Photos

I wanted to put a photo or two with each blog entry to give a better idea of what I was writing about. Unfortunately, I could not figure out how to do that and after 30 minutes I finally gave up. Instead, I picked a few of my favorites - trying to get a range of all the things I wrote about and experienced. I hope you enjoy.

I'd also like to take a moment to thank you, dear reader, for sharing this journey with me. It's been nice to have you undergo it all with me. Your support, emails, and comments meant more than I could ever describe. It was quite a ride and I'm thankful you were there for every turn in the road. Thank you deeply.


The last day at the after-school orphanage. Saying goodbye to my kids.

An outdoor lesson at the after-school orphanage. This little boy knew the answer but then was shy coming up to the front to share with everyone.

One of the beautiful children at the baby orphanage.

A bench I built for the school-build. Very exciting to have done it myself!

The crew working on the beginning construction of the 4th school.
- Our guide up Mount Kinai and her family just outside their home.

Children at the after-school orphanage painting water scenes like Monet.

The tent was so full that many of the children had to squish together on the ground. But they all still found a way to paint.

The "quiet signal."


The Capital Building in Port Au Prince.


The streets of Leogane.
On the drive through Port Au Prince.

Where the babies spend most of the days in the baby orphanage.The room is even smaller than it appears in this photo.

After jumping off the highest cliff from the waterfalls in Jacmel.

With Jean-Pierre (far back), Mimi, and Jean Pierre's brother (to the left) at their house in Jacmel.

WIth Victane.

My tent on the roof of the base. The background is a mixture of storm clouds and mountains mingling together.

The "tent school" we help construct on our climb up Mount Kinai.

One of the local children on a rubble site helping push a wheelbarrow full of broken concrete. You can't tell from the picture but he is barefoot and pant-less.

Jen and I on the completed rubble site where we met Victane and also found out the 5 people who buried in the rubble after the earthquake were rescued without casualties.

Reading with the children at the baby orphanage. The boy on the right was the one who wouldn't let go of my hand. The boy who broke my heart leaving.

In front of the tent for the after-school orphanage with some of the children.


* Thank you again. Feel free to keep up-to-date with me on my website at www.angiebullaro.com or subscribe to my youtube page
http://www.youtube.com/user/abullaro (this is a brand new page and still under construction - it should be up fully shortly!) *

Closing Thoughts

It’s been over 4 weeks since I have been home from Haiti. A lot can happen in 4 weeks. In 4 weeks I restructured an after-school program and cleared the rubble from a handful of homes, and helped build the shell of a school, and climbed a mountain, and learned Creole, and found a new place to call home in the open arms of Leogane. In the US, a lot can happen in 4 weeks also. I was overtaken with and recovered fully from Dengue Fever, presented with several interesting and very different job opportunities, stuck on an emotional rollercoaster, said goodbye to two of my closest friends who left the city, and watched my brother say “I do.” Time passes quickly, no matter where you are. It’s just amazing how differently time passes.

Yes, I have recovered nicely from Dengue, despite my 4 days in the hospital and infectious disease scare. As to be expected, the first thing I did after feeling better was…you guessed it – run. Of all the things I had been missing while stuck inside resting, trying to beat out the mosquito born sickness, fresh air and running were top of my list. It was like taking in a lungful of oxygen after being suffocated for days. It was like finally being able to move again after too long of lying paralyzed. It was medicine for my body, heart, and soul.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in these four weeks. I’ve written several closing remarks and discarded them all, mainly because I hadn’t realized I wasn’t ready yet to write what needed to be said, that was still being worked on deep inside me. Two weeks out with Dengue Fever gives one a lot of time to think. My thoughts went everywhere. For most of those two weeks, I must admit, they were rather negative. Not towards my sickness, I still find it rather comical that that was the big “thing” I came home with, but more towards life, my life, and how I felt back in the meat of my existence. Being cooped up in a sunless apartment without fresh air can do that to you.

