Un campesino Dominicano

 

The following is an entertaining décima by Juan Antonio Alix (posted at  https://poesiadominicana.jmarcano.com/). Essentially a list of words in Haitian Creole with their Spanish equivalents, the poem is interesting from a linguistic perspective. It's also intriguing to see the manner in which Haitian Creole is written by Hispanophones. Indeed, the Dominican Spanish term for our djon-djon is apparently casabe de bruja...Even if the campesino expresses bewilderment at the Creole language, he is able to communicate enough to sell andullos. 

Un campesino dominicano

que estuvo en Haití vendiendo unos andullos y

a su regreso tuvo una entrevista muy curiosa

con el que suscribe.

(A dos amigos puertoplateños)

Del campo un dominicano 

que pasó a vender andullos, 

en dos borriquitos suyos 

a no sé qué pueblo haitiano, 

así me contó: ¡critiano 

ni Dio comprende esa gente! 

Caicule que laguaidiente 

allá le dicen tafiá, 

a lo jalitao llengá 

y penchó ai pan caliente.

Los frijole colorao 

puá rus lo llaman allá, 

a la brujería guangá 

y a lo sombrero chapao. 

Malfiní é guaraguao 

lo guandule puá congó 

Bonyé le dicen a Dio, 

a lo brujo lugarú 

y a lo jefe dei judú 

le dicen papá Bocó.

Lo memo la macarela,

la titulan macrilló

lo molondrone gombó

y difé a la candela.

A la paila o casuela

le dicen allá shodié;

a lo sapato sulié,

puesón ai peje o pecao

y en siendo el arró graniao

le dicen durí grené.

Yo andube toitico Haití

y no encontré un condenao

que dijera bacalao

sino todo la murí.

Al arró llaman durí,

a la cebolla loñón,

a lo cochino cochón.

Lo fideo vermichel

a la sal le dicen sel

y creviche ai camarón.

En siendo peje salao

le dicen puesón salé

como banan bucané

llaman ai plátano asao.

Pero siendo sancochao

le dicen banan bullí,

a la ñica saloprí

a lo sajice pimán,

lo mamone cachimán

y a lo niño anfán pití.

Al agua le dicen gló,

ai queso llaman fromalle,

una rí e juna calle

y finí que se acabó;

allí nadie dice fó

como nosotro jaquí,

cuando viene a la narí

ei bajo de aigún parrá!

el haitiano dice allá:

«¡A la peté qui santi!»

Un sancocho, e ebullón

ñon eguille es una aguja

como ei casabe de bruja

ello lo llaman llonllón.

A lo caibone charbon,

ai quitasoi, paresol,

guanábana, corosol,

ñon chandel e juna vela;

y a la maidita viruela

le dicen pití verol.

Al aceite llaman huil,

aguacate sabocá,

y a la piña ananá

como porcanel, cajuil;

allá perejil, persil,

el melao allí siró,

lo mameye, abricó,

la yuca llaman mañoc,

a lo gallo viejo coc,

y ai sapo llaman grapó.

Lo que aquí llaman letrina

por allá e cae brulé,

como si dijera uté

la casa quemada en ruina,

donde allí la chamuchina

o gente de poca nota,

entra allí y se ñengota

en un brulé o aposento,

y se despacha al momento

dejando allí su pelota.

Conque saque uté la cuenta

siño Juan Antoño Elí,

y dígame si en Haití

cuaiquiera no se revienta;

en eso de compra y benta

yo le pueo asegurai,

que si no sabe coitai

de esa gente ei lenguaraje,

ni la toitilla dei biaje

uté no la pue sacai.

Jata otro día, con su licencia.

René Depestre: A Life in Movement

Arnold Antonin's René Depestre: On ne rate pas une vie éternelle is a fascinating documentary. Perhaps one of his better projects, this one benefits from extensive interview footage with Depestre himself. A compelling speaker and one who has experienced much of the major movements of the post-WWII years, Depestre explains his life and work in the context of literature, politics and exile. Since is nearly 100 years old, each chapter of Depestre's long life receives section of the story, beginning with his Jacmelian childhood. Depestre's adventures in Europe, both in France and behind the Iron Curtain, plus his travels in Latin America and the "Global South" demonstrate his place and contributions to Communist, anti-colonial, and literary movements.

While the film could have benefited from including more interviews with people who know Depestre in Cuba, Haiti and Europe, especially those who could have added another perspective on Depestre's Cuban period, Antonin's documentary includes the testimony and interviews with Haitians like Suzy Castor, Michel Hector, and Pierre Buteau to furnish more historical context or additional perspectives. Antonin seamlessly fuses Depestre's poetry with the film, too, giving the viewer several opportunities to appreciate Depestre's literary work or maybe encounter poems they may not be familiar with. Nonetheless, to better corroborate some of Depestre's claims about, for instance, the Padilla Affair, or to dig deeper into his polemic with Alexis and the intricacies of the Haitian Left's internal conflicts, this documentary would have required interviewing far more people (many of whom are, alas, probably deceased). Without this additional context and other perspectives, we are relying almost entirely on Depestre himself, whose political and personal biases may have occluded or omitted aspects of his political career or activities.

In spite of these problems, it is excellent to hear Depestre's story "straight from the horse's mouth." The struggles of his seamstress mother, his youthful political activities with La Ruche, or the incredibly tense interview with Francois Duvalier are engaging episodes of his life. To think he could have been "domesticated" by the Duvalier regime with an offer of a diplomatic post is frightening, yet illustrates how shrewd and cunning Duvalier was. The unsavory experiences in today's Czech Republic were another early indication of political danger for Depestre whilst Cuba, perhaps the most interesting chapter, is seen as a disappointment after the Padilla Affair. Depestre, however, saw something worthwhile and beautiful in the Cuban Revolution and the way it brought together so many intellectuals, writers, and activists. His quip about Fidel and Che being like Don Quixote was also quite amusing, and perhaps tragically accurate. A biography of Depestre is simply a must. 

La palma del cacique

Alejandro Tapia y Rivera is one of the most important figures in 19th century Puerto Rican literature. An ardent, forward-looking believer in Puerto Rican independence and abolitionism, he also wrote a short novella fusing fact, fiction and legend on the Spanish conquest of the island. Indeed, his Taino-inspired leyenda was what Betances responded to with Les deux indiens. Using the form of a legend and somewhat adhering to the historical rebellion of Agueybana and allied caciques against the Spanish in 1511, Tapia uses a frustrated love triangle of Guarionex, Loarina and Cristobal de Sotomayor to narrate colonial conquest and indigenous revolt.

