Collection 1: "Bonne Année" by Jean-Pierre Benoît

French, English, and Kreyòl commingle.

Kreyòl predominates, but enough is said in French and English for me to follow.

Another January first, another gathering. If it is the beginning of a new year, that is at best incidental. January first is the celebration of Haitian independence.

My father is adamant, Duvalier’s days are numbered. And then we will return.

Voices raised in excitement, in agitation, in Haitian cadences.

Inevitably, hope triumphs over history.

Perhaps there will be a coup, Haitian exiles landing on the shores with plans and weapons, a well-timed assassination.

We did not want to come. We were forced to flee or die. Americans perceive desperate brown masses swarming at their golden shores, wildly inventing claims of persecution for the opportunity to flourish in this prosperous land.

Americans perceive desperate brown masses swarming at their golden shores, wildly inventing claims of persecution for the opportunity to flourish in this prosperous land.

The view from beneath the bridge is somewhat different: reluctant refugees with an aching love of their forsaken homeland, of a homeland that has forsaken them, refugees who desire nothing more than to be home again.

The Haitian sun has made the cross-Atlantic journey to shine on her dispossessed children.

This time it is not just wispy speculation, something has changed.

For the first time, Haiti has qualified for the World Cup. The inaugural game is against eternal powerhouse Italy.

It meets a response, “I-TA-LIA,” twice as loud but destined to be replaced by an even louder HA-I-TI, followed by IT-A-LIA and again HA-I-TI in a spiraling crescendo.

Less than twenty-four hours earlier he had foolhardily predicted that he will score.

“HA-I-TI, HA-I-TI.” Half of Madison Square Garden is delirious, half is uncomprehending. The Haitians are beating the Italians.

Still, for six minutes Haiti is doing the impossible, Haiti is beating Italy. Italy, which twice has won the World Cup. Six minutes. Perhaps the natal pull is stronger than it seems. For that one goal, that brief lead, those six minutes, mean more to me than all the victories of my favorite baseball team.

February 7, 1986, amid massive protests in Haiti, Jean-Claude flees the country. There is a blizzard in New York, but this does not prevent jubilant Haitians from taking to the snowy streets, waving flags, honking horns, pouring champagne.