So thank you! Thank you for taking the time to read our story and write nice things about it and helping us get to college.
And Brad Meltzer. BRAD. BRAAADDD. When we reached out to you to tell you about Dear Haiti, Love Alaine (can you believe we have two books?!?!) we could have never in an infinite number of years known how much of a mentor you would grow to be. Thank you for letting us bounce ideas off you, squeal about your fancy accolades, and pick your brain about this world of publishing. (And obviously, Go Chargers.)
Cristina Russell, thank you for all of your support and for being your amazing self, in person and online.
To our Las Musas hermanxs, thank you for always making us feel welcomed and supported in this big ol’ publishing world. ¡Abrazos!
We are library girls at heart and are eternally grateful to the New York Public Library/Schomburg Center for digitizing more than twenty editions of the Green Book. Thank you to Brian Foo for creating a visualization of the Green Book journey across the country. (It is very cool—you should check it out.)
A special thank-you to Candacy A. Taylor, author of Overground Railroad: The Green Book and the Roots of Black Travel in America, for creating a thoroughly researched book about the implications the Green Book had for Black travelers in the past and today.
Thank you to Yamiche Alcindor for reporting on the struggles that the children, siblings, and younger relatives of those killed by law enforcement experience during and after these moments of tragedy. Thank you to the protestors calling for better, and to all the other journalists who are elevating their voices and stories.
We’d never forget our amazing family for standing with us at every step of this adventure—Mommy, Daddy, Gramma, Jessica, Lydi’Ann, Ginger, and Lily. Sabiné Oh! We are so happy to have you in our lives, Bini (and hi-hi, Cinnamon and Frank!). We put the finishing touches on this book as we sheltered in place together during a time of extraordinary uncertainty. And while we didn’t know how everything would turn out, there’s one thing that always held true. Our love for one another. Nou renmen nou tout. Yè, jodi a, e pou tout tan.
Thank you to all of our friends, extended family, coworkers, students at Gulfstream Early Learning Center (who probably won’t be reading this for another, oh, ten years), Ms. Stacy Burroughs for screaming “My Yeezy’s!” and making everyone laugh whenever someone’s tiny feet got too close, Steve Aubourg, Kristi Patterson, and Becca Hildner for your love, amazing text messages, and even better phone calls, and for being the greatest sounding board/ride or die, and everyone in between who has listened to us squeal with excitement over our sophomore novel. Thank you to our classmates and professors at Howard University and the University of Pennsylvania. We’re so happy that you haven’t gotten tired of partaking in our joy.
And thank you to you, dear reader. Yes, you. Sharing this story has been our greatest honor. And we hope to share many more for years to come.
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Dear Haiti, Love Alaine
by Maika Moulite and Martiza Moulite
INTRODUCTION
Dear Sister Wagner,
When I first started this assignment, I was prepared to write it off as one of the many weird projects that we always get assigned at this school. (This is, after all, the only educational institution in Florida that teaches electives like The Joy of Physical Education & Classical Music and Feminist Theory Within the World of the Shire.) I chose to register for this class in particular because I figured a course that takes a look at Latin American history would be an opportunity for me to draw on the stories of Haiti that I’ve heard my whole life. And after three years of projects at St. Catherine de’ Ricci Academy, this fourth and final assignment should’ve been a cinch.
It wasn’t. This research project asked us to explore the revolutionary history of a country of our choosing “while highlighting a prominent family’s contribution to its early liberation and subsequent development.” Since Henri Christophe, the first and only king of Haiti, is my great-great-great-greatnth-grandfather, the lovable narcissist in me thought that it would be cool to learn more about my family’s history in the larger context of Haiti’s turbulent past. But my work quickly took on a life of its own and, many times, I didn’t know where it was headed or whether I was chasing the right leads.
