Regrèt Nèt

Joel Lorquet's 1981 graphic novel, Regrèt Nèt, is an interesting read on a tragic subject: boat people. Written at a time when the boat people crisis was more frequent and demonization of Haitians was on the rise, it tells the tale of an unfortunate man whose miraculous survival ends in humiliation and defeat. While Lorquet's art style is a little too simplistic for my taste, he manages to convey in words and illustration the shame, fear, suffering, and all-too-human pain of misery that compels one to risk one's life in search of opportunity. The only other writer who has managed to capture the life of Haitian boat people like this is Edwidge Danticat in Krik Krak. Like Danticat's later short story, Lorquet's graphic novel conveys the full scope of the eponymous character's motivations for leaving Haiti as well as the harrowing journey doomed to end in tragedy.

I have long thought of slave ships when reading disheartening stories of boat people drowning at sea. The fate of Regrèt Nèt's ship brings this home. Indeed, the ship is destroyed a storm and crashing into reefs, which leads to many on board committing suicide. Although their trip to Miami was only to last 2 days, they're at sea for over a week without enough supplies. The crammed conditions below the deck, with an insufferable heat, are full of hungry people who paid 500 gourdes to risk their lives on this voyage. Tempers are wearing thin, and a fight over a bowl of mayi moulen leads to one man drowning. The dehumanizing conditions of their voyage have turned the passengers against each other. I can see the parallels with our enslaved ancestors who arrived in this hemisphere in similar conditions: crammed  together like sardines, suffering inhumane treatment, subjected to all forms of violence. 

While Regrèt Nèt miraculously survives by grasping a part of the destroyed boat until a ship en route to Puerto Rico rescues him, his fate and backstory are illustrative of the boatpeople dilemma in several ways. First, upon arrival in Puerto Rico, he is forced to take a variety of jobs which he would never have done in Haiti, such as domestic work and cleaning cars. After 8 months of grueling labor that he considered beneath him in Haiti (where he worked as a teacher in a rural school), he is arrested, humiliated, and deported by plane to Haiti, without his 8 months of saving. All of his labor and near-death experiences achieved nothing for him. Thus, he chooses to change his name to Regrèt Nèt, as his decision to try his luck in the land of his dreams achieved nothing but humiliation and shame. Indeed, he sacrificed his life as a schoolteacher, his land, and made promises to his wife and children that will go unfulfilled. 

The overall message of the comic is to urge those considering the risky venture of illegal migration by sea to reconsider. Yet it is very clear how and why the miserable living conditions in Haiti contribute to the pattern and cause many, including the educated Regrèt Nèt, to sacrifice his post as a teacher to find a solution in Mayami. But the multiple layers of exploitation and, for most, death via suicide or shipwreck, illustrate just how persistent the crisis was throughout the 1980s. Unfortunately, just how horrendous conditions were for those detained in centers is not mentioned in the graphic novel, but one can see hints of it in the callous treatment some officers have for Regrèt Nèt in Puerto Rico. Unsurprisingly, the graphic novel avoids any overt reference to the Duvalier dictatorship in fomenting the humanitarian disaster, but a corrupt local officer is bribed before the ship departs from Haiti. Thus, there is Haitian state complicity in the sordid affair.

Lorquet's graphic novel is also interesting to compare with Fanfan's adaptation of Masters of the Dew in Haitian Creole. While Lorquet continues to use French for the narration of his comic, both Fanfan and Lorquet use Creole for the dialogue and appear to have a vision of comics as a medium for the masses. Fanfan was likely the superior artist, since his characters and style are more vivid and memorable, including background scenes or scenery. It would also be interesting to discover to what extent both knew of each other and saw a future for comics in 1980s Haiti, particularly in the media which became increasingly critical of Jean-Claude Duvalier  and successive governments. Were comics to play a didactic role using the vernacular to reach the widest possible audience? What was the relationship between the medium and movements such as ti-legliz?

Atipa Comic Book

Atipa, the first novel in a Creole language, has recently been adapted into a bilingual comic. I would rather read the original novel first, but this is an interesting development that is suggestive of the importance of Atipa in French Guiana's Creole literature and heritage. This is so despite the fact that the novel was ignored for several decades after its initial publication in 1885. From what I have read of the work, most of the novel consists of the eponymous character walking through the streets of Cayenne, engaging his friends and acquaintances in long conversations about a plethora of topics germane to life in the late 19th century in the colony. For anyone interested in the structure of Guianese Creole during this time or the social and cultural world in which Atipa lived would find something valuable in it.

