Kamarad Bonjou Pa Zanmi: Understanding RAM’s “Se Pa Sa’w Te Di”

I’ve been obsessed lately with RAM’s 2014 Kanaval so I thought I’d break it down a bit, by examining a few lyrics. In true RAM fashion, this song celebrates Haitian history, culture, and vodou. It combines 3 traditional vodou songs to make a terrific social commentary.

"Papa Loko ou se van pouse n’ ale. Nou se papiyon n’a pote nouvèl ba yo. Loko tout sa ki fè nou byen na wè yo. Loko tout sa ki fè nou mal, na wè yo."

Papa Loko was the first Houngan. He is the father of all Houngans and Mambos, and highly respected by all. It is often said that Loko is the wind, or like the wind. Thus he is able to hear anything he so desires. He is associated with the beautiful butterfly and no secret is unknown to him. In this song, the singer is also asking Papa Loko for help distinguishing between those who wish her well and those who don’t.

"Kouzen se pa sa’w te di mwen. Ou te di m’ konsa jou’w plase avè m’, ou ap marye avè mwen. Nan pwen wòb nan pwen jipon. Granmesi, yon pye mango ki te gen anba a ki sove lavi mwen." 

This song is about disappointment. Here, the singer’s cousin with whom she was living, and whom had promised to marry her has not delivered on his promise. Luckily the singer has found a mango tree that has helped her provide for herself.

"Chwal mwen sele nan gran chimen, bonjou sese bonjou kanmarad. Kanmarad bonjou pa zanmi ey. Ki mele’m avè yo."

In rural areas, many families live in a lakou. This lakou borders a gran chimen or a main road. Here the singer’s horse is on the road, ready to go. Someone greets them but they know that this person does not wish them well.

It is important to note the backstory of this song: Richard A. Morse (the lead singer of RAM), is the cousin of Haiti’s president, Michel Martelly. Richard used to be an advisor to the president. However, after noticing the amount of corruption he realized that Martelly was not interested in the good of the country but rather his own personal wealth. Richard became disillusioned and quit. So this song is not only about his disappointment in his cousin, but also realizing you cannot trust everyone. If anyone has alternative theories or explanations, I’d love to hear them.

 **also, during the keyboard & rara breakdowns, me = ALL THE GOUYAD! The ancestors take over ya’ll! M’ sanlè demonte ren mwen! Ya’ll don’t even know!**

Edit: Richard (@RAMHaiti) tweeted me a correction: Kouzen/Cousin, above, is a reference for Kouzen Zaka, the lwa associated with agriculture in Haitian vodou.

Going Home Again: Day Three in Haiti

Motion Sickness, headaches, and politics. That was the story yesterday. The lack of roads here could make every outing a very exciting adventure for some and a nightmare from hell for others. I fall in the latter category. The theory is that roads aren't built in the certain neighborhoods in order to keep the masses out. What do I know?

Going Home Again: Day Two in Haiti

I went into the heart of Port-au-Prince today. My mom had to go find out about my grandfather's life insurance policy, which by the way is a whole other mess. Nothing is ever simple or easy in Haiti. Nothing. Anyway, the further I got into Port-au-Prince, the sadder, more depressed, and angry I got. Port-au-Prince seemed dirty, overcrowded, and ugly and all the roads and I mean all of them, are badly, badly damaged. The beautiful, soulful, vibrant, historic city I remember is gone. Port-au-Prince was never the Paris of anything, but it had pizzazz, a certain je-ne-sais-quoi or life to it. Now, even that is gone. It saddens me what the country's own people did to it. I know the earthquake took its toll, but some damages were man-made. Certain things should have been preserved. Certain places, like Champs de Mars deserved to be protected but people were too busy being wrapped in their own personal tragedies to take pride in anything worth their pride.There are so many people in Port-au-Prince. Way more people than I remember seeing in the city. I have been told that while some of these people really did lose their homes to the earthquake, many of them left their homes in the countryside or even in the capital, with the promise of free housing. So now they live in tents all over the damn city; tents placed anywhere and everywhere! The whole damn city looks like a refugee camp. The ridiculous amount of people plus the fact that many of the designated market places were destroyed during the earthquake, has resulted in people selling all kinds of things all over the place. This, combined with all the damn UN trucks and SUVs running wild, makes the city feel like a freaking nightmare.

