Edwidge Danticat’s “Marie Micheline”

From The New Yorker's archive: a personal essay tracing the complicated real-life story of a beloved member of Danticat's childhood household.  ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌   View in browser | Update your preferences     Personal History Marie Micheline A life in Haiti. By Edwidge Danticat The Haitian-American author Edwidge Danticat is known for her haunting meditations on displacement and loss. Since 1999, Danticat has contributed more than thirty pieces to The New Yorker on an array of subjects, including the outrage over George Floyd's murder; the significance of art and mourning in the wake of the massacre at a Black church in Charleston, South Carolina; the profound aftermath of September 11th; and the fallout of the Haitian earthquake of 2010. She has also published seventeen books, including "Breath, Eyes, Memory" and "The Dew Breaker." Danticat's writing is clear-eyed in its depictions of the harsh realities of the lives she's rendering, yet she also conveys incandescent measures of hope. In 2007, she published "Marie Micheline," an excerpt from her memoir, "Brother, I'm Dying," which won the National Book Critics Circle Award for Autobiography that year. Her essay traces the complicated real-life story of a beloved member of her household, who came to live with her family in Haiti when Danticat was a young girl. In telling Marie Micheline's story, Danticat also tells the larger tale of Haitian society under the repressive reign of  François (Papa Doc) Duvalier. As she grows into adulthood, Marie Micheline becomes pregnant out of wedlock and is subsequently married to one of the Tonton Macoutes, a brutal paramilitary force created by the Haitian dictator. Upon learning about Marie's situation, Danticat's uncle goes to great lengths to find and rescue her. He eventually locates her in a small, isolated room and leads her away from the man's compound. "As he held her now, Marie Micheline felt to him, he thought, as she had when Guillermo had first placed her in his arms as a baby, trusting him always to look after her, to keep her from harm," Danticat writes. " 'Papa,' Marie Micheline whispered, her mouth so close to his ears that her breath burned his skin. 'Papa, even though men cannot give birth, you just gave birth tonight. To me.' " As the story progresses, Danticat offers a penetrating exploration of the potential, as well as the limitations, of familial bonds. Her prose is so nimble that her nonfiction is as immersive as any novel. In Marie's tale, we see the unravelling of a country through Danticat's eyes—and glimpse the dissolution of a life that once flickered brightly, only to fade before a new era glimmers on the horizon. —Erin Overbey, archive editor More from the Archive     Fiction "Sunrise, Sunset" From 2017: "What if this is the last day that she recalls anything? What if she never recognizes anyone again?" By Edwidge Danticat     Fiction "Cell One" From 2007: "This was the season of thefts on our serene campus." By Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie You're receiving this e-mail because you signed up for the New Yorker Classics newsletter. Was this e-mail forwarded to you? Sign up.   Unsubscribe | Manage your e-mail preferences | Send newsletter feedback | View our privacy policy    Copyright © Condé Nast 2021. One World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. All rights reserved.