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Empowered Voices: Haitian Women in Academia

Red & Black in Haiti: Radicalism, Conflict, and Political Change 1934 – 1957

Arguing for Clarity: Lessons from 15 Years of Marriage

I’ve come to understand that a great marriage isn’t something you stumble into. I’m not going to focus on the things a couple has nothing to do with, such as chemistry, luck, or divine favor. I’m focusing here on the choices we continue to make, on our decision-making regime.

It’s a slow, deliberate sculpting. Fifteen years in, I tell my wife this often: we have a great marriage. Not because it’s free of conflict—but because we’ve learned how to make peace a craft.

What made the difference wasn’t magic. It was subtraction. Over time, we crowded out the things that corrode—the need to be right, the need to dominate, the cheap victories of silence and withdrawal. We replaced them with something simple, almost naïve in its power: argue for clarity, not conquest. That shift changed everything.

When you argue to understand—not to win—the ego softens. The selfish gene retreats. You’re no longer sparring for control; you’re searching for connection. And in that shift, conflict becomes less about destruction and more about discovery.

But even that isn’t enough.

There’s something else that must live in a marriage that hopes to last: the willingness, in the heat of the argument—not after, not later, not in the tidy calm—to say, “You’re right about that.”

Not as surrender. But as truth. Because if two people can rage against each other and neither one can name the truth even as it stares them down, then what you have is not a conversation—it’s a siege.

The strongest marriages I know are not free of disagreement. They’re built on a kind of deliberative reflex: to recognize truth in real time, even mid-battle. And then again, afterward, when the smoke clears and both parties are nursing the bruises. The ability to say, “I see now. You were right about that.” That is the salve. That is the seam that keeps the whole thing from unraveling.

In our marriage, that practice has saved us again and again. Because once you anchor your arguments in clarity, in truth, the grudges get lighter, the regrets fewer, the distance shorter. You stop fighting each other and start reaching toward understanding.

And when understanding becomes the point, even disagreement becomes a way of holding each other.

Reclaiming Haiti’s Futures: Returned Intellectuals, Placemaking, and Radical Imagination

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Black Women Are Not Ministries of Rehabilitation

There is no force more stubborn than the love we give to a project—especially when that project is a person. Not a home renovation, not a side hustle, but a breathing, flawed, history-wrapped man. 

And many women, particularly Black women, have been taught to see themselves as both lovers and lifelines. Raised in a world where salvation often wears lip gloss and heels, they inherit the myth that healing/growing a boy into a man is a form of ascension.

I know many who stay. Not out of ignorance, but out of some misguided hope. They think they see who he could be. They think they see the raw potential, his gentle side, his over all sense of decency. And yet, they also see the echoes of his bad choices, of past partners whose value systems reflect everything they are not.

Why did he choose that, they ask? And now he chose me? I’m so different from HER!

I know a few who left. That wasn’t the hard part. It’s the returning that twists the knife. The ritual of convincing themselves that things will change, that he will rise like the sun, that his past chaotic choices are just phases, that love is enough if they just hold on tight enough. 

It’s the kind of hope that wraps itself around disappointment and calls it faith.

But this is not about the men. Not really.

This is about what it means to live in a house with someone you do not respect. To wake up beside a man who treats you well but does not sharpen you. To feel alone while partnered; to parent in parallel rather than in unison; to love someone’s potential more than their presence; to trade your truth for their comfort. To speak without being heard. To touch without being held. To say “I’m fine” and mean “I’m vanishing.” 

A lot of them tell me they don’t want to be the teacher, the coach, the counselor, the correctional officer. They want a peer. A man whose very presence calls them to push higher, not baggages that drag them down.

And still—some stay. Is it because they fear the cold space of absence more than the lukewarm company of compromise? 

The world wrote an unfair script for successful Black women. It tells them that loyalty means carrying the full weight of emotionally bankrupt and financially broken men on their backs until their pussies dry up and the men leave them for younger women–and the cycle starts all over again for the new victims. 

The narrative also wants women to call it devotion, even love. But let’s be clear: there is no fidelity or heroism in self-erasure. There is nothing sacred about the slow decay of a woman who keeps giving and giving from a well that was never filled in kind by her partner.

Philosophers would call this a Failure of Authenticity. Game theorists would see a Suboptimal Equilibrium: a series of repeated decisions that look like love but function like entrapment. 

Women are naturally strategic in their mindset–to a fault sometimes–playing a long game with short payoffs; trading temporary peace for long-term growth. Every time a sistah stays, she resets the board, thinking maybe this time she’ll win. But the rules never change.He won’t either.

The children are watching, ladies. You’re teaching them what love looks like, what power tolerates, what womanhood must endure. 

And that is perhaps the most dangerous inheritance of all—the quiet lesson that it is normal to shrink, to compromise, to teach a man how to be a man when you’re still learning how to be free.

The truth is: love should not be a syllabus. Relationships are not workshops. Black women, you are not ministries of rehabilitation for Black men with arrested development. Allow yourselves to want more. To want mutuality. To want someone who brings something to the table besides an appetite.

It’s ok to outgrow a man who stayed still.

The world won’t applaud you for it. But your soul and sanity will.

And that, ladies, is more than enough for an emotionally and intellectually fulfilling life.

Miguel Díaz

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A Spaniard living in Hispaniola, Miguel Díaz’s tale is often entwined with romantic lore. He was reportedly involved with Queen Cayacoa, and through this relationship came the discovery of the gold mines at Haina. His story bridges the historical and the legendary, blending personal ambition with the unfolding economic exploitation of the island.

Who Owns the Noise? We Built the Court, But Not the Peace

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In every American neighborhood, behind every manicured hedge and faux-iron gate, there is a truth we would rather not speak. That the lawn is not just a lawn, the basketball court not just a basketball court. That even in silence, history hums. That freedom of movement for some feels like trespass to others. And that race, the spectral residue of this country’s unfinished reckonings, makes its presence felt not only in the language of debate, but in who is granted access and who is cast as threat.

So here we are.

A basketball court—an emblem of community, of youth, of health—has become a fault line. Some homes sit too close. Some residents complain of noise, of smoke, of cussing strangers with no stake in the commons. These are not merely aesthetic complaints; they speak to quality of life, to safety, to property value, which in this country, has always been the bedrock of belonging.

But others push back. What of the kid who just wants to shoot hoops? What of the family who moved in hoping their son might have a place to play within walking distance of home? What of the quiet? Of the courteous? Of the ones who abide?

To just shut it down feels too easy. To manage it feels just. Let’s not speak in abstractions; let’s walk toward the messy middle, as one of my philosophy professors used to say. Let’s also think and feel ike neighbors who give a shit.

Below are some proposed solutions, with pros and cons for each. First, it’s important to state the problem using game theory.

Timeline of Haitian History

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“Stories are the secret reservoir of values: change the stories individuals and nations live by and tell themselves, and you change the individuals and nations.”
— Ben Okri, A Way of Being Free

Liberty, Fraternity, Exile: Haiti & Jamaica After Emancipation

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Ep. #84 – Liberty, Fraternity, Exile: Haiti & Jamaica After Emancipation

Killing the Elites: Haiti, 1964

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