Serafina's Promise Read online

  When dinner is ready,

  Gogo gives Manman the chair,

  and we sit on the floor.

  Flag Day is coming,

  Papa says.

  Let’s all go to the city.

  Louis! You know there is no time

  for such things, Manman says.

  Soon the baby will be here.

  We need to work and save

  as much as we can.

  Papa shakes his head.

  One day, Marie Rose.

  One day to celebrate.

  Non! We’ll celebrate

  when the baby comes.

  All Manman wants to do is work.

  Work, work, work.

  She never wants to celebrate anything.

  What about me? I say.

  May I go to the city with Papa?

  I promise to get extra wood

  and extra water.

  I’ll get up extra early

  to sweep the floors

  and empty the chamber pots.

  Papa’s laugh is loud

  and deep,

  like rolling coconuts.

  Manman just squints

  and goes outside.

  Please, Papa! I beg.

  One day to celebrate?

  Enough, Serafina!

  Papa scolds,

  suddenly serious.

  He follows Manman outside.

  He’ll change her mind.

  Whenever Manman chides me

  for hiding rice to feed Banza,

  or spilling coffee on my white skirt,

  Papa always intervenes.

  She’s still a child, he says.

  She’s eleven years old,

  Manman argues.

  But Papa has a way

  of explaining things

  so Manman understands.

  When Papa talks,

  the anger in Manman’s eyes

  softens

  like stingers soaked in honey.

  The flag is not just a piece of cloth,

  Gogo says as we scrub

  and rinse the supper dishes.

  The flag remembers

  what the world forgets.

  We were slaves, but now we’re free.

  Every year,

  Gogo tells me the same thing.

  The colors on the flag mean something.

  Blue for hope.

  Lespwa fè viv. Hope makes us live.

  Red for blood.

  Not just slave blood, but your blood,

  the blood of Granpè.

  Every year, I ask,

  How did Granpè die?

  Someday, when you’re older,

  Gogo always says.

  Someday, I’ll tell you.

  Gogo! I say.

  Every day, twice a day,

  I carry water from the ravine.

  I sweep the floors

  and gather charcoal.

  Even Manman tells me

  how strong I am.

  When the baby comes,

  I’ll be a big sister.

  You can tell me now, Gogo.

  I’m old enough to know.

  The gooey clouds that cover

  Gogo’s eyes flicker.

  She dips the last dish

  into the washbasin.

  Her brown, wrinkled fingers

  linger in the water.

  Your granpè was a good man.

  He took care of his family.

  He tried to make a better life for us.

  What happened?

  I whisper.

  Why is it such a secret?

  He who gives the blow forgets,

  Gogo says.

  But he who carries the scar

  remembers.

  What happened, Gogo?

  I ask again.

  Gogo lifts the plate

  from the water

  and sits back on her heels.

  We had a little garden

  with vegetables and herbs,

  and even some chickens.

  Gogo smiles.

  We were happy

  building our life together.

  Your manman was just

  a little girl,

  younger than you are now.

  We minded our own business

  and saved our money.

  Granpè taught himself to read.

  He wanted your manman

  to go to school.

  Granpè could read?

  Wi! Your granpè could read.

  He was teaching us to read too.

  Education is the road to freedom,

  Granpè said.

  You know how to read?

  Manman knows how to read?

  Gogo shakes her head.

  Non. We never had the chance.

  She closes her eyes but I still

  see them move

  beneath her thin, powdery lids.

  I was finishing the supper dishes

  just like today.

  Your manman was sitting beside me

  making cakes in the mud

  and singing.

  The sun was shining softly.

  First we learn the letters,

  Granpè said.

  Then we learn the words.

  He opened his book.

  I set aside the last dish

  and lifted your manman

  onto my lap.

  She was still singing

  when we heard the shot—

  and the piercing

  squawk of a chicken.

  Gogo opens her eyes.

  The Tonton Macoutes suddenly appeared

  in our front yard.

  I can still see them waving their long,

  heavy machetes.

  I can still see their straw hats

  and dark glasses,

  their blue shirts and belts made of guns

  and bullets.

  I can still hear them demanding

  that we leave our land.

  Take the chickens, your granpè said,

  but this land belongs to my family.

  I’ve read our history. I know my rights.

  Every day your power fades.

  The Tonton Macoutes grabbed him.

