The Farming of Bones recounts the stories of Haitians that have resettled in the Dominican Republic; this resettlement eventually prompts a mass killing of Haitians known as the Parsley Massacre. Amabelle Désir and other Haitians attempt to escape and return to Haiti, but many are brutalized or killed. Throughout the story, characters recount their memories to keep their legacy alive, and to testify to the atrocities they have witnessed. In this way, Danticat’s story illustrates how memory is necessary to preserving history, the past, and the truth. Moreover, the story demonstrates how memory is vital for guaranteeing that suffering will not be forgotten or ignored.
The story illustrates that an individual’s memory can keep personal legacy alive, despite oppression. Amabelle Désir, a Haitian domestic worker, lost her mother in childhood; despite this loss, Amabelle tenderly remembers her mother as someone who “did everything […] in her own time,” and that “she was a woman of few words,” but those words were “direct and precise.” Señora Valencia, the higher-class woman Amabelle attends to, also remembers her own mother, Doña Rosalinda, with fondness. Still, the memory of Doña Rosalinda is not as comprehensive as the memory of Amabelle’s mother; the señora must rely on her housemaid, Juana, to provide additional details. Despite the difference in power and class between the two families, Señora Valencia’s memory barely preserves her mother’s legacy; in contrast, Amabelle remembers her mother more vividly. In this way, memory preserves legacy regardless of class, race, or oppression.
Amabelle continues to illustrate the power of an individual’s recollection. Although Amabelle’s father drowned when she was young, he is a venerable figure much like her mother. To her lover, Sebastien Onius, Amabelle describes how her father selflessly “spent a lot of time doing the birthing and healing work.” Amabelle’s retelling of her father’s generosity keeps him alive in her memory, as well as Sebastien’s.
Amabelle explicitly discusses the importance of memory in a time of doubt. When Amabelle hears that men from a neighboring mill have been in a car accident, she fondly recalls childhood memories to avoid thinking about the disaster: she admits that she must “cling” to her “few remembrances,” and adds that “time will not erase them.” She then recalls a childhood memory of the citadel of Henry I near her parents’ home. Amabelle’s remembrance of national iconography illustrates how memory provides solace in the present, and prevents time from eroding history.
Danticat also emphasizes how a community can bear witness to the past, in order to commemorate it. For example, Amabelle describes how people in the Haitian community could “sit for a whole evening […] just listening to [others’] existence unfold.” She claims that memory, in this collective context, is a “way of returning home.” By telling stories of the past, Haitians preserve their sense of belonging, even when they are living elsewhere.
Additionally, the character of Father Romain, a Haitian priest, makes the connection between communal memory and tradition explicit. His sermons often discuss “history, carnival, songs, tales, and prayers,” and he preaches that “remembering—though sometimes painfulcan make you strong.” In this way, Father Romain embodies the power of shared recollection: by encouraging his congregants to remember their history, he preserves Haitian traditions into the future.
After Amabelle and her peers return to Haiti, they hear that “officials of the state” will “listen to those who survived the [Parsley Massacre] and write their stories down,” and a large crowd to meet with these officials. This crowd is representative of the weight and fervor of collective memory: all survivors want to tell their story in order to memorialize their pain, and prevent the tragedy from being forgotten.
Although individual and collective memory can preserve the past, memory is not infallible. For instance, some surviving Haitians are skeptical of the state officials’ motives. Yves, who escaped alongside Amabelle, claims that politicians are merely “collecting tales for newspapers,” and that Trujillo, the dictator who engineered the massacre, is trying to “sell” the stories of the Haitians. In this way, the act of remembering is not meant to safeguard against future tragedy, but is instead used for further exploitation.
Father Romain, the priest whose sermons memorialized Haitian culture, is tortured during the massacre; as a result, he loses his memory. In fact, the only thing he remembers is the Dominican dictator’s propaganda: he repeats, “We, as Dominicans, must have our separate traditions and our own ways of living.” The fate of Father Romain illustrates the unreliability of memorydespite his sincere efforts to preserve Haitian traditions, he eventually forgets his heritage. Memory may be a strong force in the novel, but it’s not indestructible.
Amabelle, who survives the Parsley Massacre but loses her partner, is pessimistic about the power of memory; she claims that the Haitians’ stories are “testimonials like the ones never heard,” and knows that many stories will go untold. Her fear is justified: the justice of the peace, for example, is unwilling to finish his work, and prevents some Haitian survivors from sharing their stories. Despite the Haitian community’s ability to safeguard their stories on an individual and collective level, then, memory is not infallible; oftentimes, it fails to impact history on a national or political level. Additionally, Amabelle believes that her lost love’s story is like “a fish with no tail”Sebastien’s story exists, but has no ability to endure beyond her own retelling. Still, despite her disbelief, her constant repetition of Sebastien’s story and her discussion of her people’s unheard testimony effectively preserves these memories for the future.
