Sylvia Beauvoir…La Beaute’ Hai-teinne
US Naval Base, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba 1960.
On base, the officer’s wives had domestic and social duties. Taking care of their families came first of course but, once a week they met at the Officer’s Club for
luncheons. There, during their meal, they sometimes discussed the different ways they could help the families of enlisted men.
Sometimes these men were TAD (Temporary Assigned Duty) to other bases or on a ship serving a deployment. From time to time, every family suffered financial
and social inequities. With their hands tied by their social duties, officer’s wives hired domestics to help them with their household duties. Cheap
labor, their salary was set by a labor contract with Castro’s government at $18.00 a month.
Access to the base was restricted. These women were brought in from different places around the Caribbean. They could go back and forth once a
week. They were used by members of Castro’s communist government to spy and give information on their employers. These ladies were the only ones that
could travel back and forth. They had to play along to keep from being strip searched by the Cuban sentries at the gate. The guards usually pretended they
were looking for contraband and communiques to the members of the underground militia.
These women were tough, they had to be. The guards at the gate were rough on them, they performed their work, none to gently. The domestics were smart not to
carry much money as they traveled back and forth. Sometimes, they had to bribe the sentry’s at the gate. There were times when they had to offer them
favors to keep their money and the few possessions they purchased at the Navy Exchange.
These women came from all over the Caribbean, seeking better economic opportunities. Costa Rico, Haiti, Santa Domingo. Barbados, Trinidad, any place the Navy
had a port. Speaking English was a necessity.
Our first live-in-maid was Sylvia Beauvoir. Sylvia was from Port au Prince, Haiti. She spoke English, Spanish and French. She spoke with a thick
French Accent. She was tall, very black, with a beautiful smile and loved to wear bright colored clothes and wore her hair up, wrapped in a silk scarf
turban.
Our home had separate maids quarters built into the end of the house. Sylvia enjoyed her own privacy, her own bathroom and a great working environment.
Her room was mysteriously decorated with images of skulls in paintings, African carvings and bottles of unkown concoctions. After dark, she could walk down
to the outdoor movie lyceum just down the street from our house, watch the movies and socialize with the other domestics.
Mom felt guilty for only paying Silvia a paltry some, only $18 a month, but those were the rules. She made up for it, by giving Sylvia the run of the house,
decent hours and lots of benefits. My Mom was on the small side, compared to Sylvia, who was what I would call “vivacious.” Mom would give Sylvia a
pair of shoes or a pocketbook out of her closet. Sometimes she helped her remake one of her older dresses to fit, teaching Sylvia how to use her sewing
machine. Sylvia loved to wear Mom’s jewelry, makeup and perfume. The kind of stuff that good friends would share with each other. They became good
friends.
Mom heard Sylvia sing a tune in French. The melody sounded like a church hymn that she had sung as a child back in rural Georgia. They got to talking about
it and they realized that the meanings were the same in either language. Mom and Silvia shared their background stories. Some of the girls that Mom
grew up with were black. They were friends, raised together and went to the same church. They shared stories and games and socialized quite a
bit. Come to find out, Mom and Sylvia shared similar backgrounds. They came from big families, were raised on a farm and liked going to church to sing.
Mom believed in “haints” (spirits) and as did Sylvia. In fact, Sylvia being from Haiti believed in and practiced Voo Doo. Almost every evening ended
with the two of them sitting on the verandah, in the dark, sipping concoctions made from rum, telling ghost stories and tales about “haints.”
One day, while playing near the ravine behind our house, I fell out of a tree. I busted my gourd pretty good. This was before our car was shipped in to the
base. Dad had his old beat up jalopy at work. Mom saw me with blood streaming down my face. Then she started screaming, going into hysterics.
Even though the base had a hospital, it was too far to walk in an emergency situation.
The paramedics were Navy Corpsmen and they were good at first aid, but Mom had her fill of them from botching my brother Duane’s delivery at Key West Naval Base a
few years before. She considered them useless. When Sylvia volunteered to take charge, Mom trusted and let her take control. Sylvia made me lay
down on the couch then she made a poultice out of over ripe mangoes and pressed it on my gash to stop the bleeding.
It worked, the bleeding soon stopped. She probed my skull with her fingers to make sure it wasn’t cracked. After that she cleaned the wound and rubbed a
gooey substance that she got out of a jar that she kept on the top shelf of her closet, right behind some old pocket books. (Don’t ask me how I knew where she
stored it.) Sylvia went into the back yard and gathered spider webs from the grove of mango trees. She the placed the silken webs over the cut, to hold the
flaps of skin together and shield it from outside influences. After that, she wrapped my head in one of her scarves. Oh boy, I looked like a
pirate. By the time Dad got home from work, I was asking Mom if I could go outside to play.
I can still remember Mom hollering at me, as I headed out the door. “Stay your ass outta them trees”.
