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An Hour a Day: A Story of Books, Time, and Legacy

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I have watched her ascend, this girl of mine, from the moment she could grasp the weight of a book in her tiny hands. Now, at 18, she stands on the precipice of history—the first lawyer on either side of our families—a reality that seems to intrigue her, as though she understands the gravity of breaking old patterns. It is one thing to dream of being first; it is another to be comfortable with what success demands. She seems to be.

By next year, she will hold her college degree at 19, a milestone that leaves friends astonished, their questions laced with disbelief: How did she get there? They ask this of me and her mother, we who took our time, who found our way later than most. I smile at their questions because I know the answer is simple and not simple at all.

It started when she was three. There were books in the back of the car, always books—stacked, scattered, waiting. I was her chauffeur then, the unseen architect of her hours, ferrying her from one place to the next. An hour on the road each day, an hour spent reading. Not once, not twice, but daily, until the days became years, and the years became a life conditioned for the law—a world that demands relentless reading, ruthless synthesis, and the ability to carve meaning from chaos. What she does now, what she will do as an attorney, is simply an extension of what has always been.

We like to romanticize success as an accident of fate, but I have never believed that. Our children rise or fall by the architecture of their environment, the structures we build or fail to build. And so, when they stumble, the fault is not in our stars, as Shakespeare once mused, but in ourselves—in the silences where words should have been, in the empty hands where books should have rested, in the hours lost to the tides of time rather than invested in the foundation of a future.

Banks Protect Their Wealth—Why Can’t Haiti?

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Push, Don’t Pull: What Fidelity Taught Me About Banking, Corruption, and Haitian Sovereignty

Money moves, but not freely. It is watched, monitored, tagged, and caged when necessary. You think it’s yours, that you can send it where you please, that a number on a screen represents a fluid reality. But then, the gatekeepers remind you otherwise.

Fidelity did this to me. I transferred my own money—from my own external checking account into my own investment account. And yet, somewhere in the vast, impenetrable fortress of financial algorithms, a silent alarm was tripped. Suddenly, my funds were frozen, locked behind security protocols I neither saw nor consented to.

Fourteen days. That’s how long it took for my money to be declared clean. Fourteen days in which I was reminded that banks are not just places where money is stored. They are fortresses, citadels of capital where nothing moves without scrutiny.

At first, I was annoyed. Then, I was fascinated. Because when I finally got a Fidelity customer service agent on the phone, he let me in on a quiet secret:

“Next time, don’t pull your money into Fidelity. Push it from your external account. That way, you’ll have access to it immediately.”

Push, don’t pull.

That phrase hit me like a bullet to the brain. Here was a financial institution so vigilant, so obsessed with securing its own wealth, that it had created a labyrinth of hidden rules to keep outsiders—money launderers, criminals, and even its own customers—from moving money freely. I don’t necessarily trust banks. I don’t trust their morality, their ethics, or their intentions. But I do trust their paranoia. Because their existence depends on it.

And then, a thought came to me—one that had nothing to do with Fidelity, nothing to do with investment accounts or locked-up funds.

What if Haiti, instead of obsessing about finding new narratives, found new defensive methodologies to protect its most precious assets–the Haitian people?

A Fortress for Sovereignty

For centuries, Haiti has been stripped, not just of its wealth, but of its defenses—its ability to hold and secure the fruits of its own labor. The first free Black republic defeated France on the battlefield, but in the realm of finance, it has been looted by colonial powers, neo-liberal institutions, and the homegrown elites who act as brokers for foreign interests.

What if Haiti built its own fortress? Not of stone or steel, but of financial discipline, of economic strategy, of the same defensive posture that banks use to guard their own assets. What if we studied the paranoia of the world’s financial institutions—not to emulate them, but to wield their strategies in the service of Haitian sovereignty?

