It’s raining.
When it rains,
I have a lot of questions.
Changed inside,
Gentle winds.
The rain doesn’t stop,
There is no sleep.
Excitement in my mind,
It hurts like hell.
I wish he would stop now
Rustling voices.
Lek did not stop crying,
Cry like a baby.
These noises will stop,
Chehra Khan puts flowers.
Smallpox, tulip, rubella,
Like flowers want.
Ilhomova Mohichehra is a student of the 8th grade of the 9th general secondary school of Zarafshan city, Navoi region.
Bell Angel Evergreen Chime (the fast closing dusk)
There was dusk, and it closed in fast. The creative one glanced out a window at a squirrel grey and remembered things. He was determined to think of interesting and positive, life affirming phenomena and people, to frame the world on the side of goodness. There had been a bell on a door, and also a bell in a church top structure,- the bells were soulful and well made, reminded him of times he didn’t live through, but had seen in old films and maybe old books. Small towns. Well made things mechanically, structurally, maybe many hand made things.
He imagined there was an angel sometimes, just over things, between the tops of bookshelves or Christmas trees and the ceilings. Wouldn’t that be a nice place for an angel, guiding us, concerned about, seeing, whispering softly,- benevolent, ghostly but in a good way?- and the evergreens. They were brave, choice or not, to stand out there in all the seasons. He thought people took them for granted. But they were something wonderful in life. The snowy ground sometimes, and then the green, and the clear blue sky. He had just said to someone recently while walking, ‘Today is not the day, not the ideal day. It’s one of those ones you have to get through is all. It’s one of those days for sure. It’s freezing and windy without many redeeming qualities. It’s when the snow was there, and the wind had subsided and one could just enjoy the calm day.
That is the thing. In the forest. By the evergreens. You know. That is it. Much better.’ And then the idea of the chimes. Leave the chimes. They have soul. Silver on black strings. They don’t sound a lot but sometimes. Other people, a gratitude for them. The beloved with the dimples, brown eyes, wisps of hair falling down. The blonde, good hearted and outgoing. The artist, having knowledge and kindness, interested in the paranormal and always giving keen insights into things she was. And the woman whose eyes were all colours, all different colours at once,- a true and long friend that one.
One day in the countryside, or one day in the south by the sea, there will also be chimes. By the rural fields alone but not lonesome, at home themselves in the bright noon sun, a small breeze, like an angel, like an angel out from the ceiling area. Or, maybe better yet, chimes in the south, maybe even made of shells from the sea!- making their nice noise, by a place where there are palm fronds verdant and stucco walls painted the lightest of orange colours. By the crests of the sea waves and the electric lights blue green yellow purple orange blue like Christmas lights themselves, flowing light on thick grasses and some fence, on a cement bench with turquoise tiles in the top like the one or ones from long before. Everyone has forgotten. They even laugh. But they are hasty and haughty and full of ambition and pride and ego.
I remember. I appreciate. The grace of it all. The angels, they know. They don’t laugh. They honour place and person, pastoral atmosphere and seaside sanctity, rural restless wildflowers and ferns feral, and even, maybe especially, the fast confident dusk. The dusk of winter so strange and all.
