When dinner is ready,
Gogo gives Manman the chair,
and we sit on the floor.
Flag Day is coming,
Papa says.
Let’s all go to the city.
Louis! You know there is no time
for such things, Manman says.
Soon the baby will be here.
We need to work and save
as much as we can.
Papa shakes his head.
One day, Marie Rose.
One day to celebrate.
Non! We’ll celebrate
when the baby comes.
All Manman wants to do is work.
Work, work, work.
She never wants to celebrate anything.
What about me? I say.
May I go to the city with Papa?
I promise to get extra wood
and extra water.
I’ll get up extra early
to sweep the floors
and empty the chamber pots.
Papa’s laugh is loud
and deep,
like rolling coconuts.
Manman just squints
and goes outside.
Please, Papa! I beg.
One day to celebrate?
Enough, Serafina!
Papa scolds,
suddenly serious.
He follows Manman outside.
He’ll change her mind.
Whenever Manman chides me
for hiding rice to feed Banza,
or spilling coffee on my white skirt,
Papa always intervenes.
She’s still a child, he says.
She’s eleven years old,
Manman argues.
But Papa has a way
of explaining things
so Manman understands.
When Papa talks,
the anger in Manman’s eyes
softens
like stingers soaked in honey.
The flag is not just a piece of cloth,
Gogo says as we scrub
and rinse the supper dishes.
The flag remembers
what the world forgets.
We were slaves, but now we’re free.
Every year,
Gogo tells me the same thing.
The colors on the flag mean something.
Blue for hope.
Lespwa fè viv. Hope makes us live.
Red for blood.
Not just slave blood, but your blood,
the blood of Granpè.
Every year, I ask,
How did Granpè die?
Someday, when you’re older,
Gogo always says.
Someday, I’ll tell you.
Gogo! I say.
Every day, twice a day,
I carry water from the ravine.
I sweep the floors
and gather charcoal.
Even Manman tells me
how strong I am.
When the baby comes,
I’ll be a big sister.
You can tell me now, Gogo.
I’m old enough to know.
The gooey clouds that cover
Gogo’s eyes flicker.
She dips the last dish
into the washbasin.
Her brown, wrinkled fingers
linger in the water.
Your granpè was a good man.
He took care of his family.
He tried to make a better life for us.
What happened?
I whisper.
Why is it such a secret?
He who gives the blow forgets,
Gogo says.
But he who carries the scar
remembers.
What happened, Gogo?
I ask again.
Gogo lifts the plate
from the water
and sits back on her heels.
We had a little garden
with vegetables and herbs,
and even some chickens.
Gogo smiles.
We were happy
building our life together.
Your manman was just
a little girl,
younger than you are now.
We minded our own business
and saved our money.
Granpè taught himself to read.
He wanted your manman
to go to school.
Granpè could read?
Wi! Your granpè could read.
He was teaching us to read too.
Education is the road to freedom,
Granpè said.
You know how to read?
Manman knows how to read?
Gogo shakes her head.
Non. We never had the chance.
She closes her eyes but I still
see them move
I was finishing the supper dishes
just like today.
Your manman was sitting beside me
making cakes in the mud
and singing.
The sun was shining softly.
First we learn the letters,
Granpè said.
Then we learn the words.
He opened his book.
I set aside the last dish
and lifted your manman
onto my lap.
She was still singing
when we heard the shot—
and the piercing
squawk of a chicken.
Gogo opens her eyes.
The Tonton Macoutes suddenly appeared
in our front yard.
I can still see them waving their long,
heavy machetes.
I can still see their straw hats
and dark glasses,
their blue shirts and belts made of guns
and bullets.
I can still hear them demanding
that we leave our land.
Take the chickens, your granpè said,
but this land belongs to my family.
I’ve read our history. I know my rights.
Every day your power fades.
The Tonton Macoutes grabbed him.
