To Haiti, with Love

I love Haitian people. That probably sounds like a racist generality along the lines of "I love black people," or "Some of my best friends are...fill in your blank." Let me clarify. I am Haitian. Second generation. One Hundred percent. My parents have inhabited America for forty-five years but they are Haitian to their core. Not one ounce of them reads American. Their accents are strong, their French and Creole are in tact, and their perspective is other. They. Are. Haitian. And I love Haitian people. But it isn't just my immediate family that I love. When I hear a stranger on the street release the song of a Haitian voice whether it be in accented English or French I introduce myself and tell them I am Haitian, too. I adopt them as an Auntie or Uncle, cousin, friend. We speak in French. Theirs is beautiful. Mine not so much. I try to excuse my American accent and compromised speech by explaining that I understand French better than I speak it because English was already in my household when I learned the language due to my older sister attending school. I forge ahead in the conversation because I love them and the sounds coming from their mouths. Haitian-French doesn't sound like Parisian-French. Parisian-French is light, clipped and whispers like a secret. Haitian-French is a loud, rich, lilting, musical, expressive echo of place and time that transports and connects me to anything good about my childhood. If invited, I would gladly follow my new Haitian relative home in hopes of meeting more Haitians. Maybe I would stay for a home cooked meal of chicken, red beans and rice, with plantains, pate and soup. I love Haitians.

I am an actress. Throughout my career, I have attempted to master the Haitian accent. I'd like to say I have played many Haitian roles or as an artist it was simply an accent I wanted for my toolbox. In actuality, I wanted to learn the accent in order to perfect the imitation of my Mother's voice for when I told stories about her. It's a great touch to throw in the accent whenever I say, "Then, my Mother said..." She's a real hit at parties. I recorded my parents in a series of interviews on various topics. On one tape, my Mother describes the Haitian accent as passionate, and rhythmic. Nothing is said with a soft touch. The simple is complex and everything; even "it" has meaning. I like that. The attack of the language makes one stand up and pay attention. I have never met a native Haitian without presence. My parents are two of the most commanding presences I've ever witnessed.

In addition to my emotional attachment to Haitian people, I happen to think they are one of the most physically beautiful people in the world. My grandmother's face was the essence of Haitian features. Her jaw line was square, cheekbones high, nose: broad. She was not tall. Her body carried nine children so her breasts were ample and her figure full but not fat. Her skin was Crayola-Crayon-Brown, unblemished and wrinkle free. Gray hair pulled back in a bun couldn't age her. Almond shaped eyes projected a fierce self-pride and the key to an inner knowledge that left me drawn to her. My Father's Mother, Christiane Andre Richard was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

Haitian pride and spirit is easily caught in the most casual of photographs. When posing in pictures, my parents, aunts and uncles don't smile. Instead, their chins jut out with a slight lift. Their shoulders are back and they look directly into the camera emanating pride. That is a happy pose in their minds. When I was a kid I often posed the same way. There is a picture of our family at my sister Lissa's eighth grade graduation. We all take that stance. Despite our ages, (I am twelve, Lissa is thirteen and Gina is seventeen) we look like sixty year old women holding the secret to life. My Father is tall with the same color brown skin as his Mother and he looks like the Haitian Sidney Poiter in a tailored blue suit. My Mother is simply gorgeous in a peach suit fashioned to a T with stunning accesories and styled hair. We are stunning. We are Haitians. Occasionally in pictures, my two and half year old daughter strikes the pose. My husband, step-kids, me, even our dog will be smiling ear to ear and she stares down the lens with shoulders thrown back like she is daring it to try and make her less proud. "It's the Haitian in her," my husband will say. It's in our blood.

I was part of a Haitian prayer circle that consisted of my parents, sister Gina, and three Haitians who came to our house after my sister Lissa died at age twenty two. This was eighteen years ago, now. The woman leading the prayer directed us into a circle to hold hands. This was not typical fare for my sister and me. Despite our sadness we had to avoid looking at each other in order not to laugh. The woman launched into a repetitive chant in French. She sang at the top of her lungs and released all the pain she felt and we felt but had yet to express. In an almost trance like state she pounded through the prayer, raised her head up and back, threw it down, rocked and swayed. I was horrified. I was desperate to laugh as a way to keep myself from being swept into her wave. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life.

