Memory is funny in that way—easily influenced, easily shaped. Once you remember an event slightly differently from how others might, your version of events gets questioned. Sometimes by you. Other times by them. But a memory written takes the shape of a permanent account. A ledger of events that feels free of influence or bias, though it is in truth laced with both. Which is exactly why we give history books, diaries, and ledgers more weight than our own memories.

Ordinary life becomes history. And we can only see what we missed while living it once we write it down.

My formative years began in Haiti. A country rich in culture, texture, and deeply rooted in tradition. When I learned to write, writing became my therapy. I used it to ask the questions I never could of the adults around me and to capture the answers when they came. I popped words like they were pills and overdosed on the stories they formed.  

When I first recognized my culture in books, I grew weary of how one-dimensional it all seemed. We do not only exist as a poor, once-enslaved nation practicing voodoo. We also exist as a country that fought for our freedom, seeking God earnestly, full of life, vigor, and color. I intend to capture that in my stories—in all the ordinary moments that get overlooked.

I hold a Master’s degree in Education, and I have spent most of my career in classrooms. Both have taught me that people learn best through story. I write to teach as much as I write to bear witness. I hope readers find not only something in the quality of my prose but in the history woven through it. Creative nonfiction is where I live on the page—somewhere between memory and imagination, which is to say, somewhere close to the truth.