Your manman screamed
as we watched them
take Granpè away,
still clutching his book.
Gogo’s eyes brim with tears.
I will never forget the sound
of my little girl’s scream,
or the look on Granpè’s face,
telling us to flee.
Gogo’s voice flutters softly.
We left that same night.
We never saw Granpè again.
Granpè was taken away
by the Tonton Macoutes?
Nadia told Julie Marie and me
terrible stories
about the Tonton Macoutes.
They roamed the countryside
like evil bogeymen, Nadia said,
her eyes bigger
than a tarantula’s belly.
The president and his son
gave the Tonton Macoutes power
to destroy anyone
who didn’t agree with them.
The Tonton Macoutes
said they were keeping order,
but really they took people away
and killed them.
When I got back
from the ravine that day,
I asked Manman about
the Tonton Macoutes.
She turned her head.
They are shadows now, she said,
her voice low and distant.
Nadia should not even speak of them.
Neither should you.
I didn’t understand
why she sounded so sad.
I take Gogo’s hand in mine.
Maybe Granpè came back.
Maybe he’s looking for you still.
Gogo shakes her head.
The Tonton Macoutes never gave back.
They only took away.
She stands up and I know
there are no more questions.
Be patient with your manman, she says.
Her heart is full of fear.
All night, I think about
Manman screaming
when the Tonton Macoutes
led her papa away.
Even when Manman is angry,
she never screams.
Did the Tonton Macoutes
take away Manman’s voice
when they took away her papa?
Questions tumble
and tangle in my mind:
Why didn’t Granpè give
the Tonton Macoutes
what they wanted?
If he had, would he still be here?
What good is being brave
if being brave gets you killed?
Which is better,
to tell the truth and die,
or to give the bad people
what they want and live?
I think about Granpè
wanting to educate himself,
wanting to educate his family.
If he were still here,
he would teach me to read.
He would tell Manman
that I should go to school!
Education is the road to freedom.
Doesn’t Manman remember that?
I think of the silent promise
I made to myself
when I listened to Manman’s heart
with my new stethoscope.
I make the same promise
to Granpè.
One day, I’ll go to school
and learn to read
so I can become a doctor.
I won’t forget you, Granpè.
I promise to find a way
to follow your dream.
I promise to make you proud.
The sun is still buried
in darkness Monday
morning when I wake up.
I hear Papa
get ready for work.
Babay, Marie Rose,
mwen renmen ou,
he whispers.
Babay. I love you too,
she whispers back.
Their gentle voices are a lullaby
that soothes me back to sleep.
When I wake again,
Gogo’s wrinkled fingers
peel a black banana.
Each of us takes half.
Manman nibbles yesterday’s
beans and rice.
Then, when the sun
is just beginning to yawn,
we all get ready for work.
Most days, Manman and Gogo
gather the wild mint and thyme
that grow along the hillside.
On Wednesdays and Fridays,
they travel to Port-au-Prince.
They sit on a corner
and sell their bundles.
My days are always the same.
Collect the water. Sweep the floor.
Empty the chamber pots.
Gather wood. Pile charcoal.
Collect more water.
But somehow,
today feels different.
Today,
new thoughts fill my mind.
New feelings press against my heart.
The morning walk
to the ravine
is quiet.
Only babies
and young children
sit on the road.
They suck their fingers,
and watch their mothers
hang wet clothes on frayed
pieces of rope.
Julie Marie’s brother Michel
leans his brown,
swollen belly
against his mother’s
stick-like legs.
Jacques and Daniel Louis
have already left to work
in the sugarcane fields.
Julie Marie is off
gathering branches
to make charcoal.
But lucky Nadia
sits in the bright yellow
mission house,
learning how scribbles make letters
and letters make words,
like the words we speak.
When you read,
you discover,
she says.
When you write,
you remember.
I think about Granpè.
I think about the promise
I made to him
and to myself.
I know I must talk to Papa.
