Gade Moun Yo

A rara classic performed here by a Léogâne group. This is the same song that was turned into "Cote Moun Yo" by Jazz des Jeunes, a pattern in Haitian popular music where the 'Vodou-jazz' of Jazz des Jeunes incorporated music from folkloric and popular religious expression. Gage Averill's excellent book on Haitian popular music places this in context, as does McAlister's text on Haitian rara.

The World Is Moving Around Me: A Memoir of the Haiti Earthquake

"All some commentator has to do is say the word "curse" on the airwaves and it spreads like a cancer. Before they can move on to voodoo, wild men, cannibalism, and a nation of blood-drinkers, they'll see that I have enough energy to fight them."

The strength of The World Is Moving Around Me: A Memoir of the Haiti Earthquake lies in its similarities with the fictional works of Dany Laferrière and the long-term translator, David Homel. Dany Laferrière's established style of blending fact and fiction in multiple semi-autobiographical novels made the disjointed structure of this novel accessible and interesting. One feels as if one already knows Laferrière's family quite well from the fictionalized versions of them in his novels. 

Indeed, one should read his fiction before tackling this memoir, since the novels establish who many of his family are and why their suffering, albeit light compared with the havoc the earthquake wrought for the poorer masses, is so meaningful for Laferrière. When his elderly aunt passes after the earthquake and he returns to Petit-Goave twice, I would be lying if I said I was not moved by his nostalgia and the powerful memories of his grandmother (the relationship between a boy and his grandmother is also alluded to in the play of a grandmother and her grandson in Port-au-Prince in the days after the earthquake). Laferrière also structures the memoir stylistically and in content like his fiction: numerous vignettes, short chapters, several literary allusions, a sense of humor, poetic language, sharing stories of literary and journalist friends, references to the importance of his mother and the women who raised him. 

Unfortunately, this somber reflection on surviving the earthquake and experiencing the aftershocks (figuratively and literally) is weakened by the author's constant praise of 'culture.' While distancing himself from those who praise 'voodoo' or sensationalize the Haitian people's ability to keep living on after the horrendous tremor as somehow 'resilience' or the other side who approach Haiti as a 'cursed' nation, it sounds simply ridiculous to look to culture (and, to be fair, the author does define it as more than written, elite culture or the school of naive paintings) as the only way for Haiti to stand up to the earthquake. 

It seems as if  Laferrière wants to avoid any overt political messages, but given the vast inequalities that characterize Haitian society (something he acknowledges with the Haitian elite villas only occupied for part of the year in Mount Calvary), one cannot help but express some surprise at the seemingly apolitical text. While critical of foreign constructs of Haiti (and calling out the Haitian government's corruption), without any real political solutions addressing class, it is left to the reader's imagination as to how culture can stand up to the earthquake. Furthermore, his own bias against religion seems to automatically push to the margins some aspects of Haitian culture which are particularly strong.

Despite my minor quibbles, this memoir is certainly a worthwhile read for those interested in Haitian or Haitian-Canadian responses to the catastrophe that leveled Port-au-Prince. Dany Laferrière manages to capture the humanity of the people of Port-au-Prince in a highly personal way that prompts the reader to rethink their assumptions about Haiti. While certainly lacking in detail (he never spent much time in the tent cities, and he left Port-au-Prince with other Canadian citizens soon after the first few days and only returned later after his aunt dies) of the kind one finds in journalistic writings, Laferrière tells the story of the earthquake as it affected him, his immediate family, and friends. 

Frankétienne,  Rodney Saint-Éloi, Lyonel Trouillot, Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Thomas Spear, radio hosts, Georges and Mireille Anglade, and other well-known literary or intellectual figures appear in the text, providing a sort of litany for Haitian intellectuals and writers. The text's ending is also classic Dany, ending in a metatextual way as he describes himself finishing the writing of the very text we are reading from a Paris hotel room. 

Death and the King's Horseman

"Life is honour. It ends when honour ends."

Wole Soyinka's Death and the King's Horseman is one of the most intriguing examples of postcolonial literature I have encountered. Inspired by a historical event that took place in 1946, the short play examines the consequences of colonial intervention during a suicide demanded by custom in Oyo. Open to multiple interpretations based on gender (it is mostly women who uphold traditions in the text), generational conflict, postcolonial thought, duty, 'tradition' vs. modernity, or tragedy (as well as death, or the cycle of life), the play is much more than a simple dichotomy of West versus tradition.

Certainly, this tragedy is an indictment of colonialism in its entirety and the white man's hubris going so far as to disrupt the natural order. Yet it is by no means a rejection of all of the West, as Olunde's powerful character shows. The cycle of life and death, for posterity's sake, by no means condemns all aspects of British civilization, but proffers a coexistence cut short by colonial intervention in the ritual suicide. Olunde's character, educated in England and studying medicine, the new generation of Nigerians who carry the best of the West and local traditions, is ultimately made to the pay the final cost and Nigeria loses the potential of such courageous figures. 

Furthermore, the play throws into question categories such as 'civilized' or 'modern' because 'modernity' in Europe, as Olunde explains, is the contemporary savagery of World War II and the mass suicide of soldiers. If the ritual suicide of the deceased Yoruba alafin's horseman to accompany him into the other world is barbaric, what does that say about 'modern' Europe, as Olunde poses the questions to Pilkings's wife, Jane? And what of the excess and decadence of holding a ball for the Prince of England when Britain is at war? While the Europeans desecrate the ancestral spirits and culture of death in Oyo (the use of egungun masks for the masked ball at the European club foreshadows Picklings's dishonor of the community by disrupting the suicide and arrested Elesin), they are in the midst of a global conflict where millions of Europeans died. 

Where Soyinka further complicates things is in how the dishonor wrought by the colonial state's intervention to prevent the suicide is the wavering commitment of Elesin himself to carry out the act, suggestive of an internal conflict within Yoruba culture and society regarding its cultural values and traditions as somehow static or evolving over time. The very notion of tradition itself is undermined by the play's powerful conclusion, and, as the 'mother' of the market, Iyajola, explains, the world of the Yoruba remains cast into the void. 

This play is well-worth the time for a serious literary endeavor into colonialism in an African context. While undoubtedly critical of British cultural imperialism, arrogance, or brutality, the play does much more than construct some impenetrable wall between the West and Africa, which would be too simplistic or reductionist of a viewpoint. Instead, Soyinka welcomes the reader to contemplate the very notion of value judgments of civilizations as 'civilized' or barbaric. In addition, the play is steeped in the Yoruba worldview and cultural world, revealing its sophistication and lyrical beauty of the riddles and oral traditions. Possibly the take away of such a complex play is that the worldview of Yoruba culture is equally developed and contradictory like that of British civilization, or any other human society on the face of the globe. 

Cumbite

"La sangre es la muerte. El agua la vida."

Tomás Gutiérrez Alea's film adaptation of Jacques Roumain's famous novel, Gouverneurs de la rosée, is quite faithful to the text. Taking place in a Haitian rural setting in 1940, the film closely aligns with the plot of Roumain's pivotal novel. Manuel returns from Cuba, meets the romantic interest, reacquaints himself with a birthplace that is in decline and torn apart by a family feud, promises to find a new spring or source of water to help restore agriculture in the reason, and his sacrifice pays off in the end. The deceptively simple plot of Roumain's novel is of course more detailed and nuanced (particularly regarding the role of religion in human liberation and specifically, the conditions in which the peasantry toil), and this relatively short film manages to capture most of that complexity. 

The actors, who I believe are Cubans of Haitian descent in this 1964 film, speak Haitian Creole in key moments (the lengthy scene of the Vodou ceremony, the coumbite at the film's conclusion, and the wake for Manuel), which adds a sense of authenticity. The landscape is mountainous, barren, and eerily reminiscent of Haiti (and right away, when Manuel gets off the bus and walks to his village, the infertile land and its eroded hills symbolize the decay of the community), which adds another layer of accuracy to the Cuban film. Roumain's socialist and optimistic tale also matches thematically the early years of the Cuban Revolution and the socialist government of Castro, thereby making this film a socialist art film rendering of a socialist novel. 

On the question of religion, the film also captures some of the ambiguity of Roumain. The Vodou ceremony scene, one of the longest in the film, is beautifully done yet understated, and Manuel appears uncomfortable but participates in the dancing anyway, much like Manuel in the novel, who does not necessarily believe in the lwa but comes to accept their importance for the community, particularly his mother. Moreover, Vodou symbols introduce the film, thereby establishing a pattern in which Vodou aesthetics and belief are integral to the worldview of the characters. While the Catholic and Vodou prayers and rituals of the community may not be personal belief of Manuel, as previously mentioned, but are not divorced from the social or class interests of the peasantry or proletariat. By not relying on stereotypes and using Cubans of Haitian descent, the nuances of Vodou as a religious philosophy (and Afro-Haitian culture in general) are portrayed respectfully.

