Reading "I am here because my ancestors survived excruciating conditions and still transmitted life" immediately put words to what I felt when I stood in front of the door of the no return in one of the slave dungeons inside of St George Castle in Elmina, Ghana. That day, in the courtyard standing in front of what used to be a church, I stood strong knowing that if my ancestors survived so that I can be here, I will live fearless and I will speak boldly and truthfully whenever I feel called to do so. For several years after, I did just that by speaking against racism, misogyny, abuse, and all forms on ills on the radio, which led to attacks and bullying by men old enough to be my father who use the bible as a tool to oppress women; men who lost the instinct to protect women, to protect their daughters. I thought I was strong enough to take my seat at the table and I ended up injured.
“Ou ja neg, pa fè si, pa fè sa" connected me to my delicateness. It reminded me of the softness that existed before the resilience. It connected me to my ancestors humanity and vulnerability. Like the shell intelligently protects the yolk until the baby bird is ready to hatch, it reminds me to be smart, and to avoid certain tables that would harm me.
My prayer for you, for me, for all of us trying our new wings of self-expression is that we may experience the joy and freedom of our full self-expression while also honoring the parts of us that are tender, delicate, and sensitive knowing that we are worthy of safety.
Lastly, I am grateful for the love, the joy, and music that did not die, that could not die for it wouldn't be true if it did. I am grateful for the music of Guadaloupe, the creole that sounded so much like the creole of Haiti that it wasn't until my late teenage years that I discovered what I thought was konpa was really zouk, that zouk was not from Haiti, that other islands spoke a creole similar to ours, and that I loved zouk way more than konpa. I loved and still love zouk because it preserved something that was lost in the male dominated konpa music, it preserved a sensuality, a tenderness, a feminine energy that got left behind when we had to tap into our warrior energy to fight the Haitian revolution. I honor you, I honor your ancestors, I honor our people, I honor all people who experienced the unspeakable and still manage to preserve that which can not be destroyed.
Thank for you writing so freely and openly about such a giant topic; I feel like I have learned a huge amount from this post, and I appreciate you sharing it with so much clarity and conviction. Very much looking forward to reading, and learning, more.
Reading "I am here because my ancestors survived excruciating conditions and still transmitted life" immediately put words to what I felt when I stood in front of the door of the no return in one of the slave dungeons inside of St George Castle in Elmina, Ghana. That day, in the courtyard standing in front of what used to be a church, I stood strong knowing that if my ancestors survived so that I can be here, I will live fearless and I will speak boldly and truthfully whenever I feel called to do so. For several years after, I did just that by speaking against racism, misogyny, abuse, and all forms on ills on the radio, which led to attacks and bullying by men old enough to be my father who use the bible as a tool to oppress women; men who lost the instinct to protect women, to protect their daughters. I thought I was strong enough to take my seat at the table and I ended up injured.
“Ou ja neg, pa fè si, pa fè sa" connected me to my delicateness. It reminded me of the softness that existed before the resilience. It connected me to my ancestors humanity and vulnerability. Like the shell intelligently protects the yolk until the baby bird is ready to hatch, it reminds me to be smart, and to avoid certain tables that would harm me.
My prayer for you, for me, for all of us trying our new wings of self-expression is that we may experience the joy and freedom of our full self-expression while also honoring the parts of us that are tender, delicate, and sensitive knowing that we are worthy of safety.
Lastly, I am grateful for the love, the joy, and music that did not die, that could not die for it wouldn't be true if it did. I am grateful for the music of Guadaloupe, the creole that sounded so much like the creole of Haiti that it wasn't until my late teenage years that I discovered what I thought was konpa was really zouk, that zouk was not from Haiti, that other islands spoke a creole similar to ours, and that I loved zouk way more than konpa. I loved and still love zouk because it preserved something that was lost in the male dominated konpa music, it preserved a sensuality, a tenderness, a feminine energy that got left behind when we had to tap into our warrior energy to fight the Haitian revolution. I honor you, I honor your ancestors, I honor our people, I honor all people who experienced the unspeakable and still manage to preserve that which can not be destroyed.
Thank you so much Vie for your words, as always, so powerful ! I am glad I found you on my way, that you exist and that you shine so bright!
Thank you Claude!
Thank you Claude for coming out in your writing. Such a powerful (hi)story. I feel you and feel closer to you now. You do you more and more pleaaase🙌🏼
Thank you Marci, glad to feel you feeling closer to me !
Thank for you writing so freely and openly about such a giant topic; I feel like I have learned a huge amount from this post, and I appreciate you sharing it with so much clarity and conviction. Very much looking forward to reading, and learning, more.
Thanks Matt, coming from you, it touches me even more deeply.