Chapter 3
An unfamiliar face
Ana
Another day. Another Sunday.
Same hymns. Same sermons. Same prayers.
I was going through the motions, living as though life simply happened to me, unfolding its turns, tracing whatever path it chose with no room to doubt what was known or expect what wasn’t.
I was a shell. A girl trapped, silenced, invisible. I had always craved a personality of my own, but I was never brave enough to reach for it.
I needed a plan. A way out. A walk toward my freedom.
I could tell them I was getting an apartment, that I’d move out once my degree was in hand. But I could already imagine what they’d say.
My mom would insist, “A woman must not live without a man. You need a husband to give you security and respectability.”
My dad would yell, his words much more unyielding. “My daughter will not live alone like some lost woman!”
It was suffocating. Yet, for now, I went along with it.
I almost had freedom once. I worked in an administrative position at a non-profit. It was wholesome for a while, and I loved it. But it became such a massive issue with my father when the non-profit wanted to do work involving LGBT youth. I had to quit. He didn’t want me to be around ‘moun sa yo1’. I tried to look for other work, but he opposed and told me to focus on projects at the church.
So now, my time was split between church, home, and the university.
My father owned a small church, nothing fancy. A humble refuge with loyal members who have come and gone and come. The walls were lined with biblical quotes, flowers, and posters featuring Bible verses. Worn-out cushions lay on the pews, and that peculiar aura, which could only belong to the Haitian church community, resided with familiarity.
I made my way down the burgundy carpet, offering polite nods and greetings to the early arrivals seated in the pews, waiting for the service to begin. Behind the pulpit, sound engineers adjusted microphones and set up instruments while the choir rehearsed the hymns they would sing, the same ones they practiced every Sunday.
I navigated around the small bundles of tangled cables on the floor and slipped into a small back room behind the stage, which housed my father’s office. Once, as a child, I snuck through the back door during Sunday school to hide under his desk, hoping to avoid another dull Bible study.
But I wasn’t a child anymore.
I was no longer hiding from responsibilities; I was shouldering them. I had grown up, and I even taught at Bible school when I could.
Inside, I found my father adjusting his dark blue blazer over a crisp white shirt, his usual Sunday attire, which I had ironed for him the day before.
The stern lines on his face softened when I entered the room, and his white teeth contrasted against his umber, brown skin.
Despite his age, somewhere in the mid-sixties, my father still carried the youth of a man half his age.
“Dad,” I greeted him. “I’m here.”
“Pitit fi mwen2, I had to leave early today for a quick meeting with the other pastors before we start service.” He glanced toward the door. “Is your mom out there?”
“Yes, she was talking to some of the members. She should be in a few minutes now.”
“Alright,” he said. “How’s school?”
“Almost done,” I answered. “I’m ready to cross the finish line.”
The years I poured into getting that Master of Theology degree: the blood, the sweat, and the tears (so many tears), were long overdue, with interest.
This was my ticket to freedom.
My father’s expression warmed, and a certain bliss shone in his eyes. “You know, honey, there’s no need to stress that pretty head of yours. A husband would take care of all your worries.”
“Dad,” I start walking away from him, “you know how important that degree is to me.”
He sighed as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. “I am proud of you. But once you have it, let’s focus on finding you a strong, upright, god-fearing husband.”
I held my head in my hand. “Here we go again...”
“Honey, hear me out.” He urged, moving closer. “It’s time to consider settling down and starting a family. You’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m twenty-four, Dad,” I reminded him. The fact that I had to at all was baffling to me.
He shook his head. “Youth fades, Ana,” he said with solemnity. “How are things with Stanley?”
Ugh! Stanley. Each time my parents mentioned his name, my skin crawled. Stanley was the man my parents hoped would one day become my husband. He was a successful business owner with connections to high-profile people in his industry, but he was dull and felt... too status quo.
“It’s...going good, Dad,” I lied, not wanting to prolong the conversation. I hadn’t seen or heard from Stanley since our last date, which, by the way, had been a disaster.
“He’s a fine man. I don’t need to tell you how much I want him as my son-in-law.”
