Serafina's Promise Read online

  While Julie Marie and I

  gather water,

  I tell her my plan.

  Julie Marie smiles

  her big white smile.

  And don’t forget to mention

  how you took care of Banza’s paw.

  And how you already know

  how to use a stethoscope

  and how to count to five in French

  like Nadia taught us.

  Don’t tell Nadia yet, I say.

  She’ll find a way

  to spoil my plan.

  Julie Marie laughs.

  No she won’t — but I promise.

  We carefully lift our buckets

  onto our heads.

  I can’t wait to hear

  what your papa thinks,

  Julie Marie says.

  Remember everything!

  Hope and happiness

  bubble in my heart.

  Wi! I will!

  Julie Marie smiles.

  Uncle Bouki, Uncle Bouki,

  she sings.

  Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping?

  My heart is close to bursting.

  Get up to play the drum.

  Get up to play the drum.

  Flag Day is almost here.

  There’s so much to celebrate!

  On Sunday night,

  the tingling

  in my stomach

  makes it hard to sleep.

  I wiggle and squirm

  and beg Gogo

  to tell me about Flag Day

  when she was a little girl,

  or about Granpè

  and his books.

  Shhhhh … Gogo says.

  A child who doesn’t sleep at night

  is a crocodile in the morning!

  It’s still dark

  when Gogo pulls my toes.

  Leve, Serafina!

  she whispers. Wake up!

  Tiny butterflies quiver

  inside me—

  no more waiting—

  today is Flag Day!

  I leap to do my chores.

  Even in the blackness,

  my feet easily follow

  the curves and dips

  that lead to the ravine.

  I brush away the flies

  and mosquitoes

  and quickly fill my bucket

  with black, still water.

  When I get back,

  Manman gives me

  a small piece of bread.

  I’m not hungry

  but she’ll make me eat,

  so I push away the quivers

  in three big bites.

  Slow down, Manman says.

  The city will wait.

  I’ll empty the chamber pots

  and sweep the floors,

  Gogo says.

  Today is a day to celebrate.

  Blue for hope.

  Red for blood, I say,

  hoping that Granpè

  has been listening

  to my prayers.

  Papa washes his face

  while Manman ties

  red and blue ribbons

  in my hair.

  Her hands work quickly.

  It hurts when she tugs

  my scalp,

  but I don’t complain.

  Listen to your papa,

  she says, and remember,

  he has work to do before the parade.

  Be patient and let him do his job.

  Wi, Manman! I assure her.

  I’ll be patient!

  Even on Flag Day

  Papa must stack cans,

  open boxes,

  and pour bags of rice

  into wooden barrels.

  Gogo frowns.

  The donkey sweats

  so the horse

  can be dressed in lace.

  She gives me a pair of ragged shoes

  patched with bark and straw.

  The shoes are big for my feet

  and the patches pinch and scratch.

  Gogo! Papa says,

  I am happy to have steady work!

  André struggles every day.

  I’m happy I can provide

  food and clothes for my family.

  He smiles at me.

  I’m happy I could afford

  ribbons for Serafina’s hair.

  André is Julie Marie’s papa.

  Even though there are days

  when I hear

  Julie Marie’s stomach grumble,

  even though Julie Marie

  always wears a dress

  too small for her long, skinny body,

  even though I have never seen her

  with ribbons in her hair,

  Julie Marie is always smiling.

  She never complains about anything.

  When I think of Julie Marie,

  I feel lucky to go to Papa’s supermarket

  and wait while he does his work.

  Papa kisses Gogo and Manman

  on both cheeks.

  I do the same,

  then take Papa’s hand.

  My heart beats faster

  than a hummingbird’s wing

  as we step into the early

  morning dark.

  Together we follow the long,

  winding road

  that leads to the city.

  Soon a shimmery pink light

  appears in the distance.

  Papa twirls me and smiles.

  My little starlight dancer,

  he whispers,

  and all the words

  I planned to say

  flutter away.

  We walk through

  my favorite field

  of dry grass and pink flowers.

  The scent of mango,

  oranges, and wild thyme

  wraps me in sweetness.

  Manman calls this part

  of our walk to the city

  Haiti’s piece of heaven.

  Before long,

  we pass the path

  that leads to

  Nadia’s mission school.

  My wishes and words

  drift back.

  I take a breath.

  Papa, may I ask you something?

  Papa looks at me and nods.

