Freshman year of high school I yearned— no— burned

To learn to be safe, to be loved, to be free

From fear and pain and father’s torrential reign.

Maman listened but hid when Sun called upon Rain

Chose sanity over her daughters’ soft flesh — which Rain then burned.

How is your tea, Maman? It only cost our chance to be free.

Hillary’s birthday came and I got her a book— it wasn’t free

A collection of clichéd poetry that suffocated under the reign of your Rain

When he took it to the back, lit a match, and threw it in the trash to be burned.

And as it burned, words, not me, walked free, and I watched fiery flakes of poetry fall like rain.

naked & brittle trees

stand tall against the stretched out

cotton ball clouds

a frigid & unforgiving wind

makes my cheeks flush

and my nose numb.

the fury of

my mother’s soul

seems to stem straight

from the concrete,

stabbing my feet

snaking up my bare legs like vines.

the cold glides its way to my heart

latches on with a vice grip

that leaves me gasping for breath.

still, I march away

from my childhood home,

ignoring the snow

that has begun to fall

in the middle of July.

at the end of our long corridor

adorned by spiritual imagery and Haitian art

my little sister’s door stays shut

whether she is home or not

perhaps to protect her pastoral refuge

from my father’s booming voice

and our mother’s nagging

sneak inside and you’ll find flickering lights strung up

amidst posters & pictures

& paintings under a plaque

pondering “Como se dice art?”

watercolor trees—

stains of brown-ish-watery streaks

hang above her locked windows

windex-washed but all light blocked

by heavy drapes

that never separate

but when they finally separate

or waste away

or perhaps just dissipate

she’ll find that her watercolor trees

stains of brownish-watery streaks

are simple renditions

of the rough bark of real trees;

what flickering lights are to fireflies

what her fan is to the summer breeze

what her ceramic shells are to the real deal

found by combing through the warm sand at the beach.

The merciless August sun glared down at anyone who dared to step outside. Across from where Anaïs’ father had parked, an older woman on a porch fanned herself with a paper plate. A TruFate Landscaping van was parked down the road to her left. Two men rested against it, wordlessly picking off blades of grass stuck to their skin and gulping water from a gallon they passed back and forth.

Jumping out of her father’s truck, Anaïs prayed this would be their last delivery of the day. The humidity was suffocating, and she felt as if she was moving through glue. She stopped when she found her father frozen just past the gate that led to the backyard.

“What’s up, Papa? Is the table not where you left it?” She tried to peer past him but he whipped around and grabbed her arm. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m going first.” His eyes were wide. “You stay behind me. Don’t touch anything.”

Anaïs pried his hand from her arm. In this heat, any contact was unbearable. “Why? Isn’t this just a regular pick up?”

“The people who ordered the table... they needed it for a voodoo ceremony.” “What do you mean? What ceremony?”

He sighed. “Believers hold an annual ceremony to celebrate the spirits and present

offerings. Without a spirit’s blessing, they must endure a year of death and pain.”

“That is so cool!”

“No, chérie, not cool. This is dangerous, understand?” he asked.

Anaïs nodded distractedly, eager to encounter the mystical side of her Haitian heritage. She rose on the balls of her feet to get a better look at the backyard.

“Anaïs!” He gripped her chin, eyes flashing. “I’m serious. Do not question anything. Do not touch anything. Do not even look at anything.”

“Ok, fine! God, Papa.” She pushed past him and stopped short, gaping at what her parents, devout Catholics, had refused to associate with.

The backyard was in disarray, empty liquor bottles strewn about and chunks of fried pork scattered around the neglected grass. The heat rendered the stench of alcohol and meat insufferable. Presiding over the mess was an ornate shrine that housed a statue of a woman holding a baby. Meticulously painted, it seemed out of place amongst the chaos. The woman’s robes were a deep blue and her eyes were stained an eerie vermillion, and though Anaïs certainly didn’t believe in any of this mumbo jumbo, she couldn’t ignore the goosebumps forming on her arms. She dropped her gaze to the foot of the statue and spotted hundred dollar bills mixed in with the flowers and food.