a tempting red sky
wake up pissing
blood, think nothing
of it
still enough vinegar
in your soul to kill
any mortal man
a tempting red sky
these are the nights
you’ll drink gin
from an old cup
you used as a child
might as well,
that’s where all
the pain comes
from
———————————————————————————-
in dying arms
and here come all the
reasons i wanted to die
as a child
scattered ashes in a field
in the middle of nowhere
black roses in dying arms
someone put on some
mozart
dirty looks all around
i remember when we
tasted each other on
the top of a mountain
in the rain
you brought out my crazy
like no other soul on this
planet
and here we are
in tears
what could have been
just another dirty rumor
if they aren’t talking
about you, you ain’t
doing your job
remember that shit
loose lips
we danced like everyone
was watching and were
jealous
——————————————————————————–
needle still dangling
enchanted beauty
falls into the void
of this world
the neon bleeds
though the thin
walls
needle still dangling
a rush of something
more than a mere
mortal can handle
the crushing tragedy
of depravity
the endless escape
from anything based
in reality
take my loneliness
and stuff it away
where only the false
idols can find it
hold tight
i will be there
broken as always
loving with
whatever i
have left
the demons only
bite if you pay
in cash
——————————————————————————–
natural to me
i think i wanted to grow
up like kerouac and just
die sooner
i never felt like i had
‘on the road’ in me
of course, i had planned
that cross country coming
of age trip but the friend
i was going with left
without me
that became a running
joke in my adult life
take two steps into
the future and brace
for the bottom to
fall out
i look back on those
years and wonder why
the joints were never
laced
how did i never catch
something from the
homeless or the strange
women in the dive bars
this dystopian madness
that i find comforting
chaos is natural to me
that life isn’t for just anyone
it takes a couple of screws
loose at best
——————————————————————————————-
lost empires
slip on some coltrane and
lose yourself on a yellow
brick road of crack babies
and lost empires
we were supposed to be great
our own kings and queens
the rulers of this little domain
we are peasants
modern day slaves
thankless jobs and a world that
won’t let us have any fun
and they wonder why these
four walls are enough for me
how one soul can get lost in
constant states of wreckage
and pain
i can’t help but think i’m
way past my expiration date
a lost carton of milk at the
back of a dying fridge
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in the suburbs, wondering where all the lonely housewives have gone? He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Yellow Mama, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Beatnik Cowboy and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Christmas Tree Caper
A month or so before every Christmas the Old Man would borrow the big furniture truck from Jimmy No Nose. He never took me with before but this time I was told I was coming along. I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into but I was excited to be a part of it. My brother, four years older than me, along with Dominic, my Old Man’s partner in crime, were driving up to Wisconsin from Chicago. There were a few Christmas Tree farms near where our cottage was located. They filled me in on the drive up to Adams County Wisconsin. We were headed there to cut down and steal as many trees as we could safely get away with.
The first night right after it got dark we sneaked into the back of the tree farm through the Woods. We were in an area where the trees weren’t mature enough to cut down. There were some that grew faster than the others and the Old Man tagged them with a red ribbon meaning to take them. My brother and I started cutting those first while Dominic and the Old Man scoped the area where Scotch Pine and Douglas Fir trees were located. Those are what most people preferred and would cut down for their Christmas Tree.
The farm was still open and people were wandering around in search of the perfect tree. If they encountered a customer they’d act as though they worked there. Sometimes they even helped people pick out a tree.
You could hear families arguing over which one was the perfect Christmas Tree.
My brother and I were cutting White Pine trees down as quickly as a team of professional lumberjacks. After six trees credited to my count my arm became sore and I was panting like a worn out dog.
“Hey, get to work!” My brother ordered with a commanding whisper.
“Give me a minute. My arm is sore from sawing.”
” Then use your other arm dumbass.”
I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. And on top of it, I was wet and cold from lying in the snow. I figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to mention that.
The Old Man and Dominic showed up dragging ten trees or so.
” How many you got dare boys?” The Old Man asked.
“I’ve got nine and Santi has six I think “
“Ya six.” I proudly declared.
“Okay, that’s good. We got eleven, that’s twenty tree.” (No that’s not a typo, it’s the way he talked. He couldn’t pronounce words with ‘th’. So with was wit, that was dat, three was tree. Get it?)
“No, it’s twenty six. It’s twenty six trees all together.” I corrected the Old Man.
” Okay Einstein, little smart ass.
That’s enough for now. We’ll get more tomorrow night from this place. Let’s get these back to the truck.” The Old Man ordered.
I knew better than to correct him, it just came out of my mouth without thinking. He hated being corrected or told he was wrong.