  Your manman screamed

  as we watched them

  take Granpè away,

  still clutching his book.

  Gogo’s eyes brim with tears.

  I will never forget the sound

  of my little girl’s scream,

  or the look on Granpè’s face,

  telling us to flee.

  Gogo’s voice flutters softly.

  We left that same night.

  We never saw Granpè again.

  Granpè was taken away

  by the Tonton Macoutes?

  Nadia told Julie Marie and me

  terrible stories

  about the Tonton Macoutes.

  They roamed the countryside

  like evil bogeymen, Nadia said,

  her eyes bigger

  than a tarantula’s belly.

  The president and his son

  gave the Tonton Macoutes power

  to destroy anyone

  who didn’t agree with them.

  The Tonton Macoutes

  said they were keeping order,

  but really they took people away

  and killed them.

  When I got back

  from the ravine that day,

  I asked Manman about

  the Tonton Macoutes.

  She turned her head.

  They are shadows now, she said,

  her voice low and distant.

  Nadia should not even speak of them.

  Neither should you.

  I didn’t understand

  why she sounded so sad.

  I take Gogo’s hand in mine.

  Maybe Granpè came back.

  Maybe he’s looking for you still.

  Gogo shakes her head.

  The Tonton Macoutes never gave back.
<
br />   They only took away.

  She stands up and I know

  there are no more questions.

  Be patient with your manman, she says.

  Her heart is full of fear.

  All night, I think about

  Manman screaming

  when the Tonton Macoutes

  led her papa away.

  Even when Manman is angry,

  she never screams.

  Did the Tonton Macoutes

  take away Manman’s voice

  when they took away her papa?

  Questions tumble

  and tangle in my mind:

  Why didn’t Granpè give

  the Tonton Macoutes

  what they wanted?

  If he had, would he still be here?

  What good is being brave

  if being brave gets you killed?

  Which is better,

  to tell the truth and die,

  or to give the bad people

  what they want and live?

  I think about Granpè

  wanting to educate himself,

  wanting to educate his family.

  If he were still here,

  he would teach me to read.

  He would tell Manman

  that I should go to school!

  Education is the road to freedom.

  Doesn’t Manman remember that?

  I think of the silent promise

  I made to myself

  when I listened to Manman’s heart

  with my new stethoscope.

  I make the same promise

  to Granpè.

  One day, I’ll go to school

  and learn to read

  so I can become a doctor.

  I won’t forget you, Granpè.

  I promise to find a way

  to follow your dream.

  I promise to make you proud.

  The sun is still buried

  in darkness Monday

  morning when I wake up.

  I hear Papa

  get ready for work.

  Babay, Marie Rose,

  mwen renmen ou,

  he whispers.

  Babay. I love you too,

  she whispers back.

  Their gentle voices are a lullaby

  that soothes me back to sleep.

  When I wake again,

  Gogo’s wrinkled fingers

  peel a black banana.

  Each of us takes half.

  Manman nibbles yesterday’s

  beans and rice.

  Then, when the sun

  is just beginning to yawn,

  we all get ready for work.

  Most days, Manman and Gogo

  gather the wild mint and thyme

  that grow along the hillside.

  On Wednesdays and Fridays,

  they travel to Port-au-Prince.

  They sit on a corner

  and sell their bundles.

  My days are always the same.

  Collect the water. Sweep the floor.

  Empty the chamber pots.

  Gather wood. Pile charcoal.

  Collect more water.

  But somehow,

  today feels different.

  Today,

  new thoughts fill my mind.

  New feelings press against my heart.

  The morning walk

  to the ravine

  is quiet.

  Only babies

  and young children

  sit on the road.

  They suck their fingers,

  and watch their mothers

  hang wet clothes on frayed

  pieces of rope.

  Julie Marie’s brother Michel

  leans his brown,

  swollen belly

  against his mother’s

  stick-like legs.

  Jacques and Daniel Louis

  have already left to work

  in the sugarcane fields.

  Julie Marie is off

  gathering branches

  to make charcoal.

  But lucky Nadia

  sits in the bright yellow

  mission house,

  learning how scribbles make letters

  and letters make words,

  like the words we speak.

  When you read,

  you discover,

  she says.

  When you write,

  you remember.

  I think about Granpè.

  I think about the promise

  I made to him

  and to myself.

  I know I must talk to Papa.

