Unwelcomed Immigrants in America: Discrimination Among Immigrants

By Oscar Hughes Price

Oscar Hughes Price was born in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti, where he finished his basic, general school studies. He experienced the tip end of the Duvaliers regimes. He migrated to the United States in his mid-twenties. He briefly attended the Community College of Baltimore County in Dundalk, Maryland, pursuing a degree in heating air-conditioning recovery. Price is married and is a father to three children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514401316

Book preview

GROWING UP HAITIAN

I was born in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti—the land of Dessalines. In a hospital named Chancerelles. However, my birth certificate indicates that I was born in Croix-Des-Bouquets. Why this discrepancy on my birth certificate? My father was what, in Haiti, someone they referred to as a businessman. He was always looking for a deal or getting the biggest bangs for his bucks. He had told the authorities at that time when he was applying for and getting my birth certificate that I was born in Croix-Des-Bouquets so he could pay a lesser fee for my birth certificate since there was a lesser fee for issuing birth certificates for those born on the countryside than the capital of the country, Port-Au-Prince. And this has also come to my attention that the same birth certificate also says that I was born on a Thursday. But in 2005, a friend of mine who is into numerology had asked me for the date and the year that I was born. After I told him, he quickly said to me that my birth date fell on a Tuesday instead of a Thursday as reported on my current official birth certificate from Haiti and gave me a piece of paper, a calendar with many years of the past, including the year that I was born. In that paper calendar, from which I could verify that, indeed, my birth day, as reported by my birth date on the birth certificate, fell on a Tuesday. They had messed up on the day I was born on the birth certificate as well. Possibly, my father, once in front of the authorities in charge of recording and issuing a birth certificate, tried to recall the day that I was born, as he did not have it written down somewhere, had to guess the day.

As a child, growing up in Haiti, I endured a lot that children shouldn’t have ever gone through. I can remember things of the past, as far as when I was five years old, as if they happened yesterday.

I had always had question marks about issues, situations, circumstances, occurrences, behaviors in society.

In 1974, I was accepted, on my dad’s request, to stay at his sister Paulette’s house (the eldest of my grandfather’s daughters). At that time, she was living in Rue des Rampars with her then husband Jacko. They had two little kids: my cousins, Jacko Jr. and Pauletta. At a young age I was turned into a babysitter, looking after three-year-old Jacko Jr. and his sister being a few months old. After her breakup with her husband, my aunt Paulette moved to Rue des Cesars (in Bel Air) where she rented an apartment for us to stay. The next year, 1975, she took a trip to a foreign land—destination Martinique, for business. We were all excited about her departure—which was her very first trip abroad. Her mother, Demie, was brought in from Jacmel to look after the children and the house. But after she left Haiti, weeks, months, and years went by, and we never heard from her ever since. Contacts made to the Haitian immigration authorities and the French (who own the Martinique Island) embassy were all fruitless.

Her son and daughter, unfortunately, had to grow up without knowing and being the beneficiary of a loving mother’s care, who loved them more than anything else in this life as I can recall when she was with them, nurturing them as little kids. Till this day, we haven’t heard about her ever since she took that trip to Martinique. We don’t know what happened to her.

As a little boy, growing up in Port-au-Prince, being without the maternal care that every child deserves, I was being bouncing around from relative to relatives’ houses of those who were willing to take me in, for one reason or the other—with those reasons, on many instances, often being as an extra servant hand in their houses. At nine years old, I found myself at my grandfather’s house. This was a man that, as far as I can recall, I never got along with. I never liked that guy. One of the reasons why I couldn’t stand him was the fact that he (probably jokingly did) used to single me out among all of the other kids around my age that were living in the house. And when it comes time to get him some water, get him his medicines, his shoes, taking off his shoes and his socks from his feet, he would always call me. You can understand that, as a nine-year-old boy, it ticked me off. Given that, his two other younger kids, Edouard and Marie-Guerline, were both younger than I was. Even though they are, by rule, my aunt and uncle, but I felt like since I was older than they were (was even beating their butts) at the time, he should have called them to get him water, his shoes, taking off his socks, etc. Or, at least, think about balancing those assignments. But no! The guy exclusively singled me out at all times, picked me to do that at all time, as a result, when he went out, I’d be on the lookout to see when he would be coming back home so I could go hiding somewhere so he won’t have me doing those assignments. Many times I was called upon anyway and brought out of my hiding spots—either under the bed (that used to be high in those years), the backyard, or wherever I could hide.

That guy could never pronounce my name right. And when I heard my name being called with that voice in that pronunciation, I had to rush and respond, Wi, Papa,—Yes, Papa. Taking off those socks was the least of my worry, but the stench that was coming from his feet was enough to make a child pass out. How that never happened to me is beyond me.

