Until her death in the fall of 2009, one of my favorite ways to bond with my Gamma would be to lay beside her in her bed, often with our fingers interlocked and eyes closed, listening to her recall stories of her life before she was my Gamma.  The settings of her memories would often be small towns in the south of Haiti.  As a child, Barade, Chadonet, Jeremie, Camp-Perrin, not Paris or London, were the backdrops of my daydreams and fantasies.   Thanks to my expansive imagination and fervor to truly know my Gamma, I walked in her shoes, I saw through her eyes, and I tried to feel her emotions during these moments we had together.  To me they were never stories of an unrecognizable land and strangers, but of our home and family.  I heard the same 20 or so stories for over a decade, so I even grew to intimately know the geographies of the towns and the characters that populated her stories.

I walked beside her, as a young adolescent herself, caring for her younger siblings after her mother’s untimely death.  I confronted the grueling, but rewarding efforts of “reine corvet,” (queen of the feast) cooking large meals for dozens of men hungry after working collectively on the land.  I sat beside her learning to read, not through a formal education, but through the use of a Bible and thanks to her uncle’s patience.  

It is this last memory that I always turn to when I think of what and who she stood for.   Two undeniable facts about Gamma was her undying faith in God and her belief in the importance and power of education.  And the significance of this image—that my Gamma learned to read because she wanted to experience the Bible on her own— has never been lost on me, as I still recall the unexpected tightening of my chest the first time I heard her tell this story.  Her spiritual freedom and her curiosity to intimately know her God and His son, was intrinsically tied to her intellectual freedom. 

I would often proudly declare that Gamma was my best friend, but I always knew that our relationship was a far second to her intimacy with God.  Gamma laughed the loudest, cried the hardest, and talked the most while reading the Bible and praying.  Her joy and comfort in this harsh world did not come primarily from her family, but from her faith in a merciful God.  Her unconditional love for us was never of her own doing, but was a reflection of the love she felt from God.

In a way, through sharing my connections with Haiti and my understanding of my Haitianness on Anacaona’s Daughters, I continue to honor my Gamma.  I am building relationships with other women by sharing snapshots of my life, and equally honoring her memory by sharing her story as well.


-Elle

When I approached my quarter life crisis last year, I could feel myself getting anxious.  After all, when our Haitian parents were that age, many of them had already been established, married, and owned a house, or goes the popular story.  I have to say that they are usually the first ones to tell me not to rush into anything. I have heeded this advice, and I feel that many young Haitians and Haitian - Americans have decided to veer off that traditional path, sometimes willingly and sometimes because of the cards that they have been dealt.   I consciously made the decision to explore and find a place in the world before making concrete future plans. 

As I was going through my crisis, I did something that many others before me have done; I made a list.  The first goal on my list was to travel to Paris, the city of lights. After a lot of planning and preparing, I booked my ticket and embarked on my first journey out of the United States and the Caribbean.   
Paris was one of the most beautiful places that I have ever seen. Culture permeated through every nook and cranny.  From the Notre Dame cathedral to the mesmerizing Eiffel tower, I was in awe of the thought that went into the city's architecture. 

I stayed in Montmarte, home to artists such as Van Gogh, Dali, Picasso and Monet, and also the home to the Sacre Coeur Basilica, one of the most beautiful churches that I have ever seen. From the top of it, I had a stunning view of Paris. 
A walking city, I was able to stroll with a friend through the trendy Latin Quarter and the glitzy Champs-Elysées during my stay.  One evening, we even went to the top of the Eiffel tower only to rush back down to see it light up and sparkle at sundown.  

Every meal was luxurious in its simplicity,  the attention and love put into it always evident. My last evening meal was a plate of foie gras; I sighed both in regret and bliss. I finally understand how travelers can leave their hearts in Paris. This trip was one of the most rewarding experiences, and I am grateful for the blessings that made it possible.  Author Tennessee Williams said "Make voyages! Attempt them...There is nothing else." Our generation is tasked with the heavy burden of finding themselves in a tumultuous world; one way for us to do that, it's through travel.  

