Hello, I’m Haitian. This means I have French baggage. And I don’t mean the kind packed with sexy lingerie either.
Back when Christopher Columbus arrived on our sandy shores, he was packin’ big time. Decimated the native Arawak and Taino Indians, and proceeded to plunder because that was his job. For this and many of his like-minded adventures we get time off once a year. Go figure? But, I stray. When the Indians were all gone, the earliest immigrants (who really, really wanted to stay home) arrived from Africa so they could continue to plunder for El Discoverer. When they heard there was gold in them thar Mexican hills, the Spanish shoved off that part of what was then called Hispaniola and that’s when the French moved in, claiming the western portion of the island now known as Haiti.
The French picked up right where El discoverer left off. Rape, pillage and plunder. That’s what colonizers do. Oops, I mean did. In their wake, they left lots of brown babies who grew up with French names, educations, the right to inherit and attitude. Thus began one of our biggest problems in Haiti. Those babies’ babies decided never to mix with their darker-skinned brothers and sisters, and today, two hundred years later, we have a small minority of people with attitude in power. By some strange quirk of destiny or timing or however these things are decided, I was born to one of those babies. Then I turned around and married my colonizer. Ah la la.
How could I do that? It must have something to do with my superiority complex. You see, back then we kicked their butts! After much uprising and insurrection and invocation of Vodou gods, in 1804, Haiti beat Napoleon’s army and became the first independent black nation in the world. Yay! I remind my husband of this as often as possible and threaten to repeat this magnificent triumph in our home whenever necessary. How could I not have a superiority complex when half my ancestry is French? Ah, such sweet revenge.
I am also very American because I grew up in New York City from the age of eight, and have lived in Los Angeles for 20 years. So, in Paris one time,
I forgot my manners and neglected to say bonjour to a shopkeeper before asking for prices on some dreamy lingerie. Mistake. Another time, I cavalierly ordered a vodka martini instead of wine. I was served a brown Vermouth. Back in Los Angleles, I speak English to French people when in mixed company, and am regularly reprimanded—pourquoi parler Anglais when you don’t have to?? And I often use tu instead of vous after a few minutes of conversation with someone I’ve just met. I rather enjoy being contrary–laid back and casual in the face of all that French reserve. I’ve got African blood! I’m an islander! Plus, I’m Haitian!
Haitians paid a lot for that freedom. We are not as neat and tidy and fancy as Martinique, Guadeloupe and Saint-Martin, but we have mystery and charm. We may be known for our chaotic politics and crushing poverty, but we (and by we I mean all Haitians) are renowned for our art, culture, fabulously gourmet food, and —this is tricky because I mostly disagree with the ruling class’ worldview, but you can’t fight your origins—two French benchmarks: our superiority complex and attitude.
Hello, I’m Haitian. This means I have French baggage. And I don’t mean the kind packed with sexy lingerie either.
Back when Christopher Columbus arrived on our sandy shores, he was packin’ big time. Decimated the native Arawak and Taino Indians, and proceeded to plunder because that was his job. For this and many of his like-minded adventures we get time off once a year. Go figure? But, I stray. When the Indians were all gone, the earliest immigrants (who really, really wanted to stay home) arrived from Africa so they could continue to plunder for El Discoverer. When they heard there was gold in them thar Mexican hills, the Spanish shoved off that part of what was then called Hispaniola and that’s when the French moved in, claiming the western portion of the island now known as Haiti.
The French picked up right where El discoverer left off. Rape, pillage and plunder. That’s what colonizers do. Oops, I mean did. In their wake, they left lots of brown babies who grew up with French names, educations, the right to inherit and attitude. Thus began one of our biggest problems in Haiti. Those babies’ babies decided never to mix with their darker-skinned brothers and sisters, and today, two hundred years later, we have a small minority of people with attitude in power. By some strange quirk of destiny or timing or however these things are decided, I was born to one of those babies. Then I turned around and married my colonizer. Ah la la.
How could I do that? It must have something to do with my superiority complex. You see, back then we kicked their butts! After much uprising and insurrection and invocation of Vodou gods, in 1804, Haiti beat Napoleon’s army and became the first independent black nation in the world. Yay! I remind my husband of this as often as possible and threaten to repeat this magnificent triumph in our home whenever necessary. How could I not have a superiority complex when half my ancestry is French? Ah, such sweet revenge.
I am also very American because I grew up in New York City from the age of eight, and have lived in Los Angeles for 20 years. So, in Paris one time, 
I forgot my manners and neglected to say bonjour to a shopkeeper before asking for prices on some dreamy lingerie. Mistake. Another time, I cavalierly ordered a vodka martini instead of wine. I was served a brown Vermouth. Back in Los Angleles, I speak English to French people when in mixed company, and am regularly reprimanded—pourquoi parler Anglais when you don’t have to?? And I often use tu instead of vous after a few minutes of conversation with someone I’ve just met. I rather enjoy being contrary–laid back and casual in the face of all that French reserve. I’ve got African blood! I’m an islander! Plus, I’m Haitian!
Haitians paid a lot for that freedom. We are not as neat and tidy and fancy as Martinique, Guadeloupe and Saint-Martin, but we have mystery and charm. We may be known for our chaotic politics and crushing poverty, but we (and by we I mean all Haitians) are renowned for our art, culture, fabulously gourmet food, and —this is tricky because I mostly disagree with the ruling class’ worldview, but you can’t fight your origins—two French benchmarks: our superiority complex and attitude.
