Bill Fitzgerald
The path down to La Klo, Haiti, is a long one. My name is William. My parents are politicians. I come from a big Haitian family, one that stands up to bullies. We have resided in Haiti for generations, since Toussaint Louverture rose up for the Haitian people. I love reading about him in my elementary school books. Maresel, a young women who is a friend of my family, walks with me silently. Her hazel skin shines in the sun’s warm hues that dance along the morning mist. She is attending an American University in the fall. I don’t want her to leave, she is one of my few friends. I am bullied in school because of my splotchy skin. Some of is white, some of it is brown.
Cattle graze on either side of us, and rare lush grass is in spring bloom. I hear them call to one another. The tops of mountains rise and fall along our periphery like giant green snakes. The path widens into a flat dirt road where women carry fruit on their heads far above me.
Maresel sees one of her friends, and they embrace each other for what seems like eternity. Maresel is out of sorts this morning, like she had lost something that cannot be found. Tap-tap buses stream by as we near the market place. The buses are packed to the brim with passengers and are painted with bright oily paintings of Aristide, a popular priest who is running for president. He is my hero.
We arrive to the marketplace and my senses come to life. The smell of sizzling banan peze is thick and sweet, and the screeching of pigs fill the marketplace. People gather mangoes, papaya, and guavas, the vibrant colors of fruit spreading out before us.
Suddenly, a big man approaches us. He begins yelling bad words at Maresel. He pushes her towards a river that runs next to the marketplace. I run towards the man, feeling fearless. I throw my fists at his stomach and tear at his shirt. He turns his giant frame towards my little, spotted body. He laughs, calling me a leper. He then shoves me into the dirt beside the river bank.
They argue over a piece of land taken over by his gang. I know these bad men to have taken over much of the country I love. They have broken up Haiti and guarded their land like hounds. My parents say there are many children like me who are forced to join them. They say I am very fortunate.
Maresel pushes him to the edge of the river. He grabs a hold of her and kisses her, and then turns and throws her into the rushing water. I decide that I want to be the hero that I have dreamed of being. The strength of Aristide’s booming prayers rising from the radio dawn on me. I silently pray to God, diving after her into the hotbed of garbage and sewage floating on the river. Not knowing how to swim, I begin to feel myself drowning in the tumult. Maresel is too far ahead of me to reach.
I feel a sudden peace as I recite prayers and flow down the river. The garbage turns into fat boulders that knife into the shade of Spanish cedar. I look for something to catch me. Marasel is on a bank, and I enter her arms. I begin to truly believe in my hero and the divine.
Through the hazy mist of the morning, sopping in water, we reenter the marketplace. It has erupted with the beat of the drum. The bad man has left. We walk slowly through, ignoring the dancing feet. The pigs have become silent. Maresel says everything is going to be ok. I believe her. We arrive back to the base of the foothills and begin to climb. As we arrive to the intersection where we must part ways, Maresel hugs me and says that I am her hero. A tear slips down my cheek, knowing that I may not see her for a long time.