Today was the first day of trying out the new location for the orphanage. Supposedly it was to be in a far more welcoming space, instead of smack dab in the middle of the IDP tent camp (a very depressing and heartbreaking place to be.) In my head I was expecting a lush grassy area for outdoor teaching and tall trees for shade. I momentarily forgot where I was, apparently. Sparse green littered with patches of mud surrounded the extremely hot tent that felt more like a heat box than an outdoor space. But as kids usually are, particularly in Haiti, they’re resilient and versatile and we made it work, despite the few pretty dresses the girls wore.
It was also the first day of trying out the new structure for the lessons. It went flawlessly. It was as if we had always run things this way. The kids seemed to expect what was about to happen and jumped on board without question. I was so impressed by them.
The first group I had for the craft project reviewing numbers (making a spider) was the group of children 8 years old and below. Some were so little they didn’t know how to hold a pencil and never spoke a word no matter who spoke to them. A few came in partially naked - something you get used to seeing daily in Leogane. A few students were impeccably clean and a few others made my heart hurt how dirty they looked. No matter their level of cleanliness or ability to communicate, they all did the project and did so with such fervor, even if they didn’t understand. I tell you, the children of Haiti are truly remarkable and incredibly strong.
The second group of children were 9 years old and above. Brilliant. Orphans in a 3rd world country after suffering so much destruction for so many years and yet there they sat bright eyed and eager and so unbelievably smart. These children only go to school in the mornings and yet they didn’t skip a beat. And how amazing to see how quickly they pick things up, such as knowing when to put up the “quiet and ready” signal without being told, learning new English songs, and going with the flow of the lessons. They blew me away. They blew all the volunteers away.
We got on the taptap to head back to base with a sense of accomplishment that is owed almost completely to the children. There are many kinks to still work out but it’s all on the right track. Experiencing the enthusiasm of the children only makes me want to work that much harder to make this learning experience for them as meaningful as possible. I wonder, though, if I will ever be able to give them as much as they have given me.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Day 10: Short and Sweet
I realize that yesterday I posted a rather long blog. In these busy times it’s hard enough to find time to read a blog in the first place, let alone such a long one. My apologies. Today’s will be much shorter.
This morning was spent being trained for the new “orphanage” and restructuring the new format. Never did I think I would ever be able to implement the 5 step lesson plan in Haiti (thanks TFA.) Goes to show you just never know where life is going to take you! It was great to be able to focus so much time and energy on structuring a sustainable education program that can easily be followed by anyone who follows in the months ahead. And, I can’t believe I’m going to say this… it’s amazing to be able to track the children’s progress and what they’ve learned and still need to learn.
…
I’d like to take a minute to tell you my favorite thing about Haitians (outside of their generosity.) Most Haitians have a very forlorn almost angry look constantly plastered on their faces. It can be quite intimidating and daunting, making you feel as if they desire us to be gone. BUT, then you say “bonjou” and it’s like a switch is turned. Their faces immediately light up and they smile beamingly and reply “bonjou” with such love. It makes me happy every time I see their rather grumpy faces turn exuberant.
I like to test this theory out and try it on people who look especially angry and who would seem to dislike us foreigners the most. To date (10 days) I have yet to meet one person who did not smile back. This makes me want to say hello to each and every person that walks by. Wouldn’t you? To say hello and have someone respond (something that doesn’t happen often in NYC) and to have them respond with such delight - it’s addicting.
This morning was spent being trained for the new “orphanage” and restructuring the new format. Never did I think I would ever be able to implement the 5 step lesson plan in Haiti (thanks TFA.) Goes to show you just never know where life is going to take you! It was great to be able to focus so much time and energy on structuring a sustainable education program that can easily be followed by anyone who follows in the months ahead. And, I can’t believe I’m going to say this… it’s amazing to be able to track the children’s progress and what they’ve learned and still need to learn.
