. Big Sak Chola, early morning in Istanbul, Turkey, 2022.
What you're about to read is real life black art.
I met Big Sak Chola in June, 2016 on my first trip to Haiti. My mother had passed away in May, just after her 79th birthday. I fell into grief and needed to get out of the states to grieve without work or distraction.
Ma was an Italian-American woman, the daughter of Veneto immigrants who came through Ellis Island in 1931 and settled in New York. Ma told me a touching story when she was alive.
'When I was about 7 or 8.' She said. ' I was out shopping with nonna (grandmother). We saw the most beautiful little black girl. I said to Ma, I said. ' I'm going to have a daughter like her one day.'
And she did. When I was a baby, she wrote a poem-letter to me, Lisa of the Moon. I kept the original, the paper now faded and old, typed on a Smith Corona she had for years. As a young adult, a Japanese butoh dancer I met, not knowing that, called me...Lisa of the Moon.
I was born under a Cancer moon on June 26th, 1967, at the source of flower power and the Summer of Love. My first show was in 1969 at a love-in in Golden Gate Park with Jefferson Airplane. The love fest turned into a riot, likely over Vietnam. A nice hippie dude helped Ma, pregnant with my sister at the time, carry me out on his shoulders.
In 2016, UN 'peacekeepers' were still in Haiti, which was a military occupation, just with a gentler-sounding noun. The UN peacekeepers were everywhere at the time, patrolling Port au Prince, Cap Haitien, beaches, and rural areas. They were there to maintain law and order. Law and order always seems to be applied to and forced upon black people. The UN withdrew them in 2019 with a diplomatic spin. They later admitted a ' peacekeepers' camp in Port au Prince was the source of a cholera outbreak in 2010 and that others on assignment had exploited people.
In Port au Prince, I stayed in a house owned by an older Haitian couple. Each morning, Madame left me two boiled eggs, a banana, a croissant, and Haitian coffee sweetened with condensed milk. I lived off that meal, and not much else, for the next four or five days.
On Madame's street, I met Benito, an old man who sat in the same spot on a crate under a tree. He looked out for me when I was on my early morning walks around the neighborhood, crisscrossing a gapped section of the block that had collapsed in the earthquake. It was like hiking through Time Enough At Last, a favorite Twilight Zone episode.
' Bonjour, Madame!'
One evening, being that he was a gentleman and he seemed alone in the world, I invited Benito out for a drink. He took me to a corner beauty salon-bar close by. We sat outside on worn plastic stools and had a few Prestige beers ( pulled from a cooler under a counter ) while a few women were getting their hair done. I looked out onto Rue Delmas, the main street, that was pulsing with kompa and human movement. Beautiful living black people, with a different sound and energy I had never experienced before and myself in the thick of it. I have a photo of Benito seated, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette as he talked to me. The poor and elegant older man.
After several days in Port au Prince, I rode a bus 7 hours through valleys and mountains to Cap Haitien on the north coast. At the time, I had a Blackberry and no idea that WhatsApp even existed. I couldn't communicate directly with my hosts, Edelin and Joz, but I knew the district I was looking for. I stopped for lunch and made my way to Nazon.
Nazon was a neighborhood of shanties and interlocked concrete block houses that zig zagged into the hills like a favela. There were no street signs or markers. It was now closer to dusk and I had to figure something else out. My French is basic enough to get around any French speaking country. I sat on a stoop to think and heard a motorcycle with a loud muffler come down the hill.
The most handsome man I had ever seen stopped in front of me. He held out a piece of paper with my name on it.
' MsLisa? ' he asked.
Oh my god. You have got to be kidding.
He seemed to get my tone and laughed. He explained in French that he was Joz's neighbor sent to find me. I got on his bike and we rode up the hill. At the tiny flat we found Edelin, a lean and tall young man, sitting on the veranda with a surprised expression on his face. Joz, a bit shorter, but with a beautiful smile, showed up shortly after. Haitians generally have beautiful teeth. I blame the bomb DNA and zero processed foods in their diet. Haitians don't eat anything from a box or frozen.
Joz spoke to me in English.
' You're a sesa?' he said. " We were looking for a white woman!' Sesa is kreyol for sister. It makes me happy when folks call me that.
I wondered, hadn't they seen my Airbnb picture? Joz's fiancé, an Iranian-American medical student in the states, managed the bookings and Joz was the in-person host. Sherry had worked in Haiti the previous year as a prenatal nurse and midwife.
Oh. This is that thing again. White girls tend to trip when we go from visibly invisible to within closer proximity to their person in reality. As a people, we have a connection between history and the future. He might disappear into the black feminine-masculine continuum. It's a subtle, low key kind of interracial relationship anxiety. My mother experienced it. I could have been anyone. I just happened to be black like everyone.
Sherry had nothing to worry about, which she later figured out. I was like an auntie to the boys, an asexual maternal figure. Sherry was devoted to her obstetrics study and women's health. We visited once when she was in the Bay, before she went on to her residency in Oahu. Joz joined Sherry in Hawaii in 2017. They got married that year and had a baby girl in 2022.
The boys explained they had never met a sister from the US before. They wanted to know what black life was like in America. Well, that would be a long and complicated thing to explain and I was tired from traveling all day. Listening to them speak was like a poetic blend of French and Yoruba patois.
Shortly after dawn the next morning, Edelin took me to La Citadelle Laferrière, a fortress built by King Henri Christophe to defend Haiti against the French. We traveled by tap tap, a Haitian taxi which is essentially a pick-up truck with people piled in the back. Most tap taps are rigged with wiring that dangle off the dashboard, parts scrapped from other trucks, or with a makeshift canopy for cover, sometimes just tarp tied down with rope. Haitians do everything by hand, even the modification of a thing. Very little is automated and wifi can be sporadic, except in hotels and restaurants with a dedicated network. WhatsApp is a part of everyday life, megabyte the slang for data credit.
