Growing up in Haiti, I never had to search for “culture.” It lived in the air — in the food, the music, the street sounds, the proverbs of elders, the tim tim bwa chèch stories told under a moonlit night. It wasn’t something we studied; it was something we breathed.
There was no need to “preserve” it because it was always there — living, laughing, arguing, dancing. I never once felt distant from my homeland because I was my homeland.
But things change when you move.
Living in a new country forces you into survival mode. You learn to adjust — quickly. You want to blend in. You want your children to fit in, to succeed. And in that process, many begin to believe that culture is a luxury, not a necessity — a nice-to-have, but not essential. So they let go.
Language becomes a thing of the past. History becomes too complicated. The old songs fade into silence. The only thing that remains — sometimes — is the food.
Even though I’ve lived outside of Haiti for over 20 years, I never felt the need to erase where I came from. In fact, I’ve always seen my difference as my superpower. Yes, I’ve been mocked for my accent. Yes, people have looked down on me for not doing things the “American” way. But that is a reflection of them — not me.
There’s nothing wrong with my ways.
I grew up learning to appreciate other cultures, not erase my own to be accepted. And here’s something that’s often misunderstood:
Loving your culture doesn’t mean you can’t critique it.
In fact, real love makes space for honesty.
I can honor where I come from while challenging the parts that need to grow.
Because culture is not static. It evolves. And part of that evolution comes through contact — through exchange. We learn, we borrow, we influence each other. That’s beautiful. But to demean your own culture in order to elevate someone else’s — that’s not growth, that’s erasure.
I can immerse myself in someone else’s culture without losing sight of my own. I can celebrate another people’s language, customs, or wisdom — and still stand rooted in my own history.
Lately, I’ve developed an even more renewed interest in my culture — not just the polished parts, but the parts that were once hidden, silenced, or made to feel shameful. So much of Haiti’s culture is shaped by African influences — from rhythms to language to spirituality. And yet, the raw beauty of that influence was often deemed too much, too loud, too “uncivilized” for so-called respectable families.
But it’s those very roots that flavor everything. That give the music its soul, the food its fire, the dance its pulse. The parts that were called “bad” are often the most powerful — because they tell the story of survival and resistance. I now embrace those roots fully, knowing they are not just part of my culture — they are the culture.
Now more than ever, I feel deeply connected to my Haitian identity. It’s not nostalgia. It’s survival of a different kind — cultural survival. That’s why I started organizing gatherings centered around Haitian culture — safe, joyful spaces where we:
- Sing the old songs and the new ones,
- Dance to konpa, twoubadou, and other Haitian music genres
- Talk about Languichat, Boukman Eksperyans, Emeline Michel,
- Share food, tell stories, and remind ourselves that we come from a place that is both broken and beautiful — and deeply resilient.
We play music from other lands too — songs that became popular in Haiti, because Haitian culture has never been sealed off. We’ve always been a blend — African, Indigenous, European, and uniquely Haitian. We’ve danced to the rhythms of salsa, merengue, reggae, and more. And we must also remember the Lebanese and Syrian immigrants who came to Haiti in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Though often overlooked, their presence — categorized under the broader umbrella of Asian heritage — shaped Haiti in lasting ways, especially in commerce. Our culture has never been simple or one-note. It’s always been layered, complex, evolving. In this gatherings, we welcome friends from all cultures, but with one clear understanding: this is a celebration of Haitian culture in all its complexity and pride.
If I ever have a child, I will tell them about Tire kont, tim tim bwa chèch, our dances, our griots, our food, our history, our language. Passing these down is not a burden. It does not rob them of choice. Culture is a living thing — it evolves. But if you treat it as optional, it disappears.
And the most dangerous thing is this:
When you don’t know where you come from, you can end up fighting for people who would destroy you.
You can side with the enemy without even realizing it — because without a compass, you lose your direction. You forget who you are.
We lose more than tradition when we let go of culture — we lose identity, clarity, and the power to stand rooted in our truth.
So here’s to holding on.
To singing the old songs.
To teaching our children more than just recipes.
To dancing without shame.
To honoring the scent of the past — because it tells us who we are, and where we’re going.
Xoxo,
JPP