The Defensive Postures of Banks—and How Haiti Could Apply Them

  1. Surveillance & Gatekeeping
    • Banks do not simply allow money to flow in. They interrogate it. They demand proof of origin. They create barriers. Haiti must do the same. No more open veins, no more unrestricted capital flight. Every contract, every foreign deal, every government expenditure must be scrutinized under the cold, calculating eye of forensic accounting.
  2. Layered Security Measures
    • A bank does not rely on one lock. It has many. Biometric scans, multi-factor authentication, withdrawal limits—layers upon layers of security. Haiti must build financial firewalls. No single politician, no single minister, no single institution should have unchecked access to the national treasury. Every transaction must pass through multiple, independent audits. Every government contract must be signed with oversight from trusted, accountable institutions.
  3. Risk Mitigation Strategies
    • Banks assume the worst. They do not trust the market, they do not trust their customers, and they certainly do not trust the system itself. Haiti must do the same. Assume corruption is the default. Assume that foreign investors are not here to help. Assume that every deal must be structured not for quick gain but for long-term survival.
  4. Liquidity Control
    • Banks never allow all their cash to be withdrawn at once. They control liquidity to prevent collapse.
    • Haiti must do the same with its resources. No more selling off land, minerals, and public assets in lump sums. No more sudden influxes of international aid that flood the economy with dependency rather than sustainable growth.
  5. Pushing, Not Pulling
    • Fidelity taught me that to keep control, I must push, not pull. When I pull, I invite scrutiny. When I push, I retain power. Haiti must push, not pull. It must push for trade deals on its own terms, push for domestic investment, push for policies that benefit its people before foreign corporations. It must not sit idly, waiting for external forces to dictate the flow of its economy.

The Sovereignty Algorithm

Fidelity locked my money away, not because they hate me, but because their survival depends on protecting their fortress. Haiti, meanwhile, has been left wide open—a country whose wealth is extracted without resistance, whose labor is consumed without return, whose sovereignty has been eroded by the whims of outside forces.

The question is not whether Haiti can protect itself. The question is whether it is willing to adopt the same level of vigilance that financial institutions apply to themselves.

A nation must protect itself like a bank protects its assets—coldly, ruthlessly, without apology. Because in the end, sovereignty is not granted. It is secured.

This is more than a financial strategy—it’s a blueprint for sovereign survival.



Blood as Currency: Gender, Violence, and Power in When the Mapou Sings

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When the Mapou Sings: Haiti’s History in Verse and Silence

The minute I opened When the Mapou Sings, I was grateful that I did not suffer from agoraphobia. All that white space. Vast, open, uncharted. The kind that makes you pause before stepping forward, uncertain of whether you’ll find ground beneath your feet.

And yet, in that emptiness, in those careful silences, Nadine Pinede maps an entire nation—its ache, its defiance, its survival.

Coming from a background in math and computer science, I have always found poetry to be a familiar, if unexpected, companion. Certain verses hold meaning the way an equation holds infinity—layered, demanding, refusing to reveal themselves too easily. You must sit with them, turn them over, hold them against the light until the full shape of their truth emerges.

Some passages refuse to let me go.

“Why does a cook/look like she’s starving?”

And there it is, the unbearable paradox of Haiti—where the hands that feed are often the first to go hungry. Where labor is a performance of dignity, and dignity is the last thing that laborers can afford.

And:

“We all know/men like young flesh,/but this is too much!…Will those kind never let girls/just be girls? Never let them/grow into their bodies/and decide for themselves/whose touch they want?”

A single stanza, and yet it unspools an entire history of violence. Haiti—a land where blood is currency, where a girl’s first bleed marks her worth in the market of suffering. A country where exploitation is tradition, cloaked in silence, carried in whispers, passed from one generation to the next like an heirloom no one wants but everyone inherits.

Pinede does not write to make us comfortable. She does not fill the empty spaces with unnecessary words. She lets them stretch, unrelenting, daring us to sit in their discomfort. And in that space—between breath and break, between wound and witness—Haiti sings.

Not a hymn. Not a dirge.

Something older. Something truer.

A song as deep as the roots of the mapou tree.

