Yours,
Estelle
Tuesday, February 9
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
Last night, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get myself to fall asleep. I would wake up in fits and starts, my mind drifting to the letters that my aunt had given me and the ones I’d found online. Even Fernand commented on my constant yawning as he drove me and Tati Estelle to Tony’s peanut farm in Novion, where we would film a segment for our PATRON PAL YouTube page.
“Ou gen yon ti chouchou, Alaine?” he asked.
“Ti chouchou?” I said incredulously. “Nope, no love interest here! What makes you say that?” I looked at Tati Estelle, who suddenly seemed very engrossed in her phone.
Fernand chuckled, “That’s the only reason why someone your age should be yawning so much first thing in the morning! Late-night phone calls, writing love letters, young love.”
I rolled my eyes. I wish the case of my sleepless night was nearly as scandalous and interesting, but instead I had stayed up to think about the curse and what it meant for my mother. I had hardly thought about the curse while I was in Miami, so much so that it hadn’t even come up in conversation with Tatiana until a few weeks ago. This pervasive way of viewing madichon was all so new to me. Growing up with my dad, I hadn’t been exposed to the Family Curse in the way that everyone on my mother’s side talked about so freely (among themselves, anyway). Even my aunt, who seemed to believe in its existence, hadn’t pressed the matter and talked about it with me, because my mom was adamant against even bringing it up. And I knew that superstition wasn’t limited to just my family from all the times that Tatiana had to cancel plans with me simply because her mother had had “a dream.” This was always synonymous with: if you leave this house, something terrible is sure to happen. You’ve been warned. Tatiana and I would always grumble and groan, but she would never push back. I could tell a part of her believed.
My family was no different, no matter how highly regarded they were. Politicians, socialites, doctors, lawyers, executives, masked caped crusaders. It was no secret that people envied them because of the status they held, but no one was above the fear of madichon. We were all capable of letting ourselves believe in superstition.
It wasn’t just once that I had heard someone blame even minor misfortune on this supposed family curse. It was a way of life for the tatis and tontons and kouzen as they moved through life, a cop-out that allowed them to leave responsibility for their actions in the hands of someone or something else. Maybe it was too unpleasant to explain away more painful tragedy as meaningless chance.
But even though listening to my family drone on and on about this imagined madichon was pretty unbelievable, the main thing that I couldn’t shake was the idea of my mother and aunt fighting, especially after knowing what they’d gone through. I had never seen the two of them argue in any substantial way—ever. They were so in tune with one another that sometimes it felt like speaking to my aunt was enough to inform my mom through some twin-induced osmosis. I depended on it during those moments my mom couldn’t answer her phone or email. But reading that she and Tati Estelle had spent weeks without speaking to one another let me know that their relationship wasn’t always sunny.
And funnily enough, I could do what they couldn’t all those years ago and understand both sides of the argument. My aunt must’ve felt like she was losing my mom first to Roseline and then to the land of baseball and apple pie. My mother’s leaving so soon after their father’s death didn’t help any. And I could only imagine how Tati Estelle felt knowing that her big sister wouldn’t be there to help her cope with the memory of Bois Caïman. Any doubt that I had about how real this curse was always wavered when I thought about that moment.
My mom had wanted to get away from the very beginning. And I couldn’t even begin to think about what Gregoire had done to Roseline. That sealed the deal for her and she had no choice but to leave. What he did was horrible, a violation that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I hated to think that a part of him was alive in me, my mom, and my aunt. It made me sick to my stomach. And the idea that Roseline was my grandmother’s curse to bear was insanity. What a luxury it must be to cast the blame of another’s transgressions on an unseen force that you could neither prove nor deny.
Meanwhile, as I headed to work, I was fighting back yawns, because I had eventually ditched the idea of getting any sleep and had stayed up all night rereading the letters that Tati Estelle had given me and researching online archives for any information on Henri Christophe’s widow, Marie-Louise. If she was the origin of all of my family’s misfortune, then it was only right that I find out as much as I could about her. Though everything in my mind told me that there was no logical reason to believe in this curse, there was something about Marie-Madeleine’s tone in her letter that promised she wasn’t someone to mess with. And that she would do whatever it took to make my great-great-great-great-great...grandmother pay for not holding up her end of the bargain. Whether that meant that she would—or heck, could—cast a curse that would persist for generations was the million-dollar question. And somehow Roseline could shed some light on that.
I was still thinking about what all of this could mean when we finally arrived at Tony Juste’s peanut farm. Alternating rows of brown soil and short blades of grass extended for miles, the outskirts of the crop surrounded by overgrown shrubs and large-leafed banana plants, mountains reaching toward the sky in the distance. Jason, Thierry, and Tony were already in place when Tati Estelle and I walked up to where the camera equipment was set up.
“You’re late,” Thierry said gruffly as he pointed to a spot near where Tony stood in front of the camera for Tati Estelle to join so that they could begin filming.
“Never,” Tati Estelle replied with a smile. “I told you an hour earlier because you’re the one who's always late. Let’s get started, shall we?”