“Holy crap. What is all of this?” she asked.

“Offerings. Each spirit prefers something specific.”

“So this one wanted alcohol, fried pork, money, and flowers?”

“Wouldn’t you?” he asked, cracking a smile.

“I guess so.” She gingerly followed her father to the banquet table that was propped against a shed. “But this is such a waste of food. Do they at least drink the liquor?”

“Not all of it. If the ceremony is done correctly, the spirit possesses someone. That person becomes the physical form of the spirit for the night and is given gifts and some alcohol. Here.”

He threw her a thick towel. “You grab the bottom of the table with this. I’ll take the other side. Do not touch it with your hands.”

Anaïs did as she was told. “What happens to the rest of the money?”

“If people know about it, they come and steal it.” They began walking, balancing the large table between them.

“Well, it’s hardly stealing— they’re basically throwing the money away. And they’d be idiots to think that no one would at least try to take it.”

“It’s seen as stealing from the spirit. Besides, believers trust that every offering is protected by the spirit. It’s simple, really. If something’s stolen, the thief will be punished.”

She scoffed. “I thought you didn’t believe in all this stuff, Papa?” She let go of the table with one hand to wipe the sweat from her brow.

“You know I don’t. It’s all fake. Haitian folklore blown way out of proportion.”

Anaïs glanced pointedly at the towel. “It sure doesn’t feel that way to me.”

He let out a huff. “Anaïs, in Haiti, your grandmother made sure we didn’t mess with this stuff. She called it a perverse form of religion, and she was right. People used it as an excuse to harm others, and when someone did something wrong, they’d hold the spirits accountable rather than the person. Why should I associate with such people?”

“Jeez, I get it. I just think you’re taking this really seriously for someone who doesn’t believe.”

They were at the gate when Anaïs stopped short and swore. “Papa, I think my phone fell out of my pocket when I bent down to lift the table.”

He let out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll put the table in the truck. You have 20 seconds.”

She waited for him to turn toward the truck before darting to the shrine. Plucking three hundred dollar bills from the foot of the statue, she stuffed them into the pocket that held her phone, deliberately avoiding those disquieting red eyes, even as she insisted to herself that she wasn’t a little bitch. After all, if her father didn’t believe, why should she?

Anaïs climbed into the truck cab where he was waiting, grateful for the air conditioning. She peered out her father’s window as he fished his key from under his seat. No longer alone, the old woman stood on her porch, flanked by the two men from TruFate Landscaping. She wore gardening gloves and used large shears to deadhead the spent roses hanging from planters suspended above.

As if she could feel Anaïs’ gaze, the old woman paused and looked directly into the truck. Knowing eyes bored into Anaïs’ and she frowned at the girl, shaking her head. Before Anaïs could think, the woman’s stare of disappointment was severed by her father resurfacing with the key.

Anaïs ignored his first failed attempt at fitting the key into the ignition. The second time, she snorted at his clumsiness. The third time sparked a troubled curiosity, and she realized that his hands were trembling so much that he couldn’t control them.

“Papa? What’s wrong?”

No answer.

“Dad!”

He finally faced her, trying in vain to conceal his panic. Her hands grew cold as she stared into terrified eyes. “Dad? You’re scared, aren’t you? Being in that yard scared you.”

The money in her pocket grew unbearably warm — like it might burn through the fabric. But that was impossible; this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“Dad, you’re scaring me!” He was frozen with fear, or perhaps something much more sinister. “You said you didn’t believe, you said it was all fake! Answer me!”

A few yards behind him, the old lady resumed pruning, beheading the red roses and letting them plummet to the porch. Anaïs heard the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat in her ears, felt it mimic the tempo of the woman’s flowers falling to the wooden porch.

Professor McMasters

Creative Writing

May 5th, 2022

So, I did the assignment a bit differently.

When you first asked us to find a tree, I found one ten minutes before class started and hurriedly sketched it out before running to class. I often walked by it on campus but I didn’t really care about it as my tree. Anyways, I wrote a story about the tree but honestly, it felt kinda like lying so I scrapped it and I am trying this again.

