and the universal life lessons I’ve learned along the way. It is my sincere hope that in reading my story, you will be inspired to dare to believe that if this little Haitian boy’s dreams can come true, then yours can too.
Capt. Steven Archille
Chapter 1
A dream takes flight
I was born in Haiti on April 9, 1973 to a couple of nineteen-year-old newlyweds, Roland Archille and Elmase Liberius, at the Baptist Mission Hospital in the mountains above Port-Au-Prince near an area called Fort Jacques. Mom says it was a rainy Monday night, and that her labor went surprisingly quickly, seeing as I was her first child. Mom and Dad were high school sweethearts who had fallen in love and gotten married the year before. My parents were both from large families; Mom was one of seven children, and Dad one of six. They had been working on getting their papers to immigrate to the United States (US) in search of a better life since before I was born, and after a long drawn-out legal process, had finally secured the required documents to leave in July 1973. However, they were faced with the heart-wrenching prospect of leaving their three-month-old baby boy to be cared for by their parents, as their visas were only valid for the two of them. The young couple knew that their little boy’s best chance for a promising future lay in America, the land of opportunity, but they also knew that it would take time to get legal permission for me to join them there. Years later, Mom told me how much she cried as their departure day approached. The pain of being separated from her infant is a pain only a mother could know; a pain that even the promise of a better life for me in America couldn’t diminish. It’s a pain shared by many immigrant families. Their plan was to obtain my visa after setting up US residency, but they didn’t know how long that might take... it took nearly seven years.
One of my earliest childhood memories of life in Haiti is from when I was about five years old. For what seemed to my little mind like weeks, it wouldn’t stop raining, and the wind outside my grandparent’s house howled non-stop. My eyes were glued to the window and to the trees swaying in the wind. My only concern as a five year-old was that this rain was getting in the way of some important playing duties I had to attend to outside. Despite my pleas, Mama Franchil, my paternal grandmother (I called my grandfather Papa Franchil) would not let me go outside. Years later, I learnt that all that rain and wind had actually been a hugely destructive category-five hurricane. After the storm had passed, I went on my regular patrol around Fort Jacques to find trees down everywhere, and pieces of my neighbors’ roofs strewn all around the neighborhood. Being a very adventurous little boy, I loved this new Fort Jacques, as it gave me a new landscape on which to play, oblivious to the devastating toll the storm had taken on the country.
Fort Jacques is an area full of palm trees, pine trees, and many lush, green farm fields carved into the mountainous terrain. For the curious, mischievous little boy I was, it provided many opportunities for exploration. My friends and I sometimes camped in the middle of a cornfield near my house, picked and shucked the corn, and ate ourselves silly, not the least bothered that we were eating someone’s livelihood. I often walked for miles from Mama and Papa Franchil’s house to Mama and Papa Tita’s (my mom’s parents) house, stopping along the way to buy frescos (shaved, flavored ice) with the few cents that Papa Franchil often gave me. Mine was a carefree, happy existence. Occasionally I received gifts in the mail from Mom and Dad, such as toy cars or new clothes and shoes, which I paraded in front of my friends. My family on both sides showered me with love and always reminded me that my mom and dad were working hard on getting me something called a “visa”. This would allow me to go live with them in a place called “New York”. Mom and Dad visited every year, and I would spend a few happy days with them at my grandparent’s house, and then go back to my carefree little existence when they left.
On one of their first visits that I can actually remember (I was around the age of four), they brought a little girl with them named Betty whom they told me was my little sister. I was curious about this sister of mine since I had no idea she existed prior to that visit. She had been born in New York in September of 1974. Little did I know at the time that her being an American citizen would be the key to my parents becoming residents in the States and to my eventual reunion with the family. At the time, I also had no way of knowing that Betty and I would become best friends, and that she would later be one of my biggest sources of encouragement in life.
Papa Franchil was one of the most relaxed, easygoing people I have ever known. Looking back, I think I acquired much of my temperament from him. It took a lot to get him angry, which was lucky for me, as I had a penchant for getting into trouble due to my adventurous nature. He always took the time to answer my myriad questions about whatever topic popped into my mind and being that I was his first grandchild, we had a particularly special bond. He let me get away with a lot, but occasionally he put a belt to my behind when needed. Afterwards, he always explained that he still loved me but that certain behavior would not be tolerated. He then gave me money for frescos, and all was well again. I often accompanied him to downtown Port-au-Prince (La Ville) on some of his business trips and he always made sure I was well fed with delicious chicken patties, bread, and plenty of fruit cola and frescos. Going downtown with him was always a treat. Those trips with him are some of my fondest memories of Papa Franchil, who passed away in the late 1990s after a full life. I wish he had lived to see me become a pilot, which never would have happened were it not for his guidance in those early years.
Fort Jacques was very quiet compared to the frenetic activity always on display downtown. There were brightly colored “tap-taps” (pickup trucks that had been converted into taxis with bench seating in the truck bed) darting all about, and street vendors selling everything imaginable from clothing to fish to fresh fruits and vegetables from their farms (maybe even corn from the same fields my friends and I often raided). Port-au-Prince was full of life and action, with countless hordes of people going about their daily business. By the time we would head back to Fort Jacques in the evening, I would be exhausted and ready for the peace, quiet, and fresh air up in the mountains.
Mama Franchil was even more calm and laid-back than her husband, which was no easy task because as I said, he was VERY laid-back. She had a gentle nature and moved through life with an elegant grace, never in any real rush. Her activities included taking care of her own children, my Aunt and Uncles, and me. She was also very involved in various church-related activities along with Papa Franchil. She was never much of a disciplinarian (which I appreciated) and left those duties to my grandfather. “Wait till your grandfather gets home” were words I came to dread because I knew they meant I would go to bed that night with a sore behind. She would often talk to me about my parents and about New York where I would be going one day and about how happy I would be there. Being that I was master of my little world in Fort Jacques and had no idea what or where New York was, that didn’t particularly excite me. I remember asking her how I was going to get to this “New York” and she told me that I would fly there. Unlike the idea of New York, the idea of flying did excite me. Wow, FLY there? I thought, wondering how it would feel to be in the air. Occasionally when I would look up at the sky above my house in Fort Jacques, I would see airplanes flying overhead, leaving long white stripes behind them that looked like chalk lines being drawn on the blue sky. I wondered what it was like to be way up there in a jet looking at Haiti below.
Takeoff
The days passed merrily along in a familiar routine, with me making the short walk from home to school in the mornings through that cornfield, and then running home in the afternoons to play with my friends around the neighborhood. I often visited my mom’s side of the family and spent time with Mama and Papa Tita and their children, my Aunt and Uncles on Mom’s side. It was a joyful time, and I enjoyed the happy-go-lucky life of a young boy. Then, just before my seventh birthday in the spring of 1980, the news came that put a halt to my cheerful little world: my parents had finally gotten my visa, and I would soon be going to live with them and my sister in New York. It was a day that Mama and Papa Franchil had always told me was coming, but I
