Mi Karnival of Papier-Mâché: + La Prettiest Penny in Paris Novelette + .

By Kenny Attaway

Mi Karnival of Papier-mâché is an honest, intelligent and unapologetic memoir chronicling the life and times of Miyor Paul Toussaint who throughout his conquest to become great never gives up hopes of not only become a fashion designer, but a better being along the journey. The-mâché novel follows the life and times of the starving artist/fashion designer from his struggling in not so humble beginning in Haiti and finishing out the conquest in the great city of Paris, France. Aside from his journey out of Haiti into Paris to fulfil a lifelong dream, he must make peace with decisions and information unearthed and move his world towards change-including how to be a better friend The novel addresses the difficulties of becoming a welcomed black fashion designer, his on/off battles with various addictions (sex, drugs, and alcohol), but the world’s sometimes ugly reflections with inspiring and make changes along the way. Papier-mâché also explores the island of Haiti’s ongoing problems with being accepted by the rest of the world-as does Miyor. Astonishingly, regardless of the struggles and pains Miyor triumphs on and through the bright lights of Paris and beyond to become all there is to be- his way while on the road to the riches, ending with presenting to you with a ticket to his Karnival of mâché.

a little messy, but presentable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665578622

Kenny Attaway

Kenny Attaway (G.E.R) is an American writer. Raised in West Philadelphia, began authoring novels, plays and mini movies in the pre-teens of his life. His works of art has touched the hearts and minds of countless fan/supporters. Since 2005, he has published a total of twelve-thirteen works of art. His subject matters/genres continue to give light on array of topics. He loves writing and ushering in new projects. Currently, he is penning three complete novels to be published soon.

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© 2022 Kenny Attaway. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/19/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-7861-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-7860-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-7862-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

god, pour a little rum & suga over haiti 01

rabbit in a rum tuxedo 02

planes made of papier mâché 03

A Fat Bum 04

a karnival, the circus and a ferry 05

almost like….standing in stardust 06

kookies & kream for the koko rebellion 07

the scent of orange butterflies 08

flowers from the black market 09

mi carnival of papier mâché 10

sir-ching for mrs. sugaman 11

jimi santana & orange crème concepts 12

death by chocolate (ice cream riots) 13

devils wear prada, gods wear gucci 14

a sheep of a breed with a black face 15

an orange hermes bag filled with yesterday & tomorrow 16

mi karnival of papier-mâché

—la prettiest penny in Paris novelette —

la je vous remercie s—

--------------------------------------------------------------------

as always GOD is first

family & NAS.

every fashion designer, culinary artist, and inspiring artist of any genre

(Get your work to the world)

mi karnival of papier-mâché.

dedications/inspired by the late/great Patrick Kelly (September 24, 1954 – January 1, 1990) and so many before and after him of the fashion IND. This work of art is dedicated to the many African American males and females have placed a hand in the quilts and fabrics. It’s time the world recognized and gave proper love and respect. We are all under one quilt, but some have gotten their respect for cotton picking, hemming, tailoring and everything else that comes with this sometimes messy, but beautiful world of fashion. It’s time. Originally, I was inspired by many factors to write papier mâché out of my love for paper alone and all the wonderful that come about from cotton, paper, but like always the projects, thoughts, and motivations change. This is not Patrick Kelly’s story, but there are interpolations & threads of his life in this project. It would have been canned if I had not stumbled on articles on black designers plights and the many struggles associated with (forgot where), but Mr. Kelly (rest in power and beautiful cloth). Aside from Mr. Kelly and the other African American fashion designers, this project was inspired and motivated by culinary artist (chefs and bakers) and for the restless romantics, my love and understanding of the carnival, obsession with papier mâché changers, movers, shakers and great art and joy that comes from many different places around the world. This is what happens when hip hop meets rock, they marry and have beautiful pop and soulful children. Papier-mâché is just that.

papier-mâché- like a tag

Mi Karnival of Papier-mâché is an honest, intelligent and unapologetic memoir chronicling the life and times of Miyor Paul Toussaint who throughout his conquest to become great never gives up hopes of not only become a fashion designer, but a better being along the journey. The-mâché novel follows the life and times of the starving artist/fashion designer from his struggling in not so humble beginning in Haiti and finishing out the conquest in the great city of Paris, France. Aside from his journey out of Haiti into Paris to fulfil a lifelong dream, he must make peace with decisions and information unearthed and move his world towards change-including how to be a better friend The novel addresses the difficulties of becoming a welcomed black fashion designer, his on/off battles with various addictions (sex, drugs, and alcohol), but the world’s sometimes ugly reflections with inspiring and make changes along the way. Papier-mâché also explores the island of Haiti’s ongoing problems with being accepted by the rest of the world-as does Miyor. Astonishingly, regardless of the struggles and pains Miyor triumphs on and through the bright lights of Paris and beyond to become all there is to be- his way while on the road to the riches, ending with presenting to you with a ticket to his Karnival of mâché.

a little messy, but presentable.

the hugs & kisses of…papier-mâché.

