NYC-Feature Story

On Our Minds: Stories of Haiti Through the Years


	Discussion: Haiti on Our Minds

At New Youth Connections, January's devastating earthquake in Haiti struck close to home. Since our founding in 1980, we've had many Haitian writers come through our doors. In this spread, we have excerpted passages from previously published stories by some of these writers, alongside an account of the earthquake's personal impact by Cassandra Charles. This small collection illustrates that, while Haiti is now more than ever on our minds, it has never been far away.

My Family’s Loss

January 15, 2010. It’s 7 a.m. and the phone rings. My heart begins pounding. Since the earthquake hit Haiti three days earlier we haven’t heard anything from our relatives, so each call poses a threat. I race to the phone and upon seeing the caller ID—it’s my cousin in Haiti—I feel tears well up in my eyes. All I can think is, “She shouldn’t be calling this early.”

“Hello, Cassan, eske mammi la? Mwen bezouin pale ak li.” My cousin’s voice sounds cold and broken as she asks, in Creole, to speak to my mother. I hand my mom the phone and without a single word uttered between us, my mother’s eyes and mine connect; a mutual transfer of fear and anguish is made.

A few seconds later, I hear my mom gasp and look down. My worst fears roar to life as she cries, “Baby mouri! Baby has died!” Rocks of saliva form and make it impossible for me to breathe or scream. I can’t even move.

Too Young, Too Beautiful

I don’t know why, but I believed that my family would experience this tragedy with no real loss. When I heard my mother’s words I found myself thinking: “This can’t be true; my cousin is too young, too beautiful, too smart, too every good thing that exists; please, God, don’t let it be true. She’s only 20, her graduation is coming up, she has a beautiful nephew to meet, she has so much more living to do.” I sat shaking my head, trying to make this whole thing a lie.

I met Alexandra, whom everyone called “Baby,” for the first time when I traveled to Haiti eight years ago. I was 11 and she was 12. “Allo, mwen se kouzin ou,” she said, meaning, “Hello, I’m your cousin.” We immediately hit it off and for the rest of my visit, we were inseparable.

We talked about how different life in America was and how life in Haiti was such an adventure every day. One day you could see a carnival right outside your window, and the next day a full brawl between street merchants. We teased her little brother who was always bothering us, and drank “cola lakay,” a Haitian drink that locals consider the official beverage of the nation, like it was nobody’s business.

“Baby” was such an open and caring person, a humble and beautiful soul. Her smile could light up an entire town, and it did: Everyone in her small town of Delmas 19 loved her and predicted she would go far in life.

My Family United

When my mom hung up the phone, she explained that Baby had been at her college at the time of the earthquake. As my mom continued speaking, it was as if I became deaf; all I could picture was Baby under rubble, in pain, scared out of her mind. I felt every ounce of strength and hope drain from my body.

Then my mom jumped to her feet screaming, “Serge!! Serge!!” as it hit her that her brother had lost his daughter. “We have to go to him now! Get ready!”

My uncle and two of his children live here in New York, while his wife and the other children live in Haiti. Like my mom, I was suddenly hit by the realization that my other cousin had lost her only sister, who was without a doubt her best friend. If I was in so much pain, I knew, she must be losing her mind. As it did in my mom, a sudden desperate urge to be with them arose in me, and I couldn’t shower and dress quickly enough.

Radiating Pain

This is how the earthquake hit my family, and I found strength in comforting family members who were in more pain than I was. I’d heard it said that a person can be in so much pain that you feel it coming off their body, but experiencing it was like nothing I had ever felt. When I embraced my cousin at my uncle’s house, her body felt so limp and hot that I was afraid she would get sick from crying so hard.

I felt myself close to losing it, but I knew that I had to be strong for her, for her little brother, and for my uncle. I walked away and gathered myself, and then I came back in and sat holding her little brother’s hand in silence.

Now that it’s been a few days, I can actually sit and write about what’s happened, but getting to this point has been an uphill battle. It’s hard to accept I’ll never see my cousin again. I found myself asking God if he had to take someone from my family, why not an old person, someone who had lived their life?

This earthquake taught me that tomorrow is promised to no one, so we should all live our lives to the fullest and try to make sure they are worthwhile. It’s reminded me to be kind to people and loving to family, friends, and even myself.

—Cassandra Charles, 2010

Letting Haiti Go

“We’re moving to America, honey!” my mother announced as we sipped our coffee on a hot Saturday morning during the summer before 5th grade.

I stared at her, hoping she would make some gesture to tell me she was joking. But to my surprise, she kept the confident face she wore only when she was really determined.

My grandmother had immigrated to the U.S. before I was born. My mother was always telling me that my grandmother had applied for our permanent residency and we’d move there when all the papers were sorted out. But I never took her seriously.

I lived in an apartment with my mother, stepfather, and uncle in Port-au-Prince. We had a comfortable life there. I couldn’t understand why my mother wanted to move. I went to private school, and she had a stable job as a salesperson.

I didn’t want a new start. I’d have to watch myself helplessly slip off the Haitian island and there was nothing I could do.

I spent my last two weeks visiting all my favorite hangouts. I ate a lot of sugarcane, mangoes, and many other juicy fruits so my mouth wouldn’t forget their unique tropical tastes.

