You have a lot to learn.
With that said, you are indeed coming to Haiti. Your flight leaves tomorrow. This is not a request, nor is it a vacation. It is a dose of reality. Your father says that you have already packed your bags for a lengthy stay. Thanks to his tireless efforts (and your parents’ donations) you will not be expelled. Instead, you will spend two months in what the school is calling a Spring Volunteer Immersion Project working under the watchful eye of both myself and your mother on all things PATRON PAL. And your other teachers have been gracious enough to allow you to finish up your coursework online. You will also be working closely with Jason, the intern that I mentioned to you a while back. He is responsible and should be a positive influence on you. I have been quite busy with some behind-the-scenes happenings and trust me when I say that I don’t need any more headaches than I’ve already got. Even if it’s coming from my very imaginative niece. You’ve been warned.
Tati Estelle
P.S. I’ll have roasted labapin waiting for you when you arrive if you promise not to get into any more trouble in the next 48 hours. If you do, I will have ble. The decision is in your hands. You have a lot to think about.
Thursday, January 21
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
My initial reaction after seeing my aunt’s email: okay. Did Tati Estelle not get the memo or does she need my dad to send a copy of one of his emotional intelligence pamphlets? And if she mentions that stupid intern One. More. Time! Responsible and a positive influence? Psh. He’s just trying to get a nice letter of recommendation at the end of his little internship. He’s the last thing I’m worried about. Him, and how my actions have come at an “inopportune” time for her. Not when her twin sister—my mother—is battling Alzheimer’s. ALZHEIMER’S.
I can’t stop reading about it online. You slip away little by little...or in a split second. That might be the scariest part. You don’t know what’s happening until it happens. And there isn’t much out there in terms of treatment. You’re sitting there, filing your nails, waiting for your brain to melt. I hate not being able to do anything.
“You can always do something.” My mom said that to me once when I was seven and complaining about some bully who kept messing with the quietest kid in class. It’s stayed with me my whole life. It’s part of why I want to be a journalist, to at the very least share information with the world so that more people can choose to act. But dreams can’t fix this. I can’t imagine how powerless Mom feels and this has cracked my heart in two.
But that was my initial reaction. Anger and frustration. How predictable of me.
Then I realized that my aunt is going to lose the person who knows her the best in the world. I might hide behind my hilarious jokes snark when I can, but everyone’s got their shields. Hers just happens to be putting on airs and going on like nothing’s wrong. If she wanted to chastise me about my project, she could join the club. Besides, she was right: the internet isn’t exactly teeming with information on Marie-Louise Coidavid and Marie-Madeleine Lachenais. And don’t even try searching only their first names. It’s Marie. That’s like the Haitian equivalent of Maria in Miami. They’re everywhere.
And even though me freaking out on my classmates seems even more justified now...I’ll take the get-out-of-jail-free card that is this volunteer experience.
My dad’s face was contorted into a terrifying grin as we sat across the panel of nuns who decided my fate. He was doing his best to remain calm as they handed down their judgment. When they finally said that I had to make up for my behavior by volunteering, my dad’s smile had only tightened as he said, “I have just the place for her to do this.”
Peter Logan’s dad gave in and stopped pressing for more punishment when he learned I would be away from his son for a couple of months. And that I was a huge reason why he wouldn’t have to repeat calc. (Again.) Not to mention, Peter’s life was saved because only I thought to give him his EpiPen shot. Let’s ignore the fact it was my fault his life was in danger to begin with. I suspect Dad told Sister Pollack privately about Mom’s diagnosis and she didn’t have the guts to kick out the girl who was already losing her mother. But she’s not lost yet. I may be doing community service for PATRON PAL, but I’ll also get to spend time with my mom, who still isn’t ready to come back to the States. That isn’t a penalty. It’s a gift. I gave Tatiana a heads-up that I wouldn’t be able to chat as much because my dad was giving me something called a “text messaging allowance” that was only for emergencies and part of my punishment.
The next afternoon when we arrived at the airport, my dad was silent as he helped me unload my luggage from the back of the car. My feelings about the trip hadn’t changed overnight and that was clearly etched on my face. My dad sighed deeply and pulled me in for a hug. He was always the first to cave. But when he did, I was soon to follow.
“I love you, Alaine,” he said as he held me tight.
“I love you too,” I grumbled, the remaining anger I had slowly deflating as my shoulders dropped. “I don’t mean to be a disappointment.”
“You could never be a disappointment, although your actions are sometimes disappointing,” my dad said with a small smile as he tilted my head up to look at him. “But you really need to learn to use your powers for good and not chaos.”
“I’ll try,” I said. I gave him one last tight squeeze before I gathered my things. “Check my closet.”
“Huh?”
“Your bread maker’s in my closet.”
I shrugged.
