“Voodoo” Doll:
Or What if Haiti were a Woman
On ti travay sou 21 pwen1
Or an Alter(ed)native in
something other than fiction
article and photo by Gina Athena Ulysse
(1) The Doll: She is no longer as plush in certain areas as she once was in her days of glory.
Still from afar, she resembles a human cake adorned with what could be candied poles with
flowing streamers ready to be served at the next supper. Further inspection shows these to be
ragged flags bearing national emblems and family crests. More scrutiny reveals the poles as
pins pricked so close to parts of her that an estimate that they cover nearly eighty percent of her
surface would not be an exaggeration. Each needle that now protrudes from her is well wedged
into the hypodermis. They had either been carefully placed in various points away from her
meridians to provoke nervous conditions or were thrown par hazard from some distance. Flying
arrows from blindfolded archers seeking to impress their rivals. Those who hit their mark got ten
points. The ones who did not received twenty. There is always a reward. The game was not
about winning but an exercise in devotion to the sport. It is always the dare.
(3) The Numbers: The numbers that matter remain unknown. Quantitative analysis may anchor
some studies, but they have done little to disrupt entrenched beliefs that fermented long before
she became synonymous with backwardness and evil. What we still don’t know is the number of
religious missions offering her food, clothing, shelter, education and of course salvation. Or the
actual number of offsprings young and old whose laden J distorted perejil to their fatal
detriment. The contested estimates range from 20,000 to 35,000 depending on which side of
the border you ask. We know the initial value ascribed to the collective lives of her children,
$750,000, would later be reduced to $525,000. 5+2+5=12. 1+2=3. Triad. Triumvirate. Trinity.
We don’t know whom if any among the massacred actually benefited from this exchange. But
we do know that she has long been a site for the trading of human chattel. In fact, slightly over
two hundred years ago, one of her rulers agreed to an indemnity payment of 150,000,000 francs
to her former master for recognition and respect that never really came. What we know for sure
is that the term with its four dangerous little Os that continuously distorts perceptions of her in
quotation on Google results in 27, 300, 000 hits in 13 seconds. The word Vodou, which is the
accusative form of “water” in Czech2, yields 4, 490,000 in 5 while “Vaudoux” produces 13,600
hits in about 6 seconds. And “zombie” in the singular renders 49, 700,000 in sixteen seconds.
The problem is with anyone of these numbers, one is one too many. And that was well before
1/12/2010.
(5) The Rage. It is as if her rage has been suppressed or at the very least continues to be
properly and evenly guarded. Managed. Gagged and bound with both arms seeming loose.
Wrists crossed behind her. Ankles one on top of the other. Christ-like, angled downwards
disciplined by the sheer weight of pieces of broken chain held together with wet silken ropes. No
one talks of who actually tends to these. The wet ropes. Though we know they continue to gain
strength with more moisture. Water. Molasses. Honey. Toes strained. En pointe. Seeking
contact with earth. How did she get here? A slight move, a purposeless shove or a well directed
intended push from a passerby certainly guarantees her rotation. Why she is still here obsesses
those who refuse to grasp that alone, she could not have hooked herself so above ground.
Perched so high on this extended branch and constantly twirling for all to see her once revered
beauty. No one wants to hear her. Few pay attention to her screams. When rage escapes her
lips especially in mixed company, almost without fail, someone in the audience will recall the
presence of white saviors.
(7) The Performance. The show always ends with a throaty wailing chant to Gédé— symbolic
of life and death—A personification of the ancestral dead and sexual regeneration. Trickster.
Healer. Counselor. He who sets right wrongs perpetuated by the living. It probes the listener
with a looping plea—yet another call being made to the spirit world demanding justice: “Look at
what the mortals have done to me!” And they continue to do. Things. Unwittingly. Sometimes
consciously. Other times completely clueless. Things fall apart. Pieces break. Bleed. Surely
someone will pick it up. I can save you. Bleed just for me. I alone can heal you. If you let me, I
know just how to fix you. Disregarding the simplest of mathematical conundrums, she starts to
silently shout: “How do you overturn four hundred years of history in less than one century?” It
took 34 years for the first formal recognition. Another 58 for her stepmother to consider her a
sovereign state. Or one hundred years of isolation. The numbers don’t make sense but they are
not supposed to anymore than a twisted ragged gagged doll pricked with pins can spew out
eligible words of consent.
(11) The Experts: It is exhausting to hear this he exclaimed. And it is as exhausting to live it she
mused though she did not utter a word. Thank you so much for this performance in this
academic setting the gatekeeper offered in response. Translation. The visceral has no place
here. Keep it at home or on the stage. As if we are not all performers. She was too accustomed
to such responses. He was the first to speak. Inarticulate guilt without any restraint. A staccato
of shame. A white German man stands facing her and hands her a small piece of flat white
carton with his name embossed in his language. Disassociation. She imagined him The White
King of LaGonâve. I know more of your history than you will ever want to know she muttered
with the beginning of a welcoming smile that had him lean forward just so to await her assault.
She flicks the lit wick then composes her thoughts. The conversations inadvertently turned
towards those who have come with goodwill. I can save you. To make changes. Forge new
ways. I alone can heal you. No one even whispered about what they reject. I will pay you
because I know just how to fix you. No one hears those who dare to shout. Sir, you need to
speak either English or French only two people in this room speak Kreyol. Yet they are here to
save her. More Otheringpractices. Not wanting to play nice, she refuted the rules. Why should
she tell? Why should she tell? This academic spectacle depends on their endless fascination
with zombies.
(16) The Land. Too many hands had prodded it. Toiled. Worked it. How many fingers it takes
to eat okra soup. Dexterity aside one too many architects will only result in uneven tears.
Pastiche. The founding constitution had forbidden white men to step foot onto her under the
titles of master or landowner. They knew just how to gain access; they married her women. That
was the way to legal ownership. Marry the women. No one talks of this any more than they do of
how many new Vodou initiates with white privilege amass spiritual capital and become priests
and priestesses in their own right who now lead new devotees back to her (in spite of state
department issued travel advisory warnings that keep out tourists) to bind lost connections to
spirits who remain tied to her.
1Or A Little Work on 21 points.
2I thank Laura Ivins-Hulley for bringing this to my attention.
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