A year or so ago, he was reading the Comics to my sister, it was the only part of the newspaper he was interested in. I sat down next to them as he read a comic strip out loud. But he wasn’t reading the actual words printed, he was interpreting the story from what he thought the pictures meant.
” That’s not what it says. You’re not reading what it says, you’re making it up.” I yelled out.
I then realized he couldn’t read. He never learned to read. But he sure knew how to spank your ass when you pissed him off. I got it good that day. Instead of explaining why he couldn’t read he decided to give me a beating for embarrassing him.
The Old Man was a Depression Era kid that never made it past the third grade. He dropped out of school to go to work and help the family since my grandfather left my grandmother. Plus he was a drunk.
The Old Man always preached ,” Get a good education, no one can take that away from you.”
Although he never wanted to know what you learned and you had better make sure to never try to teach him anything.
We’d bunch a few trees together and wrap a rope around them. Then drag them through the Woods over the snow to the truck parked half a mile away.
It wasn’t an easy job pulling them through the snow in the dark. I was the last in line so I wouldn’t slow them down. Dominic saw me struggling and gave me a hand pulling my load the remainder of the way.
After an exhausting twenty minutes of dragging what felt like a dead horse, we reached the truck.
“Okay Judge, you and your brother head back and bring the four or five we left behind and Dom and me will load these into the truck.”
Are you kidding me? I wanted to scream. But I’m sure by my disgusted expression and the act of throwing my gloves to the ground accompanied by my very audible groan, he understood my displeasure.
“You got a problem wit dat? I don’t hear your brother complaining. If you want your cut we make from selling dees ya better pull your weight. Now get your ass in gear and catch up to your brother. Go on, get!”
All I could do was obey his order. My animosity for him grew with every minute we spent in one another’s company. I caught up with my brother which gave him the opportunity to give me grief.
” What the hell is wrong with you? You always give him a reason to get pissed off and then everybody suffers. Then he takes his anger out on anyone around. You know he has a quick temper. Stop giving him a reason to fly off the handle. You’re a dumbass.”
“Okay I’m sorry. It’s just that he…”
“Shut up, I don’t want to hear it. I’m not gonna argue with you, just do what I say. I’ll be eighteen next year and then you can kiss my ass goodbye. So can you help to make it a pleasant next few months until I’m gone? “
It’s always about someone else’s life, never about Santiago’s.
There were four trees that had been left behind that I believe could’ve been taken with the first load. My brother bunched three of them together leaving just one for me.
“Thanks Cary.”
“It’s okay now come on he’s going to want to hit the Tree Farm on Highway thirteen then Robert’s Christmas Tree Farm. These next ones are really easy. The first one closes early and it’s just an old guy with his wife. He hires a couple of kids to help out but they’re gone when he shuts down. Robert’s place is simple and quick. We’ll be done in a couple of hours.”
” Thanks for giving me the heads up. Do we have to drag the trees far?”
“No, where he parks is close to the lot and the truck can’t be seen.”
We get back to the truck and the Old Man and Dominic are sitting in the truck smoking.
“Hurry up. Youz took long enough. I don’t want to hang around here all Goddamn night. Move it.”
Could he be anymore condescending? Always with the criticism, never with the compliment. Where did my mother find this guy and what did she see in him? It had to have been an arranged marriage. There’s no way any woman would marry this guy of her own free will. I’m going to ask her when I get a chance, if I ever make it back home.
What really bothers me about this Christmas Tree Caper, is the hypocrisy it represents. I got caught shoplifting at the Five and Dime and the Old Man gave it to me for stealing. I explained my conundrum to my brother.
” You are such a dumbshit. The reason you got a beating was because you got caught, not because you were stealing. You embarrassed our family. Do you get it now?”
It all suddenly made sense to me. There is an unspoken code which should never be mentioned or acknowledged but strictly followed. Someone could have just told me. Although I imagine it’s something you have to learn on your own.
