Create Dangerously Part 8

Suddenly, this stunning chronicle of a homecoming to a very recent Haiti feels like a historical novel. Then it hits me. From now on, there will always be the Haiti of before the earthquake and the Haiti of after the earthquake. And after the earthquake, the way we read and the way we write, both inside and outside of Haiti, will never be the same.

Daring again to speak for the collective, I will venture to say that perhaps we will write with the same fervor and intensity (or even more) as before. Perhaps we will write with the same sense of fearlessness or hope. Perhaps we will continue to create as dangerously as possible, but our muse has been irreparably altered. Our people, both inside and outside of Haiti, have changed. In ways that I am not yet fully capable of describing, we artists too have changed.

Twenty-three days after the earthquake, my first trip to Haiti is brief, too brief. A friend finds a last-minute cancellation on a relief plane. Another agrees to help my husband look after our young girls in Miami.

I arrive in Port-au-Prince at an airport with cracked walls and broken windows. The fields around the runway are packed with American military helicopters and planes. Past a card table manned by three Haitian immigration officers, a group of young American soldiers idle, cradling what seem like machine guns. Through an arrangement between the Haitian and the U.S. governments, the American military, as leader in the relief effort, has taken over Toussaint L'Ouverture Airport.

Outside the airport, my friend Jhon Charles, a painter, and my husband's uncle, whom we call Tonton Jean, are waiting for me. A small man, Tonton Jean still cuts a striking figure with the dark motorcycle helmet he wears everywhere now to protect himself from falling debris. Jhon and Tonton Jean are standing behind a barricade near where the Americans have set up a Customs and Border Protection operation at the airport.

Whose borders are they protecting? I wonder. I soon get my answer. People with Haitian pa.s.sports are not being allowed to enter the airport.

Maxo's oldest son, Nick, who now lives in Canada, is also in Haiti. He arrived a few days before I did to pay his respects and see what he could do for his brothers and sisters, who had been pulled, some of them wounded, from the rubble of the family house in Bel Air. When I arrive in Port-au-Prince, Nick is at the General Hospital with two of his siblings, getting them follow-up care.

One of the boys, thirteen-year-old Maxime, has already lost a toe to gangrene. Nick was told that his eight-year-old sister, Monica, might need to have her foot amputated, but the American doctors who are taking care of her in a tent clinic in the yard of Port-au-Prince's main hospital think they may be able to save her foot. This makes Monica luckier than a lot of other people I see hobbling on crutches all over Port-au Prince, their newly amputated limbs covered by shirt or blouse sleeves or pant legs carefully folded and pinned with large safety pins.

I am heading to the hospital to see Nick and the children when I get my first view of the areas surrounding my old neighborhood. Every other structure, it seems, is completely or partially destroyed. The school I attended as a girl is no more. The national cathedral, where my entire school was brought to attend ma.s.s every Friday, has collapsed. The house of the young teacher who tutored me when I fell behind in school has caved in, with most of her family members inside. The Lycee Petion, where generations of Haitian men had been educated, is gone. The Centre d'Art, which had nurtured thousands of Haitian artists, is barely standing. The Sainte-Trinite Church, where a group of famous Haitian artists had painted a stunning series of murals depicting the life of Christ, has crumbled, leaving only a section of a lacerated wall, where a wounded Christ seems to be ascending toward an open sky. Grand Rue, downtown Port-au-Prince's main thoroughfare, looks as though it had been bombed for several consecutive days. Standing in the middle of it reminds me of film I had seen of a destroyed Hiroshima. With its gorgeous white domes either tipped over or caved in, the national palace is the biggest symbol of the Haitian government's monumental loss of human and structural capital. Around the national palace has sprung up a ma.s.sive tent city, filled with a patchwork of makeshift tents, actual tents, and semipermanent-looking corrugated tin structures, identical to those in dozens of other refugee camps all over the capital. The statues and monuments of the unknown maroon, a symbol of Haiti's freedom from slavery, of Toussaint L'Ouverture, Henri Christophe, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, and even a more recent ma.s.sive globelike sculpture commissioned by President Jean-Bertrand Aristide to commemorate Haiti's bicentennial in 2004-these monuments and symbols around the national palace are still standing; however, their platforms now serve as perches from which people bathe and children play.