My dad used to be involved in book-hustling deals prior to the opening of school every year. When he introduced me to do this for the first time, it was as petrifying to me as a nightmare could be. I was fourteen years old when I was summoned for my first assignment in that family-practicing trade. We went to his cousin’s (who was also involved in the scheme) house in Rue des Cesars one morning around 10 A.M. In the month of September one month prior to school opening (since school used to open in the month of October.) After my assignment was explained to me, we were on our way. My father and I walked up on Rue des Cesars, took a right on Rue Dr. Aubry, straight on to Rue Pavee (a distance of about 2 miles), where the book store was located. To our destination. I was a nervous wreck. As we were passing the school located at corner of Rue des Cesars and Aubry, which is located right across from this Protestant Church. We kept on walking to the next several blocks. Although it was mid morning, we were already dealing with an unforgiving Port-au-Prince’s sun. My body was drenching wet as a result of not only the effect of the sun shining up on us, burning up our calories but also with my body being filled with nervousness—something that I could not show or let my father notice. A man who always told me to be strong and courageous in the most adverse of situations, so on the back of my head, at that time, I thought about all of these lecturing on about how to be a man of honor, respectable, of character, etc. Even though what I was about doing for my dad, my mission didn’t have anything of honor written anywhere, I still had to show my dad that he could count on his eldest son. The boy he always referred to in front of his friend as se bra dwat mwen misye ye—being his right arm. I wanted the man that loved me the most in my life and, above all, that I love unconditionally to believe in me. At least, in that occasion. To me, this was a golden opportunity. There virtually was nothing that I wouldn’t do for that man. That was my chance to show him, and I was determined to show him that I was worthy of his trust. That was my time to shine!

There, we kept on walking toward our destination. We might have walked about five thousand feet when a house painted in sky blue all over came into full view. The front of the house was enclosed in very crafty iron works—the work of a remarkably skillful iron worker, obviously—and closca brick windows, is very well known to us, for it is the house of my dad’s cousin, Borgella’s friend. And like most people with means somewhat elevated from the status of those on the bottom houses of people with means, somewhat elevated from the status of those on the bottom of the economic scale, who build theirs with wood or whatever material they got access to, and metal ceilings, it had concrete ceiling. With the outskirt, top wall around with a height of one foot, all around, so to collect rain water that would be piped through from the ceiling above, and to a concrete cemented underground water reservoir container built on the ground, all covered up on the top with an opening about the size of ten square feet, allowing access to this water reservoir, by a bucket, made in steel or plastic, with a rope attached to its top handle made in a half circle, connected to the bucket through pierced holes on both sides, allowing it to swing freely—from left to right, while someone retrieved water collected through the bucket from the reservoir. The top cover is made of steel with bolt locks located on its right side with two small circular iron holes through the cover and the floor, to keep it locked, preventing anything from falling inside. It’s located in the back of their home, with colors intertwined with their backyard’s floor concrete . This reservoir collects water mostly during the rainy season, and that would be used by the family for shower, doing the laundry, and washing dishes. Even cooking after it goes through a purification process. In Haiti, you can never have enough or too much water, the people knows this. While those with considerable means can afford to build their own water wells on their properties, to be used when there is water shortage, the poorer citizens rely on the use of barrels to store and save water in their homes. For you don’t know when the state-run water service may be interrupted—for whatever reason. You can just wake up one day, turn on the water faucet, and that’s when you’d realize, Oh, shit, the water is off … That happens quite often in Haiti. It could be for late payment or not paying the water bill, a broken pipe, or a water main in the street that is broken. And that happens quite often. Sometimes it would take a very long time to be repaired for people to be able to have water flowing through their water pipes that deliver water through their homes. Otherwise, your other alternatives might be to send someone (often being the servant of the house) with a bucket in hand in the quest for getting water and trying to get some water from someone in the next block in the vicinity of your neighborhood with running water that they sell for a couple cents a bucket, to bring back to the house. Or look out for a machan dlo, usually a poor lady, going around in the streets with a bucket of water on her head, trying to sell this bucket of water—that’s what she does for a living. Sometimes she has to walk around blocks after blocks in the neighborhood, even miles before she finally finds a buyer. And, often, when she finds one, she can make herself a deal of delivering multiple buckets back and forth as to the specification of her client’s demand. And even walking further away, to try to collect some water from a public water dispenser, there were dozens of citizens with no access to running water in their own homes who had to fight with one another, in a frenzy like atmosphere, trying to fill up their buckets. Sometimes, even fights erupted while people tried to get themselves some water.

The regular access to the house was through a side door. Once you were in, there was a room with two beds located across from each other, on the right hand side, one a few feet away from the entrance door. Turning left toward the back, a white fridge about five feet tall was located on the opposite side of the entrance door, about twenty feet away from a bed. Its freezer section, located on the top of the fridge, was always clogged up with snow-like ice. That buried the salamis, sausages, beef, poultry, fish, and any other types of meat being preserved in that freezer. In order to be defrosted, the fridge often had to be disconnected from power for several hours in order to allow the process to run its course. Frost-free technology was not around at the time. On the bottom section of this fridge, you would often see all kinds of food and fruits. Especially leftovers from several days old. Still in there for future consumption. Having a fridge in a house in Haiti, for so many poor people, was a luxury. And, as small as that fridge might have been to be used for a family of this size, they were grateful for having one as compared to many other families, households, that can’t even afford to have one. On the floor where this fridge was located, you would see these iron-stained red-color marks that seemed to have been engraved on the tiles-like floor, which was actually a cemented floor, with straight line marks designs, in squares all over, in the shape of actual tiles. Their colors with a variation of navy blue and green peas. This, indeed, was the work of some very skillful Haitian masons. When you continue walking toward the backyard of the house, where the well is located, there is another door to go through. This particular door led to the kitchen located immediately after the door. There, in that kitchen, is a built-in concrete stove with four square holes as a stove top—having four metal cooking charcoal containers custom-fitted specifically for those stove top holes, for cooking. Charcoal has been the main fuel for cooking in Haiti. Not just in household cooking, even with industrial business like dry cleaners and pastry shops. When you walk around, or in front of that house around one or two o’clock in the afternoon, the smell of cooking is enough to make you run into the house and beg for mercy for your taste bud, being commanded like a piece of metal being driven toward a magnet—the smell of cooking rice—whether it’s white or with red or black beans; the aroma of cooked, well-seasoned meat or sea food—whether it’s beef, goat meat, chicken, fish, crabs, lobster—drives you crazy, wanting to be tasted.