Poetry over prose is to ride over drown. 

I am at a fragile age of self-discovery. I am at an age when the most subtle changes in perception or the most seemingly insignificant decisions could define who I am for the rest of my life. Not to sound overly dramatic, but us women fresh out of college obviously have a lot more on our plates than figuring out the next step in our educational or career paths. It is at this stage in our lives that some of us will be more acutely aware of external and internal changes, some of which are explicitly outside of our control, that lead us to question…everything. It is when some of us will take a moment to witness our evolution, stepping outside of our skin to observe our metamorphosis in slow motion. It is at this point that some may decide to observe mindlessly, letting themselves be overtaken by the motion of things, while others would be knee deep into the arduous undertaking of trying to shift this process in their favor, rejoicing in every little victory knowing very well that it is impossible to win over it all. But that does not matter one bit. 

In other words, it is the stage at which some might choose “poetry over prose” - not an original notion but a very novel application of it. 

We all know that poetry is the most stubborn, unpredictable, and stereotypically capricious woman of all. But she can also be the most daring, the most passionate, and certainly the most selfless.  Those women who choose to live poetically, or embody poetry in every moment in their lives, are constantly fighting a current. They are fighting themselves and the oh-so human tendencies to give in to the narrow normalities of the world. They are fighting the people in their lives, quite often the ones that they hold or should hold the dearest, who insist on pressuring them to live according to their expectations. They are fighting intangible, macro social constructs that permeate every facet of their lives threatening to adulterate their own supposedly “rebellious” constructs. They are fighting the urge to just give up whenever they think of all of the wrong in this world and theirs. But there is no such a poet that would tell you that writing poetry was easy, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that living poetically would be just as hard, if not harder. 

Living poetically is to ride that current, gracefully, or awkwardly, surpassing every bump in the way, even those low dips that threaten to bury you underneath the ocean forever. Living poetically is to think with your head, your heart and your guts as you imagine a road map across an endless body of water and not giving one thought to its endlessness for fear of it slipping venomous doubt into your core. Living poetically is to support and challenge countless other women stranded as you are, trying and failing and trying again to find their footing on that narrow and obscure material negligently given to them at the start of their journey. Living poetically is also about drowning a number of times and having the humility to let yourself be picked up from the depth. 

I once saw myself drown and it was, sadly, a man that fished me out. The most tender moment was right before I panicked. Right about when everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as I was observing myself running out of breath. The tips of my fingers were reaching out for the surface. My legs hung on their own, swaying lifelessly with the movement of the water. My eyes stinging as they peered through a blurry shade of blue was the only indication that I was indeed still alive. I stood still in time … until my surroundings collapsed as the man dived in to rescue me. It has been the most vividly poetic moment of my life. It never occurred to me until now that that moment keeps happening again and again in my life and in the life of so many others. Now that we are noticing every pore in our bodies, every crack in our shells. Now that we are graced with enlightenment. Now that we have to make that choice.

Let us hope that we are among those that harbor that craving within, even subconsciously. Let us hope that we are among the chosen few who can and will choose poetry. 

- Patricia

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

I am rooted deep; deep in the depths of a place that is blind to light and deaf to whispers. That is where I am. Rooted in a country stricken with eroding, infertile mountainsides of loose dirt, whose fingers cling for dear life, where my heart’s lungs breathe effortlessly. Sometimes I wonder, how any life has taken root, in an environment such as this? How could it have born fruit and even nourished the world? But this life, my life did begin here. So many lives have been lived here and so many of lives have been able to thrive here.

Miracles were daily; abundant. The little things, which are taken for granted in the metropolis that I now call home, are what people shout about, what people Facebook about. Amazement and wonder at the ability of humans to create and innovate were commonplace because the spirit of creativity, God's spirit to make a way out of no way, breathed life into that earth, invigorating it and sowing up gifts and talents that I had the privilege to witness.