After two crowded tap tap rides, Edelin and I arrived in Milot. We were mobbed by a group of moto taxi drivers for the fare up the mountain to the fortress.
' They all want to take you.' Edelin laughed.
I had no idea what they were saying, it could have been rude. ' I'll let you work that out.' I said.
Edelin negotiated with a teenage boy who smelled like musk and gardenia. We rode 3-up on his bike into the mountains. Other than Italy, it was one of the most beautiful rides I've ever been on - the hills spiraling into tropical foliage and palms above our heads.
C'est le paradis.
From the visitor's center to the fortress I rode a donkey, with a guide at the front, to the summit five miles up. Five miles uphill on a slow ass donkey in the heat like Don Quixote. Edelin followed from behind. At the top, the view was spectacular - a 360 degree vista of the North department and the Caribbean. That was why King Henri built the fortress above Milot - a strategic location to see the French battlements approach by land or sea. I was on top of the world in the past and the present at the same time.
The fortress itself is uninhabitable, but the structure is still largely intact. Canon stockpiles from the early 19th century were still in the same place. There were steps and walkways that led to chambers, catacombs, and dungeons to explore. The Citadelle was built by 20,000 Africans from stone mortar, quicklime, molasses, the blood of cows and goats used as a bonding agent.
Coming down off the mountain, Edelin rode the donkey and I walked, enchanted as I was with the landscape. We had paced ourselves to leave before dusk.
The next excursion was with Big Sak to Black Sand Beach since he had a bike and experience riding the terrain. Big Sak Chola is a nickname the boys and I gave him. It roughly translates to Big Up Chocolate. His given name is Johny Walter. He had other nicknames in is youth: Black, Johny Body when he played power forward for the Cap Haitien basketball team, and Big Man. Haitians appreciate a nickname that amplifies one's distinctive trait.
Tourists don't normally travel to Black Sand because it's remote with rough, unpaved road, and can be dangerous. It was a hard ride out there, but a place of paradise along the sea. A person can walk far out onto the reef, through turquoise water, before hitting the wall.
Along the beach, vendors sold grilled snapper caught that morning, lambi ( conch ) and plantains for a few dollars a plate. My favorite Haitian condiment is pikliz, a mix of carrot, cabbage, pepper, and onion fermented with vinegar and lime. It's delicious on any edible matter.
Big Sak ran into friends and acquaintances. He was known for his work as an electrician and builder. He has the mind of an engineer and can do a variety of projects - set tile, lay concrete, fix a generator, a motorcycle, install plumbing, or an electrical system. I once showed him a schematic of a standard American 220V electrical circuit and he was fascinated by it. One day he'll master that too.
Haiti is one of the most beautiful countries I've seen, but it is a dysfunctional place. People have to fend for themselves. There are no social services, food is scarce, and much of the land has been deforested for wood charcoal. Looking at a satellite image of Hispaniola, the Dominican side is green and the Haitian side, a stark gray contrast. Utilities are free in most districts, but after sunset, the electrical grid goes down for hours into deep darkness. Blackouts would go on for longer stretches at a time on each of my trips there. Then it's life by candlelight or one's phone flashlight.
There is no protection for girls and women in Haiti and no womanist theory. It's a traditionally patriarchal society where the men are labor and women are homemakers, vendors, teachers, or mothers. The people carry themselves differently than we do in the states. They have a deportment of dignity and elegance about them. A friend in Miami told me that culturally Nigerians are more similar to Haitians than black Americans.
That's what it was. Somehow the Haitian people, despite slavery, capitalism, and bilateral politics had maintained their African-ness.
Wherever we went, Big Sak's presence conveyed peace and guardianship. I've only heard him flash once and that was in İstanbul to an asshole factory boss. It was an experience riding with him through Cap Haitien at night; slingshot into an African future-past portal through darkness and fragments of light. The dim headlights of diesel trucks, bonfires, the sound clash of kompa and reggae, the silhouettes of people criss-crossing the street. In his 12 years of riding in such chaotic conditions, Big Sak never had a single accident.
' Move!' This was his way of telling me to shift my balance on the bike. He swerved around throngs people I couldn't see into the all black everything. I held on tighter.
'Gauche!' Left
I adjusted and he turned at top speed.
'Avant!' Forward.
I would adjust my weight again.
'Yess!" He instinctively knew any obstacle and potential danger. I could only make out silhouettes: women with baskets atop their heads, wheezing diesel trucks, men hauling pushcarts, and honking, wheezing tap taps going in every direction. No one wears riding helmets in Haiti.
'A bas!' Down.
That meant scoot back. Riding with someone is just psychics in relation to one another. Black bodies in motion through space.
Good! Thumbs up.
He down-shifted and we turned right on to the unpaved road to his uncle Francois' house. Another right and he pulled up to the front gate. He gestured for me to get off.
' Dammm!' we said, almost simultaneously. We both took a deep breath. This dude right here is a maximum badass.
' I have my capacity and control, cheri.' he said. ' I don't play.'
Big Sak knew some rough people in the streets. We call it ghetto system. One kid, maybe about 25, was like a hip hop kompa rockstar. He wore flashy chains, his jeans low slung, and dark sleek shades, so no one could see into his eyes. He was usually in the same area, behind his shades, talking shit, and directing others like a conductor. The street was like a stage to him. I wondered what life was like for him outside of that and without an audience?
He called me la bel famn mulate, which I thought was charming. What a character he was. Mulate (mulatto) is not a derogatory term in Haiti because a lot of Haitians are of mixed ancestry; kompa stars, actors, politicians, and revolutionaries through its history. Erzulie, a goddess in the voodoo pantheon, is often depicted as a mixed woman in art and literature. She represents love, beauty, adornment, and flowers. She wears three rings, symbolic of her three husbands. Erzulie is busy.
Big Sak had other friends, men with hard, sad faces who hung out on the corner or near the central plaza and drank.
