We want things we cannot have. We seek to reclaim a certain moment, sound, sensation. I want to hear my mother’s voice. I want to see my children as children. Hands small, feet swift. Everything changes. Boy grown, father dead, daughter taller than me, weeping from a bad dream. Please stay forever, I say to the things I know. Don’t go. Don’t grow. – Patti Smith, M Train

I have no children to speak of, no husband to mourn, yet my soul responds as if it knew. How can I connect with such a passage, written by a woman 40 years my senior?

The melancholy of my soul from forever ago.




An interview with the filmmakers of “The Unspeakable Truth”

Listen to this. Yes.

CKUT 90.3 FM news collective blog


[audio https://ia902307.us.archive.org/26/items/unspeakabletruthFINAL/unspeakabletruthFINAL.mp3]

Click here to download audio

What does it mean to be gay and Haitian? The documentary project “The Unspeakable Truth”  examines this question by interviewing and telling the stories of members of the LGBT Haitian community in Montreal. Filmmakers Benjamin Gardere and Koralie Woodward were inspired by a photography project of Koralie’s where she took portraits of the Haitain LGBT community. After meeting their first subjects and hearing their stories, the pair knew they had to dig deeper and share their findings with the world. It became more than just portraits of a community; it needed to expand into the portrait of a culture. A short version of the film will be available in December.

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Petit Pays (audio)

When you’re friends are poets…



Petit pays de contradictions.

Petit pays avec ses contrats de diction,

où on ne comprend pas qu’entre luminaire et liminaire, un engendra un fœtus,

car le “u” prononcé “i” engage un rictus.

Petit pays à la mentalité rustique.

Petit pays où, celui qui voit consent,

celui qui se tait, un con qui sent.

Petit pays où on débat au parlement,

et on sait que celui qui parle ment

Petit pays où tout est à refaire,

le bien-être des plus démunis n’est pas nécessaire

aux yeux de nos dirigeants, c’est à se demander:

ce nez, à quoi il sert?

Ce nez à quoi il sert? Lorsqu’il n’hume pas l’odeur fétide

des bouches affamées, des ventres vides.

Ne respirent-ils pas les détritus?

Pendant qu’ils passent le pouvoir à leur progéniture qui détruit tout

Petit pays, petit pays, m’entends-tu?

Entre toi et moi, il y a un hiatus

Malgré tout,

petit pays…

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Attention Deficit

I just realized that I can never say “deficit” the right way the first time. Even in my head. “Dèefisit. Défiisit.” It is the french in me. I do it all the time, with many words. I have a diphthong problem. And I blame Madame Weiner for teaching me what a diphthong was in high school spanish classes. I have since decided to pay attention to said diphthongs when I hear words that are similar in different languages. And here I am, mixing french, english and spanish pronounciations. My girlfriend says I sound so cute when I am tired because, well, I sound even more like the french speaking haitian that I am.

And I come back to the title of this blog post. Attention Dèefisit.

The real reason for this post was to talk about my attention d… problem. I am one of the lucky who has acces to the internet at my desk. I have no restrictions of websites, or web pages I can open, so you can imagine what it looks like: fifteen tabs/windows open to every possible blog/site/social media/portfolio/newspaper I decide to look into on a given day. I go through all the blogs I follow, then the news articles my co-workers send me, or the ones i see through Facebook or Twitter. My email is open. My WordPress is open. Sometimes, I have this amazing quiz website open too. Pinterest, Etsy, The Knot (can you tell I am planning a wedding?) And of course, the page I have to have open everyday: my actual work web page. And my smartphone. And my book.

I go through pages and pages of information, from the situation of animals at the disgraceful theme park MarineLand, to the dress I am interested in wearing on my wedding day, to the beautiful article I read about this woman who is friends with a guy who is sick but later we find out he is also a killer (read it on the Rumpus), to my friend’s party pictures, to the sweet text message my girlfriend sends me, to food photographer portfolios. You name it,  I’m on it. And if I didn’t get to it already, I will now. I answer emails, between two paragraphs from chapter 5, and I answer phone calls while I text my classmates.  I have already interupted this writing three times, either because of a co-worker, or a flashing phone on silent mode.

Too. Much. Information.

And then I realize, my regular thoughts are the same. Sometimes, I don’t even need to have all these distractions.  Case in point: as I am writing this, I stop to think of my wording. As I do so, I look at my fingers on the keyboard. I see my ring, and suddenly I remember saturday. Saturday, Jess and I are meeting the jewelry designer for our rings. I am really excited. And my phone flashes. Sebastien wants to know details for class tonight. While I answer him that he is not a pest (promise),  my co-worker and I talk about some work stuff. And I just realize I have no idea what I was planning to write at the beginning of this paragraph.

Back from a bathroom break, I realize that I never actually wrote that traditional new years post. You know the one, “this year was great, blah blah blah… next year will be better, blah blah blah…” Not to disregard the importance of this tradition, but i guess my yearly review was done in my head, and I simply never got to do it here. You will be kept in the loop with what will be of this year. Promise.

