An excerpt of lofty prose about a boy's Nanny in Haiti from "It's Always Sunrise Somewhere and Other Stories" by Jacques Fleury
A Candle for Lina
Her skin is like mud, where horses trample
O Can’t you see it,
Her skin is like mud, where horses trample
O can’t you see it, can’t you see it?
In Haiti, misery makes everything pale, grungy, weathered, attenuated, wasteful, sallow, dumb, grinded down, pocketed. When it’s done, we swap grinning for crying, we trade tragedy with our brothers so that we can continue to cling to the thinning hairs of the fading forests while gaunt dogs bark defiantly at the scarcity.
When I was a little boy, running around naked in the rain with my cousin Ti Bob, I could always count on Lina to wait for me by the door with a towel in her hands; waiting to dry me off. She was my Restavek; what is known as Nanny here in America. Girls like her gets sent to the city from the country, the land of scarcity; to the city they go, the land of plenty; to live with middle to upper middle class families in Port-au-Prince, Haiti’s capital city. Lina was born in 1960, when the then president Francois “Papa Doc” Duvalier still towered over Haiti like an overgrown palm tree; when fear tore souls to pieces and the Haitian vernacular was in handcuffs; when the tongue of oppression lived at the bottom of an empty well; waiting for an echo, waiting for an echo waiting for an echo… to give her voice a chance. She was a short and buxom gal with big African lips and pigeon feet with skin so dark, her teeth almost looked florescent when she grinned and when she walked, it was as if she had a watermelon stuffed on both sides of her hips. She loved to laugh and even laughed sometimes in her sleep; probably while dreaming impossible dreams; only to come awake in the sunny reality of Haiti; amongst the anxious muffles of democracy.
As the sun sets over Port-au-Prince, over Haiti’s restive weather, young girls like Lina are sent over from Jacmel and various parts of Haiti’s countryside. They tumbled down the Rocky Mountains of Haitian terrains and into the arms of servitude. They are the discarded daughters of misery and scarcity, I watched them cry through their masks at carnivals; I watched them dance the music of political parables made to educate the illiterate; I watched them laugh at their own funerals like zombies in disbelief! Today I remember how we used to play long after they’ve, turned to clay; forever preserved so that I can remember and so I remember Lina.
Lina worked like a mule, but a grinning mule. I don’t even remember her without a smile on her face. She worked from dawn ‘til dusk but never without a smile on her face. She woke me up in the morning, helped me get ready for school, made my breakfast and walked me to school, while my mother and father slept in absolute oblivion. Then shortly after noon, she came grinning like the noon day sun to pick me up after school. Once home, she helped me undress, gave me a snack, then cooked my dinner. Then, she fed me dinner, gave me a shower and watched over me as I played with my cousin Ti Bob running and flying kites in our front yard. On occasions when I would fall and scrape my knee, she’d rush to my side, scooped me up in her arms and cradled and rocked me while I cried. Came night time and often during black outs and especially when the moon was out, she would gather up all the kids in the house and regale us with stories of Bouki and Malice, the equivalent to Boris and Morris here in America.
