The sun rose over the City of Cap-Haitien, Republic of Haiti. As is my custom, I rose with it. I didn't get home till the wee hours of the morning, since there was a full moon and I was away in the wilderness, for I had certain urgent matters to tend to. Nevertheless, I woke up rested and refreshed. After showering, getting dressed and eating breakfast, I walked from the crowded, vibrant suburb of Bel-Air to Rue Deux, and caught a Camionette heading deeper into the city.
As to be expected, the Camionette was quite crowded, like any city bus in the second largest city on the island of Haiti. All around me, well-dressed men and women whose skin tones ranged from chocolate to caramel, mahogany to caramel ( and everything in between ) chatted away, lively as ever. A rather well-dressed young man with skin the color of a Hershey bar possessively laid his hand on his lady friend's lap after noticing that she was smiling at me.
I smiled at the young Haitian couple and busied myself reading my copy of Haiti Progres, a long-standing newspaper that I happen to like very much. The bus sped on the bumpy rode, and some fool nearly spilled his drink on me. I rode it to Rue Dix, and then began the long walk up the hill leading to Universite Notre Dame Du Perpetuel Secours, an all-male Roman Catholic institution of higher education led by the Les Freres Saint Croix. This venerable old institution, over a century old, is where I teach World History.
"Bonjour Professeur Marcelin," says Bernadette Angier, the secretary at La Direction Academique. I smile and greet the short, curvy, short-haired and light-skinned young Black woman with a nod. We exchange a few pleasantries, and I speak to Pere Anthony, the elderly dark-skinned priest in charge of Les Etudes Classiques. Some members of the U.N.D.P.S. Board of Directors have taken issue with my focus on Western politics in recent sessions, and the old man speaks to me about that.
"Marcelin LeGrand, please remember that we're in Haiti here, and our country should be the main focus of your lesson plan, you're a great instructor, your fascination with the United States of America notwithstanding," Pere Anthony says in that serious tone of his, while flashing me that smile of gentle wisdom common to the Haitian priesthood. I hold his gaze for a moment, and then smile. So it's like that, Padre?
Of all the priests working and teaching at Universite Notre Dame, I respect him the most. Pere Anthony has helped rebuild and strengthen Universite Notre Dame Du Perpetuel Secours. It's one of a few educational institutions of higher education to remain unscathed, physically and administratively, after the 2010 Earthquake which ravaged the island of Haiti. We go way back, Pere Anthony and I. Indeed, he's one of a few mortals who are privy to my secret. What do I mean by that? I'll get to that soon, no worries...
"Duly noted, old man," I reply, and clap Pere Anthony on the shoulder while he smiles and rolls his eyes. I wink at Bernadette as I exit the office, and can feel her eyes on me the entire time. Stopping by the supply room, I pick up a folder, and then head to my first class. I take the steps two at a time as I make my way to the third floor. It's a hot day in Cap-Haitien, even by Caribbean standards. Who knows what a day like this will bring?
"Professeur, the reason why the United States of America is in such turmoil right now is because of surging racism, they fear the potential of the Black man after Obama's presidency, that's why you see a chump like Trump in the halls of power," says Pierre Dorvil, one of my favorite students. The tall, slender and brown-skinned, bald-headed young man smiles at me, and awaits my response. I glance at the entire class, and smile, and shrug.
"Well put, young man, but you should know, identity politics are one thing, xenophobia and nationalism are similar but altogether different concepts when we discuss history," I reply, and Pierre nods sagely. I look at him, and at the other young Black men in the classroom. These brothers represent the future of the island of Haiti, no, the future of the modern world. I couldn't dream of a better assignment than to help mold the minds of such intelligent young Black men...
We're in October, and in a few weeks, I will officially be 248 years old. You can't tell by looking at me, though. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what a centuries-old fellow looks like. A six-foot-two, lean and athletic man with mahogany skin, a smooth shaved head and a slick goatee, clad in a blue silk shirt, Black tie and Black silk pants, that's me. I've been many things throughout my centuries of existence. Slave, wanderer, farmer, artisan, painter, mechanic, cook, bodyguard, and more.
In this lifetime, I endeavor to be a scholar. I've lived all over the world, and seen a lot in my time. I hold a bachelor's degree in political science from Howard University in Washington D.C. and a law degree from Texas Southern University. I lived in the United States of America at a time when it was in the midst of a socio-cultural transformation, not unlike now. What am I doing teaching history at a small private institution in Haiti? It's simply where I'm needed the most.
This world of ours has always been dead set against people of African descent. The plight of the Black race did not begin with the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade orchestrated by the European powers. The Arabs have a lengthy history of enslaving and mistreating Black folks, both Muslims and non-Muslims. There are considerable forces arrayed against people of African descent, but I do believe that we can prevail against their the might of this nefarious collective...
Now, more than ever, it's important to educate young Black men about this world, and why it's their duty to fight against the forces of racism and oppression. The Black man might not be at war with racism, but racism is at war with him. I say this because I'm one who has witnessed history. I'm not speaking in metaphors. I was actually there. Indeed, I still bear the scars from atrocities committed against my people in the old days...
"Marcelin, you little shit, je vais te tuer," says Damien Guillot, the French plantation owner who'd owned me since birth. It was my final night on the Guillot plantation, which sprawled over the plains outside La Ville Du Cap, capital of the northern side of the island of Saint Domingue. Revolution had come to the island, and like a lot of the other Africans kept in bondage by the inhumane, brutish French colonists, I was restless. That night, after months of waiting and planning, the time had come to act. I'd set several of the other slaves free, and had come back for one special lady...