Stones by Stones. Words to Deeds

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The Citadelle Henry and the palace of Sans-Souci still stand, two centuries later. Stone upon stone, carved from sweat and will, they endure. What was once concepts, what once lived only in the mind of a great king, now towers above the hills of Haiti, bearing witness to all that was risked, all that was built, all that could not be undone.

You can’t sell a thing until you’ve already sold it.

That is the riddle, the quiet truth behind all ambitions. The Haitian world is flooded with powerful ideas—brilliant, beautiful, world-changing ideas. They live in hushed conversations, in the scribbled notes of the hopeful, in the cheers of friends who say, Yes! You should do that! But ideas are not currency. Execution is.

Reality is the best bullshit-detector, and so you have to build something, something that breathes, something that lasts. A consultancy, a movement, a structure that does more than impress those who already believe in you. Otherwise, all you have is a whisper, a maybe, a story of what could have been.

Take a Fet Gede in Leeds. Once, it was an idea–a powerful one to be sure. A dream from a friend who took it further. She carried it from thought to form, from whisper to weight. She did it twice. And now, when someone in Leeds speaks of Vodou, when they seek its presence, its ritual, its force, they think of her. Not because she spoke of it only. Not because she dreamed of it. But because she did it. She laid the foundation, bore the weight, the cost in time and money (and my patience), and proved that the idea could live outside of her own mind.

And that—more than any slogan, more than any well-crafted argument—is how you prove your worth. Your ideas are only as powerful as the work you put behind them. And the work—the undeniable, unshakable proof—is what brings paying clients through the door.

But between thinking and building, between inspiration and manifestation, there are steps. And they are not glamorous, not poetic, but they are the difference between what is, what never was, and what will be:

Refine the Vision – Not just what you want to do, but who it will serve, why it matters, and how it will stand apart.

Research the Landscape – Who else is here? What gaps remain? What needs are unspoken, unmet? This is a crucial one because finite resources (time and money) going to organizations doing the same thing diminishes the effectiveness of the singular problem they’re all trying to address individually, leading to resource dilution. To fill the gaps left by each organization, organizational coordination is crucial here. Use the one-tree-many-branches approach. L’union fait… .

Lay the Foundation – A name. A mission. A structure that gives your idea form.

Test on a Small Scale – A prototype, a first run, an experiment.

Establish Credibility. Do first. Then talk about it. – Show people, through action, that you are the one to call. Your work, your history, your name—let them speak before you do.

Find Your People – Community is everything. Clients, believers, collaborators who will stand beside what you are building.

Refine and Improve – The first version is never perfect. Learn. Adjust. Build again. This is your first confrontation with reality. Prove that it breathes before you build it to last. Each attempt in the real world forces you to not only build, but to fail, fail again, fail better.

Make It Official – If you want paying clients, move and talk like a business. Register. Price your work. Own your space.

Promote with Proof – No need for empty words. Show the work. Let your execution be your loudest voice.

The Lindy Effect – It is not enough to do it once. What makes a thing real is that it endures.

This is the way. This is the distance between dreaming and doing. Between being someone who talks about great ideas and someone who lives them.

Breaking the Cycle: Why Haiti’s “Fixes” Fix Nothing

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If a factory is torn down but the rationality which produced it is left standing, then that rationality will simply produce another factory. If a revolution destroys a government, but the systematic patterns of thought that produced that government are left intact, then those patterns will repeat themselves.… There’s so much talk about the system. And so little understanding.

Robert Pirsig, Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Some books don’t just sit on your shelf—they settle into your bones, whispering their truths long after you’ve turned the last page. Robert Pirsig’s words did that for me. That line about factories, about how you can tear them down but if the logic that built them remains, another will rise in its place—that is Haiti. That is the endless loop of fixes that fix nothing, revolutions that change rulers but not the machinery beneath them, interventions that claim to break the cycle but instead reinforce it.