Just as my brother said we arrived at the other Tree Farm and I was given strict instructions. There was to be no talking, no making noise of any kind or complaining. Him and Dominic both had hamburger meatballs in a plastic bag. There were dogs protecting the tree lot and you didn’t want to draw their attention. He wasn’t sure if they were attack dogs or not but I didn’t want to find out. The meatballs were to act as a distraction if we encountered the dogs.
The Old Man started giving hand signals like an Army Sergeant would give to his soldiers on patrol in a war movie. I didn’t understand what in the hell he was trying to communicate so I just followed my brother. Dominic sawed faster than I’ve ever seen anyone cut trees before. I only had four trees cut when the Old Man slapped me on the back and gave the no more signal with his hands. The two of them must have cut twenty twenty-five trees between them and my brother had eight trees cut. We quickly bunched them together and didn’t leave any to have to come back for. It was a short distance to the truck and we loaded them up in record time. It had to have taken only forty-five minutes and we were on our way.
Just as we were getting in the truck two dogs came running up and one of them bit my brother right in the ass. He let out a holler along with a “you motherfucking son of a bitch” comment. Dominic grabbed a club that was kept in the cab and swung it with precise accuracy, hitting the rabid dog on the head. It definitely knocked the German Shepherd out or killed him. The other Collie type dog hung back and barked. My brother acted as though he was going to challenge him and quickly lunged in his direction, with that he ran away.
Then he walked over to the incapacitated Sheppard and started kicking it hollering a list of choice profanities while rubbing his ass.
“Okay, that’s enough. Come on. How’s your ass feel? Are you bleeding? Come here let me take a look to see how bad he got you. Dominic give me the flashlight.” The Old Man almost sounded concerned. Cary sticks his hand down the back of his pants and pulls it out covered in blood looking at it under the flashlight.
” Better let me take a look at it. Maybe you need to go to the hospital.”
” Forget it! I’m not going to pull my pants down in front of you perverts so you can look at my ass! I’ll be fine. Santiago, take off your Cubs shirt and let me use it to stop the bleeding.”
“You must be high on drugs. I’m not giving you my Cubs shirt for you to bleed all over it. There’s no way.” I protested.
Dominic handed my brother a small piece of cloth that he stuck down his pants.
” There wasn’t really anything I could do.” The Old Man apologized.
” Where were you two with the fucking meatballs? You saving them for breakfast ? A lot of good they did. Let’s get outta here. Come on.”
We climbed into the cab with my brother grimacing and groaning.
The dog was still laying there not making a move as we drove away.
We had about thirty-five or so more trees. That meant we had harvested over fifty-five trees. At fifteen bucks a pop that was over eight hundred dollars. And we weren’t done yet. There is one more Tree Farm we were going to stop at before the night is over. For some reason the Old Man became angry when he talked about this one.
” One more boys and we’ll be done for the night. We need to get fifty trees from this spot. It’ll be easier than the others. This son of a bitch deserves getting ripped off. I’m just getting even for what he tried to get away with.”
He stopped talking without any further explanation.
“Well aren’t you gonna tell us? Don’t stop there. What did he do?” I pleaded
“None of your Goddamn business. If I want you to know I’ll tell ya.”
My brother gave me the lowdown later that night.
Seems this guy, Roberts made a couple passes at my mother, when we were up here for the summer without the Old Man. I guess it didn’t stop there he’d buy her drinks when she went to the tavern. Then he’d pester her asking her to dance over and over until she finally gave in. He even sent her flowers. This farm boy, jack pine savage had no clue who he was dealing with. When the Old Man found out and he was well informed, he slapped my mother around accusing her of being a whore. Then the following weekend along with Giovanni, Dominic and Jimmy No Nose along with the Old Man paid him a visit. (Okay I’ll tell you why Jimmy was given his nickname. Seems a prostitute became upset with his disrespectful demeanor and bit off a good chunk of his nose). They found Mr. Roberts in the B&B Tap in Dellwood and gave him a lesson in Italian street justice.