As a nice touch to the themes of the Cuban Revolution, the patriarchal assumptions or sexism of the novel are not overstated in the film, although women characters are, besides Manuel's mother (and Annaise or the manbo) largely ignored. Yet, the exclusion of women at all is challenged by the powerful scene introducing the viewer to Manuel's parents. In it his mother rests against the central pillar, literally symbolizing the potomitan saying about Haitian women. Manuel's mother goes on to play an important role in the film, too, ushering in a general coumbite to finish the canal and irrigate everyone's fields. Annaise is plagued by the original text material as a weaker character, but Manuel's mother more than makes up for it while his father, Bienaime, is far less central to the film than in the novel. 

Overall, Cumbite is a worthwhile film. Drawing from one of most widely respected works of Haitian literature, Alea manages to capture most of the text's magical appeal and politicized intent, thereby connecting this Haitian community to the much larger world of the Caribbean, capitalism, as well as exploitation. The migrant Haitians returning from Cuba were hardly apolitical as the case of Manuel indicates, and the fact that this film was made in the 1960s, only a few years after the successful Cuban Revolution, suggests that the film's political resonance with socialist Cuba possessed positive goals for social advances. Unfortunately, the film could have done a better job incorporating the Haitian state into the story a little more, but for a film of around 90 minutes, this is probably as good as it gets.

Aunt Résia and the Spirits and Other Stories

"Like all the males in the area, Erminus is not too fond of Derisca. Like them, he had understood that Derisca did not need a man for all the normal reasons that other woman do. For him to tell her boring stories, for him to beat her sometimes or for him to lie on her when he feels like it and forcibly give her children."

The short stories collected in Aunt Résia and the Spirits and Other Stories, translated from the French by Betty Wilson, are thematically reminiscent of the work of Dalembert and Lyonel Trouillot. Like these two writers, Lahens captures the misery and downright degradation of life in Haiti, most effectively in Port-au-Prince settings. What distinguishes her, in my opinion, is her much stronger female characters, an ability to switch between narrators seamlessly, (one short story features second person narration) although Trouillot's Children of Heroes successfully does the same, and her metaphorical, loosely structured minimalist stories. The author's gift of prose, as translated by Wilson, illustrates this quite well, in addition to capturing the social, economic, political, gendered, and racial conflict of Haiti (the Diaspora, too, in one short story). I also appreciate Lahens comparison of the Jim Crow US South to political terror in Duvalierist Haiti, thereby connecting the struggles of Haitians at home with people of color abroad. Her stories encompasss Haiti and its complex relationship with the US.

Drums at Dusk

Arna Bontemps and Langston Hughes

Arna Bontemps, a respected African-American poet, librarian, and collaborator of Langston Hughes, wrote a fascinating novel of the Haitian Revolution. Unlike the works of other black writers on Haiti, the Bontemps centers his narrative on French whites, Creoles and European, living in Saint Domingue during August 1791. Toussaint is the most prominent black character in the novel, and he is certainly depicted as a natural leader and heroic figure, but is mostly in the background. 

The plot concerns the outset of the August slave revolt in the north of Saint Domingue, occurring during a fête hosted at the Bréda plantation for the planter elite and some other whites. While sitting on a literal power keg because of the French Revolution and unrest among the free people of color, the whites party, feast, and enjoy a cockfight despite ominous signs of a coming slave revolt (these ominous signs include a mass suicide of newly arrived slaves the day of the party, as well as an increase in the frequency of nocturnal 'voodoo' drumming and slave meetings. As the beginning of the slave revolt unravels, the whites are forced to flee, choose sides, and prepare for an uncertain future many only begin to understand as a serious dilemma by the novel's conclusion. Elements of romance, intrigue, and competition between races and classes add nuance to the tale for an uncertain conclusion for the white protagonists of the novel. 

Diron Desautels, who one might consider the 'protagonist' of the novel, is a local white of aristocratic origins. Diron is a sympathizer of the French abolitionist society, Les Amis des Noirs, and supports the slave revolutionaries (even attending one of their evening gatherings, where he meets face to face with Boukman and Baissou, who was really Biassou if we want to be historically accurate). Nonetheless, his principles as a Jacobin and abolitionist are complicated by his race and class privilege, as well as his budding love for Céleste, a young Creole white woman from the lower classes, whose safety is compromised during the initial slave uprising. The novel switches back and forth as the third person narration explores how the various characters represent differing moral and political factions, as well as how their reactions to the beginning of the Haitian Revolution shape each other. 

As a reader, I must admit I was a little confused. Bontemps has a gift in metaphorical and descriptive prose, but some aspects of the plot are never fully explored. For instance, it is never explained how Diron successfully kidnaps and takes Paulette (a white Creole whose romances and political alliances with powerful men are opposed to Jacobinism and emancipation) from her own quarters without any resistance. In addition, it is left unclear who kills her (Arsenne?), as well as who was Paulette working with against Diron. Furthermore, the novel could have been superior by including more voices of enslaved people, allowing us to truly understand the motives, interests, and agency of the rebel slaves directly. One could easily question the noble portrait the narrator depicts of M. de Libertas, the overseer at the Bréda, who, along with his wife, are praised as 'humane' overseers who also question the ethical basis of slavery. This is perhaps an attempt to add nuance to the degrees to which various whites, including those profitting directly from slavery, can still abhor the institution, matching the contradictory ways many historical actors responded to the Haitian Revolution. Yet, personally, I found it to be taken as a given, much like the assumed leadership role Toussaint Louverture is predicted to occupy. 

These aforementioned inconsistencies or problems aside, Bontemps novel is certainly radical for its praise or moral defense of the Haitian Revolution. All the excess and violence of colonial society is on full display, and as the narrator explains, all of the horrific violence committed by the slaves is in response to the violence and degradation of slavery, although one could do without the constant label of savage being applied to the actions of the slaves. Indeed, the narrator even calls Boukman and Baissou "stupid" and lacking true leadership to carry forth the revolution beyond the giddy early days. Despite the less than flattering language used here, Bontemps's sympathies are unquestionably favorable to the slave insurgents and Diron Desautels, whose own role shifts. Instead of being led by white saviors or sparked by Les Amis des Noirs, the revolution is certainly an example of black agency, and not uniquely violent or savage considering the excessive brutality and cruelty of colonial society against slaves and free people of color. 

As the exceedingly useful introduction by Michael P. Bibler and Jessica Adams elucidates, the novel was written in the 1930s, during a context of Jim Crow, the recent end of US Occupation of Haiti (but the US retained control of Haitian customs well into the 1940s), the rise  of fascism in Europe, and exchanges between progressives and black writers across the globe. Reflecting the above, Drums at Dusk proposes a positive story in the Haitian Revolution that upholds the righteousness of resistance to unjust authority, examining the various ideological underpinnings of the era (Enlightenment, African, ancien régime). Unfortunately, as the rebellious slaves and people of color are mainly in the background, their experiences are not foregrounded and we lack anything beyond the superficial analysis of 'voodoo,' with the Bois Caïman ceremony entirely erased. Slavery and mixed-race people certainly appear, such as the modiste mulatto and her numerous sisters, who represent an alternative to the stereotypes of mixed-race women as prostitutes or mistresses of whites, and the noble Toussaint or Mars likewise illustrate older, mature slaves poised to lead the black masses into a disciplined force. 

Reading the novel's conclusion, one wonders if Bontemps ever contemplated writing a sequel. The prophetic narrator alludes to Toussaint and the future course of the Haitian Revolution, including cross-racial alliances, with tne narrative conduvice to a sequel on a perhaps interracial pro-emancipation army in Port-au-Prince (with Diron) and Toussaint in the North. Moreover, several characters, when finally realizing the full extent of the troubles facing Saint Domingue, decide to leave the island, many head to New Orleans, which could also be significant to Bontemps because of his possible origins in Saint Domingue. The potential for a sequel is overwhelming but, lamentably, Bontemps never completed one.

Favorite Quotes

"Sometimes fearful and repellent, sometimes enticing, the Haitian thicket was never dull." (33)

"Every class translated the fall of the Bastille into an opportunity for itself."

