Dear Haiti, Love Alaine Read online

  The bright red bow that was unceremoniously attached to the cover of the laptop clashed horribly with the yellow-striped computer case surrounding it, but what caught my eye was the handwritten sticky note signed Love, Mom & Dad. It wasn’t every day that “Mom & Dad” (or “Celeste & Jules”) appeared side by side, even if it was only on paper. I ripped off the bow and tossed it onto my desk, opening the laptop slowly while I squealed to myself. I hovered my wiggling fingers impatiently above the black keys as I waited for the screen to light up. The wallpaper was of a beach and the home screen was empty, save for the recycle bin and one other shortcut of a notebook and quill. I clicked on it and found that it was a daily meditation journal app, waiting to be filled with the secrets of my hopes and daydreams. Not the biggest surprise when your dad’s a psychiatrist, but still...something felt off.

  “You needed a new computer, and I figured you’d want somewhere to write out your feelings,” Dad said as he walked past my open bedroom door without coming inside. I wasn’t sure if mentioning that I’d been journaling for years with good ol’ pen and paper was the right move, so I didn’t. I’d hate for my parents to change their minds about giving me the laptop. And besides, he was already gone, off to do whatever it was that single fathers did when they got home from work a little early. (Nap.)

  I pulled my old laptop out of my book bag and ran my hands along the grimy strips of duct tape holding it together. It did look pretty depressing, especially compared to the shiny new computer that was waiting for me to play. I wouldn’t look this gift horse in the mouth until it bit me...for now. Instead, I’d graciously accept my present ahead of schedule and maintain the healthy dose of suspicion brewing in the back of my mind.

  So, without further ado...

  Behold, the written words of Alaine Beauparlant, future journalist and media personality. Here is where I keep my deepest thoughts and most [un]developed ideas.

  After such a declaration, you might ask the obvious question: What do I, Alaine Beauparlant, a seventeen-year-old with way too little life experience, have to say about anything? Well, too little life experience or no, I’m super observant (future journalist here), equally assertive (misogynists might call it bossy), and a natural hair guru (if I do say so myself). These are all skills that come in handy as Queen of Keeping Boundary-Crossing Masked as Inquisitive Hands Out of My Lovely ’Fro. As my tati Estelle always says, “You can’t let just anyone touch your hair. The wrong hands could make all those beautiful coils fall right out.” Whether she meant someone styling my hair or a quick pat from a random stranger, I’m not sure. But I’m not about to risk losing these edges. Not after I’ve finally mastered all things natural hair. Seriously, you have no idea the things I can do with it. If you keep reading, you too will learn the secrets to a perfectly fluffed yet defined twist-out. But dessert comes after broccoli, which I happen to love, so you’ll have to sit through my origin story.

  I was born far away. You could say it was another planet. My parents knew of the imminent doom of our homeland and decided to whisk me from everything we knew. Like many sad stories go, they were killed on the way to our new home. I led a normal life with the kind souls who adopted me after they found me all alone on a park bench...

  Wait. That’s not right.

  Everything changed on a class trip to the science museum. I needed more than a few dinosaur fossils to satiate my curiosity. As I was looking around on my own, I was bitten by a radioactive...

  Let me back up.

  I am the molded-from-clay daughter of a mystical queen on an island inhabited solely by women...

  No.

  I am from a little-known country named Waka—

  Okay, okay. You got me. Here’s the truth. Like I said, my name is Alaine Beauparlant. I’m seventeen years old, co-editor of my school’s online newspaper, The Riccian (you’re reading the words of an award-winning preeminent journalist in case you were wondering), the best bingo caller at the local assisted-living facility, and currently living in Miami, Florida. Saying I’m from Miami is a factually correct yet deceptive statement. When someone who isn’t from here imagines a person living in the coolest city in the Sunshine State, they conjure up mental images of people on Jet Skis during hurricanes and clubbing shamelessly on South Beach. (If I had just said Florida, one would probably imagine me skipping school to tip cows or rob banks with my pet alligator. Let me disabuse you of that notion right now. I haven’t had a pet alligator in years.)

