During one of our monthly Afro-Caribbean men’s domino gatherings—the kind where the slap of the tiles carries the weight of history and pride—a debate erupted, fierce as the midday sun on Côte des Arcadins. On one side stood the 1804-Fanatic, his chest swelling with the unyielding glory of Haiti’s independence, reciting the names of Dessalines, Christophe, and Pétion like scripture. For him, 1804 wasn’t just a year; it was a cathedral, and he knelt at its altar with reverence sharp enough to cut glass.
But the other side pushed back, frustration etched deep into his voice like old scars.
“You can’t keep celebrating when you were born!” the other brother snapped, his domino clattering down like a gavel. The room paused—half in laughter, half in reflection.
The truth hung in the air, undeniable. 1804-Fanatics are the Haitian version of Al Bundy from Married with Children—that sad, shoe-selling icon who, when life grew too heavy, retreated into the dusty trophy case of his past, reliving his glory days as a high school football star. But at some point, nostalgia ain’t enough. You can’t win tomorrow’s game with yesterday’s points.
It’s easy to show up once a year, draped in blue and red, waving that dime-store Haitian flag like it’s doing the work for you. It’s easy to sip on soup joumou every January 1st, letting its warmth trick you into thinking tradition is the same as contribution. But our ancestors didn’t just sip soup—they spilled blood, made choices, carved futures with hands calloused from the grip of both machetes and hope.
I remember what Dr. Marlene Daut told me once:
“Our zanzets were doers.”
Not talkers. Not sideline cheerleaders. Doers.
But today, some of us are content with the bare minimum—content to ride the echoes of revolutions we didn’t fight, standing on the sidelines as if the work is done. We clutch symbols but ignore substance. We’ve got history books collecting dust, podcasts left unplayed, and lessons from others that could reshape us—if only we cared enough to put in the work.
Our ancestors got shit done.
The question is: Are we?