"Yes, admittedly, one could steal the black man from the jungle, but one couldn't steal the jungle from the black man." (37)

"The trouble with the ruling class, the Creoles born in the island, was that they simply didn't care what happened to Saint Domingue so long as they made enough money to return to Paris in splendor and live out their days in that city." (46)

"Mars always thought of the coachman somewhat as he might think of a man with eyes living in a country of blind beings." (77)

"Slavery had not failed to leave its mark; the slaves had come to distrust all whites." (163)

"The slaves were beyond mercy or compassion. A leaping, screaming circle of them, intoxicated with their desperately won freedom, driven wild by the imaginings of their own hearts and the examples of cruelty they had learned from their masters, made a frightful circle in the carriage road." (205)

Joys of Motherhood

I've been thinking lately about Buchi Emecheta's novel about motherhood, Joys of Motherhood. Though written in the 1970s, it depicts Igbo and Nigerian Lagos society near the end of colonialism, with all the ugliness and beauty of white colonialism, Igbo 'traditional' marriage and gender roles, the relationship of mother and child, and the culmination of a mother's life of living for children and men. At the end of the novel, it is not quite clear if this could be considered "feminist," since Emecheta's narrative voice does not condemn nor romanticize the troubled life of the Igbo mother. Nevertheless, her thoughts on colonialism, racism, and intermarriage between different Nigerian ethnic groups are quite clear, especially when the protagonist's daughter marries a Yoruba or Hausa Muslim. Looking back, it was a interesting look at Igbo society, providing a female-centered perspective one does not see in the work of, say, Chinua Achebe. I cannot help but think of the parallels between Emecheta and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, a contemporary Nigerian writer of Igbo descent who also gives the reader a separate view of gender relations among Igbo society and Nigeria overall.

McKay's Home To Harlem and Haiti

Claude McKay c. 1928

I would be lying if I denied that the only reason I read Claude McKay's Home To Harlem is the Haitian character, Raymond. Set in Harlem after WWI, the 1928 novel explores Harlem and black life in the aftermath of the war, focusing on the seedy underworld of urban black life. McKay's short novel includes a Haitian character from an upper-class background as an important foil for the protagonist, Jake, mainly in the second part of the three-part text. Raymond, who has to work on the railroad as a waiter, is only in the US because he was a student at Howard University, but his father was jailed for opposing the US Occupation and his brother was killed for the same reason. Therefore, Ray has to work to save up money for his education as his family lost their income in Haiti. 

When Jake meets Ray, he is exposed to a much larger black world and history, learning for the first time about the Haitian Revolution as a noble event in the course of human history, as well as the importance of sovereign black states, such as Abyssinia and Liberia. This introduction to pan-Africanist discourse via Ray piques Jake's interest, who now wishes he was educated and well-read like his Haitian friend. The reason I see them as counterparts is in how they unite the two strands of black masculinity: refined, educated, and international through Ray and domestic, hardworking, uneducated and 'primitive' Jake. McKay's use of primitivism in this text (which is used most often when describing jazz and blues in the clubs and cabarets of Harlem) should not necessarily be seen in a negative light, for in the text the 'primitive' blues, jazz, dance, drugs, and unmasked passion of black Harlem (and Pittsburgh and Philadelphia) is seen as authentic, real, and connecting individuals instead of the cold, distant 'civilization' of whites. Indeed, some of the descriptions used by McKay for the dancing in cabarets and buffet flats sound like Vodou or African ceremonies and rituals, evidence of African retentions and 'spirit' in the African Diaspora.

Perhaps like other intellectuals, McKay's use of the 'primitive' is part of the general response to the destruction of the First World War, when some thinkers began to question European civilization's level of sophistication and looked to the East or South for alternatives to the West. This, I believe, is where Haiti comes in as a symbol for black liberation and an alternative path, albeit one that is not fully explored in the novel. Ray himself, an educated man, also begins to question his Western education, since it makes him a misfit, as well as question why race is thrust upon him and his own self-distancing from African-Americans, who he admits to looking condescendingly upon for being under the white Anglo-Saxon American's yoke. Yet, Haiti at the same time is under US white rule, and Ray's identity crisis leads to some black solidarity across national or cultural barriers. 

To be honest, I was quite disappointed in McKay's Ray, who, as a complex, nuanced being, captures the multiplicity of forms blackness encompasses, but does not outright or directly work against US Occupation. Furthermore, Jake, who begins to see Ray as his best friend during their time together working on the dining car of the trains, never opposes the US Occupation, so politically speaking, the novel lacks the overt tone of black militancy of McKay's famous poem, which, like this novel does on a subtle level, capture the attitude of the New Negro after World War I, a conflict in which blacks from the US were doubly oppressed. In McKay's defense, the novel is centered on Jake and the Harlem world, so one can understand why Ray's crisis, which is certainly aligned with the themes of the novel, is relegated to the background and ultimately resolved by Ray choosing to work on a freighter, escaping the Harlem, Haiti, and living on the seas in search of freedom while still yearning to write. Ray learns to overcome his classism and moral judgment of others, however, as demonstrated by his admiration for the pimp, Jerco. 

Jake, on the other hand, finds the love of his lie and simple, domestic companionship he desires, and decides to leave 'home' away from Harlem, en route to Chicago. Jake, who experienced the docks of Europe, and the white man's savagery committed against blacks and whites in London's East End bars and brothels, knows fully well that violence transcends racial boundaries, and finds himself still searching for 'home' in Harlem only to realize that his 'home' is elsewhere, somewhere he can find the peace Ray desires in his own way, perhaps the very same alternative to Western civilization. Haiti's role as a symbol and object of pan-Africanist concern is clearly important in this context, and plays an important role in how McKay constructs a plausible black world where color, class, nationality, and gender divide Harlem's Black Belt. Like his other work, the militancy also encompasses labor, hinting at McKay's leftist interests at the time,  as well as black progress.

Favorite Quotes

"He preferred white folks' hatred to their friendly contempt." (141)

"But the Congo remained in spite of formidable opposition and foreign exploitation. The Congo was a real throbbing little Africa in New York." (151)

"Jake felt like one passing through a dream, vivid in rich, varied colors. It was revelation beautiful in his mind. That brief account of an island of savage black people, who fought for collective liberty and were struggling to create a culture of their own. A romance of his race, just down there by Panama. How strange!" (201)

"Ray felt that as he was conscious of being black and impotent, so, correspondingly, each marine down in Hayti must be conscious of being white and powerful." (210)

"He remembered when little Hayti was floundering uncontrolled, how proud he was to be the son of a free nation. He used to feel condescendingly sorry for those poor African natives; superior to ten millions of suppressed Yankee "coons." Now he was just one of them and he hated them for being one of them..." (210)

"African hate is deep down and hard to stir up, but there is no hate more realistic when it is stirred up." (221)

Jean Toomer's Cane

Jean Toomer's Cane is a powerful collection of poems and vignettes of African-American life in the rural South and urban north. Toomer's ability to write short stories of such incredible depth is quite impressive, and are actually believable stories of black life. Although Toomer personally had a complex relationship with his 'blackness,' he inserts autobiographical details in the text that highlight themes of gender (and some contain feminist themes), interracial romance, class,c olorism within black communities and black vernacular English. In addition, Toomer's metaphorical poems and rich, creative language is a pleasure to read. 

While one may read some of his work as a celebration of a loss of culture during the Great Migration, the themes of the short story, "Kabnis," seems to suggest northern blacks who return South will not be fully accepted, in either black or white society. The stories set in DC and Chicago also explore similar themes, such as the brown-skinned black man at the University of Chicago (partly based on Toomer) who cannot find acceptance among whites. One of the more powerful pieces in the text is 'Becky," the tale of a white woman who raises two black sons in a Southern town, despised by blacks and whites yet secretly helped by members of both races. Similarly', "Blood-Burning Moon" is another triumph as it tells the tale of a conflict between a white and black man over a black woman's heart, concluding in the lynching of the black man. 

Favorite Quotes

"This interest of the male, who wishes to ripen a growing thing too soon, could mean no good to her."

"The Bible flaps its leaves with an aimless rustle on her mound."

"God has left the Moses-people for the nigger."

Houses are shy girls whose eyes shine reticently upon the dusk body of the street."

"Suddenly he knew that people saw, not attractiveness in his dark skin, but difference."

"Hell of a note, cant even smoke. The stillness of it. Where they burn and hang men, you cant smoke."

"Roosters crowed, heralding the bloodshot eyes of southern awakening."

Nostalgie par René Depestre

Enjoy a lovely poem by René Depestre which expresses his nostalgia for Haiti. I found the middle stanza the most moving and powerful. 

Ce n’est pas encore l’aube dans la maison

La nostalgie est couchée à mes côtés.

Elle dort, elle reprend des forces,

Ça fatigue beaucoup la compagnie

D’un nègre rebelle et romantique.

Elle a quinze ans, ou mille ans,

Ou elle vient seulement de naître

Et c’est son premier sommeil

Sous le même toit que mon cœur.

Depuis quinze ans ou depuis des siècles

Je me lève sans pouvoir parler

La langue de mon peuple,

Sans le bonjour de ses dieux païens

Sans le goût de son pain de manioc

Sans l’odeur de son café du petit matin.

Je me réveille loin de mes racines,

Loin de mon enfance,

Loin de ma propre vie.

Depuis quinze ans ou depuis que mon sang

Traversa en pleurant la mer

La première vie que je salue à mon réveil

C’est cette inconnue au front très pur

Qui deviendra un jour aveugle

À force d’user ses yeux verts

À compter les trésors que j’ai perdus.