  Sunday, November 15

  The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant

  It wasn’t personal. I did the math and assessed immediately that, to get an A in my college prep seminar, I didn’t need the extra credit points that having a parent speak at Career Day would provide. Dad was slightly miffed of course when I explained this before politely declining his offer to debate the merits of Freud and Jung in front of my class for the event—but that was to be expected.

  “I dunno, I’ve got this hunch that my peers won’t be that into you pontificating about two dead guys with mommy issues for a half hour,” I said.

  “If I did my presentation, you would know that your statement is a gross simplification of the fields of psychoanalysis and analytical psychology,” he sniffed. “Pontificate... Nice word.”

  “I still can’t shake those darn SAT vocabulary flash cards,” I said, piling a mountain of scrambled eggs over my jellied toast. It wasn’t a real complaint though. Those cards helped me beat my target score by 5 points. Call me Rumi and Sir, because the Ivys were calling my name. “And because I love and respect you, I won’t even lie and say I forgot to give you the invitation.”

  “I suppose that means I haven’t failed totally as a parent, then,” he said wryly as he looked up from his New York Times. I bought him an online subscription for his birthday last year, but he still liked to do the crossword puzzles on a hard copy. He let slip once that sharing the newspaper used to be his and my mom’s Sunday ritual. I could imagine Dad idling in the Health section for a couple of minutes before shuffling through for the wedding announcements, and Mom examining the front page with a magnifying glass to confirm her sources hadn’t withheld even the tiniest of scoops.

  Now she was too busy making news on the Sunday morning show she hosted to worry about which politician might or might not have been playing coy during the week. If she (or “the American people!”) wanted to get to the bottom of something, she’d just ask said public servant about it on live TV.

  “...a deep dive into the secretive health care bill that will leave millions of Americans uncovered and scrambling for a way to pay...”

  Mom might have been a thousand miles away from Miami, but her voice was right there with us each weekend, emanating from the family room television to where we ate in the kitchen. Dad rarely watched Sunday Politicos with me unless Mom had a majorly super fancy interview subject (think POTUS), but after I grabbed my plate and hopped onto the couch, he usually pretended not to listen from the table. It was our own special ritual.

  This morning though, he rounded up his puzzle and coffee mug and sat beside me in front of the flat screen. I glanced at him but stayed quiet. The guests included the usual roundtable setup plus a congressperson or two. No one majorly super fancy.

  “Health care reform is an important topic,” he grunted by way of explanation. “And me watching also serves as reinforcement of what it looks like to have a healthy relationship, even post-divorce.”

  “Sure it does.”

  I pulled the coffee table closer to the couch and made sure that my new laptop was safely positioned (I hadn’t dropped it once yet!) so that I could skim the Tweets coming in about Sunday Politicos as I ate my breakfast. On Sundays at 11:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, the social media posts about religious services and dreading Mondays devolved into a cesspool of viewer comments regarding my mother’s hosting [in]abilities, her occasionally controversial guests
, and her appearance. On the one hand, I loved that there was a community of women of color out there who felt true pride in seeing someone who looked like them #representing. On the other, it never stopped being creepy when some rando shared a YouTube link of a compilation of my mother’s legs in skirts “just because.” What kind of sexist maniac edits something like that together? And why did it have over 100,000 views?

