by Roxane Gay
Praise for Ayiti
“[Haiti’s] better scribes, among them Edwidge Danticat, Franketienne, Madison Smartt Bell, Lyonel Trouillot, and Marie Vieux Chauvet, have produced some of the best literature in the world. Add to their ranks Roxane Gay, a bright and shining star. Ayiti is an exciting new chapter in an old and beautiful story.”
—Kyle Minor, author of In the Devil’s Territory
“These are powerful stories written with verve and there’s this great sense at the collection’s close that nothing will stop the Haitian people, the human spirit, or Roxane Gay.”
—Ethel Rohan, author of The Weight of Him
“A set of brief, tart stories mostly set amid the Haitian-American community and circling around themes of violation, abuse, and heartbreak … This book set the tone that still characterizes much of Gay’s writing: clean, unaffected, allowing the (often furious) emotions to rise naturally out of calm, declarative sentences. That gives her briefest stories a punch even when they come in at two pages or fewer, sketching out the challenges of assimilation in terms of accents, meals, or ‘What You Need to Know About a Haitian Woman.’ … This debut amply contains the righteous energy that drives all her work.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Praise for Difficult Women and Roxane Gay
“There’s a distinct echo of Angela Carter or Helen Oyeyemi at play; dark fables and twisted morality tales sit alongside the contemporary and the realistic.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Gay’s signature dry wit and piercing psychological depth make every story mesmerizingly unusual and simply unforgettable.”
—Harper’s Bazaar
“Writing that seems to cut to the bone.”
—Seattle Times
“Like Joyce Carol Oates’ Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? or Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle, this is fiction pressed through a sieve, leaving only the canniest truths behind … Addictive, moving and risk-taking.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Roxane Gay … charges from the gate … These are the places I’m going to take you, Gay seems to be saying. Are you prepared?”
—Globe and Mail (Canada)
“Roxane Gay is a force.”
—Rumpus
“[Gay’s] goodness cuts to the quick of human experience. Her work returns again and again to issues of power, the body, desire, trauma, survival, truth.”
—Brooklyn Magazine
Also by Roxane Gay
FICTION
An Untamed State
Difficult Women
NONFICTION
Bad Feminist: Essays
Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body
ayiti
ROXANE
GAY
Copyright © 2011, 2018 by Roxane Gay
Cover design by Becca Fox Design
Cover art © Lyn-Hui Ong
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
This book set in 12 pt. Warnock Pro
by Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH
First published by Artistically Declined Press: October 2011
First Grove Atlantic edition: June 2018
ISBN 978-0-8021-2826-3
eISBN 978-0-8021-6573-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data
is available for this title.
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
groveatlantic.com
18 19 20 21 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my mother and father
Contents
Cover
Praise for Ayiti
Praise for Difficult Women and Roxane Gay
Also by Roxane Gay
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Motherfuckers
About My Father’s Accent
Voodoo Child
There Is No “E” in Zombi, Which Means There Can Be No You or We
Sweet on the Tongue
Cheap, Fast, Filling
In the Manner of Water or Light
Lacrimosa
The Harder They Come
All Things Being Relative
Gracias, Nicaragua y Lo Sentimos
The Dirt We Do Not Eat
What You Need to Know About a Haitian Woman
Of Ghosts and Shadows
A Cool, Dry Place
Acknowledgments
Back Cover
Motherfuckers
Gérard spends his days thinking about the many reasons he hates America that include but are not limited to the people, the weather, especially the cold, and having to drive everywhere and having to go to school every day. He is fourteen. He hates lots of things.
On the first day of school, as he and his classmates introduce themselves, Gérard stands, says his name, quickly sits back down, and stares at his desk, which he hates. “You have such an interesting accent,” the teacher coos. “Where are you from?” He looks up. He is irritated. “Haiti,” he says. The teacher smiles widely. “Say something in French.” Gérard complies. “Je te déteste,” he says. The teacher claps excitedly. She doesn’t speak French.
Word spreads through school quickly and soon, Gérard has a nickname. His classmates call him HBO. It is several weeks until he understands what that means.
Gérard lives with his parents in a two-bedroom apartment. He shares his room with his sister and their cousin Edy. They do not have cable television, but Edy, who has been in the States for several months longer than Gérard, lies and tells him that HBO is Home Box Office, a TV channel that shows Bruce Willis movies. Gérard hates that they don’t have cable but loves Bruce Willis. He is proud of his nickname. When the kids at school call him HBO, he replies, “Yippee-ki-yay.”
Gérard’s father does not shower every day because he has yet to become accustomed to indoor plumbing. Instead, he performs his ablutions each morning at the bathroom sink and reserves the luxury of a shower for weekends. Sometimes, Gérard sits on the edge of the bathtub and watches his father because it reminds him of home. He has the routine memorized—his father splashes his armpits with water, then lathers with soap, then rinses, then draws a damp washcloth across his chest, the back of his neck, behind his ears. His father excuses Gérard, then washes between his thighs. He finishes his routine by washing his face and brushing his teeth. Then he goes to work. Back home, he was a journalist. In the States, he slices meat at a deli counter for eight hours a day and pretends not to speak English fluently.