Someone called the County Sheriff but the Old Man was good friends with Sheriff Buzz Cummins and he had been given a heads up about the event that was going to take place. The cavalry was without their horses so there wouldn’t be any rescue.
Mr. Roberts wouldn’t be harvesting any corn for a while. I guess he spent close to a month in the hospital. And on top of it he’d sold the Old Man a foundered horse he’d bought my sister as a birthday gift.
Next stop was Mr Robert’s Christmas Tree Farm. The take was over sixty trees and we called it a night. An incredible haul over sixty trees.
After three nights’ work we were loaded down with over three hundred Christmas Trees. We had Scotch Pine, Douglas Fir, White Pine, Blue Spruce as well as a couple other types. The Old Man sure knew his pine trees, I’ll give him that. I figured it to be around four thousand five hundred dollars. I was already making a list of what I was going to buy.
On our way out of town we made a stop at the Sheriff’s house which is near our cottage. The Old Man got out two trees from the back and set them on his front porch. We also stopped by the Catholic Church and he did the same thing there.
It was a four hour drive back to Chicago and we weren’t done yet. We still had to deliver the trees to the different Christmas Tree Lots. Luckily Dominic was hungry and wanted to stop and get something to eat at a roadside restaurant. The Old Man did not approve of stopping once he was on the road. It was Express from start to finish. Dominic was driving, without paying any attention to the Old Man’s objections he took an exit that landed us at a Sambos restaurant.
I was excited, it was a rare occasion when we had a chance to dine out. I could even see a small glimmer of excitement in my brother’s expression .
“Okay but let’s not take all Goddamn day in here. We still have deliverys to make. And don’t go ordering a cheeseburger; they charge fifty cents extra for a single piece of cheese. And no jukebox either, you hear me Judge?”
“Yes sir I hear you.”
He walked off to the bathroom which gave us time to look at the menu without the Old Man pressuring us to hurry up and make a decision.
” If you boys want a cheeseburger you order a cheeseburger, I’m buying. Ya know what goes great with cheeseburgers? Thick chocolate milk shakes. What do you say chiccos?”
” That’d be great Mr. Dominic, thanks.” I yelled.
My brother just shook his head like he always did. He wasn’t one for conversation and he didn’t talk much. I never asked him why. Tell ya the truth I really didn’t care.
” You can drop the Mister, Santiago. I know you respect me and you’re old enough to call me Dominic. Okay? “
He turned to my father who had just come back from the bathroom.
” I’m buying Vinnie, so don’t worry about the extra fifty cents they charge for cheese. The guys are also getting milkshakes. You want one too? Ya know it doesn’t hurt to give in a little you tight ass.”
” Don’t tell me how to raise my kids.”
Here we go.
” I’m not telling you how to raise your kids. I’m just saying it’s nice to be generous every once in a while and spoil them. Show your appreciation for them being good boys. And you’re lucky because they never get in trouble, they show you respect and are hard workers.”
” Generous? They have a roof over their heads, three meals every day and clean clothes on their back. That’s more than I had when I was their age.”
” Okay forget it Vinnie, can’t ever talk to you without ya getting all pissed off.”
It was a very quiet meal with no one at the table saying a word. The Old Man only ordered a cup of coffee and gave me ominous stares as I ate my cheeseburger and drank my chocolate shake. When we finished I thanked Dominic again and headed to the bathroom with the Old Man hollering at me to not take all day.
My brother was in the bathroom with his pants down trying to look in the mirror to see his dog bite. But it was in an area where he couldn’t observe his wound.
“Santi tell me how it looks, will ya?”
“Okay, turn around and I’ll take a look.”
I look at the bite concluding that the wound wasn’t serious at all. There wasn’t any redness or teeth marks. In fact it looked as though the dog only nipped him. Now was my chance to get even for all the times he teazed, taunted and physically assaulted me.
” What do you think Santiago? How does it look to you? Is it bad?”
