Little Haitian

By Rebecca Brutus

I sit down at the table beside my roommate, Kaylee. We’re here with a few other people, but none of them have returned with their food yet. It’s busy, another weeknight in the dining hall. Beside me, Kaylee is already digging into her Lucky Charms.

I cut a piece of my chicken, take a sip of my water, and wait.

A few minutes pass. Brianna comes back with a salad, and Leah’s plate mirrors mine; rice, chicken, and beans. I participate in the conversations I can no longer remember, I laugh when something funny is said and wince when school comes up. My stomach makes noises at me. I take another sip of my water. I cut another piece of chicken and leave it on my plate.

Kaylee reaches over, grabs the fork out of my hand, plucks one of the pieces from my plate, and eats it without so much as glancing in my direction.

“Wow, sure. Of course, you can!” The humor is thick in my voice. I’m confused, but not mad or annoyed. In fact, I am a little grateful that she’s eating more than cereal for dinner, especially since I’m pretty sure she skipped lunch.

“If you wanted it, you wouldn’t have cut another piece.” She examines my plate, then my face. She leans towards me as if I am a puzzle she can’t quite decipher. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Oh. I feel my cheeks heat up. I’ve been living with Kaylee for five months, and I was starting to think this just wouldn’t come up. I hoped it wouldn’t. It’s not a big deal, I know it’s not. I just…

“I just… Eliza’s not back yet.”

Kaylee raises an eyebrow at me.

I lower my voice a bit. “I can’t eat before everyone is seated.”

Her eyebrows narrow now. She looks at my plate, at Eliza’s empty chair, at the rest of the girls eating, enjoying their dinner, talking and laughing and eating. “So you’re just… what?”

In any other circumstance, I would laugh. It’s not easy to make Kaylee speechless. “It’s rude. It’s a… family thing.”

Finally, Kaylee backs away from me. I’m grateful. “You’re gonna sit here and wait,” she says slowly, “until Eliza comes back? And then you’ll start eating?”

I don’t notice, neither of us notice, the lull in the table as I nod.

Leah speaks up across from me, and I jump a bit at the intrusion. “You’re waiting for her? That’s so sweet!” She’s smiling. She is the only one smiling. The rest of us are awkwardly silent. “I don’t have that kind of willpower,” Leah continues, but she puts her fork down anyway as she turns back to Brianna. There is a long moment where we are suspended in time. Air stops leaving lungs, silverware stops hitting plates. There is a moment when we just sit there, motionless, and I want to run away and hide.

Eventually, life comes back to the table again. People go back to eating; I imagine they got bored of their trivial exercise in self-discipline. From that moment on, though, Kaylee glances at me whenever someone takes a bite of their food. Eliza returns soon enough, her plate and mine the only full ones at the table. And I pick up my fork.

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        My father grew up in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He talks about such an involved sense of community: friends waltzing into each other’s houses, no invitation necessary; the kids on different blocks having distinct whistles when they wanted to meet up; friends teaching each other, learning from each other. Age and status didn’t matter. Neighbors unrelated called each other “cousin”; everyone was an auntie, and uncle. It’s why parents were not only expected, but encouraged to discipline other people’s children if no one else was there to do it. There was no such thing as gossip. There was just looking out for your own, whatever way you feel is best. It really did take a village.

        The key to this unique harmony? Respect.

        Everyone learned the same lessons, knew the same rules, because the rules were simple. The most important ones always boiled down to a respect for elders, and respect for peers. Don’t talk back. Treat someone else’s house as you would your own. Stand up for yourself, but don’t hit someone first if you have a clear advantage. There were other rules of course, matters of status. My dad’s family had a lot of money in Haiti, so there were some more delicate social procedures they were expected to follow. Matters such as how to dress, how to smile, how to make small talk and walk correctly on a sidewalk. Which silverware to use when, and where to put your bread and your water when you’re eating. But for the most part, every Haitian understood at least some of the basics.