Outside the nursing and midwifery schools near the General Hospital are piles of human remains freshly pulled from the rubble. Dense rings of flies surround them. The remains are stuck together in two large b.a.l.l.s. I wonder out loud whether all these nursing and midwifery students had been embracing one other when the ceiling collapsed on top of them, their arms and legs crisscrossed and intertwined. My friend Jhon Charles corrects me.

"These are all body parts," he says, "legs and arms that were pulled out the rubble and placed on the side of the road, where they dried further and melded together." Sticking to several of the flesh-depleted legs are pieces of yellowed cloth-skirts, I realize, which many of the women must have been wearing.

Across the street from the remains, people line up to watch. One woman pleads with the crowd to repent. "Call on Jesus! He is all we have left."

"We are nothing," another man says, while holding a rag up against his nose. "Look at this, we are nothing."

Jhon is a lively thirty-four-year-old who under normal circ.u.mstances has an easy laugh. He has been drawing and painting since he was a boy, using up leftover materials from his artist father. Later he attended Haiti's National School of the Arts, and he has been painting and teaching art in secondary schools since he graduated. Even though he is at the beginning of his career, he has already partic.i.p.ated in group shows in Port-au-Prince, New York, Miami, and Caracas, Venezuela. Jhon grew up in Carrefour, where Tonton Jean also lives. The epicenter of the earthquake was near Carrefour. A week after the earthquake, my husband and I were still trying to locate Jhon and Tonton Jean. Their cell phones were not working and, besides, they were both very busy. Tonton Jean was pulling people out of the rubble and Jhon was teaching the traumatized children in the tent city near his house to draw.

In the tent clinic at the general hospital, I find Maxo's son Maxime, sleeping on a bench near where Maxime's sister Monica is attached to an antibiotic drip. All around Monica, wounded adults and children lie on their sides or backs on military cots. Most of the adults have vacant stares, while the children look around half curious, examining each new person who walks in. I try to imagine what it must have been like in this tent and others like it during those first days after the earthquake, when, Tonton Jean tells me, people were showing up at the little clinic across the street from his house in Carrefour, without noses and ears or arms and legs.

In the tent clinic I say h.e.l.lo to Monica. She looks up at me and blinks but otherwise does not react. Her eyes are dimmed and it appears that she may still be in shock. To watch your house and neighborhood, your city, crumble, then to watch your father die, and then nearly to die yourself, all before your tenth birthday, seems like an insurmountable obstacle for any child.

Even before this tragedy, Monica was a shy girl. When I saw her during my visits to Haiti, she would speak to me only when she was told what to say. The same was true when I spoke to her on the phone. Now in the tent clinic, I give her a kiss in the middle of her head, where her hair has been shaved in an uneven line to place a bandage where a piece of cement had split open her scalp.

Before I leave the tent hospital, the blonde young American doctor who is taking care of Monica gives her a yellow smiley-face sticker.

"She's my brave little soldier," the doctor says.

I thank her in English.

"You speak English very well," she says, before moving to the severely dehydrated baby in the next cot.

My next family stop is in Delmas, to see my Tante Zi. Though it had not collapsed, her house, perched on a hill above a busy street, is too cracked to be habitable, so she is staying in a large tent city in an open field nearby. We had talked often after the earthquake, and her biggest fear was of being caught out there in the rain. I had pleaded with her to go to La Plaine, where we had other family members, but she did not want to leave her damaged house, fearing that it might be vandalized or razed while she was gone.

When I reach Tante Zi's house, some of the family members from La Plaine, including NC, are there too. We are too afraid to go inside the house, so we all gather on the sidewalk out front, which is lined with tents and improvised showers. It astounds me how much more of Haitian life now takes place outside, the most intimate interactions casually unfolding before our eyes: a girl sitting between her boyfriend's legs on a car hood, a woman bathing her elderly mother with a bowl and a bucket. These are things we might have seen before, but now they are reproduced in some variation in front of dozens of shattered or nearly shattered houses on almost every street.

I hug NC and Tante Zi and six of my other cousins and four of their children. They tell me about the others. The cousin with the broken back may possibly be airlifted out of the country. The others from La Plaine were still sleeping outside their house but through a contact in Port-au-Prince they had gotten some water. Everyone had received the money the family had put together and wired them for food. Through all this, we hold and cradle one another, and while I hand them the tents and tarp they had requested, I start repeating something I hear Tonton Jean say each time he runs into a friend.

"I'm glad you're here. I'm glad bagay la-the thing-left you alive so I can see you."