The harder Haitians drink clairin, a Haitian moonshine made from fermented sugar that can be lethal when it's made with ethanol. People had died from drinking bad batches. I was struggling with a bug as my immune system adjusted to the environment. Our friend Denny, an older dude who operated a BBQ stand in the ghetto, had spent time in the states where his children were in college. Denny brewed his own clairin without ethanol. I had an idea. I smelled Denny's homemade clairin ( knowing ethanol is odorless ) and tried a few shots. He added star anise to give it a hint of licorice-pepper. Clairin is so strong, with such a high alcohol content, I was buzzed immediately. Within a few hours whatever bug I had was gone.
' Cheri, how do you know that?' Big Sak asked me later.
' Science!'
One time, Big Sak had a gnarly dry patch on his backside. Between project gigs, he drove his moto taxi 10 - 15 hours a day, 6 days a week. The friction from sitting for extended periods had irritated his skin. Being a California earth mama who ran with the coyotes as a child, I always have a remedy for one thing or another. Calendula and coconut hemp for a few days fixed his ass right up.
' Baby, how do you know to do that?' he asked.
' Nature!'
Big Sak's drink of choice was Guinness, which reminds me of the Irish - great literature, passionate, and rowdy. The blackest people in Europe. Like his father, Pierre, the drink is Big Sak's kryptonite. He's not an aggressive drunk, but a jovial, blah blah with the ka ka ka drunk. Others would tease him, ' Bro, ou pale twop!'
Haitians borrowed the slang ' bro' from the US. Another is ' Damn, man.' said in English. They never use 'niggah' with an -ah or the hard -er, which sounds ridiculous to them. Edelin asked me if that word that came from the Americans?
' Yes.' I said.
After experiencing his flow and ghetto system antics, Big Sak and I had a heart to heart. The destructive forces and traps set before the men and the women are the same everywhere. Big Sak, wake up!
' Ecoutez, mon cher.' I said. ' Stop drinking and get out of the streets. You're a gentleman and a professional with a family. You should be at home.' I understood it was avoidance and a kind of despair he was going through. He had been living with such struggle and misery, he once tried to drown himself in the sea. A kind person saved him and encouraged him not to give up. As long as a person is alive, the possibility to change exists. In death, there's no possibility for anything.
On one trip, I had a vision-dream. I saw Big Sak in the jungle, under the moonlight, wrestling a black python. Blood splattered in every direction. He was losing to the python, but he was determined to fight back.
I opened my eyes.
" Big Sak Chola, wake up! You have to get out or you won't survive.'
In 2016, on my first trip, after days of excursions and hanging out, Big Sak asked me if I wanted to have sex with him. I assumed that would be a transactional thing.
' No.' I said ' I'm not with you.' At the time my response surprised him because, he said, no woman had ever refused him.
I’ve never been a dater or a hook-up person, even when I was young. Although I value and express black radical thought, romantically I'm a square and a relationship-ist. Friends dating stories seemed wrought with anxiety and disappointment; an American convention mostly directed at women in pursuit of marriage. If a social construct doesn't make sense or interest me, I won't do it.
Dating is highly favored and goal oriented in the black church community.
Generational respectability can be yours for only $65k on a wedding you can't afford to put on Instagram. Bask in the haterade of all your baby mama girlfriends, cousins, and coworkers! Black Excellence payment plan options available. Dress code and experience with the Cupid Shuffle required to attend. No parking or fighting on the dance floor! Childcare provided for an additional fee. No discounts! No checks! God never fails, but you sure will, sister, without those two last names! Don't be a bulldagger! Your church fam is judging you at all times and we want receipts!
In conversations with Big Sak, I learned he was a thoughtful and charming man. At the time he was 33 and I was 49. Latin American, Mexican, and Caribbean people don't trip on the older woman and younger man dynamic. Outside of the US, I've never heard a corny or derogatory descriptor applied to such relationships. That's American patriarchal nonsense; dismissive of the older woman who has domain over her own head, who is loved.
After a long day at Cormier la Plage an hour away, we returned to Cap Haitien. Big Sak took me to a small hotel near the boulevard. It looked like a sex hotel decorated with red, blue, and pink lights strung along its façade.
Where I'm from, in such a situation, my people would say: Homie right here is straight trippin.
I cursed him out in French. ' No. I'm a fucking lady not a prostitute! '
He apologized earnestly and said he just wanted to talk. Later that night, we returned to the flat at Nazon. He wouldn't leave and seemed anxious, as though he was in need of something.
‘ Here I am.’ he said in English.
No American man had ever said such a thing to me. Big Sak was vulnerable and genuine in that moment. Like someone offering the whole of himself. This time, I considered it.
And away we go....
Well, we didn’t get much farther than that. We sure didn't. Within minutes, Big Sak's wife Harriet came up the side of the building cussing him out in a rage. She had been clocking us each day we went out. I met Harriet once at their house, but rarely saw her around the neighborhood. She had been checking me when I sat outside with my morning coffee, listening to the roosters, and sermons from bull horns mounted on trucks ( it's like a mobile ministry ). Haitians may not have much, but they do have a strong faith.
Big Sak and I stopped cold. Skreech! Abort! Oh shit! I'm good at the fight or flight response, whichever is the most efficient and effective option in the moment.
Harriet came around to the front on the street side, cussing Big Sak out. He was quiet and didn't engage with her. She was, as we say, putting her shit, his shit, and my shit in the street. Rosita, a young sis who lived in a shanty next door, and her girlfriend, posted up at the front gate. They were cool in the face of Harriet's drama and didn't flinch; their voices calm and reasonable. Harriet could not pass.
As Ma would say, this was quite a dicey situation. Neighbors came out onto the street to see what all the ruckus was about. Harriet turned and went back down the hill to their house. Big Sak followed, yelling at everyone to go home, and went to a friend's house. Rosita came inside and closed the door behind her. I paced around the front room in a state of agida, the Italian word for anxiety. Rosita was a pretty sister in her late 20s. She spoke to me in French:
‘ They’ve had problems for a long time,’ she said, ‘ But you’re finished here.' she said. ‘ You have to go.’