But once I was able to walk outside, everything began to change. The moment the sun kissed my cheek my heart of ice started to melt. The more I walked around outside the more I shed the negativity and found a new perspective I hadn’t expected and hadn’t had for quite some time. When you can’t do anything for two weeks, you realize how blessed you are when you can. I had a heightened sensitivity for how lucky I was to be healthy and mobile…and alive. It wasn’t just the sickness, but the two weeks of milling over every part of my life that brought me a certain clarity – one I had not anticipated. As if everything was going to be just fine. It would all work out. It always does. Believe me, dear reader, it always does. And I let go of so much stress and anxiety. I left go of so much baggage – and just let myself be- for someone who is used to always “doing,” it’s hard to allow yourself to “be.” It took Dengue Fever to give me that outlook and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Thinking back, I can’t help but wonder if a new perspective is what I was supposed to learn on my trip. Working far too many hours at jobs I didn’t like to be able to follow my dreams and then getting so bogged down at work that I wasn’t able to do what it is I came to NYC to do started to take a toll on me. A lot of things were wearing me down. And the fresh, clear viewpoint I was supposed to gain in Haiti got lost somewhere over the water between Port Au Prince and New York City. So sickness knocked me out for a couple weeks during which time I had nothing better to do than re-evaluate everything. Sometimes it takes a little more to get my attention. But this time I listened. I knew there was a reason for everything that was happening and I wasn’t missing out on it again, who knows what the next extreme would be! It may take a bit, but sooner or later I always come around.

…

It would have been easy to fall into the self-pity and “why” trap following my return. The last thing I needed was to take more time off work and watch as the unpaid bills pile grew larger and larger. And after a month of service it didn’t seem “fair” to get so sick. But I learned a long time ago that life isn’t fair – if I ever doubted that my mother was sure to remind me. I don’t know how many times I heard “no good deed goes unpunished” during my spout of Dengue. I laughed; it’s such a funny and seemingly true phrase. But all I kept thinking was how fortunate I was that I didn’t get a 103-degree fever in the 106-degree temperature in Leogane. I thanked my lucky stars that I came back from a disease-ridden 3rd world country with a viral illness and not malaria. There were so many reasons to be grateful. Was it a disappointment? Yes. But did I get the better side of the coin? Absolutely.

The week of recovery following the hospital I contemplated that peculiar phrase over and over. No good deed goes unpunished. And then came the day I went to the billing office in Jacobi Medical Center. One office visit to the Parasitological Lab with over 20 tests run and loads of tubes of blood drawn, one night in the ER where I received both a CT scan and a spinal tap, 3 nights and 4 days in the hospital, and plenty more tests and blood drawn – with no insurance. The man behind the desk apologized for the amount and handed me a bill for 170 dollars. I nearly fell out of my chair. Based on my earnings they were able to scale the bill down from thousands and thousands of dollars to 170 for EVERYTHING! Also, having looked at the original bill, I was aware that the generous and kind doctors who had taken care of me had left off several things. Not only was the bill unbelievably low, it also covered me for the next 6 months. If I need to come to the hospital or ER at all between now and January I can go to Jacobi free of charge. Incredible.

I walked back to the bus station, partially in shock, yet ecstatic over the news. And it hit me. Like someone turning the light on or finally pulling the shades. Bad things happen. That’s a part of life. No matter how much good you do, no matter how many people you help, no matter how generous you are – bad things still happen. Everyone suffers at some point. We all hurt, and break and cry, and fall apart. Nothing can stop that. But I believe that the more “positive” you put into the world, the more you get back. I wasn’t being punished for helping. It wasn’t some sort of reverse karma. One way or another I was getting sick. But because of the past month, I was cut a break on my illness. I was cut a break on the bill. I was cut a break on so many things. Does that make sense? Are you getting what I’m getting at? We can’t stop bad things from occurring, but we can lessen the blow – I believe – by the works we do. Maybe, just maybe, sometimes all the good we do can ease the pain when it comes knocking.

So do good, dear readers. Give more than is comfortable, care more than is safe, believe more than is wise, and at all times, with all people, allow yourself to love. Maybe that is actually the “big thing” I was waiting for. Find joy in everything. In the midst of the storm there is still much to be thankful for. There is always something to be thankful for. Take each day as it comes because each day has so much to offer if we open ourselves to the unexpected.

Yes, find joy in everything… that is something I learned first hand from the people of Leogane.

Day 4: The Aftermath

It is the 4th day since I have been back home in NYC. I know this blog was only supposed to last the duration of my trip, but rather lost in a daze and feeling quite out of place in my own life - I felt compelled to write about my experience on the other side of the world. I'm not sure if you're even out there anymore, dear reader. But if you are...so am I.