Bagay la, this thing that different people are calling different things, this thing that at that moment has no official name. This thing that my musician/hotelier friend Richard Morse calls Samson on his Twitter updates, that Tonton Jean now and then calls Ti Roro, that Jhon calls Ti Rasta, that a few people calling in to a radio program are calling Goudougoudou.

"I am glad Goudougoudou left you alive so I can see you," I say.

They laugh and their laughter fills me with more hope than the moment deserves. But this is really all I have come for. I have come to embrace them, the living, and I have come to honor the dead.

They show me their sc.r.a.pes and bruises and I hug them some more, until my body aches. I take pictures for the rest of the family. I know everyone will be astounded by how well they look, how beautiful and well put together in their impeccable clothes. I love them so much. I am so proud of them. Still, I ask myself how long they can live the way they are living, out in the open, waiting.

Two of them have tourist visas to Canada and the United States, but they stay because they cannot leave the others, who are mostly children. NC does not have a visa. She wants a student visa, to continue her accounting studies abroad. She hands me a manila envelope filled with doc.u.ments, her birth certificate, her report cards, her school papers. She gives them to me for safekeeping, but also so I can see what I can do to get her out of the country.

NC, like many of my family members in Haiti, has always overestimated my ability to do things like this, to get people out of bad situations. I hope at that moment that she is right. I hope I can help. I have sometimes succeeded in helping, but mostly I have failed. Case in point: my elderly uncle died trying to enter the United States. I could not save him.

I sleep in Carrefour to be closer to the town of Leogane, where a few of my maternal cousins still live. Something close to 90 percent of the structures in Leogane were destroyed in the earthquake, including a small pharmacy run by a young couple I know, both of whom were killed when their building crumpled on top of them. While driving through Leogane one morning, Jhon and I spot, past a cardboard sign with a plea for food in the entryway of a makeshift refugee camp, a large white tent with a striking image painted on it: a stunningly beautiful chocolate angel with her face turned up toward an indigo sky as she floats over a pile of muddied corpses.

Jhon leaps out of the car to have a better look.

Misty-eyed, he whispers, "Like Pica.s.so and Guernica after the Spanish Civil War. We will have our Guernica."

"Or thousands of them," I concur.

Miraculously, my maternal grandmother's house, the house where I spent parts of my summer vacations as a girl, is still standing. It had been rebuilt some years back, cement blocks replacing the wooden walls and tin roof I knew and loved. The outer wall around the property has collapsed. As has the house that my cousin Eli and his wife had recently bought a few feet away.

Since the earthquake, they had already built a tiny two-room house with wooden walls and a tin roof and a narrow porch in the middle of an open field in an area named Cite Napoleon, after my mother's family. Eli's new house looks like my grandmother's old house, the one I'd loved.

Some time later, my last stop, before leaving Haiti, is at the compound in Bel Air where Maxo and his wife and children had been living. There is the church, my uncle's chef d'oeuvre, which had been built nearly forty years earlier at street level and had cement walls and a triangular metal roof. Underneath the church, in a kind of bas.e.m.e.nt that was on the same level as another street, were the cla.s.srooms for a small school. Behind the church was the two-level apartment where Maxo and his family lived. Over the years, Maxo had added two more stories and a few small rental apartments to the complex. During the earthquake, all of that crumbled and, when he was running from the street where his car was parked to the apartment where his wife and children were found, fell on top of him and the others.

No one is sure where Maxo's son Nozial was, but it is believed that he had been playing where the rubble is most impenetrable, where all four stories piled up. Because Maxo was running when the building collapsed, he may have jumped or crawled into a place that made it easier to find his remains. The pile of rubble on top of the others made it impossible to extract theirs.

When I enter the church during my visit, I am amazed how little damage it appears to have sustained. Given that so many buildings around it had crumbled, its endurance seems part of some greater design, like the twenty-foot crucifix standing in the ruins of the collapsed Sacre-Cur Church in the Turgeau neighborhood of Port-au-Prince.

The church is open and a group of men are huddled in the aisle in deep conversation when I walk in. One of them offers to show me Maxo's makeshift grave.

I descend a cracked cement staircase, seeing through the fallen bas.e.m.e.nt walls the foundations of the two houses on either side of me. It occurs to me that I am in a cavernous hole around which the earthquake crumpled everything else. Through the gaps in the wall I can see parts of the bottom of the rubble.

The danger of my being there suddenly hits home. So quickly, more quickly than I would have liked, I kiss my hand and then bend down and touch the cemented mound where Maxo had been buried.

