when I was a "fake Haitian"

you decide who you are.

I don’t even know how many times I’ve been called a “fake Haitian” or any interest I had in my mother country was shut down and devalued into something silly because I could not speak Kreyol, even when I was a child amongst adult family members who should have helped me understand the language I was judged instead.

I am of an African American mother and a Haitian father. My father, a revolving door in my life, never quite sure when he’d remember I existed and pop up again. In his sporadic presence there wasn’t much taught to me about Haiti. He moved to America himself very young so I figured he knew very little himself but when I got around his side of the family during holidays and summer breaks I’d watch him delve into a completely different person, a true Haitian man who spoke his mother-tounge with ease, seemingly a side he tried to hide from me.

“I never taught you Kreyol because I didn’t want you to struggle in English” a valid concern of many immigrant parents attempting to assimilate the very xenophobic American way of life but I never understood why he didn’t teach me ANYTHING. He taught me nothing about the food, music or even the basic of history. The sentiment I received from him was that we’re lucky we’re in America and Haiti was an uncomfortable thought, a place he’d rather forget.

The highly tumultuous and unstable relationship with him (to say the absolute least) as I got older and rejection from his side of the family for being so unlike them, so Americanized, fed a painful abandonment. As a young teenaged girl I’d intentionally ignore anything Haitian as a way to counter-abandon a culture I felt already didn’t want to have anything to do with me. I even refused to meet elderly relatives who wanted so bad to connect to me in their last years (who have now passed on) because of how hurt I was. The way I eventually stopped getting dressed pretty and all packed up when my father promised to pick me up only to be yet again, another no show. I didn’t want to get caught being excited about family anymore. I get it. You guys don’t love me. I’m a fake Haitian I’m not good enough. Now please, just leave me alone.

The bitterness lasted a very long time, far into my twenties. If there was posted up flyer of a local meet up for Haitian creatives I’d walk right past it. If there was someone lost, asking for help and I could tell by their accent they were Haitian I’d act like I didn’t notice. Occasionally, I’d mention to someone I was Haitian or a fellow Haitian would just look at me and know, immediately flowing into Kreyol and I’d say “Oh, I don’t speak the language” which would be followed by the same nasty looks I’d seen as a child.

“What you mean you don’t speak Kreyol, you’re Haitian right?” they’d say confused

“Yeah, my parent just never taught me”

“They never taught you? Why?”

and the pain from my youth would resurface.

“I’m only half-Haitian. My mother is Black American”

*awkward silence*

“Ohhh, okay.” eventually putting the pieces together that possibly my father wasn’t around much. They’d feel the discomfort in the air and walk away. This interaction was very common with other Haitians, the only one really.

My mother however was damn near an African American studies professor in her own right. As soon as I was conscious she was teaching me Black American history (I use Black American and African American interchangeably by the way) The Black Panthers, Fred Hampton, Huey Newton, Angela Davis, The Harlem Renaissance, Langston Hughes, American Chattel Slavery, Phyllis Wheatley, Sally Hemmings, Harriet Tubman, Sarah Bartmaan. The Black Wallstreets, The Great Migration, Jim Crow, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Marcus Garvey, Nina Simone, Aretha Franklin, Earth Wind & Fire etc etc etc. I celebrated Kwanzaa my entire life. In fact, the only holidays I celebrated growing up was Kwanzaa, MLK Day, Malcolm’s Birthday and Juneteenth far before it became popular and an official holiday. Other additions would be made if it was a prolific day of another great black figure in American history. I was taken to all the Black American Day Parades and events, had several red, black and green Pan-African flags adorned around the house. I was taught young how to cook Soul Food and became a master. My mother once even sent me to school with the Kanye quoted “George Bush does not like Black People” pin on my uniform vest to school, in the 2000’s the height of Bush vitriol. I was drowning in Black American culture and Black American pride. I was the Blackest of Americans.

Yet the Haitian side of me was left desolate. I give it to my mother. Despite her own trials and tribulations with my dad she encouraged me to reconnect to my Haitian roots. She pushed and pushed. I denied and denied. I, only ever coming around in my later twenties. I grant a lot of my positive change to my Great Spiritual Awakening of that time. Call it my Saturn Return. Call it the final development of my frontal lobe but I began to release a lot of deeply-stored trauma and began to finally forgive a lot of people. I just got tired of hurting. Tired of replaying agonizing memories in my mind. Tired of the carrying heavy resentment on my chest everywhere I went. I just wanted to move on already. It was time to let go.

It started with finding Dr. Bert R. Hude on Instagram. A Haitian scholar and empowerment activist who very frequently made the intention to connect her Haitian culture to Black American history. This is the few times I ever seen a Haitian person be so open and receptive to Black American people and it was the first time I knew both cultures were so interwoven. She was talking to me. I felt seen. From there I wrote down several books she recommended to read. The Black Jacobins by CLR James, The Haitian Anthology Libete by Charles Arthur, The Common Wind by Julius S. Scott. I typed in “Haitian classics” into Spotify search and learned some about Kompa and became a fan of Sweet Mickey. I started watching Haitian cooking videos on Youtube by grannies speaking full blown Kreyol and I even cooked Soup Joumou my self on Haitian Independence Day, January 1st.

I felt the Haitian pride start to slowly creep in my psyche and personality.

I began to tell people I was Haitian first as way to combat the bitter feelings I’ve had in the past. The awkward conversation about still not knowing Kreyol would ensue but I was less ashamed. “I’m learning now” I would say confidently and let that be that. I was, I got on my cute Duo Lingo journey to learn a few words and sentences and am planning for a tutor. That venture is still intimidating though, another hump I’ll have to get over but if I can begin healing from visceral childhood abandonment I can get over anything.

At times I still feel like that corny fake Haitian. When I can’t understand and get frustrated sometimes I do revert into that lonely little girl alone in the backyard because her Haitian cousins refused to play with her, adult family who refused to invite over. I get lost in the sauce some times but since I’m learning my culture all on my own I’m really like a child in a whole new world. Everything is bright and beautiful and wild and unusual to me right now. I give myself grace. Ultimately, I am in place right now where I hug and yearn for Haitian-ness instead of avoid it.

I don’t need my father’s love or acceptance to be a true Haitian. I do not have to wait to mend any relationships with my family to receive any green light. They are not the gatekeepers. I’m an adult now, no one can tell me who I am anymore. I dictate my life. My ancestors who knew, loved and accepted me far beyond my birth or my pain have been waiting a long time for me to reach towards them. I am finally here.

Yes, I am a Haitian, period. A REAL one. No one is taking that away from me.