(René Depestre, Journal d’un animal marin, 1964) 

November Cotton Flower

Another astounding number from jazz legend Marion Brown. Inspired by Jean Toomer's poem, "November Cotton Flower," the song and poem reflect on Georgia and African-American Southern life. Toomer's Cane is an amazing read, a triumph of modernism. This jazz 'tone poem,' in my mind, captures the spirit of Toomer's book quite well. 

Pepi's Tempo

Enjoy the rousing "Pepi's Tempo" by Marion Brown. It's jazz-funk that doesn't fall into the trap of becoming too repetitive or monotonous for the full length of its 9 minutes. 

Romulus

Fernand Hibbert

Romulus, first published in 1908, is Haitian novelist Fernand Hibbert's fictionalized version of the 1883 siege of Miragoâne during the Salomon presidency. Recently translated into English for the first time by Matthew Robertshaw, the novella explores life in the Haitian port town before and after the unrest. As the translator's introduction elucidates, an appeal to discourse is one of the messages of the novel, written at a time of rapidly declining Haitian political stability. Using the politically turbulent period of Salomon's presidency (and the dangers of absolutism and corruption), Hibbert's novel subtly comments on the instability of Haiti in 1908, such as the lack of a Haitian middle-class or commerce class, for instance (often with a sense of humor, too, particularly in the first section of the book, which introduces Romulus, the town, and the pace of life). 

Furthermore, Romulus, the titular character, a police commissioner in Miragoâne, exploits his position for personal gain, as does the Commandant and local merchants, to smuggle goods custom-free through the port, thereby depriving Haiti of revenue. Romulus, and his children through two 'wives' or women, symbolize Haiti (black and mulatto are his wives), and his family, by extension the entire city of Miragoâne, represent a troubled country. However, when relatively free from Port-au-Prince and the 'Restorer,' Salomon, life in Miragoane appears idyllic and lively, because the author compares the town to a beautiful women, yet its corrupted, overtaken, and besieged as a result of the exiles returning from Jamaica, led by Boyer-Bazelais (whose death is fictionalized in this tale) and his Liberal principles. 

Of course, some of his supporters do not even understand the political reasons why they oppose Salomon (Romulus included), and Boyer-Bazelais is operating on the assumption that all the towns of Haiti will rise up in opposition to the tyrant Salomon, including Jacmel, the 'Iron Coast' and Jérémie, where the exile revolutionaries also landed. In short, the Bazelaists planned poorly, and Boyer-Bazelais himself is depicted as foolisly relying on Providence for his movement to succeed. Later, he comes to realize that the true beginnings of liberal government in Haiti will not manifest until a popular demand by the people themselves calls for it, which implies the growth of a middle class and Haitian economic development, which will force politicians and the military to recognize them. 

This in directly tied with the political philosophy of non-involvement, characterized by the Haitian elite Mr. Trévier, an exporter of coffee and logwood (also friend of Romulus and Merlin, a Haitian caught up in the intellectual and political fervor of Bazelaisism) who refuses to get involved in politics, preferring to engage in business and commerce to slowly and gradually support Haitian merchants and capitalists, thereby paving the path for a larger middle class-class (which is an idea recognized by Haitian intellectuals of the late 19th century and early 20th century as one of the reasons Haiti's political system was so turbulent and weak). Yet this path is not a solution to Haiti's woes because, as a result of the political instability and siege, the exile revolutionaries requisition some of his goods and all of his assets are lost in the fires and battles that consume the city. Even the military, the only "organized structure" of Haiti, to paraphrase Trévier, cannot ensure stability for business.

Thus, I read the novel as offering a reconciliation of sorts, between political idealism and revolutionary movements (which, unlike Bazelaism, actually reach out to the masses)  and economic self-determination. Oddly, the author of the text wrote this at at time when foreign economic penetration of Haiti was so completely entrenched, one has no idea how such a goal would be achievable in the early 20th century, and a more radical approach of empowering the peasantry directly is certainly not explored in this text. 

As for the structure of the novel, it makes quite the rapid transition from its early chapters, which focus on Romulus and introduce the town, and then the several chapters on the battles, bombardments, or casualties of the conflict. Including numerous historical figures, Hibbert has an annoying penchant in this novel for long lists of influential exiles and locals who joined the revolutionary movement. I am not sure why he does this, but the translator retains it. Perhaps it is to show how elite-dominated the movement was, thereby limiting its success? I am also perplexed by Hibbert's choice of title, and the brief allusion to Cinette, who dies suddenly. Unless her death is an ominous sign of the forthcoming revolutionary movement, it is out of place.

Regardless, the novel is an interesting exploration of Haiti's political discord with a focus outside of Port-au-Prince. Even at a time when Haiti's export economy is portrayed as healthy, conflict over political office, the spoils of corruption, etc. ruin the chance to develop the economy. Moreover, as a novel first published in 1908, Hibbert succeeds in painting a portrait of provincial town life, with negative as well as positive attributes. Romulus, his large family (which is related to everyone in  Miragoâne by blood or godparents), the influence of the Catholic Church, political favoritism or corruption, as well as the strict class divide reveal an important era in Haitian history, one in which the US Occupation swiftly followed years of Haitian political fratricide. 

Favorite Quotes

"In those days,  Miragoâne was a prosperous and lively town."

"Romulus's defining characteristic consisted in this: he preferred high society. He was perfectly willing to commit himself against a man from the country, no matter how honest, if the man was in a dispute with a notable from the city--in this way Romulus was the most abject of scoundrels."

"Oh! That Romulus, he knew how to sway a person with his political rhetoric. He'd speak of generosity while at the same time working for his own good at the expense of the public. He was quite a modern man."

"Since Dessalines, people had kept trying to restore this poor country, a country that only wanted one thing: to be left in peace."

Monsieur Toussaint: A Play

"Only Toussaint Abreda can defeat Toussaint L'Ouverture."

Edouard Glissant's Monsieur Toussaint, translated by the author himself and J. Michael Dash, is an interesting theatrical take on the Haitian Revolution. While at times a little hard to follow, the play juxtaposes the dead spirits of numerous historical actors in Saint Domingue conversing with Toussaint Louveture as he awaits death in Fort de Joux with Toussaint's memories of important moments in the Haitian Revolution. While clearly literature and not an accurate retelling of the actual history of the Haitian Revolution, the work captures many of the complexities of the postcolonial state, such as relations between the state and the masses. 

Toussaint Louverture, in Glissant's play, is modeled on the perspectives of Cesaire and CLR James, as a tragic hero who distanced himself from the masses but, following the lead of the former, sacrifices himself willingly so a united, free Haiti will emerge. This perspective on Toussaint, something new to me, also leads to a favorable depiction of Dessalines as the necessary leader who will consolidate and complete the mission of Toussaint, while Christophe only has a few lines. Like other plays treating the subject of the Haitian Revolution, the attempts to maintain the plantation system and the belief in 'order and prosperity' favored by Toussaint is shown as incompatibile with the goals of the masses, or the dead shadows who accompany the dying Toussaint in exile. Mackandal, Vodou (Toussaint as a Legba and Ogou figure, Dessalines also as Ogou), Macaya (spelled differently in this text), Moyse, and even Dessalines are shown as representing the masses, albeit through a fictionalized and rather short play such as this. 

The ultimate tragedy, therefore, lies in Toussaint necessarily sacrificing himself to pave the way for unity, to lead to conditions in which blacks and mulattoes could work together to defeat Leclerc and Rochambeau. In addition, battles are prominent in the text, but often hinted at, and its interesting how Christophe is largely silenced, Petion makes no appearance, and the conflict between Toussaint and Rigaud is presented as having been entirely orchestrated by the settler royalists, favoring a return to slavery. Toussaint Abreda, the slave Toussaint, caught up in the French modes of civilization and governance, ultimately undoes Toussaint Louverture, making the play very analytical in how once being a privileged slave and free person, Toussaint Louverture was restricted by the norms of 'order and prosperity' antithetical to the radical need for independence.

Moreover, Glissant makes things even more fascinating by including Delgrès, the commandant who led his forces into a mass suicide at Matouba rathern than submit to French forces restoring slavery. This, as well as the Dokos (Macaya and the African-born revolutionaries of the Haitian Revolution, the Maroons) makes the play clearly pan-Africanist and Pan-Caribbean, with the mission for black independence and emancipation tied to liberation of Africa. In the author's own words, the prophetic vision of Toussaint Louverture's leadership and sacrifice is connected with wider anti-colonial movements. 

Children of Heroes

Lyonel Trouillot's Children of Heroes, a short but compelling novel translated by Linda Coverdale, is a depressing but essential read for a feel of Port-au-Prince's urban landscape. The city itself becomes a character as Colin and his sister, Mariela, flee their slum neighborhood after killing their abusive father. From the slums to Boutilliers, the siblings experience the city in its totality for three days on the run, with extensive social commentary, the legacy of the nation and its heroes, and the relentless pursuit of poverty (and the law). The crushing poverty with the consequent class divide in the city of Port-au-Prince matches the dysfunction of Colin's family (and he is mostly the narrator, although I appreciate how the author 'mixes' it up by having a shift in narrator later on, and the creative way dialogue is expressed), the fighting stray dogs, who, like Haiti, fight over scraps. 