My Mother liked to entertain, Sylvia enjoyed her role as a member of our family so much that she would cheerfully work when she didn’t have to, to ensure Mom’s
parties a success. All officer’s wives feel the need to entertain. Mom was no different.
Bob Hope and his USO tour would use Gitmo as a shakedown cruise, to get the bugs out before they entertained the troops overseas. When they came down every
year, their quarters were across the street from us at the BOQ. (Bachelor Officer’s Quarters). The first year we were there, Mom sent me over to
“borry” some olives for her martinis.
In the Caribbean everybody drinks rum. It was so cheap. I think my parents bought a quart for 95 cents. They kept their own reserves of whiskey,
scotch, gin, vodka and brandy, plenty of ginger ale, vermouth and cocktail glasses, with the cute little napkins and swizzle sticks. Once a month the
Officer’s would send a plane to San Juan, Puerto Rico to restock. What they referred to as a “booze run.”
Mom already knew that the BOQ didn’t have much stock as far as refined liquors went and that’s why she sent me over, to “borry” some olives, just to get her foot
in the door. After a few minutes Mom would come looking for me, saying, “Where is that boy?” One story leads to another and it wasn’t long before Mom
had Bob Hope and most of his USO entourage would walk across the street, to our house.
We had a houseful. Zsa Zsa, Bob Hope, Sandra Dee, Perry Como, Andy Williams, Anita Bryant, Jack Benny, I mean these were famous people and I was just a little kid
but I knew who they were. There wasn’t any TV available on base in those days but we got to see movie stars in news reels and their movies every week on the big
screen. Gitmo may have been a small base but we had 4 movie theaters.
Mom shooed us boys out of the way. She had Sylvia put us to bed. We stayed in bed about 5 minutes, to give them time to forget about us. Then we
were out the window, via the tree limb, climbing to a perch so that we could see the show through another window.
Mr. Bob liked his gin, the more he drank the more he liked to cut up, practicing his dance routines and telling corny jokes. “A man came up to me the other
day. He said he hadn’t had a bite in days, so I bit him.” (Yeah, I know, corny). His wife Dolores accompanied him. She carried a small notebook that he
would use to jot down anything that he thought was funny, to be used later. He used Mom’s umbrella as a cane and did a soft shoe tap dance around the
bar. He was a real character. Anita Bryant likes to tell everybody nowadays that she is a teetotaler but let me tell you she was drinking plenty that
night. She played the guitar and the accordion, sang songs and joined everyone else in getting bombed.
Sandra Dee sat at the dining room table. This was about the same time she married Bobby Darren. She had a telegram from him, that she kept reading over
and over. She occupied her time with a cigar box full of crayons and one of my brother’s coloring books.
Dad interacted with Andy Williams, they seemed to hit it off. I would say that they were the more serious people in the crowd. Dad always had to watch
his alcohol intake, he wanted to be in control of things, the OinC.
I couldn’t help but notice that Ms. Zsa Zsa could hold her liquor better than anybody else. She was like my Mom, both those women could drink. Ms. Zsa
Zsa and Sylvia would speak to each other in French. She tried to make a big show, talking about her diamonds but Mr. Bob would cut her off short and tell
everyone, “Don’t let her fool you, they’re all glass, the real ones have been in the pawn shop for years.” Then he would go on to tease Ms. Zsa Zsa about how
many ex-husbands she had. I think it was part of their act. She was very glamorous. She would come back with, “I love men and men love me.”
Dad and Andy Williams practiced a Homer Jethro routine that they were gonna use in the Carnivale Charity event for the Navy Wives Club. They wore straw hats,
rubbed burnt cork on their face and black wax on their teeth. The idea was to raise money for Navy Relief to help the families of enlisted men. I can
still remember the tune they practiced, “Fascination. “She had nine buttons on her nightgown, but could only fasten eight.” (I guess you had to of been there.)
The women folk all got together between drinks, using Mom’s sewing machine, they sewed for a while to adjust the outfits for their dance routine. Laughing,
drinking and telling jokes ‘til the wee hours of the night.
My brothers and I were awestruck with Sandra Dee, she was something to look at all right. Some of the others played pinochle while a few others played
“acey-duecy.” They were all having a good time. Since the Carnivale was a charity event to raise money for Navy Relief, the good folks from the USO had
volunteered to help. They made dance costumes and with Sylvia’s help, they practiced dance routines in our living room. Our house was pretty big, four
bedrooms, three baths, 10 foot ceilings. I remember that it was awful hot, the high ceilings and opened windows helped to keep it cool. No one on the base
had an air conditioner in those days.
Sylvia told everyone that when Caribbean women dance, they don’t think about what they do first, but rather let their bodies think for them. Swaying and
reacting to the music. Sylvia would see to it that everyone’s glass was full when she made her rounds and acted as a dance coach.
She was an eye full, tall, graceful, with very black skin, wearing shiny bracelets, with skull like charms that made a jingle when she danced. She wore a
colorful skirt, one of Mom’s old dresses slit up the side so it would fit. A yellow scarf wrapped around the top of her head like a turban.