I knew all of that about this house because I had been to it on several occasions already.

There on the side stood Pouchon, who was smoking a cigarette. He didn’t see us, but I saw him. If he had, he would have shouted at my dad in a big voice, Sak pase? (What’s going on) That’s how he really does when he sees my dad from a distance. This boy at sixteen was already six feet and four inches tall. I envied him for being so tall, which I wished I was at the time. He used to make fun of my shorter statue by calling me ti kout kout. For shorty. And added sometimes, mwen ta bwe yon bol soup sou tet ou.—I can eat my soup on your head while standing. He was dark as charcoal with very white teeth. Sometimes I wondered if his smoking made his teeth so white. His mother had been voicing her objection to his smoking to no avail. She was a school teacher, who had to teach in during school days whenever there was school while the children were left in the care of a paid maid servant that also took care of the house. Being a single mother raising four boys on her own had indeed proven much of a challenge. With junior being the eldest, Charles second, followed by Alex, with Pouchon being the youngest of the four. They were all still living in their mom’s house. Their dad, Rodrique Senior, had migrated to the United States, living in Boston, Massachusetts, where he was working to support the family back home. He came back home about once or twice a year. I once overheard her, while having a conversation with her friend, in Borgella House, about the possibility of her husband having another woman while living in Boston. I said to myself, Who could blame a man being that far away without his woman for having another woman?

Pouchon had grown his hair like the hippies of the seventies. With a slim built, he probably weighed about 140 pounds. We weren’t too far in age, but he was a smoker and I was not. As we walked past his house, I saw its shadow moving to another direction, as if my body movement, going up the street, had initiated this.

Across from the second school came the full view of the national cathedral—a very tall building dominating the sky in the area—being the tallest building where it’s located, no one can miss its majestic features. Once I was passing by in one of its surrounding streets. I was about a block away, in the street, from its actual street location. From its actual sitting location, you could go right across the other side of the opposite sidewalk and make your way down a few flights of steps to Rue Dr. Aubry. Yet, I could still see half of it in full view. I turned my head to the building, toward the far right where a statue of a white sculpture of Jesus Christ was located. I stood there, where many, who believed in the power of miracles, made their offerings and prayer demands; hoping that the saints could have mercy on them and give them their blessings for this day. And I too prayed to bless the day that I was being initiated into this scheme that was being transferred down three generations now, with my participation today, being as the latest, in line. We were walking, with my father leading the way. I was behind him. I glanced at the cathedral and did the typical Catholics’ cross-sign (even though our family members were professed die-hard core Protestants, being baptized, my dad was a Catholic.)—from my forehead to each side of my shoulders, asking for the saint’s protection and blessing on this day for my mission to be successful. We passed some of the street vendors of books stationed right there on the next street corner. I knew that some among them would be our buyers, later on. Which one of them? For now I couldn’t tell. All I cared about was getting the merchandises, first, have a very first successful dealing, then, if possible, head back for some more later on. My dad decided to wait for me, one street block away from the book store.

Once I arrived at the building’s front door, located right across from the headquarters of the Haitian national lottery building, I sighed for a minute, trying to collect myself, and took a deep breath, with my hands and the rest of my body sweating. I pulled out my handkerchief out of my shirt pocket and wiped my forehead as I walked in. (If there was anyone in there trying to detect any indication of potential suspicious activity through body language, I certainly would have been caught—the least questioned about the nature of my visit, that day.) But there was no security anywhere to be seen. So I walked straight up to the area of the store where orders were being placed which was located on the left hand side, visible as soon as one walked in. Upon walking toward that direction, there were many people already placing their orders. I noticed a hand waving at me to come forward for my order. There, I recognized the man waving at me to literally, come up to him to place my order—this was Jacques Abel, my dad’s cousin. I felt an immediate sense of relief, seeing that the man who was behind the counter, who was about taking my order in, was someone that I know. My instinct was to rush to him in greeting mode, (as a sign of relief) while saying, Jacques Abel, sak pase, apa se w minm?—Hey, Jacques Abel, it’s you?—as if to tell him, Man, am I glad to see you. I would have just done that if not for the warning look in his facial expression, sensing that I might react that way, drawing suspicion that might be screwing things up. He basically, warned me to not give any sign that we knew each other. So I played along, acting like I had never seen this man in my whole life. In fact, at that very moment, I thought to myself, Had anything gone wrong and suspicion arose, if someone had asked me about that man, ‘I never saw him anywhere before,’ would have been my reply. He filled up my shopping bags (two huge paper and plastic bags, with the papers’ lace inside the plastic) with school materials. Then I walked up toward the cashier to pay for my order. There was a long line. In there I thought to myself, why didn’t my dad tell me that the deal was between his cousin and himself, involved? I wouldn’t bother to ask him. I waited until I got to the one of the cashiers. I was handed a receipt with a fraction of a bill to pay for the contents of the two heavy shopping bags. I paid, stepped toward the door, and exited. There, it was done! I was exuberant! My dad was thrilled. Laughing nonstop, for his son had pulled off his first start of this very well-known scheme of the family. I felt like a mafia’s son, who was given the rite of passage, that day. I was anointed—after going through a process, a trial. I could possibly be on my way of becoming yet another crook in the family. I got paid fifty gourdes (the equivalent of $10.00 at the time) for a very successful transaction that I made. That was plenty of money on a fourteen-year-old’s pocket.

