September 30, 2025 – Today would have been my father’s 83rd or 84th birthday, depending on what document you’re looking at. But 1941 is the year that I was always told was his birth year.
My father never wanted to grow old. He thought that growing old would make him vulnerable to other people’s wrath. To other people’s payback. You see, my dad was far from perfect. He was possessed by this uncontrollable rage, one that caused him to wreak havoc in other people’s lives. Mainly my mother’s. And mine, too, by default. My father came close to killing my mother on several occasions. Blow after blow, she suffered from his punishing fists. Blows to the head, blows to the face, kicks to the stomach, kicks to the chest.
My mother was one of the most beautiful women in Haiti in the 1970s. Her beauty belonged on the big screen, much like Hollywood’s leading dames. She was always dressed elegantly and rode around town in her cream-colored Mercedes-Benz, turning admiring heads wherever she went. Every morning, when she dropped me off at St François d’Assise, an all-girl catholic school where I received my primary education, there was usually a line of parents, mostly dads, waiting an extra 10 minutes just to see her drop off her little princess in her pink, well-pressed uniform that seemed to fit her better than that of most of the little girls who attended the school. There was no doubt that my father, like his father before him, was a good provider. We lived in a comfortable home, my mom and I traveled every year, spent the holidays in our summer home in the hills of Kenscoff, and my father showered us with gifts often, not just on special occasions. Jewelry and perfume were his favorite offerings. My mother wore them well. Seeing her beauty and her radiant smile, one could never detect the bruises underneath her fashionable dark glasses. No one would ever guess the hell she was living through.
I remember several occasions, one in particular, when I tried to intervene to help my mother. My parents were in the master bathroom, and I was in their bedroom, watching television. I heard them arguing, so I raised the TV’s volume to drown out the noise. Then my mother let out a scream, and I could hear my father’s bare knuckles pounding her. Without much thought, I ran to the bathroom, threw open the door, and tried to put my body between her and my dad, shielding her. I, of course, was no match for his rage. I found myself shoved aside violently, my small body sailing through the air and falling on the other side of the bed. I must have been around 8 years old. On another occasion, I watched in horror as my father, face transformed, lifted a cinder block and aimed for my mother’s head as her bruised body lay sprawled on the ground in our backyard after she tried to escape yet another assault. Had it not been for the quick and benevolent actions of our next-door neighbor, my mother would have died that day. And probably nothing would have come of it, as Haitian society always turned a blind eye to the systematic abuse of women by the men who swore to love and honor them.
Fortunately, my mother survived that day. Our family doctor had patched her up for the umpteenth time and sent her home, with sadness weighing heavily on his heart. You see, he knew my mother’s relatives. She had been orphaned at a very young age and was looked after by aunts and uncles until her older sister, still a child herself, took on the responsibility of raising her when she married. The good ol’ doctor wondered where they were. How could they allow her to endure such a horrible life? But you see, all her family saw was the comfort around my mother. Money speaks louder than physical abuse or even human dignity. But she did eventually leave him. Bless her heart. That was more than 45 years ago, but the emotional wounds are still fresh.
I grew up in a state of ambivalence, with mixed emotions about my father. How do you unsee such violent scenes? How do you forgive such vile acts? How do you trust a man and believe that you would ever be safe in his presence? And how do you reconcile the monster with the loving father? You see, despite the ugliness, I loved my dad. He was the one who gave me piggy-back rides and tickled me until I cried for mercy, the one who told me corny jokes that made me laugh uncontrollably. The one who taught me the value of an education and financial independence. My father loved me. Of that, I am sure. Anyone who dared touch a hair on my head would have to reckon with him. So, no one dared. The only thing that ever made my father cry was the thought of losing me.
My father was also a political man. Although he never held a political office, he was a well-known supporter of Duvalier, version 2– the son. And five years after Baby Doc abdicated from power, and three months after his 49th birthday, on January 7, 1991, my father’s wish of never growing old came true. My father was assassinated by a violent mob that came looking for him at our house. After he’d ensured that the house personnel made it safely over the walls into the neighbor’s yard, my father walked to his death. I was living in Florida then, and I had not seen my father in five years. The news hit me like a ton of bricks. Why the mob came looking for him, I may never know. The political situation in Haiti was volatile then, as it often was. Aristide had been elected president in November 1990, and his inauguration was scheduled to take place on February 7, 1991. Some people speculated that the president-elect was clearing the field of any potential enemies. Some might think my father got his just deserts, but others might mourn his passing. You see, my father was also the kind of man who never forgot anyone who gave him a helping hand. He was generous and filled with gratitude. He was the kind of man who would take a poor, homeless stranger’s doctor’s prescription and go out of his way to get it filled and bring it back to him, no strings attached.
