Malcolm X, assassinated at the age of 40, in Harlem, 1965.
Nipsey Hussle, shot dead in front of his business, in Los Angeles. He was only 33.
Tupac Shakur, died from gun shot wounds, suffered during a shooting in Las Vegas in 1996, he was only 25.
The quests for longevity and greatness have eluded another one of our fallen brothers. The untimely death of Nipsey Hussle is a story too familiar to the black community. Dating back to heroes of the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s, black leaders have had little time to make a great impact. Even more frustrating, is that we seem to have more value, as black men, once we’re dead, than when we are alive.
Before Medgar Evers could see the fruits of his labor as a community activist, mobilizing the black vote in Mississippi during the tumultuous 1960s, he was gunned down in his driveway. Left to die just steps from his wife and children’s embrace. He was only 37-years-old. 51 years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King was shot dead in Memphis, after all, but prophesying his death, just the night before:
On the cusp of something greater than what he’d been known for, the Poor People’s Campaign was sure to truly unite the masses. Brother Malcolm X (el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz) was assassinated in a crowded ballroom in Harlem, after forming the Organization of African American Unity. Something revolutionary and inclusive, but at the age of 40, Malcolm was cut down. Not to mention Black Panther leader, the 21-year-old Fred Hampton, Jr. out of Chicago, murdered in cold blood by the Chicago Police department. Hampton had found a way to unify the youth of Chicago’s poorest and roughest areas, through natural leadership and truth. Too powerful. Too soon.
Longevity and greatness, a deadly combination they are. Fast forward a generation later. A 25-year-old Tupac Shakur, son of a Black Panther, was shot on the Las Vegas strip, eventually died from his wounds days later. Arguably the greatest hip hop icon of all-time. Reflecting on his life, I realize that he only had 5 years to inspire the world. With his feverish work ethic, and musical content, it’s as if he knew that an early death was imminent.
The premier of the music video, “I Ain’t Mad At Cha,” debuted just 3 days after Tupac’s death. The video and song itself captures the essence of how Pac dies in real life. It’s as if Tupac predicted his own demise. Years later, Pac’s musical catalog was revealed, and that’s when the world truly realized how brilliant this young man was. Imagine if he had more time.
The following year, the 24-year-old Notorious B.I.G. was taken from us. Is it a coincidence that the final song, on his final album, Life After Death is, “You’re Nobody (‘Till Somebody Kills You”)? A victim of a drive-by in Los Angeles, Pac’s rival and with only 2 albums under his belt, became a hip hop god. What if he had more time?
In recent years, camera phones and social media have shed light on the dark reality of police brutality and disregard for the black male form. 18-year-old Michael Brown left face down in the August sun, with 6 bullets in his body for 4 hours. 17-year-old Trayvon Martin stalked down and shot fatally yards from his father’s doorstep. Sister Sandra Bland at 28, found dead in her cell. Though not a man, our sisters have their own plight in this narrative as well. She was manhandled during her arrest and there is no telling what happened in her jail cell. Philando Castile 32, Tamir Rice 12 and Eric Garner 43, all gone within a matter of seconds. Although their circumstances were different, their stories… all the same; another black body laid dead. Obama served 8 years as our First Black President, we were all terrified for him, and rightfully so. Look at what happened to so many of our leaders before him.
Sunday, March 31st, 2019 a new name was added to America’s most infamous fraternity, Ermias Asghedom, more famously known as Nipsey Hussle. Just hours before his final breath he sent out a chilling tweet, “Having strong enemies is a blessing.” Did he know something? Did he see something? Or was it just plain coincidence? We will never truly know. A role model, a man making positive change, not just in Los Angeles, but worldwide. In his death, he has become more revered than when he was alive. I had never listened to his music. I had heard his name a handful of times before Sunday. But sadly, I have known his story for the last 50 years. The stories of these fallen men remind me to live everyday to my fullest potential. Not because I fear that I to will parish too soon, but to honor each day that I have on this earth.
Let us, as black men vow to live our days to the fullest and leave our lasting impact on the world. Let us not be jealous of the next man, but lift him up. Any attack on my brother, is an attack on me. And any victory for my brother, is mine as well. Rest in love, freedom, power, peace and victory to all my fallen brothers. We simply do not have time to fight each other. The world has already placed enough obstacles in our path.
“There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus.” -Galatians 3:28
These gatherings didn’t truly start out with this purpose, but Haiti has clearly defined our outcomes moving forward. From the start we just wanted to reunite. Old college friends that would not relent on maintaining our lifelong friendships. It just so happened that the two of us who could make it that first year ended up being the two Social Studies teachers. Historical inquiry and research were an unintended consequence. Over time the trip’s purpose evolved to be more historic in nature. We found a complicated and pluralistic history in New Orleans, but what is expected from a place that gives you gumbo as its most perfect metaphor for its people? It left me wanting to understand more about black people and our history. The next year was more of the same as we ventured to San Juan, Puerto Rico, where we got a true touch of the famed African Diaspora. Though we were still in America, the place only hinted at what we were familiar with. It had a different Caribbean feel that was only American while the sun was up. Because at night time, the Afro-Caribe music and dance beat on every ear drum and pounded on every floor. Still we were getting closer to our purpose.