As always first & foremost – always thank you and honor to the HIGHEST. Mi Karnival took years of research, thought processing and so many other things to carry out. But with prayer and gratitude – it was done. A papier mâché of hugs goes out to all the artist that inspire or inspired me on this project-(let it stick to you) As a child I was only inspired by hip hop music and the block, but as a man it has expanded to chefs, writers, poets, hip hop artist, stylist, architects, musicians, painters and various other artist – we paint, sculpture, rapture, sing, dance and change the world through art. I thank you all sincerely. To my family- with LOVE- whenever I am in creative mode – I can be difficult- but I can’t apologize for something I so love to do-just hope & pray I have you guys’ blessings and love. Being a creator is what god sent me to be. To Rabbit- daddy loves you and I hope you understand now- Chase positive passion/run to positive creative juices. To the supporters- please continue to support through not only reading -but spreading the word. This writing thingy hasn’t been easy at all. Sometimes I contemplate putting the pen, paper, USB, and computer away forever, but something in me won’t allow it, maybe it’s passion. To NASIR… thank you for the inspirations and wordplay. It constantly gives me hope and refuel to push go. To mom, RIP. I miss you dearly everyday all day. Thanks for inspiring me to pull and push deeper. That part of the hug makes the projects much more worthwhile.

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god, pour a little rum & suga over haiti 01

but Papa refused to sale sugar due to believing it was the reason for the extension of slavery for Africans -aside from cotton. Papa rarely contradicted himself, but for a man that relied that much on sugar for baking and supplying his addiction –

suga over Haiti

Mi Karnival of love, confusion and papier-mâché was one hell of a ride. And like all journey’s, my carnival has had its ups and its downs. But through my memories fascination some things I will never forget. But it’s just like that for me, but most of us. Somethings we just won’t forget, like falling in love, our first child or having over a the top mindboggling fuck. That’s life- a combustion of memories that guides us through hardships and old age. One of my most disruptive memories was- pealing Papa ’s flesh and liquated bones from our stove, kitchen floors and walls. The scene playback in my mind like a favorite movie or lyric of my best song. Through the fire his strong soul held up, but his shrunk into little raisins. As Papa would always say "Lespwa fè viv (Hope makes one live). My papa was a strong resolute spirit and entity to baking, caring for me and pouring rum & suga over Haiti. I’d always hear him praying through the cracks for the the Bondye or Gran Mèt and his to our ancestor through LWA (also called loa or loi, are spirits in the African diasporic religion of Haitian Vodou.) Sometimes he’d pray and chant silently mumbling with crumbs falling from his mouth, other times he’d rush through prayer as if he had chili peppers foaming from his tongue. The prayers/chants were always simple. "For God to pour some sugar and rum on Haiti. He’d always pray for such things before bed and always as he baked. He loved chopping coconuts, buttering the pan and smelling up Haiti almost as much as God and prayer- it was his morning star. Baking would always take his mind off and away our harsh living conditions and unchanging situations. Bondye vide sik ak wonm sou Ayiti. bondye vide sik ak wonm sou Ayiti -He’d always persuade me to pray, but it took a long time for me to believe in God or that our ancestors become God like. And that whenever in need they’d come in to take part in our lives at once. Nevertheless, life in Haiti was the everything of nothing. I grew up confused and with a pocketful of ash roses. If life were a precious flower, it died before nostrils found its scent. Papa’s brownies, French cakes and Coconut pies crumbs were never enough. The pastries were strong, but not strength of to inspire to forget my momma leaving me and my father walking away. The pies didn’t have the ingredients to shit out my father abandoning me for European whores and never having anything to show for. Papa and I lived in a small one-bedroom mud-hut a few blocks from Port-au-Prince, in earthquake ravished town, Cité Soleilp- pronounced "completely fucked up". Cité Soleilp residents and nearby never complained of the conditions overtly, but we knew we were poor & confused by the sincerity /sadness in and of our prayers. What we’re praying for our expressions asked. It was sold that America, Italy and France/Paris was a butterscotch bliss, but in Cité Soleilp rusty gated- hell smothered in weeds and darkness. Papa wanted more for everyone in Haiti, especially me. He’d do anything for me but conceal the truth. His Haitian Creole dialect was too heavy -at times I couldn’t understand his hard dialog and accents, but knew his lips only spoke of love.