And though I hadn’t planned on it for this assignment, I got to visit Haiti for the first time. This trip opened my eyes in ways I couldn’t have foreseen. I was able to deepen my relationship with my mother, explore my family history, and experience up close the country that I’ve loved from afar. I discovered that the choices of the past reverberate into the future and that achieving our wildest dreams often comes at a nightmare of a cost. While I was in Haiti, I was swept up in the rhythm of the culture and lost myself. I’m still shocked. The painless acceptance that you mention in our instructions between “the everyday with the fantastic” was not an idea I was familiar with. I was raised by a doctor who encouraged me to sift beneath what we see at face value and a journalist who told me to never stop asking questions. But I realize now that sometimes you won’t get answers. And other times you won’t like the answers you get.
Oh, and I learned that growing up means that we’re not always in control. But it doesn’t mean that we’re completely powerless either. In fact, each of us must come to the realization that life actually lies somewhere in the middle. (Seriously, I’ve done so much adulting these past few weeks I’ve been looking into retirement options.)
I wasn’t totally sure what I’d end up with or how much I was going to share. In the end, I’ve decided to trust you with my story, hairy warts and all. And now that I know where I’ve been, I know where I’m going. The notes, articles, emails, and diary entries you’ll find in the following pages will take you on a twisty journey into both my family’s and Haiti’s past and bring you to present day. Get ready for a bumpy ride.
Alaine
FINAL PROJECT
Rasin Pye Bwa Kouri Byen Fon
or
The Roots of the Trees Run Deep
ALAINE BEAUPARLANT
LATIN AMERICAN HISTORY + CREATIVE WRITING WORKSHOP
SISTER PATRICIA WAGNER, PHD
ST. CATHERINE DE’ RICCI ACADEMY
FINAL PROJECT INSTRUCTIONS
You will examine the journey of a Latin American country’s revolution in three sections while highlighting a prominent family’s contribution to its early liberation and subsequent development. Latin America is the birthplace of magical realism, the literary genre that juxtaposes the everyday with the fantastic and makes no apologies or explanations for it. If the Spirit moves you, write in the tradition of the greats and embrace the aspects of your chosen culture that leave you breathless. Remember: this class is equal parts Latin American history and creative writing.
PART 1: THE LIST
DUE -WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 6..... 10% OF FINAL PROJECT GRADE
Instructions: Create a list of notable individuals in your chosen country’s revolution. Include the defining moments of five or more principal actors (at least one should be from your prominent family) and describe his or her claim to fame. Use the List as a framework for both the Presentation and Story sections of your project. Be sure to also include a short paragraph describing your presentation plans.
PART 2: THE PRESENTATION
DUE -TUESDAY, JANUARY 12..... 40% OF FINAL PROJECT GRADE
Instructions: Using the research you’ve conducted throughout the year on your chosen country, depict a culturally significant moment in time as it relates to your country’s revolution. Costume
s, photographs, dioramas, and other props are encouraged.
PART 3: THE STORY
DUE -FRIDAY, APRIL 1....... 50% OF FINAL PROJECT GRADE
Instructions: Present the information that you’ve collected on your chosen family in an engaging story. How did they impact the revolution? Does the family remain a significant power in the country’s modern history? This section is where your creative writing should particularly shine.
PART I
NOU TOUT FOU LA
(WE’RE ALL MAD HERE)
Thursday, November 12
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
Curiouser and curiouser.
Quoting my favorite line in my favorite book (Hi, Alice) was my first reaction when I came home from school today and saw the new laptop that I’d been heavily hinting at wanting for the last few months, placed carefully in the center of the small desk in my bedroom.
Well. My first reaction was actually distrust.
Now, I know that a normal reaction to receiving a gift that you’ve wanted for an eternity and a quarter should involve something like clasping your hands on either side of your face, tears of happiness sliding down your cheeks, and a toothy grin followed by a loud exclamation of “Oh, you shouldn’t have!”