Now I can't guarantee that her style of grieving was based solely on the fact that she was Haitian but it was certainly representative of the power of Haitian people. She unleashed it all, refusing to let the pain infect her or pin her down. Consequently, I was nailed to the ground by it. That woman could have stopped a train with her prayer. That is the Haitian spirit. As you listen to the news, don't just focus on the sorrow. Seek out the melody of a Haitian's voice. Look at their face and eyes. Love their beauty. Whether mourning, fighting, dying, laughing, dancing, celebrating, living, their spirits can stop this quake. See them. Love them.
Then, help them.













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Tania Come Lately

I haven't written lately because I'm too busy being a Mommy. I haven't written lately because I don't have anything to say. I haven't written lately because my workouts have been going very well. I haven't written lately because my body has been aching and it hurts to sit down. I haven't written lately because I am happily married. I haven't written lately because Audra is really cute. I haven't written lately because I have yet to write the Great American Novel. I haven't written lately because Michelle Obama is only 45. I haven't written lately because I like reality television and it's easier to channel surf than think. I haven't written lately because I have a sun deficiency. I haven't written lately because I had to do my taxes. I haven't written lately becaues I'm scared. I haven't written lately because I'm a scaredy cat. I haven't written lately because I'm scared. I haven't written lately because I'm a scaredy cat. I haven't written lately because I forgot my password. I haven't written latley because I'm on Facebook. I haven't written lately because The Bachelor just ended and American Idol has begun. I haven't written lately because Audra wakes up early. I haven't written lately because I've taught myself to cook. I haven't written lately because I'm learning some new monologues. I haven't written lately because I finished reading a book. I haven't written lately because I finished my taxes. I haven't written lately because i've had some auditions. I haven't written lately because I have some constipation. I haven't written lately because I eat a before bedtime snack. I haven't written lately because I need to transfer a balance on my credit card. I haven't written lately because sometimes I feel fat. I haven't written lately because I don't know how to advertise my blog. I haven't written lately because--Oh, I have written lately. Well, that was easy as that.

Future So Bright

I don't think I can watch the inauguration. I imagine I'll get too overwhelmed. The effect will be similar to the consequence of looking directly at the sun. I will have to look away lest I burn my eyes. It is simply too much to absorb. An abundance of bright must be as harmful as an abundance of dark, right? I will have to record the inauguration and fast forward through parts or I'll watch it in bits and pieces via media reports and youtube and facebook postings. Out of sequence it won't pack the same punch and then at least I'll be able to stay in control of myself, manage my emotions and maintain my dignity. I want to watch it with everyone else. I do. I want to be a part of this collective experience and take the first new step into this new world. It will be something, right? Of course the only thing worse than my not being able to handle my emotions if my great expectations are met would be my not being able to handle my emotions if my great expectations are not met. I admit I may be putting a bit too much on this particular day and it's meaning and the symbolism but there is a reason. I have a confession to make. I think Barack Obama's historic acceptance speech in Grant Park was kind of a downer. First of all he looked exhausted (understandably), depressed (remember, his grandmother just died) and profoundly world weary. (Duh.) In his speech he reminded the masses over and over again that things wouldn't happen overnight and the country is currently in the crapper. He continually put the responsibility of change on us citizens and he even prophesied that the needs of the country would likely not be met in one term. He was utterly and achingly truthful and real. His feet were firmly planted on the ground which kept me from drifting up to clouds despite the fact that so many others listening seemed to be headed there. A few days after the election I began to float upward on the endless possibilities his presidency could offer. As I wrote in a previous post ("Oh, the Audacity"--posted 11/10)"...from now until January 20th and for some time after I'll track Michelle's fashion trends, collect Obama collectibles, anxiously await the name of their dog and the school the girls will attend, and anticipate Barack's appearances, speeches and actions like a good old fashioned stargazer. I am going to revel in the new "Camelot" and "for the first time in my adult life" I will let myself experience the "audacity of hope"." But January 20th is fast approaching and I grow more cautious with each passing day. I want to be obliviously happy and hopeful and unrealistic and ignorant on the day but I'm afraid Obama's earnest realism won't allow it. I want to hear a speech for the ages that carries me through the good and bad times ahead. I know Obama is capable but I'm afraid his pesky propensity for the truth will get in the way. This country loves to build people up then knock them down. How long will it be until sentiments of "Obama the Great" are replaced with sentiments of "Obama the Terrible"? The first one hundred days will be more scrutinized than any other presidency in history I'm sure and it will be like a roller coaster ride with more twists and turns than the newest ride at Great America. Ah well. I have twenty more days to live in denial or start mentally preparing for the future which as we all know will rush toward us relentlessly whether we want it to or not. There is one guarantee, though. January 20th will certainly be something to remember. The moment will burn bright despite the result. Maybe I'll wear shades.