Now, where was I again?

Right, focusing.




Bonjour à tous! (à la mode des bureau, an english message will follow!)

Alors, certains d’entre vous sont au courant de mon engagement sur le site web www.lezspreadtheword.com , un site POUR et PAR la communauté lesbienne du Québec (et du Canada?) Si vous ne le saviez pas, now you know 🙂

Récemment, nous avons lancé une campagne de financement pour notre nouveau projet de Web-Télé.

Depuis près d’un an, l’équipe travaille sur le scénario d’une Web télé de fiction intitulée Féminin/féminin.
La réalisatrice de la future Web télé, Chloé Robichaud est en lice pour la prestigieuse Palme d’or du court métrage au Festival de Cannes.
Un gros projet ! Pour ceci, nous avons réellement besoin de financement.

Ça nous tient à coeur car nous manquons grandement de modèles pour aider les jeunes et les moins jeunes qui ont encore de la difficulté à accepter leur homosexualité!

Clickez sur le lien pour plus d’information et faire votre don!


Merci de votre soutient! Et passez le mot!

Howdy y’all!

So, many of you are aware that I have started writing (ok, i wrote one article, but i will have more coming!) for www.lezspreadtheword.com , a website created FOR and BY lesbians of Quebec (and Canada?) If you didn’t know, now you do!

Recently we launched a campaign to finance a new project, a Web Series!

For about a year now, the team has been working on a scenario for a Web Series entitled Féminin/féminin. The Director, Chloé Robichaud, is a contender for the Palme d’Or for Short Films at the Cannes festival (!!)
It is a big project and this is why we need your help!

This project is very dear to us because we need role models to help all queer girls, old or young, having trouble accepting their sexuality!

Please do not hésitate to click on the link and check out what the project is all about, and make your donation!!


Thank you for your support!!! And Spread the Word!


a lesson in geography

A few days ago, my friend and I were talking about origins. Where we are from, races, what determines your origins, your sense of belonging. I don’t remember how we got to it, but talking about the details made me realize what a mix I am. It’s complicated.
Essentially, when I am asked where I’m from, I say Haiti. Because its true. Because I lived most of my life there. Because my mother and my family on her side is Haitian. Because I speak, read and write creole better than my French (no lie.) Because I understand the customs, the traditions, the pace. Because it’s my homeland. But of course, answering “from Haiti” when asked where I’m from, the automatic response: “huh? But how?”
Ok so I’m white. Blue eyes, blond hair. Only people who understand Caribbean sociology and history, and even cultural morphology (is that even a term?) say they see it. Because if you really look closely, you might see the Caribbean in me. But yes, I don’t stand out as Haitian, and my name certainly isn’t helping. You couldn’t get more European than that. Maybe I should get into details now.

My mother is mulatto. We can go all the way back to my great-great grandfather, so my grandfathers grandfather. He was from the Netherlands. Established in the Dominican Republic, married a local lady, Spanish of origins. Their son moved across the border and married a Haitian-Dominican lady and had a couple of kids, one of which, my grandpapa. When I look at photographs of him as a young man, I’d say he’s a mix between an Italian mobster and an aboriginal prince. He married my grandmother. She, a lady from the south of Haiti, had fair skin and light-colored eyes. I don’t know much about her background, but I do know in the part of the country she is from, people are pale with piercing blue eyes. Yes, real Haitians. My mother went to visit far far away members of her family from there a few years back, and they look the same, living out in the country. So you see, the Haitian in me is generations deep, and the whiteness too. Should we switch to my dad’s side?

My dad is from England. I don’t know as much about his side of the family, but once in a while he pulls out some awesome facts that always make things more interesting. From what I know (or think I know), my grandmother is Romanian. Period. When I look at photos of her in the 80s, you could tell she was from eastern europe. I can’t explain what it means but, you know what I’m talking about. My grandfather, on the other hand, is supposed to be english. But a few years ago, my father revealed the coolest fact about him. He is really a gypsy who took on the british name to join the army. (I hope I didn’t just dream this info. It’s very  me to do that.) Looking at photographs of him, if you add a turban and a robe, he would fit the profile American customs like to “randomly” search at airports. I really am not sure about where he is really from. So my dad is dark-skinned with jet black hair and dark brown eyes. So the british in me, ain’t deeper than the accent that arises when I spend a few days at my other home across the pond. So I guess I’m more European than anything, when it comes to DNA and races and stuff.

Now a sense of belonging? That’s a whole other story. Like way different.

That’s mom and dad and me, picking my nose (I still do.)

***Update from dad : Mostly correct Ko but my dad’s mum was English Romany Gypsy my mums dad was an Irish Traveller, which makes them both kinda Gypsy origins. My Mum had blue eyes too, so does my younger sister. Wish my wiskers were still as black as in that pic lolxx