Home > Dear Haiti, Love Alaine

Dear Haiti, Love Alaine
Author: Maika Moulite

PART I

   NOU TOUT FOU LA

   (WE’RE ALL MAD HERE)

 

 

      Thursday, November 12

   The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant

   Curiouser and curiouser.

   Quoting my favorite line in my favorite book (Hi, Alice) was my first reaction when I came home from school today and saw the new laptop that I’d been heavily hinting at wanting for the last few months, placed carefully in the center of the small desk in my bedroom.

   Well. My first reaction was actually distrust.

   Now, I know that a normal reaction to receiving a gift that you’ve wanted for an eternity and a quarter should involve something like clasping your hands on either side of your face, tears of happiness sliding down your cheeks, and a toothy grin followed by a loud exclamation of “Oh, you shouldn’t have!”

   But gifting at my house doesn’t quite work out that way when you know for a fact that you’re not due to receive said gift for another six to nine months. Not when the only thing your divorced parents agree on is that their sole child should never feel entitled to anything without earning it, no matter what their salaries could provide. I was almost positive that my parents were going to “surprise” me with the laptop as a graduation present after I’d done my part as the first-generation American daughter and gotten accepted to Mom’s alma mater, Columbia University, to study journalism. This would of course be followed by the other items they’d have to get for my welcome-to-college-don’t-mess-this-up package. See: mini-fridge, microwave, respectably sized television, twin XL bedding, freedom, etc.

   The bright red bow that was unceremoniously attached to the cover of the laptop clashed horribly with the yellow-striped computer case surrounding it, but what caught my eye was the handwritten sticky note signed Love, Mom & Dad. It wasn’t every day that “Mom & Dad” (or “Celeste & Jules”) appeared side by side, even if it was only on paper. I ripped off the bow and tossed it onto my desk, opening the laptop slowly while I squealed to myself. I hovered my wiggling fingers impatiently above the black keys as I waited for the screen to light up. The wallpaper was of a beach and the home screen was empty, save for the recycle bin and one other shortcut of a notebook and quill. I clicked on it and found that it was a daily meditation journal app, waiting to be filled with the secrets of my hopes and daydreams. Not the biggest surprise when your dad’s a psychiatrist, but still...something felt off.

   “You needed a new computer, and I figured you’d want somewhere to write out your feelings,” Dad said as he walked past my open bedroom door without coming inside. I wasn’t sure if mentioning that I’d been journaling for years with good ol’ pen and paper was the right move, so I didn’t. I’d hate for my parents to change their minds about giving me the laptop. And besides, he was already gone, off to do whatever it was that single fathers did when they got home from work a little early. (Nap.)

   I pulled my old laptop out of my book bag and ran my hands along the grimy strips of duct tape holding it together. It did look pretty depressing, especially compared to the shiny new computer that was waiting for me to play. I wouldn’t look this gift horse in the mouth until it bit me...for now. Instead, I’d graciously accept my present ahead of schedule and maintain the healthy dose of suspicion brewing in the back of my mind.

   So, without further ado...

   Behold, the written words of Alaine Beauparlant, future journalist and media personality. Here is where I keep my deepest thoughts and most [un]developed ideas.

   After such a declaration, you might ask the obvious question: What do I, Alaine Beauparlant, a seventeen-year-old with way too little life experience, have to say about anything? Well, too little life experience or no, I’m super observant (future journalist here), equally assertive (misogynists might call it bossy), and a natural hair guru (if I do say so myself). These are all skills that come in handy as Queen of Keeping Boundary-Crossing Masked as Inquisitive Hands Out of My Lovely ’Fro. As my tati Estelle always says, “You can’t let just anyone touch your hair. The wrong hands could make all those beautiful coils fall right out.” Whether she meant someone styling my hair or a quick pat from a random stranger, I’m not sure. But I’m not about to risk losing these edges. Not after I’ve finally mastered all things natural hair. Seriously, you have no idea the things I can do with it. If you keep reading, you too will learn the secrets to a perfectly fluffed yet defined twist-out. But dessert comes after broccoli, which I happen to love, so you’ll have to sit through my origin story.

   I was born far away. You could say it was another planet. My parents knew of the imminent doom of our homeland and decided to whisk me from everything we knew. Like many sad stories go, they were killed on the way to our new home. I led a normal life with the kind souls who adopted me after they found me all alone on a park bench...

   Wait. That’s not right.

   Everything changed on a class trip to the science museum. I needed more than a few dinosaur fossils to satiate my curiosity. As I was looking around on my own, I was bitten by a radioactive...

   Let me back up.

   I am the molded-from-clay daughter of a mystical queen on an island inhabited solely by women...

   No.

   I am from a little-known country named Waka—

   Okay, okay. You got me. Here’s the truth. Like I said, my name is Alaine Beauparlant. I’m seventeen years old, co-editor of my school’s online newspaper, The Riccian (you’re reading the words of an award-winning preeminent journalist in case you were wondering), the best bingo caller at the local assisted-living facility, and currently living in Miami, Florida. Saying I’m from Miami is a factually correct yet deceptive statement. When someone who isn’t from here imagines a person living in the coolest city in the Sunshine State, they conjure up mental images of people on Jet Skis during hurricanes and clubbing shamelessly on South Beach. (If I had just said Florida, one would probably imagine me skipping school to tip cows or rob banks with my pet alligator. Let me disabuse you of that notion right now. I haven’t had a pet alligator in years.)

 

 

      Sunday, November 15

   The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant

   It wasn’t personal. I did the math and assessed immediately that, to get an A in my college prep seminar, I didn’t need the extra credit points that having a parent speak at Career Day would provide. Dad was slightly miffed of course when I explained this before politely declining his offer to debate the merits of Freud and Jung in front of my class for the event—but that was to be expected.

   “I dunno, I’ve got this hunch that my peers won’t be that into you pontificating about two dead guys with mommy issues for a half hour,” I said.

   “If I did my presentation, you would know that your statement is a gross simplification of the fields of psychoanalysis and analytical psychology,” he sniffed. “Pontificate... Nice word.”

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