The African Diaspora is a complicated Rubik’s cube that is colorful and different on all sides, ever changing, but still connected by one core. By the time my brother and I set foot in Port Au Prince, we had received our mission impossible. We were going to pursue an explanation for this puzzle and make sense of what it means to be black in the Diaspora. How do various forms of blackness tether to our distant homeland? How are we all staying connected? Haiti gave me such a diverse offering of characters that completely crushed any notions of monolithic stereotypes that may have been falsely established as doctrine before I arrived.
Upon first landing one could be misled about Haiti’s diversity. Outside the airport there were a few dozen cab drivers standing cab-less in a winding and twisting line eagerly waiting to be selected to take you to your destination. It would have been difficult to differentiate amongst all of my dark-complected cousins, save the rapid-fire sales pitches in creole and occasional French, or English. The entrepreneurial spirit found in the Diaspora’s children was in full view from this moment until the wheels lifted again at the end of the trip. After establishing our travel accommodations for the weekend our predetermined driver, Max, unfortunately did not have a license, so he turned into a navigator and we paid another man, Abdul, to drive. We took off for the city.
Driving through Port-au-Prince was dizzying, both literally and figuratively. Our driver helped me understand that there was assumed lawlessness on the roads of the city. People swerved and honked at each other while driving trucks, vans, motorcycles, and cars on both sides of the hilly roads, with neither speed limits nor stop lights in sight. The mountainous backdrop created streets that had no symmetry, nothing perpendicular nor parallel, the snaking road was the only thing that slowed the vehicles down, barely.
What caused more friction to my westernized mindset than the speed of the roads was the volume and pace of the people themselves. There appeared to be people on top of people. Black people everywhere. Black people on the roadside laying down next to their pile of sharpened green sugarcanes. Black people packed into the back of bite-sized trucks that served as public transportation. Black people carving designs into cement mason blocks. Black people converting dollars to Gourde before they pumped your gas at the gas station. Black people waiting. Black people going. Black people without chairs that were squatted in a trained and adapted comfort that reminded me of my friends from the Omaha Tribe. Black children. Black poor. Black women. Black old. Black people. My people.
In high speeds they all blended together. Where Port-au-Prince was like sprinting in the opposite direction of Usain Bolt, the mountains of Jacmel were far more intimate, like wading in shallow ocean sands with Sade. Jacmel’s mountainside roads appeared to be a dangerous trek to the uninitiated. We bent curves on mountain paths that by nightfall were as black as a pupil but the people driving the roads knew where to speed up and where to slow down. The people walking these paths knew when to step off the road and when to stand next to it. This was the first social norm that I picked up. It later reminded me of how street runners in the city will often run against traffic so that they can see what traffic is coming at them as opposed to getting clipped or surprised from behind. There were unwritten rules to road travel but those who embarked were skilled in this non-verbal communication well-enough to have survived to this point. So the mom walking her 3 year-old daughter along a dangerous mountain road in pitch black lighting was no more distracted by her surroundings than the innocent toddler who was none-the-wiser herself. We were still traveling fast but it was slow enough for a foreigner to start to figure some of the pieces out.
When we arrived in Jacmel we paid our driver and our navigator a rate that seemed to be redundant but I was in no place to speak out this judgement, being such a novice but also being linguistically ill-equipped as my Creole was worse than my French and my French was worse than my Spanish and I only flirt with Spanish from a distance like a middle schooler at a dance. Nonetheless, we met our hostess at the hotel where we were able to throw our luggage in to our dorm-room sized studio before going back downstairs for dinner in the hotel restaurant. This was the first of many meals that would be accompanied with Prestige, the Haitian crafted beer that at various points of our excursion I had to question whether they sponsored our vacation. The chicken wings were different, but I wasn’t here for chicken wings. I was here for the conch. I love conch. I fell in love with conch during spring break of 1999 and it is the first and last thing that I want to eat anytime I am close to the Caribbean Sea. The thrill of getting my stewed conch, plantains, and picklese (sponsored by Prestige) was so overwhelming that I got emotional. I’m sure the fact that I had starved myself for months to lose weight for the trip and I could finally eat had something to do with it. But even more so, this was food that I was now tasting outside of America in its native state. There was a calming and soothing effect to this meal. There was something in it that helped me to rationalize not just my diet of nutrition that led up to my vacation, but also my diet of social activism in opposition to the constant barrage of assaults and violence that America has become for so many of us Diasporic children. I was a weekend refugee. I was a voluntary political prisoner. I had my fill of America and this meal was my first opportunity to break bread as a pretending ex-pat. It tasted different because it wasn’t home but for the first time in my life I actually enjoyed a meal more because it wasn’t homecooked.