  Wi, you may ask me anything.

  But then, the smells change

  to garbage, sweat,

  and burning wood.

  The fragrant field is gone.

  Along the road,

  huts made of straw

  and rusted tin shacks

  pile on one another.

  They push away

  my whiffling thoughts

  and steal my courage.

  Do you like parades

  as much as I do?

  I ask.

  Papa shakes his head

  and laughs his hearty laugh

  as the sun peeks over the mountain

  and meets us in the city.

  Even in the early morning,

  Port-au-Prince is crowded

  with people.

  Stay close, Papa says,

  squeezing my hand.

  Papa! I’m not a baby!

  I remind him.

  All around us,

  the city teems with sights,

  smells, and sounds.

  Baskets are piled high

  with brightly colored fruit—

  green and yellow bananas,

  grapefruit and mangoes,

  lemons and limes.

  In an open pot, hot oil sizzles.

  Fried plantains and sweet potatoes

  crackle and sputter.

  Chicken wings hiss and frizzle

  in wide silver frying pans.

  Tap-taps rumble and honk.

  Old cars rattle and cough.

  Welcome to the city, Serafina!

  they seem to say.

  I love it here! I shout back.

  We pass the clean white palace

  where the president lives.


  A long iron fence surrounds

  thick green grass

  and winding stone paths.

  I wonder how lush grass

  and smooth stones

  feel under bare feet.

  How pleasant it would be

  if the path to the ravine

  were as soft and lovely

  as the path around

  the President’s Palace.

  I curl my toes

  and try to ignore

  the scratching bark

  and prickly straw.

  Outside the fence,

  people sing and wave

  small blue-and-red flags.

  Inside the fence,

  above rows of windows

  and mighty chalk columns,

  a large flag floats proudly.

  Blue for hope.

  Red for blood.

  Not just slave blood,

  my blood,

  the blood of my granpè.

  Watch over me, Granpè,

  I pray.

  Please bring back my courage

  so I can talk to Papa.

  Help him to understand

  the way you would.

  The parade isn’t until

  late afternoon,

  but already drums beat,

  maracas rattle and swish.

  Men in straw hats

  and brightly colored shirts

  blow and tap their

  painted bamboo trumpets.

  I squeeze Papa’s hand.

  I like to be alone with him,

  but still,

  I wish Manman and Gogo

  didn’t have clothes to wash.

  I wish they didn’t have

  mint and thyme to bundle.

  I close my eyes and gather

  the music and colors

  in my arms,

  a holiday bouquet

  to bring back

  to Manman and Gogo.

  Sometimes happiness

  eases hunger

  better than rice and beans.

  When I open my eyes again,

  a woman holds out

  a stalk of sugarcane.

  Papa shakes his head

  and frowns.

  I know we have no money

  for treats,

  but I don’t care.

  We’re in the city!

  Papa twirls me past

  the big white church

  where we pray on Sunday.

  Past small shops

  with green awnings,

  and pink apartments

  with clothes hanging

  from the railings.

  When we pass the blue cafe

  with the rainbow umbrellas,

  I know we are almost at

  Papa’s supermarket.

  Papa’s supermarket is the biggest,

  busiest market in Port-au-Prince.

  Remember, Serafina, he says,

  as we step inside,

  you must be quiet and let me work.

  I know, Papa! I say. I know!

  I sit on a wooden crate

  and watch Papa pour

  sacks and sacks of Miami rice

  into brown barrels.

  Gogo says that Haiti rice tastes better

  than Miami rice.

  Gogo says that Haiti rice is healthier

  than Miami rice.

  Papa says that nobody buys

  Haiti rice anymore.

  Why should they?

  Miami rice costs less money.

  Cheap is not better,

  Gogo always says,

  shrugging her shoulders.

  But an empty sack cannot stand.

  In the barrels, the rice sparkles

  like tiny white stars.

  I say the best rice

  is the rice that fills our bellies.

  When Papa goes

  to find his boss,

  Mr. Pétion,

  I watch a caterpillar

  in a heavy yellow coat

  climb up the rice barrel.

  I pick it up.

  It slithers and slumps

  across my fingers

  and up my arm.

  Do you know what you’ll be

  when you grow up? I ask.

  Before I can tell her,

  Papa comes back.

  Swiv mwen, he says, follow me.

  Mr. Pétion is having

  a Flag Day celebration

  at his house.

