Purpose Read online

  DEDICATION

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE CREATOR,

  FOR WITHOUT MY CREATION,

  NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE EVER BEEN.

  I DEDICATE MY BOOK TO MY MOTHER,

  YOLANDA JEAN, AND MY FATHER,

  THE LATE AND GREATLY MISSED GESNER JEAN.

  MOST OF ALL, I’D LIKE TO THANK

  THE WOMAN THAT HAS STOOD BESIDE ME

  SINCE I WAS NINETEEN YEARS OLD:

  CLAUDINETTE JEAN, I WOULD NOT BE HERE WITHOUT

  YOU OR OUR BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER, ANGELINA.

  EPIGRAPH

  There is no problem without a solution; therefore there is no solution without a problem. As the earth turns, I maintain my balance, so if the earth was to stop, I would lose my balance. Why try to control the uncontrollable? What you seek is right in front of you, so open your hands and read your palms. If we ever converse, tell me not the words of others, just words that are your own.

  JEANNEL WYCLEF JEAN

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction: The Invisible Man

  1

  The Village

  2

  Garden State Promised Land

  3

  To the Beat of My Own Drum

  4

  Three Become One

  5

  The Score

  6

  Fugees on Fire

  7

  When the Circle Broke

  8

  Wyclef for President

  Conclusion

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Photo Insert

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  THE INVISIBLE MAN

  My first thought was extraordinary: “Look, there’s my uncle Ray. He’s on TV.” I stood at the control board in Studio A at Platinum Sounds, the recording studio I’ve owned and made records in since 2000. Platinum is an institution founded on my success with the Fugees. It’s a fitting legacy for a group that has sold over 15 million copies but released just one major-label album. The Score was recorded in a damp, smoke-filled basement on a tough stretch of Clinton Street in East Orange, New Jersey, on the only equipment we could afford, but nothing limited our soul and imagination. Platinum is a palace compared to that basement. I brought none of that old gear along, but the same spark of invention is there. Many hip-hop hits have been recorded there—by everyone from T.I. to DMX. Classic tracks by a true cross-section of artists have been laid down in those rooms, too: U2 did most of their last album there. Tom Jones has recorded there, and so has Patti LaBelle.

  That evening, I was working on a song called “Two Strangers in the Night.” I don’t come into the studio with anything more than a few lyrical ideas on paper usually, or melodies I’ve recorded in voice mails that I leave for myself. I always have the song concept in mind, and then I let the raw spirit of the music and the moment guide me until it becomes what it is meant to be. I play piano, guitar, and can figure out any instrument with strings, so I always have too many options.

  “Two Strangers in the Night” was bound for a mix tape called Toussaint St. Jean: From the Hut to the Projects to the Mansion. It never made it on there because the events of that evening changed everything, but it will see the light of day in some form or another soon. I like rapping as Toussaint St. Jean. He is an alias I created when I needed to get back to my street roots. Back when the Fugees released Blunted on Reality, raw street style was the only way I did it. I evolved from there on The Score, The Carnival, and my work since then. But the time I’d been spending in Haiti with kids whose streets were tougher than any of those I’d known brought me back in time and somewhere further. I needed the proper voice to tell those tales, and I didn’t know how. So I created Toussaint. He’s a gritty gangster; he tells it like it is. He’s a revolutionary and a mercenary. I had some things to say about hip-hop and the world, and Toussaint was the man for the job.

  I’d had enough of the clownishness that had taken over the game. Hip-hop was an art form born of protest in the late seventies; it was the voice of the outsiders and the underprivileged in the South Bronx. They were hungry and they were struggling, but their spirit would not be held down. Hip-hop culture brought together break-dancing, rapping, DJs, Caribbean rhythms, and American rebellion. It grew. It became a commodity and an industry of its own years ago, but even at its worst, I’d always found new voices worth listening to. There have always been legends in the game and young guns coming up with something to say. In 2009, though, I was no longer impressed. All I heard from the youth on the streets were soundtracks fit for strip clubs. Instead of raw humanity there were only synthesized voices, instead of real-life street tales, only insincere bragging. Toussaint needed to make a state-of-the-union address.