During that season of reaping that he used to call it, my dad would have plenty of money in his pocket. And rather than staying at his cousin’s house located on Rue des Cesars, which he does for the rest of the year, he would be spending his time staying in hotels, motels, while having different women visiting him in those hotel rooms every day. That was his routine, his adopted lifestyle every year from the end of August through mid October. And his cousin got accustomed to that.

My dad had a younger brother. He and I were only five years apart in age, with him being older. He and I were good buddies. I loved him like an elder brother that I never had. I never called him and referred to him as uncle, but simply by his first name. As a young boy, growing up in Port-au-Prince, I recalled how he used to make fun of me. Ticking me off. Making others laugh at me. Like a comedian on stage, picking up on someone in the audience and making a meal out of him and being hilarious about it. I loved that man like I did my own father. He certainly was the only uncle that I was fond of and felt comfortable being around. Unfortunately, he is no longer with us, because hard life in Haiti took him away. Arnold, another brother of my dad, was OK with me. But I never really liked Michelo, another uncle.

I had a chance to have my revenge against my dad’s younger brother for always making fun of me, When his son Jr. was growing up, learning how to say words, I made him speak sooner than two-year-olds usually do, by making him saying silly stuff, even making him calling his dad a joke. I would say, Hey, Jr. As soon as he hears me calling his name, he would come running to me saying, Wi (yes); ironically, as a little boy, he listened to me more than he did to his dad. Repeat after me, I would tell him. Wi, he would reply. My dad is a joke, a good-for-nothing bastard! He would repeat what I told him, while his dad and people around will burst out laughing in tears.

***

I left my homeland on October 17, on the date celebrated in Haiti honoring the death of one of Haiti’s founding fathers, our first emperor, Jean-Jacques Dessalines Le Grand, who was born a slave and died as an emperor!

With my departure from Haiti and migrating to the United States, there were lots of expectations from friends and relatives alike. Everyone hoped that I will send them something back once I got established in that new country. That was the norm. There was a great deal of hope. But no one knew the extent of the pain that I felt, experienced, and endured that day when I was leaving my beloved country for the first time, ever.

I cried tears that no one ever saw. Tears of deep sorrows within my guts and soul. I was deeply depressed. For I heard a voice deep down within myself that kept on warning me that my days in the States would not be pleasant. I feared that uncertainty. That warning. The pain I felt about what I would have to bear, endure, and go through while searching for something in the land of opportunity. That very day, it came to my understanding, which coincides with what the story revealed from the Bible that Jesus Christ must have undergone or he had felt when realizing the extent of the pain and suffering he would have to endure as it is written in the book. This is how much pain and discomfort I felt while traveling to the United States for the first time. What made the pain worse was knowing that I could not show to anyone that I was in a deep discomfort.

I went to bed on the eve of my departure from my country with anxiety. A lot of anticipation. I was very afraid—I was gripped by a deep fear of the future in a foreign land. Having to leave my beloved island, where I grew up. I had a feeling that the future in that foreign country was not going to be pleasant. I could barely sleep that night. I might have closed my eyes about three or four hours after I laid down on bed.

It was a somber October day. The sun seemed to have hidden behind the cloud, concealing something that I had yet to decipher. I looked upon the sky and wondered why this day was not sun-shiny like yesterday? But I woke up in the morning with a dried throat; my chest felt heavy. I could barely get off bed. I woke up, sat with two feet on the floor off my spring-loaded, cotton mattress, only to lay back down, as if there was a clock waking me up that I wished would go on to snooze, sparing me some more sleep . This didn’t feel good. What’s going on? I asked myself. But the mood around me from others was that of celebration. Jubilation—happy that I was heading to paradise. This is it. This is the day that the Lord had blessed, said my mother, joyfully. I was held as a super star. Never felt elevated among mine even a day before. Never. I gotta catch my plane at around 1 P.M. Can’t be late. I’m told to leave my home by at least 10 A.M., in order to go through Delmas’ traffic, heading toward Route de l’Aeroport—the Airport road.

Mathieu, my church brother with whom I shared this apartment, like little house, looked unconcerned about my departure. I told him about it. But I don’t believe that he was ever convinced that this would have happened. That there will come the day when I have to leave Haiti and migrate to the United States. For some reason, he didn’t seemed to have bought into that. Maybe he was disappointed about him no longer having me to share our rent payments. Who knows!

How could my brother in Christ, my roommate, actually be not convinced that I was to travel to the United States and take residence in that country?

Brother Mathieu, who was initially simply referred to as Mathieu, was this gentleman who was a professional mason. He did work by repairing and building houses. He was not an engineer, but apparently, he seemed to have mastered the trade from somewhere or someone; he knew the metric system and all the other related rules of construction to help him make and repair homes. Thus earned himself some money.