It was strange to wake up in Haiti on Saturday morning and go to bed in NYC Saturday night. Can you imagine two places more opposite? Yet the impact of this separation and the weight of the trip were hardly noticeable from behind a 101 degree temperature and a body so achy I was certain it was going to fall apart. Before I left for Haiti I got a half dozen shots and a bottle of pills to ward off the symptoms of malaria. With these pills I was instructed that if I had any (with an emphasis on "any") flu-like symptoms in the 6months that followed my return, I would have to see a doctor because it could be malaria. I laughed as I put my hand on my burning forehead - of course I'd get malaria. I went to Haiti expecting something big to happen, something life changing. Who knew that "big thing" that was so life changing would be malaria. It's actually very comical if you think about it. I laughed.

Two days later after an entire Sunday spent at a 103 degree temperature - hotter than it was outside - I finally went to the hospital to get some tests done. A friend of a friend of a friend made time for me at a city hospital in the Bronx. She specializes in parasitic studies so she seemed the perfect doctor to see, particularly when you don't have insurance - so my other choice was some doctor at a crowded city hospital who doesn't have time for any patient so you get half-assed care after spending all day in a dirty waiting room. Yup, I'd definitely try my chances with this other doctor.

The PA filled 6 small tubes and 2 rather large jars of my blood for more test work than I have ever had taken. A million questions more tests a few cups and 5 hours later and I finally was able to leave. At that point I was malaria free...for now. Malaria can show itself anywhere up to a year after returning, even if you're tested as soon as you're home. I'll stick with optimism for now and assume I'm in the clear - it's best to never underestimate the power of positive thinking.

I woke up today without a fever and feeling much more like a human being. Since Saturday I really had been just a shell of a human laying sick on the couch like a zombie and crying over ridiculous things because I was so tired I couldn't think straight. Even still, through all the fever and aches I surprisingly had a massive appetite. What I craved most were cold milk and some sort of chocolatey cereal. In two days I have finished almost an entire gallon of milk and nearly 2 boxes of cereal (powdered milk is really terrible, believe me!) In Leogane all I had wanted was a huge NY slice of pizza, but after the slice I had from the place next door that left me in the bathroom for an entire day, my appetite for pizza suddenly dwindled.

I haven't thought twice about being able to flush my toilet paper or not having to spray bug spray before bed or soap that comes from a pump. But I have found it hard to take showers that are even luke-warm. A month of water that's never colder than rain water and you start to get used to it. The warm water that's usually too cold felt like it was scalding my skin. I also have been finding it ludacris how much water I have used to shower. I waste more water turning on the shower and undressing than I did cleaning my entire body in Leogane. Yet, it's hard not to stand in the shower for far longer than you need when you know the water will just keep coming. Shame on me, especially after witnessing the lack of water first-hand. I guess old habits really do die hard.

Everyone asks if I'm happy to be home or if I miss Haiti. I fnd it's easier just to lie - it's so hard to explain what I'm really feeling, especially when what I'm feeling is not much of anything. Or I tell them I've hardly had time to think about it since I've been so sick (which is the truth.) Mostly I just feel numb. It is completely normal to be back, which doesn't feel right. In all actuality, it's as if I never went - like it was all just a dream. If it wasn't for the huge mound of dirty clothes that lies on the floor at the foot of my bed, I'd swear I had never left. I wonder when it will sink in.

It's a little difficult to fall back into my old routines, mostly because I thought I would be over them by now and apparently I'm not. It doesn't feel right to go back to catering where I serve people with far too much money, when I just spent so much time serving people with far too little. I'm trying to cope with that right now. I'm trying to figure out where I'm supposed to go from here. It's feels a bit of a let down to be back to how it was. Then again, it doesn't feel much like anything.

Day 28: Ce Fini

Last day. I pretend it’s not even though everyone asks if it is. I still pretend it’s not. The team leader of the school build had asked one of the guys who recently joined the team if he’d find another job for the day so that I could spend my last day on the school. It was very kind of both of them. It was also the perfect way to spend my last day working. The school build is an all day site – meaning you head out in the morning, eat lunch on site (cooked by one of the neighborhood women) and don’t come back until the end of the work day. It was nice to spend the whole last day working off base.

I had worked the first morning at the school build, before heading off to Jacmel. It had now been exactly one week and the volunteers had come so far. All the beams for the walls were up and we were working on tinning the roof. This meant I spent the majority of the day climbing along the structure like a monkey and taking in the breathtaking countryside from the peak of the roof- my kind of day. Unlike almost every other site, this school is down a dirt road that cuts through corn fields and sugar cane on both sides. There are a few broken down houses and several tents around the school but it’s mostly farm land with a mountain-painted backdrop. It’s beautiful.