  I couldn’t hear Uncle Ray because the television was on mute. “Uncle Ray looks good, man,” I said aloud, more to myself than anyone else in the room. I do this a lot.

  It wasn’t unusual to see him on television being interviewed live in Washington, DC, because he lives there. My uncle, Raymond Joseph, is Haiti’s ambassador to the United States. He is my mother’s brother and though I didn’t know him much growing up, my perception of him was always that he was a serious man. My mother always reminded us that he had translated the Bible from English into Creole for publication. That is a serious undertaking. I got to know my uncle Raymond when I was in my late teens, when my dad and I were butting heads because of the music I was doing. My father called hip-hop of any kind “bum music.” He associated it with the drug dealers and criminals in our neighborhood who listened to it and never understood the possibility that the music could do more than just celebrate the lowlife. My uncle Raymond was brought in to talk to me, since my dad and I had stopped communicating altogether. I wasn’t expecting him to see my side at all, but after Uncle Raymond talked to me and listened to my music, he went back to my dad and told him, “This is America, Gesner. Your son isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s just making music, which is keeping him off the streets. His music is not a bad thing.” It didn’t do much to change my dad’s mind but I never forgot my uncle Raymond for that. I thought it was really cool that he stood up for me the best he could.

  I reached for the remote to turn the volume up, but my buzzing phone intercepted my attention.

  The incoming text said, “We’ve been hit.”

  I looked back to the TV and saw the graphic in blazing red: 7.1 MAGNITUDE EARTHQUAKE IN HAITI. I turned up the volume.

  “It’s getting dark there now,” Uncle Ray was saying. “Our phone contact has been severed. I was on the line with the president just a few minutes ago and I heard cries and people shouting. It was chaotic. Our concern is that night is falling and we don’t know what will happen once it is dark.” Now I noticed the deep lines of worry on his face.

  I picked up the phone and called one of the most reliable members of my Yéle team in Port-au-Prince. Miraculously he answered my call. There was noise on the line but I heard the fear in his voice loud and clear.

  “What’s goin’ on, man?” I asked.

  “We’ve been hit! I gotta find my kids. My kids are in school! My kids! My—” Then the phone went dead.

  I am the kind of man who never sits still and I have always been this way. I had spent the last year musically working with the likes of T.I. and Estelle; I’d done soundtrack work and was renegotiating my publishing contract with Sony in anticipation of the release of my next album. I’d gotten my face on a Western Union card—the first-ever celebrity to be offered that—and had seen my line of Yéle Timberlands come out. I’d spent most of my year politicking to mak
e Yéle a truly global relief effort. None of that mattered anymore: I knew what I had to do. I had to be in Haiti before the sun came up. I had to help any way I could, not as Wyclef Jean, but as a Haitian. I had to stand side-by-side with my countrymen and help save lives.

  My cell phone vibrated again. I looked at my Twitter feed: “Jimmy O, R.I.P.”

  Time stopped for me. I stared at the screen, ignoring the calls and texts that began to come in one after the other. This couldn’t be true—not Jimmy O. He was one of my best Yéle soldiers in Haiti and the toughest dude I’ve ever known.

  I met Jimmy O after President Jean-Bertrand Aristide was ousted in a coup d’état in 2004. I went down in 2005, and that is when I met him.

  If you see the documentary Ghosts of Cité Soleil, you will understand who he was. The film is about an extremely impoverished community in Port-au-Prince that has no running water, electricity, health care, or stores of any kind. It is commonly regarded as one of the most dangerous and poorest areas in the Western Hemisphere and it is the biggest slum in the entire Northern Hemisphere. A human life there is less valuable than a meal. People do whatever they must do to survive and everything is controlled by ruthless gangs, most of them just kids. Jimmy O was one of them once upon a time.