Like many other struggling poor in Haiti, struggling like women in labor to have babies, making a living, or earning themselves a dime, sometimes under the unforgiving hot sun coupled with a humid environment, poor men like Mathieu, who seemed to have learned about work ethics through their personal intrusion or by simply observing the type of work ethic showcased by their elders from their living environments, worked tirelessly, feverishly to deserve every penny, if not even paid better wages for their work. Mathieu was a very strong man. As strong as a man could be. Like in an expression that I became familiar with here, He was strong like a bull! He was polite to a fault and a good joker too. When you meet him, he would not even look you in the eyes. His head was always bent down when you talked to Mathieu. But when you shake his hand, it felt like a brick. And when he gave you a side hug, like many of us men do, you would feel like you were bumping against a brick wall. That’s how strong Mathieu was. He, like many other men, loved to talk and gossip about women and their private parts. When nice-looking women passed by, they got a whistle from Mathieu. But when a not-so-good-looking one went by, she got a funny comment. Fanm led, estera (Show off, ugly woman), he would tell them.

As poor Haitians do, my mother had a house built on a piece of rented land located by a ravine. Right there, among the rich people, on the side of rich person’s home. Mathieu also rented a parcel of land from the land owner and built himself his own home. I should say his own room, given that what he built was a single-room home, without a kitchen but a bathroom in the outside. I witnessed Mathieu building that room which was a fair-sized room for only one man to live in, by himself. With his own hands. He struggled to find and obviously had a hard time trying to attract women. I suspected that this was due to his unorthodox ways of approaching or talking to females. Simply put, Mathieu did not have the usual Port-au-Prince gentleman’s skills, like me, and was devoid of the know-how when it came to courting women. He was more like on the drive by side when it came to females. And at that time, not too many females were into those types of advances from men. Not from my generation of Haitians.

I could have tried to have him a girlfriend. But a man in his mid thirties’ at that time probably would not have accepted any advice from a guy in his early twenties that looked more like a sixteen-year-old teenager at the time. Even though my reasoning was up to par with my actual age, I still doubted that he would have taken me seriously.

Mathieu was a friend of the family that I got acquainted with through my stepfather, who used to do building construction works with him. We got to know each other after I got converted into Christianity and became a member of a church not too far from our home. And since the duties of a Christian, among many, also include bringing people to Christ, I convinced Mathieu to accept an invitation to visit my church on a Sunday. I went to his door and knocked; there he was. Seemed to be ready to go, dressed in a dark blue long-sleeved shirt and a gray pair of pants. And an American made black pair of shoes. With a blue tie, tied to perfection, like he had a personal dresser tying it up for him, his short hair, brushed, and a good shaven face. His clothes were perfectly fit, as if they were exactly tailored to his exact size. Mathieu looked like he was more than ready than I could have anticipated him to be and accompanied me to church. That day, you couldn’t tell that man was the blue collar, hard-working mason that he was; looking at him all dressed up, you would have thought that he was a businessman or an engineer.

After church services, to my astonishing surprise, Mathieu responded to the preacher’s call to accept Christ as his personal savior and become a Christian. What do you know, that man looked like he wanted to apply himself and follow Christ more than I ever suspected in the past. Ever since that day, our friendship took on a different aspect. Now, he is no longer just Mathieu to me, but brother Mathieu, as we came to refer to one another from then on. We developed a type of intimacy of brothers in Christ. Whereas, as his elder, I was called to be his mentor.

Mathieu was a good listener, a great student, and, most of all, a devoted Christian. He gave me the impression that his introduction to Christianity was like a dried land craving a drop of water. And when it finally fell on that land, it absorbed it like someone being suffocated, grasping for air, that finally got to breathe some fresh air. He would not miss a Bible study, any service, or anything else related to the church. And when attending church, he was very apprehensive. We shared the same bench when we went to church, where I taught him the many Christian songs and hymns and psalms from the Bible. You couldn’t have asked for a better devoted craving soul than Mathieu’s. He was the model of someone willing to accept the gospel and being nourished in Christ’s nutrition. He seemed to have been and was a truly reborn Christian.

I not only had the task of supervising and mentoring Mathieu but also my mother, stepfather, my other siblings were all brought along and convinced to accept Christ in their lives. I was a real soldier for Christ.

After Mathieu sold his house, he rented rooms from other people to live in. Around that time, personal differences with my stepfather led me to explore a possibility to seek and live in my own place. I approached Mathieu about us renting, sharing an apartment and living together; he accepted my suggestion, and we found a place that was a few blocks away from my mother’s house and not too far from our church’s location, either. We lived in that place for about a year until, the US embassy in Port-au-Prince wrote my brother and me a letter, as anticipated, to go in for an interview after my father’s applying for and requesting that we be allowed to join him and migrate to the United States.

That morning of October 17, which was a Monday, was the first day of the school year in Haiti. Back in those days, the school year used to start in October. I left my place and went to see Mere La Pluie, a spiritual inspirer of mine who happened to be the grandmother of the girl that I was courting to be my girlfriend before my departure. Mere La Pluie was the type of Christian, when you’re around her, you instantly got a booze-like spiritual boost. She pumped you up. Her zeal, devotion, and energy were contagious. When she visited my church, sitting next to her was spiritually exciting. I usually felt elevated while sitting by her side. She was genuine and pure in her personal beliefs in the Lord.

