CHAPTER 3
FLATBUSH
“Nou pa ka bliye kote nou soti,”
(We cannot forget where we come from)
— NADEGE ROSEMOND
We left Cornelia Street in Bushwick because the neighborhood turned. Kids started targeting us—not because of anything we did, but because of who we were. Different. Haitian. Outsiders. One afternoon, while eating in the kitchen, a rock came crashing through our window like a declaration. No words were spoken, but the message was clear: You don’t belong here. I had never experienced that kind of fear before.
In that place, being Black and speaking Creole was foreign—even to other Black and brown faces. The language that shaped our prayers and lullabies sounded strange to ears raised on the American tongue. Higher ground meant Flatbush, a quieter stretch of Brooklyn that promised more than it delivered. Flatbush was vibrant with West Indians, including Haitians. I had finally met others who spoke the language of my parents. It may sound unusual now, but there were no Africans to compare to. It was American Blacks, Caribbeans, and Puerto Ricans—the Latins. I didn’t know any Dominicans back then.
It was also around this time that I began to notice a darkness rising in my father—a violence that had nothing to do with alcohol. He wasn’t a drunk. He was just mean. The kind of mean that curled around the bones. I watched him raise his hand—not just to my mother, but to my sister and brothers. I was spared only because I was too small to absorb the weight of his rage or the lashes from the electric cords and water hoses he wielded like whips. But the fear was enough. The fear did the damage. Our new home on Erasmus Street was smaller than Cornelia, a modest two-family house with a backyard and a more peaceful block. And across the street was Chino—my first Puerto Rican friend. Lightskinned, quick-tongued, and full of Spanish fire. We were two boys who didn’t fit in, clinging to a block that felt like a raft. He spoke Spanish. I spoke Creole. A pair too different to blend in, but too alike in age and outsider status to care.
We played Skully like it was a sport sanctioned by the gods. We’d steal chair-leg caps from school, fill them with wax, and battle like champions in the tar-coated arena. The white chalk contrasted sharply against the black tar, stopping occasionally to let a car pass by. Outsiders didn’t stand a chance—we’d blast their plastic tops out of the square and under a parked car. Me and Chino? We were like street soldiers with homemade weapons. To us, Skully was Mortal Kombat. We cared less about board games. An occasional game of stickball or touch football was in order.
On weekends, I’d sneak off with Kesner, my older brother, to watch Bruce Lee and Shaft flicks at the Kenmore Theater on Church Avenue and Flatbush. Those stories—of warriors and revolutionaries— whispered a kind of prophecy to boys like us. From our yellow vinyl house, I could see Erasmus Hall High School standing like a monument. My older brothers, Mario and Lyonel, walked its halls. I watched them from a distance, admiring their stride, knowing I’d soon follow.
Flatbush still had life in it back then. Woolworth’s, sporting goods stores, and mom-and-pop shops were the veins of the community. The white families hadn’t fully retreated yet. The area still breathed with tense integration. But I was still small—still in need of my brother’s shadow to walk safely beyond our stoop. I wouldn’t go far unless Kesner allowed me. My limit was Walt Whitman Junior High. Beyond that was territory I hadn’t earned.
Kesner was changing. Gangs were rising. The movie The Education of Sonny Carson wasn’t just entertainment—it was scripture for some. I saw the signs. He started carrying a flag in his back pocket. The streets were shaping him into something new, and I was no longer cool enough to sneak into theaters with him. Suddenly, it was just me and Chino again.
On Erasmus Street, secrets surfaced. My mother learned the truth— my father had a son the same age as me. The move to Flatbush, it turned out, wasn’t just for safety. It was to be closer to the other family he kept six blocks away. I didn’t know what it meant to have a brother my age whom I’d never met. I didn’t understand how someone who clocked in and out of work every day found time to live a double life. But I feared him. He was strong—the strongest man I knew. Like Hercules in a Haitian’s skin. But he wasn’t just a hero. He was a villain too.
My mother had a plan. In 1974, she quietly bought a house at 2711 Avenue D for $35,000—freedom disguised as real estate. One afternoon after school, my sister Nadege told me, “We’re going to a new house.” I remember the walk. I remember wondering if my father was coming too. He wasn’t.
