Jennifer Celestin
“Sometimes I walk to Church Avenue with no intentions but as soon as I hear, ‘Get manman’ou, ma che.’ I know why I came. For a moment, I was in Port-au-Prince.” – Ramonde, Flatbush resident
Vreman vre
Flatbush on a hot, congested day can feel like the real thing. Walk down Church Avenue and cross over Ocean. The sidewalks packed with street vendors claiming a patch of concrete as storefront. The shoppers haggling and squeezing avocadoes for ripeness. 1, 2, 3, 4, non, 4. 4 plantains for $1.
“Manmie, ou pa gen ti desodorant rose yo? You know, the Sweet Honesty ones?” Pedestrians walking in opposite directions declaring with each footfall that this is, in fact their walkway and not a marketplace. The occasional commuter, late for a shift, will skip into the street and try to bypass this commotion but causes another. The B35 honks at the people crowding the already narrow thoroughfare.
“La’merde,”
the last one will shout as they dash past and force the bus to be stuck behind yet another red light. Those waitin’ for that bus will shift their weight from one leg to another. Re-position their shopping bags to make the load feel lighter and cut their eyes at the people who delayed their relief of sitting down or getting one step closer to home. The metal clanking of the iron horse, that the dashers will inevitably miss, chugging and braking and squealing. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”
The beep that follows is in the same key as the cowbell, an exaggerated neigh is the same as the vaksin. The sound of a rara band practicing for a daily carnival.
But Oh, P-A-P
If your eyes aren’t closed
Please close them now
I want you to smell the burning charcoal
Promising both fried meats and roasted peanuts
The inside of your mouth tastes like salted
Coconut meat, with a swig of your Culligan water
You can taste a hint of sweet, alkaline
I want you to hear the camionette playing
A 1950s Orchestre Tropicana song medley
With a motorcycle revving past you playing Rihanna’s “Man Down”
“Rum pa pa pum, Rum pa pa pum, Rum pa pa pum” mixed with
“Vini non, vini non, retire’m nan la pen”
If I could transport you
You wouldn’t be able to stand still and take it all in
I’d yank your arm like we are chain linked
From street vendor to street vendor
Atizan to Atizana, metal bending to their will
You feel like the errant flies sampling everything
“Mon che, misye se tret wi. Se di pou’m di’ou.”
You look to see who this man is bad mouthing
But then a mauby vendor steps on your toes and when you look up she winks We hop on one of the brightly colored tap-taps, where Jesus resembles Bob Marley The wooden bench is softened from someone else’s sweat
One Love
You ask me, “Where are we going?”
“We are going to find poto mitan Pótoprens.”
Word
Jennifer Celestin
sorry, I fell out
of langue
of the grid
referential
everywhere I tried to express
I was being duped
complicit in the ruse
conspiracy accomplice
convicted by my people
indicted by the FEDS
muster, “Gall,”
instead of, “Guilty”
my tongue up in the coat of arms
my numb nanm in their hands
Notes on contributor
Jennifer Celestin is a Haitian-American writer and performer from Brooklyn, New York. She has performed at numerous venues in New York City, including the Bowery Poetry Club and Café, Lincoln Center Out of Doors and BRIC Arts Media. A former EMERGE NYC fellow, Jennifer has also performed and facilitated workshops in Montreal and Haiti. Her writings have been included in the City Lore Anthology of Haitian Poetry, Label Me Latina/o, Akashicbooks.com, No, Dear Magazine, The Hawai’i Review, midnight & indigo and Kweli Journal. Jennifer was a 2022 Kweli Fiction Fellow and a 2023 Kimbilio Fiction Fellow. She received her BA from Wesleyan University, an MA from New York University and her MFA. in Fiction from Queens College, City University of New York.
Contact Jennifer Celestin jennifer.celestin@gmail.com
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