I wonder what good they are to me now. We’re not in Haiti anymore. And anyway, if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m not a very good Haitian. I don’t speak French or Creole. I’m not up to date on the politics of the island. I’ve only visited Haiti once, for a single day during a cruise my aunt took me on. However, I’ve come to understand that being Haitian is about much more than where you’re from: it’s about who you are. How you behave. How you think. I may not be a good Haitian, but I am undeniably Haitian, because I was raised with the same values and outlook as the people who were born there. Respect. But really, where is that going to get me? Foreign values in the United States… underappreciated is an understatement. I might as well paint a target on my back. Being mixed race makes it easier, somehow. People seem willing to accept my Puerto Rican-ness, especially since that culture has been Americanized for generations. But my upbringing, undeniably Haitian, is never going to meld with this environment, with the overwhelming sense of otherness wherever I go in these United States.

The first time I went to my best friend’s house was in ninth grade. Which, I have been told, is odd. After all, we’d been best friends since the first day of middle school— why had we never been to each other’s houses? The short answer is simple: my father said no. And when he said no, that was the end of discussion. There was no asking for a reason, or begging, or throwing a tantrum. Because you had to respect his decision, even if you thought it was unfair. You asked, your parents answered. More often than not, though, they said no, and you had to go tell your friends that no, you couldn’t go to the carnival this weekend, you couldn’t go to Victoria’s sleepover, you couldn’t hang out after school. I had a lot of “couldn’t”s growing up. When I asked if I could go to Erin’s house after school, there was no pleading. I asked, he answered. And for once, he said yes.

What followed was a non-exhaustive list of do’s and don’ts that I was expected to abide by. You should ask if you should remove your shoes. If you should, remove them; if not, don’t. Regardless, you should wipe your feet when you enter. You should keep your things with you at all times unless the host offers to take them. You should greet everyone in the house as soon as you arrive, unless they are otherwise occupied. You cannot ask for anything to eat. You should not accept anything to eat. You cannot ask for anything to drink, but can accept water if it is offered to you. You should not use the bathroom during your first visit. You should call Erin’s parents “Mr.” and “Mrs.”. You should not ask for anything you don’t absolutely need. You should not spend more than a few minutes at a time with the pets. You cannot go anywhere else without calling first. You cannot stay if her mom leaves the house. You should call when you are leaving the house and call again when you get home.

I agreed to his terms, as if I had any choice in the matter. And when school let out that day, Erin and I set out for her house.

Erin Garino is, to this day, my best friend. We met on the first day of sixth grade when I was crying in the girls’ locker room (for some reason or another— I know it involved my “friend” Victoria saying something mean to me, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was) and Erin helped me calm down. She had just moved to Long Island from Queens, and because my previous best friend had transferred to a Catholic school and stopped talking to me, we were both in the market. The two of us quickly became inseparable. We had a lot in common; both of us liked to write, although I stuck to realistic fiction rather than her pursuits in worlds of magic and fantasy. We both liked Japanese anime, but I liked action-oriented shows, while she enjoyed more lighthearted topics. Even our birthdays are nearly identical— Erin is just a day older than me.  If you’d asked me that afternoon, walking to her house, I would’ve told you that we were basically the same person.

        But I don’t think I could accurately describe to you the discomfort I felt the first time I was so intimately involved in Erin’s life. The respect that was always so carefully cultivated in my own home environment was nowhere to be found. Not that Erin’s family didn’t love each other, or that they treated each other badly. But from my point of view they all seemed so… selfish. That sounds awful, I know. But it’s true. Erin won’t just ask for things. She’ll ask for money for the movies, her dad will say no, and they will argue about it. I had never seen anything like it. Erin’s younger sister, Stephanie, wouldn’t ask for her mom to bring her a glass of water; she’d tell her to. And Mrs. Garino would do it! They might bicker about it for a while, but Stephanie would get what she wanted.