In Danticat’s story, Amabelle and her community are caught between the cultures and political forces of Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Through memory, the story’s characters are able to shield their past against those who wish to erase it. Even in the face of a mass slaughter, the Haitians continue to preserve and testify to each other’s trauma. Danticat’s story thus illustrates how recollection can preserve history, culture, and the past in even the most violent times.
The Power of Memory ThemeTracker
The Power of Memory Quotes in The Farming of Bones
“And my daughter favors you,” she said. “My daughter is a chameleon. She’s taken your color from the mere sight of your face.” […] “Amabelle do you think my daughter will always be the color she is now?” Senora Valencia asked. “My poor love, what if she’s mistaken for one of your people?”
“She didn’t show a lot of affection to me. I think she believed this was not a good way to raise a girl, who might not have affection the rest of her life. She also didn’t smile often.” […] “Her name was Irelle Pradelle,” I say, “and after she died, when I dreamt of her, she was always smiling. Except of course when she and my papa were drowning.”
“[A] boy carrying his dead father from the road, wobbling, swaying, stumbling under the weight. The boy with the wind in his ears and pieces of the tin roofs that opened the father’s throat blowing around him. The boy trying not to drop the father, not crying or screaming like you’d think, but praying that more of the father’s blood will stay in the father’s throat and not go into the muddy flood, going no one knows where.”
I did something I always did at times when I couldn’t bring myself to go out and discover an unpleasant truth. (When you have so few remembrances, you cling to them tightly and repeat them over and over in your mind so time will not erase them.) I closed my eyes and imagined the giant citadel that loomed over my parents’ house in Haiti. […] As a child, I played in the deserted war rooms of Henry I’s citadel. I peered at the rest of the world from behind its columns and archways, and the towers that were meant to hold cannons for repelling the attack of ships at sea. From the safety of these rooms, I saw the entire northern cape […].
The water rises above my father’s head. My mother releases his neck, the current carrying her beyond his reach. Separated, they are less of an obstacle for the cresting river. I scream until I can taste blood in my throat, until I can no longer hear my own voice […] I walk down to the sands to throw [myself] into the water […]
Two of the river boys grab me and […] pin me down to the ground until I become still. “Unless you want to die,” one of them says, “you will never see those people again.”
At times you could sit for a whole evening with such individuals, just listening to their existence unfold […] it was their way of returning home, with you as a witness […]. In [Father Romain’s] sermons to the Haitian congregants of the valley he often reminded everyone of common ties: language, foods, history, carnival, songs, tales, and prayers. His creed was one of memory, how remembering—though sometimes painful—can make you strong.
“Are you certain you don’t want to keep this face for yourself?” I asked.
“I’ve made many,” he said, “for all those who, even when I’m gone, will keep my son in mind. If I could, I would carry them all around my neck, I would, like some men wear their amulets […] The elder of your house, Don Ignacio, he’s not asked again to come and see me, no? […] I’m not surprised,” he said, “that my son has already vanished from his thoughts.”
“You call me Man Rapadou,” she said. “I know your story.”
Which story of mine did she know? Which story was she told?
“Everything you knew before this slaughter is lost,” she said. Perhaps she was encouraging me to […] forsake Sebastien, even my memories of him, those images of him that would float through my head repeatedly, like brief glimpses of the same dream.
The priests at the cathedral listen and mark down testimonials of the slaughter […] They’re collecting tales for newspapers and radio men. The Generalissimo has found ways to buy and sell the ones here. Even this region has been corrupted with his money.”
[…] “Will you go yourself to see these priests?” I asked.
“I know what will happen,” he said. “You tell the story, and then it’s retold as they wish, written in words you do not understand, in a language that is theirs, and not yours.”
“On this island, walk too far in either direction and people speak a different language,” continued Father Romain with aimless determination. “Our motherland is Spain; theirs is darkest Africa, you understand? […] We, as Dominicans, must have our separate traditions and our own ways of living. If not, in less than three generations, we will all be Haitians.”
[...] “He was beaten badly every day,” the sister said. […] “Sometimes he remembers everything. Sometimes, he forgets all of it, everything, even me.”
You may be surprised what we use our dreams to do, how we drape them over our sight and carry them like amulets to protect us from evil spells.
My dreams are now only visitations of my words for the absent justice of the peace, for the Generalissimo himself.
He asked for “perejil,” but there is much more we all knew how to say. Perhaps one simple word would not have saved our lives. Many more would have to and many more will.