Growing up Under the Palm Trees: A Miami Story

2013 by Emmerson Philippe. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/28/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7262-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7263-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911656

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CONTENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

PREFACE

Growing up in Miami, Florida in the 80s, 90s, and the earlier part of the 21st century left me with a lot of stories. Miami is one of the most distinct cities in the world with the unparalleled weather that Florida is known for and an eclectic population that resembles Latin America more than the rest of the United States. It is an international hub of people from all over the world seeking the elusive American dream, and it wasn’t until I started traveling extensively that I began to truly appreciate the appeal of it all. For just as the city is extensively tattered by beautiful people, great weather, culture, and art, it is as tainted by crime, corruption, covert and at times overt prejudice and racism, among many other things. Far from paradise in many ways, it is where I have learned to call home for most of my life.

This book is about the experiences of a young man who grew up in Miami; Lemon City, which was for a little period called Little Haiti. In particular, it is about his experiences as a Haitian immigrant who moved to the area after his father’s disappearance. I first started writing this book in order to tell the stories of Haitian Americans living in South Florida, and to tell of the stories that bind them and allow them to grow. The characters were created with different individuals I have known and grown up with over the years in mind. Everything written in this book is based on the stories of real Haitian individuals.

This is not the entirety of their story solely the first 21 years of it. From stories about someone’s exodus away from Haiti in the early 1980s to another person’s initial college graduation and early employment, these stories give one a little insight into the variations of the human experience while at the same time uniting different individual’s perspectives into one. The family members, teachers, and friends who have made me who I am today have been instrumental in the creation of this story; and I am quite appreciative of their contributions.

CHAPTER 1

The Beginnings

The earliest memories of my life sometimes seem almost surreal to me when I remember them. After all, they were of a different place at a different time. I was born in Haiti near the end of Jean-Claude Duvalier’s (he and his father were dictators who ruled Haiti for a number of years) departure from the country and moved to the United States when I was 3 years old. My family went from upper middle class Haitians to lower class American immigrants within a matter of weeks. The next group of stories is of the aforementioned facts, and they highlight our predicament.

Bye-Bye in the Night

Boisterous sounds awoke me as I laid there on my chest in bed. The room was dark and gray and all around me my older brothers’ reposed eyes were open and attend to the sounds coming from the other room. My eyes wandered around for them to move or do anything, but like soulless zombies they were still. The sounds grew and my heart sank deeper into a cesspool of discomfort knowing that in that other room my mother was in the midst of a bitter conflict. There was a part of me that wanted to protect her, a part of me that wanted to get involved and do something; but alas, from the cues in the room, a deep feeling of awkwardness and fear entrapped me. Finally, her voice screeched for help, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I got up from my position in the bed, and my oldest brother Jean whispered in an inquisitive tone, Jay, what are you doing?

I am going to help. I responded.

Get back in bed! He exclaimed in a whispering, but menacing tone. Being only two at the time, I complied, but every part of my body felt as if something needed to be done. I felt helpless and angry that no one else was going to do anything. I laid there with a deep feeling of guilt and resentment towards the entire situation. The noise somewhat subdued after a while, but I could not sleep. My heart was racing too much. My eyes continuously moved around the room trying to grasp the expressions on my brothers’ faces with no success. The room was too dark, and most of their faces seemed to be facing the ceiling. Bewildered to the point of losing my mind, I laid there unable to wrap my mind around what was happening and why. So I stared at the ceiling trying to find some meaning, some solace, something, or anything.

Suddenly, the door of our bedroom opened and light broke through the darkness around us. In the doorway, my mother stood with our coats, bruised and battered from her ordeal. My brothers jumped out of bed without a moment’s notice. I followed not knowing what was going on or why. My mother silently motioned to us to take our coats; and my brothers and I complied and then followed her. Near the doorway, we walked out careful not to disturb the calm of the moment. We walked down the stairs, which were old and decrepit and out the door.

It was night; deep into the night for that matter. The streets were as dark as the bottom of a pit with tiny sparks of light from distant dimmed light-poles forming islets of illumination here and there. The night sky was clear, and the stars pranced upon their canvas like ballet dancers, graceful and seamless. Though the night was indeed lovely, to a toddler, night brought out other images to mind. Thoughts of creatures big and small lurking beyond the darkness ran through me every second as I held on to my older brother, Jean’s, hand. Somehow, knowing that the people around me were going to protect me calmed my unease. That walk seemed to have lasted forever as little to nothing was said about what happened in that other room that night. Nevertheless, the strident serenity that existed throughout that walk is something that I will never forget.

The Mob

My mother had talked about this for weeks. She was going to America, set up life for us there, and come back for us when she was good and ready. She left us in the care of one of her friends, Myra, within her house. My brothers were too much of a challenge for Myra, who left after just a couple of weeks taking almost half of my mother’s possessions from the house upon her departure.

My brother Jean was in charge. At 14 years old, he dropped out of school until my mother could return to take care of us. There was also David, who was 10 at the time, James was 6, and I was still 2 heading towards 3. This period did not last long because my mother rushed back to Haiti as soon as she heard that Jean was running the show.

A couple of days after her arrival back to Haiti. The streets seemed to be riddled with people. Most were celebrating for a reason or another. It was not until years later through stories my mother and brothers told me that I finally realized what was happening. It was the days after Jean-Claude Duvalier (his father and he ruled the country for over 30 years) left office in Haiti, and many of the individuals who opposed his government were in the streets celebrating an end to his regime.