A quiet whimpering
distracts me from my thoughts.
Banza is curled at the ravine,
licking his paw.
I never see him
this early in the day.
Banza! I call.
He looks up
and limps toward me.
I put down my bucket
and pat his thin, bony back.
Did you get into a fight?
He crouches to lick his paw again,
and I kneel beside him.
Let me take a look at that.
His scraggy tail thumps softly
when I speak,
but he yelps when I touch
his swollen paw.
I let go,
put my hand under his chin,
and look into his large brown eyes.
Were you walking where
you shouldn’t have been?
You need to be more careful.
Still talking, I take his paw
into my hand again.
In one swift movement,
I yank out a large, pointy thorn.
Banza yowls and jumps up.
Before he runs away,
he rewards me with
a soft look of gratitude
and a sloppy kiss.
Watch where you walk!
I call after him,
but he’s already disappeared.
As the dark, cloudy water
flows into my bucket,
I wonder where Banza goes
when he disappears.
Sometimes we don’t see him
for weeks.
I wonder what it’s like
to always be hungry
and wander about every day
looking for food.
Sometimes I’m hungry.
Sometimes my belly
is so empty it grumbles,
and a plate of rice
or a black banana
is just not enough.
On those days,
Papa sings louder,
and Manman’s eyes are softer.
Gogo takes my hand
and we dance away
the rumbles.
I wonder what hunger is like
without a family
to fill the emptiness.
I think about Baby Pierre.
He never had a chance
to grow fat with our love.
When I return home,
I put down
the bucket of water
I collected,
and brush the dirt
from the stone cross
on Baby Pierre’s grave.
In my mind,
I can still see his eyes,
darker than coffee beans.
I can still feel his body, so thin
I could count his bones.
I can still hear his heartbeat,
gentle as a faraway drum.
Gogo says spirits
are with us always.
Can you hear me, Pierre?
I whisper.
Even though
we only knew each other
a few weeks,
I miss you!
I won’t ever forget you, Pierre.
I hope you’re happy.
I hope you’re not hungry.
I straighten the stones.
One day, I’m going to become
a doctor,
so babies like you
won’t die anymore.
If you can,
please give me the courage
to talk to Papa
about going to school.
Babay, little brother,
I sing softly.
I will always love you.
Manman and Gogo get home
before all my chores are done.
Already they’ve sold
everything they gathered.
Today was a good day,
Manman says.
Gogo’s single white tooth
glistens in the sunlight.
It’s hard to believe
that it’s already mid-May,
she says, shaking her head.
Flag Day isn’t until Monday,
but people are already celebrating!
An idea flutters into my brain
as if Granpè himself,
or maybe Baby Pierre,
is whispering in my ear.
Flag Day would be
the perfect time
to talk to Papa
about school.
I look at Manman.
She sees the question
in my face,
slowly tilts her head
and nods.
Wi, you may go.
But only if all your chores
are done!
Mèsi! Thank you!
Thank you! Thank you!
I knew Papa would change
Manman’s mind.
I promise I’ll get all my chores done
before Papa is ready to leave!
She laughs.
Well then, you’d better start now!
When I see Papa coming
down the road,
I run to meet him.
He scoops me into his arms.
Manman said I could go!
Papa laughs.
She did? Well, I guess
that means you can!
I hug him tightly.
Mèsi, Papa!
He hugs me back.
Thank your manman,
not me.
He puts me down
and together we dance
all the way home.
The next few mornings
creep slower than a snake in daylight.
The next few nights
drag longer than a monkey’s tail.
Every minute
of every day,
I think about
the fun I’ll have
in Port-au-Prince
on Flag Day.
Every minute
of every day,
I practice
what I’ll say to Papa
about school.
Papa will smile
and listen to me
like he always does.
He’ll nod and tell me
he’s proud of me.
Then he’ll say,
Let me think it over.
When he hears
how determined I am,
how could he say no?