Going Home Again: Day One in Haiti

"A nice smile, does not mean we are friends."

I am in Haiti, first time in eight years. While I am glad to be home again and hang out with my cousins, this return to the roots is bittersweet in every way since I am here for my grandfather's funeral. So, not necessarily a fun trip. Everyone says things are greatly different but I cannot attest to that quite yet. Besides the change at the airport (getting off in an actual terminal rather than on the runway and then riding the bus to a warehouse because the actual terminal/airport is still badly damaged from the earthquake) and a few other damaged walls and buildings, the people look about the same. There's always a football match (soccer game) to be watched and people to watch it. Music videos and commercials are of much better quality than what I remember, although the videos are over U.S. American and not in a very good way. Also, when did the Bloods gang make its way to Haiti?! And what is up with the time difference? We're currently an hour behind the UTC-5:00 due to observing year-round standard time. Keeps throwing me off.
Structurally, I haven't seen much change, but that's probably because I haven't been to the heart of Port-au-Prince yet, just to the outskirts of the city. As the plane was descending I did see the damaged Port-au-Prince Cathedral as well as the national palace and many many tents. I have been told that they have started demolishing the palace but I could not see that from the plane. I have also seen a great deal of foreigners (civil and military), a new (to me) U.S. embassy (though fortress/palace seems more appropriate), and way too many U.N. tanks, police cars (?) and compounds to count. I thought the U.N. was here to help out, on the sidelines, behind the scenes? There in-your-face nature seems more like a full-on occupation. How can a country ever learn to stand on its own two feet if it is continually invaded and occupied (U.S. in 1915-1934, again in 1994, and U.S./UN 2004-present)? I shall go into the heart of the city tomorrow (maybe). Until then, I'll be here in the hills, enjoying this absolutely glorious island breeze behind the (jail-like) safety of multiple iron gates.

Aside: After so many years in the U.S., it feels odd having people serve me again... makes me quite uncomfortable.

Claude A. Rosier

I never thought my grandfather would die of natural causes. Apparently very few people did. As we called around to inform family and friends of his death, most people asked, “Who killed him,” rather than “how did he die.” I suppose I’m not surprised. Arrested in 1966 for his political views, my grandfather spent eleven years in prison, under both Papa Doc and Baby Doc. My mom was six years old when they took him away, my uncle Ilitch, a newborn. He was tortured and starved, but he lived to tell the world about it, publishing his memoir, Triangle de la Mort: Journal d’un Prisonnier Politique Haïtien 1966-1977, in 2003. Since his release, he has co-founded a non-profit organization for former political prisoners, friends and relatives of the disappeared, worked at L’Ecole Normale Supérieure in Haiti and tirelessly campaigned fought for human rights. This past January, upon the return of Baby Doc to Haiti, from exile, my grandfather and other former political prisoners officially pressed charges against the former dictator.

"The mistake of all dictators and apprentice dictators, despite the lessons of centuries of history, is their stubborn belief in violence as the best permanent solution to tame the masses.  If this were the case, Nero, Hitler, Mussolini, Duvalier, Prosper Avril, Cedras and all the others would have never known political failure. The masses, even those identified as backwards, can endure for a while the violence of others, but they always end up revolting and tearing to shreds the infernal machine that is dictatorship." - Claude Rosier

Ever since I could remember, everything I have done has been to please my grandfather. He was the one person in the world whom I loved without complexities and whose approval I always sought. He continuously encouraged me, giving me books, editing my poems and short stories, and fighting alongside me whenever I needed support. Although his death is a huge loss to our family, Haiti, and the global fight for human rights, I cannot say I am sad today. My grandfather did more in his lifetime for his fellow men and women then most people could ever do in several lifetimes. So no, I am not sad. Rather, I celebrate his life, his mission, and his legacy. I celebrate, for I know in my veins, flow the blood a hero. The many people he inspired will keep carry the torch. He will live through us, through me, through my life’s work and purpose. And as long as I live, I shall strive to make him proud.