Despite the lack of a 'happy' ending, the novel succeeds by breathing life into the world of the two slum children, making their violent, alcoholic father and submissive, already-dead mother realistic, and capturing the dissolution of Haiti under the Place des Heros. The loss of dignity is even more supremely expressed when the protagonists of the novel are photographed by tourists, who, despite the dirty rags the fugitive children wear and their robotic smiles, loves what it represents. In spite of it all, their attempts to escape their world inevitably fails, and the harshness of life, nihilism, and decay continue, under the statues of the heroes of independence.

For those eager to read Haitian literature set in Port-au-Prince, this relatively short novel is an easy read and excellent place to start. One truly gets a feel for the city of Port-au-Prince through the prose and commentary of Trouillot, who manages to tell the story of slum children without condescension or criticism. These very same residents of the slums, the urban counterparts of the moun andeyo, search for dignity, self-respect, inclusion in the social fabric of the city, and become heroic in their struggle. I actually found myself feeling sympathy for some rather unpleasant characters in the novel, including the murdered father, as I am sure other readers will.

Favorite Quotes

"During those first hours after Corazón had died for real, after our race to escape the slum, we walked quietly around the Champ-de-Mars, where the statues of heroes look down indifferently from on high" (28).

"Life, good or bad, doesn't interest people. It's death that makes a splash" (49).

"In the slum, no one trusts visitors" (59).

"In our house, the punches, the screaming, the quarrels and prayers were the finishing touch to our poverty" (61).

"Our life killed Corazón. Our lousy life, so far from hope, and so close to death" (99).

"Not many of our locals have any dealings with the State. For good or ill. The State is far away. Its existence doesn't affect us, and it remembers us only when forced to by some misfortune" (104).

"The inscription beneath the bust pointed out that Carl Brouard had been a great poet. I think poets can go to hell. This one couldn't even manage to get his name on a pretty square" (107).

"It's just a faded piece of cloth fought over by dogs" (134).

All Men Are Mad

All Men Are Mad, the final of the four novels written by the Marcelin brothers is perhaps the most intriguing. Published in 1970 (and translated by Eva Thoby-Marcelin), the novel explores the effects of the anti-superstition campaign of 1942 on Boischandelle, a small town in the hills of Haiti's West. Highly critical of President Lescot and drawing on historical events, the novel is a searing indictment of religious oppression, as well as the role of the state (and clergy) in abusing religion for political and economic ambitions. With a great sense of humor, the narrator in this novel satirizes every aspect of Haitian society, too, so as to not solely ridicule the Haitian government, the Catholic Church, and the Protestants.

In numerous ways, the three faiths (Protestantism, Vodou, and Catholicism) are demonstrated to have much in common, despite the beliefs of Father Le Bellec and Bienaime, the pastor of the Pentecostalist church, which is one of the ways in which the 'madness' of the anti-superstition campaign is displayed. Turning families against one another, dividing, the community, and receiving government support for violence against Protestants as well as Vodou believers, the anti-superstition campaign is clearly about power and influence, not faith, in this novel. Indeed, several characters suspect the Church pushes for the campaign for subversive goals, and to strengthen their hold of 'Black Brittany' (many of the priests are from Brittany, in France) under the threat of Lescot bringing in Canadian priests. The government of Lescot is suspected of organizing gunfire and attacks in Catholic churches (three in Port-au-Prince, one in Boischandelle) and for orchestrating the "anti-superstition' campaign to further the state's own interest, of weakening the Church and getting the Archbishop to consecrate the National Cathedral and declare Haiti's patron saint Our Lady of Perpetual Help (which, like much of the novel, is historical fact). 

On the local level, different actors, religious leaders, and followers of the lwa have their own various reasons for supporting or resisting the violent campaign, led by the French priest, Father Le Bellec, whose Soldiers of Saint Michael commit numerous acts of violence and destruction against Protestants and Vodouisants. Wrapped up in this larger story arc, numerous jealousies, political power grabs, avarice, and follies of the sexual, linguistic, and religious kinds lead to catastrophic crises in the community. Like the previous novels of the Marcelin brothers, change emanating from Port-au-Prince or outsiders brings about significant change at the provincial level with several problems for the residents.

In addition, a Dominican prostitute, the US Ambassador, allusions to the US Marines from the Occupation, satirical portraits of government officials obsessed with Latin and pretentious dialogue, and last but certainly not least, the intervention of the loas themselves add layers of complexity and context to this relatively short novel. Clearly, the Marcelin brothers, when satirizing the 'madness' or folly of Haiti, are tying this to other parts of the world in equal measure or blame, such as the "superstitious" beliefs of the Catholic priest, Le Bellec, or the convulsions and possessions of the Pentecostalist church, both of which reveal the commonalities both faiths share with each other and Vodou. Instead of finding unity or peaceful coexistence, as the Vodouisant do in finding no problem with serving the loas and God, because the loa are servants of God, 'madness' drives the religious communities apart and into conflict over power, influence, and control, much like the heads of nation-states. The appearance of the loas themselves, most significantly Ogou Ferraille, while possessing the son of the hougan of Bassin-Bleu, challenges this folly most directly, by symbolizing the fluidity of religious identity.

In summation, I recommend this as one of the strongest novels by Pierre Marcelin and Philippe Thoby-Marcelin. The translation retains Creole songs, rich proverbs, and satirizes the numerous cases of madness that drive the community apart. Obsession with status, power, rank, and national image turn Haitians against each other in the most folly of follies, the anti-superstition campaign. The novel's conclusion reveals the ultimate bitter truth, previously explained by Estinval, a houngan who renounces and supports the campaign, who explains the conflict as a battle of father and mother, which will end soon in a reconciliation of sorts. This is exactly how the novel concludes, with the intrigue over and the President coming out of the situation more pompous and proud of himself than ever, having won for Haiti a patron saint to improve the nation's image and that of his own regime. The multiple levels of 'madness' at the local and national level, from the Justice of the Peace's incomprehensible use of Latin (which inhibits communication) to the misguided and immoral camapgisn against Vodou, exemplify the dichotomies of Haitian society, which, as Marlene Daut and Karen Richman argue, are universal problems beyond the Caribbean.

Favorite Quotes

"Macdonald Origene could boast all he wanted that he was a Cartesian, he kept on being impressed by the surprising cures the houngan effected" (28).

"Still, he meant no harm, and the fact is that color prejudice has so permeated the language of white people, bringing into it over the centuries, together with the confused notions of race, civilization, "primitiveness," a whole system of cliches and expressions unfavorable to the black man, that it would not be fair to accuse Father Le Bellec of racism" (96).

"Haiti is a land fertile in myths; it produces new ones every blessed day. And the credulity of the peasants, like that of the Breton priests, is infinite" (168).

The Pencil of God

While the third novel of the Marcelin brothers is consistent thematically with the previous two this novel is the weaker of the three. Retaining the rich proverbs, humor, and small community focus of the former novels, The Pencil of God tells the tale of Diogene Cyprien, a Haitian mulatto businessman of Saint Marc, who refuses to cease his amorous affairs and because of his irascible temperament and appetite, loses his family in the process. 

Full of inter-class relations, social commentary (the president of Haiti in this story, clearly Lescot, seized German-owned businesses and has hurt economically many employees and partners of the German Hartmann and Company, and faces additional criticism of corruption and his ego), and the community of Saint Marc's (about 10,000 souls) fears of demons and the contrast between Catholicism and Vodou are the major aspects of the novel's relatively simple plot. 

In spite of the novel's provincial and specific cultural setting, it explores the universal themes of fate and morality, the congruence of Catholic and Vodou beliefs on the rise and fall of the Cyprien family, and the shared concern of Catholics and devotees of the lwa regarding sorcery and proper social behavior. Again, like earlier novels by the Marcelin brothers, Vodou, sorcery, baka, possession, and the dynamics of Vodou/Catholicism co-existence are exploited here for a readily identifiable Haitian community, one in which life and death are seen as ordained by the spirits and what is written by God's pencil cannot be changed. In this case, Diogene Cyprien never escapes his fate, even when his dying mother requests a change in his moral behavior. Like the woodcutter of a story alluded to in the novel's conclusion, Diogene's vices haunt him and lead to irrevocable negotiations and moral compromises, causing a tragic outcome. 

While the community of Saint Marc (both Catholic, Vodou, and the melange) attributes Diogene's problems to an alleged pact with the devil (a series of rumors arise about his sorcery, which can all be traced to Ti-Joseph, a former employee of Diogene who holds a grudge because of Diogene's attempt to blame the pregnancy of Lourdes on him), these accusations of sorcery and pacts with Satan are, as in the previous novels, linked to a disturbance of social harmony by Diogene Cyprien, who goes too far in his amorous adventures, is willing to exploit and sacrifice others, such as Ti-Joseph, and lacks any prudence, which is wife's uncle, Tonton Georges, tries to impart. Perhaps there is too much Ogou in Diogene, and he ultimately fulfills the 'fate' established for him. 

