I won’t even lie to you when I say that I was always afraid of going there. The place my parents called home before they moved to The Bahamas and then to the United States – Haiti. You know, that place with the earthquake that killed thousands, left many without food or shelter? The place deemed as the poorest country in the world. The one often depicted in the media as one tainted by misery and sadness. Yeah, there.

How would I survive in a place where food was prepared right in front of you? Hibachi. A place where animals were raised, slaughtered, and prepared all by the same person. Whole Foods. And a place where individuals had to wake up early and head to the market place to sell their goods to tourists and shoppers. Corporate America.

Haiti just wasn’t for me and for years – twenty four, to be exact – I convinced myself that I could never go.

Years soon passed and as I grew older I became addicted to milking my independence. Traveling was my high and hopping in my car at any chance I could get to see the places that authors often set their novels in was my monthly adventure. My mother was proud of me – she admired my willingness to always be ready to get up and go – and through my new found self-empowerment our relationship became stronger.

“Let’s take a mother-daughter trip!”, she suggested one random afternoon. Elated, I immediately accepted her invitation. She asked me which days I’d be free to travel and then proceeded to book our trip. “We’re going to Haiti!”, she said, as she hit send on our flight confirmations and my first reaction was denial. “Nah, she’s playing,” I said to myself and for weeks it still never dawned on me that this trip would soon become my reality. Read More

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Image Source: Vogue March 1992 // Photographer: Ferinando Scianna // Fashion Editor: Jenny Capitain // Hair & Makeup- Giuseppe Ciulla