Esther, the maternal cousin who had overseen his burial, had carved in the cement his name, his date of birth, and the day that he died, the day that so many died.

"We buried him there and I marked it," she had told me on the phone, "so that whenever any of you come back from lt b dlo, you can see and touch his grave."

I reach down and touch the grave again. I feel that I should perhaps say more prayers, intone more words, but frankly I am afraid. A ma.s.sive church is resting on a shattered foundation around me. Should there be another aftershock, I could be crushed.

"Good-bye, Maxo," I simply say. "Good-bye, Nozial."

Emerging from under the church and into the sunlight, I remember thinking, each time I saw someone rescued from the rubble on television, that it looked a lot like a v.a.g.i.n.al birth, the rescue teams nudging, like midwives, a head, then a shoulder, then some arms, and then some legs, out of the expanded earth.

Maxo and Nozial, I thought, were never reborn.

At Toussaint L'Ouverture Airport, I must show my American pa.s.sport to get inside to meet the plane for the return trip. The first U.S. Customs and Border Protection officer at the airport entrance asks me to take off my gla.s.ses as he looks at my picture on the pa.s.sport. He holds the pa.s.sport up to the sunlight for some time to verify that it is not fake. I am embarra.s.sed and slightly humiliated, but these, I suppose, are lesser humiliations compared to what my loved ones and so many others are going through. The second and third Customs and Border Protection officers are Haitian Americans who speak to me in Creole. They wish me a good return trip "home."

On the plane, I listen quietly as the flight attendant thanks the doctors and nurses who are returning to the United States from stints as volunteers in Haiti.

"I bet you're looking forward to hot showers and warm beds and U.S. ice," she says.

The doctors and others clap and whistle in agreement.

"Well," she says, "I can offer you one of those things. The U.S. ice"

Wrapping up, she adds, "G.o.d bless America"

Feeling overly protective of an already battered Haiti, I hear myself cry out, "G.o.d bless Haiti, too," drawing a few stares from my fellow pa.s.sengers.

The man in the seat behind me taps me on the shoulder and says, "Really. G.o.d bless both America and Haiti"

As we take off, I look down at the harbor, where a U.S military helicopter is flying between Toussaint L'Ouverture Airport and the USNS Comfort medical ship anch.o.r.ed just outside Port-au-Prince harbor. Further out to sea are U.S. Coast Guard ships, whose primary purpose is to make sure that Haitians are intercepted if they try to get on boats and head to the United States.

I have a copy of Les Negres that I had meant to leave on Maxo's grave under the church, but in my haste and fear I had forgotten and brought it back with me.

I turn my eyes from the Coast Guard ships, and now on the plane I open the book and begin reading, turning immediately to the page that, soon after I'd learned of Maxo's death, had directly spoken to me: "Your song was very beautiful, and your sadness does me honor. I'm going to start life in a new world. If ever I return, I'll tell you what it's like there. Great black country, I bid thee farewell."

Great black country, I too bid thee farewell, I think.

At least for now.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I am extremely grateful to the magnificent Toni Morrison for her kindness in having me present the second annual Toni Morrison lecture (March 2008), which led to this book. Thanks also to Eddie Glaude, Joelle Loessy, Valerie Smith, Chang Rae Lee, and Fred Appel for their a.s.sistance. And to Cornel West, the standard bearer. At last I have an opportunity to thank Marcel Duret for his promotion of Haitian culture in j.a.pan and the enjoyable and informative trips there. Thanks also to Patricia Benoit, Fedo Boyer, Jim Hanks, Nicole Aragi, Kathie Klarreich, Project MediShare, Kimberly Green, and the Green Family Foundation. My thanks also to Daniel Morel for his time and his work. My deepest grat.i.tude to the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation. Thanks lastly, to Pascalle Monnin for the art used on the book cover.

Some of the chapters in this book appeared previously in the following publications: Chapter 2 is taken partially from "A Taste of Coffee" in Calabash (May 2001). Other material is from an afterword to Breath, Eyes, Memory, by Edwidge Danticat (Random House Inc., 1999).

Chapter 3 is taken partially from The b.u.t.terfly's Way: Voices from the Haitian Dyaspora in the United States, edited by Edwidge Danticat (Soho Press, 2003). Other material is from the article "Bonjour Jean" in The Nation (February 19, 2001).