Avenue D was a new world. Koreans, Italians, Irish, and Black families all shared the same concrete sidewalks. I had never lived that close to white people. I didn’t fear them—but I felt the line. It was invisible, but instinctively I knew: if this wasn’t the color line, it was damn near close. White people exuded confidence that equated to power. I knew what not to do around them. My youthful mind understood there was weakness in being Haitian and Black in those times.
I was nine, almost ten. That separation from my father gave me room to breathe. For the first time, I wasn’t under his thumb. I was free to exhale. His gaze frightened me in more ways than one.
We lived in the basement—me and my brothers. A makeshift space that felt like a vision of manhood on the horizon. Mario and Lyonel were growing fast—graduating, getting married, starting families. The second floor was rented out, of course, to another Haitian family. My mother believed in her people. She carried the weight of Ayiti on her back and built something for us with dignity.
My sister Nadege was the heartbeat of the house. She was more Haitian than all of us—fluent in Kreyòl, loyal to family, the anchor for relatives near and far. She babysat children as if they were her own. She cooked food that tasted like home and smelled like memory.
“Nou pa ka bliye kote nou soti,” (We cannot forget where we come from), she’d say.
Each meal was a reminder of that truth. Each story she told kept Haiti alive in our house. In that sense, I was lucky to be different. I bet my American peers weren’t this rich in culture.
For the first time in my life, I had my own room. I wasn’t a man yet— puberty hadn’t arrived—but watching women come in and out of my brothers’ rooms taught me the rituals early. Manhood was happening around me in real time.
One day, out of nowhere, my father returned. No knock. No warning. He appeared like a ghost. My mother still allowed him to have a key even though he didn’t live with us.
I heard the slap before I saw it. He struck Kesner so hard it echoed. Then he turned to me, stared at the edge of my forehead, and slapped me too. I wanted to faint. That was the first time he’d hit me. Haitian parents’ pet peeve was getting your hairline lined up by barbers—they would give us special instructions when we got haircuts: “Don’t let the barber sharpen the edges.” That was for the vakabon (street guy), but all Kesner and I wanted was to blend in with the Americans. “Vakabon,” he screamed. (A bad person. A disgrace.) As he walked out of the house. That was the last time I saw him for years.
He vanished again—back to the other family, to the son who shared my age but not my name.
CHAPTER 3
FLATBUSH
“Nou pa ka bliye kote nou soti,”
(We cannot forget where we come from)
— NADEGE ROSEMOND
We left Cornelia Street in Bushwick because the neighborhood turned. Kids started targeting us—not because of anything we did, but because of who we were. Different. Haitian. Outsiders. One afternoon, while eating in the kitchen, a rock came crashing through our window like a declaration. No words were spoken, but the message was clear: You don’t belong here. I had never experienced that kind of fear before.
In that place, being Black and speaking Creole was foreign—even to other Black and brown faces. The language that shaped our prayers and lullabies sounded strange to ears raised on the American tongue. Higher ground meant Flatbush, a quieter stretch of Brooklyn that promised more than it delivered. Flatbush was vibrant with West Indians, including Haitians. I had finally met others who spoke the language of my parents. It may sound unusual now, but there were no Africans to compare to. It was American Blacks, Caribbeans, and Puerto Ricans—the Latins. I didn’t know any Dominicans back then.
It was also around this time that I began to notice a darkness rising in my father—a violence that had nothing to do with alcohol. He wasn’t a drunk. He was just mean. The kind of mean that curled around the bones. I watched him raise his hand—not just to my mother, but to my sister and brothers. I was spared only because I was too small to absorb the weight of his rage or the lashes from the electric cords and water hoses he wielded like whips. But the fear was enough. The fear did the damage. Our new home on Erasmus Street was smaller than Cornelia, a modest two-family house with a backyard and a more peaceful block. And across the street was Chino—my first Puerto Rican friend. Lightskinned, quick-tongued, and full of Spanish fire. We were two boys who didn’t fit in, clinging to a block that felt like a raft. He spoke Spanish. I spoke Creole. A pair too different to blend in, but too alike in age and outsider status to care.
We played Skully like it was a sport sanctioned by the gods. We’d steal chair-leg caps from school, fill them with wax, and battle like champions in the tar-coated arena. The white chalk contrasted sharply against the black tar, stopping occasionally to let a car pass by. Outsiders didn’t stand a chance—we’d blast their plastic tops out of the square and under a parked car. Me and Chino? We were like street soldiers with homemade weapons. To us, Skully was Mortal Kombat. We cared less about board games. An occasional game of stickball or touch football was in order.