He’d tend to pray and bake at the same time. On many nights he’d blow crumbs in my face from the chanting/praying and taste assessing his goods while redirecting me.’ I’d figure it out by his actions and hyper pulse. Before having his legs amputated, he was a towering man that stood a perfect 6’3, but the sugar he fell in love with or believed gave hope and strength to Haiti derailed him. Being a diabetic and losing those important limbs meant little to him. He didn’t complaint, make noise or bitch about it. His thumbs were rough as sandpaper from wheeling the 300 styled BC chair. It was broken, raggedly, but it wheeled him in the direction of humanity, strength, forgiveness and love. He wheeled around our shanty shack of muddy wood as if that part of life never happened. I don’t remember much about my mother, but she’d help Papa with baking, chasing rich men and at times cooking and cleaning when bored. She wasn’t a loving nurturer; whenever I’d cry, she’d throw mudballs and bushels in my direction to quiet the noise. fèmen bouch timoun salo- (shut up bastard child). She was ashamed of having me that young, my father not wanting to be around – and living in a one-bedroom mud hut with her handicapped father and ugly son. Life became a burden in a blur. Morning stars no longer crowded her skies, and it became ugly outside and within. Even at a hug, I could feel her goosebumps drying out and rotten-ing. She desired more and Haiti didn’t have it to offer. She dreamt of ice cream cones attached with a banana sundae float often, but they’d melt before she got out of bed. Her dreams were fading away, and she was tormented with Haiti’s melting cones. Fabiola Jean aka Mama wanted out of Haiti and believed my alleged French-pecan father would be Mr. Ice Cream Man, but he gave me a few licks and pushed his truck out of Haiti. He abandoned her and I seven days into my birth. She resented me for his actions and choices of not wanting to be a father to me. Out of patience and in desperation, she packed up the Fuck Haiti Kit and never looked back. I woke up the next morning to only land in wet cement and by noon it was dry. I was stuck without a mother or father. She sent a postcard from Paris a few months later that she was doing okay, but she’d rather not be found, Haiti was no place for her and that could, Papa, take care of me. I never hated or unloved my mother, but in the same wondered what made her halt her footprints towards motherhood for things I had no choice in. It wasn’t my fault. Papa didn’t speak in the negative tongue of Mama Fab. She was his only daughter and at that time his only child. My Uncle/her brother, Orion, aka Dessalines died young. I never had the honor of meeting him. Dessalines died from Malaria before reaching full adulthood. Like most Haitians Papa didn’t fear death but welcomed it. Dying meant being in the arms of the highest God, reconnecting with ancestors and being wrapped in a beautiful rainbow. To our disadvantage, countless Haitians saw it as island of clouds and rain. My mother, Fabiola Jean, believed no different. Papa didn’t speak much about my mother but spoke of her in breath of roses. He kept a handful of pictures of her in a flour bag of other collectibles. Fabiola was a beautiful woman with dark crimson skin, exotic blossomed eyes and was long and wool like hair. But her outer beauty wasn’t enough to quiet the noises in her head that teased Killigan Island ((nod to Gillian’s Island) was fecal matter. Inside survived her ugly. In the few photos Papa owned her she never smiled. Her face was aligned in blue and filled with a river of mist that seeped out the photos. She was miserable and blamed me for the failures and anything in relation to Haiti. She was the failed alchemist that couldn’t transfer a shitty situation into a treasure. For many years I carried the burdens of we failed each other.

