By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By David Villano
By Jose D. Duran
By Michael E. Miller
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By Kyle Swenson
By Luther Campbell
I found Wenski in Notre Dame's rectory at 62nd Street and NE Second Avenue, offering medical advice to an elderly Haitian woman who seemed determined to have surgery before the day was out. People seek out Wenski with all sorts of problems A they need to know how to fill out government forms, how to ride the bus; they come gripping junk mail in hand, hoping to be told they've won the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes.
Wenski, a Lech Walesa look-alike, is fond of saying he runs Notre Dame, with its 15,000 to 20,000 parishioners, the way a Polish priest would run a Polish immigrant church A with a heavy hand, but effective in protecting the congregation's interests. Wenski says Mass in Creole, performs 900 baptisms a year. At the height of the Guantanamo crisis, Notre Dame d'Haiti received a federal grant (since revoked) to operate an acculturation program for the thousands of new arrivals. The program, administrated by the Pierre Toussaint Haitian Catholic Center, was housed in the former girls' high school adjoining the church, and though English lessons were still available, it now dedicated its efforts to developing an employment service, helping the Guantanamo population find jobs.
"An immigrant church," Wenski told me, "resolves a lot more needs than simply spiritual direction. Haitians are made to feel like outsiders six days a week. At least on Sunday they can feel they're at home, and that provides a centering, and a sense of rootedness, and it ultimately serves the person to become assimilated, because you integrate from a position of strength into the modern church A which is basically middle-class and suburban A and then into the society itself."
Yet assimilation as a standard of immigrant success has been altered, in a politically unprecedented and perhaps prophetic sense, by the Haitian experience. "Something new is happening," Alex Stepick had told me when I asked if he thought the Haitian refugees could be described as typical immigrants. Unlike their counterparts, especially Cubans and Vietnamese, who have fled communist regimes and are lodged in sort of a nineteenth-century isolation from the world they left behind, Haitians, because of their intense travel back and forth between Miami and Haiti, Stepick said, "have created our first transnational community," in which the economic survival of both the oppressed and the oppressors depends on this sort of mobility.
The Haitians have become hemispheric, Wenski agreed, people of a diaspora. Haitian babies were being born all over the map, but "there's not that sort of breaking off with the past, as there was in earlier generations of immigrants," he said, perhaps because the past remains accessible and is so much unresolved.
I wanted to know if, from Wenski's perspective, culture and race made the Haitian immigrant experience atypical. In their view it did, he thought, but then again, the Haitians weren't aware of the experience of other ethnic groups who came before them, the Irish or the Chinese or the Poles, for instance, though they were resentfully conscious of the red carpet unrolled for the Cubans, who were indeed an aberration in the system. Several studies he had read grappled with the enigma of race and arrival. Vis-a-vis black Americans, the Haitians most resembled other immigrant groups: you struggle, take advantage of opportunities, and you make it. Yet in case studies comparing other immigrant groups with Haitians, the Haitian experience plateaued alongside the experience of black Americans.
"In other words," concluded Wenski, "America is still the land of opportunity, as the immigrants have always said it was, and proven it by their upward mobility, but at the same time, racism and race might not be the overwhelming factors that some people claim, but they certainly are factors and cannot be discounted." He didn't think immigration policy toward Haitians was atypical either; hesitating, though, he corrected himself with a statistic: At Guantanamo, when the acceptance rate for political claims to asylum rose from 20 to 60 percent, the INS quickly replaced its interviewers with ones who were less sensitive and more selective.
Wenski and I adjourned for lunch to Smitty's II, an all-American diner A after twelve years, he had consumed far more spicy Creole cooking than he had bargained for. Walking outside under the rectory's canopy of live oaks, we came upon Sans Debt, one of Notre Dame's four resident lunatics, homeless and harmless, whom Wenski allowed to squat on church property. One slept in the doorway to the chapel, one in the barbecue pit, one in various spots on the lawn. One talked nonstop to the dial tone of a nearby pay phone, one picked up trash, one wanted the trash-picker's job. It was very Haitian of Wenski to have them around. Like any other ethnic enclave in the United States, the Haitian community in South Florida was rich in diversity, not without its madmen, and not without its millionaires A one of whom I would soon meet, but not before I had first met Erithe Montville, a young woman who seemed to have been created by God to breathe life into a xenophobe's stereotype of wretchedness.
As I write, Haitians are being repatriated back to a society that, in its totalitarian repressiveness, its government-sponsored violence, its mockery of human rights, most resembles Castro's Cuba. I have traveled extensively through both countries (Haiti in 1986, Cuba in 1991) and must confess, with no apologies to Miami's Cubans, that, given the choice between an ideologically based dictatorship and a dictatorship based on brute power and greed, and given the choice between ideologically inspired persecution and persecution sprayed randomly throughout a population by tyrants storming along on oblique agendas, I would much prefer to take my chances in Cuba, any day of the week. The Communist variety of terror, as practiced by Cubans, at least has its rules. The unvarnished variety of terror, as practiced by the Haitian ruling class, unravels arbitrarily, according to a pattern neither I nor anybody else has been able to anticipate, let alone comprehend.