Audra Running

Audra is running. She is my sixteen month old daughter. On a snowy day my husband is home from work and after finishing errands we have stopped at a coffee shop I've driven by hundreds of times but never been to. We sip coffee in the corner of the cafe and Audra runs from our table to the end of the counter where we ordered. I'm not clear on whether this is a "kid friendly" place or not. There are no highchairs. It's an old school cafe with a chalkboard that informs what they have to offer, cheap coffee and characters like a bearded man who is coloring with crayons and a barista and her friend (apparently a former employee who just broke up with her boyfriend Skylar)who are talking so loud they force everyone to be a part of their conversation. I call Audra's name and she runs back to us with a smile then hugs my crossed legs. I hug her back and she runs away again. This time she gets past the counter and adds a table to her distance from us. My husband calls her name and she runs back to hug my knees and adds his knees to her affection. So far noone has complained and she has earned a few smiles from other patrons on her journey. The third time she travels past the counter, the table and almost into another part of the shop where we would lose sight of her. I get up and retrieve her. When she is back she hugs our knees once more. This time as I watch her leave us I realize we are metaphor. This is the parent-child relationship. With each hug she gains a security that enables her to travel further. My husband and I let her go but reign her back just in time. How many ways will we manifest this in the eighteen years that we raise her? How many times will we do it right and do it wrong? Someday we will have to let her travel out of our sight, won't we? I won't be able to pick her up and bring her back to us when she gets to the part of the cafe we cannot see. Hopefully we'll have given enough to sustain her by then and hopefully she'll occasionally run back.

Audra Spinning

Audra is spinning. She is my sixteen month old daughter. My husband, stepkids Thomas and Nora and I are watching her in our family room. We have just eaten pancakes. It is Saturday morning and Audra is spinning. There is music playing. The tune has a driving beat that is thrilling to her because she carries a grin that suggests there is no place she'd rather be. Audra is also falling. After to two three spins she topples over and lands on her bottom. As soon as she can she is back on her feet and the spinning begins, again. An addition to the spin and fall routine occurs when Audra spins, falls, stands and then attempts to walk a few steps. She teeters to one side with her arms outstretched. She tries another step and her body repeats the action on the opposite side. She falls, stands up and spins again. She is delighted. My husband and I look at eachother with a marvel that non verbally expresses, "Oh my God, we made her. Oh my God, we made her and Oh my God, can you believe we made her?" Every time her butt hits the ground Bill smiles, I laugh and Thomas and Nora giggle as if they had no idea the punchline was coming. Yes, Audra is spinning and her entire being is set to accomplish that task. When she falls she is not disappointed. Falling is part of the act. It holds the same value as the standing up and turning north, south, east and west. On it, she places no judgement. Thomas and Nora's protective instincts cause them to sit on the floor and create a barricade with their arms. The intention is to prevent her from hitting the ground but soon they realize she has no desire to be kept from falling. Their arms become a ring showcasing her movements and in a beautiful moemnt of grace they don't force their will upon her. Audra is still spinning and smiling and now she has added squealing to her repetoire. I've gone from laughing to holding my breath and fighting back tears. Usually one sees art-like beauty when they visit a gallery. The day is planned and they've paid their way. I had no plan to witness aching beauty on a Saturday in my living room. She is poetry, metaphor. She is an example in motion of what what we would hope to be. Determined. Joyous. Inspirational. Free.

