NOTHINGS THAT ARE SOMETHINGS

“It’s just a pile of rubble.”

Warm blood seeps through the capillaries that lie within the interior of my face. The liquid sits on my cheeks, flushing my bronze skin tone into a mild shade of deep rose. My heart beats quickly, creating a symphony of internal screams that compel my brain to form a quick rebuttal: “Have you ever even been there?”

“I don’t have to go there to know that there’s nothing.”

The smooth dismissal breaks my pathetic attempt at defense. It is one that makes my stomach coil, the feeling heightened by the way my obvious vexation only seems to amuse her. The quick snicker that leaves her teasing lips lets me know that the “debate” is over. I have lost. Her words were a painful assault that will forever be imprinted in my memory. The pain only worsens as she begins relishing in her own country’s “superiority” to mine. Despite my strong reaction, the conversation is quickly forgotten by her. She changes the subject, pretending as though her comment didn’t release a slew of degradation. I don’t want to talk anymore. I can only roll my eyes and walk away with a huffy “whatever”.

As the afternoon sun rays vibrate across my forehead, I gaze through the rectangular bus window spotted with dead flies and dirt left by the children who sat there before me. I place my head onto its metal borders, only for it to be banged harshly against the vehicle’s weak scaffolding as the driver flies over a speed bump. I replay the argument over and over again, frustrated with her words and frustrated with myself for not saying something better. I rant to my best friend, who told me not to engage in that type of conversation any longer. She says it isn’t worth it. I should “protect my peace” instead. Her words somewhat snap me out of my hyperfocus, but I can’t help but question if my relentless anger was due to the jealousy I had of her country’s constant adoration, or if it was my heart’s calling to deliver a sense of justice to the name of the country

by Doris Lamour design by Nissi Yorke

my parents call home. The answer was that it was both, and even more so, the fact that I could not sway her obstinate ignorance.

I have been to Ayiti, or Haiti. I was much younger at the time, but if I were to pluck out a piece of my life that I can remember the most, it would be those weeks I spent in Lakay at my uncle’s and grandmother’s homes. It was a very new experience for little me. It was “new” in that we had to commute 3 hours by car to get to the nearest grocery store and that we had our older cousin bathe us using buckets of ice-cold water from the well in Grandma’s backyard. Most things were home-grown: the meat and plantains we had for dinner, the sugar cane and papayas for dessert, and the milk used in the labouille for supper. I didn’t know Creole or French, so when I sat on the wooden steps of my other cousins’ house playing Nintendo with my brother and sister, our appreciation for each other was mostly shown by the ceremonial tradeoff between our Pokémon cards and their Pokémon Pearl.

There is one particular memory, however, that I remember the most from that trip. I’m not sure if it was because it was absolutely terrifying at the time, or that it led to the onslaught of events that constituted the best part of our visit. But regardless of the reason, the story is still the same:

My sister and I lay on a floor mattress beneath a small fan. Although I already adapted to the Florida heat back home, there was no escaping the humidity that haunted the room due to a lack of air conditioning and ventilation. A weak breeze blows through the square holes that serve as glassless windows, allowing the rooster to wake us up with his ear-curdling scream as the sun peaks up from behind the hills. The hens, chickens, and goats are thrilled by this and join his solo performance. I was never thrilled; it wasn’t in my plans to wake up at 6:00 AM to a chorus of restless chickens. My sister rustles next to me in frustration, getting rid of my drowsiness, and therefore any possibility of me falling back asleep. I breathe in the aromas of morning breakfast made up of bacon and pancake fumes traveling from the kitchen. My father walks into our room, urging us to get up and ready for the day. I sit up sluggishly, ready to burst into tears from my tiredness. We walk haggardly into the dining area as our breakfast is plopped onto our plates.

The rest of the day is just like this: mundane and relatively uneventful. We visit someone’s house later that morning, and as we drive back to my uncle’s house, there is word of a large thunderstorm arriving in the area. The skies once filled with harsh rays of the yellow sun have been turned into a dull gray. Everything is tranquil, yet there is a dense eeriness that lingers over the fields. We know it won’t be too quiet for long, but our feverish anticipation comes from the fact that we just won’t know when.

The wind picks up after a few hours, making the house creak and sway at a slow pace. The lights flicker periodically, causing everyone to look up in anticipation. Whenever lightning strikes, the thunder violently shakes the ground. There are no closed windows, so every sound is the same as if you are standing outside. Instead of sleeping in our usual quarters, we set up a camp on the first floor, combining our blow-up mattresses into a formation that would allow us to be far enough from the windows and doors. My little sister starts crying as the thunder grows louder, covering her ears with her pillow and hiding under the blanket. My brother and I are not in the same distressed state as her, but for me to say I wasn’t scared would be a lie. She is consumed in her fear of thunder, while I am more concerned with the water pouring into the house. The men are quick to put buckets and towels to contain the water as much as possible. My father chuckles at my hysteric sister as he tries to comfort her from the deafening thunder around us, being sure to let her know that everything is going to be alright. He tells us that this is “the real Haiti” in the sense that we were a part of nature, not just living in it. It was closer to us than it ever could have been in Florida. Florida has its own fair share of frightening storms, but it never has the same essence as those in Haiti. We attempt to sleep through the unbearable noise, and by the time we do fall asleep, the storm passes.

Dampness covers every inch of the outside and inside, everyone worn from their battle against Mother Nature. My parents decide we are going to visit my aunt despite the last night’s torturous events. The drive to the city was difficult: a monstrous sinkhole lay in the middle of the road, leading us to call the people nearby for help to get around it. Our new driver, after my dad switches off, tuggs at the stick shift with great agility, slowly getting us around the sinkhole and through the mud that followed. Eventually, we made it to the city house. We walk to the back and see a small pool the size of a tub. Flowers from the trees around it float on top of the water, probably knocked off their stems by last night’s storm. These particular flowers remind me of eggs: they have dainty white petals but a slimy yellow center. The flowers stick onto our skin as my sister and I sink into the chilly turquoise water. The tree branches provide us shade and more flower petals blow around us with the wind. We stay in this tranquil area until we hear commotion coming from the city streets. We travel up to the balcony and look over to see a crowd standing on the sidewalks, cheering and throwing things into the air in front of a church. A bride and her groom come around the corner in a convertible, her white veil and train filling up the back seats of the vehicle. The groom is in a classic black suit, waving at his friends and family. They move slowly down the street as we continue to watch, the sun finally beaming down again onto our little smiling faces.

I remember these stories not just because some of the events frightened little me. I remember it because it made me feel so different than I have ever felt before. My culture is present within my home but there was nothing like being completely immersed in it: The beaches covered in crabs and seaweed, the late night dinners outside next to the goats, the rooster that always sung its morning song, the waterfalls where fish danced, the cattle that stood on top of hills in their herd, the dogs that sat by us as we got our hair braided in the backyard, the occasional music blasting on the streets, the lakes where we bathed, and the small boats rowing to islands make up my beautiful country.

Why is it that Haiti is a country defined by its catastrophes rather than its language, people, and culture? It is a land that is the exemplification of revolution for all, yet a land often forgotten by even its brothers, sisters, and cousins. Its issues are sensationalized and placed onto the abilities of the people, rather than the lasting effects of imperialism and oppression perpetuated by today’s “developed” nations.