  A quiet whimpering

  distracts me from my thoughts.

  Banza is curled at the ravine,

  licking his paw.

  I never see him

  this early in the day.

  Banza! I call.

  He looks up

  and limps toward me.

  I put down my bucket

  and pat his thin, bony back.

  Did you get into a fight?

  He crouches to lick his paw again,

  and I kneel beside him.

  Let me take a look at that.

  His scraggy tail thumps softly

  when I speak,

  but he yelps when I touch

  his swollen paw.

  I let go,

  put my hand under his chin,

  and look into his large brown eyes.

  Were you walking where

  you shouldn’t have been?

  You need to be more careful.

  Still talking, I take his paw

  into my hand again.

  In one swift movement,

  I yank out a large, pointy thorn.

  Banza yowls and jumps up.

  Before he runs away,

  he rewards me with

  a soft look of gratitude

  and a sloppy kiss.

  Watch where you walk!

  I call after him,

  but he’s already disappeared.

  As the dark, cloudy water

  flows into my bucket,

  I wonder where Banza goes

  when he disappears.

  Sometimes we don’t see him

  for weeks.

  I wonder what it’s like

  to always be hungry

  and wander about every day

  looking for food.

  Sometimes I’m hungry.

  Sometimes my belly

  is so empty it grumbles,

  and a plate of rice

  or a black banana

  is just not enough.

  On those days,

  Papa sings louder,

  and Manman’s eyes are softer.

  Gogo takes my hand

  and we dance away

  the rumbles.

  I wonder what hunger is like

  without a family

  to fill the emptiness.

  I think about Baby Pierre.

  He never had a chance

  to grow fat with our love.

  When I return home,

  I put down

  the bucket of water

  I collected,

  and brush the dirt

  from the stone cross

  on Baby Pierre’s grave.

  In my mind,

  I can still see his eyes,

  darker than coffee beans.

  I can still feel his body, so thin

  I could count his bones.

  I can still hear his heartbeat,

  gentle as a faraway drum.

  Gogo says spirits

  are with us always.

  Can you hear me, Pierre?

  I whisper.

  Even though

  we only knew each other

  a few weeks,

  I miss you!

  I won’t ever forget you, Pierre.

  I hope you’re happy.

  I hope you’re not hungry.

  I straighten the stones.

  One day, I’m going to become<
br />
  a doctor,

  so babies like you

  won’t die anymore.

  If you can,

  please give me the courage

  to talk to Papa

  about going to school.

  Babay, little brother,

  I sing softly.

  I will always love you.

  Manman and Gogo get home

  before all my chores are done.

  Already they’ve sold

  everything they gathered.

  Today was a good day,

  Manman says.

  Gogo’s single white tooth

  glistens in the sunlight.

  It’s hard to believe

  that it’s already mid-May,

  she says, shaking her head.

  Flag Day isn’t until Monday,

  but people are already celebrating!

  An idea flutters into my brain

  as if Granpè himself,

  or maybe Baby Pierre,

  is whispering in my ear.

  Flag Day would be

  the perfect time

  to talk to Papa

  about school.

  I look at Manman.

  She sees the question

  in my face,

  slowly tilts her head

  and nods.

  Wi, you may go.

  But only if all your chores

  are done!

  Mèsi! Thank you!

  Thank you! Thank you!

  I knew Papa would change

  Manman’s mind.

  I promise I’ll get all my chores done

  before Papa is ready to leave!

  She laughs.

  Well then, you’d better start now!

  When I see Papa coming

  down the road,

  I run to meet him.

  He scoops me into his arms.

  Manman said I could go!

  Papa laughs.

  She did? Well, I guess

  that means you can!

  I hug him tightly.

  Mèsi, Papa!

  He hugs me back.

  Thank your manman,

  not me.

  He puts me down

  and together we dance

  all the way home.

  The next few mornings

  creep slower than a snake in daylight.

  The next few nights

  drag longer than a monkey’s tail.

  Every minute

  of every day,

  I think about

  the fun I’ll have

  in Port-au-Prince

  on Flag Day.

  Every minute

  of every day,

  I practice

  what I’ll say to Papa

  about school.

  Papa will smile

  and listen to me

  like he always does.

  He’ll nod and tell me

  he’s proud of me.

  Then he’ll say,

  Let me think it over.

  When he hears

  how determined I am,

  how could he say no?