' Fuck!' I said in my Northern Californian, East Bay tone. Where could I go in the pitch black of night in Haiti? There were no cops, no help, and no embassy in that part of the country.
‘ Please, call Edelin and Joz right now! ' I said.
She messaged the boys who were staying at Edelin’s place in La Banane, a district about 10 minutes away from Nazon. When they got Rosita's call, they dressed and ran straight from La Banane to Nazon. Being as young and fit as they were, they weren’t even winded when they came to the door. Edelin and Joz sat down.
As we listened to Harriet carrying on down the street, they got the story from Rosita, and stayed the night. We could hear Esther, Big Sak’s mama, who lived with them, get in the mix. The boys translated for me: Why are you acting so crazy? She brought food for the family! You always give a problem! You need to relax! Get another boy! He can choose her if he wants!
The concept of choice is a big deal within Haitian thought. How they define and express choice is very Africanist and changed my thinking. Anyone has a choice and no one can control or change the choice of another. Yon moun kapab selman aksepte. A person can only accept. Haiti is a different kind of African-centered country in the Americas. They are the descendants of Ibo, a mythical, original African. American capitalism has affected Haiti, but American cultural values and belief systems have not. They call the fascist goon Le Trompe, which means the deceiver in French.
We are not American, we are not British, and we are not French. We are Haitian. - Jean Dominique, Radio Haiti-Inter journalist and activist.
Harriet and Big Sak got together when he was 24 and she was 27. She had gotten pregnant by another man ( David's biological father ). Big Sak cared for her and married Harriet because he didn't want her to suffer as an unmarried baby mama, a shameful thing within Haitian society. Big Sak also wanted David to have a proper name. His family didn't approve of Harriet and rejected them. Without his family's support, land, and resources, he and Harriet had to fend for themselves through poverty, instability, and misery. Lacking context to the imperialist and capitalist forces that impacted their lives, she put the responsibility of their suffering on to Big Sak. He wasn't trying hard enough or doing enough.
Big Sak started to stay away from the house, to hang out, and work. He retreated to the streets with his homies, to his favorite beach or hike through the hills to meditate in solitude. Not knowing much about different spiritual practices, he explained to me how he breathes to stay calm in the face of struggle. No stress. Full peace.
He tells me that every time I lose my shit living in America.
' Baby, cool. You have your control. Full peace.'
Big Sak would return home from time to time to sleep or with money for the family. At times he slept on his bike in the street, in spots where moto drivers huddle waiting for early morning commuters.
Haitian disagreements can be melodramatic; like word art without physical confrontation. People think Haitians sound angry, but it's just the expressive way they communicate, full of allusion and metaphor.
Your betrayal is my death! I will die without your love! If you have no respect for me, I will die! Why do I give you my respect for no reason?! Are you trying to kill me?! This doesn't make sense to me, my friend! Why do you give me problem? Bondye will find you, your family, your goat, your cow, your bread, and avenge my spirit!
Bondye is kreyol for God or literally, good God.
Later into the night, things simmered down. Edelin and Joz were protection energy. I was afraid of Harriet and Harriet was afraid of them. In their world, since the boys spoke English and hosted foreigners, they had a degree of privilege and respect in their community. They were chill while I sat there internally freaking out. I needed to connect with someone from home. As the boys' conversation with Rosita went on, I text Irma, the homie since 9th grade. Since I was traveling alone, I checked in with her from time to time.
text: Girl, I’m in trouble. I fucked up!
text: Did you start some shit in Haiti? Is it that fine ass chocolate? Are you crazy?! You know how black people are!
As a people, we describe one another in color because we are the spectrum of color: chocolate, honey, redbone, high yellow, cocoa, etc. Big Sak is chocolat (chocolate) and I'm miel (honey).
text: The boys just got here and posted up. I don't know what to do. Shit.
text: It's like that? Daaaam. Take a deep breath. Leave in the morning and find another spot. Text me so I know where you are. Everything will be alright!
We all say daaaaam in that way, written or spoken. It's a tonal slang, the Bay Area version of wow.
text: Will do. Thank you, love.
I didn't sleep much that night. Edelin and Joz slept in the bed next to me. I felt roaches zig zag across my arms and legs in the dark. In Haiti, roaches are like Paleolithic research that swarm into dark and damp spaces. The next morning, I hustled to pack my things. Joz left early and returned to Edelin's place in La Banane. Edelin stayed to help me out.
" No stress, miss.' he said. ' She is no problem for you.'
Edelin was young and still had a lot to learn about the nature of women.
‘ I have to leave.’ I said. ‘Respect. Do you know a good place where I can stay? '
That morning Nazon was relatively chill, except for a few children playing in the street. Edelin took me to Hotel Laurier, a remodeled colonial mansion up in the hills owned by a French couple. To get to Laurier was a steep uphill incline; a strenuous hike in the heat and humidity. It was a beautiful place with an open atrium dining room, and a veranda that overlooked a garden view of Cap Haitien and the sea.
Edelin waited as I booked a room and I bought him dinner as a thank you. Laurier had a chef, a Haitian woman whose French-creole cooking was bananas. Laurier also had security, men armed with Berettas and rifles, patrolling the grounds and at the front entrance.
Edelin stayed with me at Laurier until around dusk. Haiti can be dangerous, even more so at night. Thieves, thugs, and traffickers come out like creeps on patrol, looking for an opportunity and the vulnerable. Haitians can be superstitious of the dark and barricade themselves inside ( and anything left outside ) at night.
Big Sak had asked Edelin for his help. He wanted to talk to me and asked Edelin to translate. I would learn later that something had happened to Big Sak that changed him. The three of us met at Kokiaj cafe on the boulevard.
‘ We can continue,’ Big Sak said. ‘ Please. I am for you.’