  That year, I started a project called We’re All in the Same Gang. We took kids who were involved with hard-core gangs all over Haiti and brought them into a recording studio to record a song called “Peace for the Streets.” Jimmy O was one of those kids. He and I connected immediately, and I started speaking to him a lot beyond the program. His biggest wish was to get a visa so that he could travel to America and do some recording. He would drop verses for anybody, so long as he made some money he could bring home to feed his family. Jimmy was in his late twenties and he had three children.

  At the time, Creole rap was really taking off and Haiti was doing well, but that wasn’t enough to earn Jimmy a visa, so I suggested that he work for a social foundation, like mine. I needed someone like Jimmy O to increase awareness of Yéle in the streets. We launched a hip-hop program called Clean Streets and I put Jimmy O at the center of it.

  The plan was to go into the roughest communities in Haiti to select the best rappers we could find. We’d ask them to write a rap about cleaning up the streets. Their rhymes had to be environmentally themed, about clearing the garbage, the proper disposal of waste, and how garbage can be turned to energy if handled and disposed of the right way. We wanted them to look at their surroundings and learn how they could turn the worst aspects of their surroundings to their advantage—if they put in the work. Their rap had to carry a message of empowerment.

  Jimmy O put the entire project together; he oversaw everything and became the face of the movement. He worked with different radio stations across the country and went to every single one of the roughest areas to speak to the local rappers and gang members face-to-face.

  I’ve lived in the notorious Marlboro Projects of Brooklyn, New York, and in East Orange, New Jersey, which was a jungle of its own. I’ve known killers, gangsters, thugs, and sociopaths, and I still believe that the kids who entered our program were by far the toughest I’ve met in my lifetime. And we got them to rap about cleaning up the environment and changing the world.

  The program was such a success that we launched another program with Jimmy O that was an AIDS initiative. He’d become known all over the country, so he was the perfect spokesman, which is what makes the message in Haiti. It was called the Hip Hop Truck and it drove throughout the country handing out free condoms, giving HIV tests, and educating people about the disease. Jimmy transformed his life and began doing so much work for Yéle that eventually I was able to get him a visa to come to the States without a problem.

  It was an incredible day for us both when I brought him to New York to record at Platinum. His eyes lit up when he saw the place. I got him on a track with me and the Game and the kid was beside himself with happiness. Rolling Stone did a little article about us recording that song, so Jimmy O was officially the first Creole rapper to be mentioned in a magazine that means something in America.

  I took Jimmy to California with me, too, when I went to work with Anthony Mandler, the music-video director who did the clip for “Let Me Touch Your Button,” a song I did in 2008 with Will.i.am, which featured Jimmy O. Anthony couldn’t believe that Jimmy was from Haiti.

  “Yo, Clef, this guy looks like a Crip from LA. Who is this guy?”

  “He’s from Haiti, man. He’s straight Creole.”

  “Has this kid thought about doing movies?”

  “I’m telling you, this kid can do anything.”

  Jimmy O was loved wherever I brought him, so we started working on a system where he would go back to Haiti for a while to work and then come back and record with artists here. We had to because of the visa system, but we had a plan. He was really starting to get a career going in America: he had a crew in Philadelphia that he recorded with, and he was starting to put together a solo album that was shaping up to be something. Every time he called me he’d say, “Father, what’s next?” He didn’t call me brother, he didn’t call me homie, he called me father: to him this was the deepest respect he could show me.

  About six months before the earthquake, Jimmy felt that he’d been in America too long and was losing steam back in Haiti. He wanted to return home for a while to do a Creole mix tape and keep up his presence there. He saw it as a responsibility to the community, not just to himself. He was devoted to his roots. After he fulfilled that, he would return to America and finish recording his debut album, which he had decided to call Destiny.

