I lay on the couch with my head covered. I cannot watch, yet I'm compelled, drawn like a drug addict on meth. I am fixed on the devastation. My skin is alive with the wretchedness. I itch all over with sorrow. I can't watch, but I'm so addicted to my love that I force myself to close my discerning eyes and listen…just listen. I lay in a fetal position on the couch…a wimp. Not knowing where to start, how to begin. Yes, I know, I know, I know…how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. But I've never met an elephant eater. I've never even met a person who knew someone who was an elephant eater. Sure, I know all about mustard seed faith. I've even used and experienced it. Yet, I hide under the covers, snorting CNN. Then God sends an angel who whispers, “The mustard seed is only a starting point.” The angel asks, “Which do you want, Yolantha, an apricot seed or an avocado seed?”

Thus begins the fight of my life. My life seems to hinge upon the life or death of Haiti. What is my obsession? What can I do for you Haiti? My only weapons are my memories suitcased away in my secret journals. Snap thoughts of my time with you. Snap thoughts on the mountains. Snap thoughts of remote villages and valleys and pathways, places and challenges, men, women and children no other African American has seen. Secret thoughts, secret moments. Secret because some of it is so intimate, I dare not break face and reveal to anyone my innermost me. Secret reflections of me embraced in my own spider webs, locks and chains. My own personal strait jackets of inadequacies. My Haitian affair. The goodest of the good, the baddest of the bad, the ugliest of the ugly, the extra ordinary of the ordinary. Nobody knows the Haiti I've seen.

Fog thicker than carnival cotton candy
Spiders bigger than a grown man's hands
A naked boy riding a donkey with
A basket full of roosters perfectly
Balanced on his head
A street full of boys standing in line to
Get their heads dry shaved with a
Straight edged razor
Dogs so emaciated that they would be
Intimidated by a New York rat
A little baby in a bucket getting
A bath by his beloved 5 year old brother
Stars at midnight
On the mountains
Hanging so low
Pregnant with joy
To fall in my pocket
Nobody knows the Haiti I've seen.

Der Druck dieses Buches wurde vom Autor nicht gestattet.
Setzen Sie sich bitte mit dem Autor Yolantha Harrison-Pace in Verbindung, um das Buch zu erwerben.

It is not allowed to print this book.
Please contact the author Yolantha Harrison-Pace to buy the book.