Oh, The Audacity!

I'm falling in love. It's not an affair. I love my husband. That's been established. But, still and well, I am falling in love. It's with two people, well, actually four. I'm in love with the Obamas. Barack, Michelle, Malia, Sasha and add to that whoever their soon to be dog will be. I don't even like my own dog that much (just kidding Falstaff) but I will love this one. And since they are choosing a hypoallergenic dog for Malia my love will have no side effects. I want to join the Obamas wherever they go, climb in a suitcase and move into the White House with 'em. Doesn't it feel like we're all going to get to move in with them on January 21st? I have a strong feeling I'm going to meet them someday. Granted it may not be at the Inauguration or at any of the Balls like I've envisioned but I'm convinced that I will shake Obama's hand and hang out with Michelle and discuss Pinto dresses and the pros and cons of straightening ones hair. Perhaps Malia and Sasha will regard me as an Auntie and maybe my daughter will play with them on the White House lawn.

During the election I felt disconnected from the Obamas. Once Hilary was out, Obama had my vote but I couldn't put my finger on him. I wasn't completely sold. On my best day I couldn't rival Michelle's accomplishments. Her superwoman credentials just made me feel bad. But something has happened and now their unattainable qualities have given way to something for me to aspire to when I grow up even though Michelle is only five years older than me. It's nice to have someone to look up to when you're an adult. The older you get the less excited about other people you become. Yeah, yeah, yeah, they have a lot to prove and they may let us all down more than we can fathom by the end of his term but from now until January 20th and for some time after I'll track Michelle's fashion trends, collect Obama collectibles, anxiously await the name of their dog and the school the girls will attend, and anticipate Barack's appearances, speeches and actions like a good old fashioned stargazer. I am going to revel in the new "Camelot" and "for the first time in my adult life" I will let myself experience the "audacity of hope".

The Beauty of the Bride

I love the show "Say Yes to the Dress" on TLC (Fridays at 9p). It's amazing what reality television can dramatize. Who knew it was possible to make a half hour program about the vendors at a bridal boutique and soon-to-be-brides choosing a durn dress? Who cares about such things? I do, for one. I love wedding dresses and weddings and pictures of brides on their wedding day. When the day has gone well and the bride's hopes for her wedding have come to be, there is an elusive joy in her eyes and a smile that is like no other. She has no idea what the future holds and as far as she is concerned, on that magical day, she expects nothing less than perfection for her life. Does that happen? Rarely. Could anyone convince her otherwise? No. The pictures bear witness to a combination of joy, hope and the wonderful unknown. The pictures capture emotions that cannot be replicated because even as soon as the evening of her wedding the unknown doesn't exist anymore. From the church, to the reception hall, to the hotel, from moment to moment she acquires something new about her husband that sends a message loud and clear that the wedding itself is not going to be the marriage and forever is a very long time. I have looked at my wedding pictures and there is that elusive look in my eyes and a smile that is unrecognizeable because I had never been so happy and because I had no idea what was in store. But this truth isn't a bad thing. I wouldn't trade what I know now for what I didn't know then. When I look at my bride-self in my beautiful champagne colored dress I marvel at her but I don't envy her. I embrace what I have learned about my marriage, my husband, myself and marriage has made me a better person and best of all, a Mom. I imagine if my husband and I had another ceremony on Nov 12th, our third anniversary, the smile that would emerge would be just as worthy of my awe. Because I have lived. My husband and I have treated the word marriage like a verb and we have tried our best. Now my smile would suggest pride, anticipation for more of our shared life come what may, and knowledge as well as life's great constant, the unknown.