It was an unbearable heartbreak for me to say goodbye to my two best friends, Daphne and Stephanie. We’d been friends since we were in diapers. Knowing we wouldn’t be in each other’s daily lives anymore felt devastating.

I gave everything, including my dolls and my teddy bear collection, to my friends so they would remember me. I felt like a wild fish that had been taken away from the sea to be put into an aquarium full of fish different from itself.

—Kaela Bazard, 2007

A New World Full of Strangers

People often glare at me as though searching for some sign of my nationality. If I don’t fit their particular stereotype, they challenge me. They ask me whether I am sure that I am really Haitian.

Being any kind of immigrant isn’t easy. Nevertheless, the view of Haitian immigrants has made us ashamed among our peers. The boat people and those few stricken with AIDS have served as profiles for all of us.

If only those who abuse us would ask, perhaps we’d explain that it is not our fault that we are intruding on their existence. To avoid brutal deaths and lead better lives, we are forced to leave our homes.

We’d plead with them to accept us and accommodate us, not make life miserable for us. Because, yes, we are strangers. Unfortunate strangers in a world full of strangers.

—Edwidge Danticat, 1987

Dream Girl

In Haiti, our ambitions were based on what we saw on TV, where everything looked better than what we were used to. We wanted to be rich and famous, heroic and strong. And even though we were little kids, we also wanted girlfriends.

When I was 7 there was one pretty girl I especially adored, but I didn’t want to take a chance on talking to her. She was my height and never braided her long, straight black hair. She was a member of her church choir and had the most beautiful voice. Her name was Mishland.

My best friend Herode wrote a love letter for me to give to her. I gave her the letter without reading it. The next day I received a letter from her with a lot of romantic pictures on it. It had only six words: “Oui, j’aimerais être votre petite amie” (“Yes, I would love to be your girlfriend”).

After that I was really happy to go to school. Soon we got more comfortable with each other and we loved nothing more than being with each other. Once, on a Saturday, I went to my father’s farm and picked mangoes and avocadoes for her. I bought some bread and waited for her under a big tree near her house. When she arrived, she thanked me with a kiss, and we sat there eating and talking about Haitian music.

One day when I was about 12, I found Mishland crying after school. When I asked what was wrong, she said she was going to move to another town and change schools.

I forced myself not to cry. I hugged her and I could tell that she wanted me to say something nice to her, like “I won’t ever forget about you.” But nothing came to mind. I walked her home and said goodbye.

A few months later I found out that I would be moving to the U.S. I was still crazy for Mishland and I didn’t see how America was going to help me fill the empty space that she had left.

As time passed, I met new people who loved me and took my mind off her. Eventually, with a new life and new things to think about, I began to let go of my sorrow over her.

Even though I don’t expect Mishland and I will be together again, I still feel like we have a connection. It’s like we’re on the same page, but in different books.

—David Etienne, 2008

Moving to the Music

I started dancing when I was 10 years old. I was chosen to dance by the nuns at Immaculée Conception, my Catholic elementary school in Port-au Prince.

As part of the nuns’ dance group, I performed a dance called “nymes,” which is used in Catholic religious services in Haiti. In nymes, specific dance movements correspond with the words of a song. I think of it as singing but using movement instead of words. I danced for my faith in God, and it felt very delicate, soothing, and inspirational to me. We’d dance when it was any nun’s birthday, for Christmas, at special Masses, and for Carnival, in the second week of February.

But I didn’t just dance for religious ceremonies. As I was growing up, my father taught me a lot of other dances. Salsa, meringue, ballroom—I learned them all. I remember him making me stand on his feet and leading me like a robot.

I can remember dancing with him after my First Communion in the Catholic Church when I was 10. After the church service, my godmother threw me a party at her house. My father and I were the first ones on the dance floor, dancing to kompa music (native Haitian music), which asks the dancers for a lot of passion. It’s danced by a duo moving as one. It’s a beautiful experience, like when a slow wave of the sea moves you.

I’ve always thought of my dad as a professional dancer, although he actually works at a school bus company. When I asked him how he taught himself, he’d always say the same thing: “To me dancing is not something that can be taught. It has to come from within you. Just close your eyes and go with the flow, and you will know how to dance.”

If I’d had my way, I would have kept dancing in Haiti.

—Raelle Charles, 2006

Finding My Haitian Pride

“OK, class, now we’re going to speak about your cultures and how they differ from each other,” said my 6th grade homeroom teacher, Ms. Rose.

I was excited. I was eager to speak about my rich Haitian-American culture, especially the food. Picture a plate piled with red beans so piping hot that you’re afraid you’ll burn your tongue, a fried beef dish called taso and, on the side, corn, baby carrots, string beans, and broccoli all sautéed together.

To me, being Haitian was like breathing air or drinking water. It was the smell of cornmeal and fish in the morning at my grandmother’s house, the sweet sound of Haitian kompa music. Being Haitian was something I had never really thought about, but I knew it made me who I was.

I’d only been to Haiti myself a few times. I remembered during one visit when I was 7, I went to a friend’s farm where she picked me a mango off one of her many fruit trees. When I finished eating it all, my hands were sticky and my belly was satisfied. That’s what Haiti did for me—filled me with its sweet culture and made me feel content.

—Marsha Dupiton, 2009

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