**Insert mental image of me up at a podium, spontaneously tearing up my manufactured speech and dramatically launching into a passionate and heartfelt speech as the scraps of my index cards flutter to the stage floor**

I picked a new tree. I think it’s a cherry blossom but that’s because cherry blossoms are the only trees I know that have pink flowers. This time, I took my time walking around campus before I picked it. Then I laid out a towel and sat under it to work on a paper for another class. When I rose to leave —I was running late to pick up my boyfriend from the train station— I picked up my blue sweatshirt and shook it out before inspecting it for ants (I already hate ants and Hayley’s story didn’t help). I found one big ant right in the middle, clinging to it. I tried to use a stick to push it off but it was thoroughly stuck to the cotton.

Touching the ant was out of the question. Instead, I looked around for help. I approached two girls sitting about ten feet away from me and after awkwardly explaining my situation, they laughed and one immediately got up to help. The one still sitting cracked jokes while her friend pulled out her Hofstra ID card and knelt over the sweatshirt with me. It took us 10 minutes and two more ID cards, but we got the ant out without killing it. We laughed, I thanked them, and then we parted ways. I was a few minutes late to pick up my boyfriend, but at least I had a fun story.

My tree story signifies something about me that may never change. I will always leave my responsibilities to the last second, whether it be picking a tree, leaving on time to pick up my boyfriend from the train station, or writing a final portfolio (I willingly accept whatever charges I face for turning this in late). More importantly, however, it shows that while I’ve accepted that change is uncomfortable, I’ve learned to better deal with my discomfort. Ada Limon’s quote comes to mind: “I’m thinking about people and trees and how I wish I could be silent more, be more tree than anything else, less clumsy and loud, less crow, more cool white pine, and how it’s hard not to always want something else, not just to let the savage grass grow.” I don’t wish to be silent more, be more tree than anything else. I like being able to get up and shake out my towel and perform sweatshirt-ant separation surgery with two strangers and three Hofstra ID cards. I like the idea of moving from tree to tree, especially as I get ready to leave Hofstra. There will be pink-flowered trees (cherry blossoms??) wherever I go— I just have to survive the discomfort and make it to spring.

I’m so glad that it only took 21 years and 9 months for me to reach such a healthy place.

** Insert standing ovation. I smile out at my audience and as I leave the podium I clench my fists to hide the ink marks of my real speech on my palms. That’s right— I planned to tear up my speech all along**

Freedom comes on sunny summer saturdays

Manman is working

Papa is working

We are emerging

peeking out of stagnant sanctuaries

finally,

earthworms rise to the sweet sunny surface

free from the sopping soil stealing our breath

we come alive atop the earth

from which Sun

from which undeserved guilt and misplaced anger

are far removed

and the earthworms are finally free

to bathe in the sunlight and laughter

to listen to each others’ breath

to smile...

to sigh...

to unfurl...

to rest.

I.

in these lengthy summer months

He doesn’t deny us exercise.

we are given yard time

to sun smarting skin

and purpled limbs.

ride our bicycles

in His parking lot

but don’t fall—

we know His concrete

readily claws

at His trapped kin.

II.

her birthday came and I bought her

a book of clichéd poetry

milk and honey— nothing of substance.

He flipped through it

didn’t approve of it

told us to reconvene on the concrete.

stand around the tin can,

strike a match and track

the flames that lick letters

off the pages.

III.

too old for supervised yard time,

I go outside if I so choose.

stand in the garden,

rest my back on the wire fence,

face fractures in aging asphalt

that also appear on the three concrete walls.

spot His army of pigeons that line the ledges

standing at attention

like feathered gargoyles

that rain drops of shit

supervising my self-assigned yard time.

Agua and Manman have been cooking up a tsunami of food all morning: sòs pwa blan with white rice, chicken, griot, sweet plantains, mac and cheese, and whatever else they’ve decided to make. The aroma creeps to every corner of the house; a siren song that settles in our noses and promises the world to our tongues. Only the inexperienced make the mistake of entering the war zone.

