How’s everything? I’m calling to say “happy birthday.” Actually, it’s the time of year that marks your transitions in and out of terrestrial life (March 1, 1948, and February 28, 2012, respectively—both leap years), and on March 1, 2013, we called you up from under the water (wete nan dlo) to begin your life as a distinguished ancestor. I’m sorry to write that this year I couldn’t visit your family mausoleum in the Port-au-Prince cemetery and pour libations. Security is weak in the area , and we’ll have to content ourselves for now with rites around your govi. The clay jar, which I think of as my spirit telephone to you, lives securely in our Brooklyn flat, just beside me as I write. So let’s have a chat.
Continue reading “Blue Djouba Alaso! or, Frisner’s Piano”
If only I could turn the clock back to that moment seven years ago, do it all over again, and see a different outcome… But it was out of my hands. My laptop battery died as I worked in the early hours that February morning, and our Port-au-Prince neighborhood was in a blackout. The prime minister had resigned, and the capital grumbled because the president held a lavish Carnival in the South while placing a ban on street celebrations here. I closed the laptop and headed up the street to find Frisner, not knowing that the ancestors in Ginen had found him first and were calling him home. Yes, it was out of my hands.
Continue reading “One Year + One Day”
N ap fè yon souvni…Menm si m ta mouri, o, m ap kanpe…kasèt la toujou la…mizik ap toujou la…l ap travay pou demen.
We’re making a memory…Even if I die, oh, I’m rising up…the cassette lives on…the music lives on…it’s working for the future.
(Story adapted from a blog entry posted to makandal.org, 26 August 2015)
New Year’s Eve 1987. We weren’t the kind of people who stressed over holiday gifts. Frisner had come up out of a struggling community—he literally slept on a dirt floor as a child. I had developed an aversion to the annual shopping mania, and, as a graduate student, my means were limited anyway. We celebrated only joudlan (New Year’s Day, also Haiti’s Independence Day). We did it the traditional Haitian way, with a ben chans (herbal luck bath) on New Year’s Eve and a nice, steaming kettle of soup joumou (squash soup) in the morning. So as we approached the finish line for 1987—counting five years almost to the day with each other—it surprised me, and touched me to the bottom of my soul, when Frisner presented me with a holiday gift, the very best he had to offer: his music.
Continue reading “Frisner’s Souvenir”