The Book

I do not remember the exact year we left Haiti.

But I remember the feeling.

Fear.
Confusion.
Sadness.
Hope.

I remember my mother packing what little we had. I remember grown people speaking in low voices, whispering about America like it was both heaven and heartbreak at the same time. I remember looking around at Haiti, not fully understanding that I was about to leave behind the country of my birth forever.

Haiti was poor, but it was ours.

It smelled like rice cooking on the stove, fried plantains, salt in the air, sweat, dust, perfume, and survival. It sounded like church music, roosters in the morning, women bargaining in the market, laughter that somehow survived even in struggle.

As a little girl, I remember missing him.

As a grown woman, I understand him differently.

My father could have abandoned us. Many men did. He could have disappeared into America and started another life. He could have left us starving in Haiti.

But he did not.

He came back for us.

And for that, I will always love him.

Not because he was perfect. He was not. Our relationship has not always been easy. There were years of misunderstanding, hurt, distance, and silence. But as I've gotten older, I have learned something about immigrant parents: sometimes love does not arrive gently. Sometimes love looks like sacrifice. Sometimes love looks like survival.

My father brought us to America.

And that decision changed the trajectory of my life forever.

My Story Is Only True in America™.

I remember the plane ride.

I remember staring out the tiny airplane window, somewhere between fear and wonder, not fully understanding that my entire life was changing in the clouds above the ocean. I remember my mother trying to keep us calm. I remember the exhaustion on her face. I remember wondering what America would look like. I remember wondering if we would belong there.

I did not know then that America would break my heart and save my life at the same time.

When we arrived in Miami, Florida, we had almost nothing.

We did not speak English.
We did not understand the culture.
We did not know the rules.
And we certainly did not understand how deeply we would be hated.

In elementary school, I was beaten up almost every single day because I was Haitian.

Every. Single. Day.

There was a girl named Fat Lori who terrorized me. I can still see her face. I can still feel the fear in my stomach when I saw her coming. I fought constantly because I had no choice. My mother eventually started calling me “the cockfighter” because every single day I came home bruised, angry, fighting, defending myself.

I did not understand why they hated me so much.

I was just different.

I wore frilly little dresses every day because my father was a pastor and our religion did not allow girls to wear pants. I wore socks. I wore barrettes with little balls at the ends. I had red ribbons in my hair. I spoke Creole. My English was broken.

I looked different.
I sounded different.
I moved differently.
I stood out like a sore thumb.

And in America, different can make you a target.

Especially during that time in Miami.

People called Haitians dirty. They called us boat people. They mocked our accents. They treated us like we were less intelligent, less human. During the AIDS epidemic, Haitians were publicly blamed and humiliated. We became associated with disease and shame.

Children repeated what adults said at home.

We were called AIDS dogs.

Imagine hearing that as a child.

Imagine trying to understand why people despised you before they even knew your name.

That was the America we found.

And yet somehow, it was also the America that gave me a chance.

That contradiction would shape my entire life.

I have heard Haiti described as a “shithole country.” I have heard immigrants discussed like burdens instead of blessings. I have watched people reduce entire human beings to stereotypes, fear, politics, and ignorance.

And yet immigrants continue building America every single day.

We clean its offices.
We build its buildings.
We care for its children.
We launch businesses.
We create jobs.
We feed cities.
We fight in wars.
We heal the sick.
We shape culture.
We innovate.
We dream.
We believe in America enough to risk everything for it.

And somehow, despite all of it, the little Haitian girl they mocked kept rising.

The same girl who was beaten up for her accent would one day stand in rooms with presidents, governors, mayors, CEOs, billionaires, business icons, and world leaders.

My Story Is Only True in America™.

The little girl they called names would one day serve Barack Obama. She would meet Bill Clinton. I would be the youngest person to serve on the steering committee of the Summit of the Americas, under President Clinton. The little Haitian girl who once struggled to speak English was now sitting in rooms connected to some of the most powerful leaders in the hemisphere.

I would later work alongside governors like Jeb Bush, Lawton Chiles, and Bob Graham.

Over the years, I would help and meet hundreds of entrepreneurs, innovators, business icons, corporate leaders, and billionaires. I would work with mayors throughout the state of Florida. I would serve on initiatives connected to leaders from Latin America and across the Americas. I would sit in rooms that once felt unimaginable to a little immigrant girl who could barely speak English.

And sometimes, in those rooms, I would think about the child I used to be.

The child who got beaten up walking home from school.
The child who felt ashamed of her accent.
The child who wondered if she belonged anywhere at all.

The distance between those two versions of me still feels impossible sometimes.

Not because life was easy.
Not because doors magically opened.
But because somewhere deep inside of me, even when I doubted myself, there was still a voice whispering:

Keep going.

Yes, it took me longer to graduate from college than other people.

So what?

I graduated.

And that degree meant more to me because I had to fight for every inch of it. I was not handed confidence. I had to build it. I was not born believing I belonged in powerful rooms. I had to survive my way into them.

People told me I could not be anything.

Look at me now.

I am somebody.

Not because of money.
Not because of titles.
Not because of recognition.

I am somebody because I survived.

I am somebody because my parents sacrificed.

I am somebody because Haiti lives inside of me.

I am somebody because America gave me an opportunity, even while it sometimes tried to deny my humanity.

But more than anything else, I am somebody simply because I am human.

My dignity does not come from wealth.
My value does not come from status.
My humanity does not require permission.

I matter because I exist.

And I love America.

Not a perfect America.
Not a fantasy America.
The real America.
The complicated America.
The beautiful America.
The broken America.

The America that allowed a little Haitian girl with barrettes and frilly dresses to become a woman who could help shape rooms she was never supposed to enter.

So hear me clearly:

I am NOT going anywhere.

Immigrants are not going anywhere.

We are woven into the fabric of this country.
We helped build America.
We continue to build America.
And our stories deserve to be told with dignity, truth, complexity, and pride.

But by the time I reached high school, I learned there were different kinds of racism in America.

The violence I experienced as a child was loud. Physical. Obvious.

Now it became quieter.

I eventually transferred to a predominantly white school on Miami Beach through a minority-to-majority program. I could not simply attend. Permission had to be granted.

For the first time, I felt physically safe.

No one was beating me up anymore.

But safety and belonging are not the same thing.

At my new school, the currency was different. The violence was subtle. The new currency was cool. Money. Brands. Status. Access. The right last name. The right neighborhood. The right clothes.

And I did not have those things either.

I was still different.

Just in a different room.

The little Haitian girl from a pastor's home had escaped one form of rejection only to discover another.

That, too, was America.

And that is where the next part of my story begins.

My Story Is Only True in America™.