In kreyol that is expressed as Mwen pou ou. It's a succinct way of a person offering themselves to another. This baffled me, but he was serious. You can always tell when a man is. I had come there to grieve by the sea. I was just a sad person who had changed without my mother in the world.
I suppose something about Big Sak was different. He seemed to intuitively understand me, he enjoyed my presence, was protective and caring. Whenever I tell him how beautiful he is, he always gives me the same response:
' For you.'
What does that mean?! For you? Whatever, dude. I'm too cynical for all that.
Maybe he knew something I hadn't figured out yet. We agreed to meet at Laurier later that evening.
After dinner, Edelin went home to La Banane. In my room, I laid in bed listening to music with the door open, looking out onto the lush hillside dotted with shanties and little fires as the sun went down.
Wait. This is a dream, right?
I heard the rumble of Big Sak’s moto coming up the hill. He came to my room quietly. I felt like an oompa loompa in his presence. I'm not necessarily attracted to giants, I just think their stature is interesting in three dimensional space. What I attach myself to is the person, their character. He did a startling thing that night at Laurier where he placed my hand on his heart. What are you doing? Why are you doing that? Who are you?
Several days later, I took the bus back to Port au Prince for my flight to Panama. I slept in the airport and caught a flight home the next morning. I tend to travel like that, similar to a gonzo journalist. It's interesting to me. I never daydreamed about being a wife. I dreamed about being an adventurer and a Jedi - like the characters I adored in books and movies who were all white. How cool would that be - black girls and women as Jedis and one-eyed jacks? Damn right! America told me I could be poor, black, a mother, a wife, or in obedient service and labor to others. I gave America the middle finger and went out into the world. The only thing I had to do to get started was read and see myself in those stories. Now, I write my own.
Now that I’m tasting it… freedom… Like I’ve never known before, I see what I was robbed of back then. All those years, I thought I had everything I ever wanted, only to come here and discover that all I ever was was the exact kind of Negro woman white folks wanted me to be. I feel like they just found a smart way to lynch me without me noticing the noose. – Hippolyta Freeman, Lovecraft Country
I am not afraid to tell you. I am more advanced than white supremacy could ever imagine. Most Americans speak one language. I speak five. They are afraid of black people. I love black people. I love myself.
I came home in a bewildered, sleep deprived state. Images of Haiti and Big Sak layered into my dreams. He called and messaged me each day and sent me pictures of himself in tears.
Tears? C'mon, man. The only thing that makes me cry are The Color Purple and Son of Godzilla.
‘ Please come back!’ he said. ‘ You are my heart. You can show me how to live.’
I went back to Haiti and then a year later I moved to Miami to be closer to him, and went back to Haiti again. After a few years there, I had to return home to California to help Pops out of another bad situation. I've been the rescuer and regulator to the Old Man a few times.
As a people, Haitians can have an ideation of American prosperity, not its culture. Haitians have no interest in assimilating; they love being Haitian. To elder generations in rural areas, white people are ghosts who bring bad energy and death; a belief system that goes back to the colonial period.
Pierre, Big Sak's father, became a US resident around 2017. He had been through Papa Doc, Baby Doc, and the US-backed coup that exiled Jean Paul Aristide. Pierre built three houses between Cap Haitien and Limonad, where Big Sak was born. I was in awe of the molding design he did in the Limonad house; all done by hand and in perfect symmetry.
Pierre owns acres of land in Haiti and bought a house in North Carolina about a year ago. He petitioned for Big Sak through the Biden-Harris amnesty visa and his application was approved. So we wait while Haiti goes through it yet again. The instability there is mostly centered around Port au Prince. Cap Haitien is chill, but instability tends to reverberate in pockets throughout the country, disrupting one's daily life and existence.
Over time Harriet and I made our peace. During one visit, one of the twins got sick. We met her at a church clinic outside of Cap Haitien, across from Bois Caiman, an historical site where the revolution began. Duppy, a Jamaican hogan, led the ceremony there that inspired the slaves to revolt. I wondered, is Marley's song Duppy the Conqueror about him? I read the lyrics and it certainly was.
We are a people in free fall looking for one another. - Arthur Jafa, Visual artist and cinematographer
I brought several water pouches to the clinic for us to drink. Harriet approached me and I stepped back defensively. Then she leaned towards me and... kissed my cheek.
Wait. What?!
I paid for the clinic visit that day so they didn't have to fret over it. Every little bit helps, as they say. Maybe Harriet appreciated the gesture. Maybe as black women we have the capacity for reconciliation because we’re not a threat to one another. Harriet and I are from different worlds, but we're in the same boat. There was a shift between the three of us that day in the clinic. I don't bring harm anywhere with me, just a righteous heart. If I accept Big Sak, I accept Harriet, and their children. She is, like me, a good woman in a hard place.
On a trip during the Christmas holiday, I stayed at Hotel Philomen on the main street into Cap Haitien from the south. I had a basic room without AC, a pipe sticking out of the shower wall, and gnarly mosquitoes, but it was cheap. There was a bar downstairs where Big Sak and I had drinks. I gave him a lavender-pink Star Wars t-shirt and denim jeans that were a perfect length for his height. He is quite the babe in lavender-pink. Every person on earth has their color.
At one point, he went to the restroom. In his absence, a man approached me with a proposition. Big Sak returned and I watched him, lean down towards the shorter man, and coolly shut him down. I don’t know what he said, but he put that cat in check.
He sat back down at the bar with me. ‘ He is stupid.’ he said, sucking his teeth. ‘ They think you are bouzen Dominigue. I don’t want you stay. It's not safe.'
Philomen was a sex hotel for Dominican women and their clients. I can be mistaken for Dominican and therefore, other men in the bar assumed I was a heaux. I'm familiar with this, within the context of the perception of her through history and popular culture. The mixed woman in America was usually depicted as an object of desire or a tragic figure who dies for the sin of being black. Resented by white women, wanted by white men, embraced by her people who loved her, but could not protect her. She had to learn to protect herself.