Although the characterization is limited and the novella ends with the death of Sotomayor and suicide of Guarionex (and Loarina, who chooses to die with him), writing a story like this in the 1850s must have incurred the wrath of Spanish censors. After all, reclaiming the indigenous past was partly an assertion of local autonomy and identity for criollo elites of Tapia's background. Even if the narrator of the tale identifies with the Spanish race, there is no doubt that the legend extolls the landscape and indigenous culture of the island. Guarionex is a hero, in this legend. One short chapter on his role in resisting a Carib attack and liberating his sister establishes his bravery and martial ability. Indeed, had he been European, he would have been a nobleman, like his rival for Loarina's heart.

Betances, on the other hand, seems to have seen the legend of his peer as insufficient, perhaps, for asserting Puerto Rican independence. He seems to have taken more liberty with history to create a tragic romance between an Indian man and a white woman. Instead of Tapia's tale involving Loarina traitorously warning the Spanish of the impending indigenous revolt (due to her love for Sotomayor), there is more Indian unity and purpose in Betances's fictionalized vision of the past. Betances also uses a strong pairing of brothers resisting the Spanish, but only as minor characters with one sibling avenging the death of another. 

Tapia, however, appears to have followed the chroniclers more closely by bringing to life a number of customs and beliefs of the Taino, particularly cemism and the burial of wives with a deceased cacique. Although Tapia's depiction of a cemi ritual does not seem historically accurate, as it involved more than caciques and behiques (or buhitis), he clearly endeavored to portray some of their worldview and belief in fate and divine intervention to justify war and inspire confidence against the Spanish. Thus, despite being outnumbered in some battles and wielding bows and arrows or macanas against Spanish swords and firearms, they could still occasionally resist. The assembly of principal caciques, presided by Agueybana, symbolizes the power of Puerto Rican unity against greater foes. Tapia, Betances, and other supporters of independence must have believed in this essential unity to resist the greater power of Spain. 

Anacaona's Martyrdom

Frédéric Marcelin's nephew wrote a rather unremarkable novella on Anacaona, one of the most celebrated figures of Haiti's indigenous past. In Emile Marcelin's imagination, Anacaona was a beautiful cacique who ruled in accordance with the zemis, justice, poetry, and the cultivation of art. Columbus and, even more effectively, Ovando ruined this "young" Indo-Haitian civilization of Xaragua and Maguana. In short, the Spanish obsession with gold, material goods and the exploitation of Taino labor spelled the end of the indigenous population. Due to its emphasis on the violent suffering of Anacaona through the capture of Caonabo, the reduction of her daughter to folie, and the massacre orchestrated by Ovando, Anacaona's function is largely as a tragic figure of a pristine Haiti unsoiled by colonialism and slavery.

Since the novella was first published in Havana and only one year after the Marchaterre Massacre, one cannot help but perceive this as a response to the US Occupation of Haiti. Like Anacaona, Haitians, despite their poetry and attention for the arts, were unable to defend their sovereignty from colonial invasion. With tragic figures like Charlemagne Péralte who could perhaps be compared to Caonabo, perhaps Emile Marcelin sought to highlight the indigenous legacy of resistance and defeat to Haitian nationalist and indigenist literary purposes. After all, the indigenous past of the island had already possessed an appeal to Haitian literary and nationalist purposes since the foundation of the state. And perhaps writing in Cuba, where the Taino legacy was also relevant, and where the yoke of US imperialism was inescapable, maybe Marcelin was situating the tale of Haiti's conquest within a larger Caribbean history. 

Sadly, this short novel reads like a slightly exciting fragment of a larger history. Anacaona, reduced mainly to a tragic figure, is not as much of an inspiring character as other caciques in Caribbean literature. She was left only as a shadow cacica before her brutal capture and death, and the nuances of cacicazgo politics and its possible role in aiding the Spanish conquest is minimized. Edwidge Danticat's novel for children, far from perfect and full of occasional historical errors, is perhaps a more empowering Anacaona, centering resistance. However, from what we have read as of now, Betances still reigns supreme for the most radical novelistic depiction of Taino caciques in literature.

Les deux Indiens

Ramón Emeterio Betances's Les deux indiens is probably one of the most fascinating examples of Indianist literature of the 19th century Caribbean. Written in French and as a response to Alejandro Tapia y Rivera's La palma del cacique, the ardent nationalist Betances subverts the genre. Instead of telling a tale of romance between an indigenous woman and a Spanish male, Betances has Otuké fall in love with Carmen, a beautiful Andalusian. However, due to the brutal and racist Spanish conquest, their romance is doomed. However, unlike, say, Iracema or other examples of Indianist Latin American literature, Carmen bears Otuké's son. This mestizo child, raised by Toba, the warrior brother of Otuké, must be an allegory for the formation of the Puerto Rican people and their opposition to colonial rule. The novel is followed by a short poem that also hints at the fraternal bonds created by the  African and the Indian under Spanish colonialism, another radical instance of anti-colonial sentiment expressed by Betances. 

Perhaps because he was writing in French and had, already by the 1850s, combined anti-slavery, anti-racism and liberal nationalism as the path forward, Betances was able to create the most progressive Indianist literature in the Spanish Caribbean. The indigenous legacy was alive and well, represented in the novella's conclusion by Indians in the forest resisting the Spanish. Toba, son of murdered cacique Ayma of Guanahibo, carries on the fight with Carmen and Otuké's son. Their population may have suffered severe declines and the loss of the cemi and bones of Ayma clearly required a shift in Indian social organization, but Toba and the indigenous resistance must have symbolized an ongoing effort by the Puerto Rican people to liberate the island. Sure, Betances engaged in the typical Romantic-era praise of the island's flora and fauna. Indigenous customs of worship like the cemi appear in the text. But the Indian legacy is a living one, and surely one that a young Betances could have seen in the Puerto Rican population of his day. Undoubtedly, as someone allegedly of mixed-race origins and cognizant of the way historians and travelers had noted the indigenous ancestry of the Puerto Rican population, he would see continuity in the struggle of the indigenous resistance to the conquest and 19th century struggles for independence.