On weekends, I’d sneak off with Kesner, my older brother, to watch Bruce Lee and Shaft flicks at the Kenmore Theater on Church Avenue and Flatbush. Those stories—of warriors and revolutionaries— whispered a kind of prophecy to boys like us. From our yellow vinyl house, I could see Erasmus Hall High School standing like a monument. My older brothers, Mario and Lyonel, walked its halls. I watched them from a distance, admiring their stride, knowing I’d soon follow.
Flatbush still had life in it back then. Woolworth’s, sporting goods stores, and mom-and-pop shops were the veins of the community. The white families hadn’t fully retreated yet. The area still breathed with tense integration. But I was still small—still in need of my brother’s shadow to walk safely beyond our stoop. I wouldn’t go far unless Kesner allowed me. My limit was Walt Whitman Junior High. Beyond that was territory I hadn’t earned.
Kesner was changing. Gangs were rising. The movie The Education of Sonny Carson wasn’t just entertainment—it was scripture for some. I saw the signs. He started carrying a flag in his back pocket. The streets were shaping him into something new, and I was no longer cool enough to sneak into theaters with him. Suddenly, it was just me and Chino again.
On Erasmus Street, secrets surfaced. My mother learned the truth— my father had a son the same age as me. The move to Flatbush, it turned out, wasn’t just for safety. It was to be closer to the other family he kept six blocks away. I didn’t know what it meant to have a brother my age whom I’d never met. I didn’t understand how someone who clocked in and out of work every day found time to live a double life. But I feared him. He was strong—the strongest man I knew. Like Hercules in a Haitian’s skin. But he wasn’t just a hero. He was a villain too.
My mother had a plan. In 1974, she quietly bought a house at 2711 Avenue D for $35,000—freedom disguised as real estate. One afternoon after school, my sister Nadege told me, “We’re going to a new house.” I remember the walk. I remember wondering if my father was coming too. He wasn’t.
Avenue D was a new world. Koreans, Italians, Irish, and Black families all shared the same concrete sidewalks. I had never lived that close to white people. I didn’t fear them—but I felt the line. It was invisible, but instinctively I knew: if this wasn’t the color line, it was damn near close. White people exuded confidence that equated to power. I knew what not to do around them. My youthful mind understood there was weakness in being Haitian and Black in those times.
I was nine, almost ten. That separation from my father gave me room to breathe. For the first time, I wasn’t under his thumb. I was free to exhale. His gaze frightened me in more ways than one.
We lived in the basement—me and my brothers. A makeshift space that felt like a vision of manhood on the horizon. Mario and Lyonel were growing fast—graduating, getting married, starting families. The second floor was rented out, of course, to another Haitian family. My mother believed in her people. She carried the weight of Ayiti on her back and built something for us with dignity.
My sister Nadege was the heartbeat of the house. She was more Haitian than all of us—fluent in Kreyòl, loyal to family, the anchor for relatives near and far. She babysat children as if they were her own. She cooked food that tasted like home and smelled like memory.
“Nou pa ka bliye kote nou soti,” (We cannot forget where we come from), she’d say.
Each meal was a reminder of that truth. Each story she told kept Haiti alive in our house. In that sense, I was lucky to be different. I bet my American peers weren’t this rich in culture.
For the first time in my life, I had my own room. I wasn’t a man yet— puberty hadn’t arrived—but watching women come in and out of my brothers’ rooms taught me the rituals early. Manhood was happening around me in real time.
One day, out of nowhere, my father returned. No knock. No warning. He appeared like a ghost. My mother still allowed him to have a key even though he didn’t live with us.
I heard the slap before I saw it. He struck Kesner so hard it echoed. Then he turned to me, stared at the edge of my forehead, and slapped me too. I wanted to faint. That was the first time he’d hit me. Haitian parents’ pet peeve was getting your hairline lined up by barbers—they would give us special instructions when we got haircuts: “Don’t let the barber sharpen the edges.” That was for the vakabon (street guy), but all Kesner and I wanted was to blend in with the Americans. “Vakabon,” he screamed. (A bad person. A disgrace.) As he walked out of the house. That was the last time I saw him for years.
He vanished again—back to the other family, to the son who shared my age but not my name.