Thierry huffed as he got my aunt mic’d up. Jason and I gave each other a little smile but said nothing, standing to the side so as not to become the focus of Thierry’s wrath.
“The mission of PATRON PAL is not only to bring aid to the children of Haiti, but also to provide opportunities for the next generation to become self-sustaining. We strive to educate our Patrons on responsible ways to help.”
My aunt smiled brightly into the camera as she spoke, Tony standing just outside of the frame, a large grin plastered on his face as he waited for his airtime. I’d pitched a video series idea at our latest meeting to highlight different ways that Patrons could be more informed about Haiti and had been happily surprised when my aunt decided to do it.
“We are at a peanut farm in Novion, a town in northern Haiti,” she said. “We are going to show you what happens when we don’t hold our government accountable for its actions.”
“Okay, that was a good take,” Thierry said as he stopped filming. “Let’s head over to the rows of peanuts so that we can get the next shot.”
“Your aunt is a great speaker,” Jason said as we went to where Thierry had instructed.
“It comes with the Dubois territory,” I said with a grin. “The very expensive, tutor-filled Dubois territory.”
Jason laughed. “There’s some natural talent in there too. Do you think that you’d like to have your own show one day like your mom? Or maybe go into public service like Estelle?”
It was my turn to laugh. “I could never be a politician. They don’t say what they mean, and there’s never any mistake as to what I’m thinking. I want to go to Columbia and become a kick-ass journalist like my mom. They’re big pumps to fill, but I think I’m up to the task a solid sixty-five percent of the time. I want to have made enough of an impact on the world that people get a phone alert when I die.”
“That...is a strange but compelling goal to aspire to,” he said. “The phone alert. Not the mom.”
I shrugged. “What about you? Have yo
u got any political inclinations?”
“Not right now. I’m a computer engineering major.”
“You mean every Haitian mom’s dream?”
“Precisely,” he said.
I tried to rein in my grin. “What’s a freshman engineering major doing here in Haiti during the middle of the school year? That’s got to be some kind of breach of protocol.”
“When I got the chance to do a semester internship at PATRON PAL, I didn’t think twice. Coding for a start-up company that not only has cool software but also helps the Haitian people? It’s exactly what I want to be doing when I graduate.”
“Even if we’re not really being put to use?”
“Hey, you’re the reason we’re here, right?” He motioned around us. “And I’m willing to prove my worth. Besides, my dad’s American but my mom’s family still lives here, so it’s also a reunion. I like to come back and visit as much as I can. It gets pretty lonely when you’re away at school. Especially since I’m three hours behind.”
“Three hours?”
“Yes,” Jason responded. “I’m a student at Stanford.”
“That’s right! My aunt mentioned that.” I groaned and clutched my chest. “Ugh. I don’t think that my Haitian woman sensibilities can take any more of this. Engineering major at an Ivy League? What else is there? You’ve got the solution to end world hunger?”
“We’re technically not an Ivy League, but I’ll take it. And I’m still working on that—ending world hunger,” he chuckled. “In all seriousness though, I know some politicians can be pretty sketchy, but I don’t think they’re all as evasive as we’ve come to think. Look at your aunt. She’s doing great work for this country. We need more people like her who can help get things done.”
“We do. But I would rather help tell the stories of people who don’t have a voice. Our politicians can’t make the changes we need if they don’t know there’s a problem. My mom does such a great job of bringing issues to light on her show that we never would’ve known about otherwise. I’d love to be able to do that.” I hesitated. “Well...she used to.”
“How is she doing?” Jason asked tentatively. It was only a matter of time before someone asked me about my mom’s wandering at the last PATRON PAL event. Between my aunt’s frantic shouting and my palpable anxiety, anyone could’ve guessed that something was wrong when we freaked out about an apparently self-reliant, middle-aged woman walking away alone for a few minutes.
I watched for a bit as my aunt chatted with Tony before I responded. I took a breath. “She’s not well. She has early onset Alzheimer’s.”
There it was. Out in the open. An ugly truth that I still didn’t know how to deal with.
“Wow. She’s so young,” Jason said with a shake of his head. He looked at me and held my gaze. “I’m sorry to hear that, Alaine.”
I gave a tight shrug.
“All right. Quiet on the set,” Thierry said as he adjusted the camera on his left shoulder. He might have been in charge of money, but he was the self-assigned resident videographer too. I sighed away the tension in my neck.
“This is going to be a walking shot, so I need you guys to stay aware of the lens,” Thierry barked. “Don’t turn your back to me. Got it?”
My aunt nodded and faced Tony when Thierry gave her the signal to begin speaking. “I have here with me Tony Juste. Tony is a farmer in Novion and his only crop is the peanut. Peanuts are a staple food in the Haitian diet because they’re loaded with protein and relatively inexpensive to produce. They grow on a drought-resistant plant that is the saving grace for so many farmers during the harsh, dry harvests that we’ve been having. Tony, can you show us your crops?”
Tony led us the short distance to the field where three men were bent over, tilling the earth. One of the men had his shirt tied around his head, sweat glistening on his back under the morning sun. Another stood behind two oxen and used a yoke to guide them as they lifted the soil with each dragging step.