  I saw Jimmy O for the last time in December 2009, when I went down to Haiti to pass out gifts dressed as Santa Claus. I stayed at the Hotel Montana during that trip, as I always did. Two weeks later the hotel would be a pile of dust on the ground. Every single day I realize that if I’d stayed two weeks longer, my wife, my daughter, and I would probably be dead.

  The three of us spent our time that trip giving out gifts to as many kids as possible. Claudinette and I were happy to have our little girl, Angelina, along because we felt that she was old enough to start learning about her heritage and about giving back firsthand. I saw Jimmy O on that trip and I told him to call me after the holidays so we could start planning his record release. Now here I was, two weeks later, reading texts that he had died, crushed in his car by a building.

  Haiti is the land of rumors and I refused to believe this one. I believed what I read on the TV screen: an earthquake larger than any in the history of Haiti had leveled Port-au-Prince. But I refused to believe that it had taken Jimmy O. If there ever was a guy who could defy Mother Nature, it was Jimmy.

  I am a man with many interests, but when I set myself on a goal, I have no other focus. I become a man on a mission; I go into high gear, as I did that night. It didn’t matter what had happened. I would be in Port-au-Prince by morning and I would find Jimmy O wherever he was. I began making the necessary calls, first to my business partner, Brad Horowitz, with whom I’m a partner in a mobile phone company called Voilà. Brad is a renegade. He was in the Dominican Republic, and he told me that he had a private plane to fly us into Haiti if we could get to him. That was all I needed to hear. My next call was to my wife, then to my cousin Jerry Duplessis and to two other Haitians I knew would want to go down with us to help out on the ground: Encinto, who plays in a group called Fantom, and Isola, who is rapper with a group called B.C. Isola had just come in that day, but he’d heard that his family’s house had collapsed and that they were trapped in the rubble, so he turned right back around and flew down with us.

  I stopped by the CNN studios in Manhattan on my way to the airport to do an interview with Anderson Cooper, who was heading out to Haiti as well. I told him all about Jimmy O because that was all I could think about. Now, with time on my side, I understand why. I could not wrap my mind around what had happened. Haiti was barely holding on no matter how much aid Yéle and the wo
rld provided. This earthquake was a hardship from which the country might never recover. I could not face that possibility, so Jimmy O’s well-being became symbolic to me: he had to be alive, because he represented the soul of my homeland. He was the future; he was their hope. Haiti deserved a chance, and if one young gangster could change his ways, all hope was not lost. With enough heart, we could cure our own ills. He had to be alive.

  MY PARTY LEFT ON a commercial flight out of JFK to the Dominican Republic and then hopped the plane Brad had arranged to get us into Port-au-Prince. Our pilot flew as low as possible, because without air traffic control, there was a chance that we might hit a larger plane above us. It was a risk, but the journey would have taken us two days or more by car and I wasn’t willing to wait.

  As we approached the airport, the morning sun cut through the dust clouds that hung unnaturally above the city. We saw one or two other small planes landing, all of the traffic being directed by a few men standing alone on the tarmac. They had become air traffic control in the crippled airport. Below us the runways were cracked and the terminal lay in a heap; the control tower was a pile of rocks. Planes were parked wherever there was enough runway left to hold them.

  When I got out of the plane, the smell hit me. I was used to the heat—that was familiar—but this did not smell like Haiti. It did not smell like anything. The smell of the sea and vegetation was gone. All I could smell was a thick odor somewhat like smoke and rotting meat.

  I immediately noticed officials from Venezuela on the tarmac, including President Chávez. Then I saw the prime minister of Haiti, Jean-Max Bellerive. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. As he and his wife greeted us, she began speaking in gibberish.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. She kept stammering, “You must see the street. You must see the street. Everything is … You must see.”

  Those members of the Haitian parliament who had escaped before the building collapsed stood around on the runway. They had been evacuated to the airport because it was the only open space safe from falling buildings. The tarmac had become Haiti’s capitol.