“Goodbye, Alaine!” he shouted as I headed into the airport. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
My dad’s words were still swirling in my head as the plane eased to a stop on the runway. I was in Haiti. Ayiti. The Motherland. Would you believe me if I said that I instantly felt a connection to the people? I could feel the blood of my ancestors coursing powerfully through my veins. Intense pride swelled within my chest as I realized that I had returned to the country of my forefathersmothers.
I kid. I scurried off the plane, weaving in between a youth group full of white teens wearing HOPE FOR HAITI shirts, desperate to find someone I recognized. I wondered briefly why it was always HOPE we wanted for Haiti and not other alliterative choices, like HIPPOS or HALLOWEEN. I couldn’t help but be paranoid as I remembered the warnings my aunt had given me during our quick call that morning as I waited to board my flight.
Don’t wear big jewelry.
Hide your phone.
And your camera.
Only ask for help from someone in uniform.
Actually, don’t.
Actually, if you have to, make sure they have a badge.
By the end of our conversation, I was almost too scared to look the flight attendant in the eye. My thoughts wandered to the first time I was ever in an airport alone. I was eleven years old. As the child of divorced parents, it was my duty to make the yearly pilgrimages that kids with parents in different parts of the country made during alternating vacations and holidays. I had insisted that my parents let me travel alone this time.
“I can do it!” I had whined, convinced that showing my maturity by chasing my dad around the house would get him to concede. “Besides, our next-door neighbor Ashley does it. And she’s only nine and a half!”
I like to think that my eleven-year-old persuasion skills were above par, but as a form of insurance, I did what any smart child of a broken home would do. I complained to my mom.
Mom has always been an...interesting parent. Her entire life was work. She’d seemed surprised when I gave her a call, interrupting her go-getter, unattached, twenty-first-century-woman bubble. It fascinated me even then that she could be so single-minded.
“What? Alaine who?”
“Alaine...your daughter.”
“Oh! Yes! How can I
help you, Alaine?”
“I wanted to remind you that I’ll be visiting you this summer and—”
“Okay! Thanks for calling—”
“And! I wanted to fly to you...by myself.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever done this before?”
“No.”
“So why now?”
“Because I can do it.”
“Hmm. Well. I don’t see why not, then.”
“Great! I’ll just need you to tell Daddy and I’ll be good to go!”
“Does he not want you to come visit me?”
“He does. But not alone. He just thinks that I’m a little girl and little girls shouldn’t be traveling alone.”
Hook. Lie. And sinker.
The easiest way to get my mother on my side was to summarize any argument as an attack against her feminist ideals. And because my dad thought of himself as a progressive man, (and more important, he loved to prove my mother wrong) he agreed to let me travel to Washington, DC, alone.
Two months later, I was on a plane from MIA to DCA. The ride was a smooth one and I made it through security without a problem. I walked confidently to the baggage claim section where my mom said she’d be waiting for me. As I settled into the plastic seats where I would meet her, after checking in with my dad via text, I felt like I was a mini–Celeste Beauparlant, looking at all the interesting faces of potential new stories headed to retrieve their luggage.
“That suitcase might be laced with anthrax. The resurgent perils of domestic traveling and the congressional gridlock preventing us from doing anything about it.”
“Should babies crying midflight subject their parents to fines? A North Carolina lawmaker sure thinks so.”
“Compression socks may be doing more harm than good. And we’re not just talking about your outfit. Details coming up on Sunday Politicos’s ‘General Buzz.’”
Two hundred headlines and three hours later, I was still waiting for my mom. My dad’s phone calls were now increasing in frequency from one every half hour to one every five minutes.
Was I waiting in the wrong place? Had something happened to her along the way? The longer I waited, the more the friendly faces of the potential Sunday Politicos guests morphed into potential perps from Law & Order: SVU.
Finally, after what seemed like 525,600 minutes, I got a phone call.
“Alaine! There’s breaking news and I’ve been held up. I have a flight to catch, but I’m sending my driver, James Richmond, to stay with you until your father gets there. James will have a sign with your name, my cell phone number on the back of it, and he’ll be wearing a GNN shirt. Do you have any questions?”
“What—what’s going on?”
“There’s been a major earthquake in Port-au-Prince. I have to go to Haiti.”
She was gone before I could ask a follow-up. I walked to where rows of television screens were blasting images and sounds of rubble and sirens. “We have no hope,” cried one woman. Tucked in my oblivious world of excitement over getting to see my mother, I had missed the news.
Not long after, a very round man in shades (“Call me Jimmy”), carrying a cardboard sign with my name (Alayne B.), arrived to hang out with me. He held snacks in a grease-soaked wrinkled paper bag. My mom didn’t have time to stop at baggage claim to say goodbye. Her flight was taking off. My father had already called to say he was on his way. Meanwhile, Jimmy and I played cards and ate sour straws and salt-and-vinegar chips that stung our mouths until Dad rushed over to where we sat and gave me a hug.