During the following hours and days the pace slowed down enough for me to actually meet the people. After dinner the previous night, we had taken a brief walk along the oceanside to get acquainted with our surroundings, but with the lighting being so limited it was hard to get a feel for things. My brother, a marathon runner back in Brooklyn, decided to wake early the next morning and get a “quick” three miles in to take advantage of the morning light. I, on the other hand, was proud of myself for waking up before noon while on vacation. Not to be outdone, I took the extreme step of actually putting on some work out clothes and walking a few block radius around the hotel. Workout. Check. Interestingly I found my brother at an intersection on his way back. We negotiated a room key exchange and we both continued on our separate paths. At this same intersection, I found my first English-speaking Haitian friend. Michelle was a smaller and rounder Haitian man in his 50’s. He initially addressed me in Creole. When I responded in my quickly acquired “Anglais?”, he responded in the Queen’s and we were able to carry on a conversation. For the record, I do hate my limited American exposure to foreign languages and acknowledge that this is a long-standing reason for contempt towards Americans in world travel, but still it was refreshing to have someone meet me where I was at instead of being forced to stretch myself. I was already exhausted with my madam and mademoiselle from dinner the night before. I mean how much can you expect from this Yankee? I digress. Michelle ended up being our tour guide and in retrospect, the most underpaid man on the island, both sides. Michelle and I talked briefly about his willingness to be a tour guide to my brother and myself as we traversed the mountainous terrain. I, trying to avoid getting hustled, kept up a brief conversation with him, took his card, then categorized him in the left as I doubted we would ever meet again. Michelle’s multiple languages would come back to pay dividends for him later in the day but that is how the Diaspora will have it sometimes.
After finishing our workouts, I met with Ashley in the hotel room. We got our hygiene together and settled in to eat breakfast at Hotel Florita across the street from our residence for the weekend in the Colin’s Hotel. At the Hotel Florita there was a taste of west meets Africa. The wood tables had everything that said Hotep except the incense. We ordered coffee, which is always and forever better in the Caribbean, and got Omelets Creole. Our waitress was patient with me as I struggled through my order. Thank God, the most prominent feature of Hotel Florita and the most West meets Africa feature of the landscape was wi-fi and my ability to connect to Google Translate. We stayed at the restaurant for a while for a couple of reasons outside of the wi-fi. It was a comfortable and quaint local. I was admittedly ashamed that the one place I didn’t want to leave was the one place in Jacmel with the highest density of people-of-no-color. We stayed for the wi-fi. We stayed for the food. We stayed for the ambiance. We stayed for the post-noon bottles of Prestige and shots of Barbancourt. But most importantly we stayed for futbol. The soccer game was on. Excuse me. The World Cup was on. I can’t tell you what teams were playing that morning, but I can tell you that this weekend Haiti was in a frenzy about the World Cup. It was confusing and contagious all in one because as a novice soccer follower I have never understood the global appeal. Though I have come to the realization that you can not understand the Diaspora without understanding a love for soccer. In Haiti there were two teams to cheer for this weekend: you cheered for Brazil or you cheered for Argentina. I think Argentina was playing that morning, but I am not sure. Again, I’m a novice. I heard a Somali sportscaster try to explain the love of the Diaspora with Brazilian soccer as one that is tied to the idea that all colonized nations have the ability to do what Brazil has done in being able to grow economically and independently. It makes sense, but I think it’s more weighted on black folks’ love of the hero story and Pele being that hero for decades.
As one game ended the next game began. The next game would start with cashing in on my happenstance meeting with Michelle and end with Mer de Matine. Michelle needs to be appointed Secretary of Treasury of Haiti. My one regret of my travels to Jacmel is that I didn’t give him more. In retrospect the time and work that brother put into my Saturday is priceless. Michelle met us at our hotel that afternoon and led Ashley and I in our rental through the market of Jacmel. The market was sad and promising all in one. He crossed us literally through a river and then through mountains to our first destination, Bassin Bleu. After another mountainous trek we crept up on our location and then found ourselves having to be very trusting of our guide and hike leaders. Michelle took us to a village post where we rolled up on 30 young men glued to one television that showed the soccer game, of course, posted to an outside wall on what I could only describe as a makeshift gazebo. We peeled the hike leaders away from the television long enough to take the journey that many Haitian maroons escaping from slavery had taken, hundreds of years ago being led by Native American allies deep into the mountains. We were headed to a mystical and spiritual place. Ashley called it the fountain of youth. When we arrived at Bassin Bleu it did not disappoint. It was glorious blue water. Rugged, but with scene stealing rocks and ledges. Irony filled the shallows and depths that the appropriately titled tourists, who braved the terrain to get to this apex, could pick up on. I can recall being a child driving through the snowy capped hills of the Pacific Northwest. I can recall a glorious spring I found by a Buddhist temple in Juateng, South Africa. I can recall being taken aback by the imagery of a jazz player blowing his horn and crooning my wife on the Mississippi Delta off of Jefferson Square in New Orleans. I can recall chasing pelicans on the beach of Miami on Spring Break. I can recollect walking through the trees of my grandma and grandpa’s back yard to dig down lost wiffle balls as a child. I am blessed to have a recollection of many beautiful images throughout my life. I can tell you that I have few blessings that I could offer up as competition to the imagery I found at the Bassin Bleu, as well as the cove in Jacmel, Haiti that we ate lobster. I can feel the increasing perspiration just thinking about how solid and magnanimous those mountains stood. Haiti is a trip. In the midst of it you figure out what Toussaint D’Overture, Jean Jacques Dessalines, and Boukman were willing to die for. It also makes sense of why Napoleon and the French found so much value in it. It is a glorious land despite the “shithole” report you may have read about it. I can’t thank Haiti enough for my Saturday.