  THIS JUST IN:

  SELECT ENTRIES COPIED FROM

  #SUNDAYPOLITICOS TWEETS

  United States Trends

  Brian Hoffman | 1m

  Not this chick again. What an idiot diversity hire #SundayPoliticos #MourningtheEndofPoliticalJournalism

  Celeste’s #1 Fan Club | 2m

  Celeste shut that Murphy guy down and is WORKING that press n curl #YASqueen #imlovinit #SundayPoliticos

  Viola Printz | 4m

  Idk. Please don’t come for me Black Twitter, but is it just me or is Celeste a little off her game today? #SundayPoliticos

  The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant

  Say what you want about my mother (everybody else has), but you had to give her props. She was always the first to say that being on TV was just “the means to a greater end” and that journalism was about “upholding democracy” and giving “a voice to the voiceless” and blah, blah, blah—but the camera loved her. The way she held court at her roundtable was masterful. Straight-up Arthurian. She was the conductor who wasn’t afraid to stop the train to put someone in their place and kick them off if need be.

  “See, that’s exactly why Americans today don’t trust—”

  “What Americans are really concerned about is making sure they have enough money to—”

  “How would you know what Americans are concerned about? You’re so far removed from—”

  “Oh, please. Give me a break. You own two homes in New Canaan! You’re not exactly the woman of the people you think you are. More like Marie Antoinette—”

  “Now, hold on—”

  If anyone interrupted beyond the admittedly higher-than-what-was-acceptable-in-real-life (but appropriate-for-cable-news) level, or started getting personal with their insults, Mom always called them out on it fast. She was even known for hounding her booking producer to stay away from the talking heads on other shows who went viral for losing their tempers in their on-screen tic-tac-toe boxes. She called it “choosing substance over spectacle.” I expected her to tell the two opposing flacks who were getting into it to cut the crap in three...two...

  What was the holdup?

  “Oh no...” Dad muttered.

  I looked up from my laptop in time to see the countenance of the confident no-nonsense ice queen I was used to flicker into a blank stare. I turned to my dad to confirm I wasn’t seeing things, but his gaze was still transfixed on her.

  “The name-calling will have to stop now...uh...” Mom said, touching her hand lightly to her forehead before dropping it quickly. I had never seen her so flustered. I gripped the arm of my seat, as if I could squeeze the words out for her.

  “Delano?” Delano said.

  “Of course. Forgive me. Let’s take a time-out. We’ll be right back with more Sunday Politicos.”

  The rest of the show went smoothly enough, but more than a few people online mentioned the odd moment. I (obviously) responded to some from the secret Twitter account I reserve for ratchetness and told them where they could shove keep their opinions. I regret nothing.

  But off the record...what I didn’t say online was how scary it was to watch her freeze like that. Mom never freezes.

  Thursday, November 19

  From: Alaine Beauparlant

  To: Estelle Dubois

  Subject: ¿Cómo Estás Tía?

  Dear Tati,

  Bonjour! Or should I say hola? Because I’m definitely writing this en mi clase de español. How are things in Haiti? Anything new and cool happening with PATRON PAL? I wanted to check in to find out whether you watched that Sunday Politicos link I sent you. I’m sure Mom was just having a brain fart but, even so, it kind of freaked me out. (The family curse strikes again, am I right?) Normally I would say that I was overreacting, but it really doesn’t help that everyone keeps asking me if she’s doing okay.

  I picked up my friend Tatiana this morning on the way to school, and even her grandma told me—while I was speed-kissing the rest of Tatiana’s family—to tell Mom that she was praying for her. I’d run in to use the bathroom, and when I walked past the kitchen, there sat Tatiana’s parents, great-aunt, and a pair of grandparents. Do you know the most efficient way to greet a roomful of Haitians without offending anyone? Three words: pucker and pat. The first time I’d ever come over, Tatiana had warned me that her relatives were really snippy about manners and wouldn’t like me if I just waved at them like yon ti ameriken. I followed her suggestion to kiss the air and give each of her relatives’ cheeks a little bump. In Tatiana’s words: you too would find a way to be as efficient as possible after years of having to greet every adult you run into after church.

  It’s weird. Everyone groups me and Tatiana together at school because we’re the only two Haitian American girls in our grade, but our life experiences are way different. Sure, I speak Creole, but I can’t mimic a Haitian accent the way she can. She’s the only girl of five children. She’s on a scholarship and I’m not. She goes to church like it’s her job, while I can count the number of times I’ve been to a Haitian church on one hand that’s had the pinkie cut off.