We were weary of the celebrations especially since my father was a politician within Duvalier’s government; and even though things had turned south between he and my mother, there was a possibility that the mobs outside might try to attack us. So, my brothers, my mother and I closed all of the windows and the blinds, locked all of the doors, and placed barricades behind them. We sat silently in the middle of the living room in order to make it seem as though no one was home.

Suddenly, thunderous blows to the door started as a familiar voice screamed for help. James rushed to the door, and exclaimed, It’s him! It’s daddy! Jean, James, and my mother rushed to clear the barricades from the door in order to let him in. I bewildered of what was happening just sat there watching David, who seemed oblivious of the situation and who was simply sitting there. He turned and looked at me, and shook his head. Then the doorway was cleared and my father entered the room. He was wearing this bloodstained shirt, out of breath, and he kept saying thank you as his chest protruded in and out. We rapidly closed the door behind him, and once again began forming a barricade to protect it.

By that time, the crowds had gathered around the house behind him, and their voices for his release back to them were becoming more boisterous. Soon bottles were being thrown at the windows, and my mother had us move in the dining room, which was just across of the living room, but with less windows. The crowds outside were using anything that they could find to destroy our barricades. Their voices screeched through the doorway like nails on a chalkboard, and their weapons pounded every part of the house. The yells and the booming blows to the windows and doors seemed to be unreal and deafening as the house shook violently.

Then from the broken glass in the living room, a man entered one of the living room windows, and began to remove parts of the barricades. My father, who heard the man’s actions, ran into the living room and struck him with a chair on the back of the head. The man fell to the ground as blood spattered all over the living room floor. Another man came in with a machete, and as my father attempted to fight him off, two others followed. They were all screaming with weapons in hand. As two of them rushed my father, my brother Jean hit one of them with a piece of wood that had shattered off of the chair my father had broken over the first intruder’s head.

The other ones, meanwhile, were busy destroying our barricades. Before long, over 20 people descended upon us. All around us, people wanting to steal our possessions and beat up an official from the Duvalier’s regime crowded the house. They stole everything that they could find and took my mother, brothers and me outside of the house. We watched them as they took our television, our refrigerator, our dining room table, our stove, and most of our possessions. I even saw a child not much older than I was at the time running outside with a can of carnation milk. My father was tied up, and beaten before he was brought outside. His face was garnished with bruises and bumps. His body drenched in sweat and blood stood there helpless as random members of the mob would simply hit him at their heart’s content.

Out by the street corner some people with tires were celebrating in the streets as they approached our house. We stood there with several other mob members holding my brothers, my mother, and me. One of the mob leaders looked at me staring at the tears from my eyes as I cried out for mercy, and ordered the rest of the mob to let us go.

He turned to my mother slapped her twice and ordered her to not let her children become vermin like my father. My mother gathered us up, and walked to a neighbor’s house and left us there. Then, she told us to stay there until she got back.

We watched from a window as they seized my father, wrapped him in tires, and took him away. As they disappeared in the distance, another band stayed behind stealing and taking everything that they could and when they decided that they could not take anything else, they set my mother’s home on fire. As the flames engulfed the house, cheers burst out from the crowds as they chanted songs of a new world. Our hearts sank; our souls drowned within the sorrow of the moment as we watched everything we ever knew burned asunder. Then as the house burned, I saw my mother emerging from the back door with a purse.

That purse would hold a new beginning for us all. It would be the key to the next story.

The Plane, the Plane!

It was about a month or so after the mob had burned down our home in Port-au-Prince. I remembered staying with my grandmother on the other side of town. Her house was not as well-built as the ones we were accustomed to. My mother had somehow saved our passports from the flames and had promised us a new home with new opportunities in the United States. By then, the mobs were robbing and killing everyone they could; especially those whom they believed had money.

Nonetheless, as long as we were with grandma, we were safe. Her house was unimpressive to say the least without any modern conveniences or luxuries; it mirrored the typical Haitian house at the time and that meant as long as we were perceived to be lower class we were good. I wondered of what new adventures we would have in this new world. The United States as my mother spoke of it was a wonderland of opportunity, where any man could reach his potential. My mother would sit there at night telling us of wonderful stories of this place, and my brothers David, James and I would be captivated by what were to come. Jean, on the other hand, was unimpressed. He had other intentions.

Finally, it was the night before the big trip. My mother had packed all of our bags and had everything ready for us to go to this new life that she had so adamantly spoke of all of this time. My brothers David and James spent hours conversing about how amazing it would be, and what they would do when they arrived to this new place. I sat there looking at them letting myself envision their thoughts and imagine the possibilities.

But my brother Jean was nowhere to be found. It was late, and my mother sent us all to bed. That night before we went to sleep, we said a special prayer hoping that everything worked out well. We were somewhat apprehensive about going to the airport since the mobs were even attacking anyone whom they believed had passports or plane tickets. Fortunately for us, we had the earliest flight out of Port-au-Prince, which meant that the mobs would probably still be in bed.

We awoke to my mother screaming at Jean. Where is your passport boy! Where is it? He wouldn’t say a word; instead, he stood there muzzled with his arms crossed staring at the wall. We all knew that he did not want to go to America; but none of us suspected that he would go to such lengths. My mother was at her wits end; and she lived in fear of what could happen if we did not go the U.S. Nonetheless, Jean had taken a stance, and he would not move from it.

As tears of anger and pain descended down my mother’s face at the situation, she gave him a final ultimatum. You either give me your passport or I will leave you here. The ultimatum did not change Jean’s resolve. He simply stood there staring at the kitchen wall. My mother turned him around and slapped him as she screamed for his compliance, but he sternly stood there without expression or tears, staring at that wall.

We (David, James, and I) all stood in the corner watching them, and my mother told