The Vagina Monologues: A Review

I have finally had the chance to attend a presentation of The Vagina Monologues. This showing has been going on at the University of Florida for the last four years and truthfully, I have no good reason why I've never attended. But better late than never, right? Along with V-Day, this year's beneficiary was Peaceful Paths Domestic Abuse Network. A member of the Florida Coalition Against Domestic Violence, the organization provides services like emergency shelter and batterer's intervention programming, while serving domestic abuse victims in Alachua, Bradford, and Union counties of Florida. The Vagina Monologues is an episodic play written by playwright and feminist Eve Ensler in 1996. The play is based on interviews Ensler conducted with 200 women.  The women were of a wide age range, various multicultural background, sexual preferences, etc. The interviews covered topics like rape, masturbation, mutilation, orgasm, birth, etc.


The Introduction: Three women discussed how the play came to life as well as the different reactions of the women interviewed. The introduction of the many different names given to the vagina was both funny and interesting. I reminded me of growing up in Haiti and thinking "vagin" was a bad word or at least a word reserved only for grown women.

Hair: When I read this title in the program I thought to myself "What exactly does hair have to do with vaginas?" Well... It's actually a conversation I've had with many of my girl friends. Oh the many things society (well, mostly the porn industry actually) imposes upon us women and our vaginas. It reminded me of the scene in the first Sex and the City movie, in which Samantha is horrified by Miranda's hairy bikini line, and Samantha suggests to Miranda that this might have been one of the reasons why her husband cheated on her.

The Flood: This was based on the interview with a 72-year-old woman. This scene was both charming and extremely sad. Hearing how unaware, embarrassed, frightened, and ashamed this poor old woman was of her vagina was quite sad.  Also, the actress who portrayed this woman's story, Kim Mead, was absolutely brilliant.

The Vagina Workshop: I liked hearing how this woman was liberated and she was taught to please herself. Much like the woman in The Flood, this woman was previously unaware of the existence of her vagina as well as her clitoris. To hear that she was waiting for someone [a man] to one day come and discover her vagina and please her clitoris proved to me just how successfully women have been taught to shy away from sexual pleasure.

My Angry Vagina: This was possibly my favorite scene of the bunch. This monologue basically gave a voice to vaginas everywhere. Here's video of the monologue:



The Vagina Monologues has been criticized for its negative portrayals of male-female sexual relationships. I found that Because He Liked to Look At It did a good job of including a man in the vagina conversation. It has also been criticized because of the representation of brutal sexual encounters. I thought these representations (My Vagina Was My Village and Crooked Braid) were necessary due to the very high statistics of violence against women worldwide. I thought it was a fair representation. In my opinion, it was not making the case that all men are violent and hate women, but rather that there are many women who have suffered violence from the hands of males. On the other hand, I agree with the criticism that The Little Coochi Snorcher That Could represents a bias. The inclusion of a monologue, which describes an instance of female-female statutory rape, in a play that speaks out so loudly against violence against women, makes no sense to me.

Overall, I enjoyed the play. I appreciated what it was meant to achieve and the fact that so many people have benefited from it. It is definitely something I will see again and next time I am definitely bringing a few friends along.

For Colored Girls

This week I'm re-reading Ntozake Shange's choreopoem For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow is Enuf and My God, what a beautiful work of art! One of my favorite poems from the collection is "Toussaint." Being born and raised in Haiti, I am very proud of my cultural and historial heritage. To me, "Toussaint" is the love/thank you letter I wish I could write to Toussaint Louverture. I also really loved "No more love poems #1, 2, 3 and 4." "Sorry" is another favorite of mine. But "Somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff" definitely stole my heart. So yeah, I'm practically in love with Ntozake Shange. I only wish she would come back to UF before I graduate so I can take a class with her... Fingers crossed.

