Gorr

Fate, it would seem, is not without a sense of irony. One of our ancestral surnames comes from the word for the pig, our least favorite animal. Our source, Morlet's Dictionnaire étymologique des noms de famille includes several variants of the family name, although the spelling of Gaury does not appear. It seems to be a lesson common surname nowadays.

J'ai peur

Beautiful.

Le Cri des oiseaux fous

Laferrière Le Cri des oiseaux fous creatively tells the story of his alter-ego's last night in Port-au-Prince. After learning of the murder of his friend, Gasner Raymond, a journalist who was covering a strike at Ciment d'Haiti, Vieus Os's mother is fortunately able to procure a passport for our narrator to leave the next day. Vieux Os's name was on the list of targets for macoutes to kill, even though he never engaged in politics (preferring to cover culture in his journalism and individualism). The rest of the novel proceeds as the narrator seeks to say his goodbyes, appreciate Port-au-Prince, ponder exile and dictatorship, and, finally, endeavor to tell the love of his life his feelings for her. Like Pays sans chapeau, which tells the story of Vieux Os's return to Haiti after the events of this novel, nothing is what it seems as Vodou spirits appear (or do they?).

For readers interested in the history of Port-au-Prince and the Duvalier regime, particularly its transformation under Baby Doc, this novel is essential reading. Port-au-Prince comes to life in the evening strolls of Vieux Os across the city, from Carrefour to Petionville. The city's several movie theaters, restaurants, cunning street dogs, and social inequality are palpable. Moreover, the reader is forced to consider the impact of dictatorship and exile on a young dreamer, unsure of himself and what his future will be. 

Since its based on the life of the author, one cannot imagine how difficult it must have been to recount these difficult moments of fearing for one's life, or the constant menace of tonton macoutes and spies in a city where poverty breeds desperation. This aspect of Duvalierism is inescapable here, and brings to mind Chauvet. Indeed, Vieux Os goes straight to the belly of the beast where macoutes abound, personally witnessing conversations about torture from infamous killers for the regime.

And despite the obvious toll of political repression and attacks on the freedom of the press represented by the murder of Gasner Raymond, Vieux Os tries to contextualize all around him with relation to the state, the cultural politics of noirism, duvalierism's targeting of fathers and sons (while underestimating the power of women), and what it means to be an individual in such a place. What are one's responsibilities to one's country? How can such a society continue if the rich in Petionville give nothing and, alongside the state, only take? 

The crumbling of the Duvalier regime seems imminent, and not just due to conflicts between the military and the macoutes. The joyous celebration of the students during a staging of Morisseau-Leroy's translation of Antigone hints at a generation threatening cultural change, despite Vieus Os personally choosing Musset (French) and Morisseau-Leroy (Creole). The underlying perspective here of Vieux Os is one cognizant of Haitian cultural particularity, but eager to retain ties with the universal. Price-Mars is respected, but indigeniste or noirist claims to cultural authority are undermined by the shifting nature of the Duvalierist regime and a generation coming to terms with itself. Perhaps the fact that Mercedes, the Dominican prostitute, adores Alexis's L'espace d'un cillement, hints at the larger regional and global implications of belonging in the world. 

La Famille des Pitite-Caille

La Famille des Pitite-Caille is quite similar to its successor, Zoune chez sa ninnaine. Both are lodysans works which draw on oral storytelling, Haitian Creole, and creolized French. Here, however, Justin Lhérisson focuses on the rise and fall of a Haitian family in Port-au-Prince, likely set in the 1870s though the founder of the family lineage died under Boyer. One of the many descendants of Damvala, or Petite-Caille (pitit kay), the favored congo slave of a colonial planter, Eliézer and his wife from Martinique become wealthy and socially important in Port-au-Prince. After a triumphant return from France (where Eliézer and Velleda sent their children for schooling), he becomes a leading Freemason, throws expensive parties, and, like many people in Haiti who talk a lot (according to the narrator, Golimin), he decides to enter politics. 

Boutenègre convinces Eliézer to hire him, and so they proceed to use the family fortune to throw parties, buy food and drink, and entertain the masses so that he can win. This is the best part of this tragicomic story, since it satirically takes apart the pseudo-democratic political system while also lampooning politicians and nouveau riche of the upper class. Boutenègre, for instance, speaks French like a Creole speaker, pronouncing words like the prêtre-savane in Zoune. Meanwhile, Eliézer, who pretends to be a sophisticated intellectual, does not read the books in his large library inside his Turgeau home. He speaks with authority and pretenses of caring for the masses, whose support he buys through Boutenègre and his team.

