Butterfly's Way: Voices From the Haitian Dyaspora in the United States Read Free Page A

elegance of the villas
    Hidden in the bougainvilleas
    And the beds of azaleas
    And the vast paved trails
    Behind dense walls
    The verandahs with princely mosaics
    Embellished
    With large vases of clay
    Covered
    With sheets of ferns
    Pink cretonnes
    Verandahs where one catches
    A breath of fresh air
    During nights
    Of staggering heat
    By listening to
    The sounds of the city
    Rising up to the foothills
    I would love to recite for you
    The great history
    Of the peoples of my country
    Their daily struggles
    For food and drink
    Tireless people
    Hardworking people
    Whose lives are a struggle
    With no end
    Against misery
    Fatigue
    Dust
    In the open markets
    Under the sun's blazing breath
    I would want to make you see
    The clean unbroken streets
    Straight as arrows
    Bordered by the green
    Of royal palms and date palms in bloom
    I would love to make you admire
    The shadowed dwellings
    The oasis of green
    Of my Eden
    I would carry you
    On my shivering wings
    To the top of Croix D'Haiti
    And from there
    Your gaze would travel over
    These mountains
    These plains
    These valleys
    These towns
    These schools
    These orphanages
    These studios
    These churches
    These factories
    These hounforts
    These prayer houses
    These universities
    These art houses
    Conceived by our genius
    Where hope never dies.

DYASPORA
    Joanne Hyppolite
    When you are in Haiti they call you Dyaspora. This word, which connotes both connection and disconnection, accurately describes your condition as a Haitian American. Disconnected from the physical landscape of the homeland, you don't grow up with a mango tree in your yard, you don't suck keneps in the summer, or sit in the dark listening to stories of Konpe Bouki and Malis. The bleat of vaksins or the beating of a Yanvalou on Rada drums are neither in the background or the foreground of your life. Your French is nonexistent. Haiti is not where you live.
    Your house in Boston is your island. As the only Haitian family on the hillside street you grow up on, it represents Haiti to you. It was where your granmk refused to learn English, where goods like ripe mangoes, plantains, djondjon, and hard white blobs of mints come to you in boxes through the mail. At your communion and birthday parties, all of Boston Haiti seems to gather in your house to eat griyo and sip kremas. It takes forever for you to kiss every cheek, some of them heavy with face powder, some of them damp with perspiration, some of them with scratchy face hair, and some of them giving you a perfume head-rush as you swoop in. You are grateful for every smooth, dry cheek you encounter. In your house, the dreaded matinet which your parents imported from Haiti just to keep you, your brother, and your sister in line sits threateningly on top of the wardrobe. It is where your mother's andeyb Kreyol accent and your father's lavil French accent make sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrible music together. On Sundays in your house, "Dominika-anik-anik" floats from the speakers of the record player early in the morning and you are made to put on one of your frilly dresses, your matching lace-edged socks, and black shoes. Your mother ties long ribbons into a bow at the root of each braid. She warns you, your brother and your sister to "respect your heads" as you drive to St. Angela's, never missing a Sunday service in fourteen years. In your island house, everyone has two names. The name they were given and the nickname they have been granted so that your mother is Gisou, your father is Popo, your brother is Claudy, your sister is Tinou, you are Jojo, and your grandmother is Manchoun. Every day your mother serves rice and beans and you methodically pick out all the beans because you don't like pwa. You think they are ugly and why does all the rice have to have beans anyway? Even with the white rice or the mayi moulen, your mother makes sbspwa — bean sauce. You develop the idea that Haitians are obsessed with beans. In your house there is a mortar and a pestle as well as