…
I’d like to take a minute to tell you my favorite thing about Haitians (outside of their generosity.) Most Haitians have a very forlorn almost angry look constantly plastered on their faces. It can be quite intimidating and daunting, making you feel as if they desire us to be gone. BUT, then you say “bonjou” and it’s like a switch is turned. Their faces immediately light up and they smile beamingly and reply “bonjou” with such love. It makes me happy every time I see their rather grumpy faces turn exuberant.
I like to test this theory out and try it on people who look especially angry and who would seem to dislike us foreigners the most. To date (10 days) I have yet to meet one person who did not smile back. This makes me want to say hello to each and every person that walks by. Wouldn’t you? To say hello and have someone respond (something that doesn’t happen often in NYC) and to have them respond with such delight - it’s addicting.
Day 9: A Walk To The Heavens
Today is Sunday which means a day off! A day off maybe, but rest definitely not. A 6k hike up Korai mountain in 90 plus degree weather with a big backpack on my pack is not technically my idea of rest, though it is definitely my idea of relaxation.
SASH (Sustainable Aid Sustaining Haiti), an NGO about half an hour away, organized a premier hiking excursion up the side of one of Haiti’s many mountains. The purpose was to promote tourism for the village on the side of the mountain and help boost their “economy.” Since, as far as anyone knows, no group of white tourists has ever traversed this mountain before, this would be a very unique and interesting experience. The difficult part with promoting tourism in a village so un-scathed by modern capitalism is that over time you lose the organic, un-touched beauty of the village. It’s a hard balance to find in trying to help the people bring in extra income without over exploiting them. But that’s for another blog.
There were nine of us from HODR, three from SASH (one of whom was the Haitian translator and tour guide), and one local woman from the village (Beatrice.) One of the volunteers from SASH had guided Jameson (the Haitian tour guide) on how to be a guide, enabling him to earn income from this experience, also. The whole idea around the excursion was rather fantastic.
We hiked the beautiful mountainside, something I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw Haiti from the tiny plane window. The climb is too treacherous for vehicles (as if many of the Haitians on the mountainside would even own a car even if it could get up the terrain) and most are not wealthy enough to own a donkey. Which means every time they need something from the market they have to walk all the way down and then carry anything they buy back up the steep climb. As you can imagine, that’s a lot of work and a lot of time, so the mountain people only come to the market on Saturdays for anything they can’t provide for themselves. They are almost completely self-sustainable on the mountain. And since visiting the doctor or hospitals would be quite timely, they had to find their own cures in nature. Let’s be honest, that’s probably the best way anyway. We stopped throughout to learn about a leaf used to aid in digestion, another that is boiled to settle upset stomachs, one for anxiety, and many, many more.
Beatrice took us to her house to see inside her tiny two rooms for herself and four children. She then showed us a house of a wealthy man. This was evident because he was one of the only people on the mountain to have a cement floor. Imagine that. His house still had no more than two rooms, one of which with 4 beds in it, but he had a cement floor. Everyone was so eager to take us in, show us around. We were like the bright, shiny new toys…or the strange white people asking to see inside their home and sit on their chairs!
One of the many things I love about Haitians is how generous they are. They have so little and yet here comes a group of sweaty blans invading their land and what do they do? They go into three or four houses to scrounge up as many chairs as they can so that we can sit and have a rest. And they don’t stop until they find enough for all of us, even after our persistence to stand. These people who have so little, giving without reservation to people who have so much. Again, generosity at its finest. I’m constantly learning from these beautiful people.
We reached the top of the mountain to find a warm welcome of at least a hundred village people (mainly children) and several tables with tablecloths and chairs. What a surprise on all fronts. We were flabbergasted and incredibly grateful in so many ways.
The top of the mountain came to a plateau where a school for all the mountain children used to stand. It used to look out over more mountains and beyond that Caribbean-blue water that sparkles in the sun. Like so much of Haiti, it too was destroyed in the earthquake. SASH hands out tents to those who lost their homes, and in this case they also were provided with two large tents (about the size of my studio apartment in NYC a couple years back) that would suffice as temporary classrooms. We helped the people of SASH put up the tents- something of which we were all eager to help. We set the tents up with the entire village looking on. They were so intrigued by us, yet they looked on as if staring at a lion in the zoo with a glass wall separating you from this foreign creature.