Upon arrival at her house, I saw her and Maggie, who was getting ready for the very first day of school. Since we didn’t talk to each other, I walked on by her. She went back to the house. I went and explained to Mere La Pluie that, that was the day that I was leaving for the U.S. There, I wanted to break down and cry. It was visible as my eyes were reddish. After giving her the news, I wanted to make another confession to her. But as a man, I had to hold my pride. Be a big boy at that. So didn’t show my emotion and didn’t cry. After her blessing, I gave her a hug and on my way I was.

I was on my way back to the place, my first own personal space in my life. My own apartment to grab my luggage and head toward the airport. No one in the neighborhood knew my business, where I was heading, except mine and, of course, my friend, Mere La Pluie to whom I confessed the trip. She can keep a secret. Not to worry about that.

Once in the house, I realized that my next steps out of the door might be the last among many things on my way to a foreign land, leaving my birth place. A last, either in a long or short while. Depending on the circumstances of living overseas, I might quickly return or extend my stay over there. I took a last sip of water, hoping that it could help keep me hydrated during my walk toward a tap-tap in that fall sun, that still felt unforgivably hot as it was summer. I walked around, took a look at the house for a last time. There on the concrete wall hung a huge portrait of myself with a lion next to it. I painted this myself. In that picture, I painted myself joyful—with a wide, bright smile, with eyes that could be barely seen. I wished, at that moment, that I was in the mood showcasing in that portrait as I was making my way to a new world.

I stepped down the steps, walked on through that alley (that we call korido) of neighboring houses in close proximity. As I crossed the creek, leaving my side toward the other side leading to the main street of Delmas, the sun was still hiding behind a host of clouds. The atmosphere felt serene. I noticed that birds were not singing. No dogs barking. It was, no roosters singing either, to my observation, unusually calm. I turned my head up and looked up in the sky, the clouds seemed to take command everywhere. I was escorted by my mother, my little brother, and one sister. I passed by in front of Maggie’s house for one last time, took a look to see if she was outside. But she was nowhere to be found. So I proceeded toward the airport.

In Haiti, where suspicion was high, the perception was that telling people about a trip to a foreign country, or paradise, as the United of America, was being sold to be in the country, might be an invitation to a potential curse upon the person desires planning on to go and leave the country. So, like most of other Haitians, my trip to the United States, remained a secret. Only close family members were made aware of my going to the interview, meetings at the US embassy, so on and so forth.

While sitting on the airplane, I felt so uncomfortable. My head felt heavy. My eyes were blurry. I felt a chill gripping my whole body. From my scalp, down to my neck. Through my spine, all the way to my legs and feet. Two hostesses sat in the next row across from me; they could see my anguish and the discomfort in my face from my body language. But I guess, they could not discern my state of unusual appearance for a Haitian boy going to their country, leaving Haiti, a country that the united states of America, in collaboration with Haiti’s other enemies like France, Great Britain, Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland, Sweden, Italy, Australia, the Dominican Republic, others and their still submissive Negroes in the Caribbean were able to craft a dire poverty killing the Haitian people on a daily basis, while vilifying it to many of other societies whose ears are at their mercy, command, and control. I was simply not in my zone that day.

Or maybe, little did I know that not leaving on good terms with the girl who loved me that I knew of, but who refused to say it so I could hear it when I was asking her to when others told me that she wasn’t mine. She told a friend of mine that she wasn’t my girlfriend. Not yet. When I tried to confront her about that, she was taking her time playing game. And me not willing to reveal the big secret that I was about to go to heaven. Not before she told me whether or not she was mine. I couldn’t have told her that I won the lottery, either.

Before leaving my country, I was anointed with holy oil poured on my head by the grandmother of the girl I wanted to be mine. I was a devoted Protestant boy. You’re going to the ‘world’ in Satan’s den. Be very careful, my son. The Lord will be your guardian as he has been here, in our country, protecting you against all evil … was the blessing that I received from Mere La Pluie, the day I told her that I was about to leave for the United States.

You wouldn’t understand how, as such a young man, I came to forecast my future sufferings in America unless I had told you that I have always had a strong sense of what is about to happen in the future. Sometimes, I can sense good or bad people. And those I might have problems with in the future. It might be a strong instinct or others might call it psychic ability. This is something I never cared to dwell into personally, however, given that I do not dwell into superstitious content much. Nonetheless, many of my personal predictions to my own self ended up being very costly when I either ignored or overlooked them. And if I had told you that I had predicted that I would be meeting someone as nice and descent and understanding as my wife, would you have believed it if you knew me prior to meeting her? Maybe you would have laughed at me, asking me if I’m God or something? But, my prediction did become reality. And now, we have been happily married with two children, for a long while now. And counting …

AN ALIEN LANDING

I nexplicably, coming to America was the saddest day of my life. Everyone else—those of my surroundings in Haiti (and somewhat in Brooklyn) were celebrating my departure from Haiti to the land of opportunity, where many in Haiti dreamed about going to one day. But I wasn’t happy to go there that day. I kept on asking myself why do I have these uncomfortable feelings about going to the land of opportunity that many would give almost anything for a trip to that country? Maybe the unresolved conflicts that I had with my then girl friend Maggie might have been part of my pains. But my throat was dry. My chest felt tightened while on the airplane. I was a miserable wreck that day. And I was so visibly uncomfortable while waiting at custom’s waiting area, the first day that I came to the U.S. that a custom agent had approached me (only me, no one else). Probably suspecting that my uncomfortable being was suspicious enough and searched my luggages.

