I think I remember being in your arms, Auntie
I think I remember you holding my hand to board the plane and maybe me falling asleep in the seat next to you
I think I remember when we landed.
Maybe I cheered and you joined in?
I think I remember the immediate warmth of the sun
Women holding large baskets on their heads in a market with foods and trinkets in every direction I turned
Maybe I begged you to buy me something as a keepsake
“Bonswa,” I think I hear them say
I think I remember being in Port-Au-Prince or maybe another major city in Haiti?
I think I remember leather-skinned women pinch my cheeks and tickle me until I squealed
“Yon bel ti fi,” I think I hear them say
I think I remember practicing my creole, it must have been much better then
“Sak pase,” I think I hear from baritone voices
I think I saw women in a kitchen over large pots stirring sweet jasmine rice and brown rice with beans
The smell of goat and chicken and beef spiced to perfection permeate the air
I think my grandmother must’ve been there, touching the hot with her bare hand
I think I felt like doing the same but thought better of it
“Grann ap priye pou ou,” I think I remember hearing
I think I remember clapping and wailing and fervent praises at a church
A low ceiling, long pews, and big, big hats decorated with intentional flair
I think I remember joining in, mimicking the women I heard
Clapping my growing hands, and singing powerful hymns I had yet to understand
I think I remember walks throughout the day, many where I’m getting held
I think I remember seeing homes look like they’re stacked on top of each other, creating a grid of colorblocked pastels
I think I remember the beach
The sound of peaceful waves crashing on the shore, the sand between my growing toes, the shells I must’ve collected but lost
“Pa ale twò lwen” I think I remember hearing but pretended not to
I have to go back to make sure
Don't Go Too Far
KERANE MARCELLUS, Don't Go Too Far, 2024, Poem Haitian Creole & English
This is a poem in honor of my first and only trip to Haiti—taken when I was about three or four years old, with my late aunt. I recount memories that may or may not be accurate, blurred by time and childhood. My mother was pregnant with me when she came to America. Years later, my aunt brought me back to Haiti—I’m not sure why, but I’m grateful she carried that memory with her, likely with more clarity than I did. This poem is an ode to our roots—a reminder that no matter how far we’ve strayed, we can always find our way back.
No matter how far we’ve strayed, we can always find our way back.
As a first-generation Haitian-American, I—like many others—have a large gap between myself and my culture. I didn’t grow up speaking Creole, and I didn’t do my due diligence in the kitchen with my mother. As a result, I can barely hold a full conversation with my grandmother, and I am her first grandchild out of eight.
My piece is a nod to the land, to the trip I took to Haiti with my late auntie, and to my longing to return to a Haiti free from the ongoing stripping of its resources, its lack of strong leadership, and the absence of safety for its people. This piece captures both my assimilation into white America and my desire to reconnect more deeply with my true roots.
Kerane Marcellus is a New York-based writer that focuses on the through line of arts and culture on her subjects. She's written for Essence, Blanc Magazine, Alt Press, and various other publications. Her writing practice is heavily influenced by Black women writers Toni Morrison, Edwidge Danticat, Bell Hooks, Audre Lorde, and many others. Words to these women were a mode of showcasing art as well as cultural criticism, and Marcellus would like to keep that alive with her own writing. She's inspired by conversations, visual art, and people overall as they possess resilience and captivating stories to tell.