In the afternoon we watched a threatening storm blow in and right past. Seeing it from above was a like a sneak peak at an upcoming feature. We ended the day feeling very accomplished and ¾ of the roof finished. I reveled in the fact that I got to spend my last hours adding to Haiti, helping to build it up. Then we headed to the taptap with a gaggle of children following. A few of the children had helped tar the nails. While we were loading up I saw that one had some tar on his hand still, something poisonous particularly for children who constantly put their hands in their mouth. I took out my hand sanitizer and barely squeezed any in his hand before I was surrounded with reaching hands. “Keep your hands low and say ‘please’ or ‘s’il vous plait’ and I will give you some,” I instructed in Creole. 20 voices rang out in unison “please!” 20 hands received squirts of hand sanitizer. We had a mini lesson on remembering to wash our hands with soap especially after playing or using the bathroom and then did another round of squirts. They loved the smell of it. They giggled at the way it felt between their fingers. One little boy rubbed his hands on the top of his – apparently that needed cleaning too. I boarded the truck empty of hand cleaner and full of the smell of clean children.

…

At the end of every meeting, whoever is leaving before the next meeting can stand and say something before all the volunteers and staff. Six people, including myself were leaving; I was the last to speak. There was so much to say, yet so much had been said before. “Give each other a break and assume the best of each other. It’s important to remember to lock the tool shed (a constant cause of frustration at the meetings) but it’s more important to remember why we’re here. Spend time with the community. Love the children. Learn the language. And go to the orphanage.” Those were my main thoughts.

On my way to pack one of the directors on base stopped to give me a hug. This entire month I was quite certain she did not like me. I was positive she was one of the people who viewed me in the wrong light, misperceiving my intentions and passion . I was taken aback when she wrapped her arms around me. She complimented all of my work with the orphanage. Then she pulled out a packet of paper that was issued by the department of education (or someone like that) that explained the 3 main areas of which all schools would focus on and begin to rebuild themselves around. She said she had been looking through these papers and realized that I had already focused on all of those in the orphanage. She was impressed and proud. I was speechless. She also complimented my passion and my ability to maximize resources and times. “I don’t know how many times I saw you get other volunteers to help you cut out shapes for lessons at 8pm at night. It was truly impressive,” she said. And you think things you do go unnoticed. I’ve learned that nothing, good or bad, goes unnoticed.

We talked a little longer about education and then she told me her long-term goal (now that HODR would be staying in Leogane until at least the end of 2011) was to build a community center where children could come each day to learn something different. Perhaps chess one day, painting another. “And they could have a library,” I said. The lack of books is constantly on my brain, and I’ve been formulating for weeks now how to remedy that – what type of NGO I could build that would allow for children to have books in their own language (something we take for granted – how could we not?) I couldn’t contain my excitement as she spoke. She said it was a long shot and of all the ideas that are discussed very few ever come into fruition. Running a community center in Haiti would be a dream come true for me. I assured her with as much fervor as was physically possible that if this idea goes into work I will indeed be back. I would most likely be back either way (I won’t be able to stay away from Haiti for long – if it wasn’t for debt I would have never left in the first place.) She put the idea in my head, an idea that had been brewing but had not come into its own yet. Maybe she would use HODR to get the ball rolling. Or maybe I would…

...

A woman who I have become very close with and who I admire deeply is adopting one of the babies from the orphanage. Just the thought brings tears to my eyes. She is everything I hope to be in 15 years. Strong, intelligent, brave, and full of so much life with an incredibly beautiful spirit. She has two grown boys and a finalized divorce, and soon a little Haitian daughter. She saved this girl’s life in every way a life can be saved. This child will never go hungry, or get scabies, or know what it means to go without. She will not get tossed on the streets when she is too old for the orphanage or find herself pregnant at 14. She will be educated, and well traveled, and loved beyond words. The thought of all that is too much for one heart to comprehend. She told me that she knew she was coming for something big. She knew there was something larger than herself at work in this trip. The minute she saw this baby it was love at first sight for both of them and she knew right then what was her purpose. It was beautiful.