In Nonstop Oslo: A Fan’s Fantasy Tale, during a lengthy conversation with Logen, Vivienne briefly mentioned her father’s killing and said it was “a story for another day”. Well, consider the story told. It took me years to be able to tell it. My dad was a complicated man. He was the offspring of two first cousins. I often told him, half-joking, half-serious, that this rage inside of him was probably the by-product of an unholy union. He used to laugh at my words, albeit uncomfortably. But no one could have told him this, even in jest, without having his jaw broken, at the very least. But I could say it. I was the daughter he cherished. His blood runs through my veins, and perhaps, some of his rage, too. And so, I will leave you with this poem I recently wrote…
Rage
My most loyal companion
The years have not tamed your ardor
No, here you are
In all your flaming glory
If only you were wanted here …
Like a malfeasant slime
In a slithery dance
You break through the surface
Dredging up the vermin
That hijacked my soul
Smothering my breath
Your will is stronger than mine
In this eternal fight
Who is the hunter who is the prey
Our voices sound the same
In this maelstrom of angst
Whence will the light come
To save me
To pacify the raging fire
Its delirious frenzy…
The angel at my side cannot help me
Its redeeming hand is still too far
O, Father, do not forsake me
For I know not what I am doing
This pain is not mine to bear
From the tunnels of time
It makes its way
Traveling and torturing
Unhinging and condemning
This burden I can no longer carry
I pray for absolution
For forgiveness and mercy
To be set free from the chains
Of this mighty ancestral stain
That mocks my self-flagellation
O, Father, help me affirm
What I know to be true
I am that light
Overshadowed for now
Beaten down and breathless
But still alive…
This is the only picture I have of my dad and me. My photo albums are all back home in Haiti, beyond my reach, as the political and security situation is once again volatile.
Nadine,
I took my time reading your post.
I will start by saying that I am deeply sorry and saddened that you had to witness such a destructive spectacle at such a young age. As the father of a little girl myself, I humbly ask for your forgiveness on behalf of all men, husbands, and fathers guilty of this despicable act that will mark you forever. No one should have to go through that, especially not an 8-year-old girl. It is a betrayal. Every father is a hero to his daughter. The hero became a tormentor. The person responsible for teaching you what to expect from love is the one who lifted a concrete block against a mother, your mother.
I also congratulate you and salute your courage, the courage it took you to live again in order to write this testimony. Some events brand us with a hot iron and never leave us. I salute your courage again because you have journeyed to find love. There are many storms on the ocean of life, but you have kept your head high.
I read your text with my heart sinking deeper and deeper. After what I call my “initiation,” I came to understand my position as a man and a father and the raison d’être of Mami Wata. I have never raised my hand to a woman, nor to my daughter. But how many times have I witnessed humiliation, moral and verbal abuse? I understand, I understand the rage. But let’s not forget forgiveness. Forgiveness that sets us free. The kind that allows us to make room for what we truly deserve.
Our society needs to be rebuilt, everything needs to be rebuilt. We were made to believe that toxic patriarchy was the answer. Toxic patriarchy among the descendants of slaves…
Dear Didier,
Your words have touched me deeply. I thank you for them. You are a generous man. A wonderful and respectful father. Our personal burdens are enough to carry without adding someone else’s. We must each carry our own and do penance.
These events have indeed marked me in ways that I still cannot fathom. They create mistrust and a feeling of low self-worth. I fight those untruths in every relationship that I embark on.
Yes, we need to do better as a society. The scars run deep, but we must heal and pivot if we are to be a just society and honor the women on whose shoulders we all stand.
Thank you for reading this and sharing your thoughts.
Regarding “a story for another day”
It’s a touching story. I feel sorry for your mother who had to face these painful situation with her husband.
I also understand that although you witnessed this domestic violence and didn’t agree with your father you couldn’t hate him because after all, he is your father and he cherished you.
By the way, chapeau pour le poem.
Sophia, thank you so much for your comments.
