Julio Debrosse

Born on July 21st, 1943, Julio Debrosse is the second-youngest son of Sylvia Joseph and Jules Debrosse in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He had an older brother, Yvelorme Debrosse, and two younger brothers, Edner Debrosse and Martino Debrosse. Some years after giving birth to her last son, Edner, Sylvia passed away. Her sister, Marie Joseph, raised Julio along with his brothers. He grew up helping his family run a tailoring service, learning various skills like press ironing, sewing, and fabric alterations. When he was a young man, he studied auto mechanics, eventually becoming a taxi driver. He raised his first two children with their mother, Nicole Paul, in Port-au-Prince. Nickolson was born in September 1971, and Marco in September 1974.

In 1979, Julio immigrated to the United States, specifically Queens, New York. Using the skills and knowledge he acquired in his homeland, he began a life for himself. Like many other immigrants, Julio sent money back home to support his sons. He worked as a taxi driver in New York City. It was then that he met Sandra Dabas, a young Haitian immigrant who hails from Port-au-Prince. The two had two children: Julie (December 1988) and Erica (October 1989). Julio’s need for adventure didn’t keep him tied down. Eventually, Julio and Sandra split. A young man in a robust city with a litter of four probably didn’t expect his life to take so many turns, but yet he persevered. Julio was a taxi driver for many years. In fact, for most of his life, that was his profession. He learned the ins and outs of boulevards, avenues, and turnpikes. He could tell you which bus connected to which train without hesitation, as if the New York City subway map itself were etched under his eyelids. Each time he blinked a new piece of information must have seared itself into his mind. While being on the go so often, he couldn’t help but find community. In every pocket of the city where the scents of diri jon jon, banan peze, and poisson frit could be found wafting through apartment air vents, pulverizing harsh winter chills, or melting into the thick, humid soup of the summers, Julio dove deep. In Haitian communities across the city, Julio found himself. If he wasn’t taking a fare, he was laughing, making jokes, playing records of old Kompa music, and eating rice, bread, and zaboka. This man loved rice and music.

He helped raise his younger brother Edner’s children: Edna, Deborah, Gregory, and Debbie. They were among the first of his nieces and nephews to experience secret exchanges of tiny strawberry candies tucked away from the deepest parts of his pockets while keeping his prized tic-tacs for himself. His family kept growing, and with it, children could be found in every extended Debrosse household. Julio liked kids, probably because he was still a big kid deep down inside. At parties, he would amp up the excitement by throwing poppers at children’s feet, causing them to disperse, screeching and laughing, and edging him to throw more.

Julio, after some years, met Yanick Thebaud. She, too, is a Haitian immigrant and also from Port-au-Prince. When they met, she was a single mother raising, at the time, her only child, Kevin Jean-Mary, born in April 1985. After some courting, Yanick was pregnant with Julio’s last child, the youngest, Sonny, in July of 1995. The same year, Julio and Yanick were married in September. With a litter of six, he found himself knee-deep in responsibilities, bills, and diapers. Little did he know his litter was yet to be completed. In 2005, Julio formally adopted Sandra’s youngest, Marceline, born in December 1991, as his own. It was that same year that he became a grandfather. His third eldest daughter, Julie, gave birth to Laniyah John, her first child. Later in 2011, Julie gave birth again to twins, Demetri and Devin.

Many of his children will probably first recall his love for knickknacks. Others would probably call him a pack rat. He was constantly acquiring random objects that also held the weight of treasure for him, especially things that needed fixing or TLC. He seemed to have an affinity for broken things. His favorite way to display his skills was to create homemade checkerboards. He would usually make no more than one or two a year. One could see him finding a quiet spot—shady but not too shady—because he needed enough sunlight to make the most precise measurements. The sawdust would dance through rays of light as they fell to the ground as he cut each mismatched panel to make the frames. When the work was done for the day, he would eat lunch or take a nap, sporting a random baseball cap.

When he wasn’t working on the checkerboards, he was still putting those hands to work. His most prized works were his kites. Those he made more of—three or four a year at most. This was a project even the youngest of his children were fascinated by, on top of the complete awe that their father could make something so grand out of such lackluster materials. He would set the kite to sail and wrestle with the breeze to find the perfect gust of wind to shoot it into the sky. Looking back now, one would suspect he learned such a thing in Haiti, in his youth, which is why he loved making them. Lifting them up into the air probably reminded him of the humid Caribbean’s summers, before adulthood, before children, before being an immigrant.

He wasn’t a perfect man. He supported his family in the ways that he could, in the ways that he knew how, and in the ways that the world would allow him to. He made his children laugh. He played pranks, scaring the life out of his children with the most atrocious monkey mask, long taken from him, thus ending a reign of terror. He taught us patience, diligence, and hard work. He taught us to laugh and go with the flow.

He taught us to enjoy the little things in life. For example, there was always a phrase he used to say. Sometimes it would make you laugh and irritate you; he used to say he was “flying in the sky like a butterfly.” We probably took what he said literally for many years. In hindsight, none of us expected that you would try to manifest peace and happiness every time you said it. None of us suspected it would be one of the most beloved phrases that passed your lips. After two long, hard years, we hope you’re finally somewhere free and at peace in the sky amongst the other butterflies.

We love you Papa