Call of the Drum Spirit is TONIGHT

Happy Frisner. Photo by Chantal Regnault, early 1980s, Brooklyn
Happy Frisner. Photo by Chantal Regnault, early 1980s, Brooklyn

Tomorrow is not promised, so hurry up and find something ‘health-giving’ that you can love enough to stay awake past the world’s bedtime.

People are too busy with their own issues to care if your shoes don’t match your handbag. So, skip the shoes and the baggage.  Bring your troubles to the drums and dance like you’re Jean Léon Destiné and Prince combined.

Organized chaos is the new calm, so sing like you’re Adele Addison, Riva Precil, Pauline Jean, Tiga, and Paul Beaubrun all rolled into one.

Master Drummer, Catelus "Ti Tonton" Laguerre. Photo credit: Kesler Pierre
Master Drummer, Catelus “Ti Tonton” Laguerre. Photo credit: Kesler Pierre

If for ten thousand reasons you find that you must cry, do it with all the joy you can fake.

And if by some necessary coincidence you should find yourself in Brooklyn, NY, tonight, run to Roulette.  Lose all preconceived notions about Haiti and Haitian Drum Music.

Ditch that inhibition. Overindulge in rhythm. Tonight’s celebration features the BONGA and TIGA. Father and Son musical geniuses.

Photo credit: Tequila Minsky
Photo credit: Tequila Minsky

Two years ago I found myself at the First Annual Call of the Drum Spirit by accident. I can still feel that night’s vibrations. If you can make it to Roulette tonight, consider yourself among the fortunate.

When Master Drummer Frisner Augustin passed away in 2012, he left a palpable void in the community. Patrick LaFrance, one of the founding members of the Gran Chimen cultural center in Brooklyn, remembers the legend as a humble man with an enormous sense of humor.

Photo by Lois Wilcken, asotò drum image from Alfred Métraux, design by Kesler Pierre,
Photo by Lois Wilcken, asotò drum image from Alfred Métraux, design by Kesler Pierre,

“He played from his soul,” Patrick said. “Frisner would share his knowledge with anyone who wanted to learn the drum.  Sunday afternoons , you know, in Brooklyn, can be tough. With Monday morning’s realities coming,  you need a distraction. Frisner would show up at the center, and it was like medicine. We waited all week just to hear him play and teach us a few things. Frisner brought the Lakou to Brooklyn.  Sundays were good with Frisner around.”

Well, thanks to Lois Wilkens and a fierce ensemble of drummers, this Saturday night may be the best Sunday afternoon yet.

voicesfromhaiti photo
voicesfromhaiti photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ENJOY! ROULETTE

509 Atlantic Avenue /

makandal info

Happy Birthday, Nennenn!

Lè w gen 90 zan, epi w kouche plat sou yon kabann lopital, pa gen anpil biznis ou ka regle. Ou etidye kat mi yo. Ou gade aparèy yo. Ou swiv doktè yo. Ak de je w fèmen, ou siveye dènye sa w kapab.

Respirasyon’w monte desann tankou chante Tim McGraw la ki rele Live Like You’re Dying (Viv tankou w pral mouri). Jounenjodiya  wa p viv chante ya; se reyalite w.  Tim McGraw pa bezwen di w respire kòmsi w prèt pou mouri. Se metye w.

Ou koute mezi ti chanjman nan rit aparèy yo. Ou souke tèt ou tou dousman. Si ou renmen jwe avèk vokabilè abcd, ou reyalize ke pi fò mo ou itilize sèjousi fini ak “y.”  An Anglè “Y” gen menm son ak “Way”; men ou pa gen enterè gaspiye souf ou ap poze kesyon. Ou deja konprann ou pa p jwenn repons.

Ti moso fanmi w ki rete yo chita san konsolasyon. Yo chita tankou timoun grangou ka p rettann kras manje. Yo prèt pou yo endispoze. Dlo prèt pou kouri lan je yo. Yo pè gade malad la. Se kòd kè yo ap sote tankou timoun lan rekreyasyon!

Ti moso fanmi ou rete a kraponnen. Yo konnen byen se lan mòd stad sa yo moun konn jwe jwèt ki pi enpòtan an–chanpyona final la.

New Day Photo by Katia UlysseAy si you (ICU) konble ak moun malad ki vin fè konesans avèk lanmò. Pa gen yon kabann ki vid a midi, men demen maten wa jwenn menm senk ladan malad yo ki bat zèl yo. Chanm yo boure ak abuelitas, grand-papa, grandmè, ak dezoutwa <<M’te fout di w pinga w monte motosiklèt la.>>

Vizitè yo chita an plas, ou byen yo monte desann lan koulwa antiseptik la–tankou tòti ka p fè lago. Yo fè gwo diskisyon ak lonbraj yo. Anba yon silans ki lou sou zepòl you, yo mande poukisa? Pouki ou fè m sa? Yo rele way, manman, Anmwey.  Woy, Bondye. Why?”

Yo lapriyè  ak po je yo tankou bijou granmoun sere anba pil dra lan amwa. Menjan tou, pa gen yon moun ki ka wè kisa malad la ap siveye dèyè po je pa l.

Fanm tankou Felicie toujou gen yon ti souri pou yo bay le tout moun fin rele anmwey.

“Mezanmi, pa gen yon moun ki kwè ti madanm sa a gen katrevendizan tout bon vre,” yon enfimyè di.

“Eske se ou ki pitit fi malad la?” yon lòt enfimyè mande’m.

Chak enfimyè ki vini poze menm kesyon an: <<Eske ou se pitit fi’l? Ou sanble avè l tèt koupe.>>

Ou remèsye enfimyè yo. Ou pran prekosyon avè yo; ou trete yo tankou zanj lan syèl. Ou di yo mèsi senkantmil fwa.