But gifting at my house doesn’t quite work out that way when you know for a fact that you’re not due to receive said gift for another six to nine months. Not when the only thing your divorced parents agree on is that their sole child should never feel entitled to anything without earning it, no matter what their salaries could provide. I was almost positive that my parents were going to “surprise” me with the laptop as a graduation present after I’d done my part as the first-generation American daughter and gotten accepted to Mom’s alma mater, Columbia University, to study journalism. This would of course be followed by the other items they’d have to get for my welcome-to-college-don’t-mess-this-up package. See: mini-fridge, microwave, respectably sized television, twin XL bedding, freedom, etc.
The bright red bow that was unceremoniously attached to the cover of the laptop clashed horribly with the yellow-striped computer case surrounding it, but what caught my eye was the handwritten sticky note signed Love, Mom & Dad. It wasn’t every day that “Mom & Dad” (or “Celeste & Jules”) appeared side by side, even if it was only on paper. I ripped off the bow and tossed it onto my desk, opening the laptop slowly while I squealed to myself. I hovered my wiggling fingers impatiently above the black keys as I waited for the screen to light up. The wallpaper was of a beach and the home screen was empty, save for the recycle bin and one other shortcut of a notebook and quill. I clicked on it and found that it was a daily meditation journal app, waiting to be filled with the secrets of my hopes and daydreams. Not the biggest surprise when your dad’s a psychiatrist, but still...something felt off.
“You needed a new computer, and I figured you’d want somewhere to write out your feelings,” Dad said as he walked past my open bedroom door without coming inside. I wasn’t sure if mentioning that I’d been journaling for years with good ol’ pen and paper was the right move, so I didn’t. I’d hate for my parents to change their minds about giving me the laptop. And besides, he was already gone, off to do whatever it was that single fathers did when they got home from work a little early. (Nap.)
I pulled my old laptop out of my book bag and ran my hands along the grimy strips of duct tape holding it together. It did look pretty depressing, especially compared to the shiny new computer that was waiting for me to play. I wouldn’t look this gift horse in the mouth until it bit me...for now. Instead, I’d graciously accept my present ahead of schedule and maintain the healthy dose of suspicion brewing in the back of my mind.
So, without further ado...
Behold, the written words of Alaine Beauparlant, future journalist and media personality. Here is where I keep my deepest thoughts and most [un]developed ideas.
After such a declaration, you might ask the obvious question: What do I, Alaine Beauparlant, a seventeen-year-old with way too little life experience, have to say about anything? Well, too little life experience or no, I’m super observant (future journalist here), equally assertive (misogynists might call it bossy), and a natural hair guru (if I do say so myself). These are all skills that come in handy as Queen of Keeping Boundary-Crossing Masked as Inquisitive Hands Out of My Lovely ’Fro. As my tati Estelle always says, “You can’t let just anyone touch your hair. The wrong hands could make all those beautiful coils fall right out.” Whether she meant someone styling my hair or a quick pat from a random stranger, I’m not sure. But I’m not about to risk losing these edges. Not after I’ve finally mastered all things natural hair. Seriously, you have no idea the things I can do with it. If you keep reading, you too will learn the secrets to a perfectly fluffed yet defined twist-out. But dessert comes after broccoli, which I happen to love, so you’ll have to sit through my origin story.
I was born far away. You could say it was another planet. My parents knew of the imminent doom of our homeland and decided to whisk me from everything we knew. Like many sad stories go, they were killed on the way to our new home. I led a normal life with the kind souls who adopted me after they found me all alone on a park bench...
Wait. That’s not right.
Everything changed on a class trip to the science museum. I needed more than a few dinosaur fossils to satiate my curiosity. As I was looking around on my own, I was bitten by a radioactive...
Let me back up.
I am the molded-from-clay daughter of a mystical queen on an island inhabited solely by women...
No.
