I was born and raised in New York for the first 5 or 6 years of my life. I don’t remember much, but I remember my grandma— my Manman. She played a large role in my adolescence.
My mom brought Manman over from Haiti, and she lived with us in New York until my mom, dad, sister, brothers and I moved down to Georgia. Both of my parents worked during the day, so Manman helped with us kids while they were away. She brought me along on her errands, listened to me prattle on about who knows what, and sang church hymns to me.
I remember one time when she needed to pick me up early from head start and the teacher had to put me on the phone because my Manman didn’t speak English very well. I think back to that time where I had to be a translator and wonder if I could still do it. Probably not.
Since coming to Georgia, I haven’t had a need to learn or remember Kreyol. Sure, we go to a Haitian church and I have a Kreyol-speaking mother, but those Haitian church members speak English and my role as a child was to look adorable and stay quiet. In New York, we were surrounded by Kreyol. In Georgia, I only encountered the language on Sundays. I think back to the few connections I have with my Manman and wish that I’d held onto the language tighter. That ache makes itself apparent when I remember the calls where we’d confidently greet one another, awkwardly piece together phrases from three different languages— French, English, and Creole— fumble with finding shared understanding, then laugh and end the short call with “Mwen renmen ou” and “I love you.”
Yes, there are sites where I can learn Kreyol, but there’s a part of me that still fears that it’s too late. That I’ve already lost my tie to my Haitian lineage. That I’ve already lost my Manman.
The reality of my Manman’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis has officially hit me like… what’s something more intense than a ton of bricks? My mom is in New York visiting my Manman for her birthday now. She put my Manman on FaceTime last night and today with me. Last night, I saw the confusion on her face. She had no clue that she was once my best friend. She didn’t know about all the time I felt I wasted by not talking to her more often. She didn’t remember the calls where the only certainties were “I’m doing well” and “I love you.”
Then today, during the second FaceTime call, my Manman’s confusion was replaced with realization. I know it’s not permanent and that it could very well be a fluke. But it felt good. She looked at me and smiled. My mom said, “Ou wè Lele? Ou sonje li?” My Manman nodded. She saw me! She remembered me! My mom told me that my Manman touched my face on the phone screen and smiled. She smiled! And her smile is like my mom’s smile. And her face is my mom’s face. And while I don’t have my mom’s and Manman’s signature wide gap, I share both their faces. I see myself in them.
And that’s scary.
When my mom first arrived in New York this week, it took my Manman a few hours to recognize her. My mom talks to my Manman so often; yet, my Manman needed a reminder of who her eldest daughter was. I think about how close I am with my mom, and I get anxious about my mom’s scattered memory. Then I think about MY scattered memory. I fear that not only will my mom forget herself and me, but that I’ll in turn forget my loved ones.
I watched a documentary a few years ago called The Man with the Seven Second Memory, and it’s where I first began interrogating my relationship of memory and love. I know that I am loved when I am known, so forgetting that I am known is forgetting that I am loved. And forgetting that I’m loved is… the emotion sits frighteningly heavy in my chest. I haven’t figured out what to do with this feeling yet, but it’s there.
Leandra Colley 