Here I realized that the white Americans want themselves and the country that they rule to be perceived as the most generous, welcomed country to anyone seeking a better life, being in a quest for opportunities from all corners of the globe. But if there has ever been people on this land that have ever been reflecting all of the above heartwarming, welcoming attributes, history tells us that they were none other the original native Indians, owners of this land—they were the ones who were generous, welcoming Christopher Columbus and the others like the Quakers and other settlers from Europe, who turned around and murdered their sponsors and stole their properties. They took their generosity and simplicity as naivety and slaughtered them.

America is said to be the land of opportunity. But in New York, I quickly learned that the American dream is barely accessible to everyone. It’s a different stroke for black and white and everyone else in between. It’s actually black vs. everyone else. Your skin tone will determine whether or not opportunities are accessible or not. The lighter your skin hue, the better your lucky stocks against the odds. It doesn’t really matter about where you came from than your skin hue. You could come from Haiti; if your skin tone is the right color—lighter enough, you don’t look too black, being able to pass for a white person, melting into the white privileged world, you’re good to go. But if your skin tone reflects a chocolate to charcoal nuances, you are in bad luck, son—you’re automatically subjected to prejudice, racism, being look down upon, passing on by for work opportunities, etc. regardless of qualification. Even your presumed peers, those (other blacks) who look like you, will castigate you, as being among the cursed, as they consider themselves being one.

Now, as obvious as these environments I described above was to me, however, to other Haitians, I wouldn’t dare make such observation. Since among Haitians, who, for the most part, came here to escape poverty and now being and living in the promised (so they believe) land, telling them this would be suicidal. I would be verbally castigated, the least.

I did not believe that America, the land that so many around the world, particularly citizens from poorer countries like mine, had ever welcomed me. During my first days in New York City, I had the worst experiences I had from America as of yet. I was confused about living here in America. I did not want to stay. I wanted to return home. In New York City, I saw so many people everywhere I turned. And every day. People didn’t seemed to ever go to sleep. And even though there were the faces of many, as one wouldn’t find anywhere else on the planet, but it was more than evident to me that everyone was living for himself. There was a true feeling of the homo homini lupus est. Every man was an island, like my home island has been isolated by disguising enemies of true freedom like most white Americans, French, English, and other accomplices who still held historical grudges against my country. But my relatives would have scorned me had I taken such a premature decision and returned home. I did not feel a bit comfortable being in America until I moved to the state of Maryland, which is, evidently, a little bit less hectic and rock ‘n’ rolling than New York City.

But when I came to this country, one thing that I wanted to make sure of was, unlike many other immigrants to this country, to not just live here only to earn myself a living, a better life, per say, or simply take advantage of what this country has to offer alone and pack my bag, getting into the selfish mind-set type of living the me, myself, and I life and hell with everyone else but also to educate myself about this society—what it’s really all about—to better myself and have a basic understanding of the history and the political issues of this country. So I embarked on a quest for knowledge, information, and education through personal commitments for researches. I started by reading newspapers, watching the news on TV, and listening to it on the radio. I even listened to so-called conservative radical radio and television shows. I went to libraries. Got many books and did a lot of reading. I carried a little French/ English dictionary that fits in my pocket. In that process, I literally self-taught myself the English language.

In New York, I heard of the saying, If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere. That summed up everything to me. Kind of a warning that there was a battle ahead to be fought, for sure. Get yourself ready. That slogan captured my attention. I wanted to know what it meant. If someone could break it down to me, help me decipher my suspected, fearful but unknown meaning of this sentence. Based in fear, I instinctively suspected. I dreaded that this could be something bad or life in this place was hard to overcome. At least to a newcomer like myself or the average person. But no one that I asked for answers was able to explain this to me to my satisfaction. Nonetheless, I remained persistent about grasping the true meaning of this slogan. And I promised myself that one day, I will do just that—breaking the codes in the meaning of this statement.

When I first came here, I wasn’t like your typical immigrants who came here simply to be content of having access to basic necessities that most of us were lacking in our home countries of origin, I wanted more. I had an urge, a hunger, a thirst, a scratch, and a drive toward learning. Gaining knowledge. I wanted to be informed and be knowledgeable about the society that I have to be somewhat part of. Be politically conscious. Know the history of this country. Then I committed myself to do just that, the best that I possibly could. And, first and foremost, I saw an opportunity to learn what I craved since I was living in my homeland Haiti, which was grabbing more knowledge. I then seized it.

