Contradictions

I’m Haitian. But I’m not. I’m American and also I’m not. I’m black but I’ve been told that I’m not(whatever that means) I’m confident and likewise at times I’m not. I ‘m sweet but don’t test me. I’m cool with a side of crazy. I’m selfless but if I’m being honest, selfish too. I’m outspoken and as well I’m reserved. I’m assertive and at times I’m afraid. I adore vintage but will hop on a fun trend (hello bike shorts). My existence has been the tension of not quite this but not quite that. A contradiction is defined as a person, thing or situation in which inconsistent elements are present. Haitian and American, black and growing up in and framed by white suburbia, self aware and self conscious, I am sweet as pie and yet and still posses the ability to be sour as a lemon. Please don’t test me. Love to give but need to receive, love to speak and love to listen, I am willing to take action yet don’t always want to. Classics are forever but I love me some scrunchies, chokers, fanny packs, and distressed denim. Right here lies the complex life of duality. Opposition in unison. Some of this and some of that. So what is it? If you are not completely one or the other. Is there a box that I can check? A place where I neatly fit? Am I a color existing outside the lines. Does that even matter? Was I made to fit or was I made to stand out? Dare I even say shine?

It is an old timeless tale. A young man in search of a brighter more beautiful future is willing to risk it all to brave the unknown. I could cry at the thought. A dream, became a goal, which became a sacrifice which became a risky reality. My father left everything he knew. Literally everything and everyone to come to this country. The United States of America. Land of the free and home of the brave. A land of opportunity without bounds. His hope continues to be the fuel to run my engine. When I want to give up or give in, I think of his bold bravery, formidable foundation and courageous commitment and I forge forward. He was fully Haitian but had to think different, act different and eventually become something different in order to survive this strange and distant land. I as a descendant of such a pioneer followed suit. On paper I was American. Born and bred in this country. My home, however was very much a Haitian home. Surely my parents would’ve been experts in navigating their world. But this world… This American, white, suburban life. My parents did not posses that handbook. Language could be learned but a culture is cultivated. The English my parents took classes by educated instructors to learn was not the vernacular of the streets. Every region has their flow. A vibe if you will. From the North, South East and West every region has a sound, look and way about them. There is so much that is not taught in a classroom. This culture is nuanced, selective and competitive. My parents must have had to grieve the culture they lost as they embraced change that inevitably had to be. At the same time we as children born in America of foreign immigrant parents felt the tension of two vastly different cultures.

Little girls in pretty puffy dresses in every color of the rainbow, white pantyhose, patent leather Mary Janes shoes with golden buckles, hairs filled with silky ribbons and an array of bows. Women in big brim hats, flashy suits, intoxicating perfumes and brown skin of every hue. The sights, smells and sounds of Sunday Morning were like none other. Voices raised and tambourines clamoring with praise. Hands lifted toward heaven, voices singing in varying tunes but united vision, church mothers passing sweet peppermints and strict punishment. I loved Sunday morning. Testimonies were raw and piercing. Prayer request were met with moans and groans of understanding and compassion. Here within these wall we were all seen, known and deserving of dignity. The empathy stretched beyond a building. We were a part of genuine glorious community. I witnessed what it was to bear one another’s burdens. This God, this Jesus I was introduced to in my Haitian church was a solid rock to be trusted in good times and bad. The Jesus I saw them worship didn’t guarantee comfort but promised to walk with us everyday and that meant something, that actually meant everything! I watched men and women walk through pain, suffering and hardship with hope. I found another layer of the foundation of my faith there. I learned what church family truly was there. I also met contradiction there. My Haitian church was not in the white neighborhood where I lived and attended school. It was in an entirely different part of town. A place where you could more easily find Haitian bakeries and Caribbean markets and other cultural delights. It was diverse and contained a depth and breath of life. It’s voice was a collective of cultures and traditions. I was embraced but also questioned here. I was black but you know, not black black. Whatever that means. Again some of this and not that. No I did not rock extensions, a finger wave or the latest trend of nail art. Yet and still did black look one way? Did black talk one way? Did black like the same things? If so, what did that say about me and my life experience?

I grew up with the Huxtable’s. I fell in love and followed Denise from Brooklyn to Hillman college. The residence of Gilbert Hall had me intrigued. Whitley and Dwayne had me craving my forever love. I desired it all. I dreamed about being in my dorm room, meeting new people and embracing fresh dynamics. I was not disappointed when I pulled up on my University campus. My experience exceeded any fictitious characters and stories that filled my preconceived notions. I roamed the campus emboldened, newly emancipated, and energized. It was not long until I learned of various student organizations. The Black Student Union an organization formed for black students on campus. Wow, an entire organization that celebrated blackness. There were Haitian organizations and varying Christian organizations. There was something for everyone. This University experience truly was filled with varying opportunities. The world was diverse and open. Even then, where did I fit? Was I not black enough for the Black Student Union, was I not Haitian enough for the Haitian organization? What Christian organization would feel right?

The Jesus that I met at the Haitian church was God. He was Supreme over all. That includes me. I serve the God of creation. The God of Psalm 139 who says he knew me and formed me before my mother knew me. This is the God of the bible. The God of Psalm 100. The God who calls me His. So I don’t have to belong to every or even any group when I belong to God. The reality is you may be adored in one region as one thing and denied in another. I chose to believe the truth the creator speaks over his creation. I am everything God says I am and nothing he does not. From Genesis through Revelations. Made in His very image and likeness. According to Psalm 100 I belong. According to Psalm 139 I am not a mistake. According to Ephesians 2 I have a seat next to Christ as a believer. According to Ephesians 2 I was prepared and created for good works. As someone who put their faith in Christ my father is King, and no good thing will he withhold from me. I am safe in his arms. He knows all of me and loves me yet still. I am God’s. I am God’s Haitian, American, black sweet sometimes sassy and everything in between. I am His.