Butterfly's Way: Voices From the Haitian Dyaspora in the United States by Edwidge Danticat
Authors: Edwidge Danticat
Tags: Fiction, General, Social Science, Literary Criticism, 20th Century, Poetry, Anthropology, Cultural, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), Caribbean & Latin American, Literary Collections, American Literature, American Literature - Haitian American Authors, Haitian American Authors, American Literature - 20th Century, Haitian Americans
nothing her style. Besides, what if I do find one? I don't even have a real job. She must think I'm rich. Maybe the guard was right, maybe I'm being had.
Two days before the party, I take Philocia aside. I'm sorry, I say, but I couldn't find a red dress. I tried, but it's not easy. She smiles sweetly. I look down at her carefully manicured nails and think someone must have donated red nail polish to go with the dress she won't be wearing. Thank you, she says, mesi, like someone used to not getting what she wants. Why couldn't she have asked for something serious, something vital and important? Then I would have done anything!
Valentine's Day has come and gone. We are in the middle of class when Jeanne, an attentive, serious student, a woman in her forties, a madansara who used to sell pots and pans in the market of Jacmel, starts to cry.
What's wrong? someone asks.
What's wrong, Jeanne? I ask.
More tears. Silence. She rocks herself gently, back and forth.
I can't stand it anymore, she says, I want to go back home.
But they will kill you if you go back, someone says.
I don't care. I want to die in my country like a moun, like a person, not here like a dog.
More silence. I hand her a tissue. Are they all thinking the same thing?
Now, I say, surprised at the authority of my voice, this is what they want. They want to wear you down, so that you will go back and tell the others and they will be afraid to come.
More silence. What is Jeanne thinking? What are they all thinking?
Then, from the back of the room, a small still voice.
Not me.
It is Philocia of the red dress. Mwen mem. I will never go back. I don't care what they do to me. I spent two days in the water holding on to a piece of wood from the boat. There were dead people all around me. I'm not going back.
I look at her and she has not moved. I realize that she has never left the water and that I have understood nothing.
Now I want to find her a dress in every possible shade of red . . . for roses. . . for hearts. . . red for the blood of Toussaint and Des-salines flowing in her veins.
SOMETHING IN THE WATER . . . REFLECTIONS OF A PEOPLE'S JOURNEY
Nikol Payen
The windowed door of my hospital room framed scurrying white uniforms. Inside, the silence of isolation left plenty of time for interior monologues. The medication and its lingering scent made my head fuzzy and paralyzed my tongue. My spirit seemed to be having difficulty catching up with my body, like the distorted windshield view of a rainstormed road. I anxiously waited to see whether or not this physician would corroborate my overseas diagnosis of bronchial asthma, which was beginning to seem mild now that I was up against possible heavy hitters like tuberculosis, PCP pneumonia, and HIV.
Lying there, I could almost see my dad's concerned face, his eyes widening as his deep, stern voice prepared me with Haitian proverbs, tales about our clan, warnings and cautions for my work at Guantanamo Bay. Most important, however, was his promise of ancestral protection. So off I went, surrounded by my invisible army.
The IV stand was beginning to feel like an awkward extension of my anatomy, contributing to my claustrophobia. As I lay there, I struggled to pinpoint exactly when and why my body broke down. Was it the night-and-day contrast in temperature? Days with temperatures that sometimes sent boa constrictors, iguanas, and banana rats looking for shelter under my cot, then onto the clothes that dangled from my partially open dufflebag. At times the leftover wind from the Windward Passage would stir up the baked sand, lashing my face or filling my nose and mouth with grit. Or perhaps it was the cobalt-blue, diamond-lit evening sky that would seduce me into rolling up the sides of the tent, allowing the night's chilling vapors to invade my lungs.
Time was strangely distorted on that mound of land—days long, nights short, and mornings difficult to embrace. I could always set my watch, though, by the
Two days before the party, I take Philocia aside. I'm sorry, I say, but I couldn't find a red dress. I tried, but it's not easy. She smiles sweetly. I look down at her carefully manicured nails and think someone must have donated red nail polish to go with the dress she won't be wearing. Thank you, she says, mesi, like someone used to not getting what she wants. Why couldn't she have asked for something serious, something vital and important? Then I would have done anything!
Valentine's Day has come and gone. We are in the middle of class when Jeanne, an attentive, serious student, a woman in her forties, a madansara who used to sell pots and pans in the market of Jacmel, starts to cry.
What's wrong? someone asks.
What's wrong, Jeanne? I ask.
More tears. Silence. She rocks herself gently, back and forth.
I can't stand it anymore, she says, I want to go back home.
But they will kill you if you go back, someone says.
I don't care. I want to die in my country like a moun, like a person, not here like a dog.
More silence. I hand her a tissue. Are they all thinking the same thing?
Now, I say, surprised at the authority of my voice, this is what they want. They want to wear you down, so that you will go back and tell the others and they will be afraid to come.
More silence. What is Jeanne thinking? What are they all thinking?
Then, from the back of the room, a small still voice.
Not me.
It is Philocia of the red dress. Mwen mem. I will never go back. I don't care what they do to me. I spent two days in the water holding on to a piece of wood from the boat. There were dead people all around me. I'm not going back.
I look at her and she has not moved. I realize that she has never left the water and that I have understood nothing.
Now I want to find her a dress in every possible shade of red . . . for roses. . . for hearts. . . red for the blood of Toussaint and Des-salines flowing in her veins.
SOMETHING IN THE WATER . . . REFLECTIONS OF A PEOPLE'S JOURNEY
Nikol Payen
The windowed door of my hospital room framed scurrying white uniforms. Inside, the silence of isolation left plenty of time for interior monologues. The medication and its lingering scent made my head fuzzy and paralyzed my tongue. My spirit seemed to be having difficulty catching up with my body, like the distorted windshield view of a rainstormed road. I anxiously waited to see whether or not this physician would corroborate my overseas diagnosis of bronchial asthma, which was beginning to seem mild now that I was up against possible heavy hitters like tuberculosis, PCP pneumonia, and HIV.
Lying there, I could almost see my dad's concerned face, his eyes widening as his deep, stern voice prepared me with Haitian proverbs, tales about our clan, warnings and cautions for my work at Guantanamo Bay. Most important, however, was his promise of ancestral protection. So off I went, surrounded by my invisible army.
The IV stand was beginning to feel like an awkward extension of my anatomy, contributing to my claustrophobia. As I lay there, I struggled to pinpoint exactly when and why my body broke down. Was it the night-and-day contrast in temperature? Days with temperatures that sometimes sent boa constrictors, iguanas, and banana rats looking for shelter under my cot, then onto the clothes that dangled from my partially open dufflebag. At times the leftover wind from the Windward Passage would stir up the baked sand, lashing my face or filling my nose and mouth with grit. Or perhaps it was the cobalt-blue, diamond-lit evening sky that would seduce me into rolling up the sides of the tent, allowing the night's chilling vapors to invade my lungs.
Time was strangely distorted on that mound of land—days long, nights short, and mornings difficult to embrace. I could always set my watch, though, by the
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