As for why I consider this novel one of the weaker works by the Marcelins, the novel appears too reminiscent of The Beast of the Haitian Hills, and the authors introduce members of the Cyprien family far too late into the narrative for it to be so believable that Diogene cares for his legitimate children. His son, Marc-Antoine, his mother-in-law, and his wife who he causes so much grief are never presented as fully-fleshed characters, and seem too marginal to support the novel's depressing end. Other characters in this provincial town community are also given the short end of the stick, such as Lourdes, Ti-Joseph, and even the French priest, Laennec, who is quite relevant to the story given his support for anti-superstition campaigns designed to uproot Vodou. Instead of the better portrait of the community seen in their first two novels, this story loses that all-encompassing cast and narration. 

The Beast of the Haitian Hills

"And he was annoyed by the realization that these superstitions were so strongly rooted because those of his own class had taken no serious steps to improve the pitiful living conditions of the Haitian peasant" (50).

La Bête de Musseau, the second novel of the Marcelin brothers, translated by Peter C. Rhodes, is quite similar to their first. The Beast of the Haitian Hills adds the class dynamics of Haitian society with horror, for an engaging story set in the peasant community of Musseau, in the hills outside of Port-au-Prince in the late 1930s. . Like the former work, the focus of the novel is on the community and the effects of intrusion or social disorder inevitably have. Naturally, themes of Vodou, class divisions, familial and community intrigue, and sorcery suffuse the novel, which follows the life of Morin Dutilleul, a mulatto, urban, educated Haitian of the elite. Morin Dutilleul romanticizes rural life in Haiti after spending summers in the hills with his family as a child, and dreams of becoming a planter like his free mulatto ancestors of the colonial era, eventually letting this dream and his amorous affairs cause his wife distress and death. Once free, he settles in Musseau, buys land, disrespects and insults the peasantry,  refuses to share his spring, loses his vision of idyllic life, and brings about disorder through his invasive presence (and disrespect for the loas), symbolized by the Cigouave, a mythical beast described as part dog, part man. 

What follows in the narrative is harsh social commentary on the Haitian elite (who distance themselves from the peasantry and are ultimately to blame for their ignorance and poverty), numerous instances of humorous dialogue, and division within the family and neighborhood as brothers turn against each other, greedy Vodou priests exploit the faith, and Morin himself never escapes his guilt over his wife's death, plunging into the abyss of alcoholism. Morin is presented as a highly unlikable figure, raping his servant, Sinette, talking down to Desilus, an experienced farmer he hires, insulting the justice of the peace, Delisca, and warring with Bossuet for trying to treat him as an equal. The ultimate sin of Morin is cutting down the mapou tree consecrated to Legba, and the powerful neighbor, Bossuet, a suspected bocor, disappears, and allegedly returns with the mythical Cigouave, a beast from the caves of Forban Gorge, to terrorize the community. As the characters turn on each other (Ti-Charles, brother of Bossuet, is even attacked by the 'beast,' which Morin initially believes to be no more than a dog, but then sees the beast himself), the the 'balance' of the community is thrown asunder as fear, ambition, greed, and violation of tradition leads to the downfall of multiple characters. 

Thus, I prefer to see the Cigouave as a metaphor for the destruction of the community's values and traditions, as Ti-Charles wants to marry his godsister (something forbidden in the community) and suffers an attack from the Cigouave, losing his genitalia, Morin is responsible for his wife's death, Horace turns his back on the loas solely for Catholicism (causing his wife to lose the child in her whom, for she does not obey the ancestor's instructions in her dream), and Sinette plotted with Desilus (who believes his own son, sent to Petionville, is a lougawou draining his life) to turn Morin into a lover she could exploit, only to be cursed by Baron Samedi and forced to flee. All suffer the consequences of possession, disfigurement, death, and family dissolution, with loas or 'evil spirits' such as the 'beast' (the Cigouave) representing the conflict of interests, neuroses, and emotional turmoil of the characters. 

The conclusion of the novel ends with the community restoring its balance, yet the character blamed for controlling the Cigouave somehow escapes judgment, and actually succeeds in taking on Irma, the young lover of the brother, Charles, he is suspected of killing with the 'beast.' Morin, the invading force of Port-au-Prince in this rural community, is haunted by his actions and meets an ignoble end, with the Cigouave on his trail. In a sense the novel seems to articulate a pro-peasant sensibility, with the urban mulatto, Morin, as nothing more than disruptive, a predator of 'beast' to the Haitian peasantry. Nonetheless, the novel contains so much nuance and personal stories from the residents of Musseau to hastily complicate this narrative, since Rossini, the houngan, is hardly impartial, nor is Delisca initially on the side of justice, but favoring the 'law' (which was made for and by people like Morin, which is why Delisca initially sides with Morin against Musseau when he cuts down Legba's mapou). Last but certainly not least, Bossuet himself exploits his image as a sorcerer to take what he wants, exert influence, and even attain prestige and friendships with members of the Haitian urban elite. Things are not so black and white in rural Haiti, as this author shows (even Delisca, in the end, allegedly sides with Bossuet, who reappears after Morin returns to Port-au-Prince).

Much could be said solely about the approach of the authors to Vodou in this text. Clearly, the worldview of the Vodouissants in this novel is not removed from reality, but part of it for the community, and clearly rooted in the peasantry's sense of self and health. When the loas 'mount,' even Morin is not entirely removed from the experience,  and fatalism is not unique to the followers of the loas, but also the 'strict' Catholics, such as Horace and Sinette, who suffer the consequences of not honoring the lwa. Baron Samedi's prominence in this story, as the head of the Gede spirits, is also noteworthy, given how Legba's anger should have been more central because of the mapou tree. Yet, Papa Legba seems conspicuously absent, despite references to the crossroads and his importance in all Vodou ceremonies, maybe symbolizing the lost of harmony and communication in the community, but even Morin comes to see himself as Baron Samedi in the horrific scene of rape and alcoholic excess. 'Ogoun Badagros' also surfaces in the novel's conclusion, as the guardian spirit of the dying Desilus who then mounts the son of Desilus, perhaps appropriate given how Desilus's temperant seems to match this loa. While some may emphasize the 'negative' treatment of the Haitian religion in this text, it reads to me as more nuanced and supportive of the faith, while critical of the Haitian elite and the forces that trap the peasantry in material poverty (which, unfortunately, includes some 'witchcraft' tied to avarice, as in the case of Bossuet or Tonton Bossa in the previous novel).

Here are some of my favorite quotations from the text, which illustrate the richness of proverbs, local wisdom, humor, and social commentary in this novel.

"The painful and savage struggle of the small mountain share-cropper with the elements was a closed book to him" (3).

"His ancestors, like all Haitians of their rank, had been planters long ago, and he remembered his with nostalgia, and considered his present status as a sign of decadence" (4).

"Since he had come into contact with the peasants, he now found them on close inspection, too uncouth and poverty-stricken and, despite this, 'without the slightest respect for well-to-do folk'" (17).

"He even deplored their presence in the countryside, though he knew perfectly well that it belonged more to them than to him and his class" (18).

"And Morin finally understood that, despite the modest air he put on, this peasant intended to deal with him on an equal footing, and this realization did not fail to irritate him"  (23).

"Appointed by the central government, the rural police chiefs are empowered with complete authority for the maintenance of order in the communities over which they preside" (30). 

"'You also forget many well-to-do people have long ago abandoned faith in their family gods. Just because they sometimes have a lighter skin than ours, they forget that they too are children of Yayoute, our common African ancestor, and assume they have no more obligations toward the gods. But the loas never forget what is their due'" (73).

 "The bull shits, thinking he will soil the pasture, but he only dirties his own hind quarters" (142).

"For some time now the atmosphere of this peasant setting―where the natural and the supernatural, far from being dialectically opposed to each other, were bound together in an indivisible whole―had made him extremely sensitive" (178). 

"The Cigouave never howled, and the village of Musseau, undisturbed, went on sleeping peacefully" (210). 

Canapé-Vert

Philippe Thoby-Marcelin, co-author of the novel

"Doesn't the proverb say that bad luck is the young brother of the wretched?"

Despite the translator's racist introduction to Haiti, Canapé-Vert stands out in Haitian literature as the first novel to be translated into English. Winner of a Latin American literary award, Canapé-Vert tells the story of a peasant community in the eponymous area, right outside of Port-au-Prince, sometime during World War II. Steeped in oral traditions, Vodou, and Creole phrases and song, the Marcelin brothers establish the encompassing narrative around the trials of the community after a prominent houngan makes a deal with Baron Samedi in return for wealth. His sons become zombies, his wife distraught, and the man's evil sorcery for greed and prestige costs the entire community their fragile equilibrium. 