Part of me was a little sad; I had the same thoughts for the trip. I knew something big was going to happen. I knew my life was going to change. I knew there was a plan bigger than myself at work. But as of now, nothing had been revealed. I laughed gently to myself - God has a funny way of waiting until the last possible minute. I haven't been forgotten. I'm just getting a lesson in faith. I put the negative thoughts aside, knowing my answer was coming. It’s hard not to think about what I will do for work, or how I will pay my 900 dollar rent in two weeks when I have 12 dollars in my bank account. It’s easy to fall into anxiety, but I keep reminding myself to be patient and to have faith. Two things I constantly need to remind myself of – patience and faith. There is so much at work that I don’t see. There is something coming. I don’t know when it will come. I don’t know how it will come. I just know it will. And that is what I put all of my hope in. And that is what keeps me smiling and moving forward. A lesson learned from the people of Haiti.

Day 27: In A Bubble

Today was my last day of rubbling. There was much I could’ve done with the baby orphanage, helping to move the re-structuring process along, but I felt I needed one last afternoon swinging a sledge hammer and pushing a wheelbarrow. It was a new site we went to and the team leader who was in charge on my very first day of rubbling was now also in charge on my last – it felt very appropriate. And like my first day, she called on me to speak with the homeowner, even though there was a better French speaker on the team than myself. Turned out that the homeowner did not speak French, only Creole, so I had to communicate with her solely in Creole. If pride is what I felt for my accomplishment on the first day for making use of my language, then this was something far beyond that. I had come so far in Creole, enough so to have a conversation (as minimal and George of the Jungle it was) with a local woman. It was a great way to end my time moving rubble.

...

I am beside myself about the orphanage this afternoon. It was the best day we have had in the month I have been here. I could not have asked for more, I could not have been happier to leave any other way. It was as if they knew this was my last time and they wanted to make it as special as possible.

We arrived at the tent with the rain, which most times keeps a good chunk of the children from attending. With such a small group and the rain falling, we decided not to split the children up and to do a full class lesson inside. Half way through the lesson as the rain subsided the tent quickly began to fill. As I mentioned in earlier posts, though the tent is meant for the orphanage the other children (and many adults) from around the neighborhood trickle in, filtering their way throughout the orphans. By the time I was ready for the paint lesson there were over 55 children, 15 volunteers, and at least 15 local adults. That’s almost 100 people in a tent meant for around 20 – 30 people with 4 tables that seat maybe 6 children squished, 8 children when they sit on each other’s laps. That’s a lot of people and not a lot of space. But…it worked. It made it even more amazing.

For my last day I really wanted to do a fun activity. My children back home always loved to paint, especially because I loved to paint with them. Today we used watercolors to paint an ocean sea with a boat (we had just learned modes of transportation) and some sort of depiction of weather (last week’s lesson.) We also took a few minutes to talk about Claude Monet. 55 Haitian children in bare feet with dirty face repeated “Claude Monet” with enthusiasm, and my heart soared.

If you ever spent more than a minute with a child you can imagine the excitement and mayhem of giving that many children something as fantastic and special as a paintbrush and paint. The tables weren’t large enough for all the paper, at least every three children shared one set of paint, and half of the children sat on a blanket on the rubble floor trying to paint in their laps. You couldn’t move around the tent. And the sheer volume of people made for an extremely noisy working environment. You can’t paint with that much noise. I also cringe at the thought of losing my class to racket. Mid-painting I called for everyone’s attention and with the help of all the volunteers and our quiet symbol we were able to stop all the children mid-stroke and get their attention. Quite a feat, believe me.

Normally I leave the orphanage hoarse, having spent the whole time with a loud voice that will reach even the child in the back corner of the tent. This was the first time I lowered my voice. I talked no higher than a whisper and our translator did the same. The surprise of a soft voice and the silence emanating from everyone else brought an extreme calm to this 100-person tent. “When you paint,” I explained, “imagine you are in a bubble. In that bubble it is just you and your creativity. No one can touch you or disturb you. You are free to paint whatever you want.” The children made imaginary bubbles. And then I told them to stay in that bubble so that they - and everyone else - could paint the best they possibly could. For 30 minutes the sound level hardly rose over a peep. I looked around at the massive amounts of bodies in the tiny space, saw them all hard at work lost in their own imagination, and my face glowed with joy. Pure and utter joy. A joy you cannot buy. A joy you cannot define. A joy that comes only now and then like a rainbow after a storm. You have to catch it and hold it in your heart forever because its life is short lived, but its imprint is eternal.