Again, it was in the big apple that I first learned some taboos associated with blackness and black culture—the dos and the don’ts—while in Haiti, we listened to all types of music on the radio. Be it our konpa, salsa, zouk, soca, hip hop, R&B, soft rock, meringue, reggae, calypso, samba, oldies music, and even redneck tunes in country music. I guess with its usual soft beat, Haitian become tolerant of country music in their ears. Although in our neighboring Dominican Republic, anything Haitian, even our music is chastised, prohibited in their air waves as being from another primitive world, but Haitians always play Dominican music. In fact, many Dominican musical stars like Bonny Cepeda with his old hit, Ay Doctor was a huge hit in Haiti while I was a little boy, growing up. Some of us sing all of those lyrics, not even knowing a word in Spanish. Haitian concert organizers would make arrangements and would invite many Dominican bands, artists, to perform in Haiti, regularly. In spite of their ever ending aggressions against us. The same can be said for reggae music, when it’s no secret that most Jamaicans in the United States hate Haitians with a passion because their white masters tell them to; Haitians have always been in love with reggae music, regardless. Even when Bob Marley, the cafe au lait dude, who was singing about black justice, with one of his famous songs being, Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our own mind … was roaming all over the world, entertaining, selling his music to the very people he loved to sing about their bad deeds, yet never considered stepping foot in Haiti. Haitians still hold that Jamaican son of a bitch with a high esteem. He is viewed as an international hero, another voice against injustice, rather than typical Jamaican air head that he was in my book. He was singing, Africa unite, he went to Zimbabwe during that nation’s celebration of first independence from Britain and finally being recognized by them, in 1980, but he could never sing, People from the Caribbean, let unite … We Haitians are so close to Jamaica, yet so far away in perception, concepts, and beliefs—all in the name of ignorance that is nurtured, maintained, and perpetrated by white manufactured division among our people. That even permeated a world-known famous singer, performer, entertainer, that, many even elevated to the level of prophet making him act indifferent, as yet another one of their puppets, as Bob Marley really was. And not surprisingly, that isolated concept ascribe to many blacks all over the world about Haiti is a reality here in the States. Most of the black celebrities never step foot in Haiti. Some go there with cameras following them to praise themselves while on a mission as saviors. I often come across blacks who asked me if Haiti is located in Africa.

On the job at the Airport, this Jamaican dude told me that he often heard and has been told that Haiti is so barren that all you see around you is rocks. There is no arable or cultivable land. Nothing to eat to sustain life in Haiti. That’s why Haitians are always hungry. Haiti is a hellhole that every single Haitian wants to leave it. When I asked him about if he had ever listened to or heard about Haitian music, which is konpa, he told me that he had never heard of it.

But Haiti is and has always been anything but the hatred pictures being painted by white supremacists around the world that is being received and absorbed by their students, intercepting whatever they regurgitated within their system. But those who are familiar with and had been to Haiti, had been to different parts of the country would attest that although Haiti is a country of mountains, there are always many plains, valleys, cultivable, and arable land all over.

From the northern plains of Cap Haitien, Port-De-Paix, Gonaïves, to the Artibonite Valleys, the foothills of Saint-Marc, to huge portion of La Plaine, Sartes, Croix-des-Bouquets (where Wyclef Jean is from), Duvivier to valleys of Jacmel, the mountains in Jérémie, Les Cayes, all the way to Port-au-Prince’s neighboring Léogâne, Gressier, even in the nation’s Capital of Port-Au- Prince, in Petion-Villle, Kenskoff, Delmas, and elsewhere, Haiti has cultivable, arable lands that can be cultivated to feed its citizens. And export to foreign destinations. But Haiti having difficulties to produce food and products of primary necessities has more to do with an organized destructive sabotage of the peasants that are the main force behind the lacking in the production of food in the country by well-equipped and well-founded wealthy Haitian business owners, in complicity with rednecks who owned businesses that produced those type of staple diet, like rice, beans corn, potatoes, plantains, bananas, oranges, poultry, etc., that is consumed in Haiti by the vast majority of Haitians. With the latter stationed in southern states like Louisiana, Arkansas, Texas, South and North Carolina, Arizona, Georgia, and Florida, dealing with their crooked Haitians who are working for and taking orders from them, being paid to destroy the Haitian agriculture, cultivation of food in the country. This trend and policy, mission to destroy the Haitian agricultural force started in the late seventies when the United States slaughtered Haitian pigs under the disguise of infection. It continued in the early eighties when the dictator Jean-Claude Duvalier allowed the importation of American made rice in Haiti that he named diri Jan Klod, Jean-Claude’s rice, all the way to the Caribbean free trade agreement (CAFTA) that was passed by the then president William Jefferson Clinton aka Bill Clinton. He did extensive damages to Haiti with that policy that applied to the Caribbean. Mostly aggravated in the 1990s.

As reported by Al Jazeera’s Harvey Lewis, in an investigative journalist report on July 4, 2008, in the documentary title The policy of rice—how the US Policy is impacting this impoverished nation reveals how the United States has been sabotaging the Haitian economy through food importation, mainly rice.

***

The Haitians’ taste of music is of a huge variety like I said above. The Haitians, even when they migrated to other societies, they still carry on with them their taste and choice of music. So you would hear Haitians playing salsa, meringue, and every other style, even country music. So one day I got on a cab on Flatbush Avenue in New York, going toward downtown Brooklyn. The driver was Haitian. He had me and another white guy on the cab heading toward our destination that we both had agreed that he could take both of us. In the cab, the man was playing a soft country music. He had an American flag hanging right in the middle of the front of his roof, on the rear view mirror. I could tell that he was a Haitian, not only from his heavy French accent, similar to mine, but also the name on his identification card hanging on the partition of his cab said Frisnel Jean.

I can tell that my co-rider was also curious at what he was listening to—A black man playing country music in New York City? Get the fuck outta here! He must have been thinking. But I knew what was up with him playing that type of music. Haitians simply don’t discriminate when it comes to music—if it sounds good, the rhythm and melodies are good, then play it.

***

But nothing was pleasing to my liking. Milk here tasted like chalk that we used on school blackboards in Haiti. After I