiences. She has become a hero, and as heroes most often do; she has become a mix of the facts and the imagined.  …of that which she was and the hope of whom I wanted her to be.

She is almost a mirage.

 An example of solidarity, beauty, and strength. 

An example of a life well lived, in constant pursuit of that which can be, that which should be.  A life consumed by un-lookers worldwide. When the conquistadors traveled to the new world, she was among the first they would gaze upon as they attempted to make sense of the creatures that originally inhabited the island,

“.. an enchanting damsel with sun-kissed skin.”

In other accounts as she attempted to make sense of these new crusaders, her admiration quickly turned to hatred as their cruelty became apparent in their action towards her beloved nation. Her spirit unified her endangered people and instilled hope in a hopeless situation. While she was inherently peaceful her courage and ferocity is remembered by all.

 As I look to the hills which continuously paint the backings of my narrative her spirit lives on through me.

-Chrivi