“This is Jojo,” Tony said in lilting English, pointing out the last man. He wore a tattered baseball cap, his yellow-striped polo shirt filthy with the grime of working in a field. In his hands was a ball of vines, small peanuts dotted throughout. “He is going to show you some of the peanuts that we were able to cultivate.”
Thierry stepped forward to get a zoomed-in shot of the plant in the worker’s hands. Jojo snapped a peanut from its place on the vine and stuck his hand out toward me to take it.
“M-merci,” I said, suddenly aware that I was now on camera. I broke the shell and popped the peanut into my mouth. I gave a thumbs-up. “Tasty.”
“My peanuts are the best the city has to offer,” Tony said proudly. “We always sell the most when we go to market, but I’m worried that it will not be the same for much longer.”
“Why is that?” Tati Estelle asked, the ever-attentive interviewer. She might be able to give my mom a run for her money if she kept this up.
“Well, America is trying to give the surplus peanuts that they have to Haiti to feed the children.”
“Isn’t that a good thing though?” I interrupted. Thierry turned toward me, glaring behind the camera’s eyepiece. “Haiti should want to receive assistance, especially if it means helping these kids fight starvation.”
“That is what they want you to think,” Tony said to me with a gentle smile. “When the US brings these peanuts, I will not be able to compete anymore. With so many of the seeds in the market, the price will fall to nothing and I will not make any profit. My livelihood will be finished and the eight people that I employ will no longer have work to support their families. They say that they will distribute the peanuts in tiny bags and give them to the children, only to be eaten at school. But they do not say how this will be regulated. It will be just like the rice situation we had a few years ago.”
“Do you mean the subsidized rice imports that came to Haiti from the United States during the 1990s?” Tati Estelle asked Tony.
“Yes,” Tony affirmed. “All of that extra American rice has made it impossible to grow the grain here in Haiti. They say that they sent the surplus of rice to help feed our people and to remove the burden of making our own food. Have you ever heard such foolishness? What good is a country if it does not produce its own sustenance to feed its people? We all know that the decision to send the extra rice here was a business one. Those farmers in the US were still paid for their product. Without a doubt, they got the better end of the deal. The US government has an entire country dependent on importing its products. Without this system, Haiti will face certain death. The odds are tilted in America’s favor. They have a customer for life.”
“But Haiti needs the help! There’s no way that you can make it seem like this country is self-sufficient,” I interjected. Thierry flipped the camera to me again and I’m sure I heard him give a low growl of frustration. Oh well, another thing for him to edit out.
“By no means,” Tony responded. “Haiti is very reliant on other countries for aid. Without it, we would sink into even greater despair. But to act like we are not in this situation partly because of this feedback loop of immense dependency on foreign aid would be naive. And you do not strike me as naive, ti Estelle.”
“Indeed,” said my aunt with a smile. “In fact, this discussion helps to reinforce the importance of PATRON PAL. By donating through our app, you help children all around Haiti meet their basic living needs. You’re also helping to educate these children, which is equally important to establishing stability in this country and hopefully will make my app irrelevant in the future. After all, with knowledge comes strength and we all know that sak vid pa kanpe. Or, an empty sack can’t stand up.”
“Cut!” Thierry said. “Okay. We have the scene. Even with the interruptions.”
I turned to Tony, ignoring Thierry’s pointed look. “Thank you for explaining. I never thought about it the way that
you do. You made good points.”
“It is a sign of a very mature person to be open to others’ ideas. You are definitely Estelle’s niece,” he said. “She said that it was your idea to make a video highlighting a Haitian worker, so I should be thanking you.”
Soon all of us piled into the car to head back to the PATRON PAL office. We passed one of the markets that Tony had told us to keep an eye out for as we wound through the hot and dusty streets. People darted into the road in front of the car, paying no mind to oncoming vehicles and villagers riding by on their donkeys. We saw merchants along the sidelines, each shouting their wares. We drove slowly down a particularly crowded road, cars passing us as they made their way through the streets, ignoring the tentative flow of traffic. Finally, the crowd parted and I saw a stand with a large sign that read Pistach Tonton Tony. The two women (wo)manning the stand were hurriedly pouring bushels of peanuts into small sacks for their many customers.
“Tony wasn’t kidding about his peanuts being the best in town,” I said to Jason beside me in the car.
He nodded in agreement.
Then after some thought he said, “Alaine?”
“Yeah.”
“I think you’ll fill your mom’s shoes just fine.”
Wednesday, February 10
From: Tatiana Hippolyte
To: Alaine Beauparlant
Subject: Re: Re: Hey Girl!
Hey there!
Following up on my email since I haven’t heard from you. I know you’re hanging with your family and all, but I’m starting to worry. Give me an update, girl! There’s a Capitol Post article that came out today and it’s saying that Venegas is heading to Haiti. Did you know this? And there’s a mention at the end that your mom might have Alzheimer’s. What the heck is going on? Call me or message me or something!
Dear Haiti, Love Alaine Page 17