I don’t want to freak you out but it doesn’t look so good. It looks as though it might be infected. Does it feel like it’s swollen at all? Because I’ll tell ya it’s swollen and I can see where his teeth marks are. What if the dog had rabies? You’ll have to get a bunch of shots. Ya know rabies can kill you.”
He pulls up his pants and looks as though he’s on the verge of crying.
” What’s wrong? Does it hurt real bad ? You have a lot of pain?”
” Ya, it hurts real bad. Does it look that terrible Santi, really?
” It’s oozing some yellow stuff. “
” I wondered if that’s what I felt.”
The Old Man pops his head in the door.
“You two girls done putting on your makeup? Come on, you’re holding us up. Move your ass.”
We pull onto the interstate with the Old Man driving now. Dominic starts singing softly ‘ ‘You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you.’
He has an incredible voice. I’m totally impressed with his singing, thinking he should be a star.
“Come on Santiago you know this song. Sing along with me.”
“Dominic, you have a great voice. You should make a record or sing with a group.”
“Thanks for the compliment. I used to sing with a group of guys for quite a while. We were pretty good and I made a couple of records with them.”
“Who were they? Tell me Dominic. Would I know them?”
” They’re some guys I grew up with in Jersey. Have you heard of the Four Seasons?”
“Really ? You were with the Four Seasons? No way you’re screwing with me.”
“No Judge, he’s telling you the troot. He sang with the Four Seasons. He’s not lying.” The Old Man added.
“What happened, why aren’t you with them anymore?”
“It didn’t work out. Too many Egos. Frankie isn’t such a wonderful guy like everyone thinks. Everything had to be done according to the way he wanted it. He was the boss, it was his group. I just got tired of taking orders all the time. Frankie used to call me the Fifth Season.”
“But there’s no fifth season.,”
“Exactly his point. It just wasn’t fun anymore.”
“Well I think you’re great and I bet you are going to make it big. And I’ll be watching you on American Bandstand, telling my friends; I know that guy.”! I tell him while patting him on his shoulder.
Suddenly my brother starts balling, with loud long cries. I was surprised due to the fact I had never seen him cry in my lifetime
“What in the hell is wrong with you? What are you crying for?” My Old Man’s feeble attempt at sympathy and concern.
“Santiago saw my dog bite in the bathroom at the restaurant. I couldn’t see it in the mirror. He said it looked bad and maybe infected. Then he thought the dog could’ve had Rabies and I’d have to get a bunch of shots in my stomach and I could die”
“First of all, if the dog had Rabies do you think the farmer would keep it around the house? No he’d get rid of him. So he didn’t have Rabies. Why’d you start that shit Judge? You knew that dog didn’t have Rabies. What’s wrong with you scaring the shit out of your brother like that?”
” I was just saying. I never said he had Rabies and the bite looked all swollen with red and oozing stuff. So I said it might be infected, that’s all. That’s what I get for trying to help. Thanks a lot.” I said in my defense.
“So you want to go to the hospital? I’ll take you when we get to Chicago, if you want.” The Old Man offered.
“Well, answer me. Don’t just shake your head. You’ve gotta tongue, use it.” The Old Man’s temper begins to rise.
“No.” My brother whispered.
“What did you say? I can’t hear you. Turn down the goddamn radio, will ya.”
I reached over and turned it off. I didn’t want anything distracting me from hearing.
Unmerry
In 1968 I followed my math Ph.D. thesis advisor Karl Stromberg to Kansas State University from the University of Oregon in Eugene to complete my studies. Professor Stromberg decided to visit Eugene over Christmas break. His new wife couldn’t drive and he was legally blind. He asked me to do the driving.
We followed blizzards for 1,740 miles to Oregon. The first day the snow was so deep that I lost the road and drove into a snow bank. We were towed into the nearest town by a road grader, but we could only get one room there. The couple took one bed and I slept with the wife’s two young children, one of whom wet the bed. As bad as that was, I would have preferred to stay where I was to getting back on the road, but we went on through the perilous weather. The other excitement on the trip was losing traction on a street in Baker in Eastern Oregon. We were fortunate that the car slid down a vacant street hitting nothing, rather than running into pedestrians or a building. No harm done, just horror.