The poem accompanying the novella makes this radical message even more explicit, incorporating the plight of the African into the narrative. This move also brings Betances closer to Haitian writers such as Emile Nau. One wonders if Betances had read Nau or at least heard of his history of the indigenous population of Hispaniola. If so, and in light of Betances's own pro-Haitian views, perhaps his depiction of the indigenous resistance to Spanish enslavement was partly motivated by Nau's history of Hispaniola. There, like in Puerto Rico, the European colonial conquest and subjugation of Indians and Africans was eventually avenged by the birth of Haiti as an independent state. Puerto Rico, suffering under the yoke of colonialism, must follow a similar path which Betances highlights through Toba and Otuké. Unfortunately, Betances's progressive Indianist literature was not followed or developed by subsequent writers.

Delorme as Black Plato

We are not sure who Michel is, but his videos on important figures in Haitian intellectual thought and history are good overviews. Here he is discussing Delorme's Les théoriciens au pouvoir: causeries historiques, a work definitely inspired by the legacy of Classical and French political thought. Eddy Arnold Jean has also summarized the important work very well in terms of what it represented in 19th century Haitian political thought. In other words, despite the opposition of the Nations and Liberals in late 19th century Haiti, Delorme, of the National side, also believed in an exclusionary political state in which democracy did not entail the the participation of the masses. Instead, democracy was government in "view" of the people, not of the people. Haiti needed a government of enlightened men (women need not apply here) in an aristocratic sense to act on the best interests of the masses. Aristocratic in this context meant those who proved their worth, not just those born into wealth and privilege. 

In a general sense, this did not differ from the Liberals who argued for power to the most capable. However, the Liberals and Nationals did, to a certain extent, represent different wings of the Haitian upper classes (largely but not solely "mulattoes" in commerce and land-owning "blacks). Of course, the "race" or "color" element is contradicted by the membership of the parties and the chief ideologues. Delorme's interests in agriculture as the basis of building a strong state might also distinguish him from some of the Liberal intellectuals who expressed interest in industrialization. Delorme understood that without addressing very basic, fundamentals like farming and roads, industrialization would not happen or would not occur in such a manner that would build wealth.  To a certain extent, he was proven correct about the utter failure of the Haitian economy and the loss of sovereignty. 

Sometimes we believe the Haitian political class should be forced to reread classic Haitian authors like Delorme but they have, in even more perverted ways, corrupted his already problematic political philosophy. The enlightened philosopher or poet presidents have either failed to materialize or proven themselves willing and able to rule in opposition to the interests of the people. The exploitation of the color question certainly did not help here, as Duvalier and other like-minded intellectuals used it as part of the justification for political power to noirs and the middle-class. While they may have, in some cases, represented a shift to a more meritocratic "aristocratie" in the Delormean sense, the Haitian political class continues to operate in the same destructive manner. 

Dimensions et limites de Jacques Roumain

Hénock Trouillot's critical study of Jacques Roumain is a fascinating analysis of the illustrious Haitian writer. Despite Trouillot's noirist sympathies, which can be detected through his persistent admiration and praise for the Griots (Duvalier, Denis, Jacob, etc.), Dimensions et limites de Jacques Roumain is a mostly fair overview of the various writings of Roumain from his youthful anti-Occupation journalism to the mature talent of his final novel. Undoubtedly, Trouillot recognized the talent and ability of Roumain and his universalist outlook. However, Roumain's abilities as a novelist, poet, and ethnologue developed over time, and remained, in some aspects, embryonic or detached from what was actually happening on the ground in Haiti during the 1930s and 1940s. With the exception of the influence of Fernand Hibbert and Frederic Marcelin on Roumain's nouvelles, and Price-Mars writing the preface to his first roman, he seems to owe far more to his European education than Haiti. 

Of course, some of Roumain's detachment was due to exile and perhaps his education in Europe, so one can see why Roumain was removed from the "Ethnological School" of Price-Mars, Denis, Duvalier, and others. Trouillot's sympathy for the Griots and explicitly indigenist Haitian authors makes him torn on the question of Roumain's adherence to indigenist and negritude literature. Roumain was too universal, and did not pursue with the requisite depth history, ethnology, and the specifically Haitian context of the racial question. And one can make the case Trouillot was correct in clearly delineating two distinct schools, one of Roumain and that of Price-Mars and the Griots in Haitian ethnology and indigénisme. 

In spite of Roumain's shortcomings, and his early death depriving us of his future endeavors in literature, ethnology or Marxism, his legacy seems the most commemorated or celebrated today. With the exception of Price-Mars, the Griots became associated with the Duvalier regime and have, at best, a checkered legacy. They have may laid the foundations for the Bureau d'Ethnologie with more careful studies and historically-grounded research than Roumain, but Roumain, the Marxist universalist who rejected Vodou, authored the timeless novel of Haiti that artfully combined his descriptive ethnographic work and "symbolic realism" with his political vision of sacrifice for the collective. Thus, even though we tend to agree with Trouillot on the weakness of Roumain as a poet, particularly in the early years, and the sometimes superficial nature of his political and ethnographic works, there is undeniably something timeless in his universalist outlook and gradual development as a novelist.

Pays sans chapeau

 Dany Laferrière's Pays sans chapeau is a hilarious novel about Vieux Os's return to Port-au-Prince after 20 years of exile. As an excuse to practice one's French, Pays is very rewarding while also entertaining. As a novel of and about Port-au-Prince through the dreamed country and the real country, the reader is taken on a spiritual and material journey through the various quarters of the city. The narrator has a number of amusing experiences on the way as he reconnects with old friends Manu (based on Manno Charlemagne?), Philippe, Lisa, Antoinette, and his mother and aunt. Da, unfortunately, has passed away. 

As one would expect, the author seamlessly fuses real people with fictionalized versions of themselves, drawing on ethnologist J.B. Romain and real places or sites in the city. In addition, the mix of the supernatural with the depressing reality of Port-au-Prince in the 1990s alludes to US imperialism, the end of the Duvalier regime, and the amazing feat of Bombardopolis residents who can survive without eating. Numerous references to vaudou, Haiti as a grand cemetery, local paintings, and the class divide in the city make it clear that while the author has not been to Haiti in 20 years, some things have remained the same.

