Brushed Between Cultures

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Sometimes, I think my parents forget they live in America. Like when my mother suggests I wear a Sunday dress and fancy shoes to the dentist to make a good impression. Or take a tin container filled

with a hearty serving of tassot and rice to school instead of a cutesy sandwich wrapped in foil or placed in a small plastic container. I had to get used to the curious stares from classmates unfamiliar with the aroma and look of Haitian cuisine.

Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely love my culture, especially the food. Every Sunday, the scent of griot, pikliz, and fried plantains fills our home, reminding me of the richness of my Haitian heritage. I love the way the older generation tells stories in such an animated way— filled with gestures, voice intonations, jokes, and exaggerations.

See, the problem is that I can’t do any of the fun stuff like other teenagers. For instance, every time I ask my parents if I can attend a sleepover, my mom’s first question is, “Manushka, you don’t have bed in your house?” which is immediately followed by a stern “No.” What she doesn’t understand is that a sleepover is not about sleeping. It’s about movie marathons, food, face masks, endless conversations, and pranks—hanging out with your friends all night. Or so I’ve heard.

As much as I want to attend sleepovers, my mother is right. I do have a bed in my very own room, which I would describe as being aesthetic; kind of like something you’d see in a magazine. Between custom paintings, bursts of color, fluffy pillows, and a comfy beanbag chair, I can spend all day in my bedroom but being social is an essential part of my high school experience. Long phone conversations, texting, going to the movies, and hanging out with friends are all the things that I need, want, and have to do at this age.

Whenever I mention friends at school, my mom says, “I don’t send you school for friends; I send you school to learn, to be a doctor or nurse.” I wish someone would tell my parents, my mother especially, there are more than just two professions in this world. I’m scared to tell her I want to be an artist. I don’t even know how to translate that; no matter how I say it in Haitian Creole, it will sound like failure. Anywho, it’s time for me to get to school. Oh, and I forgot to tell you—actually, I didn’t forget, I was trying to avoid it altogether—but since we’re getting to know each other, I figured I’d be honest. My nickname is Manunu; yep, Manunu. Out of all the cute nicknames in the world, I get that one. Shh!!! Let that be our little secret. There is no way in this world I want anyone to know. I mean, I do have a reputation, kind of, I hope.

My full name is Manushka Marie Jean-Pierre. Both of my parents were born in Haiti, hence the name. I’m a first-generation American, Haitian American.