The Butterfly's Way: Voices from the Haitian Dyaspora in the United States

I came here to find you again

there have been nights when I have slept soundly

but still I hear you

yelling waist deep in the sea

'throw me the mask, there's a shadow there

quickly, quickly,' not wanting to miss

any life in the water

Now the sea is turning your ghost into a blue crab

a hunter who looks for things

that curl up and die in the sand

and I too am now looking for your ghost

near the sea

I came here to find

you again you wearing the blue plate of the sky

Your voice is a sword under my bed

with our stories etched on the blade,

stories told in your dossu-marass

a voice a voice that stutters

with the maleficent jingle of exile

ADIEU MILES AND GOOD-BYE DEMOCRACY by Patrick Sylvain

Prior to mid September 1991,I can honestly say I was a happy man. I was twenty-five years old, an activist, a teacher living in Avon, Massachusetts, a recently married poet, and my son, Kamil, was soon to celebrate his first birthday. In addition to all of this personal bliss, it was the first time in the history of my country that a democratic government, led by a popular nonconformist priest named Jean-Bertrand Aristide, had been elected.

Unfortunately, my own exhilaration and Haiti's jubilee was only to be a temporary affair. On September 29, 1991, I was heading to Cambridge, Massachusetts, to do a poetry reading when all of a sudden, a solemn voice from National Public Radio came through my car radio announcing the death of my favorite trumpeter, Miles Davis. I immediately pulled over and rested my head on the steering wheel, having flashes of my father, reminding me that Miles had spent some time in Haiti. Before long, my body started shaking and I knew that something else was about to go wrong. I found myself crying as I drove toward Harvard Square to visit a friend before my reading.

Soochi was a young Chinese-American woman who was finishing her B.A. at Harvard. She and I often spent hours discussing philosophy, literature, and music. That Saturday evening, she was working at one of the Harvard offices, and I needed her cheerfulness before doing the reading.

As soon as I arrived in her office, she asked me in the softest, gentlest voice, 'Have you heard?'

'Yes,' I said.

She walked up to me and embraced me as if to say that everything was going to be all right. The way she hugged me was not sexual, but it was the first time that we had held on to one another in that fashion. Abruptly, the image of my wife came rushing through my head. I asked Soochi if I could use her phone to call home.

When my wife answered the phone, I informed her of Miles's passing and told her that given the circumstances, I felt heavy-hearted about the reading.

'Why don't you come home?' said my wife. 'I don't know why you sacrifice yourself so much for those things; you are not even getting paid. By the way, a certain Yvon called, he said it was urgent. Listen, we miss you. Come home soon.'

After I got off the phone, Soochi offered me a cup of hot chocolate and suggested that I write down my immediate thoughts on Miles. She slipped Miles's CD, So What? on the office CD player and walked out of the room. Inhaling the hot chocolate aroma, I wrote what became the last five lines of my poem 'Adieu Miles.'

I stumble onto a key

and the man with the horn

turns his back

and walks away

his trumpet blows tears.

When Soochi came back into the office, she sat down next to me to read what I had written. She effortlessly kissed my left eye and then my forehead. I knew that I was crying again when I tasted my own tears.

I moved away from Soochi to return my friend Yvon's call.

'It's going to happen for real now,' Yvon said. 'There's going to be a coup in Haiti.'

I excused myself and thanked Soochi for her kindness. Outside, I sat in my car for a minute and wept some more. I felt like I was buried in a barrel of hot molasses. After more than two hundred years of struggle, Haiti was heading for further disaster and there was nothing anyone could do about it. It was as if we had a preordained rendezvous with Lucifer.

I had been in Haiti only a few weeks before, for the two-hundredth anniversary of Bois Caiman, the 1791 Vodou ceremony that had launched the Haitian revolution. With Aristide's election still recent, my fellow countrymen had seemed extremely joyful, almost intoxicated with happiness. In retrospect, I thought, maybe the country had been too consumed with euphoria and had forgotten about the constant menace of our military coups.

During the Bois Caiman commemoration festivities on the lawn of the national palace in Port-au-Prince, a few tipsy soldiers had vowed that there would never be another coup d'etat in Haiti. Gladdened by their resolve, I had embraced them in camaraderie, feeling reassured that they had absorbed the spirit of revolution that rang over Bois Caiman that night long ago, when slaves had dreamt of creating a nation, vowing to always live freely in it or die fighting for it.

Later that same night, with the soldiers' voices still ringing in my head, I had met with Manno Charlemagne, a Haitian singer and activist who had achieved national-hero status in Haiti due to his protest songs. Manno, a friend and mentor, sang against the rule of the tonton macoutes in Haiti and the meddling of the United States in our national affairs. That night, Manno told me that he knew that then Vice President Dan Quayle had been meeting with high-ranking Haitian military officers and that since the American government- particularly the Central Intelligence Agency-was unhappy with Jean-Bertrand Aristide, a coup was in the making.

In spite of Manno's warning, I decided to indulge in the pleasures that my country could still offer: beach parties, jet skiing, nightfall skinny-dipping. The next Saturday, just before sunset, I-along with eight friends and family members whom I had not seen in ten years of voluntary exile-rented a small boat and rowed south towards Le Lambi while feasting on baked lobsters, conch, and homemade liqueurs. We sang, joked, and laughed as though it were our last night on earth. On the shore, some of our poorer compatriots cursed at us while others sang along and laughed at the jokes that our loud voices carried across the water.

When we docked in Le Lambi, we spotted a group of men lounging on the beach with prostitutes. At one point, Roland, one of my friends, recognized someone I had grown up with as a child in Haiti and shouted to him, 'Hey Jean, tonight is your last night to have sex before the coup.'

On the way back, every time we passed by a group of people, we loudly announced to them that there might be a military coup that night. Even though I was laughing, it still disturbed me that we had become a culture so accustomed to military coups that they could so easily become the subject of sad jokes.

When I returned home to the United States, my wife had wanted to know how the country was and how it seemed like the future was going to be. Her memory of Haiti was very limited. She had left there for Belgium when she was eight years old and a few years later had moved to Massachusetts, where we had met almost two years before.

The night of my return, I put our son to bed sensing a silent tension between us. My wife didn't like that I was