Recent headlines have been erupting out of Springfield, Ohio, where conservatives are waging attacks against Haitian émigrés is the most recent example of America’s long history of dehumanizing and vilifying anything remotely related to Haiti.

Rape culture has no nationality. It holds no passport, respects no currency. It sullies cultures and societies all over the world. I’ve experienced just as many men go up for R. Kelly’s music as I have had to listen to jokes by Martelly’s supporters excusing his attacks on women. 

In the face of these words of shame, we have to re-examine exactly what does it mean to be Haitian, because clearly, we forget that our very own Emeline Michel reminds us that our flag lies under our skin, wherever we go.

Under such bombardment of charitable and romantic statements, I realized that even those who meant well had no idea what a gem Haiti has and continues to be to the world. Our story did not start and end in 1804 with a quick reprisal being the 2010 earthquake. Summarizing hundreds of years into 2 events and sprinkling in general statements about relations with a neighboring nation grossly undermines and makes invisible the complex history Haiti calls her own.

Michael Brown’s death has haunted me since I learned of its details as they emerged that tragic August afternoon. With three brothers and two nephews, I immediately thought of their futures, how due to their skin they’d be considered subhuman instead of the sweet young boys my family has reared them to be. Being a first generation Haitian-American, I’ve grown up knowing that the Black struggle in America is a perilous one with no end in sight. I have grown to understand that mainstream society will draw conclusions about me before I open my mouth because my skin is dark and my features are phenotypically African.