*Warning, this post contains some cursing*

On my recent trip to the states, I ended up standing next to a group of African-Americans on the train ride to my connecting flight. They were a group of professional twenty-somethings – probably headed to some Caribbean island for vacation. They were simply chatting along about people they were friends with and whatnot when I heard one say “I better take my black ass over here before I catch whatever you have”. I don’t know if it’s because it had been a while since hearing that, but that put a huge smile on my face.

See, as much as I go on and on about being Haitian, the fact remains that I moved to the US when I was 3 years-old. That means that all my formative years were à la Américaine. I always attended diverse schools – and diverse in Marin County means predominantly white with a plethora of small ethnic groups – however, I spent the most time with African-Americans. I don’t think I even had to “try to fit in” because it was pretty much all I knew outside of my strict Haitian household. Back then, I didn’t appreciate the type of language that is so commonly used among black people. Even as an adult, I’d say things like “negro, please” to my close black guy friends. It just flowed. And the best part was it was something you said only to each other. I don’t know any other ethnicity who points out their race when referring to themselves.

At times I forget I can be just as much Haitian as I am African-American. I learned the history as it were my own and still remain well-versed in all aspects of the Civil Rights Movement. I even co-founded a black student union in high school and played Angela Davis in a Black History Month presentation. And I got all this in addition to the Haitian history I learned from family. Not to mention all the neat sayings that only Haitians get away with saying to each other, as well. I’m so grateful to have such a rich background filled with knowledge of two extraordinary cultures. So, what does this all mean? Whether it’s my Haitian or African-American side, I am a black person for all intents and purposes and that makes me feel part of a very special group.

Let me add the caveat that I don’t use the “n” word for the same reason I don’t use the “b” word – there’s just a certain line of derogatory I don’t cross. We all have our limits, right?

This is our front door…

As you can see from the sticker, we participated in the 2011 Census here in Venezuela. It really was a painless process that took about 10 minutes to complete. Plus, they had out postings just about everywhere so we didn’t even have to go out of our way.

• The US was gearing up for Census 2010 when we left Florida in December 2009, so I didn’t get to participate. Does that mean I count more here than in the US

The past few weeks have been all about getting used to early mornings again and of course the obligatory parent/teacher meetings (I think we called them “open house” when I was growing up). During the meeting for my daughter, who is in 4th grade now, I noticed something strange…

The teacher was going over the curriculum and the weekly schedule for assignments. She also gave an overview on each subject, as well as how she was going to evaluate them. Every time she mentioned a schedule, I saw parents’ heads go down to write. That’s when I noticed that the majority of them had notepads. What?! You’re taking notes at a parents orientation…for your 4th grader?!

Of course I had a moment when I thought – should I be taking notes, too and are they judging me because I’m not? But then I remembered – oh yeah, my daughter is the one responsible for her assignments and quizzes – just like I was when I was her age. I mean, if I do this now, when will it stop? When she’s 12? 15? 18? At what point am I supposed to let her take ownership of her work?

I’ve heard about helicopter parenting and how Generation X’ers (which I’m part of) are guilty of it. But that was in the US. I didn’t realize that I would witness this phenomenon in Venezuela. But then I realized, of course I would. Many Latin American parents expect their children to live with them until they get married. And if they don’t get married, they never leave. I know that this has changed a lot in metropolitan areas, but I know quite a few Caraquenos in their 20’s who live at home. They simply don’t see a reason to move out.

I know that there are many factors to this – economy, limited housing, parents in need of financial support, etc. and I also think that you can live with your parents and still exhibit a sense of independence. However, your parents would have to start instilling these values early on…like before the 4th grade.

So, while I can respect Venezuelans’ (as well as many Americans) penchant to be heavily involved in their children’s lives, I’m going to stick to the agreement I have with my daughter; I will trust her to do what’s right/necessary until she proves otherwise. How do you feel about helicopter parenting?

1) Patience: In this respect I don’t really have a choice. Either I increase my patience level or I walk around pissed off all the time: Whether it’s waiting for the plumber to arrive or standing in line at a store, there’s a lot of waiting that goes on in these parts. I have to admit though, all this waiting has increased my BlackBerry skills. While waiting, I can have an entire conversation with friends and family abroad…and still have time to send some tweets

2) Carefree: This stems from my increased patience because sometimes things just don’t work out the way I plan them. When the internet is down, there’s no point in calling technical assistance to see what the problem is – you just wait it out. Luckily, I have my phone (are you sensing a theme here) as a backup if I really need to connect. If the water is turned off (unannounced) because the city is fixing a busted pipe, I simply adjust my schedule accordingly. I also have several gallons of emergency water supply just in case the fixing takes longer than expected. The point is, none of this frustrates me like it used to.

3) Better tipper: Americans are not known as bad tippers to begin with – 15-25% is part of our lexicon. What I have started doing here is tipping people that I normally wouldn’t in the states: the bagger at the grocery store, the bus boy at a small café, the water delivery guy. For the most part these people are tipped regularly by Venezuelans, hence no awkward “oh no, I can’t accept this” and every once in a while I tip someone who wasn’t expecting it and receive an unexpected display of gratitude making the extra expense invaluable.

4) Spanish: Well, if this didn’t make the list, I don’t know what would. I can now say that language is no longer a barrier for me in this country – there are plenty other things that I can list as barriers At the risk of tooting my own horn, I’m very proud of the progress that I’ve made in learning Spanish and this is something that I’ll benefit from long after my stay in Caracas. Although it’s been said many times, I absolutely encourage all expats to learn the local language.

5) More Active: As detailed in my post about losing inches here, I walk more here than I have walked in any place that I’ve ever lived. Considering that I can still remember looking at my car in the parking lot from my office window and wishing there was some technology that could transport me there without having to get out of my seat – this is progress. I can also remember places that seemed way too far to walk when I first got here that have now become a hop, skip and a jump away. My perception of distance has been altered which has basically made me less lazy. I’m sure this will revert back to its original state after a few months in the American suburbs.

Note: This list was extremely easy to come up with leading me to believe that things are always better than they appear.

I had the unfortunate experience recently of having to explain death to my daughter. Back when she was 6 years-old I had to tell her about the parent of one of her friends passing. I was very matter of fact about it – can’t help it, it’s my personality, and all I told her was that he had been ill and passed away. For a few months afterwards, I remember how she was afraid of dying every time she was sick. So lesson learned and I needed a new approach.

This time I told her that the person went to heaven. That immediately brought on the questions about what heaven was like, did she now have wings, does she hang out with the angels, etc. I answered as many questions as I could and eventually referred her to her trusty Bible.

In terms of the Haitian culture, there are various ways parents handle telling children about death. Some ignore it completely thinking that the child will eventually forget about the person. Others announce the news indirectly by their own grieving or overheard conversations. I was about my daughter’s age (8 years-old) when my mother first started telling me about people going to heaven. Since I have no recollection of being scared afterwards, I think it was the right time.

My daughter handled this sad news pretty well. She told me she felt sad and later drew a picture of the person in heaven dancing on clouds. I’m going to assume for now that this approach was more conducive to her personality

How do you handle talking to children about death? Do you have any cultural norms or have you developed your own? Do you remember the first time you were told about death?