I am from a little-known country named Waka—
Okay, okay. You got me. Here’s the truth. Like I said, my name is Alaine Beauparlant. I’m seventeen years old, co-editor of my school’s online newspaper, The Riccian (you’re reading the words of an award-winning preeminent journalist in case you were wondering), the best bingo caller at the local assisted-living facility, and currently living in Miami, Florida. Saying I’m from Miami is a factually correct yet deceptive statement. When someone who isn’t from here imagines a person living in the coolest city in the Sunshine State, they conjure up mental images of people on Jet Skis during hurricanes and clubbing shamelessly on South Beach. (If I had just said Florida, one would probably imagine me skipping school to tip cows or rob banks with my pet alligator. Let me disabuse you of that notion right now. I haven’t had a pet alligator in years.)
Sunday, November 15
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
It wasn’t personal. I did the math and assessed immediately that, to get an A in my college prep seminar, I didn’t need the extra credit points that having a parent speak at Career Day would provide. Dad was slightly miffed of course when I explained this before politely declining his offer to debate the merits of Freud and Jung in front of my class for the event—but that was to be expected.
“I dunno, I’ve got this hunch that my peers won’t be that into you pontificating about two dead guys with mommy issues for a half hour,” I said.
“If I did my presentation, you would know that your statement is a gross simplification of the fields of psychoanalysis and analytical psychology,” he sniffed. “Pontificate... Nice word.”
“I still can’t shake those darn SAT vocabulary flash cards,” I said, piling a mountain of scrambled eggs over my jellied toast. It wasn’t a real complaint though. Those cards helped me beat my target score by 5 points. Call me Rumi and Sir, because the Ivys were calling my name. “And because I love and respect you, I won’t even lie and say I forgot to give you the invitation.”
“I suppose that means I haven’t failed totally as a parent, then,” he said wryly as he looked up from his New York Times. I bought him an online subscription for his birthday last year, but he still liked to do the crossword puzzles on a hard copy. He let slip once t
hat sharing the newspaper used to be his and my mom’s Sunday ritual. I could imagine Dad idling in the Health section for a couple of minutes before shuffling through for the wedding announcements, and Mom examining the front page with a magnifying glass to confirm her sources hadn’t withheld even the tiniest of scoops.
Now she was too busy making news on the Sunday morning show she hosted to worry about which politician might or might not have been playing coy during the week. If she (or “the American people!”) wanted to get to the bottom of something, she’d just ask said public servant about it on live TV.
“...a deep dive into the secretive health care bill that will leave millions of Americans uncovered and scrambling for a way to pay...”
Mom might have been a thousand miles away from Miami, but her voice was right there with us each weekend, emanating from the family room television to where we ate in the kitchen. Dad rarely watched Sunday Politicos with me unless Mom had a majorly super fancy interview subject (think POTUS), but after I grabbed my plate and hopped onto the couch, he usually pretended not to listen from the table. It was our own special ritual.
This morning though, he rounded up his puzzle and coffee mug and sat beside me in front of the flat screen. I glanced at him but stayed quiet. The guests included the usual roundtable setup plus a congressperson or two. No one majorly super fancy.
“Health care reform is an important topic,” he grunted by way of explanation. “And me watching also serves as reinforcement of what it looks like to have a healthy relationship, even post-divorce.”
“Sure it does.”
I pulled the coffee table closer to the couch and made sure that my new laptop was safely positioned (I hadn’t dropped it once yet!) so that I could skim the Tweets coming in about Sunday Politicos as I ate my breakfast. On Sundays at 11:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, the social media posts about religious services and dreading Mondays devolved into a cesspool of viewer comments regarding my mother’s hosting [in]abilities, her occasionally controversial guests, and her appearance. On the one hand, I loved that there was a community of women of color out there who felt true pride in seeing someone who looked like them #representing. On the other, it never stopped being creepy when some rando shared a YouTube link of a compilation of my mother’s legs in skirts “just because.” What kind of sexist maniac edits something like that together? And why did it have over 100,000 views?
One of the Good Ones Page 28