The woman next door who holds our tables for us between classes came over for the entire lesson and after we exchanged numbers. We hugged several times and neither of us wanted to leave. My favorite little boy who is partially mentally disabled, showed up for the first time in weeks. Again, he must’ve known I was leaving. I hugged him tightly; so proud of all the work he had done today, so proud of his beautiful spirit. His smile, the brightest I have ever seen, was a sign of the hope for the future. I think about his future and how hard it will be for him; Haiti does not have any resources for children with disabilities and no education on the subject (to have a disability is a curse- most likely the reason he is an orphan, having been abandoned.) My heart breaks for the rough life he will have. But in that moment, his face beaming and his hand in mind, I took in only his soul and his smile and I prayed God keeps His hand on him until He calls him home.

We climbed on the taptap all 15 of us, me standing on the bumper gripping the bed door tightly with one hand and waving ecstatically with the other. A little boy hobbled after us, waving and smiling for about 100 feet and then fell back. The taptap turned the corner, leaving a piece of my heart right there with the orphan children of Leogane. I choked back the tears – today was too beautiful to cry, even if they were tears of joy.

Day 26: The Freedom to Choose

The orphanage I’ve been working with these past few weeks is mainly for older children (average ages between 4-12.) The other orphanage HODR has been working is the “baby” orphanage where children range from infants to a few children around 9 and 10 years. This morning was the first time I visited the baby orphanage and I saw how opposite the two orphanages were. This second orphanage is exactly what you think when you think orphanage – the children sleep there and spend all of their time there. I wish I could say wonderful things about it, but I left there feeling incredibly low.

The top floor of the orphanage was destroyed; a piece of scrap metal covers the hole to the roof that the stairs lead to – the only thing keeping the children from climbing onto the “roof.” All of the children and staff sleep in a tent in the front yard. There are around 30 children in the orphanage and I can’t imagine how more than 15 people sleep in this tent. The structure is one big room, a small room with a few metal cribs that are completely full of clothes and junk and one has some files in it which I assume are the children’s files, another room for clothes and food (all of which are thrown about in heaps and piles because there isn’t a single shelf or storage unit anywhere), a bathroom that the children don’t use (they go to a hole outside behind the house), and another room we weren’t allowed to see. The children do not go to school. The people who run the orphanage claim that another NGO comes in to teach them English a couple times a week, but another volunteer said she has yet to see that happen. Even if this NGO came, they would teach the children English which is a futile attempt in my opinion because a majority of the children don’t even know how to speak in Creole yet.

The children literally spend all day in the one big room where they simply lay on the floor and roll around. Remember that these children aren’t all babies, and yet they have nothing else to do and nowhere else to go so they just roll. The infants don’t get enough attention so their muscles are tight and they only stretch when our volunteers come. Children who wet themselves stay wet unless we adamantly point out that they went to the bathroom in their clothes. At that point if they do take notice, the staff only take off the soiled clothes and let the children run around naked, still dirty.

All of the kids are starving for attention and love (and food - they eat some sort of mush military meal that is mainly a sugar rush from which they quickly come down hard.) Many have developed mental and emotional dysfunctions and anger problems. Some of the older children operate on a far lower mental level then their age would deem appropriate. And a chunk of toddlers still haven’t learned to speak or communicate at all. One boy about 9 years old lays around all day with a blank stare, not communicating with anyone. I fear for the thought of his life when he is too old to be taken care of in the orphanage anymore.

Before I go any further, I don’t want you to think this is all the fault of the people who run the orphanage. They are under-staffed, with limited to no resources, no money, and not enough space. They are doing the best they can with what they have and are always trying to learn more to help the children and themselves. But how do you support 30 children in Haiti when you can’t even support yourself?

I walked into the orphanage and lost my heart right there. One little boy walked to me instantly, put his hands up, and crawled onto my lap not to leave again until the end of the day. Each time I tried to put him down he’d cry and scream. So I didn’t put him down. Truthfully, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to ever put him down. I could’ve walked out with him and brought him home with me without ever thinking twice. When it came time to leave I finally had to free myself from his grasp which was one of the most heart wrenching things I have experienced in the past month. I laid him on the floor, kicking and crying, and he caught hold of my finger with his tiny fist and held on for dear life. I nearly started balling myself.