Then one day, long after I left Haiti for America, I heard that Lina went back to the countryside where she came from and died. They said that a voodoo queen killed her over an argument about food in a country where food is scarce. I think she died of a broken heart after I left. But now, she’s but a distant memory, but I remember her. I will always remember her completely, her grotesque kind of beauty and her wondrous sense of levity; now she’s heavenly and most likely grinning down at me; she will always be a part of me and the following words are in her honor and memory:
i often stop and look at you Lina; you blow my mind; your nappy head don’t lie it’s where doom takes a nap; Oh, Lina! your breath is bringing down trees you are destroying our planet you are poisoning our wells your children once so much brighter, are still playing with hunger; now you watch them as they grow dimmer ; a box of moonlight
shines upon one leaf in need of relief; the moon man has your list; no woman of darkness can resist! oh, Lina; when will you start to wean? your ghosts are disappearing fast; pieces of skies are falling in your lap; the trees are rising and dancing at the funeral you’re holding, some people think you’re entertaining; thunder’s roars are fading substituting our youths for weapons yanked out and fired bang bang bang! your history will rise
to watch the offense that offends you take a stand; pandemonium plays in your band; a piece of sky falls cutting the back of your head where your vision center lies; roaring thunder stumbles i could feel it in my gut scorching pieces of weather swim around in your blood; feel free to stab me wear me out and cast me off; you can torch me i’m black so use me like charcoal and burn me; animals will continue to nest in your roots optimism will go on without you; i am a flower so i will continue to blossom; je suis un poet
(i am a poet) my roots are embe dded deep within the bowels of infinity;
when a 3 a.m. plant is damaged at exactly 3 a.m. on the dot it dies of malnutrition simple as that; when some leeches bleed they bathe in their own blood the mockingbird screeches simple as that; but when a mother hen cackles all the cocks fly to be by her side
simple as that; in ostracism you start wailing across the Atlantic; you weep an homage to those you left drowning and feeling bereft their breath imports their stories;
word of mouth spreads but your ears are burning so you can’t hear their cries of fear when Jean Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier comes near; Every time darkness has a nose drip you get a bowl full of biting dark liquid in your blood stream; mud oozes from your pores; your vision stands stupefied spotting your white coat while you stand protruding from your moat; crows suffocating the epoch pokes at the sun’s crux; the day ignites and slants to the right as if on cue before clarity extinguishes it from view; all of our rights are under arrest all of our aspirations can be stuffed in a math box; our voices are weak our tolerance meek but to the weatherman who test northern climates who prepares you for your morning grind in all dimensions who warns you of impending doom-- thunder strikes many times before a storm; when your shrieks break your vocal cords who will be there to operate? when all the surgeons evaporate who will be there to think themselves the man of chance? when thunder finds the rhythm of destruction who will be left to dance? So Lina, start flashing CAUTION! CAUTION! CAUTION!
I wanted to take this time to thank you for your comment on my story "A Candle for Lina." However, I wanted to clarify a few things about Haiti. To pity any persons or a group of people to me is an affront to the resiliency of the human spirit. Haiti is the first Black Republic in the world and staged the only successful slave rebellion against, England, France and Spain, led by a mostly illiterate slave army defeating the more sophisticated French who enslaved them.
Their state of economic scarcity was a direct result of the government having had to pay reparations to France after winning their independence in 1804 and which helped to inspire the slave revolution here in America.
Also the Haitian people are memorialized in Savannah, Georgia for having fought in the American Revolutionary War and the monetary aid from France to America came from the then thriving Haitian economy since 70% percent of the French economy came from St. Domingue, later to be known as Haiti. It was the richest island in the indies. During the American occupation of the island in early 20th century, the Americans looted the country and depleted it of its natural resources especially millions worth in gold, not to mention the self serving corrupt governmental leaders.
But yet Haiti is still standing and still producing exports. I am a Haitian-American and I am proud of both my Haitian and American heritage. Again, thank you for reading my piece and I shall read some of your as well, which thus far seem very inspiring. If you'd like to read more of my articles, please feel free to visit my website www.authorjacques.com.
What a story the story of Lina is. And what a tragedy Haiti has become. Thank you for sharing your thoughts about her and your compelling poetry at the end. Let us hope that your mother country can find a way to prosper in the future.
My sister, in her teens, was a nanny for a while, as was my cousin who ended up getting a degree in early childhood education and opened a childcare business in her home for neighbors and her three children.
Christmas - only days away; plastic snowmen and glowing reindeer adorn the lawns of neighborhoods all across America. All is calm, all is bright, and yet there is something tragically wrong about this Christmas night.
With swift passage thr
Christmas - only days away; plastic snowmen and glowing reindeer adorn the lawns of neighborhoods all across America. All is calm, all is bright, and yet there is something tragically wrong about this Christmas night.
With swift passage thr