For this blogger, Laferrière's talent lay in his penchant for the comic while weaving together stories based on real people. Here in Pays sans chapeau we see this skill brilliantly used to bring to life Vieux Os's mother, the city of Port-au-Prince, and the migrant's experience. Who could forget the Jehovah's Witness driver who takes his riders on detours to drop off money for the mothers of his children? The gossip in the taxi? Conversations between Vieux Os and Philippe about Petionville? Or his mother, Marie, and her worst nightmare of falling down the social pyramid to live in Martissant? Anyone who has visited Port-au-Prince or similar cities will know these characters, and the difficult conditions they face. Pays sans chapeau confronts that with an ironic twist of the migrant who is an insider-outsider to his land of birth, thereby putting him in a unique position of being able to confront the shadows of the past in the present.

Le charme des après-midi sans fin

Le charme des après-midi sans fin excels as a sequel of sorts to An Aroma of Coffee. Although I have yet to read the latter in the original French, Le charme reads like a spiritual successor to that endearing story of Vieux Os and Da in Petit-Goave. Here, however, the end of an idyllic childhood is depicted in horrific detail as the residents of Petit-Goave endure the capriciousness of Port-au-Prince, the national government, mass arrests, and a curfew which throws the social world of the town off.

Vieux Os's innocent childhood is shattered by the political repression, social inequality, and gendered expectations of life in a provincial Haitian town. Indeed, there is an overt reference to Jeune Haiti as the cause for the arrest of all prominent men in Petit-Goave, including a notary, Lone, who is helping Da in her battle to retain her house. Duvalier is never directly invoked, but his shadow extends into the city as armed thugs enforce the curfew. Young Vieux Os sees this, although he, like the reader, is not allowed to hear the full details about the mass arrests.

While certainly autobiographical and important as a transition to Vieux Os's adulthood and Port-au-Prince, the novel enthralls the reader into provincial life in a small city. Everyone knows everyone else and retains ties to marchandes, paysans, priests (both Catholic and Vodou), and travelers. Port-au-Prince is resented by locals for appointing local administrators and thinking themselves above the rest of the country. However, the decaying world of provincial Haiti cannot maintain itself, and the youth are on the move to Port-au-Prince. 

Vieux Os's grandfather, for instance, was once a prosperous coffee trader, but the boom ended long ago. Le charme captures all of this quite well through the eyes of a child. We are able to experience his sense of wonder, love, curiosity, and trauma as conditions beyond his control eventually compel his move to Port-au-Prince to live with his mother. As one can expect from this author, there are enough humorous vignettes of the social world of 1960s Petit-Goave to leave the reader wanting more. However, just as in the real world, childhood does not last forever. 

Mariners, Renegades, and Castaways

 

I finally finished Moby-Dick, just to be able to read Mariners, Renegades and Castaways, a well-known essay by C.L.R. James on Herman Melville and the world in which we live. I find that we sometimes limit James to just a Caribbean or colonial context, ignoring his provocative works on American life, civilization, and literature. His work on American Civilization, as well as his study of Melville, are intimately linked to 14 years of life in the US and his experience with the barbarous, unjust treatment of immigrants and political dissidents by the US government. As a man from Trinidad who had lived in Europe and engaged with the international Left even before stepping foot on US soil, he was nonetheless very much shaped by his experience in this country. After all, much of his theoretical essays and provocative work on the question of state capitalism, the role of the masses, and anti-vanguardism seem to be a product of his time in the US. 

Although much has been written about the flawed aspects of James's analysis of Ahab and Melville, there is a recurring fear of the totalitarian personality as revealed in Ahab. Reading Melville makes it quite clear, too, how the US by the mid-19th century was a distinct civilization and Melville saw something of the coming crisis of the modern world. Ishmael, the powerless intellectual, Ahab, driven by totalitarian impulse, the diverse and motley crew of a modern, global industry of whaling (and the "savage" harpooners), and the inevitable downfall wrought by obsession and the irrational pursuit of Moby Dick do suggest some merit in James's analysis of the novel. Nonetheless, his study of Melville should be read in light of a Jamesian perspective on US civilization. 

It is in the failure of the diverse, international crew of the Pequod to come together in spontaneous creativity to end their alienation and seize the means of production that unavoidably leads to the demise of the ship. The officers, such as Starbuck, are too attached to their Quaker roots and the ideology of capital to resist, while Ishmael, though ensconced in a milieu of laborers, and friend of Queequeg, remains detached. Philosophy has not yet become sufficiently proletarian. And though a spirit of camaraderie exists among the crew, including the prominence of "savages" to challenge the dominant racial ideology of the day, they lack, in spite of technical proficiency, the wherewithal to overthrow Ahab (succumbing in awe to his attempts to exhibit control of nature or the allure of the doubloon). Nonetheless, there is something quite alluring in Jamesian thought on the US, and the role of mass culture and creative impulses in revolutionary change. It's a welcome change from something like Adorno, who took a rather dismal view to US mass culture, and perhaps remained so blinded by that European conception of high culture that he was unable to see the new "socialism" fermenting. 

The Vortex Family

Desiring to read some Haitian fiction before plunging into science fiction and other topics, I came across the English translation of Jean Metellus's The Vortex Family. Translated by Michael Richardson, the text comes off as very poetic and oblique, with the occasional UK slang or expressions. The text's lack of exposition and shifting, poetic nature in its several short chapters or snippets can be occasionally beautiful and lyrical, despite its depressing themes of exile and political corruption in Haiti. Loosely based on the tumultuous falls of Estime, Magloire and Fignole, the novel focuses on the various descendants of Solon Vortex who, due to their response or involvement with politics, are forced into exile. The Vortex, descendants of Africans and Indians, are of the 'middling' sector in Haitian society that came to power in the post-1946 years, encompassing doctors, military professionals, university lecturers, teachers, chemists, and Catholic clergy.