We got to Eugene and then I took a bus to Portland where my father picked me up from a pay telephone booth (they were common then). When I checked in with the woman that I had been dating while in Oregon, she was distant and cold. I got the hint. There hadn’t been any passion in the relationship and I wasn’t very disappointed, despite a desire to see her again. My sister who had introduced us suggested she was interested in marriage, which didn’t interest me.
After that there was a low key Christmas with my mid-fifties year old parents. Of that and the trip back, I remember little. There was no drama, pain, or joy.
Epilogue – I got my Ph.D at the end of that school year back in Eugene. I never heard from the girlfriend again. I got married the next year while teaching at Morehouse College in Atlanta and remain married to the same person who among other things is my live in editor. Professor Stromberg’s wife left him and he got a mail order wife I am told. He has died; I don’t know anything about either of those wives – there had been some before those two.
Why the Afro-Caribbean Diaspora Celebrate Carnival
By Jacques Fleury
As a young boy growing up partly on the francophone island of St. Domingue or Haiti as we know it today, few things gave me more pleasure than seeing random festivities making a raucous in my neighborhood. I would later learn that they are colloquially referred to as “raras.” Rara is defined as a festive Haitian musical category, religious ritual, dance, and sometimes a system of political dissent that originated in Haiti.
I remember running to my mother and saying in French : “Maman, il y a un tas de gens qui jouent de la musique et font des bruits joyeux dans les rues ! Et d’autres personnes les rejoignent en chemin ! On dirait qu’ils s’amusent ! Pouvons-nous les rejoindre aussi ? ’’ Which translates in English to: “Mom, there are a bunch of people playing music and making happy noises in the streets! And other people are joining them along the way! Looks like they’re having fun! Can we join them too? “
I never asked “why?” I just felt the joy in the deep part of my youthful soul, replete with then a plethora of auxiliary wonderment. It was the few times that the border between adults and children blended and we all became simply humans just being. It never occurred to me that there was a reason why the historical legacies of these prima facie “happy” islanders were rooted in pain, which they would then deliberately mitigate by suffusing their hearts with joy rather than congregate to commiserate in an amalgamation of anger over egregious hurts from their historical past.
This is the island I remember as a child. Running naked with my cousins in the rain, playing hide & seek during blackouts and flying kites under the perpetual summer sun and of course CARNIVALS: an equally festive but much bigger version of “raras.” A colossal event that encompasses floats of popular bands replete with polemic reciprocal banter all in good fun, lavish costumes and a time when they forget about dictators, and the politics of malicious foreign policies and governmental undermining of bigger more powerful countries that seemingly condemns them to a state of perpetual hardship and political unrest.
It wasn’t until I came to America on a student visa that I learned about America’s relationship with Haiti, which was and still is not so good. As I watched the American news media portray the Haitian people as sorrowful, pitiful peasants who “need” to be “rescued”, an ideology that conceivably corroborates “the white savior complex.” Even after over one hundred years of genetic research from top universities like Harvard have traced the VERY first human civilization back to the deserts of sub-Saharan Africa from which all other civilizations evolved 50,000 years ago! According to generative artificial intelligence, this is defined as: a mentality where a white person supposes they need to rescue or “save” people of color, often by belittling or meddling in their lives, while concurrently denying agency and authority to those they claim to help; fundamentally portraying themselves as the generous force needed to uplift demoted communities, which is often seen as a detrimental typecast and a form of racial despotism.
Key points about the “white savior complex”:
A white person with this complex may view people of color as incapable of solving their own problems and needing white intervention.
Their actions might be more about self-image and gaining praise than genuinely helping the communities they target.
This complex often fails to address the root causes of inequalities, focusing instead on individual acts of charity that may not create lasting change.