Haiti has never lacked solutions. The world has thrown money at it, policies, experts, peacekeepers, strongmen, technocrats. They have dismantled governments, rewritten constitutions, redrawn borders of power. And yet, the system remains. The logic that built the chaos is still intact, the structures that choke the people’s progress are still standing, their roots deep beneath the rhetoric of reform.

Look at our history. Every supposed breakthrough, every imposed solution, has been laced with the seeds of the next problem. Independence came in 1804, but the world decided Haiti’s freedom was a debt to be repaid. They called it diplomacy, called it reparation, but what it really was—a noose. One that tightened with every loan, every embargo, every deal cut in foreign halls to dictate the shape of people’s sovereignty.

They said Duvalier would bring stability, said foreign intervention would bring order, said NGOs would bring development. But each time, the logic of dependence, of external control, of manufactured crisis remained untouched. The system does not die—it adapts. It learns how to wear new names, new faces, how to march under banners of reform while replicating itself, unbothered, unchanged.

And so Haiti keeps rebuilding, keeps restarting, keeps being told to follow blueprints drawn by hands that have never held its struggle. But the house never stands. Because what needs breaking is not just the factory but the thinking that keeps rebuilding it. What needs revolution is not just leadership but the very idea of what Haiti is allowed to be.

That is the haunting truth of Pirsig’s words. And that is the weight of Haiti’s history—not a failure to rise, but a world that refuses to let it stand on its own two feet.

The Quiet Architecture of Haitian Excellence and the Death of the White Watermark

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A friend from the neighborhood stopped by last night with his wife and their 18-year-old daughter, bright-eyed, standing at the edge of her future, curious about what it means to become a pediatrician. My wife—a woman whose wisdom could fill libraries—sat with her, pulling back the curtain on what medicine really demands. Not just the white coats and stethoscopes, but the grit, the sacrifice, the quiet resilience no textbook ever teaches. What started as a simple visit unraveled into three hours of conversation, laughter, and reflection, punctuated by my friend’s hungry pleas to leave—his stomach impatient, but his heart tethered to the warmth of the room.

The conversation moved to our driveway, and another neighbor joined us from across the street, cracking jokes like family does. Suddenly, it hit me—this is it! This is how you build strong communities. Not in grand speeches or policy papers, but in living rooms, in spontaneous gatherings where Black folks show up as their full, unfiltered selves. We weren’t just talking careers; we were stitching together the fabric of something deeper—belonging, visibility, legacy.

I watched the women, regal in a way that didn’t need announcement. There’s nothing like an elegant Black woman—her presence a masterclass in grace and power, the kind of royalty that doesn’t need a crown because it’s woven into her being. They clicked instantly, swapping numbers, planning future meet-ups, and yes—gently ribbing their husbands like it’s a sport passed down through generations. There was a rhythm to it all, a quiet chorus of shared history and mutual respect.

And as I sat there, I couldn’t ignore the weight of what we represented. Growing up, success always had a white face pinned to the top of the pyramid, as if excellence needed a Eurocentric watermark to be validated. But look at us now. Our benchmarks are different. The Obamas reset the constellation—Barack, a Black man with a name the world tried to pronounce like it didn’t belong, and Michelle, a dark-skinned woman whose very existence in the role of First Lady shattered every mold they tried to fit her into.

Our children aren’t reaching for borrowed stars anymore. They’ve got fixed points in the sky, permanent and undeniable. No amount of whitelash, no desperate clutching of a fading status quo, can erase the image of Black excellence etched into the global psyche. And here, in this gated community in Florida, success doesn’t wear someone else’s face. It lives next door. It takes out the trash across the street. It laughs in your living room.

This is how we raise the ceiling—not just for our children, but for the generations watching us, quietly taking notes. The sky isn’t the limit anymore. It’s just the view.