  He asked me to deliver

  a crate of black mushrooms

  and a tank of lobsters.

  The wagon is already packed.

  I follow Papa outside

  to the front of the store

  and place my caterpillar

  on a scraggly weed

  poking through the cement.

  Good luck! I whisper.

  Papa grabs the handle

  of a large red wagon

  and we begin walking.

  Inside the tank,

  a huddle of lobsters

  with rubber-banded claws

  peer at me.

  I wave to them.

  The lobsters are alive! I say.

  Papa laughs.

  For a little while …

  but don’t get too attached!

  Mr. Pétion’s house sits high on the hill.

  A tall girl, skinnier than a spider’s leg,

  opens the door for us.

  I smile, but she just nods

  and motions for us

  to follow her inside.

  Mr. Pétion’s house is cold

  like the refrigerator

  in the back of Papa’s store.

  It has an inside stove

  and a long table

  with wooden chairs.

  On the roof,

  there’s a pool of water

  to swim in

  and even a house

  for Mr. Pétion’s car!

  When I’m a doctor,

  I’ll have a car too.

  I’ll visit old people

  who live far from the city.

  I’ll take sick babies

  to the hospital to get better.

  But I’ll never build

  a house for my car.

  People need houses

  more than cars do.

  Papa empties the wagon

  and parks it outside the car house.

  Trumpets and drums

  bellow in the distance.

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  We’re going to miss the parade!

  I say.

  Papa laughs. No we won’t!

  He grabs my hand

  and swings my arm.

  Walking downhill is like flying!

  At last we’re back

  in the heat of the city.

  The closer and louder

  the trumpets and drums,

  the more crowded

  the busy streets become.

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  Soon the drums

  beat inside of me

  like my own heart.

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  A group of grown-up dancers

  dressed in white

  carry flags of blue and red.

  They step and bounce,

  step and clap.

  They shake their shoulders

  and sway their hips.

  The drums beat

  without stopping,

  steady like a heart.

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  I’d like to step and sway

  in a flowing dress

  and shake my shoulders free.

  I’d like to clap my hands

  and stamp my feet,

  moving to nothing

  but the beat of a drum.

  Next, children my age

  dressed i
n yellow uniforms

  with socks inside their shiny shoes

  march to the center of the street.

  Look! Papa says, There’s Nadia!

  Nadia waves, but

  without even thinking,

  I pretend I don’t see.

  The drums beat

  without stopping.

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  Nadia and her school friends

  hold hands and form a circle.

  They sing a song of freedom.

  Let there be no traitors in our ranks.

  Let us be masters of our soil.

  I think about the Tonton Macoutes.

  The Tonton Macoutes were traitors.

  I’m glad they are gone.

  I wish Granpè were still here,

  but now I’m beginning

  to understand.

  Granpè only wanted to be

  master of his soil.

  My heart beats

  in steady rhythm

  with the drums.

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  Bom-bom

  For the rest of the parade,

  I feel Granpè’s heart

  beat inside of mine.

  Colors, sounds, and smells

  float through my mind

  as Papa and I walk home

  in happy silence.

  When I see a heart-shaped rock

  lying in the road,

  I let go of Papa’s hand,

  pick it up, and squeeze it

  in my fist.

  I say a silent prayer to Granpè

  for courage,

  then take a deep breath.

  Papa, I say,

  I know Manman needs me.

  I know it’s important

  to do my chores.

  Papa listens quietly.

  He doesn’t interrupt

  like Manman would.

  I want to be a doctor, Papa.

  And to be a doctor,

  I must go to school.

  Gogo told me that Granpè

  could read.

  He wanted to teach Manman

  to read too.

  Did you know that Granpè said

  education is the road to freedom?

  Papa doesn’t say anything

  so I keep talking.

  I think it would make Granpè happy

  for me to go to school and become a doctor.

  You said yourself that I have a gift.

  Papa is still quiet

  so I go on.

  If I become a doctor,

  I can help Manman even more.

  One day, I’ll earn enough money

  to buy chicken and pork.

  Manman and Gogo

  won’t have to work so hard.

  And, Papa, when I’m a doctor,

  I’ll have my own car.

  You won’t have to walk so far to work

  or pull a wagon up the hill to your boss’s house.

  Please, Papa, please think about it.

  I want to go to school

  more than anything in the world.

  I stop talking, hold my breath,