Ou konnen malad la pa p mouri. Pa kounye a. Fanm tankou l se orijinal la. Se li ki vayan tout bon vre. Fanm sa yo gen tandans viv pou letènite. Se yo ki konn trase chemen. Yo toujou kite mak yo. Yo rete vivan, menmlè yo fin mouri.

Happy Birthday, Nennenn!

8/15/15

Felicie MontfleuryAugust 15, 1921 – April 2, 2012

 

 

Haiti’s Long Lost Children

poverty michelle fievreI look forward to a day when all of us can write different stories about Haiti. I may not see that day in my lifetime, I know. Perhaps my daughter will see a thriving Haiti–a Haiti that is respected; a Haiti that serves and benefits her people–not just those who use poverty as a tool to accomplish their covert agenda. Perhaps one day the enduring class line will loosen its knot a little. It is burdensome to know that 200,000 stateless Dominicans of Haitian origin will be tossed across the frontier. Many of them do not even speak the language. Many of them have never been to Haiti. I worry about how the country will receive the newcomers. Maybe Haiti will open her arms and create resources to aid her long-lost children.  We’ll see.

 

Tragedians, by Katia D. Ulysse

Poverty is like an engagement ring: expensive but obligatory. Necessary. The world would be bleak without it. Poverty gives birth to thriving institutions that are immune to failure. Poverty is a lottery with the largest payout in history. Poverty is exotic.

Poverty, like clean water, is indispensable. The engineers of this flourishing institution will kill to maintain its integrity. Tragedy brings shame and hopelessness to those under its crushing hooves. To others, it brings pleasure and conceit. Tragedy is an insatiable lover that rouses lust like dust in a storm, choking the air, clogging nostrils, and blinding eyes. Tragedy is irresistible.

Poverty dances on some tongues like bubbles in fine champagne. Poverty builds empires. Poverty drips like precious oils from silver spoons. Poverty is a magic wand. Sex, power, and fame are the crop poverty yields in abundance; however, when those ingredients come together, they form a potent and highly addictive drug. One hit and you’re hooked. You become a poverty-junky.

Poverty junkies need like-minded people. Junkies congregate in hemispheres of infinite supply. Good actors they are! Everyday they feign battles against hunger, homelessness, violence, disease. They ad lib and improvise with the internally displaced. They show death at its rawest. Children with distended bellies and flies around the mouth make excellent props. Tragedians win golden awards for their recurring roles in the never ending play.

Tragedians itch and salivate when they smell the kind of rain that causes houses to slide like molasses from above. The audience loves them.

“One hit and you’re hooked. You become a poverty-junky.”

Tragedians come from faraway places to act in this play. They fly in planes that look like gigantic vultures from afar. The minute tragedians complete the “Reason for Visiting Form,” something inside crawls out of a ditch, does handstands, back flips, figure eights, and all kinds of fancy tricks. No matter how grim and abysmal their prospects back home, by the time the plane lands on the blistering tarmac, they believe themselves so exceptional that they start to levitate.

One minute on the stage, and they are infused with the sort of boldness that makes one man swear he can carry a thousand on his head. They strut like peacocks. Starving audience members applaud them. After all, they sacrificed plenty to come perform here. Here.

Tragedians and their traveling theatre companies wear the same masks and costumes. They memorize the same scripts. The lead actors could be sets of twins; their understudies have the same twinkle in their eyes when it’s their turn in the spotlight. All of them are junkies in need of a fix. They scour the countryside, looking for dope. No other stage in the hemisphere satisfies their craving faster.

Everyday more actors arrive to star in the never-ending drama. They bring suitcases full of mosquito spray, tanning lotion, bathing-suits, secrets, joblessness, broken homes, broken loves, brokenness. They bring their broken selves; their ignored, back-home selves. The audience cheers and cries for encores. How splendid they look in their roles of savior, rescuer, knight in shining neon t-shirts!

“They bring their broken selves; their ignored, back-home selves. The audience cheers and cries for encores.”

Feed the hungry. Cure the people of their memories. Cure them of their drum rhythms. Fix them, for they are broken. Cure them of their beliefs. Rid them of that darkness in their hearts. Rescue them from their arid land and build hotels. Show them what is possible. Don’t bother explaining why they won’t be welcome in those hotels built on their own ancestral lands; they’ll see those buildings and understand that they don’t belong. The entire country is like a open air market; open for business twenty-four hours a day. It’s an all you can eat buffet.

Children treat Tragedians like canonized rock stars. Beggars beseech them as if they were patron saints. Please, please, throw your change down on us. Let your coins fall on our heads like hail in a storm.

Tragedians study their lines. They rehearse daily, even in their sleep. When a scene requires the sort of verbal acrobatics only a native can do, they hire one or two. Otherwise they don’t share the spotlight, lest they’re upstaged by some stagehand who wants to rewrite the script.

Tragedians fear stagehands. Although they don’t show it, they fear the audience even more. Poverty junkies live in constant fear of the supply running out. So, morning, noon, and night, they keep the audience spellbound. Enthralled. Enchanted. Entranced.

Tragedians improvise and ad lib without deviating from the proven plot. The show must never stop. The curtain must never fall on this greatest show on the cracked earth.

***

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Katia D. Ulysse was born in Haiti, and moved to the United States as a teen. Her writings have been published in numerous literary journals, including the Caribbean Writer, Meridians,Calabash,Peregrine, and Smartish Pace, among others. Her work has also appeared inThe Butterfly’s Way and Haiti Noir. Her first children’s book, Fabiola Can Count, was published in 2013. Ulysse lives in Maryland with her husband and daughter. When she’s not reading, writing fiction, gardening, or teaching, she blogs on VoicesfromHaiti.com. Drifting is her first book of fiction.