She never talked about what had happened in Haiti. She never talked about why she left home. She did not mention her family much. As a result, I never met my maternal grandparents, my mother’s older sister or her younger brother. She had left Gros Morne, when she was in her late teens, for the Bahamas and then Miami, back in the early 1970s with my father.
Haiti had been tumultuous during most of my childhood. My parents had come to the United States to seek a better life. However, Mommy, as we all call her, never spoke of the people back home. It was as if they never existed. As if she only had us, her four children. I only saw her as my mother, not as anything else.
After more than forty years, it was time to return with her children. She wanted us to finally to meet our “other side.” Her side. I’ve been to Haiti several times, but never to visit her family, only to visit my father’s people, in Port-de-Paix. In recent years, I have also had the opportunity to work with a Brooklyn-based non-profit, that is building a school in Petit Goave, which is a town located an hour and a half southwest of Port-au-Prince. Ironically, I have visited more parts of Haiti than my mother has, and she was born and raised there.
But I had never been to Gros Morne. The place where she had grown up. And so in early September of this year, Mommy, Lisa (my sister) and I, met in Port-au- Prince. They flew in from Miami, while I flew down from Brooklyn, to meet her younger brother Charlie, at Toussaint L’Overture Airport. We then set forth on a four-hour journey by car, north, to my mother’s hometown.
I spent the next few days meeting family and friends of family, in Gros Morne, a town of about 7,000 in the Northwest region of Haiti. Gros Morne was a small but busy place. It sat between beautiful green mountains, Trois Riviere, acres upon acres of farmland and rice fields. The women went to the market to purchase fresh food and other items for the household by day, while the men were entrepreneurs and bread winners. My uncle Charlie was a barber,, farmer and landlord and had a shop in his living room. While his wife Jacqueline was a stay-at-home wife and mother. They had two children together, Sadel, 8 and Nathaline 12.
But most interestingly enough, my mother had an older sister Mirae, whom I had seldom heard my mother talk about. I knew my mother had a sister, but I did not know what she looked like, spoke like, or even how old she was. It was hard to imagine another women in the world that could resemble my mother or even act like my mother, but she did. I had discovered an entirely new family in Haiti. It was like being given a different identity. I had only seen myself as Toussaint, but I am also an Altidor.
Unfortunately, grandma and grandpa had died back in the early 2000s. I never got a chance to meet them. I would have been in college when they passed away. The story is, grandma died in ’01 and two years later, grandpa joined her. They are buried next to each other in the town cemetery, less than a five-minute walk from the home in which my mother grew up. Grandma and grandpa loved coffee. They drank it everyday. I wish they were still alive. I’d like to see if I had their traits. I’d like to hear stories about my mother as a child. I would have loved to ask them questions about our family history and how to make a marriage last for so long.
And all this time they knew about me us, They watched us grow up through the photos and audio cassettes that my mother had sent them over the decades. They knew who we were, but we knew very little of them. I still have yet to sit with my mother and ask her why. Why did you keep us apart for so long? Nonetheless, I am forever grateful for the opportunity to finally connect with my family in Gros Morne.