The novel felt particularly strong when covering the fall of Estime (and Edgard Vortex), detailing the various social classes in conflict that made it seem almost inevitable that a coup would occur. The same process recurs with the fictionalized versions of Magloire and Fignole, demonstrating how Haiti's political chaos of the immediate pre-Duvalier years paved the way for the full terrors of Duvalierism. Some of the literary symbolism of the novel is also quite convincing, particularly the cockfight in Saltrou between a Dominican and a Haitian with a conclusion showing just how powerless the victor becomes. Olga, the matriarch of the Vortex family, is also worth mention. As the last descendant of an "Indian" family tracing its origins back to the Arawaks, Olga is the only character in modern Haitian fiction that I can think of who is "Amerindian." Whether or not the author actually believed there were Haitian descendants of the indigenous population who also inherited aspects of their culture is beyond my knowledge, but it is an interesting example of the Native heritage of Haiti as a living tradition, albeit still en route to extinction despite Olga's seven children. The indigenous past of the island seems to be invoked to tie together the African antecedence of Solon and the Arawak heritage of his wife to proffer the Vortex clan as the rightful heirs of Haitian autonomy. 

Despite its interesting, fictionalized interpretation of Haiti before the even more horrendous days of Duvalier, the novel's lack of exposition can, at times, make for a thinly-plotted novel. Out of nowhere, characters are suddenly targeted by the military as dissidents without any real explanation or plot development. Some passages are actually a little confusing when this occurs. But the novel makes up for its thinness with passages of rare beauty and longing for a better Haiti. Despite its shortcomings, it helps us understand the social and economic conditions that led to the Duvalier dictatorship through the lives of people who, willingly or unwillingly, found themselves engulfed in the political conflicts, coups, and civil unrest of an era of great promise.

Sweet Diamond Dust and Other Stories

Out of a desire to read more of Rosario Ferré's fiction, I decided to tackle her novella and related short stories contained in Sweet Diamond Dust and Other Stories. They are fascinating tales in that they clearly established the template for The House on the Lagoon and Eccentric Neighborhoods. Like those future novels, Sweet Diamond Dust is a multigenerational family drama in which a wealthy, landowning Puerto Rican family becomes a metaphor for the nation. Like the Vernets or the Mendizabals, the De La Valle family is riddled with all of the usual problems of gender, race, and class in a shifting Puerto Rican society (from the decline of the local sugar barons to industrialization and post-WWII migrations and political transformations). Unfortunately, some of her short stories are less compelling than the extended prose works, but, when combined, tell the story of a fictionalized Ponce (Santa Cruz) quite satisfactorily. 

Her satirical approach to Puerto Rican social relations in the "American Century" is rather priceless as it directly addresses the question of the rise and fall of the Puerto Rican gentry and bourgeoisie, and to what extent an independent Puerto Rico is viable. Despite our possible objections to the author's views on independence, which are perhaps best seen in the final short story, which imagines a Puerto Rico on the cusp of independence after the mainland government wishes to cease economic support, Ferré focuses on the interstitial spaces and shadows that connect across social classes. Like hidden black ancestors in the wealthy white family or the mixed-race nouveau riche, Ferré invariably focuses on these types of connections and their ways of uniting and dividing the "Puerto Rican family." 

While I did not enjoy the other stories as much as the novella within this collection, they are also quite experimental and polyphonic, taking the reader on a journey into the psyche of various characters from all social classes. There is a certain delight in reading of the rather extreme courses of action taken by some of these characters, particularly in their destructive actions which threaten the foundations of Puerto Rican society. Indeed, what more could accomplish this when Gloria and Titina burn the De La Valle home in the novella or the disastrous conclusion to the marriage of Don Augusto Arzuaga and Adriana? Or the solidarity of wealthy Mercedita with her friend, Carlotta? The instability and uncertainty of the narratives mirrors the ambiguous status of Puerto Rico.

Eccentric Neighborhoods

Eccentric Neighborhoods is quite similar to The House on the Lagoon,, but even more autobiographical. Elvira, the central character, is like the author in that both are from Ponce and have fathers who became governor of Puerto Rico. Of course, for this novel, Ferre changes the name of Ponce to La Concordia and surely fictionalizes several aspects of her own family's origins for a series of stories within a story about the Vernets and Riva de Santillana families. Since it lacks the narrative conceit of the more illustrious Lagoon, and Elvira is a less compelling character than Isabel, Eccentric Neighborhoods was less magical and a more arduous read. One finds the plethora of characters to be less engaging in Eccentric Neighborhoods, although both novels retain a strong focus on women, inter-generational gender dynamics, and the search for independence and autonomy. Needless to say, these concerns for the strong women in Ferre's novels mirror the condition of Puerto Rico in the 20th century. But perhaps due to the novel's greater autobiographical influences and its greater focus on Ponce and Puerto Rico's transformation from sugar to industrialization and the commonwealth (under a ficitonalized Marín), the novel provides a fascinating literary reconstruction of the lives of the criollo hacendado class and the rise of families like the Vernets, who wisely catch on to the New Deal and the future of industrialization. There is neither praise nor blame attached to the process, although the slums and destruction of the environment continue as Puerto Rico is thrust along into the 20th century (and Americanization). Eccentric Neighborhoods is truly a fascinating novel from a historical perspective,  immersing the reader in the various neighborhoods, architectural delights, and transformations of Ponce and the rest of the island. 

The House on the Lagoon

Although I could not finish The House on the Lagoon a year ago when I attempted to read it, this time it was a breezy and entertaining read. Telling the story of 20th century Puerto Rico through the wealthy San Juan-based Mendizabal family, the novel is ostensibly the manuscript of Isabel, describing the origins of the her and her husband's families from the Spanish-American War to the turbulent 1970s of independentist radicalism. As the daughter of a Puerto Rican governor and with somewhat of a similar background as Isabel, one assumes Rosario Ferre based some of the characters on people in her own life, while fictionalizing historical events in Puerto Rican history (such as the Ponce Massacre). There is a strong feminist undertone to the novel, which illustrates across class and racial boundaries the role of sexism in limiting the fate of women in Puerto Rican society, although the class and racial politics of Isabel, a "liberal," usually leave more to be desired.

The most interesting aspect of the novel are the Afro-Puerto Rican servants, living in the cellar of the titular house on the lagoon. Led by Petra, the daughter of African slaves from Guayama, who is a devotee of Eleggua and healer, the black characters, who link the elite Mendizabal family with the slums of Las Minas, are often in the shadows but reveal the racial domination built into Puerto Rican society. Petra, who lives in the house for over 50 years, has a special influence on Buenaventura Mendizabal, the "alleged" descendant of Francisco Pizarro, and her presence is the stone upon which the house on the lagoon endures and, eventually, falls. 