In the second month of school, Gérard finds a bag of cheap colognes in his locker. “For HBO” is written on the front of the bag in large block letters. It is a strange gift, he thinks, and he hates the way the bag smells but he takes it home. Edy rolls his eyes when Gérard shows his cousin his gift, but takes one of the b
ottles of cologne. His girlfriend will enjoy it. “Those motherfuckers,” Edy says. He is far more skilled at cursing in English. Then Edy explains what HBO means. Gérard clenches his fists. He decides that he hates each and every motherfucker he goes to school with. The next morning, he applies cologne so liberally that it makes his classmates’ eyes water.
When they call him HBO, he adds a little something extra to his yippee-ki-yay.
About My Father’s Accent
He knows it’s there. He knows it’s thick, thicker even than my mother’s. He’s been on American soil for nearly thirty years, but his voice sounds like Port-au-Prince, the crowded streets, the blaring horns, the smell of grilled meat and roasting corn, the heat, thick and still.
In his voice, we hear him climbing coconut trees, gripping the trunk with his bare feet and sandy legs, cutting coconuts down with a dull machete. We hear him dancing to konpa, the palm of one hand resting against his belly, his other hand raised high in the air as he rocks his hips from side to side. We hear him telling us about Toussaint L’Ouverture and Henri Christophe and the pride of being first free black. We hear the taste of bitterness when he watches the news from home or calls those left behind.
When we, my brothers and I, mimic him, he smiles indulgently. Before every vowel an “h,” at the end of every plural, no “s.”
“You make fun, but you understand me perfectly, don’t you?” he says. We nod. We ask him to say American Airlines. We gasp for air when he gives in.
For many years, we didn’t realize our parents had accents, that their voices sounded different to unkind American ears. All we heard was home.
Then the world intruded. It always does.
Voodoo Child
When my college roommate learns I am Haitian, she is convinced I practice voodoo, thanks to the Internet in the hands of the feeble-minded. I do nothing to dissuade her fears even though I was raised Catholic and have gained my inadequate understanding of voodoo from the Lisa Bonet movie that made Bill Cosby mad at her as if he had the nerve to be mad at anyone about anything.
In the middle of the night, I chant mysteriously, light candles. By day, I wear red and white, paint my face, dance possessed. I leave a doll on my desk. It looks just like my roommate. The doll is covered with strategically placed pins. I like fucking with her. She gives me the bigger room with the better dresser. She offers to take my tray to the dish room in the dining hall.
We take the bus to Manhattan to shop and dance and drink and hook up with dirty New York boys. I am the devil she knows.
As we emerge from Grand Central, a large, older woman runs up to me, grabs my arm, starts bowing furiously.
My mother always told me: back away slowly from crazy people; they are everywhere. When she first came to the States, she had to live in the worst part of the Bronx, the part of that borough burned beyond recognition. She hasn’t yet recovered.
There, in front of Grand Central, my roommate clung to my arm, her fingers digging deep, drawing blood, as if I were better equipped to handle the situation.
As we backed away, I realized the woman was speaking in Creole. I didn’t know her but I knew her. “Ki sa ou vle?” I asked her. She told me I was a famous mambo. She said it was such a pleasure to see me in America. She grabbed my wrists. She kissed my palms, held them to her cheeks. She wanted, I think, to be blessed. I was still imagining all the dirty New York boys my roommate and I would later find.
There Is No “E” in Zombi, Which Means There Can Be No You or We
[A Primer]
[Things Americans do not know about zombis:]
They are not dead. They are near death. There’s a difference.
They are not imaginary.
They do not eat human flesh.
They cannot eat salt.
They do not walk around with their arms and legs locked stiffly.
They can be saved.
[How you pronounce zombi:]
Zaahhhhnnnnnn-bee. You have to feel it in the roof your mouth, let it vibrate. Say it fast.
The “m” is silent. Sort of.
[How to make a zombi:]
You need a good reason, a very good reason.
You need a puffer fish, and a small sample of blood and hair from your chosen candidate.
Instructions: Kill the puffer fish. Don’t be squeamish. Extract the poison. Just find a way. Allow it to dry. Grind it with the blood and hair to create your coup de poudre. A good chemist can help. Blow the powder into the candidate’s face. Wait.