My brother and I know better-- we watch the chaos with our noses pressed against the glass of the French door of the kitchen. Our mother and our nanny move with dizzying speed. The sink is running, now it’s not; the fridge is opened, then closed, then opened, then closed. The oven is beeping loudly, insisting it’s preheated, and the exhaust fan is on full blast. Even so, I can hear some pastor’s sermon blasting from the phone propped against a window.

“Christine!”

I jump to attention when I hear Manman call for me, worried she’s seen me smudging the glass with my nose. Thankfully, she doesn’t look angry. She points to the dining room and snaps her fingers. “Go set the table. Dinner is almost ready.”

I groan— she’s once again refrained from assigning the job to Thomas. The little twerp laughs obnoxiously.

“Sucker,” he teases. Pretending I didn’t hear him, I wait until he looks back to the kitchen to kick the soft spot behind his knee. He buckles with a yelp, and I dart to the safety of the dining room before he can recover.

I detest doing any chores that my mother insists are a woman’s job— Thomas never has to do housework. Worse, setting the table before each meal impossibly sours my mother’s cooking. Agua knows how much I hate it, and she slips out of the kitchen to help me.

“Agua, it’s okay. I can do it.”

She laughs and reaches for the placemats in my hand. Her fingers are like sticks of charcoal, dark and bony, like the rest of her. “Let me help you, petite mwen.”

I leave her to the placemats, turning to gather the utensils from the china cabinet. “Why don’t you let me do it? You’ve been cooking all day with Manman.”

“I help you because I love you.”

“But I can do it.”

“I know you can. But why shouldn’t I help you? I am the granmoun and you are the child.”

She circles the table, placing a napkin at each setting before gesturing for me to set out the utensils. I’m only quiet for a few moments.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Not yet, petite mwen, not yet.”

I sigh and finish setting the table. Done with the chore, I walk towards her, and she opens her arms, enveloping me in a familiar hug. Crushed against her gaunt frame, I inhale, drawing comfort from her baby powder-scented chest and the slight smell of pork that clings to her white house dress.

“Christine, I will help you to grow happy and strong and blessed and independent. That’s my job. You can take care of me when you’re older. Ou tande mwen, cherie mwen? You hear me?”

I nod against her chest. She holds me tighter for a second, then pulls away from me to dip a hand into one of the bottomless pockets of her house dress. A Krabby Patty gummy is visible for an instant before she pushes it into my waiting hand and glances around to ensure that no one has spotted us. I pocket the candy, elated that I don’t have to share it with Thomas.

“This is the way life works— the old care for the young until the young can care for the old. Work hard and study hard so that one day you can take care of me.” She leans down, plants a kiss on my head, and sends me back to my room to play until she calls me down to eat.

As I climb the stairs, I vow to build us a mansion to fill to the brim with Krabby Patty gummies and butterfly-patterned house dresses, and fancy house shoes that ease her back pain instead of those cheap lavender mesh slippers with flower-patterned sequins.

...

The funeral home is far too small to fit everyone who came to bid Agua farewell.

My family and I are stuck in the lobby with the others who are just arriving for the wake. Across from us stands a picture of her that I’ve never seen before. She’s young, with hair that hasn’t yet thinned out and eyes that haven’t yet blurred and reddened. She isn’t smiling in the photo, but if she was, I’m sure it’d be a beautiful grin, complete with a full set of teeth and laugh lines that disappear when she stops smiling.

I stare in confusion at the name printed beneath the portrait. Madame Noelle Magloire. I don’t recognize it.

“Manman,” I say, “how could I not have known her real name?”

“She came to us when you and Thomas were very young— Anna hadn’t even been born yet. You couldn’t pronounce Magloire. You started calling her Agua, and everyone followed.”

She squeezes my hand, raises it to her lips, and gives me a kiss. “Don’t worry. She loved the nickname.”

“O Seyè Jezi! Mwen pa kapab!” An older lady I don’t know clutches at her chest and staggers back, sobs racking her body. “Lord Jesus, I can’t!” Mom drops my hand and rushes to catch the woman before she falls, with Papa and Thomas right behind her.