Aya de Yopougon

Reading comics yesterday evening reminded me of some of the joy I found in reading the Aya series during the spring. Although I had first encountered the series several years ago, I foolishly dismissed reading it until several conversations with comic book aficionados led me to consider it. And I am glad I did so. Marguerite Abouet and Clement Oubrerie's collaboration produced an excellent comic series in a setting usually ignored by most Western graphic novels or comic books. The series and the film based on it tell stories of normal, everyday people who happen to live in Abidjan, Ivory Coast. 

Although much of the Western media conception of places like Ivory Coast would lead one to think there is nothing there but misery and suffering, stories like Aya demonstrate the humanity and complexity of lives in Global South places often overlooked. Through the central character of Aya and her family, friends, and acquaintances, the series also manages to confront social issues (sexism, racism, immigration, homophobia, single mothers, marital infidelity) while delivering entwined stories imbued with the local color, sentiment, and vibrancy of 1970s Abidjan. 

The artistic style likewise succeeds. The lively use of color, line, and detail brings the dusty-streets of Yop City and its denizens to life. The film, unfortunately, fails to capture this magic, but brings with it the sounds of 1970s Ivory Coast to great effect. Oubrerie's artistic style, however, manages to avoid the zany, over the top cartoonish feel of The Rabbi's Cat. His stylized approach to drawing the human form, capturing a variety of details, hairstyles, and non-cliched backgrounds is simultaneously realistic and abstract. There's an almost hazy, uneven color palette and design that almost captures a 1970s feel, perhaps akin to a harmattan season in Ivory Coast. 

The late 1970s were perceived to be an era of prosperity for Ivory Coast. Unlike other countries in West Africa, the nation's economic growth, political stability, active musical scenes, and beginnings of consumer advertising (represented by TV ads in the film adaptation) suggest a highly sophisticated, cosmopolitan Abidjan, connected to Paris, the US, and international developments in popular culture. Indeed, the homosexual hairdresser looks like Michael Jackson, while Aya and her friends exhibit a cultural chic and style that's hard not to love. Their slang, expressions, and desire for youthful entertainment (dancing, dating, socializing with their peers) are universal and particular. 

Yet, Yop City is no beaming city on the hill. Social inequality exists, with Moussa's father being a great example of a self-made bourgeois who thinks little of Yop City's working-class and poor. The disconnect between the seemingly "modern" capital and village life is similarly stark, as those left behind in the village seem to fester in poverty or superstition while their urban migrant kin struggle to find work. Some, like Aya's father, work for a company and achieve status, others toil as mechanics, barbers, market vendors, domestics, or, in one case, a delinquent pretending to be a successful man in France who lives off his mother. Aya's friend, who becomes a single mother who cannot rely on her child's father for support, is forced to grow up faster by working as a fried food vendor in the local market. 

In addition, the characters must confront sexual harassment (Aya and her biology professor), homophobia (the hairdresser who confronts it both in Ivory Coast and France), bigotry (the hairdresser's travails in France to find lodging, love, acceptance), unfaithful spouses (Aya's father), and "traditional" values in a rapidly changing social context. No longer moored in the "village," and living in the topsy-turvy era of superficial economic progress, Aya and friends experience all the contradictions of modern life in the Global South. Perhaps that is part of the success of the series, its universal features. Indeed, while reading it, I could not help but think of Haiti, perhaps a Port-au-Prince of the 1970s captured so well by Dany Laferrière. There a similar dynamic of young people struggling to make their mark in the world while uncertain political and economic conditions threaten to unravel every decision. Aya achieves this for young women in Abidjan while ravishing the reader with the complications of quotidian existence in a place not too different from one's own background. 

Unfortunately, the only major flaw to Aya is the lack of a proper resolution for the series. The film drops several storylines and, unsurprisingly, feels rushed. The comic, however, also feels like it ends prematurely, without a proper send-off for the characters. What happens with Aya's half-siblings? How about Moussa and his father after the latter is finally tracked down? There is a conclusion, albeit fleeting. It's almost as if these engaging characters are only willing to share the stories of their lives with you for an afternoon, then disappear without a trace. I know Abouet continued the series through Aya's younger sister, but I was hoping for a greater climax and emotionally satisfying ending. There are several possibilities for a sequel, too, such as the Ivorian migrant experience in Paris. Or what becomes of Aya in adulthood, presumably finished with her university education and a professional? Will she still see her best friends, despite their different outcomes and ambitions? What about the status of young women in Abidjan of today? I suppose the only thing left to do is to try Commissaire Kouamé for Abouet's other comic series set in Ivory Coast.