Chapters (10)
Unlike Papa, who was alone when he spoke in the cassettes, we were all together in one room, which made us very shy, except for Manman, who would later say private words to Papa while we were asleep.
There is so much I always plan to tell Papa, but I am always embarrassed to talk in front of Manman and Moy. I am better at writing, so maybe I should write him letters. I have written a letter for one other person, so why not for Papa?
Once, when I was at the market in Léogâne with Manman, one of the cloth vendors, a lady named Sò Grace, waited until Manman was gone on one of her errands and asked if I could read a letter for her. She reaches into her money apron and hands me the letter. It is from her daughter in Canada.
I read the letter to her, translating it from the French into Creole. Then Sò Grace asks me if I can write a reply to her daughter.
The daughter was studying at a university in Québec and was writing to tell her mother that she was doing well in her studies and that she had met a young man whom she wanted to marry. Sò Grace beams when I read and interpret this for her. At the same time, she seems so sorrowful that she has been carrying such good news in her money apron and has not been able to read it.
She gives me five dollars to buy paper and an envelope to write a reply to her daughter. The rest I am allowed to keep for myself.
She tells me to write to her daughter how happy she is that her daughter is almost an engineer, and to ask if she is sure about the young man. Is it the right time to marry? Will the marriage not distract her from her studies, halt the beginning of her career?
I write exactly what she says, pretending that she is giving me dictation, like Madame Auguste in class.
I am careful with my handwriting, and the letter comes out neat with no mistakes.
Now I think I will do the same for Papa. I will write him letters that only he can read.
I quickly began my letter. I planned to tell him so much that I was too shy to tell him in front of the others.
Dear Papa,
We miss you.
Your daughter, Celiane
I was surprised so little came out in my letter. Maybe I don’t know my own father anymore. Maybe he has changed. Maybe I have changed.
Even though Papa sends us pictures regularly, it is hard to imagine what he looks like in his everyday life, in the place where he works, in the house where he lives. I am even more worried now that I will not know what to say to Papa when I see him again.