Her devotion to Eleggua and observation of African-derived rites and beliefs ultimately has a major influence on Isabel, and Eleggua, the intermediary communicator and guardian of the crossroads, seems to appeal to her. She cannot decide which political path to take (independence, statehood, commonwealth) or personal (remain with Quintin, continue her novel, or leave), and Eleggua, via Petra, becomes the bedrock of support and eventual decision-making. There is no elaborate description of Santeria or Afro-Puerto Rican spirituality here (and Isabel conflates Angolan and West African traditions somewhat lazily in her manuscript), but there is an undeniable presence of the orisha and Black Puerto Rico throughout the narrative. Indeed, even the lagoon or swamp and the nearby Lucumi Beach or Las Minas slum hint at the ever-present black past. 

While reading this, I could not help but recall Du Bois's Quest of the Silver Fleece, which also uses a swamp and hints of non-Christian African-American religion through the character of Zora. Or, without the swamp but similar attention to water and the sea, the works of Jorge Amado. Yet Ferre creates far more appealing and complex women characters while bringing Puerto Rican history to life. One should read this novel alongside Puerto Rico in the American Century.

Les Simulacres

Fernand Hibbert's final novel, Les Simulacres, is a short text satirizing the author's own social class in the context of the US Occupation (1915-1934). Published in 1923, when the author could not have foreseen exactly how the Occupation would conclude, it is often ambivalent about the American presence. This is not an anti-Occupation work like the novels of the 1930s, but more akin to Hibbert's earlier works satirizing the Haitian bourgeoisie for their vanity, corruption, venality, and mismanagement of Haitian political, social, and economic life. As a far shorter text than, say, Les Thazar, and a smaller cast at that, it does not quite succeed in satirizing every social type among the Haitian upper-class, though it does reintroduce past characters such as Brion and Gérard Delhi. Brion, as one would expect from events in Les Thazar, has not married, is perhaps bitter, and seems to be amused by the various foibles of his social class.

By reviving past characters, Hibbert's former mouthpieces from the ancien regime can return as the this tale mocks the foolish and arrogant Hellénus Caton. Caton, a former politician who became wealthy through graft and corruption before the Occupation, is now ardently opposed to the Americans (but only due to their refusal to consider him for the post of president). Being a Simulacre means one who uses "mensonges derrière lesquels les hommes masquent la vérité, ou leur intérêts et leurs appétits." He falls prey to a Cuban swindler who proceeds to conjure a story of occult knowledge and miracles so that he has an excuse to get close to Cephise, Caton's beautiful wife. Needless to say, Pablo Alcantara makes a fool of Caton, having him wait outside in the middle of the night, nude, looking at the moon, while he proceeds to make love to his wife for seven consecutive nights. In short, this is the basic plot of the text, a Cuban foreigner swindling a Haitian bourgeois male of wealth and women. Brion, as perhaps the only redeeming bourgeois, intervenes to ensure a (somewhat) happy ending in which Cephise stays with her husband, but Caton never recovers.

Like Brion in Les Thazar, Caton cannot compete with the foreign male, although in this case Pablo Alcantara is not a successful German but another faker, from a country also under the tutelage of the US. Since Hibbert was the Haitian consul in Cuba, one can presume his use of a Cuban Simulacre is itself part of the text's anti-imperialist critique, as Pablo Alcantara knows very well how Cuba, like Haiti, is a pawn in the US Empire. Hibbert, stationed in Santiago de Cuba, would have known very well the degree to which US influence was paramount in the neighboring Caribbean nation, and may have possessed solidarity for Cubans based on past alliances against imperialism before Cuban independence. Perhaps Hibbert was trying to suggest, much like Naipaul several decades later, how the people of the Caribbean have become mimic men, lacking in proper comportment as befits independent people of independent nations. Pablo Alcantara, much like Caton, is another such case, exploiting the ignorance and credulity of others in much the same way Caton and his ilk have done similar actions in Haiti before the US Occupation. Thus, Pablo Alcantara is an interesting type of foreigner in the works of Hibbert, possibly a callback to the various Caribbean peoples represented on the ship en route to France in Séna. He likewise represents a change in the Haitian elite perception of Cubans as positive immigrants in Haiti, since he does not produce, teach, apprentice, or employ anyone.

As is the case with Les Thazar, most of the plot advances through the dialogue of these aforementioned characters (plus their domestics and a few additional acquaintances). So it is often through their exchanges that much of the novel's humor derives. These conversations entail Cato the Younger, ancient Rome's rise and fall, Creole and French in Haitian literature, the Cuban passion for love and duels, education and literacy campaigns, the motivations of the Occupation (to build a naval base?), the lack of unity among Haitians, and the lack of rain in Port-au-Prince. The novel's final chapter addresses the reader, specifically the Haitian mother, to raise their children to obey and never lie, to produce a better generation of citizens and ensure the survival of the nation. Using Rome, imperial Germany, tsarist Russia, and the "Orient" as examples of what happens when the lack of liberty takes hold and injustice prevails, leading to social decay or ruin, the novel adopts a direct moralizing tone. While this detracts from the bitterly satirical tone of the rest of the text, it makes it clear how the US Occupation, in the eyes of Hibbert, has not uprooted the Simulacres and fakers, and a return to ancien regime ways will lead down a path toward destruction.

Needless to say, Hibbert's account does not include the caco resistance or nascent unrest from the peasantry or lower classes. The Haitian workers in Cuba, with whom Hibbert was fully aware, do not enter into the picture despite Cuban emigration being a key aspect of the US Occupation's influence. A communist revolution or "Grand Soir" of Delhi are only mentioned humorously, suggestive of the venal and ignorant nature of Caton and the fear of popular revolt. So one presumes that Haiti's salvation will be found among the non-Simulacre of the elite. They alone will be able to direct the nation progressively during and after the occupation and ensure a return to full liberty of the press and other rights. They, and only they, can ensure expanded primary education and adult literacy, with the recent example of Lunarchsky in the Soviet Union cited positively. Unsurprisingly, Hibbert's Simulacres is thus a continuation of the same class and gender politics of his early novels, but accompanied by a heightened sense of alarm at the prospects of national survival if the Simulacres are not held at bay after the Americans leave. Unfortunately, the Simulacres never left after 1934...