I left the orphanage very low. And very overwhelmed. There’s so much to do. Shelves and storage to be built. Chairs and tables to be made (there is one tiny picnic style table for 30 kids and no chairs.) They do not have nearly enough books and the very few they have are not even in Creole. How can children learn when they don’t even have books in their own language? Or books at all? And our program with the children needs an incredible amount of structure. Overwhelmed indeed.

The afternoon was spent building a new, more structured program. It took some persuasion to convince the other volunteers who work on the class that structure is possible. It is easy to find excuses why children can't learn or why something won’t work. This orphanage offers a million and one reasons why these children could never achieve anything. But excuses are just that. Children can and want to learn. They crave structure, no matter how far “lost” they may seem. Yes, it would be difficult. Yes, it would take a lot of time and patience. Yes, it would be a long road. But, yes, it could happen. With all my heart I believed this program could run as smoothly with as many educational components as the orphanage we run on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s just a matter of faith. It’s holding children to higher expectations, because rolling around on the floor all day is not their greatest achievement. It’s difficult, though, to expect so much from children who have so little. But indeed it is through expectations that they can and will succeed.

It makes me want to stay even longer, thinking of how much work needs to be done and how I could help re-format our time with the children. And yet, it also makes me glad to leave thinking about how much work needs to be done and how heartrending it would be to walk through those doors each week. I get to leave. In a few days I will get on a plane and leave this all behind, leave all these children behind. They don’t get to leave. They don’t get a choice. This life has been handed to them. How easy it would be for me to leave and forget all of this sadness, because oftentimes ignorance is bliss. But the feel of that little boy’s hand gripping my finger has left a permanent imprint on my heart. I couldn’t look the other way now even if I tried.

Day 25: Stop, Drop, and Roll

My time here is quickly coming to an end. Far quicker than I would have ever imagined. Far quicker than I care to think about. I have spent the past 3 weeks building up a strong program at the orphanage that will be sustainable with or without me. This week it is time to pass on the torch and test out just how sturdy this structure actually is. Caitlyn and I have been training 3 new male volunteers to take over the "Team Leader" position at the orphanage. I was excited to have men take a bigger role in working with the children, as of lately it has been only females. The young boys who come each week need a few strong, male role models in their lives. It will be quite the difference, however, changing from two bubbly female teachers to two quieter male teachers. Change is good. Or so I’m told. I feel it is only natural to hesitantly give over the reigns of something you created-it's hard to let go. They’re my kids. I hate to leave them. Especially after all the sweat and energy and heart I put into the orphanage. But change is good...

It was a bit of a rough afternoon at the orphanage. The children showed up late, we had more volunteers than we knew what to do with, and about half of the neighborhood decided to join in on the lessons. Above all of that, we were teaching a heavy topic that relied solely on translation, which always makes for a trying activity. We thought it was very important to teach the children what to do in an emergency and the steps to take if another natural disaster occurs. I wonder how many lives could’ve been spared if people had been more prepared; had been more aware of how to keep themselves safe in an earthquake.

It was a touchy subject to teach. We went back and forth in our planning session whether or not the kids were ready to learn about it, and if it would be too traumatic. All valid concerns. But in the bottom of my heart, I just couldn’t bare the thought of not teaching these kids how to keep themselves safe in the event of another quake because we weren’t certain they could handle talking about it. In my years working with kids I have learned to always give them the benefit of the doubt; they never cease to surprise me in how much more they can handle than I give them credit for.

One of the project managers is also in the middle of coming up with a similar program that HODR will teach children, or teach teachers who will then teach their children – or something along those lines. He asked me when I was leaving, hoping it wasn’t soon so he could get my help. I sadly responded “Saturday,” to which he replied: “don’t go.” Later when I was asked to help reorganize and come up with a new structure for the baby orphanage, he walked by again and remarked, “Why are you leaving again?” I had no answer. Why was I leaving? With so much to do, why was I leaving?

Despite the obvious difficulties, overall the lesson went well. Haitian children were rolling all over the ground practicing how to stop, drop, and roll (rete-tombe-woule in Creole) – a sight at which I couldn’t help but laugh. Feet and arms flying in every direction. Oh the joys of teaching.

I left the orphanage thoroughly exhausted on every possible level. It was worth it to know that maybe just one child would retain at least one safety step that would someday save his/her life. I keep my fingers crossed for that. I pray their new knowledge will spread like wildfire, as knowledge often does.