  If I’m being honest, there are times when I don’t feel as Haitian as Tatiana. Would my Zoe card be revoked if anyone found out that I’d been pretending to know who Tonton Bicha was? And that I’d never seen I Love You Anne? There’ve been so many times when I’ve felt left out of the Culture and I think it’s because it’s been me and Dad for most of my life. And whenever I go to Tatiana’s house and see her with all those cousins and brothers and relatives, I can’t help but wish I had that too.

  Can you imagine a house filled with two to three variations of me, your favorite niece? Heaven, I know. But in all seriousness, it would’ve been great to have grown up with someone who knew all my secrets. Someone to pass the time with when Dad dozed off in front of the TV after taking another shift at work and Mom missed a third scheduled phone call in a week because of another breaking news story. That’s not to say that I don’t appreciate the moments we get to chat, Tati. It’s just that you’re so far away and Mom’s always so busy. And sometimes I want someone besides Dad to talk to over dinner. Don’t tell him I said that.

  You know what’s funny though? I shared all of this with Tatiana when we got in the car and she revealed how she was jealous of me for living in such a big house with only my “chill dad who is always working.” And then after eating a mysterious fortune cookie one Friday night, we switched bodies, spent the next few days learning to love what we had, and turned back to our old selves wiser than we were before.

  Oops—Señora Ortega viene a tomar mi teléfono.

  Bye!

  Alaine

  P.S. ThankyouforthepeanutsDadsmakingabrittle—

  Saturday, November 21

  From: Estelle Dubois

  To: Alaine Beauparlant

  Subject: Re: ¿Cómo Estás Tía?

  Chérie,

  I hope that emailing me in class does not become a habit. You should be focused on your lessons, young lady. Although you should never feel that you aren’t Haitian enough. It’s in your blood.

  But to answer your questions, things at PATRON PAL are wonderful. Thank you for asking. We’re getting our affairs in order to pitch to a few investors for a new round of funding. We just confirmed that we will have a new intern from Stanford joining our ranks for the spring semester. We’re also working on an upcoming feature with a major media outlet that will highlight all the money we’ve been able to raise throug
h the app to benefit the children of Haiti.

  In regards to your mother, yes, we are all allowed to have “brain farts” as you say. However, it’s understandable for people to be concerned. She is admired by so many; they will notice any change in her behavior. Have you spoken with Celeste about how you’re feeling? Also, you might be onto something when you mention the family curse. I know your mom doesn’t like discussing it, but I think she should. Bring it up to her. Sooner than later.

  I’m happy you enjoyed the peanuts I sent. Tony Juste’s pistach are the best. I’ve probably paid a year’s tuition worth of school for each of his kids with the amount I buy.

  Also, don’t worry. I won’t tell Jules a thing.

  Bisous,

  E

  ——

  Estelle Dubois

  Haitian Minister of Tourism

  CEO of PATRON PAL

  L’Union Fait La Force

  Tuesday, November 24

  The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant

  Dad was going to kill me.

  A decent number of days had gone by since I’d declared that the Beauparlant household would be absent from Career Day. At first, Dad was a little mopey, but he eventually made a full recovery.

  But I was on the phone with Mom tonight enduring our third awkward silence in a twelve-minute span after she, yet again, stopped me from reading out the best (and worst) online viewer comments from Sunday’s episode. I didn’t know how she stayed above all that. I told her that if I were in her shoes, I’d probably spend a third of each show just responding to everyone who flattered or angered me enough. She said I “had a lot of growing up to do,” which is always fun to hear.

  I thought about bringing up the family curse like my aunt had suggested to give us something to talk about, but I knew there was no point. Tati Estelle had been blathering on about this curse for as long as I could remember. But she never got further than saying that we had one, because my mom insisted that she not fill my head with such nonsense.