Les Thazar

Fernand Hibbert's Les Thazar is an endlessly entertaining social satire of the Port-au-prince upper classes. Written over a century ago, it depicts the long-lost Haiti Thomas of our forebears, focusing on the corrupt and venal upper-classes in the capital. The Thazar family, once rich, have lost their fortune. Madame Thazar pushes for the marriage of her daughter, Cecile, to a wealthy German so the family can maintain their status and rank in Port-au-Prince society. In order to accomplish this, the materialistic wife  is willing to sacrifice anything and everything to keep up appearances and ensure her two children will not descend the social ladder. Needless to say, the Thazar home in Turgeau also attracts a number of suitors for the hand of Cecile (as well as family friends, mostly from the Haitians of their social rank), providing the narrator an excuse to satirize various types of the Haitian bourgeoisie and corrupt politicians. This is very much a dialogue-driven narrative, with a tragic conclusion to its satirical content. One cannot help but wonder if Haitian elites a century ago had such dim hopes for Haiti then, what are they thinking today?

Foreigners, particularly Germans and French, also provide cannon fodder for the satire as their outsider view of Haiti provides great comedic relief. Ravet, for instance, has the most difficult experience trying to get his landlord, Madame Thazar, to fix his leaky roof. During his long discourse with Madame Thazar, we learn about his disobedient domestic, who is also a part-time tailor, and the various ways in which life in Haiti is upside down. Or, for that matter, the constant questions from Cresson, who is following Ravet around Port-au-Prince on the streetcar one day. In the end, Ravet agrees to pay for the repairs to the roof, but it is another instance of Haiti as a an aberrant place to the foreign mind. The question of race is often part of this, with Haitians speaking of news of lynchings in the US, Booker T. Washington (perhaps a message of vocational schools and practicality for the Haitian educational system, instead of effete and useless bourgeois like those in the novel?), the Anglo-Boer war in South Africa and British imperialism's positive impact on the "natives") and a naturalized Haitian who renounces citizenship, Alphonse Laubepin. Alphonse Laubepin, who is presumably of mixed racial origins from the French Antilles, refuses to see himself as one of the black race, and is constantly reminded of his racial origins by Cresson. This amusing episode is likely an allusion to the pattern of some mixed-race immigrants of the French Antilles refusing to take Haitian citizenship and using their status as French subjects for additional privileges in Haiti.  Of course, the iniquitous color question also rears its ugly head among Haitians themselves, a "political" issue which shapes how the bourgeois characters relate to each other and their non-elite compatriots in matters of love, class, language, and culture. 

Impressively, Hibbert transports the reader to the Port-au-Prince of the early 20th century. The German commercial and financial dominance of Haiti was palpable, and foreigners were protected from the excesses and corruption of the Haitian government better than Haitian citizens. Unsurprisingly, Madame Thazar prefers to marry her daughter to the German Schlieden than any Haitian suitor, reasoning that they will be unable to look after her material interests with the utmost security. Lamertume, a darker-hued Haitian "nephew" of Monsieur Thazar, is ambitious but utterly lacking in honor, wealth, and merit, so he is quickly rejected. Lionel Brion, who descends from a great family and was educated in France, also wishes to marry her, but is similarly rejected for not being wealthy. The "bourgeois" of Haiti are, in short, vain, corrupt, materialistic, and concerned only for themselves or their primal instincts. And, while Madame Thazar, Titus Baudouin, Cresson, Madame Apice, and a plethora of the characters in the novel exemplify all the aforementioned flaws, counter-examples such as Lionel Brion and Dr. Remo prove the exception to the rule. Unfortunately, in Haiti mediocrity and corruption reign supreme, so exceptional men of the upper-classes, who would and could transform and place Haiti on the path to progress, are unable to achieve their goals or find happiness. Lionel Brion never recovers from his love and loss of Cecile, Delhi has isolated himself at Mariani with a lower-class woman he abuses as his lover and servant. 

Perhaps like the case of Romulus, another novel by Hibbert but set in Miragoane during the "disturbances" of 1883, Hibbert was driven by exploring the theme of the frustrated bourgeois reformers, whose hopes are dashed by Haitian reality. Trevier or the proponents of Bazelais, in that novel, and Brion, in Les Thazar, are both ruined by their experiences, seemingly common to anyone who endeavors to go against the grain of materialism and mediocrity. Hibbert appears to infuse both novels with a pervasive pessimism as the Haitian bourgeois male has proven himself unable to save Haiti or those who should be theirs (their families, and wives). Another contemporary writer of Hibbert's, Justin Lherisson, also explored this theme even more humorously in La Famille Des Pitite Caille, where the rise and fall of a bourgeois family demonstrates the vacuity, corruption and  avarice of the bourgeois paterfamilias. It would take another generation before Haitian writers would look to the masses, with Jacques Roumain being part of that transition through the peasant novel. Perhaps not coincidentally, Roumain married the daughter of Hibbert, and it took Roumain's generation to begin the shift from the elite-focus of Hibbert.

History of Haitian Literatre

Guy Ferolus discusses the history of Haitian literature in this short video, via Haiti-Inter. His breakdown of Haitian literature bears a close resemblance to that of Christophe Charles. Nonetheless, a nice overview of Haitian literature from the pioneers, the Generation de la Ronde, and indigenism. 

Cat's Cradle

"Pay no attention to Caesar. Caesar doesn't have the slightest idea of what's really going on."

Kurt Vonnegut's Cat Cradle is one of his satirical novels partly influenced by Haiti. Set in the fictional Caribbean republic of San Lorenzo, the island's dictator is "Papa" Monzano (named after Papa Doc Duvalier). "Papa" Monzano lives in castle built by an ex-slave emperor, Tum-bumwa, and the castle has never been attacked, much like Haiti's illustrious Citadel. In addition, the impoverished island where natives speak an English dialect has been the target of various Western powers. Vonnegut even satirizes the US businessmen Crosby whose reason for visiting San Lorenzo is to start a bike manufacturing factory, similar to foreign corporations who go to Haiti as a source of cheap labor. "Papa" Monzano is staunchly anti-Communist, and San Lorenzo even declared war against the Axis powers during WWII, again, like Haiti. Of course, San Lorenzo is perhaps better understood as a conglomeration of the entire Caribbean, but the Haitian influence is perhaps strongest.