Nevertheless, Papa was a king with elephant skin, deep love and sincere heart that pumped for me, my mother, baking and the island of Haiti. He didn’t go to formal school on a day in his life- he could only count money he made money from selling pies, cakes, and specialty Haitian pastries. Prior to being the only baker for Cité Soleilp, he was a substituent farmer. He harvest & sold cassava (manioc), plantains and bananas, corn (maize), yams and sweet potatoes (they are different), and rice. More than a half of the sub farmers (barely enough for survive on, yet sell) "sold sugar to survive," but Papa refused to sale sugar due to believing it was the reason for the extension of slavery for Africans -aside from cotton. Papa rarely contradicted himself, but for a man that relied that much on sugar for baking and supplying his addiction – his stance on sugarcane didn’t make sense. Who was I to argue with? He was all I had and knew during the pilot stages of life. I still cry at the Haitian rainbows as a man-demanding the ancestors send him back. The not so colorful island rainbow sat in the sky a little differently than the others I’d see in movies. Sincerely. Papa couldn’t afford private or public school to educate me. Beautifully, he found a way. He traded sweet potatoes, cakes and backyard goods to the local makeshift teacher, Priest Samuel, to teach me anything that could help me through the island maze. King Papa was a teacher in his own right; despite not attending a formal school. He taught the essentials of being good at existing. At times he would live out his last days quietly-like a silent film. It was filled with silent action. He didn’t always speak with words, but his way to victory roared through me. Although he wasn’t acting, his quest for life was action packed, filled with drama, but with a trinket of comedy. But for the standard educational purposes– Priest Samuel taught me and the other kids of the village. He taught many of the local kids, including my childhood friends, Stephanie, Farah, and Salix. Although we all were dirt grimy poor, I always assumed my family was forgotten by god and ancestors. My trousers were bed sheets and shoes made from flour sacks and chewed up tire rubber. I knew there was more to life, but at that time couldn’t prove it. A school day consisted of us bring tricked by arithmetic, spelling, and reading up on Haitian culture for the first two hours – while the last two hours depended solely on Priest Samuel’s mood. Aside from a teacher and trader (of many goods), he was a voodoo priest/spiritual healer. He’d have us spend the last two hours of school playing mudball, listening to speeches of great Haitian leaders such as Jean-Jacques Dessalines and himself and/or free time. Most of my peers bragged on how well they were doing or about doing, despite all of us coming from huts that survived from the trading of gorilla farming. Before long I fell in love with paper/papier. The fascinations of how paper is birthed from a tree -later chopped and condensed into flat sheets of life thrilled me. Finding papier mâché transformed my life instantly-it was one of the few things that stuck to me (no punt). Paper became not only a blanket and forms of toys, but a way out. I’d drift off in the fantasy land of the paper planes taking me off to different world- and away from Haiti.

Priest Samuel never would allow us to leave school early. If he was busy as a customer, we had to keep ourselves occupied without the use of noise. Paper would help me a lot during the down times. I’d write mumble jumble to letters to my mother, but then tear them up. Using paper to release anger helped me to love paper was like a blanket or sheet to lay the sorrows of the moment down. Sometimes I’d use paper to write, make planes and other times cut out dolls. My love & excitement for paper inspired others in my class to write, fly planes and cut out paper dolls. He’d allow us to play with the paper for a short while, but then would become angered that we were wasting his time. He’d sometimes slap the other kids with sticks and rulers, but he never raised a hand to harm me. Sometimes he’d bring newspapers in to keep us occupied. Priest Samuel had a special like for Farah and me, but we both were afraid of him. We reciprocated our limited likes from a distance. He was an ugly, scary face fat islander that sported a mouthful of rotten teeth, withered hairline, and eclectic purplish eyes. Many of his clients were French and Polish- highlighting his rotten teeth was his way of showing off his supposedly wealth. He wasn’t rich but had a tongue somewhere in the middle between wealthy verses poor talks. He loved teaching and was his way of "reconstructing Haiti or gathering the ingredients for the rum & suga." Mountains of Haiti were ravished from conflicting smiles-existing from the many earthquakes and the one hundred years plus stench of the dead Frenchmen. The older Haitians took pride in the 1804 massacre of the French and Haiti being the only African colony defeat slave masters. Regretfully, after 1804 Haiti has not had a prosperous year as a country since. Farah and I were adaptive and bonded more than the others. We considered Haiti mudslides of dumb pride. On the rainier days (less traffic) Priest Samuels would sit us in a spirit cypher and preach lessons of Haitian history. But why our faces read. By the end of second grade, we were tired Haiti’s confused battered history. Salix left school all together to make money helping his Aunt Sirica with selling t- shirts in Labadee (tourist district). We all missed Salix, but what was we to do. His family moved one step forward in being rescued from Killigan’s.