And if you think Lhérisson was only mocking the nouveau riche putting on airs, or the lower-classes of Port-au-Prince whose support is purchased, there is no doubt that the elites and high society of "good families" are mocked for their superstitions and corruption. Eliézer's daughter, who returns from France with a large inheritance after the death of her father, which was provoked by government repression after an erroneous tip targeted him for stockpiling weapons, marries a man from a "good family" who proceeds to waste her money on his several mistresses while beating her (of course, also claiming to be investing the money in cotton). Moreover, the superstitious high society women and their husbands were, ultimately, the source of wealth for the Petite-Cailles as they sought the services of Velleda, who was a tireuse des cartes. Therefore, these Haitian elites are no better than the superstitious peasants lamented by the narrator in Zoune.

Despite the hilarious comic elements in this tale of a family's rise and fall, it resembles Zoune in that it explores to tragic results the conditions of women in 19th century Port-au-Prince. Velleda, the wife of Eliézer, ends her days as a mistress of a general, despite being a wealthy woman whose husband ruined her. Although she was able to convince her husband to change his ways, his death and the decisions of her children ruin her. Her daughter, pushed to marry an abusive man who eventually kills her, has an even worse fate since she has no say over the finances of her husband. Indeed, she even stays with him after he beats her and throws away her inheritance chasing after other women. These disturbing social customs and gender relations define both stories in a country where the impossible can be possible. Where the upwardly mobile put on airs and speak French rather than express themselves in their mother tongue. In a place where corrupt officials, generals, and bought crowds dominate politics.

Unfortunately, the author left us too soon, and his papers were lost in a fire. Perhaps his next story would have showed us what happened to Zoune, or maybe he would have written a novel about working-class families in the Port-au-Prince of his time. Something, perhaps, with more of his innovative blend of French and Creole that would have addressed religion, music, and the role of language? Perhaps he would have inspired Haitian literature to embrace the Creole language earlier, maybe even promoting literacy efforts in recognition of it's undeniable presence in everyday life. 

Zoune chez sa ninnaine: fan'm gain sept sauts pou li passé

With novelists such as Justin Lhérisson, it becomes easier to see the literary traditions of Haiti over the last century. Utilizing lodyans and incorporating Creole dialogue allowed Lhérisson to explore language, class relations, society, and culture in a playful manner. Zoune chez sa ninnaine has a wonderful sense of humor, which brought to mind more contemporary Haitian and Caribbean writers. Lhérisson, in this novel, addresses a number of social ills plaguing Haiti during the Boyer years, juxtaposing Zoune and her travails with her godmother and Cadet Jacques to the anti-Boyer movement of Hérard Dumesle and the miserable conditions in the countryside, where Zoune's peasant parents lived.

The novel begins with a description of her parents, the miserable conditions Zoune experienced as a sickly and tired child and, eventually, their plans to baptise her several years after her birth due to superstitious fears. This, eventually, leads them to having to find a godmother for their child. They later send Zoune to live with this well-to-do woman, Madame Boyote. Thanks to Boyote, Zoune recovers from her emaciated, sickly condition and develops into a beautiful young woman. Boyote sees to it that she receives first communion, gives her some education (at a time where, according to the narrator, there were maybe 19 or 20 primary schools on the entire island), and employs her in her business. 

However, the growing prosperity of Boyote attracts negative attention from envious rivals and people with nothing to do. Lhérisson satirizes in a hilarious manner the social evils of Haiti as many city residents try to destroy Boyote through rumors of sorcery, magic, lesbianism, and more. The humor continues with the infamous Cadet Jacques, a military man of many mistresses. He will go to extreme lengths in his sexual conquests, including abusing his powers to coerce young women to sleep with him (such as arresting their families). In fact, Cadet Jacques justified his behavior by pointing to President Boyer, a man who also had several mistresses, which the narrator uses as an opportunity to lament the lack of role models among Haitian leaders. Lhérisson probably did believe that with education and moralisation, the peasantry and lower classes could excel, but corrupt leaders like Cadet Jacques ensure ignorance, misery, or suffering prevail.

The rest of the story is well-known. Beautiful Zoune attracts several male admirers, including Cadet Jacques, who takes Boyote as his mistress. Her business grows more prosperous, but Cadet Jacques begins making inappropriate passes at her goddaughter. Eventually, he tries to rape her. Later, the entire city finds out about the affair and Zoune leaves her godmother, pursuing a life on her own. A number of social problems are raised throughout the book, particularly the exclusion of peasants from the "citadins" in Port-au-Prince, class relations, the limited spheres for women, and the misrule of Boyer.