Eventually, we left Bassin Bleu. We took a quick walk around a federal park that held some political value that Michelle only loosely alluded to. He was far more focused on us seeing a hotel that was being developed smack dab in the middle of the city that surrounded Jacmel. Michelle was proud to introduce us to Dr. Paul. Dr. Paul was a Haitian doctor who had returned to Haiti after years of practice in the United States and was singularly focused on growing his country through tourism commerce. Dr. Paul was a darker-skinned man in his 60’s that was fully-equipped with everything that Mike Epps perfectly described in his bit about Old Men/Players during his Inappropriate Behavior stand up special. Gold chains. Gold rims on the glasses. Fair-skinned woman at his side. Cigarettes. Chest exposed. Documents on the table in front of him. Imagine Biggie Smalls cussing into his cellphone minus gripping the money wads in the Warning video and make him 30 years older and you have a good idea of who Dr. Paul is. Dr. Paul was taking his acquired wealth from the U.S. and bringing those funds back home to increase the wealth and sustainability of his beloved Jacmel. Michelle respected it enough to see the significance of Dr. Paul’s work with my brother, a first-generation Haitian-American. Michelle wanted to make sure that my brother saw the growth and opportunity. This was the sneak hustle, the unintended consequences. Michelle was not only showing us the town and all its beauty, but was showing us the town and all its potential. He was Magic and we were Lebron. The door was open as far as we saw it and the Secretary of Commerce was making sure we saw the potential there, covertly and overtly at the same time.
After guiding us to the most beautiful and affordable lobster lunch cove that one could ever come to interact with, our time with Michelle ended. I do hope that brother is doing well. We got back to the Colin’s Hotel and decided to chill for a bit. We went down by the pool side and took in some more of our sponsored libations. We socialized with a backpacking group of African-Americans from Florida, New York, Colorado, and other locations. They had recently crossed over into Haiti from the Dominican Republic and were next headed to Jamaica. They had their own version of a Diasporic excursion at play. They had interesting tales of being whisked away on a motorcade with Spanish speaking black folks that they just had to trust to not put them in danger. Their group’s leader told us a cautionary story about how you shouldn’t smoke weed in the club one night and then go back to that same club the next day because you will get arrested. Sound advice. One young sister was belligerent about her missing cell phone and how it was the group’s responsibility to look after her stuff while she was swimming. Her screams were so off-putting as she cussed out the group members. It was the most American sight I saw the whole time I was in Haiti. I told Ashley that I had observed her voice to be noticeably more voluminous than the Haitian women that we had interacted with. This, coupled with a discussion we had earlier in the trip about Rep. Maxine Waters’ threatened safety, sparked a good debate between my brother and I about how I was generalizing black American women. He had a subtle way of chastising me for bottling all of them into one group. How could I still do this after witnessing first-hand the rich diversity that is our blackness? I accepted the defeat in this debate battle and we moved back to people watching and chilling. Before we left the pool, we had one more conversation with a brother that had just recently been deported from the U.S. and sent back to Haiti. His mannerisms and vulgarity reminded me of a person who might be putting on a front. His stories were questionable, and he seemed to know a lot about things that he probably shouldn’t. He felt more American than Haitian, which was odd because I hadn’t yet seen this behavior in Haiti. Nothing was American in Jacmel. No car. No dish. No commercial establishment. No cash. Nothing. But here, this Haitian man stood in the middle of all things that were not American giving anything but an assimilated, acculturated, and appropriated American vibe. His perspective was one of note as we traveled through this Diaspora. I wouldn’t have believed it existed had I not seen it myself.
