I started my artist life  when I was 5 years old. I still have my kindergarten diary. So much of it is funeral plans. I was obsessed with preparing for my own funeral — the sweater I would need — the scarf. I also made a list of things I would need in the event of a hurricane. None of the Nor’easters that hit New York when I was little were bad, but I knew about hurricanes in Haiti. I packed a bag with a flashlight, underwear, shirts. My mom found it and asked, Where are you going?

—Valérie Déus

Haitian Roots 

Until third grade I thought all Black people were from Haiti.I was born in the County of Kings, Brooklyn, Flatbush, New York City. My world was big, but felt small. Everyone I had contact with was Haitian. Young Haitians I meet tell me,  “you sound like my grandma.” My neighborhood was made up of people who left Haiti in the 1970s — a middle class/working class diaspora. There was one older woman of Irish descent who lived in my building. She had polio braces. She told me, “there used to be lots of us here, now there’s just me.”  I used to run up and ask her questions.

I first visited Haiti when I was three. My mom told me that at the airport, the ticket person called my name, testing to see if I was who she said I was, making sure I wasn’t being kidnapped, or that I wasn’t secretly someone else’s kid. When I was six, I went again. It was intense. Hot. I remember scary looking trees with shadows that looked like creatures that might eat me.  There was a hurricane when I was there—water everywhere, houses shaking.  There were these giant holes in the streets where all the sewage and water would run. At six I wondered, why don’t they fix this? Won’t people fall in? That was my American talking. I was too young to know the whole story.

We went to a movie on that trip. I was upset they didn’t sell popcorn. People chewed chiclets. I don’t remember the movie much. Something with French aristocrats—lots of velvet. At that young age I was already going to the movies with my uncle. One of the earliest I remember is King Kong with Jessica Lange.

 

Learning US Dominant Culture through TV 

My parents let me watch TV sometimes, so I could, “learn about my country,” but they were worried about me watching too much.  They wanted me to read books.  When I was left alone in the summer they would disconnect the TV wires. I would spend the day trying to figure out how to rewire them. My mother would check the TV to see if it was hot. I watched everything: Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, The Honeymooners, fantasy, horror and countless Woody Allen movies —Anne Hall, Sleeper—movies without Black people.  They were always on TV for some reason.

Reading Highlights Magazine. Goofus and Gallant comic was a favorite. 

I had friends, but I had to wait a long time before I had a friend who understood me. My sister is 10 years younger. Once she came along it was awesome. Together we were unstoppable.  She didn’t tattle. She knew how to keep a secret. (My mother said the same about her siblings. Sisters and brothers kept each other company.) I brought my sister with me to all of my high school events and beach parties. She kept me out of trouble. I could always say I had to bring my little sister home. A good excuse.

 

School 

From kindergarten to 3rd grade I went to Holy Innocents, a Catholic school in the neighborhood.  The church was across the street from the school. One of priests had a pet snake. We would go visit the snake. He passed a long time ago. He was awesome. It was a good school. I used to want to get married in that church. But  when I got married, I decided not to do church at all.

From 3rd to 7th grade I went to a French school in Manhattan with UN kids. There was a big class difference there. I met students from Haiti and the African continent. I am still friends with many of them.

My family moved to Queens and I went to high school on Long Island. That was terrible. I just waited for college so I could get back to the city.  I applied to PACE University in downtown Manhattan. It was everything I wanted.  I was smart enough to make friends with  international students. Now I have people to stay with, all over the world. My mom was really against me moving into the dorms, but I needed to prove, to myself, that I could live alone.

My mother worked for this child psychologist so I thought that’s what I’d do when I grew up. I loved spending time at work with my mom. Her employer lived so different from us and I was intrigued. I registered for a 7:30 am Psych class where we were required to watch the film Altered States, with William Hurt. It’s about lots of things but all I remember is a guy losing it after time in an isolation tank.  It was disturbing. And reading Carl Jung was so boring. I quit psychology, however,  today I often find myself in the role of counselor of my students and friends. Without Jung.

 

Becoming a Writer and Teacher

I liked hearing and telling stories, so I became an English major.  I interned at Soho Press. It was there that I met Edwidge Danticat.  Her first book Breath, Eyes, Memory, had just come out. She called the office one day and I answered. We’ve kept in touch ever since. She recommended I go to Long Island University, the Brooklyn campus, for graduate school. I took her advice as gospel–never thought to apply anywhere else.

I loved being in school. I didn’t want to be a teacher. My only teaching experience at that time was CCD communion class:  sixth graders on a Saturday morning, there because their parents made them, a curriculum I couldn’t change, and no room for questioning the content. It was terrible.

Teaching as a graduate student was totally different. Everyone was grown and wanted to be there.  They did the reading and wrote papers I wanted to read. I discovered I enjoyed teaching.  

 

Escaping  the Trauma of 9/11 

I have trauma from 9/11. I was dating someone who died that day — though not at the Twin Towers.

In the morning I picked up my sister at school and we went to the hotel where my mom worked. Micheal Jackson’s limo was in front of the hotel. His fans were gathered twenty feet in front of me. I didn’t see him, but I saw his hands.  I looked down the street and saw dust rising. It was the most surreal American moment.

All the phone lines were down. It was not until night that my boyfriend’s father told me his son — who had sickle cell anemia — had died.

I had just started grad school. I didn’t go to class for two weeks. Everyone was miserable — out in the streets — people crying.  I was working in D.U.M.B.O. The World Trade Center was right out the window — a smoky pit.