We couldn’t relate with the Island’s enthusiasts. There was nothing to show for the defeat of the Europeans, but a dead end filled with a great big mudslide to hell. The school system, government and everything in between was in shambles. Many of the residents believed our living conditions and predicament was no better than the times prior to 1803. We are stuck in a cave and fighting over dark and broken rocks was a slogan of some throughout Haiti. More than a many residents of Haiti would seek refuge in the Dominican Republic, while some took the shorter route to heaven. In the nearby town of Bas-Ravine, the living conditions were much dire. Infant mortalities and AIDS patients doubled each year. Farah’s family experienced a great deal or pain and hardship. Her older brother, Kemi, jumped from a mountain to death after learning he was HIV positive, the same year her father was beaten to death for a bucket of beans. Our green clovers no longer grew, our horseshoes were rusted out and God stop listening it seemed. Papa’s words Please pour a little suga and rum on Haiti ran deep. As I climbed in age, I’d began to ask why Haiti was so poor compared to other places of the world, especially Paris. Fabiola fled to Paris, but of all places-why Paris I thought. It was not until I reached the age of nine that I understood the answer. Paris, the capital, France not only housed some of the richer people of the world-but was the capital of decadence- belligerent ignorance. Paris reached out a grabbed my soul. I didn’t have the money or know how to get there, but the magazines worked as a transporter. One of Priest Samuel’s clients, Sir Raphael Bonnet was a middle-class gentle-MON that loved high-end haute fashion. He taught us quickly the difference between haute couture verses off the peg/rack. Everything that sheltered his frame had to be haute couture-. high-quality fashionable clothes made to order.

Early on his one-man runway attire looked bitchafied silly, but I’d later learn that emotion was confused admiration. I was attracted to the pascals, loud unusual hats, and gaudy shoes, but didn’t know why. His scent was that of a French whore after a happy ending laughed some of the edgier classmates, but I loved the scent of the crushed florals. It was like the ashes that rose from Papa’s formed something special. He owned the scent of a coconut cupcake that was made from Papa’s makeshift bakery that grew legs. Sir Ralph would bring collections of fashion magazines to our hut that he no longer wanted. Some would thumb through articles to improve reading, others would gaze at the pictures of the pretty bulimic models, but I surfed through the articles and pictures to find Fabiola (weird right), to rub the scented cologne and perfume inserts. I rubbed them on my neck, clothes, and face. At that moment I was lifted away from tragedy and into some form of rainbow nirvana. At that moment I not only no longer felt oppressed, but believed I was transformed into Paris-dise. Taking fagazines back home to Papa was a no-go. He was not fond of Paris, the Frenchmen or anything other than Haitian pride. I adored papa and didn’t want to bring any harm to him. There were many ideas, dreams and thoughts I’d want to share, but after a while his likes and dislikes were on candid display. In short, he would have thought the Vogue stuff was fagazines too. Feeling weird and wanting to ask a question, but of was father was a Frenchmen, was creole is a dialectic of the French and millions of other questions But instead of running of my mouth I stuck papier mâché between my lips. It was my way of holding my truth back. Papa was prideful of Haitian heritage, but I never had the heart to fully question why. Looking on, Haiti was just an ill-fated island that housed Africans that were enslaved by the French. Instead of arguing and lip wrestling with Papa – I chowed down on a papier mâché pie and played the hand I was given. Despite having a hand that owned two fingers and one butchered thumb. Never forget "Lespwa fè vi. How could anyone be that proud of an island that entrapped us, left us desolately stuck in survival mode 24/7 -365. The older elite class joked some of us were stranded on Killigan’s Island) When I could not reach Paris (when Sir Ralph didn’t bring new magazines) it was Papa’s muffins, cakes and pies, Farah’s jokes or creating works of art with paper. Sir Ralph’s friend Benji was a papier mâché artist that inspired me to take a few sheets of paper, toss it into a bucket and change my life in the process. To earn money, he would pay Farah and I do make voodoo dolls of papier mâché– and he’d send them to friends in Paris for large sums of money. Aside from an outlet, it was a short-term hustle. To sweeten the pot and have my works of art stand out I would sprinkle baking products in the PM mix to give it a distinctive scent. Papier mâché-—derived from papier-mâché, or chewed paper in French left our kitchen in a mess, but Papa didn’t sweat it. He not only enjoyed that I am helping with bringing money into the hut, but that I was extending my talents and stretching a hobby. He aspired of me being a Haitian king and wearing my crown with joy, self-respect and dignity. He’d spend many nights teaching me how to adjust my crown and knighting myself was that important. "Not everyone will love you, most won’t. Love yourself and others may follow" But he was ailing. His health was deteriorating in quicksand. His sizzling sunset was burning out. He was dying but did not want to leave me alone on Killigian’s Island. He was my Skipper. Who would care for me? Papa practiced voodoo work in his earlier years but gave it all up churning out coconut pies and rum cakes.