I turn back to the portrait and weave through the sea of mourners to enter the viewing room, where Agua’s casket awaits. I cannot go past the back row of folding chairs.

The Krabby Patty gummy in my pocket was supposed to be a heartfelt gesture, but it feels like a joke now. Lying in a casket some twenty feet away from me is my surrogate grandmother — the woman who fed, protected, and comforted me for a decade.

I place the candy on the folding chair closest to me and make my way out of the funeral home, weaving through the sea of her other children, whom I didn’t even know existed.

...

The first few days after she left were no different from normal. Maybe I felt some mild inconvenience: Agua wasn’t there to make breakfast, and I got stuck with Manman’s unsweetened oatmeal.

I learned to drizzle honey into the bowl while her back was turned.

Agua and I spoke on the phone every few days, and sometimes she even came by to drop off some candy for us. There were no tears or screams of anguish.

Missing someone sneaks up on you. It creeps around your days like the moss that crawls along the side of our garage. Weeks went by and my body longed for her before my mind did. My heart felt too light — I’d gone too long without a bone-crushing hug.

Children are selfish— each little moment is a giant episode of their lives, and the supporting cast inevitably gets swept to the back of their minds. And then, when I got old enough to discern what was missing, life sprinted along, refusing me the chance to get my bearings.

Madame Magloire did not have any sons or daughters, but she has children all over New York. Despite every child she raised, she died in a tiny apartment in Queens, probably dreaming about the sea of mansions she was promised by every young life she touched.

Freedom comes on sunny summer saturdays

Papa is working

breaking his back

in the sweltering sun

raising tents

in clients’ yards

tackling

overhanging branches

dodging

mosquitoes and yellow caterpillars

that leak

a ghastly orange goo when popped.

Fenced

into strangers’ backyards

he arranges their outdoors for the fetes

he’ll never see

for a fee

that’ll keep him free

during the months

when the ground is frozen

and nobody expects such festivities.

Back then, I told myself that ginger tea was disgusting. Now I tell myself that it’s not so bad, especially made the way I like it.

My reasons for hating ginger tea were not unfounded. From late elementary school to my sophomore year of high school, my sisters and I were handed a shot of ginger tea each morning before the bus came. Completely homemade, spicy, and unsweetened, it was the last obstacle of a morning spent adeptly navigating our father’s barely-contained rage. The first obstacle was getting out of bed before he returned to wake us up with a belt. The second was making sure we kissed him good morning, lest we be held in contempt and have to be “taught” some “respect.”

I hated school mornings, I hated kissing him good morning, and I hated ginger tea. Looking back, I hated a lot of things when I was younger, before I could separate the tangible object or action from the fear that often accompanied it.

Papa often justified his violent behavior to us, but I think he really spoke the words aloud for himself. Here’s a rundown of the classics:

(1) I do this because I love you.

(2) This is my job as your father.

(3) Don’t call me Dad. God is your dad. I am your mentor. Listen while I teach you how to live.

All three were commonly heard on those ginger-shot mornings. It was almost comical when he would declare his love for us; picture three young girls, side by side in Catholic school uniforms, cowering in fear before an invincible figure. His feet stood planted a shoulder’s-width apart, his knees were locked, his arms were crossed over his chest, and a faded leather belt hung from his hand, still warm from its last kiss on my back.

Hating my father at such a young age would break me, so I hated things. It was a life- saving combination of resiliency and innocence. As I got older and learned to sever my perception of objects from my constant state of fear, I began to hate life, or at least the absurdity of it. I only found relief in my diaries, writing poetry and stories and drafting unseen suicide notes to each of my family members.

Now, I don’t hate as much. I haven’t got the room for it. So I try things that I hated before; things with which I was forced to engage. I take pride in my academics for myself, I play my guitar for myself, and sometimes, when I’m feeling a bit under the weather, I make a cup of ginger tea for myself. And I don’t make it from scratch and I put in a buttload of honey and I never let my father know what’s in my cup.

But I drink it.