Haiti s Parvenu

32 Creative Essay

The sound of my grandmother’s Accord blared through the air, announcing her presence.

It was my personal warning: Hurry up or get left behind. The red Honda growled, ready to escort us to our destination. One after the next, we piled together into the car. One seat too few, we squished together like a sponge being thoroughly wrung out. This act was habitual. Too many kids and the lack of money equaled out to kids packed like clowns in a tiny car.

“Mete senti sekirite ou sou,” my Grandma sighed. My siblings and I all exchanged confused looks. Here it goes: the Creole. The beautiful language that flowed from her mouth like gold was one we never had the ability to express.

“I’m sorry babies, Grandma forgot,” she apologized in her heavy accent. “Just put your seatbelts on.”

We sat in the car quietly, hearing only the faint voice of the Haitian pastor giving a word we could only hope was good. Phrases such as “Jezi” caught my attention. Everyone knew how to say Jesus in Creole, even foreigners like me. Other than that, my vision was completely focused on the streets of “Little Haiti.” Some would say it was one of the most cultural parts of Miami.

We passed countless murals telling stories on the walls. One of a woman with a basket on her head drew my eye. The woman seemed to stare out into the distance of a very Red Sea. Incoming was a boat with a sail of red and blue, the sacred colors of my people. In the woman’s basket were rolls of bread, and she pulled sugar cane as if it were life itself, shielding it and herself from the world. My grandmother turned her head slightly, just enough to see me staring at the masterpiece. “I knew of him,” she said. “Knew of who?” I questioned. “The man who made that,” she sighed deeply. She frowned a little, which caused ocean waves to appear on her forehead. There had to be a story behind it, otherwise she wouldn’t have shifted in her seat and gone absolutely silent like a mime. She had to be contemplating something. Getting her to be silent was harder than getting a heathen into heaven. She glanced over at my younger siblings who were slouched over in deep hibernation.

“Where did you know him from, Grandma?” I questioned. “He came from Haiti like many of us a long long time ago, except he made something of himself.” She stared into space collecting her thoughts. “Bebe mwen, the journey here is not what you think. It’s not all happy. Many of us leave home because life is no good there. Many are poor and even more are hungry.” She sighed sadly. “My people struggle so much, but we live, we survive. We do what we have to so we can take care of our families.”

Her words hung in the air like clean laundry. The eerie nature of her struggle caused me to shiver. Goosebumps rose up on my arms, making me look like I had mosquito bites all over.

“Grandma? How did you get here?” I asked softly. I expected no response.

“I came when your daddy was just two years old,” she stated in her strong accent. “I think the year was 1982. Life was really bad for my family. We had little money, and your grandpa wanted to come here. He said that everything would be better, and I believed him.”

Her voice choked towards the end of her sentence, which caused me to look into her dark brown eyes. Her eyes were slightly filled with tears. Deep breaths filled her lungs as the forbidden liquid almost poured over.

“So we talked to some man we knew, and he told us that there would be some men that could take us to America. We knew the trip would be a dangerous one, but we wanted to come here anyway.”

“Grandma, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” I apologized as my hand slowly glided across her back repeatedly. “You don’t have to talk about it anymore, I don’t wanna see you like this.”

“Gen yon benediksyon nan chak ti fi batay,” she spoke in her

native language. My eyes furrowed in confusion before she translated, “There is a blessing in every struggle, girl. I must tell my story so that you may know where you come from.” She looked at me, deep into my eyes, which let me know that the following statement would be one I would have to adhere to. “Knowledge is important,” she said. “It is like life and death. It can save you one day.”

I nodded, showing her that I understood. “Were you scared to come here?”

“I left my family,” she said. “I only had your grandpa and your daddy. My whole life was there. I was very scared. I had never been to this place before. I didn’t know how I would live, but I went anyway, because I had hope. I hoped that life would be better for me here. So when the time came, I took your daddy into my arms and followed your grandpa to the boat.”

Her accent was so strong that I almost couldn’t make out what she was saying. Thirty-six years in America, and her accent had gone nowhere. That’s how it was for many of the Haitian people I knew. They could’ve been here forever, yet their accent stayed, giving them a reminder of their history.

“We boarded the boat with many others just like us. We had our papers,” she said. “There were stories of those who tried to come illegally, and they didn’t end good, my girl. So we had to come the right way, so that we could stay. I wouldn’t want to go back to Haiti. Not at that time.” Haiti isn’t far from Miami, but when I pondered the idea of them riding in a small boat for almost seven hundred miles, my stomach felt sick. The typical image of an immigrant in the American mind doesn’t even come close to the reality of the obstacles faced.

“The ride was going good, until the waves got very bad. Your daddy was little, and it was hard to hold him with the rocking of the boat. The water struck the boat really hard, almost tipping us over. We stayed on though. All except your dad.”

Tears flowed heavier from her eyes, rivers down her cheeks. “He could have died. He almost did. A man dove into the water and pulled him out. He saved him.”

Grandma smiled through her tears. “God let me know that this was the right decision. When we arrived, we had to stay with a friend of your grandpa. We didn’t know how this country worked, and we had little-to-no help.”

“So how did you get the house you have?” I asked. “Many people glorify the journey, but they don’t tell you what it’s like when you actually get here. It was so hard to find a job. Nobody wanted to hire me because my English was very bad. We were outsiders. That is how Little Haiti was formed.”

Little Haiti was exactly how it sounded. It contained the highest concentration of Haitian individuals in Miami, a community, almost like their own little city. I studied the shops with Haitian murals and phrases plastered on the walls. Some parts of it made me uncomfortable though. There were little rumors that some people did voodoo or “woo” in some of these shops.

Seeing as voodoo was a big part of the culture in Haiti, I took heed of the cautionary tales and stayed a good distance away. My family believes in Jesus, and we wanted no part in the tomfoolery.

Grandma’s voice broke me out of my thoughts. “Community helped me and your granddaddy. People told me about ‘Ti Mache ’ the market in Ft. Lauderdale. So I went, and paid for a booth. Every morning I’d rise at 3 a.m. to go pick up fruit and other stuff from the depot and I would take these and sell them at the Swap Shop. This is how we lived. This is how we survived,” she finished.

Harmonic sounds of gravel being crunched filled the air as the car slowly entered the church parking lot, signaling our arrival. I woke my siblings out of their sleep and helped them out the car. I peered over at my grandma, who look relieved, as if she had been revived. I grabbed her hand as we walked into the church, as she mumbled, “Merci, Jezi.” Thank you, Jesus. 33 Creative Essay