To honor his humble beginnings and love for the craft I would make many vodou dolls of papier mâché. Although I never asked or questioned voodoo or vodou. On his better days he’d explained it with angry love. "Neva allows anyone to fool ya boy, voodoo is not evil. Voodoo is good and was our natural religion before the French and whitey man misconstrued it. It’s the best and only way to speak to God and our ancestors through chants and spirits. It originated in West Africa but is used by Haitians more than others. Let no one fool ya boy." For nights in and nights out I’d ruffle up chewed pieces of paper, baking products (nutmeg, spices) and paste and whip into the best works of art possible. With Papa declining health, spending less time in the kitchen, and increasing violence in Haiti- it was always my biggest fattest dream that I’d make it out and take a KING with me. But that was not to happen.

Just a few hours before Farr’s tenth birthday, she was raped, murdered, and thrown over a mountain in the slums of bidonville (two miles from our school). Confusingly, not many cried. Papa welcomed death and believed she was in a better place- She’s being hugged and kissed by our ancestors. At that time, there was a little distance between Papa and me. Her death seemed to be meaningless to him. Her skin dangled from a cold knife didn’t move his titanium emotions. While my clay of emotions was molded into more hurt and despair. I needed the world to pause momentarily and feel her pain, torcher and rejoice in her life. Inside I assumed he was rejoicing. That appeared to be coldness shifted the wind, but I later understood he pained too. "Everyone pains differently Mi" During those times Farah and I bonded differently than the others. She didn’t see me liking Paris magazines as being a sissy boy, but different. She’d always joke you are going to catch the last train to Paris and leave us here to rot. My love for mâché-ing dried up a lot during that time but walking in on Sir Ralph’s private joke shredded the papier mâché into thin pieces of regret. Imagine the irony of that … We have a little gay Haitian boy taking a liking to chewed up paper, when in this shit hole- all he will have is chewed up paper. I was devastated that he not only named a sissy gay boy, but that he’d own the irony that the closest I’d come to pristine paper was through papier mâché-. Later that week, I’d mistakenly use Papa’s last bag of flour for a PM order. The flour used was for a batch of cookies for a customer who had lost his son to violence. The father broke Papa’s infamous cookies and wasn’t a part of the ceremony. Papa was not able to gather any flour, due to the heavy downpours. He didn’t scream or shout, but his wintery eyes spoke volumes. With still grieving over Farah and the JUNE hustle ending, I found what it was to be depressed. The ugliness outside that I ran from had now entered my heart. My charged emotions fought like a jarhead for the right to be happy. Little worked, the paper planes weren’t enough to fly me away. Haiti was an ugly place at that time, that the sun didn’t want to make any guest appearances and the flowers sunk back into the ground. It was where the clouds cried, and stars dissolved in sadness- a true ugly sunset. The ugliest that I once smothered in papier mâché had grown a life of its own. It grew from three to four feet. A papier mâché monster stood outside my door wanting to murder existence. My love for school, baking with Papa, and papier mâché-ing was taken away.

