Part I.
The wheel of fortune keeps turning. This much is evident in the cycles of grief and sorrow that befalls the family. Whenever I disobeyed my mother she would promptly remind me of the years of her life spent in martyrdom, sacrificed purely for us. She broke her back, never indulging, in order to give to her kids the things she never had. There it is: the emphasis on what is lacking. The fact is she would only remind us of what we had when she felt a lack of respect. Haiti is wildly different from South Florida except that 2.4% of Floridians hail from the Land of the Hills. Ayiti. So it really begins in the Islands, simultaneously in the bay, in the mountains, surrounded by the warmth of the Atlantic. Our family’s troubling karma.
My grandfather is a specter shrouded in mystery. My sister and I mull over our dreams if only to examine the truth hidden in clouded peaks. He was international, perhaps even a husband to a different wife depending on the country. They called him Jean, a typical French name. Jean. Jean and Celicia Bora birthed several children, grandma even inherited some kids from other women. According to Legend he drank himself to death. But my dreams tell me otherwise. My consciousness soars through a lush sea of Fruit trees down the tops of the ancient mountains. Overlooking the gradient blue of the Atlantic and the red mineral rich mystique of Les Trois Rivières of Port Au Piax. Floating down to Grandma’s yard, a spot in front of her shanty first home. When I am laid on the red Earthen clay I hear the dogs barking while around me a hurried commotion. I feel heavy sensing a flow of blood. Enveloped by the balmy ocean breeze, under the hazelnut tree cushioned by fallen rotten shells. I look at my body and I am not me, I am him. A prayer resonates from my breast to be forgiven of my wrong doings. My eyes abruptly open–I promptly take to my pen and journal. Emmalene, our hardened Cinderella and my wannabe mom, interprets my dreams. Hers is the feminine version of her chronically absent Father’s name–Emmanuel Denord. She reverentially consults beyond the veil, to no avail although it is obvious–something happened. Sweet Celicia needed to protect her children, was Jean actually a demon? Emmalene and I wonder.
Our mother, Esther, never discusses the past, I’ve never known a drop of nostalgia in her tone. Only a certain distance in her almond shaped, black eyes. In fact, she is grossed out by the thought of no air conditioning, running water, or electricity. Though a relatively simple woman, her love language is to receive money and to have respect. In general acts of service. Along with our respect she demands of us the title “Mommy”. “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” Somehow in the wake of the diminutive of “Mother”, I received it as a punitive commandment, a strangely cruel punishment. Imagine being forced to call your bully a friend. Emmalene was closest to mommy. Her favorite story to recount are the times when it was the two of them. On late nights returning to the homestead in Miami she would send Emmalene into the darkness to survey. Mommy called her “my little bulldog”. My dreams reveal viscosity of the dark corridors in which Emmalene shone her confidence. At least two out of four of Mommy’s homes are haunted. Ghosts from her obscured past invite new and unwanted guests. Emmalene may be small, only 5’2, but her spirit pours out of her being robbing any phantoms of their power. A presence is derived from the highest. In dreamtime, my consciousness found its way to one of my father’s folk paintings. I am carried by invisible currents of fate to the stone step and threshold of mommy’s first home. The door is ajar with darkness seeping from cracks as living breath. I am inside. Dully ambling over frozen tile enveloped in a black pure as the shadow in one’s soul. There are three doors to my left and a corridor that continues beyond vision. I am being summoned there. Where I find a woman. Hair that cascades over her shoulders rivaling the life of a pom. Her skin is a deadly blue over a choked brown. And a big white dress that obscures all but her face and hands beckoning. Her face. Black lips and teeth gleaming in contrast to the tint of her cheek. And eyes bottomless orbs of soul eviscerating perturb. I swiftly spirit myself away from that place. My eyes abruptly open–I promptly take to my pen and journal contemplating the past that my mother actively evades.
In Emmalene’s proximity she was able to learn a lot more about mommy than was privy to me. In Haiti schooling is a large and important expense for young people. Celicia financed my mother’s education and necessary materials, i.e. uniform material, seamstress, annual tuition, and driver, on credit. Until Mommy was 13 when she met a benefactor. Their relationship is shrouded in mystery but he would pay for my mothers schooling and basic necessities in exchange for… something. Imagine a little girl with a heart shaped face, full lips with a perfect cupid’s bow, curving eyebrows, and tawny brown skin,Yon bel tifi, in full uniform riding down the hilly alleys of Port au Prince on the back of a motorcycle. Here’s to the beginning of an unfortunate tradition, pawning our young girls off to men who offer financial security. Simultaneously, Felicia, May God renew her soul, was our revered matriarch who performed everyday miracles by creating wealth where there was absolutely none, transforming clay in the fertile soil. Please do not pass your western judgments upon her, we all do our best in place between a rock and a hard one. While Esther was suspended in the womb of Celicia, right after her strong pulse started rhythmically, the ovum developed replete with eggs of my sisters and myself. Plummeting into the mystery of a womb’s history, years after my first moon, I asked about hers. Well she reported a day like any other at the age of 11, she walked her normal route to school, ignoring the discomfort in her lower region. She proceeded to ignore her headache and nausea, especially reluctant to disclose any deeper feelings. Until she rose from her seat to join the other children in recess when her peers gaped at the redness bleeding in a circle on her khaki pants. That day the teacher gave her a cotton towel and sent her home early.
But alas, the wheel keeps turning. Our mothers can only protect us from the things she was protected from, dooming us to share in her experiences until we exit the karmic cycle. Where was she when little Emmalene needed a shield? Earning ambitiously to give us everything, except for the casing energy of a nurturing mother. Cinderella grew up so quickly, she was self centered and confident until the day she became a sister. By age 8 she realized Esther’s contempt and began to work to earn her stay.
-keo
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