He misses Haiti, but in Atlantic City he is at least safe
PressofAtlanticCity.comJean Joisaint hates this part of the job, cleaning the big stove while it's still hot. Food is charred onto the surface. The splattered grease smells awful, and when the grit mixes with his sweat, he, too, will smell like a sour mess.
It is a long way, in miles and sensibility, from his native Haiti. Back in the rural classroom where he taught math to children, Jean could not have imagined this kitchen in Bally's Atlantic City casino.
But to even hope for the contentment he once enjoyed, Jean must do this work now. He throws himself into it gladly; it keeps his mind off the violence.
Jean sprays grease cutter onto the stove. It bubbles. He wipes the goo, careful not to burn himself. The hardened food won't come off. Jean takes a spoon and hunches over the stove. He is a lanky 6-foot-6, so the one-inch scar on the left side of his scalp is visible to most only when he bends forward. Jean scrapes the food loose.
Atlantic City is a welcoming town for someone like Jean. He smiles his toothy grin often, although sometimes that is simply to compensate for not understanding. At work and at bus stops, he meets immigrants from around the world. Like Jean, they work hard to achieve their dreams.
Jean's dream is to rebuild what he has lost.
* * *
Haiti is a country of persistent poverty and authoritarian control. Francois "Papa Doc" Duvalier and his son ruled with terror for 30 years. Chaos has reigned often since Jean-Claude Duvalier was overthrown in 1986. Even reformer Jean-Bertrand Aristide has tolerated brutality by his supporters.
But Jean lived what he called a good life in Croix des Bouquets, a small town barely 10 miles from the capital, Port-au-Prince. Jean's family farmed the expansive land, growing millet, corn, sugar cane and bananas. They also worked in a concrete factory. In high school, Jean decided on a different way of life. He wanted to teach.
He enrolled in a Methodist teachers college, Ecole Normale des Freres, in the capital. Soon he hired on at the elementary school in his hometown, teaching math to fourth-graders. He returned to Port-au-Prince for continuing education one month each year.
Jean taught for 14 years. During that time, he settled down with his girlfriend, Millaine, and fathered three daughters. Their ages were 8, 7 and 4 in August 2001, when political violence visited their lives.
One hot afternoon, Jean left church and was walking home when he met several men he knew - and a few he didn't - in the street. The soft-spoken Jean considered himself apolitical; growing enough food was worry enough in a country where three-fourths of the people are poor.
The men talked about how the country was declining under Aristide. To Jean, the talk was more personal than political: the problems affected his family and townsfolk; expected irrigation improvements had not come through.
"Now we have water problems," Jean said. "We are supposed to be getting foreign aid, but we do not see the benefits of it."
They spoke in the stifling heat for 25 minutes, then broke up.
One night a week later, Jean was correcting schoolwork at another teacher's house. It was 10 p.m. before he returned home. Three men waited for him inside his house. One held a revolver. Jean recognized them as the unknown men he had met on the street.
They set upon Jean as he walked through the door.
"What is your problem?" he asked.
They said nothing. Two of the men pummeled him with their fists. His little girls looked on in terror and cried.
Broken glassware lay scattered around the house. One man took Jean's radio - a prized possession that he played often - and smashed it on the floor.
So far, Millaine, his girlfriend, was unhurt. Jean thought this was a misunderstanding. But as he tried to talk sense, they began punching the woman. Their daughters screamed.
"I have no problem with you. What is your problem with me?" Jean implored.
They said nothing. As they hit him some more, Millaine herded their daughters out the front door, and they ran.
Then one man cracked the butt of his revolver into the left side of Jean's head. Everything went black. When he came to, blood poured down his face. The men prepared to leave. But they gave Jean one final message.
Next time, they said, they would kill him.
He needed medical treatment, but he was afraid to answer any questions and possibly anger Aristide's supporters. So he bandaged his cut as best as he could.
He told Millaine they were in too much danger to stay in Croix des Bouquets. She took the children into hiding with relatives.
Jean collected his savings, and on Sept. 1, 2001, he left for Santo Domingo in the neighboring Dominican Republic.
He had no plan. He simply wanted to escape. Jean stayed in the city for a month before he met a man going to St. Thomas by boat. Jean joined him. In St. Thomas, he went to the American consulate and requested political asylum. By December, the United States temporarily granted asylum.
Jean could not find work, but he had an idea: his cousin, Mary, had immigrated to the United States 14 years earlier. He called her home in Pleasantville and asked if he could stay with her. She said yes. And she said he would be able to find work in the casinos in Atlantic City.
On the day after the Fourth of July 2002, Jean flew into Newark International Airport and took a bus to Mary's home in Pleasantville.
* * *
In the casino kitchen, after scraping the crusted food clean, Jean moves along the big hot stove. There are several benefits to the grinding labor. At 8 a.m., when Jean takes the bus back to his cousin's house in Pleasantville, he will be exhausted. The memory of his lost life and concern for his family will not haunt him in bed. He will sleep.
By scrubbing pots and stoves, Jean makes a living that is good by Haitian standards. He is establishing himself and saving money.
He still loves his native Haiti. And he wants to get back to teaching again. But not in Haiti.
Jean dreams of staying in the United States. He dreams of bringing his family, which is still in hiding in Haiti, over some day. And he dreams of moving beyond the kitchen work to teaching again - maybe not in a regular school, considering his sketchy English. But he knows some Spanish, and he is taking English classes. There are many immigrants he could teach.
But
first things first. He has applied for permanent political asylum. Atlantic City
provides him with work to earn a living and distract his mind. And the violence
is a world away.