Examples of white savior complex behavior:
Why is the “white savior complex” problematic?
It reinforces the notion that people of color are helpless and need white people to save them.
It denies people of color the ability to advocate for themselves and solve their own issues.
It puts the focus on the white person’s actions and motivations, rather than the needs of the marginalized community.
When it comes to Haiti and other predominantly “black” nations, the scenarios above are what I’ve come to know as an adult through the American media and personal interactions with fellow Americans across all racial and cultural backgrounds. What America fails to tell the world is that despite Haiti’s people being enslaved and brutalized for over a hundred years by the French, Haiti managed to single handedly secure its freedom by becoming the FIRST BLACK REPUBLIC in history in 1804 after the pivotal Battle of Vertieres. From the authority of generative AI:
The Battle of Vertières was the final major battle of the Haitian Revolution and the establishment of Haiti as the world’s first independent Black republic:
The battle took place on November 18, 1803, near Cap-Haitien in northern Haiti
The Haitian army led by General Jean-Jacques Dessalines fought against Napoleon’s French expeditionary forces led by General Rochambeau
The Haitian army stormed the French-held Fort Vertières and eventually defeated the French troops
The battle was a critical blow to Napoleon, forcing him to focus on building an empire in Europe. It was also the first time an army of enslaved people led a successful revolution for their freedom.
A monument was constructed on the site of the battle in 1953
And it was money from the then richest island in the Americas that France used to supplement the American Revolution against the British, in the late 1700s, Haitians came to fight off the Brits in Savannah, Georgia for which they are memorialized in a colossal monument erected in 2000 (better late than never, eh?). Not to mention that it was a Haitian American trader by the name of Jean Baptiste Point du Sable who is regarded as the primary permanent non-Native colonizer of what we now know as Chicago, Illinois, and is documented as the city’s founder.
Despite all these accomplishments, Haiti is still being portrayed in the media as pitiful underachievers who need to be “rescued” by the self-proclaimed superior powers that be.
So why does the African diaspora celebrate by throwing lavish “fetes” or “parties” in the form of Carnivals? As an adult, I had to research and educate myself about “my story”, no thanks to my American “His-story” classes of yore. The carnivals represent a joyous middle finger to their oppressors, much like when during the tempestuous epochs of the civil rights movement, black people used to sing negro spirituals as they were being arrested to reclaim their individual power, joy and dignity. The idea of “the carnival” was conceived to celebrate the liberation of the Afro-Caribbean Diaspora from slavery…something I didn’t know when I was child in Haiti.
It is a reclamation of the Afro-Caribbean power as a people, to tell their OWN story. I once read that until the lions possess their own historians, the history of the hunt will always extol the hunter. Hence the carnivals represent the formation of the hunted “lions’ historians” and they are “glorifying” themselves by telling their OWN stories through song, dance, fabulous customs and costumes!
Dedicated to my brother, Dr. Guy Claude Fleury for his inspiration and advocacy for Afro-Caribbean culture.
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.
The Armor Of God
The sculptor of my soul, the shaper of dreams,
The lighthouse guides me through life’s raging streams.
The lifeline of love, a man built to inspire,
His hope fuels my growth, his words light my fire.
A leader of strength, my champion, my guide,
A shoulder of dreams where ambitions reside.
His bald crown, a playground for childhood delight,
His scolding, my spark, my source of bright light.
The hero of heroes, my pride,
A warrior protecting, with love as his guide.
F: A Fighter, shielding through life’s every storm,
A: An Armor of God, steadfast and warm.
T: A Trailblazer, charting the map of success,
H: A Helper, who stands in each moment of stress.
E: An Enthusiast, spreading joy without end,
R: The Realist, who mends where we bend.
Father, The savior.
Like a tree rooted deep, reaching high to the skies,
He holds us together, where our happiness lies.
A protector, a fighter, a beacon of grace,
In his shadow, I grow, in his love, I embrace.