Things like playing: 
         "Rosle", the Haitian equivalent of jacks, using goat bone knee caps instead of packaged ball and plastic x. 
           Poking a hole out of a mango to now create a natural Popsicle that allows you to suck the sweet nectar without                  dirtying your shirt, 
            The bottle and can openers made of machetes, old knives or even jaws clenched and snapping up tops. 

Those are the images of innovation and creativity that till this day never cease to amaze me. Those are the my anchors.

From the outside looking in these roots might seem depleted, making toys out of food scraps, or making a note worthy event out of a walk around the block and calling it “promenade”, but for me these have been a testament to the qualities that I cherish the most about the island that sustained my young life. My root caps pierce deep, the barren top soil forcing them to gravitate further into the earth to find nourishment, where others see death and despair my roots find life. It's the flexibility of these roots to bend and twist with the terrain, to deep further than others, that has made me who I am. A season of drought does not rattle these roots for they know where the last droplet of rain is hidden and where the secret waters reside, they will sustain me until the floodgates open again.

There is water there, deep beneath the surface, between the crevices and cracks of the thirsty earth. There is strength. A secret treasure lies there that only a few find and even less cherish. Once you look past the surface and start to see what these roots have latched on to for life, one notices that that roots enriched by that soil have no other choice but to intertwine and connect with the roots of others; others who are there as well searching for life. It becomes roots on top of roots. One root begins to weave into another, networking and interdependently existing, creating a nest that cradles life.

This is my mother. I am her daughter.
 -Melinda

Tragedy transforms us, both literally and figuratively. It besets our choices and actions, compelling us to react in fear.  Fear cripples our potential, propels us to become strangers within our own skin. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Many times great suffering, distress and misfortune drive us to clothe our gashes and lesions with masks of courage and resiliency; just as inertia is often masked by the effect of friction and air resistance.

Born on the dawn of the war to end all wars,  Victoria will forever remain an enigmatic mystery. I have always been intrigued by her.  The tumultuous realities of her life have been mentioned by my grandfather and various members of her family, while her hushed whispers only shed light on to fragments of the puzzle

As its been told… She was a rural heir, born into a wealthy family in the tiny commune of Maniche, a quaint town filled with lush greens and familial people situated along the southern arm of Haiti.   She lived a cultured life, filled with the finest of things, although she was ironically never granted the gift of a scholastic education.

  And from what I have heard… not once has her curiosity led her to seek one.

Mme Julien, her mother, was a powerful lawyer living out dreams, which were far ahead of her time. Taking on impossible cases, she continually ensured that justice be served. Remembered as a fearless woman, she never let anyone stand in her way.  But sadly, as tragedy usually does, it came in as a thief in the night, robbing her early of the bravery and innocence she had until then worn so proudly.

Victoria’s mother had three brilliant children, two handsome gents and her youngest toddler Victoria. Envied by many, their opportune lives left thousands in bitter contempt.  Her eldest son, aspiring to follow in his mother footstep, had recently begun his second year of law school, and her second son was on precipice of beginning his secondary education, when tragedy crept into their lives.

In the next two weeks of their lives, the unutterable took place,  changing the very landscape of their lives. While it isn’t certain that her two young boys were murdered due to envious intent, many recount the story as so.  The powerful Mme Juilen was left crippled by fear.

Her surviving daughter’s future was changed forever. Mme Julien refused the very prospect of her daughter entering primary school. If her education would induce continued envy, which could possibly lead to her death, then education wasn’t an option.

Over 70 years later, Victoria, my grandmother, has yet to show interest in pursuing a formalized education. I would not describe my grandmother as uneducated, as her life has taught her lessons others will never know. Her sheer genius is recognized by all who have had the opportunity to work alongside her. While her tragedies hang for the world to see, she mentions them cautiously; Still terrorized by the weight they bear, her spirit traumatized and potential impeded.  

Her mystery remains...

But in spite of these events, she brought ten beautiful children into this world, carefully molding them into warriors prepared for the world. While her tragedies have brought much distress, and completely changed the outlook of her life, she chose to inculcate not a spirit of fear amongst her family but one of courage and victory.  I have been blessed with the good fortune of carrying her name the “victorious one.” 

-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