After Philomen, Big Sak engineered my stay with relatives in Kiteyo about 5 minutes away. I was fine with this arrangement. I wasn't afraid of Philomen as much as I was suffering the mosquitoes, which were eating my life.
Years before, Big Sak's Uncle Francois had immigrated to Boston. Over time he sent money to his family to build a two-story house in Kiteyo with an enclosed courtyard garden and big back lot. Jean-Jean, Big Sak's cousin, bred aggressive Chows in the lot. The cuddly and cute Chow are a protective breed. It would be like getting your ass kicked by a ferocious Winnie the Pooh.
Out of appreciation to his uncle, Big Sak laid tile at the upper level of the house and did some repairs. I watched him work with power tools for the first time; amazed at how accurate he was in his measurements and cuts. Big Sak is quite a skilled artizan - straight up.
Jean-Jean, his aunt Tet Marie, and her two daughters shared the house in Kiteyo. Tet Marie had sent her husband away some years before. She never said much about him, but simply gestured that he was over there. She ran the house and functioned like the family matriarch. She knew everything going on in the neighborhood. Everyone gave her respect; a woman of providence. My most peaceful moments in that house were in the early morning with the sunrise. I would lay in bed and listen to Tet Marie bathe herself at the side of the house, with a bucket and rinsing cup, while she sang beautiful, sensual hymns in French.
I found a portrait of Francois and noticed he and Big Sak had a shared genetic trait - amber eyes rimmed in green and indigo. This is a mutation called heterochromia. Big Sak's eyes shimmer when light is reflected or change from light to dark amber, relative to his mood.
' Yes, I have the colors like my ton ton, baby.' He said. Ton ton is kreyol for uncle.
In late 2021, around Christmas, I received a message from a foreign number. It was a photo of Big Sak in İstanbul.
İstanbul?!
Big Sak had migrated there with several other Haitians in search of work opportunity. Not many countries have open immigration with Haiti; for fear of a black exodus. Before inflation hit, Turkey was going through a manufacturing boom and in need of labor. Then reality set in that Turkey, like the world, can be racist and exploitative. He was scammed out of his residence card that would have given him access to better paying work. Big Sak worked 12 hours a day, 6 days a week in a denim factory making the lira equivalent to $400.00 a month.
We talked for a few months and I decided to visit and see where he's at. I was planning to go to Thailand, then changed my mind. By that point, we hadn't seen one another in four years, since my last trip in 2018. After that Haiti unravelled into civil unrest with fire and road blocks after Jovenel Moise, the Haitian president, was assassinated by mercenaries.
I noticed that Big Sak had changed, become more mature. He was so happy I was there. We had long talks about life experience, the time we met and an American man I had affection for, but had never touched. Even if I offered love to others, Big Sak was the only man I had been with since 2016; the realm of the body we call Kick the Door.
'Who is the boy? Are you trying to kill me?! Without you my life en-den!'
Haitian histrionics 101.
Big Sak, Joanem and I went to a shopping district to get Big Sak a cell phone. Since most of his earnings went to rent, food, and his children, Pierre sent him $200USD for a new phone. He gave the cash to me. I usually hold his money when we're out and about. ' You are the bank, baby. You have the good sense.'
As he and Joanem browsed the shop selection, I tried to catch a disco nap in a waiting area.
' Baby, wake up! ' He gestured to the front counter. 'Go pay!'
That was a mistake. Five...four.....three....two....
' What the fuck did you just say to me?! Have you lost your damn mind?! You don't talk to me like that! '
Every Turk in the shop, got struck with a look of dismay - English?!
' Fuck this!' I walked out and Big Sak followed.
Out on the street I cussed him out some more, a mix of East Bay shit with kreyol shit.
' Man, you got me fucked up talking to me like some trick ass pimp! Mwen pa jwete avek sa! Ou se vulgar! I'll get the fuck out and go to Paris! ' My gestures are indicative of where I'm from - all elbows and hands, swinging a bat, casting off nonsense one has no patience for.
' Baby, tanpri. Mwen regret pou sa. Forgive me!'
We sat on the curb at the bus stop and I mad cried. I was so tired and set off by his manner and tone. I have zero tolerance for ill communication towards women, myself and others. If a man dares, it pulls a trigger in my brain. I will fight you. I am not having it.
' You can't treat me like that.' I sobbed. ' I will not allow it.'
' Baby, listen...listen. I was stupid for that. I have stress, Turkish bullshit system. I am sorry....please.'
When we returned to Star Towers, Joanem took Big Sak aside.
' Your wife is upset.' Joanem said. ' Listen to her, man. She has her reason.' Even Haitians in their 20s tend to sound like old men. During the reconciliation process, we worked our shit out.
' Baby, that will never happen again. I promise you. If I make a mistake - tell me. '
My first week in İstanbul I stayed with Big Sak and his compadres, Joanem, Fabiane, and Jerry.
Jerry? As in Garcia or Springer? He must be the only Haitian on earth with that name. They shared a basement apartment in the Esenyurt district of the city, near Star Towers, a high rise apartment building. In the flat they shared, there was no natural light, sketchy wiring that popped at fixtures, no refrigeration, or hot water. Big Sak had to rig a valve at a pipe main for me to bathe. Esenyurt was a working class immigrant community where I didn't see one American or European in that part of the city.
He had a window in his room that opened out onto a retaining wall. They also had a flea problem, which unfortunately became my problem. The hardest thing for me to cope with when I travel are the bugs. The worst bug problem we have in California are ants; the state being basic with entomology. If I could, I'd eradicate all biting and burrowing bugs by fire for humankind.
Within a week, my adaptation to Big Sak's migrant experience started to break down. I don't need much on my holiday, really. A clean bed, hot water, zero fleas and mosquitoes accommodation preferred. I don't travel to resorts or on cruises, the former being the equivalent to an American entertainment-shopping mall on a boat. No thank you!