What particularly stands out, however, is Lhérisson's use of humor to convey social commentary. Golimin, the narrative voice, as well as the characters themselves, speak in French, Creole, and, in some cases, creolized French. Frere Philomène's creolized French at Zoune's first communion celebration, for instance, demonstrates the creative ways language can be modified to more closely capture the Haitian reality. The Creole phrases, proverbs, insults, and modifiers inject an oral breath of life to the dialogue (including music) while also illustrating nuances in social relations. The novel abounds in references to sorcery, nicknames, popular beliefs and the religious melange of Catholicism and Vodou, bringing to mind the way subsequent authors like Laferrière are indebted to Lhérisson's generation. This is all quite creative while entertaining Haitian audiences a few years after the Centennial of the same ongoing problems. Sadly, it remains relevant in the 21st century, too.

Le charme des après-midi sans fin

Le charme des après-midi sans fin excels as a sequel of sorts to An Aroma of Coffee. Although I have yet to read the latter in the original French, Le charme reads like a spiritual successor to that endearing story of Vieux Os and Da in Petit-Goave. Here, however, the end of an idyllic childhood is depicted in horrific detail as the residents of Petit-Goave endure the capriciousness of Port-au-Prince, the national government, mass arrests, and a curfew which throws the social world of the town off.

Vieux Os's innocent childhood is shattered by the political repression, social inequality, and gendered expectations of life in a provincial Haitian town. Indeed, there is an overt reference to Jeune Haiti as the cause for the arrest of all prominent men in Petit-Goave, including a notary, Lone, who is helping Da in her battle to retain her house. Duvalier is never directly invoked, but his shadow extends into the city as armed thugs enforce the curfew. Young Vieux Os sees this, although he, like the reader, is not allowed to hear the full details about the mass arrests.

While certainly autobiographical and important as a transition to Vieux Os's adulthood and Port-au-Prince, the novel enthralls the reader into provincial life in a small city. Everyone knows everyone else and retains ties to marchandes, paysans, priests (both Catholic and Vodou), and travelers. Port-au-Prince is resented by locals for appointing local administrators and thinking themselves above the rest of the country. However, the decaying world of provincial Haiti cannot maintain itself, and the youth are on the move to Port-au-Prince. 

Vieux Os's grandfather, for instance, was once a prosperous coffee trader, but the boom ended long ago. Le charme captures all of this quite well through the eyes of a child. We are able to experience his sense of wonder, love, curiosity, and trauma as conditions beyond his control eventually compel his move to Port-au-Prince to live with his mother. As one can expect from this author, there are enough humorous vignettes of the social world of 1960s Petit-Goave to leave the reader wanting more. However, just as in the real world, childhood does not last forever. 

Pays sans chapeau

Dany Laferrière's Pays sans chapeau is a hilarious novel about Vieux Os's return to Port-au-Prince after 20 years of exile. As an excuse to practice one's French, Pays is very rewarding while also entertaining. As a novel of and about Port-au-Prince through the dreamed country and the real country, the reader is taken on a spiritual and material journey through the various quarters of the city. The narrator has a number of amusing experiences on the way as he reconnects with old friends Manu (based on Manno Charlemagne?), Philippe, Lisa, Antoinette, and his mother and aunt. Da, unfortunately, has passed away. 

As one would expect, the author seamlessly fuses real people with fictionalized versions of themselves, drawing on ethnologist J.B. Romain and real places or sites in the city. In addition, the mix of the supernatural with the depressing reality of Port-au-Prince in the 1990s alludes to US imperialism, the end of the Duvalier regime, and the amazing feat of Bombardopolis residents who can survive without eating. Numerous references to vaudou, Haiti as a grand cemetery, local paintings, and the class divide in the city make it clear that while the author has not been to Haiti in 20 years, some things have remained the same.

For this blogger, Laferrière's talent lay in his penchant for the comic while weaving together stories based on real people. Here in Pays sans chapeau we see this skill brilliantly used to bring to life Vieux Os's mother, the city of Port-au-Prince, and the migrant's experience. Who could forget the Jehovah's Witness driver who takes his riders on detours to drop off money for the mothers of his children? The gossip in the taxi? Conversations between Vieux Os and Philippe about Petionville? Or his mother, Marie, and her worst nightmare of falling down the social pyramid to live in Martissant? Anyone who has visited Port-au-Prince or similar cities will know these characters, and the difficult conditions they face. Pays sans chapeau confronts that with an ironic twist of the migrant who is an insider-outsider to his land of birth, thereby putting him in a unique position of being able to confront the shadows of the past in the present.

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) 

Le Front Caché Sur Tes Genoux

Enjoy this lovely jazz interpretation with words composed by Ida Faubert, the Haitian poetess and daughter of President Salomon. Also, Cecile McLorin Salvant is one of the more interesting jazz vocalists on the scene these days.