After that lively and serendipitous social hour by the pool side, it was time for dinner. I had made friends with the owner of the Hotel Florita while we were there earlier that morning. He offered yet another perspective as he was a coloured South African who transplanted himself to Jacmel as he controlled his aquaculture business in Cape Town from a distance. Over drinks and soccer that afternoon he shared how he’d come into his family’s fortune and was currently exploring ways to fund and support efforts to create change in multiple countries. He was the most liberal person I have ever met. It was interesting talking geopolitics with him. His spirit was magnetic. We bonded a bit more over dinner as Ashley and I broke his bread and drank his wine. I could see the night was starting to weigh in on Ashley a bit. It had been an emotionally and physically overwhelming experience. We had run and jogged and hiked and swam and jumped and climbed. Though all of this was true, and we had plenty of reason to be exhausted, it had also been one of the best days of my life and I wasn’t quite ready for it to end. Listening to the adventurous stories of the “blackpackers” inspired me. They had exorcised my 38-year-old mentality. I wanted an adventure. I didn’t want my Saturday to end. It only took a bit of encouragement to get Ash back in the game and we were off into our Saturday night in Jacmel.
That Saturday night is its own separate story that I will write about another time. It deserves it as it was one of the most spectacular nights of my life. Days after we left Haiti, the government raised fuel prices to such an exorbitant price that the country rebelled in protest. I hope that Michelle, our driver Abdul, and navigator, Max, are okay. I hope that Lincoln the South African that gave us free everything at his bar at Hotel Florita, is fine. I hope that our hostess and waitress are okay. I hope that the young man that gave us a ride on the back of his moped to and from Mer de Martine is okay. I hope my brother’s family in Haiti is okay. I hope all those black folks are okay. I hope all my Diasporic family is okay. I feel confident as I type this that everybody’s alright. Why wouldn’t they be? We’re talking about people who have overcome everything. We are the salt of the earth. We are Africa’s children. We are the church that Paul wrote to the Galatians about. In all of our differences, in all of our experiences, from soccer affinities to bongos that accompany live music. To airport goat sandwiches to softly roasted peanuts by hardened hands of my grandma’s cousin. We are tenacity. We are perseverance. We are the moral arch. We are Haiti and Little Haiti. We are John Brown Avenue to NW 62nd Street and 2nd Ave. We are the Diaspora.
It was about 5:30 am on Friday, and I received a call from Barry. His flight from Omaha to Atlanta had been canceled. Immediately, I began to brainstorm solutions. I went online and searched for other flights departing from Omaha that day. They were all in the evening. I then looked for flights leaving out of Kansas City; about a three hour drive away. Still, to no avail. It didn’t look good. We were only going to be in Haiti for four days and to miss Friday would really be short changing the experience. I remained calm and sense my flight wasn’t until noon, I eventually fell back asleep.
An hour later, I received a second call from Barry. He was able to find a flight to Miami, on American Airlines, which connected to a flight to Port-au-Prince.
The Land of My Parents
Because of the flight mix up, we actually ended up arriving at Toussaint L’Ouverture Airport just minutes apart. As soon as I landed, I met up with Barry in front of the currency exchange hut. He stood there, the biggest person in the room, face down in his cellphone. He looked up, smiled and we slapped hands. We had arrived in the land of my parents.
When traveling to Haiti, you need a contact. You need someone who knows the lay of the land. Someone who can get you from point A to point B, and back. My good friend Fabrice, grew up in Jacmel and still has family there. With Fabrice’s help, I arranged to have his cousin Max, and our driver Abdul meet us in Port au Prince. We rented a small SUV from Dream Rental Car. Fabrice knew the owner, which gave us important leverage. The last time that I was in Haiti (August 2017), I tried to rent a car through Avis and though the price of the rental was $50 a day, they actually required a $1200 deposit. At Dream, the prices were comparable, at $60 a day. Instead of paying an outrageous deposit, they hold your passport as a security deposit. I thought it was a fair exchange. There is no way our trip would have been possible without our own transportation. The public transportation in Haiti is too unreliable for the short time that we were going to be there.
Abdul was an expert driver, who knew Port au Prince and Jacmel very well. He especially knew the route to Jacmel which was dangerous, if you were not familiar with driving along steep mountainsides. It seems as if Abdul had memorize every turn and twist along the 2-hour right, as he took the mountains with ease.
Jacmel is considered the cultural capital of Haiti and once you get there you understand why. The downtown area is reminiscent of the New Orleans French Quarter. As a matter of fact, much of the architecture and style that you see in the Quarter was inspired by Jacmel. During our time there, we stayed at the Colin’s Hotel, one of the few hotel’s along the beachfront. It’s an old boutique hotel, with an old feel too it. The rooms were small, but clean. Nothing fancy, but it did the trick. We had a pool, bar and restaurant in the courtyard, all facing the ocean. It was all we needed. Quite reasonable too, at $85 a night, I must say it was a definitely a good find. After getting checked-in, Barry and I had chicken wings, fries, pikliz (spicy Haitian-style coleslaw) and Prestige beer, as our first meal in Haiti.