I found the edge of a mountain and with all my heart readied to jump, but the scent of Papa’s coconut muffins pulled me back. "How was I to leave him when he stays for me." Farah’s goodbye only made it more depressing. I had never been to a funeral but read a lot about how the deceased was buried in Paris, France, and the US. I was broken on how Farah body was danced over and thrown into the dirt as she was a dead worm-the ceremony angered me, why our ceremonies were not like Paris I thought. Her grandmother did the planning (including picking her garments. Before the funeral service, a Virgil was held. I wasn’t asked or allowed to bring a gift. All the woman of her family served coffee with thick fat overweigh brown expresso beans to keep everyone awake while they chanted and dance around a fire. Due to the family running out of money, her body was left outside the burial for a few days for her some of flesh to be eaten away by mosquitoes, ticks, bees, wasps, hornets, blackflies, spiders, and ants in search of sugar. My heart dreamt of the bright lights of Paris more. Farah was to have a much better ceremony than being left outside her burial to be eaten away by the savage hungry insects. I’d walk by her flesh and cry for weeks. I was finally allowed to cover her in a papier mâché custom. Although it wasn’t allowed – a worker from the burial okayed it. Sadly, days later the paper melted and dried into her skin. A day later she was buried. She is a better place my Mi, our ancestors are going to make sure she pains and suffers no one. He and I made a super-sized PM of her and placed it in the back room. He and I talked of life, death, Haiti, and all that comes with moving parts we have no control over. He shared a deep remorse of not being able to see his daughter/my mother again. He wanted to share and tell more, but too sick rekindle his once was. Less than two weeks later he was dead. I could remember it as if it were yesterday. Somethings we will never forget. Like falling in, out and around love, but the stench of Papa’s flesh stuck to the sheets entangled with the scent of a burnt-out kitchen is one for the ages. Our wooden shack kitchen caught fire while I was at school. Papa was not able to move his wheelchair in time and was doused in the fire. Amazingly, most of the photographs and homemade artworks weren’t the fire by. He and I had talks about death and how we were not run from it, but embrace it." Death a friend rather than a foe, the beginning rather than the end. The best place to be with our ancestors and the Bondye or Gran Mèt. We are safe there. Some say he didn’t try to pull away from the fire but embraced the burn. "He believes you are a man, a king and son of God- you will be fine in his demise.

He’d never admit it, but with Mama Fab running out his life and mines for Paris, losing his wife (died of cancer) and being submerged in the Caribbean underworld of Haiti- he lost his way. Liquid gold/aka white sugar became his choice of drug, his oppressor, and cemented his death. Papa taught me to understand, respect and accept death, but it still it came in the form of hurting and confusing. I was only ten years old and left with the challenge of surviving Killigan alone. Seeing how Farah was removed from Haiti and thrown into an afterlife collapsed me, but Papa’s death shattered me into little pieces of nothing. His flesh was burned into his clothes and if I didn’t love him that much, I wouldn’t have recognized him at all. It was a terrible moment, day, and year. Like Farah, Papa was left outside his burial until his burial debt was honored. Papa had some money stored in tin cans and buried in the grounds, but not enough to cover the ceremony. Besides, the corrupt funeral homes would have brutalized me and kept the monies without giving Papa a correct sendoff. Following the half ass ceremony, I buried Papa in a secret place and ran for the hills. Sir, Jean-Permu Toussaint, aka Papa was a gentle giant crushed into a smidgen of a man-thanks to diabetes, Haiti, and heartbreak. For a few days following the ceremony hid away in a forgotten isolated creek. My stomach survived old bread, insects, water from the creek’s bayou and the thought of going back to civilization. But for now, it was survival of the fittest. Papa taught me how to decipher what types of grasshoppers and crickets are edible on my fifth birthday. We ate them together with a rum cake. There was always cricket powder/ flour lying around Papa’s makeshift bakery. Cricket powder is high in protein, has similar baking properties to regular flour, and has a slightly nutty flavor. I would gut their belly for nematodes (worms), sprinkle cricket powder and eat them as if it was a full course meal. Living on the land was scary on most nights, but on some nights, I slept peacefully and began to become open to joining Papa, and my other ancestors. My spirit was shattered into too many parts to gather all at once. Part one was still afraid of death and its outcome, another third wanted to meet up with my mother and the final third wanted to swim of the island untouched. I wasn’t sold on Haitian pride just yet. There had to more to our history than being left of a split island, killing off Napoleon and his Frenchmen, earthquakes and voodoo/vodou. After hiding out for some weeks, running out of stale bread and being sick of eating grasshopper’s ass I made my way back to Cité Soleilp. No one had touched the remaining bricks of our once sweet home, but from the foul scent of trouble – I knew a body or two had visited what was left of our home. All of Papa’s baking materials were washed away from storms and baby quakes, but the spirit of the home or last remaining walls were intact. I went back to not only visit his make-do burial, but to find some direction and a place reset. "Kote ou te ye ti gason. Mwen kap tout kote pou ou. Vini avèk mwen. Ou pa ka viv poukont ou. Chasè yo pral rasanble ou epi touye.