“Yes, I know.” I let out a heavy sigh.
“Trust me, honey,” he continued, his tone growing more intense with each word. “The world is slipping. People are embracing sin and vulgarity, speeding toward destruction. I raised you to choose righteousness, to stay pure. Only a worthy man can take you away, pitit fi mwen. Se lekol, legliz, lakay!3”
He opined with such conviction that, for a moment, guilt almost had me question my true desire.
I didn’t know if I managed, but I forced a smile. “I hear you, Dad. Once I finish my degree, I’ll think about it, okay?”
He chuckled as he patted my back. “That’s my girl.”
Then, my mom entered, lilting with cheer. “Hello, my loves!”
My father turned to greet her. They embraced, and I watched; a stitch of admiration and envy crossed my face. Maybe one day...
“Oh, Ana, I invited Stanley and his mother over for dinner tonight,” my mother announced, her tone too enthusiastic to argue.
I rubbed my brow, warding off a looming headache. “Mom, I have a paper to work on. Can we take a rain check?”
“Nonsense, honey,” my mother said, brushing aside my annoyance. “His mother loves you, and we’ll get some time to chat while the men talk. It’ll be wonderful.”
Nothing could bust my mother’s traditionalism bubble, and when I think about it, that bubble was impossible even to fracture.
I clenched my jaw. “Fine.”
My mother reached out, pinching my chin with a tenderness that always disarmed me, no matter how grown I thought I was.
“Great,” she murmured, her thumb brushing my jaw. “Now, let us go. It is time.”
***
The church buzzed with life as members filled the pews. I walked toward the stage, the clink of my low heels echoing against the polished floor, my father’s voice ringing in my ears:
Women belonged at home. Quiet. Submissive. Married.
But another voice stirred within me, too. My grandmother, raspy and fierce even on her deathbed, was urging me to “chase dreams bigger than marriage, love wildly, and make your way, Ana.”
I had met her only once, but she had left a mark no lifetime of lectures could erase. She had chosen to love. She had decided to live her life on her terms. Her final years were dedicated to the woman she fell in love with after having been forced into a loveless marriage with my grandfather (may he rest in... well).
“Go on, honey,” my father called out, snapping me back to the now.
I walked up to the pulpit, took a deep breath to steady myself and calm my nerves before leading the choir into the opening hymn. Each note was a tether, keeping me from being lost in the chaos inside me.
When my part ended, I slipped down from the stage to sit beside my mother, my hands folded on my lap, my expression serene. Or at least, it appeared to be.
Inside, I was a landslide.
We rose together as my father called the congregation to prayer. Heads bowed. Eyes closed—all except mine.
I swallowed a sigh, telling myself that I could make it through one more boring Sunday like all the rest.
And then... that pull. Quasi-magnetic, and I was drawn. My eyes moved before I did, and there...
The third pew had a stranger cloaked in a black suit, an island of unfamiliarity among familiar faces.
I couldn’t make out much at first, but their stare...
Their stare—God, their stare was a hand around my wrist, a whisper against the nape of my neck.
I snapped my head down, my cheeks burning. But my heart thrashed against my ribs like it wanted to leap out and run straight to them.
My father’s voice roared over the pulpit: “Lapè Bondye avèk nou,” he announced.
In unison, the Congregation returned. “Amèn!“
“Heavenly Father, we come before You with humble hearts, acknowledging Your mighty presence...”
I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the cracks of me from being broken through too far. But their eyes clung to me, like they feared forgetting.
“We ask for Your protection over our loved ones, communities, and ourselves...”
I braved another glance. Their eyes pierced further, right through the veil of prayer and propriety. There was nothing polite about it. It was a gaze that said:
I see you. All of you, and I won’t let up.
I bowed again, trembling with an energy I didn’t understand.
My stomach twisted in a way that was close to pleasure. I yanked my eyes closed and prayed harder than I had in months.
And the service continued. My father launched his sermon with the homeless shelter the church sponsored, calling for donations to keep its doors open. People shuffled, digging into purses and pockets.