Saturday morning I went for an early morning 3 mile run, while Barry grabbed his phone and took photos of the city. We later met up at the Jacmel Art Center, next to our hotel. It was curated with paintings, metalwork and wood sculptures; done by local, Haitian artists. We later had breakfast and watched the World Cup at the Florita Hotel, just across from our own hotel. The Florita was a really cool place. It’s lobby was a former sugar cane storehouse converted into rustic bar and restaurant with beautiful Haitian artwork on the walls and handmade furniture that made you will only find in Jacmel.
We later met a local gentleman name Michel Jean-Baptiste who eventually became our guide. He was very friendly and knowledgeable about the culture, history and happenings in Jacmel. Michel took us to Bassin Bleu, a hidden blue waterfall about 45 minutes outside of the city. For lunch, he then took us to the Cyvadier Hotel where we had amazing cocktails and fresh lobster. He even had the hook-up on Haitian cigars. Before we parted ways he took us to the oldest hotel in Jacmel, the Emanuel Alexandre Hotel, which was in its final stages of renovation and ready to open at the end of July. It was an immaculate hotel with amazing views of the entire city. Michel had us meet the owner, a local, who lived in Brooklyn for 40 years as a doctor and decided to come back home.
We had had a full day, but we were not done. After coming back from our daily excursion, Barry and I sat pool side and enjoyed a few more bottles of Prestige, our drink for the weekend. All of a sudden we heard a young lady complaining about someone stealing her phone, but in actuality, her friend had it all the while. Crazy enough, one of her friends, happened to be a former student of mine, Tammi. I had taught her 10 years ago at North Miami Beach Senior High School. It was her first time in Haiti and she shared with Barry and I how she remembered all the things I had taught her about Haiti; the history of the Haitian Revolution, the national heroes of Toussaint L’Ouverture and Jean Jacque Dessalines. She remembered it all and now she was here, in Haiti with her teacher. I was so proud of her. That was the most profound moment of the trip and one of the proudest moments of my teaching career.
Later that evening, I went onto my Facebook page and a friend of mine Kara, who lived in Jacmel for nearly 10 years commented on my page about a live music performance happening that night at Vue Sur Mer, just about 25 minutes outside of the city. It was close to midnight and I was reluctant at first, but Barry motivated me to check it out. So we took taxied a motorcycle outside of our hotel. Three of us, on one bike took off in the middle of the pitch black night down a country road along the sea. When we arrived, it was a wooden shack along the ocean. We paid the 250 gourdes ($4 US) door charge. It was red lights, people dancing from wall to wall to the sounds of Afrobeat, Reggae, Hip hop and Kompa. Barry danced along with his Prestige in his hand, while I stood back and enjoyed the vibes, enjoying a Prestige of my own. During the last hour, we were blessed with a live performance from Steeve Valcourt, a local artist, who was good friends with Kara. By now it was well after 2 am and unbeknownst to us, our chauffeur was outside waiting, to take us back to town. We went back the way we came, on the dark moonlight road to Jacmel. The the ride was 600 gourdes each way ($10 US) and totally worth it.
The next morning, Max and Abdul met us in the lobby at 11 am. Barry and I had our final meal and drinks in Jacmel. It was off to Port au Prince.
The 2 hour mountainous, winding road through the countryside to Port-au-Prince was beautiful. Mountains and lush vegetation went as far as your eyes could see. Beautiful people walked along the side of the road in their Sunday’s best, adding accents to the green mountains with with brightly colored shirts and dresses. Old men and women took to the mountains with ease. And everyone seemed to have a bible in their hand. This was Sunday mornings in the southern countryside of Haiti.
Once we arrived in the capital, we checked-in to the Royal Oasis Hotel, which is located in Petionville, about 4 miles south of Port-au-Prince. Petionville is very different from Jacmel. It’s far more populated and metropolitan. It’s a suburb where many of the Haitian upper-class reside. The Royal Oasis rivals many hotels that you find in the U.S.; concierge, elegant restaurants, shopping, views of the entire city, huge rooms, pool, room service, shuttles to the airport and a full workout facility. You name it, they had it. Our room was much larger and more modern than room what we had at the Colin’s Hotel. As soon as we entered the room, Barry let out a loud “Wow!” He was pretty excited about our new digs.
Now that we were settled in, I thanked Max and Abdul for all their help, put some money in their pockets and they headed back to Jacmel. In usual fashion, Barry and I went out to find some food. We found a place across the street called The Backyard. It was a soccer themed sports bar, with a TV’s everywhere, world flags hanging from the ceilings and a miniature indoor soccer field, right in the center of the establishment. Of course, the World Cup was on every monitor. Like clockwork, Barry and I ordered “de Prestige” along with some chicken wings and fried plantains.