I thought — I can’t live in this cemetery.  I decided to take a trip to Poland to see a friend. The day I bought the plane ticket, flight 587 to the Dominican Republic crashed.

It was good to be in Poland, where I didn’t understand anybody. Just what I needed. Nothing in the world made sense anyway anymore so being in Poland was perfect, like why not? I thought I might move there. I did research about the Poles who were sent by Napoleon  to fight against the Haitian Revolution in 1802, got to the island, and switched sides.  I was looking for a Polish/Haitian connection to justify my moving dreams. But I couldn’t hide forever.

I had a neo-Nazi experience in Poland. I saw these skinheads moving in formation down the street. I went into a store and asked the saleswoman if she thought I should stay there. She said yes. I stayed over an hour, looking at amber jewelry,  until they left.

It made me realize anything could happen anywhere.

 

Getting To Minneapolis 

I met my husband-to-be in New York. He didn’t get a job he wanted so he came back to Minneapolis, where he grew up.  I thought, well I guess I like him enough to follow. I figured, if I don’t like it, I can always come back.  I landed in Minneapolis on July 5, 2005 and went immediately to Dunn Brothers to look for a job.

I always thought living here was temporary.

A lot of my moving to Minneapolis was about escaping 9/11 trauma.  I needed to get out of that space. You can’t run away from trauma though. 

 

Minnesota Nice 

Nice can be nice.
I’m not against nice.
Maybe I am.

I want people to tell me what is happening. At work there is always someone trying to make everyone feel OK. A lot of time is taken up, but nothing is produced. I think, It’s not OK. Let’s deal with what is.

I never had a problem meeting people before I moved here. In New York I was always meeting new people. People are much more open to that newness. Here people like the old reliable. If I stuck with old-reliable in New York I’d never talk to anybody. As an adult I was one of the few  New Yorkers I knew!

I don’t know how to approach people here. I don’t understand the body language. I never thought it would wear me down. I spend a lot of time at home. I feel like I have only a limited amount of patience and I want to spend it on things that are clear.

I never get to have a full map of a person here, because nobody tells you anything about themselves.

 

Teaching in Self-effacing Minneapolis 

There is something self-effacing about Minneapolis culture. Students feel like what they have to say is not important. Once they are pushed to talk, it’s great. In New York they needed no pushing. I would tell people to write a paper about why they missed class. Even those papers were interesting.

I’d rather not teach on-line. It feels make-believe. You’ve gotta be in the room and feel that heat when you say something wrong — sit in that embarrassment. Those moments push you into places you didn’t even think of going.

 

 

An Artist’s Life in Minneapolis 

Sometimes I think about moving home to New York. It was busy and awesome. Then I realize I’m thinking about how New York was, when I was in my 20s. It’s frustrating when I go back. I’m 43 now.

There are many things that keep me here, opportunities I would not have in New York. In NYC I had no time for anything except teaching and commuting.

I have a radio show, Project 35, on KRSM  98.9 FM.  It airs at 3pm on Mondays. Part of the Southside media project.  I like that nobody listens to it. I’m weird, I know. I can say anything. I think of it as an eclectic magazine for your ears. I curate Cinema Lounge — screening short films for Film North Bryant that are locally made, last Wednesdays of the month. Send me your short films! 

 

I produce an Art Zine.

My goal is to publish one a year— essays, poems, rants, Instagram posts, photography, things people write on Facebook that should be in books. Somebody did a project where they mapped them all out the Little Free Libraries. I’m using that map to distribute them.

Radio, print, film, my own work. I have chosen an artist’s life. Minneapolis allows me to do it.

We live in the Central neighborhood in South Minneapolis.  It’s been good. My mother came here and she liked it. She knew I was OK.

I have a tendency to want to flee, but I will probably stay here. Starting over at this point would be too hard. I can’t imagine doing it again. I wish more of my people were here. I wish we had soft-serve ice cream trucks here. I can’t believe how sad it makes me. Those unsanitary New York ice cream trucks are something I miss.

 Valérie’s book of poems, Skull-Filled Sun, was published in 2018. If you are looking for a film festival programmer, contact her at www.valeriedeus.com

 

After the Murder of George Floyd, June, 2020 

I’ve been thinking about the idea of ancestral memory and wondering whether this is how my ancestors felt at the beginning of the Haitian Revolution. The first few days the smell of smoke and fire sit on your skin and in your hair. The smell stays with you and with every person you meet. 

Fighting for independence and the right to self-determination must have been equal parts exciting and terrifying, but not more terrifying then accepting French colonial rule. Living without freedom and self-determination is equivalent to zombiehood, the living dead. 

When I walk through my neighborhood I see the rage and hurt of my community after being gas lit and ignored for generations. I see the skeletal remains of corporations who make money from us but will rarely hire us. Instead we are expected to swallow the injustice and the indignity of security following us around while the suburban kids, on a day trip, steal. 

But I am also surrounded by beautiful artwork that tell the story of pain, beauty and community being experienced by all of us. We are tired, nou bouke but we are loving and caring for each other. We need to remember these lessons of love when the cameras are gone and the streets are clear. I am greeted by neighbors who seem to say hi out of new solidarity instead of the regular baseless fear. I see a community strategizing and supporting each other, creating new bonds previously unimaginable but that will change the way future generations perceive us, our people and our place in the world. 

I am, for the first time, hopeful.  

Minneapolis Interview Project Explained.