The stranger rose. Heads turned, and murmurs rose. I could only stare. The stranger walked forward, unhurried and unrushed, with a piece of paper pinched between two fingers, as if it were an afterthought. They offered it to my father, who blinked at the paper.
My father’s mouth dropped. He had to rub his eyes to see more clearly.
“A blank check,” he broadcast. “For the Lord’s work,” he said, turning to me. “Ana, come forward and accept the donation.”
My soul left my body. But my feet moved anyway. I approached, and with every step, I rushed into an invisible web.
Up close, the stranger was devastating. Their skin, deep mahogany; their strong features; their overwhelming energy. Their brown eyes latched onto me when I reached out for the check. Our fingers brushed, a spark, not imagined (I wasn’t crazy), leapt between us.
They smiled, and light cracked from me like splintered glass, shadows recoiling as the air pulsed with my breath.
“Thank you for your generosity,” I uttered, gasping for air.
The stranger tilted their head, voice deep and foreboding. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not sure I deserve it.”
I almost tripped standing, if that even made sense.
“Ana, please offer a prayer for our visitor.”
And panic struck. I froze; eyes widened. I died right there.
The room had eyes. The whole congregation was watching. I couldn’t refuse.
I motioned for them to kneel before me. In the most organic, non-sinning way—I think. The stranger displayed a wide grin.
“I’ve never been prayed for before,” they said, voice slipping down my spine like velvet. “I hope I’m worth your amen.”
I stuttered a breath, and somewhere, my father cleared his throat. The church watched, a sea of folded hands and bowed heads, and I, trembling, stood before a stranger with fire in their eyes as they knelt.
That was a woman, right?
Yes.
A woman. No doubt about it.
She bowed, and I stood there a moment too long, heart rioting in my chest, before placing a trembling hand atop her head. I had touched her like a priestess touched flame, knowing the burn was holy and forbidden. Her locs were thick and neatly styled, and my fingers moved, mingling in her roots. Her skin was warm. I started the prayer while my palm was burning:
“Bondye béni sèvant ou4... May their generosity multiply in ways seen and unseen. May Your protection and peace walk with them tout koté yo alé5—”
Her head tilted upward, and her eyes (her intoxicating brown eyes) locked onto me again mid-prayer.
Oh God, not here. Not now.
My skin prickled where her eyes touched me.
And for one ruinous second, it wasn’t clear who was kneeling to whom.
I cleared my throat, struggling to remember my place.
“Fill them with Your spirit,” I whispered, but the words stumbled in my throat. I blinked, grasping for the following line, but her gaze burned through me.
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, what is your name?”
“Soulé,” she said.
“Gidé Soulé ak limyè ou.6” Her name glided out of my mouth like silk, like something I wanted to taste. “In your name we pray.” We locked eyes. “Amen.” I managed to choke out, and my hands roamed alongside her cheeks, battling the urge to linger longer than I could justify to myself.
The stranger rose, brushing her locs against my wrist. A light touch—feather-soft—but it ignited every nerve ending I had.
Her mouth curled into the faintest, wickedest smile.
“Amen,” she echoed, and no, Ana, this wasn’t an ‘amen’. It was a warning behind stained glass screaming: “Run like hell.”
And I stumbled back, pretending I wasn’t trembling, pretending my mind wasn’t spinning. I slid back in my seat and folded my hands in my lap. I pasted a serene smile, the picture of Christian composure.
Except that my hands were shaking so hard that my Bible trembled like a leaf caught in a storm. I became that fifteen-year-old girl I once was, sitting stiff-backed, clutching that Bible.... like it was the only thing preventing me from plunging straight into hell.
Even after the final hymn, my legs were numb. I floated through farewells, through my father’s proud nod, through the scraping of chairs, and the rustle of Sunday clothes. But I knew that look she gave me had changed something.
And I wasn’t ready for it.
“Those people…”
It means “my daughter” in Haitian Creole.
A saying that Haitian parents often use to advise their children to limit their presence to three spaces: school, church, and home.
“Bless your servant…”
“… everywhere they go.”
“Guide Soulé with your light…”