When we got back to the room, we changed into our swim gear and headed to the pool. There had been a kids pool party all day and we finally had the pool to ourselves; at least the adults did. We relaxed, had more beers and watched more world cup soccer. We weren’t the only ones enjoying. There was a group of three couples who had two bottles of Hennessy and they were all taking swigs, directly from the bottle. Barry and I looked on with intrigue, as they took down the bottles effortlessly.
By now it was night time and we had to find something to get into. After all, it was our last night in Haiti. I searched a few places on the internet, but nothing seemed to really be happening near us. So we decided to explore the neighborhood. We stumbled upon a party in which everyone was dressed exquisitely. They literally had a red carpet laid out. We walked in casually as if we belonged, but with us both wearing short pants and t-shirts, it was clear that we were out of our element. A young man with a suit approached us and informed us that it was a private party, by invite only. I can’t lie, the vibes and music was dope, but they kindly turned us away. We ended up going to a few a spots closer to the hotel. The first, an outdoor restaurant where they had a live singer, who covered songs in English, Spanish, French and Creole; rather impressive. But the vibe was dead. We finally ended the night by grabbing some good old American food at an Italian restaurant. Barry ordered a burger with fries and I orders a personal pizza (not recommended). And that was our last night in Haiti.
Musée du Panthéon National Haïtien
I woke up in the morning refreshed, but not ready to leave. There was a complimentary breakfast downstairs that ended at 10 am and I didn’t want to miss it. Barry and I went down to the fancy La Villa restaurant and grabbed breakfast. I had the Omelette Creole; scrambled eggs with sautéed onion, peppers and slices of ham, along with a cup of Haitian coffee. For the first time, I had eaten more than Barry, who simply had some coffee and fruit.
We checked out, just a little after 12 o’clock and headed for our final stop, the National History Museum in Port-au-Prince. We were on our own now and drove the rest of the way through the city. Barry was my navigator and used Google Maps to get us to our destination. Parking in Port-au-Prince was actually pretty easy. We parked right in front of the museum and walked in. Entrance was 250 gourde ($4 USD). Photos and videos are not allowed, so you have to be there to really gain an appreciation of the history.
One segment is a gallery filled with beautiful and colorful Haitian art. The other section is dedicated to preserving the the history of Haiti. It does an excellent job of beginning with the culture of the Taino people and ends with the current state of Haiti. Tours were done in English, French and of course Haitian-Creole. It was the perfect way to end our trip. Haiti continues to impress me and I am proud of my heritage. This trip really helped me to further gain an appreciation of Haiti’s role in the world and that it’s true beauty has yet to acknowledged by the mainstream culture.
Next summer, Barry and I will embark on our 6th Annual Brothers Retreat in Charleston, South Carolina. Our annual retreats have become a tradition, in which we seek fellowship, reconnection along with researching history of the African Diaspora in various cities throughout the world. More enslaved Africans were transported through Charleston, South Carolina than any other city in America. We want to explore the history of slaver in Charleston, as well as the richness and stories of the impact that Charleston has had on America. It should be a great experience and maybe our greatest journey yet. I’m excited.
Every day I stand in front of my diverse classroom intensely aware of my skin color. As the only black man teaching at my school, I am one of the 3.7 percent of New York City teachers that share my identity. This May, during Teacher Appreciation Month, I celebrated the critical impact black male educators have on the life of students who share similar experiences based on our gender, race, and life experiences. Despite the crucial impact we make, there are less black male teachers in NYC today than ten years ago. It is time for NYC, and the rest of America, to double down on recruiting, retaining, and developing excellent black male educators.
Growing up in Miami, I was one of the only black students through most of my schools and classes. Still, my teachers reflected the great diversity of my hometown – I had multiple African American, white, and Hispanic teachers of both genders throughout my K-12 education. It was these teachers that challenged and pushed me to become the learner, and later educator, that I am today.
Now, as the only black male teacher in a New York City public school, I am not just a teacher to my black boys and girls, I am a father figure, their uncle, their big brother, their mentor, and their hero. At the end of my first year in this school, a group of my black female students started to affectionately call me “Uncle” Toussaint. It has carried over into this school year. On my birthday, I found a card on my desk, signed by this group of four black girls and the card read, “Happy Birthday Uncle, you’ve done so much for us. You’re an amazing figure to have in our lives.” My connection with my students go beyond the content and test results. I look at them and see myself, 20 years ago. And in turn, I am someone they can see themselves becoming.
A study by the Institute for Labor Economics found that if a low-income black male student has a black teacher in elementary schools they are 39 percent less likely to drop out of school and more likely to attend college. These effects were even stronger when the teacher is a male or shares the gender as the students they teacher. Conversely, the media reports constantly about the disproportionately, higher rates of suspensions that black boys face in American schools. Not only are black boys susceptible to systematic racism and discrimination, but they are also susceptible to stereotypes that too often become self-fulling prophecies suffocated by dreams deferred.