My mother is a strong woman. I always wondered where she pulled her strength from. Orphaned at the tender age of 8 or 9, she really didn’t have a loving family to shield her. On the contrary, when she became pregnant with me when she was just 19, she was kicked out of her home because she was unmarried. My father married her when I was 3 or 4 years old. Everyone had their own issues to deal with. That’s their burden to bear, their guilt to do penance for.
Yes, my father was often cruel. Sometimes, he looked possessed, like he couldn’t control this thing inside of him. But yes, he did love me. With me, he tried to be his best self. He gave me advice against men like him. He wanted me to be independent, be my own woman.
There is so much more I could say. But I’ll stop here…
Nadine.
I didn’t grow up in a home where my dad hit my mom – far from it. However my dad did and my mom’s dad did. It was rarely talked about and only after those abusive men died. So the cycle was broken.
Coming home from Kandahar I had an anger that would sometimes escape. It was never physical violence, rather it was verbal but it had a terrifying effect on my daughters.
I’ve had to seek professional help on 3 occasions to work through it—one as recent as 2 years ago.
What we can do is be self-aware, understand the triggers, accept the emotions as signals from within, do the work needed to deal with it, and accept that we are highly imperfect humans.
Thank you so much, Mark, for your valuable insight.
It might surprise you to know that I did think about you and your talk about anger management when I started feeling these violent impulses–again. I have a tendency to work these things out (my many layers) through my writing, whether it’s journaling, blogs, poems, or stories like Nonstop Oslo.
I have come to appreciate this ability of mine to take things from within me (where they hurt) to the outside, where I can examine them and gain a deeper understanding of myself. I’ve always said that my poems have saved my life on many occasions. They have saved my sanity, for sure, and given me back a sense of balance.
I do not doubt that some professional help would also be useful. We all could use a little help sometimes.
Thanks again, my friend. Your thoughts are appreciated more than you know.
Powerful. The narrative flows flawlessly. It’s a read impossible to put down. But is that poem really you? I must not be the only person to say they’ve never seen that rage in you.
Thank you so much for reading my blog, John. Your opinion means the world to me, not only because you were once my mentor, but also because I value you as a friend.
Yes, the poem is really me. People are often surprised when I say I have a “dark” side. I’ve written at least 2 or 3 poems on that very subject over the years. It’s really funny because I’m often described by people who know me as a ray of sunshine. Which, of course, I do my best to live up to.
The rage only surfaces in situations when I feel trapped and extremely unhappy. But it is always present, and, apparently, I do a very good job of controlling it. Writing poems is a therapeutic process for me. It allows me to take the “vermin” out of me, and observe it at a distance to try to understand it, or at the very least, manage it.
Thanks again, my friend.
Dear Nadine, thank you so much for sharing your heartfelt and deeply moving story and poem with me. Your honesty and courage shine so brightly through your writing. Although we’ve been friends for something like twenty years, I never really understood and appreciated until today how bravely you’ve carried your past — balancing the darkness of your father’s anger and violence with the light of your mother’s love (and at times, even your father’s). I have always seen you as a strong, spiritual, and loving woman and mother, but your story and poem give all of your observed attributes even deeper meaning.
I have immense respect for the life you’ve lived — with confidence, kindness, and compassion — despite having endured so much in your father’s household before his life ended so early and tragically. Your resilience and grace are truly inspiring.
Reading your words also made me reflect on my own upbringing. I was blessed with a father I could always look up to, and I realize how much fortune and grace there was in that relationship — and how much of him I still carry with me, even fourteen years after his passing from cancer.
Thank you not only for sharing your voice, your history, and your beautiful writing, but also for your enduring friendship that has been a gift to me, and the wonderful memories I have, especially of our humanitarian field work together in Haiti.
Dearest Kevin,
This is beautiful. You make me want to cry. Your words are so kind and gentle and all the more significant because I know you’ve spoken them from your heart. I, too, have enjoyed our friendship over the years. You are part of my most outstanding memories, as I have cherished our work at World Vision and your mentorship. I wouldn’t be a good communicator today without your guidance.
Yes, many people don’t really know about my “tribulations,” but I do all I can to rise above them and be good to people. I believe I have inherited the best of my mom and my dad, even when I feel the anger beneath the surface. I often thank God for my poetry because it is the best therapy I know. Without that outlet, I’m not sure how I would have managed things. But I have to trust that my light can brighten every dark corner of my mind.
Thank you again, my friend. Un gran abrazo.