Sister Gerdes, The Priestess, a friend our family. She loved us all and would always counsel Papa of her exit plans (spiritual feelings) She’d come by our home twice a month to trade Haitian pastries for spiritual rocks, books, and other voodoo inspired doohickies. She secretly loved Papa, but he never upped his heart to her. He remained devoted with grandma even through death. Gerdes gave off energy that she was a mean-spirited bitch, but she was a sheep in wolf clothing. She owned the sturdiness that could crumble a volcano but inside her lived beautiful creamy lava that oozed with sentiment. In short, kote ou te ye ti gason. Mwen kap tout kote pou ou. Vini avèk mwen. Ou pa ka viv poukont ou. Chasè yo pral rasanble ou epi touye- meant bring your ass with me boy. There are hunters and gathers constantly rummaging the island looking for body parts to take back to France, Honduras, and America. Papa and I talked occasionally of how Haiti is the capital of missing children and ripped off body parts. It was a part of our norm like fighting over the rocks and darkness of our cave. The locals often wondered was portions of Farah’s body parts were removed. Some people voiced their frustrations, while others were afraid to speak out. "The universe listens to everything. Watch your tongue" Sister Gerdes was a mulatto (white and black ancestry, especially a person with one white and one black parent or both mulatto parents)She considered herself Haitian more than anything. Being a mulatto is grandiose to some- but for some it’s a burden. She’d often share with Papa how she didn’t fit in or either side and felt as if she were a mut. Men of the villages and nearby found Gerdes to be an attractive woman with goddess features, but she was chained in pain at times. She didn’t like having a European nose and African lips. In my face lies a fight. Sister Gerdes was heavily involved in voodoo/vodou and with immeasurable pride. She and her brother, Ku, packed up whatever they could grab from Papa’s hut and brought me to live with them. A little less than a week after Papa’s death, they prepared a black bean, brown rice, stew chicken, coconut pies and jugs of rum in his honor. Feeding spirits, the deceased and ancestors are very important for the practice and celebration of vodou. How was Papa to eat any of this I thought but remained quiet that I had a warm comfortable place to stay. Anything was tastier than stale floured crickets and grasshopper ass. Besides, I was tired of being afraid and wanted to return to school. I missed reading, writing, and the "fagazines" from Sir Ralph and Benji.

My feelings were still not fully repaired from the sissy whispers, but in the same Papa was dead, I was now living with Gerdes, Ku and their family and had nothing more to lose. With Papa now a part of dirt I’d learn the values of everything of nothing quickly. Prior to ceremony of "Manje-Iwa (food for the dead), Ku ushered out a big bottle of homemade rum – and everyone -including I, drank three to four cups of liquid blackout. Ya Papa loved rum boy.

It made sense, his favorite quote/saying was "God, pour a little rum & suga on Haiti’ Please. Haitian rum is the most sort after rum in the world due to its somewhat secret elements of pure sugar cane and wild yeast (only grown in Haiti). Living with family was more Gillian than Killigan for the first few weeks. Then everything turned bad. Everything! Thanks to Sir Samuel I was being schooled again. Raphael continued to bring magazines to the hut and my love for papier Mâché was rekindled. Gerdes didn’t bother me for much other than a hug and a sneak preview of my newest collections. She inspired me to not only take school more seriously, but to begin to find my passion and understanding of existence. Papier Mâché gave me a purpose and money along with it. She didn’t push vodou on me or speak much about it around me. "When you are ready it will find you." She was proud of my love and skill for the messy art- and I began to make and sell papier mâché dolls for various voodoo ceremonies. Most of her clientele were poor, but a handful were middle class to wealthy. One of her wealthier customers, Ella Nora, paid me a healthy sum to create PM monster dolls for her daughter’s birthday celebration. With Farah existence now covered in brown insect infested dirt and Papa gone, I needed a new helper/assistant. KU’s daughter, Mele, was a perfect fit -so I thought. She was quiet – which meant in Haiti you listened more than talked. Mele and I crafted several huge pasty dolls in less than an weeks’ time. I missed school by three days to finish the job-that was the largest order up until that point. Mele was an extremely attractive young gal with blooming cherries on top. She was thirteen but owned the build of a much older woman. Hungry men with lion teeth preyed on her physique and childish mindset. She owned Chai eyes, Cellini skin and huge breast - older men stared with mediations of wanting more. Surprisingly, she and her blooming cherries wanted to share with me. I like you Mi. You are a quiet, strong, and sweet boy. I saw your penis while you were sleeping. It’s a big as grown man. You and I should have sex. Sex, what it that? I will show you. Later that week she and I visited a forgotten creek, she laid me down into the dirt and began kissing my private, my body shook, and weird slime came out of me. She