Chapter 4 is taken partially from the foreword to Memoir of an Amnesiac by J. Jan Dominique (Caribbean Studies Press, 2008). Other material is from the introduction to Love, Anger, Madness: A Haitian Triptych, by Marie Vieux-Chauvet (Random House Inc., 2009).

Chapter 6 is taken partially from the essay "Out of the Shadows" in The Progressive (June 2006).

Chapter 7 is taken partially from in the article "Thomas Jefferson: The Private War: Ignoring the Revolution Next Door" in Time (July 05, 2004). Other material is from the introduction to The Kingdom of This World, by Alejo Carpentier (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006).

Chapter 8 is taken partially from the essay "Another Country" in The Progressive (Fall 2005).

Chapter 9 is taken partially from the article "On Borrowed Wings" in The Telegraph India (October 2004).

Chapter 12 is taken partially from the article "A Little While" in the New Yorker (February 1, 2010). Other material is taken partially from the article "Aftershocks: Bloodied, shaken-and beloved" in the Miami Herald (January 17, 2010).

NOTES.

Chapter 1. Create Dangerously.

Daniel Morel and Jane Regan of Wozo Productions provided the footage of Marcel Numa and Louis Drouin referred to in this chapter. Louis Drouin's final statement was published in Prosper Avril, From Glory to Disgrace: The Haitian Army, 1804-1994 (Parkland, FL: Universal Publishers, 1999). "Create Dangerously" Albert Camus' lecture, which was delivered at the University of Uppsala in December 1957, is reprinted in Resistance, Rebellion, and Death (New York: Vintage International, 1995.) The Le Matin quotation is from Bernard Diederich and Al Burt, Papa Doc: The Truth about Haiti Today (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1969). All Ralph Waldo Emerson quotations are from Ralph Waldo Emerson: Selected Essays, Lectures and Poems, edited and with a foreword by Robert D. Richardson (New York: Bantam Cla.s.sics, 1990). The Roland Barthes quotation "a text's unity lies not in its origin but in its destination" is from the essay "The Death of the Author" in Image-Music-Text (New York: Hill and w.a.n.g, 1978) Translations from Dany Laferriere's Je suis un ecrivain j.a.ponais (Paris: Gra.s.set, 2008) and from Jan J. Dominique's Memoire errante (Montreal: Memoire d'encrier, 2007) were done by me. The "We have still not had a death" quotation from Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude is from the Perennial Cla.s.sics edition (New York: Harper, 1998). The Toni Morrison quotation paraphrased in this chapter is "What it is to live at the edge of towns that cannot bear your company," from Toni Morrison's n.o.bel lecture in literature delivered in Sweden on December 7, 1993, and printed in The n.o.bel Lecture in Literature, 1993 (New York: Knopf, 1994). The quotations from Albert Camus' Caligula are from the book Caligula and Three Other Plays by Albert Camus (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1966). The quotations from Alice Walker are from In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens: Womanist Prose (New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1983).

Chapter 3. I Am Not a Journalist.

The Michele Montas quotation "I was no longer willing to go to another funeral" is from an interview with Bob Garfield for On the Media, a segment t.i.tled "Haiti's Media Crisis," March 14, 2003. For a better understanding of Jean Dominique and Michele Montas, see the doc.u.mentary The Agronomist, directed by Jonathan Demme. The quotations from Memoire errante (Montreal: Memoire d'encrier, 2007) in this chapter and the others were translated by me.

Chapter 4. Daughters of Memory.

The quotations from Marie Vieux-Chauvet's Love, Anger, Madness: A Haitian Trilogy are from the translation by Rose-Myriam Rejouis and Val Vinokur (New York: Modern Library, 2009). The quotation by Rose-Myriam Rejouis is also from that edition. Jan J. Dominique's comments regarding Jacques Roumain are taken from her essay "Roumain et la devoreuse de mots: L'adolescente et les livres," published in Mon Roumain a Moi (Port-au-Prince: Presses Nationales d'Haiti, 2007). The quotation from the essay was translated by me. The W.E.B. Dubois quotation starting "The United States is at war with Haiti" can be found in W.E.B. Dubois: A Reader, edited by David Levering Lewis (New York: Henry Holt, 1995).

Chapter 5. I Speak Out.

Except where indicated, the Alerte Belance quotations are from Beverly Bell, Walking on Fire: Haitian Women's Stories of Survival and Resistance (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001). The quotations from and references to Toni Morrison's Beloved are from the Vintage International edition (New York: Vintage, 1987).