We rented a studio loft in Beyoğlu, within walking distance to the Bosphorus, Pera district, and Galata Tower. We had an awesome time exploring that part of the city. We visited the Pera Museum, Topaki Palace, a ferry along the Bosphorus, and the glamorous Orient Hotel ( I love vintage hotel architecture, like places frozen in time ), and long walks along the İstiklal promenade. A terrorist bomb was set off in İstiklal in November, 2022. After that, a massive earthquake centered in Ankara at the southern border to Syria, killed thousands of people. Big Sak was out running early that morning in Esenyurt. He could hear the earth rumble and the sound of buildings creak and sway on their foundation. He shared videos of the bombing and earthquake, a few quite graphic, that passed between the Haitians and the Turks. I didn't share those videos forward out of respect for the dead.
My ritual each morning and evening in İstanbul was to sit outside and listen to the adhan. It's called the call to prayer in English and my favorite tradition of Islam. At dawn and dusk, from speakers mounted on minarets around the city, the voice of a muadhan chants the adhan. I had heard different recordings, but this didn't compare to being surrounded by the sound in reality.
The word adhan means to listen in Arabic.
At the Blue Mosque, we heard the muezzin chant from the Qu'ran. I heard how spectacular the mosque is; a wonder of Ottoman architecture and design built in 1609. It is an ornate palace of gold and cobalt blue that reverberates with humanity. The acoustics are a spectacle of surround sound between people in prayer and the chant of the muezzin.
Allah Akbar. God is great. Yes, she is.
Like Tikal and Lake Atitlan, and Il Duomo in Florence, the Blue Mosque is one of the most breathtaking places I have ever seen.
In the streets young men did a Middle Eastern folk dance called the halay. We were there during Ramadan so people fasted, worked and socialized until time for prayer and reflection at dusk. Men dance the halay in a line, arms up, holding hands and move in one direction twisting, squatting, and up right to the music. The lead dancer holds a baton that he twirls at the same time. The line is never broken for the duration of a halay. The dancers stay connected like a single unit.
There was a UFEA women's soccer match one night and Turkey won. The streets and the Otoyol 1, the main highway through the city, were packed with cars adorned with disco lights, Turkish pop and horns blasting, squads of fans draped in the flag in celebration. It was quite a spectacle.
Big Sak loves soccer and basketball. He played power forward before marriage and parenting. For him, that position makes sense to me given his reach is massive. No one could get the ball from him. I learned basketball playing with Pops when I was a kid. It is a game that black men dominate. Big Sak's favorite player is Keith Garrett of the Celtics. For that, I gave him shit.
' What?! Fuck the Celtics! Dubs all day! ' This gave him insight into where my regional allegiance lay.
Big Sak cracked up. We once played one on one in Cap Haitien. Even dialing it way down, since I'm not a player, he killed it. He's all offense. I had no chance. That's it. I quit. Fuck it!
The Turks adore lighting and dazzling illumination. Shops that cater to the young and hip are like an immersive Eurovision experience. The one fashion trend that isn't permitted in Turkish culture is the crop top. I'm not mad - the crop top is the trash of shirts. I think halter tops are more chic; a bit of mystery and sensuality. Young men with jet black pompadour fades, neatly groomed beards, wore Moncler activewear like Drake. Older men were either metrosexual Mediterranean babes ( nice to look at, but ready-made for soap operas or gay porn ) or Turkish mafia in dark, dusty clothes. The old men would play cards and sip coffee and chai for hours in men only social clubs.
There are not many girls and women in the streets, and only in small groups. Since many wear hijabs or burkas, they put emphasis on their eye make-up; black kohl and gradient shadows complimentary to their hijabs and skin tones. The Turk, Kurdish, and Afghan gypsies in the region are beautiful women.
The stray dogs and cats fascinated me, too. The dogs are big like Kurdish sheep dogs and usually move in packs, but are pretty docile. One evening, I was sitting on the stoop of the building in Beyoğlu listening to the adhan while Big Sak was asleep. Out of the darkness, a large pack of dogs came running from around a side street towards me. Startled, I stood up and backed up to the front door.
' What the fuck?! '
One dog paused for a moment, waiting to determine which direction the pack would move. In fluid motion, like a unit, they turned left towards Pera and he followed at the rear. The pack disappeared farther up the street. What a stunning sight and sound that moment was.
Stray cats are an adored presence; sleeping in the metro, in markets, cafes, under buildings, on rooftops, in shops, and abandoned places. I watched a young girl try to coax a tiny gray kitten out of its hiding place from a hole at the base of a building. The kitten came closer, a bit curious, the girl reached out, and the kitten scampered back into its hiding place.
It's a hard world for little things. - Rachel Cooper, The Night of the Hunter.
In Istanbul Big Sak and I were often mistaken for Africans from Senegal or Cote d'Ivoire, and Ethiopia. I get this in the Bay where we have a large Ethiopian community. People ask if I'm from the Habesha tribe, mixed people, from the highlands. Once crossing the Galata bridge, a very drunk gypsy got in Big Sak's face.
' Arabe! Africain! ' she shouted, as though he was some kind of revelation.
Big Sak was startled, but polite. ' Nooo...' he said, shaking his head.
" The best pick-up move of all time! ' I do have jokes. I call myself the mixed Seinfeld.
I'm not threatened by the attention Big Sak attracts. He's a strikingly good-looking man, otherworldly. Jealousy is just a trivial, fearful thing and not my nature. I don't even know how to be jealous. I trust him because he's shown me he can be trusted. We both value intimacy and love more than the hook-up or attention.
Big Sak shared a story about two Americans, Natalie and Ashley, Joz and Sherry's guests, several months before me in 2016. They hired Big Sak as their private moto taxi and security. After a few days, Natalie and Ashley made their move, enticing Big Sak to join them as they made out in front of him. He declined.