A Threat to Justice Everywhere

I am not sure why the strong insist on oppressing the weak. Tale as old as time. Whether it's in politics, business, religiously motivated, or militarily. Whether it's whites vs. blacks, men vs. women, adults vs. children, hetero vs. LGBTQ, liberals vs. conservatives, etc. The will of one or a few to acquire power always ends up tromping the rights and livelihood of the majority. And the world oftentimes sits back and pretends it is not happening, until it's too late. Maybe it's Darwinism - survival of the fittest - or maybe it's human nature. Either way, I do not know of any case when oppression has ever ended well for anyone. Dictators fall. Revolutions rise. Blood is shed. Lives are lost. No one wins. If only human beings would stop and open a history textbook; if only they would listen to their elders and learn about their history, world history, human history, maybe they would learn a thing or two about oppression, injustice, and hate. Maybe they would realize that there really is nothing to gain from it.

So tonight, heart goes out to the men and women around the world suffering from political and social oppression and fighting for their rights to be in: Egypt, Haiti, Tunisia, Israel/Palestine, Algeria, Yemen, Turkey, right here in the USA and elsewhere around the world. And to those of you reading this, remember, as Martin Luther King once said: "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere."

Putain de Temps: On Missing Home (Haiti)

Dear God, this is a miss poem.

I miss childhood. I miss my imagination. The worlds I created with well... I don't quite remember and that's what is so damn heartbreaking. I miss my imaginary friend, Jelhane, who I don't remember either but of whom my mom was so fond. I miss the hot Caribbean sun. The hustle and bustle of downtown Port-au-Prince, its saleswomen and dirty, half-naked boys selling everything under the sun. I miss waiting for a ride to school every morning. The conversations I had with the saleswomen. The smell of coffee in the morning, the men who bought the coffee but always spilled some for the departed. The saleswomen selling bananas, hard-boiled eggs, with pikliz. I miss "pate ze" with hot dogs and pikliz or "pate aranso."  I miss Christmastime. Running around in the dark with firecrackers. Wishing random strangers "jwaye nwel e bon ane." I miss childhood.

I miss the hot summer days spent at the spring. Eating mangoes and tamarind til tummies hurt. I miss climbing trees, running, falling. I miss dominoes and cards. Skipping ropes and dolls. Fritay and dancing. Oh how I miss dancing. I used to dance. All the time, I used to dance. I miss dancing. I don't dance anymore. I miss hot afternoon suns, singing in the back of a pick-up truck, tennis lessons after school. Art classes and piano lessons. Saturdays of leisure, Sunday morning masses and afternoons with Grand'Nana. I miss my great grandmother and her loving smile. Her coffee and the many ways she spoiled me. I miss the way her yellow skin wrinkled, her long and beautiful black hair, which she always insisted on dyeing, and the many people she fed. I miss her comforting presence, the way her eyes lit up when she saw me. I miss her love. Her unconditional love. I miss my Grand'Nana.

I childhood innocence. Without a care in the world. The many friends I played with. The boy who declared himself my boyfriend, followed me around like a lost puppy and gave me my first kiss. How beautiful he was. God I hope he is still alive. I miss dark starry nights. Moonlight stories and my mom yelling at me to come home. I miss the potential everyone saw in me. The pride they took in me. The many people who always wanted to please me. I miss la Riviere de l'Estere and Fete St Jerome in late Septembers. Mardi Gras and three days of Carnaval. I miss being on stage, being one of the smartest students in my classes. And living in the moment, never really caring if there was a tomorrow. I miss coloring and painting, writing songs, and making up dances. I miss Steve and the many fights we fought. I miss Nadege and how she loved me. How patient she was with me. I miss Chachou. My Oncle Ilitch and his paintings. I miss never really fitting in. Oncle Yves and his stories. Oncle Jean and his books. Tante Tete and her secrets. Visiting my grandfather and the many books he gave me.

I miss my childhood. I miss my home. I miss Haiti. Mwen Sonje Lakay.

I miss the part of me that will never again be. I miss not knowing better. Putain the temps. I miss me.