No One Will Love You More Than

I Come From A Place Where Breath, Eyes, And Memory Are One, A Place From Which You Carry Your Past Like A Hair On Your Head. Where Women Return To Their Children As Butterflies Or As Tears In The Eyes Of The Statues That Their Daughters Pray To

When You Write, It’s Like Braiding Your Hair. Taking A Handful Of Coarse Unruly Strands And Attempting To Bring Them Unity. Your Fingers Have Still Not Perfected The Task. Some Of The Braids Are Long, Others Are Short. Some Are Thick, Others Are Thin. Some Are Heavy. Others Are Light. Like The Diverse Women Of Your Family. Those Whose Fables And Metaphors, Whose Similes And Soliloquies, Whose Diction And Je Ne Sais Quoi Daily Slip Into Your Survival Soup, By Way Of Their Fingers.

If A Woman Is Worth Remembering,' Said My Grandmother, 'there Is No Need To Have Her Name Carved In Letters.

People Often Think Of Haiti As A Place Where You're Not Supposed To Have Any Joy. I Wanted To Show That This Is A Place With Joy.

We All Have A Tendency To Over Generalize Our Individual Experiences. After I've Published Something, I'll Meet Someone Who Says, "i'm Haitian, And I Don't Know This, So It Must Not Be True." Even If We're Talking About A Work Of Fiction. I've Gotten Very Angry Myself Reading Many Things About Haiti. We're Not A Monolithic Group; No Group Is. Also, It's Important To Keep In Mind The Genre In Which We Are Writing. Fiction Is Full Of Invented Stories About Exceptional People In Exceptional Situations. Those Situations Are Not Always Cheery Or Celebratory.