Granmè Ifé Character Analysis

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you? […] You understand my right to ask as your mother, don’t you? […] When I was a girl, my mother used to test us to see if we were virgins. She would put her finger in our very private parts and see if it would go inside. Your Tante Atie […] used to scream like a pig in a slaughterhouse. The way my mother was raised, a mother is supposed to do that to her daughter until the daughter is married. It is her responsibility to keep her pure.”

“Your husband? Is he a good man?”

“He is a very good man, but I have no desire. I feel like it is an evil thing to do.”

“Your mother? Did she ever test you?”

“You can call it that.”

“That is what we have always called it.”

“I call it humiliation,” I said. “I hate my body. I am ashamed to show it to anybody, including my husband. Sometimes I feel like I should be off somewhere by myself. That is why I am here.”

“If it is a boy, the lantern will be put outside the shack. If there is a man, he will stay awake all night with the new child. […] If it is a girl, the midwife will cut the child’s cord and go home. Only the mother will be left in the darkness to hold her child. There will be no lamps, no candles, no more light.”

“Now you have a child of your own. You must know that everything a mother does, she does for her child’s own good. You cannot always carry the pain. You must liberate yourself.” […] [Granmè Ifé] walked into her room, took her statue of Erzulie, and pressed it into my hand. “My heart, it weeps like a river,” she said, “for the pain we have caused you.”

“I did it,” she said, “because my mother had done it to me. I have no greater excuse. I realize standing her that the two greatest pains of my life are very much related. The one good thing about being raped was that it made the testing stop. The testing and the rape. I live both every day.”

“My grandmother was preparing her funeral,” I said. “It’s a thing at home.” […]

“You called it home?” [Joseph] said. “Haiti.”

“What else would I call it?”

“You have never called it that since we’ve been together. Home has always been your mother’s house, that you could never go back to.”

“There is a place […] where the daughter is never fully a woman until her mother has passed on before her. There is always a place where, if you listen closely in the night, you will hear your mother telling a story and at the end of the tale, she will ask you this question: ‘Ou libere?’ Are you free, my daughter?”

My grandmother quickly pressed her fingers over my lips.

“Now,” she said, “you will know how to answer.”

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you? […] You understand my right to ask as your mother, don’t you? […] When I was a girl, my mother used to test us to see if we were virgins. She would put her finger in our very private parts and see if it would go inside. Your Tante Atie […] used to scream like a pig in a slaughterhouse. The way my mother was raised, a mother is supposed to do that to her daughter until the daughter is married. It is her responsibility to keep her pure.”

“Your husband? Is he a good man?”

“He is a very good man, but I have no desire. I feel like it is an evil thing to do.”

“Your mother? Did she ever test you?”

“You can call it that.”

“That is what we have always called it.”

“I call it humiliation,” I said. “I hate my body. I am ashamed to show it to anybody, including my husband. Sometimes I feel like I should be off somewhere by myself. That is why I am here.”

“If it is a boy, the lantern will be put outside the shack. If there is a man, he will stay awake all night with the new child. […] If it is a girl, the midwife will cut the child’s cord and go home. Only the mother will be left in the darkness to hold her child. There will be no lamps, no candles, no more light.”

“Now you have a child of your own. You must know that everything a mother does, she does for her child’s own good. You cannot always carry the pain. You must liberate yourself.” […] [Granmè Ifé] walked into her room, took her statue of Erzulie, and pressed it into my hand. “My heart, it weeps like a river,” she said, “for the pain we have caused you.”

“I did it,” she said, “because my mother had done it to me. I have no greater excuse. I realize standing her that the two greatest pains of my life are very much related. The one good thing about being raped was that it made the testing stop. The testing and the rape. I live both every day.”

“My grandmother was preparing her funeral,” I said. “It’s a thing at home.” […]

“You called it home?” [Joseph] said. “Haiti.”

“What else would I call it?”

“You have never called it that since we’ve been together. Home has always been your mother’s house, that you could never go back to.”

“There is a place […] where the daughter is never fully a woman until her mother has passed on before her. There is always a place where, if you listen closely in the night, you will hear your mother telling a story and at the end of the tale, she will ask you this question: ‘Ou libere?’ Are you free, my daughter?”

My grandmother quickly pressed her fingers over my lips.

“Now,” she said, “you will know how to answer.”