While at times perpetuating a stereotype of the Haitian peasantry as superstitious, accepting of their lot, and fatalistic, the authors endeavor to show how the worldview of the peasantry is not divorced from that of the reader for explaining the 'curse' on the community and the toll it takes. While they may attribute some of the misfortune to their loas, or a failure to care for the loa, the characters are ultimately responsible for their actions and the authors show how greed, lust, love, depression, and power relations impact the community's harmony. At first, I was put off by the inclusion of numerous characters into the short novel (225 pages), but the large cast becomes inseparable to show how sorcery, greed, and social cohesion are all rooted in the familial and communal spaces of peasant society. 

Furthermore, the authors demonstrate how Catholicism is certainly not absent from the peasantry's world, given their 'bush priest,' attendance at Catholic services, and use of Latin in funerals and Vodou ceremonies. And while some Vodou priests are guilty of 'pious fraud' and and clearly not that devout (their desire for money often overrides concern for their followers), the case of the Breton priest called upon for the funeral of Grande Da's son shows how Christian religion can be a tool for personal ambition and avarice, too. Thus, in my opinion, the text approaches Vodou in a balanced and respectful way, showing how the 'supernatural' beliefs of the peasant community are not disconnected from their earthly world, but personified by the characters themselves. 

Despite the dissolution of families and numerous deaths in the novel, the author's include comedic relief, too. Previlon, the gambling drinker (and son of Grande Da) provides numerous instances of humor throughout the story, although quick to blame his misfortune in gambling on the 'mystère' haunting him. The riddles, cockfight, dances, coumbite, and wakes are depicted as moments of light-hearted solidarity and radiant positivity of the peasantry, which is completely lacking in the lower-class neighborhood of Port-au-Prince, Bois-de-chêne, where most women are prostitutes, the police regularly beat and arrest Sanite's cousin, and the houngan is one of those 'pious frauds' who tries to dupe Sanite (which is one of the hilarious sections of the story, as the priest's friend masquerades as Nibo to fool Sanite for 50 gourdes). Thus, when one juxtaposes the urban versus rural dichotomy, the peasantry, despite the poverty, disease, and abuse by the authorities of the state, appear to have a stronger communal-basis to tackling their poverty. In addition, there is a light-heartedness and sense of humor in the narration and the peasant community that is absent from the gritty, dangerous neighborhood Sanite briefly resides in with her prostitute relative. 

In addition, the experience of Josaphat, who returns from Cuba after his father, Tonton Bossa, dies due to the failure of his to maintain his deal with Baron Samedi, becomes ensnared in this 'doom' the community faces as others become sacrificed to appease the loa. The abuse of power committed by the head of the rural police is also integral to this, given how he is behind the scenes, stirring emotions and exploiting the landless in order to find greater profits. Thus, sorcery in this tale is tied with greed, and a failure to sustain social cohesion. Josaphat, who returns to Haiti from Cuba as Jose, survived extreme exploitation as a cane cutter, also representing an uglier side to the Haitian countryside as it loses people to Cuba and the Dominican Republic, another form of family dissolution and communal breakdown (in this case, Josaphat was forced out of his family by his own father, who abandons him and his mother, Ti-Tante, to pursue the sister of Grande Da, the aforementioned manbo).

Last but certainly not least, the novel is interesting in its omission of the bourgeois families of the town, whose influence is certainly felt but are conspicuously absent. There are allusions to tenant farmers, and, as previously mentioned, corrupt government officials, but the elites living in Port-au-Prince never make an appearance in the novel. Some women from the peasantry are sent off to work as maids for these families, but the families of the same class background as the Marcelin brothers are never present, unless one counts the young houngan from a lower bourgeois family. Why is that? Perhaps it reflects a desire on the part of the authors to fully capture the realities of life of the peasantry in the countryside, without mentioning the elite families, who are written off as "not understanding" the worldview of the peasantry when Dorvilus never explains why he could not bring in his dog, rabid with rabies, after the murders in the novel's end. Nonetheless, I am eager to read the Marcelin brothers's next novel, which explores the topic of a Haitian upper-class man choosing to leave the city to live in a peasant community. 

Emperor of Haiti

Martel: Where is their power now to make the gods smile upon this troubled island?

Langston Hughes's Emperor of Haiti, included in Black Heroes: 7 Plays, edited by Errol Hill, is an interesting read. It seems to follow much of Hughes's thought about Haitian social relations, particularly the color question. The mulattoes in the play are all conniving, color-struck, look to France for civilization, and ultimately plot the coup that leads to the assassination of the Black Emperor. In addition, Toussaint Louverture and the other leaders of the Haitian Revolution are omitted from the text, with the only significant mention of Toussaint appearing in the second act, when Popo and Martel wish for his leadership again (thereby making Toussaint into a noble hero, kidnapped and brought to France). 

Dessalines, on the other hand, is a tragic hero cursed by his hubris and warrior mentality. Unfit to rule, blinded by European standards of civilization, Dessalines, not unlike the mulattoes (Claire, his consort, Vuval, his aide, and Stenio), turns his back on 'voodoo' and the drums (which are shown in Act One as highly important for the slave revolution) and places himself above the peasantry. Nonetheless, Dessalines is portrayed here as not hating mulattoes at all, unlike some of Walcott's plays which suggest otherwise. Thus, there is a more nuanced aspect of this play, despite Hughes engaging in satirical and critical description (via the narrator) of the grotesque, lavish banquet in the palace, etc. Moreover, the inclusion of the market women and fisherman, as well as the 'ragamuffins' in the third act, provide a voice to the lower classes, absent in the play since the first act, which reaffirms the life of the Haitian majority, depicted as hard-working, engaged, religious, and free. Inherent to this is the respect for 'voodoo' and its persistent drums (which echo in the hills multiple times in the play), which begin the slave revolt in 1791 and reminds us of the peasantry after Dessalines assumes power. 

Thus, the play is consistent with the themes of Popo and Fifina, as well as other writings by the author pertaining to Haiti. Like Walcott's Haitian Trilogy, there is a sense of tragedy embedded in the tale of Haiti's early leaders, with an established pattern of political conflict among the elites for power. Indeed, the true heroine of the novel would be Azelia, the wife of Dessalines under slavery, who becomes the historical Marie Sainte Dédée Bazile by protecting the corpse of Dessalines and affirming the path of love and solidarity, something lost by Dessalines during his ambitious rise. The mulatto schemer, Stenio, seems like an obvious attack on President Vincent of Haiti during the time, and the sympathy the play exudes in describing the 'everyday people' of Haiti is breathtaking. Certainly for a play originally written in the 1930s, (and subsequently revised numerous times by Hughes, including as an opera with African-American composer William Grant Still) in the wake of US Occupation of Haiti, that did not demonize Vodou or the Haitian peasantry, is revolutionary.

Favorite Quotes

Dessalines: Everyone wants to dress like me―and I'm the emperor.

Dessalines: I'm the glory of Haiti!

Melon Vendor: Looks like we'll never be done fighting here in Haiti.

Between Two Worlds

Simone Schwarz-Bart's Between Two Worlds, translated from the French original, Ti-Jean L'horizon, by Barbara Bray is an enchanting magical realist tale about slavery and identity in Guadeloupe, the author's homeland. While clearly specific to Guadeloupe and its rural communities, this postcolonial tale incorporates elements of pan-Caribbean culture and history (slavery, the zombi, a quote from Jacques Roumain, and a return to Africa) to tell the tale of Ti Jean, a young man from Fond Zombi who must return the Sun and save his community, which falls into reenslavement as eternal darkness reigns over the world. Along the way, Ti Jean experiences love, friendship, travels to Africa, France, and the Kingdom of Shades, and is forced to accept himself for what he is and take root in Guadeloupe. 

Although multilayered and at times a bit confusing (the numerous chapters where Ti Jean travels to Africa, for instance, and the dense mythological allusions and history can be hard to follow at times), Ti Jean's tale emphasizes the importance of Guadeloupe and its people's right to live free and with pride. The protagonist's grandfather, the 'Immortal One' who represents the maroons of the days of slavery, and the world of the descendants of slaves who meekly accept their condition, must learn to take pride in their land and free themselves of colonial thinking. Yet, the author does not fall entirely into negritude thought, since Ti Jean's return to Africa is not accepted by Wademba's people, thereby making the people of the Caribbean a branch of the African tree which must find roots in Guadeloupe. 

The text is full of local colors, supernatural events, travels across oceans and rivers, and last, but certainly not least, fully-fleshed symbolism and heroic archetypes. Ti Jean, compared to the Sun multiple times, ultimately frees it (metaphorically freeing the people of Guadeloupe from slavery and white domination) from the Beast (a cow with a pelican nesting in its ear), reminding one of Haitian literary giant Jacques Stephen Alexis, who also wrote of the Sun as an ally of the poor. In addition to ties with that tradition, the text quotes Jacques Roumain's Masters of the Dew in the final section, thereby linking itself with broader trends and a tradition of peasant novel and anti-colonial significance in the French Caribbean world. Needless to say, I could rant without end about the book, its cyclical message, the passionate critique of colonialism, and the numerous worlds the protagonist lives between, but I'll end here. Those eager to read of a fictionalized but highly integrated worlds of death, Africa before colonialism, and 20th century Guadeloupe should be highly interested in this novel. 

