Haiti Artventure Part 1 - The Good

I went to Haiti to teach perspective, but I was the one who received a new point of view.   Perspective on privilege, culture, and history.

I was invited by my friend Jessica Bodiford, Peace Corps alumna, to teach an art workshop in Haiti this past April.  I’m always down for travel and art – put the two together and boom, I’m there.  So one Go Fund Me campaign, a couple of flights, and a suitcase of art supplies, I head for Cap-Haitian. 

Flying over the Carribean was beautiful. The azure blue against the sandy bars. And then we coasted over the island with mountains in sharp contrast to the other islands. “Haiti” literally means mountains in the native Taino language. Mountains indeed! Then I saw the diamonds in the mountains, tin roofs glinting in the sunlight as we flew overhead. 

When we landed, I saw two peaks off in the distances, and I squinted at one of the hazy peaks.  I could have sworn there was a castle or type of manmade structure on the top of the mountain.  I’d later learn there was an actual castle, La Citadelle, at the summit.  More on that place to come.

My American self has already been the Carribean several times as a tourist.  From the safe distance of a tourist haunt, I’ve seen tin roof huts stacked on a Jamaican mountainside with laundry flapping in the wind. I’ve visited Bahamian tourist traps with a mild disgust for seeing Versace stores and other commercial fare. I wanted to experience local color. 

As a divine answer, Haiti was teeming with local color.  There are no big box stores nor fashion outlets. I both relished that fact that they were absent, but quietly panicked because of it. How do I do midnight snack runs?  How does one run out and get DD batteries at 10pm? I’m stuck on batteries because they were on my last minute shopping list.  And where did I go? My local 24 hour Walgreens of course.

Here’s another good part of Haiti. Haiti is saturated with black history.  Black generals. Black kings.  Black rulers.  Black people on the currency!  (They’ve got their own money, baby, their own money! – John Amos voice in Coming to America) Blacktopia.  Kind of like growing up in Atlanta (tee hee).

When La Citadelle unveiled itself as we approached, it took my breath away.  A black man, Henri Christophe, built the largest fort in the Americas in the only country founded by former black slaves.  Why am I just finding this out?!? Then indignation.  All I’ve read about in history books was an obligatory nod to Toussaint                                                                                                                                     L’Overture and the Haitian liberation.  No mention of the Citadelle, a symbol of Haitian resistance nor Henri Christophe. I was angry the the story of the oppressed didn’t have their say in my history books. That only oppression always finds it way into our narratives. I’ve been pining for a black Disney princess narrative when we’ve already had castles of our own.

It’s one thing to thing to know I was shortchanged my world history book with razor thin African history sections.  It’s one thing to know that people of African descent have far more robust narratives in the Western world than what’s been carefully curated in history books. It’s another thing to actually walk the halls of the largest fort in the Western world built by a black Haitian man. The Citadelle was just a tip of the iceberg.  

Henri Christophe went on to build his San Sousci palace near his fort. It was a refreshing motorcycle ride downhill.  Visiting both places was well worth it. Infuriating, overwhelming, and empowering all at once.

Finally, Haiti offered the simplicity of life. Every weekday the market buzzed with life. Walking  Cap-Haitian streets, I knew that this is the place where nostalgia is birthed.  Children leisurely walking home with friends, plaits and ribbons in their hair, clean uniforms, stopping at a local stall for snacks, the swept streets, people walking with their ware, the tall wrought iron arched doors, the persistent buzz of motorcycles, the green mountains stalwartly protective beyond the buildings and street.  This is the place achingly desired in the distant past.  Ahhhhhh.

(reposted from previous blogs)