“Hey! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just disappointed. Are you?”
“She’ll make it up to you, Aly. Haiti needs her today...to let everyone know what’s going on over there.”
Dad used my emergency pair of keys to enter Mom’s apartment and we stayed there for the weekend, visiting the Newseum and all the Smithsonians. He was a great guide, but my heart wasn’t in it. I could tell my dad was distracted with the news of the earthquake as well.
When I became less self-centered a few days later, I squeezed his hand and mustered up my gravest face.
“Tell me how you’re really feeling.”
He hesitated for a second, then said his best friend growing up had died. Dad blinked back tears.
“I hadn’t seen him in years... You always think you have time to do these things.”
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
Seven years later, here I was in the Hugo Chávez International Airport in Cap-Haïtien (“Au Cap” if you’re nasty), following the other passengers of my flight as we exited the aircraft. I clambered down the steps, whipping off my round sunglasses, a gasp escaping my lips at the sight of never-ending green mountains rolling into the distance. That and the dense fog made me look over my shoulder for dinosaurs, certain I had been transported into Jurassic Park. But soon I could hear the banging of tanbou and was quickly brought back to the present. Five men stood side by side as they beat their drums, while an older man with milky-white eyes sang a song about the beauty of Haiti as he strummed a tiny guitar. They all wore matching, bedraggled shirts and looked hopeful that someone would leave a little something in their hat. I mentally kicked myself for not having cash.
I hummed along to the music as we moved into single file and waited to be called by the agent. The people around me were from all walks of life, some looking bored as they waded through the mundane bureaucracy of returning home, while a group of people wearing the same mission trip shirts buzzed excitedly about the village they were headed to. A man a few places behind me tapped his foot impatiently. He wore a black-and-gold coordinated outfit: expensive-looking black sneakers, shining gold belt buckle, black sunglasses with metallic gold lining, and a large cross hanging from a chain on his neck. The oversize jewelry must’ve been freshly polished, because it gleamed in the light, whispering, “Come snatch me,” with every twinkle. He must not have an aunt who cares about him, I thought as the customs agent finally called me to approach his stand.
“Name and business,” he said with a thick Haitian accent.
“Alaine Beauparlant and to visit family,” I replied in Creole.
“And where will you be staying, Alaine?” He spoke in English again, lingering on my name like he was trying to memorize it. I hesitated but gave him my aunt’s address. There would be no escaping him now.
The agent frowned and switched to Creole. “Carrefour 54? Are you the niece of Estelle Dubois?”
“Y-y-yes?”
He sat up straighter in his chair. “Bienvenue! Right through these doors you will find your bags on carousel number two.” He waved forward a man in a black shirt, the telltale insignia of an airport worker sewed onto the shoulders of his button-up. “Please show Mademoiselle Beauparlant to her luggage. Her family will be waiting outside to greet her.”
Sometimes I forgot just how important my aunt was to the Haitian community. It was easy to be disconnected from all that when most of our conversations were congenial updates via email or phone. I nodded in thanks to the customs agent and followed the worker to the carousel. The airport was painted in shades of blue and large photos of grain, mangoes, and random landscapes from around the island hung on the walls. Colorful daisies accented each picture, rounding out the Caribbean decor. The busy airport terminal teemed with life as travelers on the day’s final afternoon flight claimed their luggage and drivers sought passengers for their taxis. As I moved to take my own bags, the airport worker reached out and grabbed them before I could.
“Merci,” I said with a tight smile.
“Pa gen pwoblem,” he responded in Creole. While the worker grappled with my three suitcases (he refused to let me hold even one), I shook my head at the memory of Dad insisting I pack one last bag full of my mom’s favorite snacks.
ACTUAL
SHOPPING LIST OF ITEMS DAD MADE ME BRING TO DAZZLE FOODIE MOM
Blueberry rice cakes
Cinnamon-swirl gluten-free bread
Gluten-enriched chocolate raisin-stuffed muffins
The organic strawberry preserves that weren’t on sale last week
Grass-fed veal
Plain Greek yogurt
Almond milk
Vanilla almond milk
Almond butter
Chocolate muesli
Wine
Cherry madeleines
Two baguettes from that French bakery in Wynwood that’s closed Thursday to Sunday
Wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano
Dozen free-range quail eggs
(removed at the last minute because I convinced him it wouldn’t travel well)
Dried kale chips
Quinoa
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
As we headed outside to meet my mom and aunt, I suddenly felt uncharacteristically shy. The palms of my hands were clammy as I gripped my purse, still unsure of how I would greet my mother.
I’d done my homework and looked up symptoms and tips on how to come to grips with The News, but none of that was enough prep to make me confident that I wouldn’t mess up this reunion. She was such a proud woman. I knew my mom wouldn’t want me to treat her any differently. But we were hardly close even before the diagnosis. What would she be like now?
Dear Haiti, Love Alaine Page 8