American Street: Chapters 7-12

Aunt Jo is dressed up in too-tight jeans and a nice bright shirt for the first time since I arrived, and she has guests in the living room—four men who smoke and curse just as much as Pri.

I’m sitting on the edge of Chantal’s bed, waiting for Donna to do my hair, when Pri comes in and stands right in front of my altar.

And we always say his name in remembrance—Jean-Phillip François.

Everyone dips and sways to the rhythm.

I’m sure of it because he has the same stance, the same gait.

I’m sure of it because he has the same stance, the same gait.

Dray is putting her in a headlock to tame that dragon.

As we all enter the house and Dray and Kasim zoom off into the night, Bad Leg finishes his song with these words:
Love me to the moon and back.

Is it because you are a mambo—a Vodou priestess who held ceremonies in the courtyard of a Christian NGO building?

I’ve searched my memory for all the sinful things I’ve done.

Was the lwa of love and fertility, Ezili, mad at me for that?

Matant Jo misses you so much that she is incapable of doing anything for herself.

Chantal’s clock says it’s three thirty in the morning, and Bad Leg’s voice eases through the locked windows and thick curtains to hover above my air mattress.

Chantal’s window faces the front of the house, so I see Bad Leg to the far left, still sitting on the overturned plastic bucket with a streetlight shining over him like a limelight.

My left leg was still intact, all right, but its soul was all gone. Couldn’t move it, bend it, kick.

“Smart cookie. It’s always good to get an inside perspective, you know?”

But my smile quickly fades as I realize that Papa Legba may open doors, but sometimes he leads you through a labyrinth.

“But the American embassy gave her a visa. She didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist.

“Fabiola, we can get her out. And we can expedite the process for her to obtain a green card. She won’t have to hide once she’s here. She can live and work legally. Isn’t that what she wants? What you both want?”

I remember how Manman would outwit those vagabon in suits who would offer expedited visas in exchange for things that are not meant to be given away for visas.

Bottom line: no one around here is gonna talk. So this all becomes like some sort of chaotic cycle.

He starts the car but lets it idle.

The café across the street from the opera house.

“Who said I was talking about you? Did you hear me say Fabulous? No. See? You need to work on your English comprehension.”

But how could I even have a glimmer of happiness right now with my mother in jail for no reason?

If my mother didn’t cook, we’d go to a neighbor’s house to get a plate of food in exchange for good neighborhood gossip.

I don’t like the pita bread, and the bean dip is too cold. Hummus, they call it.

I don’t like the pita bread, and the bean dip is too cold. Hummus, they call it.

Kasim devours a chicken breast topped with cabbage and pickles and other things I can’t identify.

Coca-Cola or Pepsi is only refreshing at the end of a long hot day.

You’re asking me if I’m literate?

I smile on the inside because I want to hold on to this bit of discomfort between us for a while.

But I ain’t no kingpin, know what I’m saying? So it’s just favors here and there.

I let his eyes caress me, until he reaches over to move my braid away from my cheek.

Everything and everyone swims around my mind like ghosts in a haunted house—the detective lady and her proposition...

I watch it bend and stretch like a slow-turning cyclone until it stops at the street signs—where Joy Road meets American Street.

It’s beginning to feel as if I’m speaking to stagnant air—the spirits are just standing there without delivering my message to God.

“Oh, y’all got police brutality, too?”

I had to fight a lot, because people knew we were getting money from family abroad.

My anatomy & physiology class tells me how the human body works, but it can’t tell me how the human mind works—not the brain, but the thoughts and memories.

My anatomy & physiology class tells me how the human body works, but it can’t tell me how the human mind works—not the brain, but the thoughts and memories.

According to my papers, I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m not a citizen. I’m a “resident alien.”

“There are some interesting ideas here, but they’re unsubstantiated. You need to gather some sources, use quotes, and add a ‘Works Cited’ page. Use textual evidence.”

“There are some interesting ideas here, but they’re unsubstantiated. You need to gather some sources, use quotes, and add a ‘Works Cited’ page. Use textual evidence.”

I feel attacked because I wrote down everything I knew about the Haitian revolutionary hero Toussaint L’Ouverture and why he is important to me.