[A love story]
Micheline Bérnard always loved Lionel Desormeaux. Their parents were friends though that bonhomie had not quite carried on to the children. Micheline and Lionel went to primary and secondary school together, had known each other all their lives—when Lionel looked upon Micheline he was always overcome with the vague feeling he had seen her somewhere before while she was overcome with the precise knowledge that he was the man of her dreams. In truth, everyone loved Lionel Desormeaux. He was tall and brown with high cheekbones and full lips. His body was perfectly muscled and after a long day of swimming in the ocean, he would emerge from the salty water, glistening. Micheline would sit in a cabana, invisible. She would lick her lips and she would stare. She would think, “Look at me, Lionel,” but he never did.
When Lionel walked, there was an air about him. He moved slowly but with deliberate steps and sometimes, as he walked, people swore they could hear the bass of a deep drum. His mother, who loved her only boy more than any other, always told him, “Lionel, you are the son of L’Ouverture.” He believed her. He believed everything his mother ever told him. Lionel always told his friends, “My father freed our people. I am his greatest son.”
In Port-au-Prince, there were too many women. Micheline knew competition for Lionel’s attention was fierce. She was attractive, petite. She wore her thick hair in a sensible bun. On weekends, she would let that hair down and when she walked by, men would shout, “Quelle belle paire de jambes,” what beautiful legs, and Micheline would savor the thrilling taste of their attention. Most Friday nights, Micheline and her friends gathered at Oasis, a popular nightclub on the edge of the Bel Air slum. She drank fruity drinks and smoked French cigarettes and wore skirts revealing just the right amount of leg. Lionel was always surrounded by a mob of adoring women. He let them buy him rum and Cokes and always sat at the center of the room wearing his pressed linen slacks and dark T-shirts that showed off his perfect, chiseled arms. At the end of the night, he would select one woman to take home, bed her thoroughly, and wish her well the following morning. The stone path to his front door was lined with the salted tears and soiled panties of the women Lionel had sexed then scorned.
On her birthday, Micheline decided she would be the woman Lionel took home that night. She wore a bright sundress, strapless. She dabbed perfume everywhere she wanted to feel Lionel’s lips. She wore heels so high her brother had to help her into the nightclub. When Lionel arrived to hold court, Micheline made sure she was closest. She smiled widely and angled her shoulders just so and leaned in so he could see everything he wanted to see of her ample cleavage. At the end of the night, Lionel nodded in her direction. He said, “Tonight, my dear Micheline, you will know the affections of L’Ouverture’s greatest son.”
In Lionel’s bed, Micheline fell deeper in love than she thought possible. Lionel knelt between her thighs, gently massaging her knees. He smiled luminously, casting a bright shaft of light across her body. Micheline reached for Lionel, her hands thrumming as she felt his skin. When he was inside her, she thought her heart might stop it seized so painfully. He whispered in her ear, his breath so hot it blistered her. He said, “Everything on this island is mine. You are mine.” Micheline moaned. She said, “I am your victory.” He said, “Yes, tonight you are.” As he fucked her, Micheline heard the bass of a deep drum.
The following morning, Lionel walked Micheline home. He kissed her chastely on the cheek. As he pulled away, Micheline grabbed his hand in h
ers, pressing a knuckle with her thumb. She said, “I will come to you tonight.” Lionel placed one finger over her lips and shook his head. “My dear, we have already had our night.”
Micheline was unable to rise from her bed for a long while. She could only remember Lionel’s touch, his words, how the inside of her body had molded itself to him. Her parents sent for a doctor, then a priest, and finally a mambo which they were hesitant to do because they were a good, Catholic family but the sight of their youngest daughter lying in bed, perfectly still, not speaking, not eating, was too much to bear. The mambo sat on the edge of the bed and clucked. She held Micheline’s limp wrist. She said, “Love,” and Micheline nodded. The mambo shooed the girl’s parents out of the room and they left, overjoyed that the child had finally moved. The mambo leaned down, got so close. Micheline could feel the old woman’s dry lips against her ear.
When the mambo left, Micheline bathed, dabbed herself everywhere she wanted to feel Lionel’s lips. She went to Oasis and found Lionel at the center of the room holding a pale, young thing in his lap. Micheline pushed the girl out of Lionel’s lap and took her place. She said, “We have had our night but we deserve one more,” and Lionel remembered her exquisite moans and the strength of her thighs and how she looked at him like the conquering hero he knew himself to be.
They made love that night, and Micheline was possessed. She dug her fingernails into his back until he bled. She locked her ankles in the small of Lionel’s back, and sank her teeth into his strong shoulder. There were no sweet words between them. Micheline walked herself home before he woke. She went to the kitchen and filled a mortar and pestle with blood from beneath her fingernails and between her teeth. She added a few strands of Lionel’s hair and a powder the mambo had given her. She ground these things together and put the coup de poudre as it was called into a silk sachet. She ran back to Lionel’s, where he was still sleeping, opened her sachet, paused. She traced the edge of his face, kissed his forehead, then blew her precious powder into his face. Lionel coughed in his sleep, then stilled. Micheline undressed and stretched herself along his body, sliding her arm beneath his. As his body grew cooler, she kissed the back of his neck.