"Papa" Monzano, the sickly dictator who, despite publicly criminalizing Bokononism, practices it, has adopted the daughter of a Finnish architect, Mona, the beautiful mulatto. Mona, revered by the people of the island and renowned for her alluring looks, can be seen as an Erzulie symbol of feminine spirituality's highest form who, as she tells the narrator, John, loves everyone in the Bokononist sense of boka-maru. Though Bokonon's religion is, according to himself, lies, one sees in how Mona relates to nearly everyone a genuine sense of love, perhaps inculcated during her youth when Bokonon tutored her and Castle's son.

This Caribbean island's propagator of myth, Bokonon, an old Negro from Tobago, who lives in the jungle, gave meaning to the people of San Lorenzo through religious lies while his friend, McCabe, ruled as a despot organizing the people against Bokonon. Oddly, everyone in the island is a Bokononist, driving the conflict in the novel and the absurdity of religion and science. Instead of finding a way to preach the 'truth' and uplift the impoverished people of San Lorenzo, preaching lies (fomas) through Bokononism has given an epic meaning to the lives of the people. Similarly, science also plays a similar role as "magic" that can also mislead and destroy, as one can see in Felix Hoenikker and his children's use of ice-nine (or the atomic bomb, which Felix helped develop). Human nature, faith, and science are all at fault here in this apolcalyptic world created during the height of the Cold War.

To a certain extent, the religion founded by Bokonon is loosely based on Vodou in Haiti (a stigmatized religion that, at times, was illegal). Of course, Haiti under Duvalier did not penalize practicing Vodou nor did it adopt the anti-Vodou rhetoric employed by "Papa" Monzano. This is about where comparisons between Vodou and Bokononism should end, unless one wishes to comment on religion generally. The Christian priest, Humana, also offers an interesting creolized take on Christianity that is reminiscent of Haitian Vodou, but rejected during the death rites of "Papa" Monzano.

Besides appearing as an important influence in Vonnegut's idea of the apocalypse and end of humanity (which makes sense, for what other region of the world has witnessed so much tragedy and terror as the Caribbean, the first site of genocide in the Americas?), Haiti and the Caribbean as a whole are forerunners in the creation of modernity, where the excesses of capitalism, religion, and science have fueled human suffering on a grand scale.

The Chip-Chip Gatherers

"The sugarcane alone flourished in that intractable environment: a bright, burning green offensive to the eye seeking escape from its limiting and limitless horizons."

Shiva Naipaul's The Chip-Chip Gatherers, set in Trinidad, is a difficult read to assess. While retaining aspects of the comic sensibilities and stronger female characters of Fireflies, in this novel, the existential crisis of the "chip-chip gatherers," the Trinidadian people, particularly women condemned to an early death by the strictures of sex and class in the Settlement, makes for a much darker tone with appropriately dark humor. Telling the story of two families, Shiva Naipaul's scathing social commentary is more condescending here, especially to the countryside of Trinidad and its aspirants to power or wealth, such as Egbert Ramsaran or Mrs. Bholai. There is even sexual angst, a disturbing experience on the part of Egbert's son with a prostitute in Port of Spain, and a general meaninglessness of life on the island that one can find in the works of Shiva's older brother. Indeed, the rise and fall of Egbert, from illiterate poverty in the countryside to his last days in decay despite his material wealth reveals some of the innate absurdity of class relations in Trinidadian society of this era. 

In short, The Chip-Chip Gatherers struck me as cruel and a more emotionally taxing read without much of the humor in the masterpiece in tragicomedy, Fireflies. Both novels share dysfunctional families, marriages, horrible conditions for women, and the problem of class and race (including douglas in this second novel), but "The Chip-Chip Gatherers is more aligned with, in my opinion, V.S. Naipaul's post-Biswas writings in its detachment and often excessive cruelty. However, as in the case of Mrs. Lutchman, for Sita, the young illegitimate child of Sushila, a young rebel also torn apart by the ravages of time and strict gender roles, one can see Shiva Naipaul's appreciation of and respect for the plight of women in Trinidadian society. Sita, Rani, Mrs. Bholai, Basdai, Phula, Sushila, and other women in this novel have, despite their shortcomings and personal defects, ranging from pride or vanity to shame and passive resignation, a far more sympathetic and nuanced portrayal in the pen of Shiva than most of the women in V.S. Naipaul's fiction. Indeed, perhaps this sympathy can be seen quite well in the overall less pessimistic Trinidad novels of Shiva versus those of Vidia, where there is, in some Sisyphean sense, purpose in these seemingly insignificant lives, if the novel's final paragraph on the rotting tree and the village chip-chip gatherers is read between the lines.  

Fireflies

"Having from early on, confused religion with magic, they had come to hold the majority of religions in a superstitious dread, genuinely afraid of the vengeance rival gods might let fall on the clan should they be offended."

Shiva Naipaul, younger brother of V.S. Naipaul, wrote an epic comedy which possibly surpasses A House for Mr. Biswas. An alternative title could have been A House for Mrs. Lutchman given the shared style, themes, and content, but Shiva Naipaul's Mrs. Lutchman is a far more compelling female character than anyone in his brother's work. The hilarious Hindu clan, the Khojas, the gradual dissolution of the patriarchal nucleus binding the family together, the various marriages and dispossessions Mrs. Lutchman experiences, and last, but certainly not least, the hilarity which ensues in what is truly a tragic set of circumstances for the protagonist manage to make for a successful novel. Shiva Naipaul's Khoja family not only entertains, but imports many lessons on family, social change, religion, culture, and the shifts in Trinidadian life. Like fireflies caught in a jar by the brother Khoja, the sisters and Vimla gradually escape, but Mrs. Lutchman loses the most with the loss of her independence, husband, and son.  

When it comes to compelling female characters, Shiva Naipaul's Mrs. Lutchman is a more likable, nuanced character than most of V.S. Naipaul's fictional women. Both share similar comic sensibilities, but one wonders if Shiva's more sympathetic female protagonist is the result of his father dying when Shiva was rather young, whereas their father lived long enough to see Vidia reach adulthood and shape his work? We know Mr. Biswas is based on their father, but maybe Shiva looked more to their mother as a model for Fireflies, which could explain a more nuanced, female protagonist for what Christopher Hitchens described as a masterpiece in tragicomedy. Regardless of his inspiration, Fireflies is one of those rare reads which transport one to another time, place, and culture during a period of rapid change. Timeless, humorous, informative, and, in its own way, potentially feminist, if one looks to the Khoja sisters and the next generation.