I was gathering my books, someone tapped my shoulder.
“Jamal!”
“Burning the midnight oil?”
“I just finished a paper and have to go to my room to type it,” I said, glancing at the titles of the books he was holding.
“I’m doing research on postcolonial Africa,” he told me. “I hope to make it to the motherland someday.”
“Felicia is planning on going there after graduation. Every once in a while I have a feeling it is where I belong,” I responded, thinking about the fight in the cafeteria all those years ago.
“As children of the African diaspora,” he said, “our salvation is our African roots and our cultural heritage.”
I stared at the colorful dashiki and the red, black, and green cap he wore, and began to understand the sentimentality and reverence that he had for the ancestral homeland.
* * *
Late during a cold, windy winter night, Felicia knocked on my door. Immediately I knew that there had to be an important reason for her to be there, because hours earlier we’d had dinner together and I had not expected to see her until the next day.
“What’s up?” I asked, watching her hang her jacket on the back of a chair.
She sat down on the antique rocking chair Latham had given to me the day I graduated from high school. “Have you heard what Wanda’s up to?”
I sat on the edge of my bed and gazed at her. “I haven’t heard a thing. What’s happening?”
“Wanda and her friends are saying you have no business running for chairperson of cultural affairs because you grew up white.”
“Meaning what?”
Felicia shrugged. “I guess they don’t think you’re black enough.”
“What makes them think they know more about being black than I do?”
For about a week, I had tried to write my electoral statement but couldn’t decide what to talk about. Wanda’s comments motivated me. As soon as Felicia left, I sat at my desk to write before the ideas escaped me.
The day of the election, I walked up to the lectern, ready to deliver my statement. I cast a glance at Felicia, who smiled and nodded.
“I was born in the first black republic of the world,” I began, “a place where slaves defeated Napoleon’s undefeated army. Raised in the true spirit of white liberals who, in good conscience, believed in Martin Luther King’s dream, I grew up in a home that advocated the utmost respect for cultures from around the world. Being a dance and anthropology major is a clear indication of my interest in culture.” Even though Wanda sat next to him, Jamal smiled at me, encouraging me to go on. “As the cultural chairperson of the Black Students League, my goal would be to share our common African heritage with the college community so everyone can better understand the souls of black folks, as W.E.B. Du Bois would have put it.” Loud applause erupted.
“Congratulations!” Jamal exclaimed afterward, hugging me. “It’s so beautiful that even though you grew up with a white family, you are so together in the head.”
I didn’t get a chance to ask him what he meant by being “together in the head” because, as expected, Wanda was right there, pulling him away.
I won three-fourths of the votes.
Chapter 6
We cannot erase the sad records from our past.
—A. Maclaren
She sat slouched on the steps of the student hall terrace, eating a strawberry ice-cream cone; seemingly enjoying the New England Indian summer. She reminded me of a little girl the way she licked the ice cream dripping down the cone.
I had just returned to campus that day, ready to begin my junior year. I walked over to her, eager to welcome a new black face.
“So, you’re the new Haitian on campus. I have wanted to meet you ever since I heard you would be coming here. I even thought of sending you a letter over the summer, but I didn’t get around to it.”
She looked puzzled. “How did you know there would be a Haitian on campus?”
“Before the start of summer vacation, the president of the Black Student League receives a list from the dean’s office of incoming black freshmen. I was born in Haiti. I even went to the admissions office to see a picture of you. Right now I’m going to check my mail. When I come back you can tell me about your first days on campus. Also, we must talk about Haiti.”
* * *
It didn’t take long for that opportunity to present itself. About a week later Pépé came to my room, sat on the floor with her back against the wall, and faced my twin bed that was covered with Indian fabric.
“The way your eyes light up when you smile reminds me of my father,” she said. I noticed, at that moment, that the dimples on her cheeks made her face even more pleasant.
“I don’t know much about my natural parents,” I said sadly. Even though I hated myself for encouraging pity, I felt compelled to tell her my story. “My mother sent me to the United States with my adoptive parents when I was five. She told them I shouldn’t return until I’m adult.”
“Why not?”
“Something about a Tonton Macoute,” I said, flipping through a stack of albums, recalling the story that Mom had told me.
“When you go back to Haiti, you should talk to my father. He can tell you a lot about Haitian politics.”
“Is he a politician?”
“An armchair politician,” she said, laughing and stretching out her legs. “Are you in touch with your mother?”
“She can barely read and write, and of course she has no phone. No one in Monn Nèg does. But we send her Christmas cards and pictures.”
“Do you miss her a lot?”
“I did at first,” I said, thinking about her picture that ended up in some unknown location.
“What’s your major?”
“I have a double major: anthropology and dance. And you?”
“American literature.”
“How did you learn English?”
“I studied at an American school in Haiti.”
“How many years?”
“I went to the Union School from first grade on. You have so many books on Haiti,” Pépé commented as she read the titles on my bookshelf.
“My godfather gave most of them to me. I bought the others at a Haitian bookstore. I read many of them this past
