ARI SHAPIRO, HOST:
Edwidge Danticat writes this about Haiti, the country where she was born - quote, "I am from a place that constantly evokes nostalgia in the people who have seen, lived and loved it before. This longing for before always saddens me because it makes the present seem even worse." That comes from a piece in her new essay collection, "We're Alone," which is out tomorrow. When I asked her to describe that nostalgia, she said it's related to a feeling that every immigrant experiences, but even more so given conditions in Haiti.
EDWIDGE DANTICAT: Yeah, I think it's a bit more accurate for anybody from a place around the world that's in distress because you're actually living two lives. Like, I know in Haitian families, like my Haitian family, you're kind of - you're living the life that you live where you are. And then you're also living through messages - not just the news, but, you know, WhatsApp messages from loved ones sometimes who have to move several times.
So there is that - you know, there is that duality in the reaching back. And it often happens, you know, at family gatherings of mine, where you have, you know, many generations together.
SHAPIRO: Yeah.
DANTICAT: And it manifests in different ways. You have the elders who are talking about the present but also evoking a past that is still very present for them.
SHAPIRO: How old were you when you left Haiti?
DANTICAT: I was 12 years old.
SHAPIRO: You were 12 years old. And I know you've been back since then, but will you paint a picture for us of the Haiti that you try to hold in your mind when you see headlines about suffering or disasters? What is the image of Haiti that you try to preserve when you feel that sense of nostalgia?
DANTICAT: Well, I try to preserve a Haiti that is actually still today's Haiti but a different version of that. I try to preserve a vision of the wonderful artists...
SHAPIRO: Yeah.
DANTICAT: ...Who I know, who've been moving around, who've had - sometimes, have had to put their work with friends. But also - I write about this in the book. When I go back, I go often to a place - a rural area where my mother-in-law is from, and all the people who are there who are just trying to do the best that they can - and people - also people who can leave but do not because they realize that they can make such a powerful impact by staying and working...
SHAPIRO: Yeah.
DANTICAT: ...And trying to do better for the country.
SHAPIRO: This collection of essays is full of Haitian expressions and words, and many of them have layers of meaning. One is the word - I believe, it's pronounced wozo, which is a bit like resilience. Am I saying that correctly?
DANTICAT: Yeah.
SHAPIRO: What does the word mean to you?
DANTICAT: Well, wozo, it's like an irrepressible weed that grows in marshlands and riverbeds in Haiti.
SHAPIRO: And that sounds like a negative thing, but it's framed as a positive.
DANTICAT: It is because it's been sung about. There's a beautiful song by a singer named BelO.
(SOUNDBITE OF BELO SONG, "WOZO")
DANTICAT: And the chorus is kind of at the heart of the, you know, the saying, like, (non-English language spoken). We are wozo. Even if we bend, we will not break. And it doesn't mean that we're unbreakable as humans. But I find that expression - you know, rather than resilience, which is more of an outside gaze, I find that expression both poetic and hopeful and a battle cry at the same time - (non-English language spoken).
SHAPIRO: How does the tune go, if you don't mind my asking?
DANTICAT: It's something like (humming)...
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "WOZO")
BELO: (Singing in non-English language).
DANTICAT: (Singing in non-English language).
But of course, BelO sings it much better than I do.
(LAUGHTER)
SHAPIRO: I thought that was beautiful. I like that you clarify that the term resilient is a little bit patronizing - that to translate wozo as resilience is something an outsider would say.
DANTICAT: Yeah. I mean, for Haiti, especially after the 2010 earthquake, there was so much talk about - I just feel like resilience demands so much of people. Sometimes, you know, we call individuals resilient, and it's wonderful. But we're asking - you know, if we're asking millions of people to be resilient in a way that - you know, that suggests that they can bear more than others, I prefer wozo for that reason, and in part also because it comes internally. It's something I heard my grandmother say. It's something that I heard people say on the inside. It's something I heard people call themselves with a kind of hope. So...
SHAPIRO: We should all aspire to be weeds.
DANTICAT: (Laughter) No, this particular one, not all...
SHAPIRO: Not all weeds, just that one.
DANTICAT: Not all weeds. That's a very special weed.
SHAPIRO: Yeah. I would also love for you to talk about the title of this collection because, as you describe, the phrase, we're alone, can have a double meaning - one of which is reassuring and comforting and a little conspiratorial, the other of which is very frightening. Tell us how you think about this phrase.
DANTICAT: Well, we're alone, to me - you know, we have the meaning - we all felt a little bit alone during the pandemic. We all feel alone sometimes. And we all feel alone sometimes in the sense that no one is coming to save us. But in this context, I think of it as this relationship between a reader and a writer in the sense that, when I was 4 years old, I was surrounded by very vibrant storytellers, and I loved it. I loved them, and I loved the liveliness. But I was a shy girl. I thought, I will never do that. And then someone handed me a book, and I went in the corner by myself and read the book. And I thought, I'm alone with whoever wrote this book.
SHAPIRO: Yeah.
DANTICAT: And, you know, writers are more readers sometimes than writers. And I've had that experience with other people - of reading books that I felt like, I'm really alone with this person. And in that moment, I know them better than I know people in my life. So the title is also referring to that intimacy, you know, of being told things by a writer who you're reading.
SHAPIRO: And how do you think about being on the writer's side of that, knowing that innumerable people who have picked up the books you have written over your life have felt this connection to you, have felt that they are alone with you - people who you will never meet and never know?
DANTICAT: I think it's a powerful - it's such a powerful feeling because I know it so intimately as a reader. So it's both a privilege and an honor. And sometimes you get to experience it live when you meet the readers. And, you know, I wrote a memoir like you have. And sometimes you meet readers who start telling you things from your life, you know, that you forgot was...
SHAPIRO: (Laughter).
DANTICAT: ...In the book.
SHAPIRO: Oh, my experience is oh, I know. I wrote that. You don't...
DANTICAT: Yes...
SHAPIRO: ...Have to...
DANTICAT: ...Exactly (laughter).
SHAPIRO: ...Recount it to me. I lived it, and then I wrote about it (laughter).
DANTICAT: I know but - and sometimes, you know, I forget. And I'm like, how do you know this? How do you know...
SHAPIRO: (Laughter).
DANTICAT: ...Do you know my brother? And they're like, the book.
SHAPIRO: Well, Edwidge Danticat, it is such a pleasure to talk to you. Thank you for the conversation.
DANTICAT: Thank you so much for having me. I appreciate it. And, I mean, I'm also a fan of your dinner party conversations.
(LAUGHTER)
SHAPIRO: The feeling is mutual.
DANTICAT: Thank you.
SHAPIRO: Her new essay collection is, "We're Alone."
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "WOZO")
BELO: (Singing in non-English language). Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.
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