Someone remarked how pretty she was and Mom said something like, “You better tell her she’s pretty or she’ll put the Hoo Doo on you. (In Haiti the population
is 70% Catholic, 30% Protestant, but its 100% “Voo Dou.”)
Hearing this opened up a new topic of conversation for every one. It seemed like they all had a ghost story they wanted to tell. Ms. Zsa Zsa told us
that in her home country of Hungary there were many spooky stories of haunted castles, people told tales of Count Dracula and the spirits of the dead that float in
the wind.
Someone asked if we had a “Ouija” board? Mom said no, but she dug up a deck taro cards, saying maybe Sylvia could read their fortune. Sylvia was
standing in front of Anita Bryant, who was by this time, pretty well lit. Anita was being kinda snooty to Sylvia. She might have been a little racists
or a little jealous, but I’m sure it was just the cheap rum. Ms. Bryant asked Sylvia sarcastically if she could conger up “spirits?” Sylvia, with her
beautiful accent said, that it was up to them, “but if that is what you want,” she said she would try.
Excitedly, after hearing this everyone got geared up for a séance. Sylvia asked that everybody that wanted to participate, to sit in a chair around the
dining room table. Mr. Bob said, “No thanks, I’ve got enough critics and he watched the goings on from the other side of the room. He and his wife Dolores,
played cards. A large candle was lit and placed on the table. After lighting several other candles around the room, the lights were dimmed and everyone
joined hands.
Sylvia spoke to no one in particular but said that as a guide it was her job to tell the crowd that everyone inherits their spirits from their blood lines, from
previous generations of family members. She told everyone that most white people have lost their connection with their ancestors after many hundreds of years
of neglect. She said that the people of Haiti stayed in constant contact with their ancestors and that she herself was an African princess.
Where it came from I don’t know, but Sylvia placed a bowl of what I remember to be chicken blood on the table and a bowl of salt. Then, using a fore finger,
she dabbed a spot of blood on everyone’s chin. To me, it seemed almost comical seeing a bunch of adults facing each other, holding hands. In the
semi-darkness, you could see the reflection from the light of the candle, dancing in their eyes. She got every one to join in as she started to chant, the
same words over and over.
Sylvia started swaying back and forth, setting the mood. I believe her chants were in French so I don’t know exactly what they said, perhaps no one else did
either. Each verse got louder and louder. What she said didn’t seem to matter to any one, they were just repeating what they heard her say and copying
her, they started swaying in unison.
Sylvia started to ask questions of individuals or she would tell them that someone wishes to talk to you, stuff like that. There were times when suddenly
without warning she would unclasp her grip and reach into the bowl of salt and get a pinch and throw it over the shoulder of someone and say, “Sacre Bleur, scat,
not you, get out of here.” Even her dark complexion turned pale. Now that got to me. She was spooky.
If Sylvia was ascared, so was I. That got me to feeling kinda eerie. Sylvia would ask the spirits a question for someone. While she was waiting
for the answer, the candle would sometimes flicker or the light would get dimmer. When it was Ms. Anita’s turn, Sylvia’s eyes rolled back in her head ‘til
all you could see was the whites of her eyes. I don’t know if she did it on purpose or what, but she started to shimmy, spilling the bowl of blood across the
top of the table. It sure looked real to me.
A gust of wind came through the open French doors behind her and unfurled the curtains that blew up to the ceiling and the light from the candle went out. The only
light was coming from a candle on a shelf in the next room.
Suddenly, Ms. Bryant rose, she grabbed the bowl of salt. Her shadow danced on the wall from the dim candlelight as she threw all of the contents through the
doorway into the night. Then she went into a fit, spouting off at the mouth.Yeah, even though she was slurring her speech, I could hear every word. She
could still “Out cuss a sailor,” alright.
Every one got up and scattered. My brother’s and I had gotten a face full of salt. We had crawled around the house to watch the goings on, through the
open doors. When we saw this, we decided it was a good time to beat feet back through our bedroom window into the house and get in back in bed where we was suppose
to be.
The séance was over. You know, that could have been the night when Anita Bryant swore off alcohol for good.
Sylvia left us soon afterwards. We were told that she failed a TB test and was shipped back to her native country of Haiti. Mom always swore that Ms.
Anita had something to do with it. As far as I know, we never did hear from either of them again.
Mom acted different after that. Every year when the USO returned, everybody would bring mom party favors for her bar, some would ask about Sylvia. She
would always give vague answers.
The members of the USO troupe would vary from year to year, (the next year it was Connie Francis and Connie Stevens) but there was always someone that would
remember to ask about Sylvia. At times like this, Mom would just smile and stare out the window, our curtains now pinned to the wall, watching the wind
gusting across the bay.
Until the day she died, my Mom was always terrified of “Haints.” She was leery of an open window. If she walked by and the wind blew the curtain up in
the air or if it even moved, she was out of the house and down the street. Saying, “Somebody go in the house and shut that damn window.”