In an age when our black boys are under constant attack, we must interrupt the status quo for young black male lives and the limited narrative that offer such limited options. As an educator of fifteen years, the solution I’ve seen work best is to recruit and retain black men in the teaching profession. Education is the most powerful vehicle people have to rise from humble circumstances and fight for better opportunities for their families and communities. When we recruit, support and retain black men in the crucial roles of educator, principal, counselor, or coach we provide a powerful opportunity for our young black boys. They are able to share some lessons that only a black man in American can truly pass on to a black boy; like how to survive an encounter with the police; how to code switch, how to fight with your words and not your fist, how to advocate for those like you and how to give back. This is the important difference a black male education can have on his students. It promotes a narrative that at times can seem non-existent, and makes it real, that black men can be intelligent, caring and a vital part of the development of children.
Nationwide, black men make up only 2 percent of the teachers, while half of all students are students of color. James Baldwin said, “Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.” Our children need to see black male educators, who are professional, passionate, intelligent and tangible. It is time to deeply invest in effective initiatives that develop and recruit black male educators that address this issue nationwide.
As a black male educator, I am not just a teacher to my black boys and girls, I am a father figure, an uncle, a big brother, a mentor, and their hero. They trust me. They love me. 30 years in the school system and it seems all too familiar. I look around and I am the only one. But this time, I am not the only black boy, I am the only black man.
Just be a descent human-being and use common damn sense!
When Colin Kaepernick is kneeling, he is exercising his “right” to peacefully protest. This is not a violent attack on our military or any civilians. Feelings may get hurt, but no one is in any physical danger. And yes, rich people have the right to protest too.
When openly racist members of white supremacy protest, but instead use violence to get their point across, that is not only dangerous, it is Un-American. It is the exact opposite of what our brothers and sisters in uniform or risking their lives for. It is a direct attack on American citizens. It is a direct attack on democracy. Our military fights for freedom, not oppression.
This battle for equality in America is not just for black people, gay people, women or immigrants. It’s about people. People who do bad things should be held accountable—that is all. People who use violence should be held accountable. Officials who abuse their power to oppress others, in order for their own benefit are just as guilty.
Nonetheless, I do believe in a system where white Americans have an inherit advantage; fair or not fair. That same privilege and power is what it is going to take to save our country. Who can come between a fight between two elephants?
Just like when viral youtube videos of black people acting ignorant makes all black people look bad; the same can be said for what is happening in Virginia right now. At this moment, this country needs descent, moral white Americans to openly and publicly be just as bold as the white supremacists; not just today and tomorrow, but everyday.
And to my black people. We need to continue to be good to each other; today, tomorrow and everyday.
“Moonlight” won best picture and Viola Davis won best supporting actress. No one can deny the powerful cast and brilliance of Moonlight. Having grown up in Allapattah, a neighborhood some 20 blocks south of Liberty City, where the movie was set, gives me an even deeper appreciation for the film’s accolades and accomplishments. When “Moonlight” is celebrated, everyone who grew up in Black Miami celebrates. Black Miami has never existed outside of those of us who grew up there; on the other side of the bridge. Miami has always been perceived as a one night stand between “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” and“Havana Nights.” I’m glad the cameras and stars took their talents to the hood this time; look at what they were able to create .
The beauty, grace and talent of Viola Davis is undeniable. She continues to make history as a woman of color in film, but particularly as a dark-skinned black woman. Hollywood has always had a problem with colorism. America has a problem with colorism. Hell, the black community has a problem with colorism. White or anything associated with whitenesshas always been the gold standard. So for Viola to be so successful in an industry driven by imagery and whiteness is extraordinary. With what she has had to overcome as a woman, a black woman, a dark-skinned black woman at that, might essentially make her the most talented actor that Hollywood has ever seen.
While many will see the accomplishments of “Moonlight” and Viola’s Oscar-winning performances as monumental achievements for black actors and actresses, still, I am torn. On one hand, I realize that The Oscars is Hollywood’s Super Bowl. It’s the highest honor that any director, producer, film writer or actor could ever be bestowed with. However, The Oscars still represents an old American, patriarchy. According to a report written in 2016, 94% of the members of the Academy are white (The Economist). Ironically, this same group has the power and privilege to curate what art, beauty and the black experience is, from a white male perspective. And their perspective is golden? I have to be critical under those circumstances.I am genuinely happy for all the winners and nominees nonetheless. To have your life’s work and craft celebrated among your peers and fans must be a great honor.
In the same breath, Hollywood is also just as responsible for much of the social stereotypes and misconceptions of the black experience as any other American institution. The seemingly improbable journeys of the virtually all black cast and crew of “Moonlight,”along with Viola Davis’s personal triumphs, is what makes their achievements greater than the Oscars themselves.
I shake my head at the the Oscars, for the many who were snubbed or pegged into subservient roles in order to be recognized. Black actors and actresses do not need the Oscars, if anything, the Oscars needs more diversity and representation.