You Can’t Win Tomorrow’s Game with Yesterday’s Points

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During one of our monthly Afro-Caribbean men’s domino gatherings—the kind where the slap of the tiles carries the weight of history and pride—a debate erupted, fierce as the midday sun on Côte des Arcadins. On one side stood the 1804-Fanatic, his chest swelling with the unyielding glory of Haiti’s independence, reciting the names of Dessalines, Christophe, and Pétion like scripture. For him, 1804 wasn’t just a year; it was a cathedral, and he knelt at its altar with reverence sharp enough to cut glass.

But the other side pushed back, frustration etched deep into his voice like old scars.

“You can’t keep celebrating when you were born!” the other brother snapped, his domino clattering down like a gavel. The room paused—half in laughter, half in reflection.

The truth hung in the air, undeniable. 1804-Fanatics are the Haitian version of Al Bundy from Married with Children—that sad, shoe-selling icon who, when life grew too heavy, retreated into the dusty trophy case of his past, reliving his glory days as a high school football star. But at some point, nostalgia ain’t enough. You can’t win tomorrow’s game with yesterday’s points.

It’s easy to show up once a year, draped in blue and red, waving that dime-store Haitian flag like it’s doing the work for you. It’s easy to sip on soup joumou every January 1st, letting its warmth trick you into thinking tradition is the same as contribution. But our ancestors didn’t just sip soup—they spilled blood, made choices, carved futures with hands calloused from the grip of both machetes and hope.

I remember what Dr. Marlene Daut told me once:

“Our zanzets were doers.”

Not talkers. Not sideline cheerleaders. Doers.

But today, some of us are content with the bare minimum—content to ride the echoes of revolutions we didn’t fight, standing on the sidelines as if the work is done. We clutch symbols but ignore substance. We’ve got history books collecting dust, podcasts left unplayed, and lessons from others that could reshape us—if only we cared enough to put in the work.

Our ancestors got shit done.

The question is: Are we?

The First and Last King of Haiti: The Rise and Fall of Henry Christophe

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Haiti Fights Back: The Life and Legacy of Charlemagne Péralte

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This second reading is nothing less than a conscientious effort to weave together the manifold strands of Charlemagne Péralte’s remarkable and harrowing life—a fractured life to be sure, reduced to a series of grim and tragic tableaux: his arrest, his untimely demise, and the shocking public exhibition of his mortal remains. Such moments, though indelibly etched into the collective Haitian memory, failed entirely to account for the full scope of the man, whose existence and legacy reverberate far beyond those singular events. This book tries (and mostly succeeds) to illuminate the entirety of Péralte’s trajectory, from his birth in 1885 to his extraordinary resurrection in the imagination of his Haitian compatriots well into the twenty-first century.

Dr. Yveline Alexis, with no small measure of intellectual courage and emotional clarity, places before us a tapestry of voices that speak not only from the soil of Haiti but also from the distant corridors of American power. It is within this dialogue, fraught and layered, that Péralte emerges anew—not as a relic of the past but as a figure continually reshaped and reimagined. Through the intimate juxtaposition of Péralte’s own writings from 1918 and the haunting recollections of his granddaughter nearly a century later, Alexis reveals the persistent ingenuity with which his story has been preserved and reinterpreted by those who refuse to let him be forgotten.

Yet her project’s significance lies not merely in its careful excavation of memory but in its subtle, unyielding insistence on the double meaning of Péralte’s legacy. For his story, as told and retold by the Haitian people, carries with it a quiet but profound reproach: a condemnation of the foreign forces that sought to impose their will upon a nation, and an exaltation of the defiance that rose in their wake. In this, Alexis achieves not merely an act of historical recovery but a meditation on the enduring power of resistance, on the capacity of a people to transform pain into meaning, and on the infinite complexity of memory itself. Here is history rendered luminous, a testament to both the fragility and the indomitability of the human spirit.

Key term(s): Voye wòch, kache men

Haitian Sovereignty & Exported Identity

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Under the presidency of Élie Lescot, on May 5, 1941, Haiti embarked on a bold endeavor, not of conquest, but of cultural export, proclaiming to the world the treasures of its spirit and heritage.

What do we export now?

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