        I’ve tried explaining to the Garinos, in the years of visits since, exactly how much deep shit I would be in if I tried to pull a fraction of the stunts Erin gets away with. I go to their house at least once a week when I’m home, and they are so, so nice to me. They really do treat me like another daughter. Only I wasn’t raised the way their children were. Even as I try to explain, I there is an inherent disconnect. Other friends of ours call Mr. and Mrs. Garino by their first names. They don’t seem to mind; in fact, I’ve seen them encourage it. Nevertheless, I could never do that. And I’ve tried, exactly once. Mr. Garino had been taking photos of our prom group, and as I went to say thank you his name died on the tip of my tongue. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to shake that little voice in the back of my head. The Garinos seem to think it’s cute. As do a lot of other outsiders in my world. Even if they appreciate the gesture, people find my perpetual moral dilemma adorable. Like a pet confused by its reflection. Like a child mispronouncing a word.

        It goes even deeper, though, than how I act around others. My upbringing influences the way I see and interact with the world around me, for better or worse. I am proud, far prouder than I ought to be. My father and I, we were taught not to ask for help. Not to accept help. We were taught that self-respect was to succeed without needing anyone else. We were taught to power through. To toughen up. To push back. To be patient. To be firm. To never give up. So I don’t. I excelled in my classes all throughout high school. I auditioned for every musical I reasonably could. I refused to go to extra help or office hours, pulling all-nighters to get the material to stick. I joined National Honor Society despite the limit of hours in a day. I learned how to recognize an anxiety attack before it snuck up on me. I learned how to put them off so they wouldn’t interfere with what I needed to do. I adapted. I conquered. But I don’t really know what to do from here. Most days, I engage myself in an ultimately meaningless self-conflict. My mind goes around in circles, with no end in sight. Who am I without the lessons I was taught? Am I nothing more than my upbringing? What am I without it?

I have a brother. His name is Alexander, he is three-and-a-half years older than me, and he is one of my best friends. He and I learned all the same lessons growing up. We were both taught to stand still, to greet everyone in a house, to not accept help. That being said, he is not as good at being Haitian as I am. I’m not trying to imply that there is some sort of competition going on, not at all. But for people who know better, it’s kind of obvious that I fit more comfortably when we visit family, or mingle at large parties. I embody these lessons— they are not just tools to take out and use when it suits me. I am also, albeit more hesitantly, a better American than Alex is. I understand the social cues that weren’t necessarily a part of how we were raised, cues that he misses— how to act on the subway, how to make small talk with strangers, how to read a room. I don’t always act on them, but I understand the differences. However, I have never seen him struggle with his awkwardly manifesting identity the way I have. It's never bothered him, and it sometimes hurts to watch him slide fluidly from one nature to another. He makes it look so… easy. He doesn’t wait for his friends to sit down with their food when they go out to the local Chinese Buffet, but he does when out with family at the same restaurant. He adapts, he conquers, in every aspect of his life.

        Alex is proof that my values and my being would be in no way diminished if I just… stopped. The world will not end if I start eating while someone is getting their food. No one else cares if their water or bread is on the wrong side of their plate. If the Garinos ask me to call them by their first names, isn’t it more disrespectful to ignore their wishes? But I can never get there, not completely. It feels like I would be giving up a part of myself. Change is good; I’ve always been soothed by the fact that no matter how bad things get, they will eventually have to get better. But this part of me, even if it isn’t intrinsic, is all I know how to be. And I’m terrified that if I let it go, I will never be able to find myself again.

        Nowadays, when I go to Erin’s house, I often walk in without knocking. I take off my shoes and throw my stuff on her bed. I accept food when I’m hungry, and water when I’m thirsty. I play with the dogs. And every time I do, the little voice that sounds like my dad is disappointed in me.

        I don’t think I will ever call Erin’s parents by their first names. There are some lines that, once drawn, cannot be crossed.