Favorite Quotes

"To tell the truth, it is a completely unimportant scrap of earth, and the experts have once and for all dismissed its history as insignificant."

"Moreover, it has a long history, full of wonders, bloodshed, and frustrations, and of desires no less vast than those that filled the skies of Nineveh, Babylon, or Jerusalem."

"Nor did they ask themselves whether Guadeloupe was of any importance in the world, they knew, they knew that rare happenings and unparalleled glories had been seen in the wretched forest they now haunted, and that these deeds had been the exploits of their ancestors."

"Instead of bringing everyone together under one shelter, darkness seemed to have stolen in between the living bodies, making them look just like dim shapes to one another, bereft of their weight of flesh and blood and old alliance."

"And our hero's heart was moved, moved by the living these familiar images as if the two worlds had held out their hands to each other, century after century."

"Being alive and dead at the same time, he belonged to both worlds yet was to both a stranger, as incongruous and out of place on earth as if he had fallen down from a star."

When the Tom-Tom Beats

Enjoy Jacques Roumain's "When the Tom-Tom Beats", translated by African-American literary giant Langston Hughes, courtesy of Poetry Nook. For another translation from May 1943, check out Poetry Foundation's page for a version from L.C. Kaplan. It is worth nothing that the water blends with the audience of the poem in the Hughes translation, but Kaplan's omits that. Hughes, who wrote similar poetry, seems to capture the deeper meaning of Roumain's poetry and its message for readers of African descent, particularly mixed-race readers who reject their African ancestry but cannot escape it. 

Your heart trembles in the shadows, like a face reflected in troubled water

The old mirage rises from the pit of the night

You sense the sweet sorcery of the past:

A river carries you far away from the banks,

Carries you toward the ancestral landscape.

Listen to those voices singing the sadness of love

And in the mountain, hear that tom-tom panting like the breast of a young black girl

Your soul is this image in the whispering water where your fathers bent their dark faces

Its hidden movements blend you with the waves

And the white that made you a mulatto is this bit of foam cast up, like spit, upon the shore

The Tragedy of King Christophe

"There's the situation: Christophe and Pétion , two great fighting cocks, two calojies, as they say in the islands."

Aimé Césaire's The Tragedy of King Christophe,  translated by Ralph Manheim, is a dense play for its 96 pages. Clearly taking from Shakespeare to write a tragedy inspired by the historical Henri Christophe of Haiti, the play also reflects Aimé Césaire's leftist sympathies and Négritude writtings. For instance, Africans appear in the play multiple times and there are Diasporic calls for black pride and unity, the symbolism of Haiti as a way for all 'black girls to never feel ashamed of their skin,' to paraphrase Vastey. The author also toys with history (for example, Christophe knows how to read in this play) but manages to still adhere to the facts on the literary and political achievements of Christophe's state (the humorous play by Juste Chanlatte about rum as the national beverage clearly adheres to developing the Haitian nation, a national poetry or literary identity) while creating a nuanced portrait of the Haitian leader. 

Unlike some of Walcott's Haitian Trilogy, Césaire successfully creates a nuanced vision of Christophe, Vastey, and numerous historical actors in his retelling of Christophe's fall. Moreover, the play begins after the assassination of Dessalines, thereby removing Dessalines and Toussaint Louverture from the play entirely, and solely focusing on Christophe (with only brief scenes for Pétion and his republic in the South, also described as lacking true democracy in a powerful scene with the Senate in Port-au-Prince). Moreover, both Césaire and Walcott clearly use the metaphor of the citadel and the symbolism of the Haitian earth itself when describing the rise and fall of Christophe, with Walcott's Haitian Earth  coming closest to matching the diversity of social classes and interests of the peasants versus elites that Cesaire encapsulates so brilliantly. 

The peasants want to take the earth as a wife as their recompense for driving the whites to the sea during the Haitian Revolution, they want to nurture and love the earth whereas Christophe only sees dust, nothing permanent to erect a strong, proud people, thereby driving his need to complete the citadel as a symbolic and physical defense. This ties in with the author's main assertion that, despite Christophe becoming tyrannical, placing himself above religion, and pushing the laborers too hard, he wanted to build a strong, stone foundation for Haiti, for the black race, to help Haiti become a powerful state like those of the West. Thus, noble in his vision and long-term plans, Christophe ultimately alienates the lower class by refusing to place their worldview and vision for Haiti with that of his own, comparing peasant farming to anarchy. Therein lies the ultimate tragedy, the inability of Christophe to synthesize his vision of Haiti with those of the ex-slaves who made it possible, to combine European tradition with that of the local (despite a few references to Vodou by Christophe himself, it is only associated with the peasantry and Hugonin, who later reveals himself to be Baron Samedi, lwa associated with death).

As a reader, I particularly enjoyed the author's familiarity with Haitian culture and religion, incorporating Baron Samedi into the story as a source of humor and spirituality (with consistent critiques of Christophe through song and proverb). Hugonin, appointed as Minister of Public Morality, certainly speaks to the sense of humor that is pervasive in this tragedy, but also a rejection of Christianity as Christophe has Archbishop Brelle murdered and places himself above the Virgin Mary, thereby placing himself above God. In the same manner, even Hugonin's character changes to conform to Christophe's model and expectations of his court (which, in some hilarious scenes, is clearly satirical of monarchies and the fact that Europe would only send a Master of Ceremonies instead of technicians to help build a new Haiti). 

In addition, Vodou themes are important for the peasantry, who cling to the land as a source of life and decry the harsh working conditions (although, one must mention Christophe's principles, since he has Bazin punished for working the peasants like slaves, showing nuance). Even Madame Christophe seems to align with the peasantry in her vision of a proper monarchy, which provides shade like the mombin tree in the savannah and allows others to grow, not a fig tree that drains the life out of nearby vegetation (this is a central conflict in many African historical kingdoms, such as the Kongo, where scholars like John K. Thornton have explained how royal power worked in that society along a continuum between absolute monarchy and democratic or decentralized authority). For his principles and tough rule, the African page in the play's concluding scene compares Christophe to Shango, the Yoruba orisha associated with thunder (relevant to the section of the play indicating how unrealistic Christophe is, forcing the laborers to continue working on the citadel during a thunderstorm), showing how Christophe was perhaps too much like thunder and lacked the levity of Baron Samedi or Eshu to show the people through the crossroads of national identity. In this regard, the fact that this play functions on so many levels reveals how it surpasses most of Walcott's Haitian Trilogy which is, at times, too harsh, or pessimistic. 

Overall, a short but ideologically dense work exploring history, the symbol of Haiti, African Diasporic ceremonies, and how power and the vision of a hero can isolate one from the masses the hero claims to protect. Christophe veers too far to the side of Shango, and certain 'forms' (again, paraphrasing Vastey) of rule along European models, which, combined with the various political intrigues of his court, the lack of support from Europe, and the central contradiction of his style of leadership with the rural masses he aims to build, provide a root for, Christohe's utter complexity as a full-fleshed out human being shines throughout this work. 

Favorite Quotes

Christophe: "Freedom, yes, but not an easy freedom. Which means that they need a State. Yes, my philosophjer friend, something that will enable this transplanted people to strike roots, to burgeon and flower, to fling the fruits and perfumes of its flowering into the face of the world, something which, to speak plainly, will oblige our people, by force if need be, to be born to itself, to surpass itself."

Christophe: Poor Africa! Poor Haiti, I mean. Anyway, it's the same thing. There: tribes, languages, rivers, castes, the jungle, village against village. Here: blacks, mulattoes, quadroons, witchdoctors and heaven knows what else, clans, castes, shades of color, distrust and competition, cock fights, docgs, fighting over bones, flea fights! (Roaring) Dust! Dust! All dust. No stone. Dust! Shit and dust!

Chanlatte: 

Oh sweet reeds ripening in the yellow plain!

Far off I hear a hundred presses sigh

Crushing the nectar fromt he knotted cane

Transformed to sugar, it glitters to the eye

Or trickling golden from the spigot hole

It bubbles up and overflows the bowl.

Second Peasant: But here's what I've been saying to myself: when we threw the whites into ht sea, it was to have this land for ourselves, not to slave for other people, even if they're as black as we are, but to have the land for ourselves like a wife.

Christophe: My court is a theatre of shadows.

Chanlatte:

Ye haughty foe of our triumphant rights

Abjure your errors and renounce your plans.

What can avail the poison of your helpless

Fury against the rock that bears this isle?

Vainly the winds rile up against King Neptune

One glance from him and all the oceans smile.