' Bouzen system.' Big Sak said. ' I don't play with that bullshit, man. '
Bouzen is kreyol slang for prostitute, bou- comes from bouche or the mouth.
What he didn't have the English vocabulary for is racist fetishization. Natalie and Ashley were on an Eat Pray Love sex tourist trip, flexing their power. I had a deeper love and respect for Big Sak after hearing that story. He knows who he is.
In my experience, the cruelest most petty people in America have been white women, even where I grew up. The black man is an object of desire and BLM. The black woman is competition or the help. I was fetishized at Harbon Hot Springs, a favorite natural spot in Sonoma. I had to stop going out there after getting in a squabble with a naked dude in a hot pool. I grew up with the kumbaya, but I don't speak the kumbaya. I speak ' I will burn this motherfucker down with you in it if you don't get up out my face.'
California is a beautiful place, but it can be predictably American, just with a different vocabulary.
' I've never really trusted white people, not really. They want what they want and they'll throw us under the bus to get it. It's always been like that, darlin. You protect yourself and you'll be just fine. ' - Miss Anita, Houston, Texas.
Big Sak and I have awesome conversations about all manner of things: philosophy, politics, art, history, and languages. We vacillate between kreyol, French, and English. Maybe that is what we have always been; a connection beyond this place, found accidentally in the world. I love being in the world.
' Who makes the good money US, cheri? ' Big Sak asked over dinner.
' Oh...the Federal Reserve sets the valuation of US currency and the US Treasury prints it for circulation and trade.'
' You answer fastly! How do you know that? '
' I read and study. As a citizen, I think it's important to understand how American systems function, particularly the racist and capitalist ones. The most dangerous thing in the world is a black person capable of critical thought. '
' You have full power and a good sense, baby.'
Full power is Big Sak's metaphor for self-awareness. The word control is his metaphor for emotional regulation.
We talked about the deficit to Haiti's economy, the devaluation of its currency and GDP. He never had access to political analysis and economics in his country. Haitians will never get out from under the economic oppression incurred through their revolt. Poverty imposed on a people who freed themselves from slavery had to pay reparations to their enslavers. Then Christian missionaries taught them that they were obliged to suffer in slavery and poverty; that in death, freedom was promised in heaven.
When the revolution comes
When the revolution comes
Our pearly white teeth froth the mouths that speak of revolution without reverence
The cost of revolution is 360 degrees understand the cycle that never ends
Understand the beginning to be the end and nothing is in between but space and time that I make or you make to relate or not to relate to the world outside my mind your mind. Speak not of revolution until you are willing to eat rats to survive.
- The Last Poets, When the Revolution Comes
If I struggle about Big Sak at all, like most things, it's in my head, not what others may project at me. People from poor countries are usually suspect. They want to take something - money, jobs, English, the homogenous, myopic myth of the ' American way of life '. What is that exactly? Fast food, reality TV, racism, and violence? Please.
I learned a long time ago that judgement itself has no value particularly when making assumptions about an unknown person or their culture. Assumptions based on a stereotype of poor people or the fetishization of the 'exotic' opportunist looking for a way out of a country undone by Christian colonizers and capitalists.
Who would we be without America in our heads? Sun Ra, James, Nina, Josephine, Arthur, Assata, Nikki, Yasiin, Erykah, Octavia, Kara, Audre, Langston, Marcus, Malcolm, Saul, Nikole, and Ta Nehisi all asked themselves that question. As black artists and writers, they've all had an influence on my thinking and our place in the world.
Black people have the capacity to love ourselves and one another, which is the most revolutionary thing we can do. So, I do my best.
I have always been guided by my values and imagination. America is a racist and violent system of psychic death. I've seen folks descend into bitterness and misery, even in my own family; convinced that God and wealth would protect them. America is the smiley face with a bullet to the head. If a place changed my awareness of the world, it was Haiti. I learned to love myself and others more openly, without fear or ego getting in the way. An experience of place that freaks most Americans out, transformed me as a person.
I made a mistake on my first trip, which put me in harm's way. I took responsibility for my choices and actions at the time, not his. I'm a grown ass woman, capable of my own folly, which can be like an art form. Over here wylin out with the folly.
What Big Sak says he will do, he has always done. When we're together he is by my side. He embraces me and watches me sleep. He reminds me to rest and eat well. America tells me to keep hustling, grinding, and unpacking. He sends me Albert Einstein quotes and poems in French and kreyol. My close friend, Mathias, who lives in Germany, spent a weekend with us in İstanbul. We met in high school when he was an exchange student. He's the only person from my American experience who has met Big Sak Chola. If I trust anyone's assessment of another, it is his.
' He's a beautiful soul.' he said. ' And he's devoted to you. There are challenges, but try and go forward with him and come to Europe. We have challenges too, but nothing like the US. I could never live there.'
One night in İstanbul Big Sak and I were on the metro. I was still a bit jet lagged, listening to several Nigerian men chat to one another in Yoruba.
Big Sak stood behind me and embraced me for stability. As I listened to the Nigerians, I leaned into his arms and started to drift. Just like riding with him through Cap Haitien, I felt safe. I asked him about that ride on the metro, interested in his reasoning and motivation behind it.
' I'm your protection, baby. God give me you as a beautiful gift. '
Yo Shagge, yo Cuz
Family! (Yo, a Unruly Boss)
A me say family (Cho)\\
If a one thing me hate, a friend killer
Me no believe inna friend killer
Family!
A me say family
Cho!
Me love mi fam how dem to mi heart
Me wouldn't dare hurt one of dem
Real killy deh deh to the end, deh deh from the start
Me real real bredda dem
'Cause dem no know when we a buy 3 sardines and the 1 pound of rice from shop
And dem no know when we a get chased by cops and the MAC and the handgun drop
And although man make it now
Me know how struggle feel
And me know all of the pussy dem
And me know a who fucking real
Popcaan, Family, 2017