We were cooked a meal with all products grown or raised on the mountain (a typical Haitian meal: chicken, rice, and onions.) They served us incredibly generous portions, without taking any for themselves, and then the entire village watched us eat. It was a bit disconcerting to sit at such nice tables that you knew took a lot of scrounging around to find, eating such a hearty meal in gigantic portions, while people who are generally always starving stared on from the other side of the glass.
It was also intriguing how quiet and well behaved the children were. By the time the school tents were up and lunch was finished there were at least 100 children standing nearby. If we were in Leogane the children would’ve been running up to hold our hands or hug our legs, or calling out “hey you” repetitively. But these children stayed a safe distance back without smiling faces. I tried several times to interact and they slowly came around, and even once I caught a few smiles. Life in the mountains shields them from many things, including Canadian armies that teach you such awful phrases as “hey you.” (Ha!)
After lunch a local man showed us how to climb a coconut tree. I instantly slipped off my shoes and ran to the base - how often do you get to climb a palm tree? The village people loved it. The cheers and laughter at seeing not only a white person, but a white woman try to climb a tree and then smack a coconut (it’s very hard to rip one down especially twenty feet in the air.) We were such entertainment for them. Another volunteer used a machetee to open a coconut and then passed the milk around for all of us to share. We tried a half dozen fruits, none of which I’d ever had before. Bread fruit was my favorite – its name describes it perfectly. When it’s ripe enough you can pull a piece right from the tough outer shell and the inside has the color and consistency of bread. Bizarre yet fantastic.
Then we made our way back down as the dark clouds rolled in over the opposite mountains. The entire village followed us down, slowly dropping off group by group as they passed their houses. It was such a beautiful and unique experience. Never again will it be like this for any group of tourists visiting. We were the first they had ever seen and that offered such a different light on the experience. I was in awe from the moment we took our first step on the mountain to the moment I wrote this blog. The people, the food, the view…indescribable.
SASH (Sustainable Aid Sustaining Haiti), an NGO about half an hour away, organized a premier hiking excursion up the side of one of Haiti’s many mountains. The purpose was to promote tourism for the village on the side of the mountain and help boost their “economy.” Since, as far as anyone knows, no group of white tourists has ever traversed this mountain before, this would be a very unique and interesting experience. The difficult part with promoting tourism in a village so un-scathed by modern capitalism is that over time you lose the organic, un-touched beauty of the village. It’s a hard balance to find in trying to help the people bring in extra income without over exploiting them. But that’s for another blog.
There were nine of us from HODR, three from SASH (one of whom was the Haitian translator and tour guide), and one local woman from the village (Beatrice.) One of the volunteers from SASH had guided Jameson (the Haitian tour guide) on how to be a guide, enabling him to earn income from this experience, also. The whole idea around the excursion was rather fantastic.
We hiked the beautiful mountainside, something I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw Haiti from the tiny plane window. The climb is too treacherous for vehicles (as if many of the Haitians on the mountainside would even own a car even if it could get up the terrain) and most are not wealthy enough to own a donkey. Which means every time they need something from the market they have to walk all the way down and then carry anything they buy back up the steep climb. As you can imagine, that’s a lot of work and a lot of time, so the mountain people only come to the market on Saturdays for anything they can’t provide for themselves. They are almost completely self-sustainable on the mountain. And since visiting the doctor or hospitals would be quite timely, they had to find their own cures in nature. Let’s be honest, that’s probably the best way anyway. We stopped throughout to learn about a leaf used to aid in digestion, another that is boiled to settle upset stomachs, one for anxiety, and many, many more.
Beatrice took us to her house to see inside her tiny two rooms for herself and four children. She then showed us a house of a wealthy man. This was evident because he was one of the only people on the mountain to have a cement floor. Imagine that. His house still had no more than two rooms, one of which with 4 beds in it, but he had a cement floor. Everyone was so eager to take us in, show us around. We were like the bright, shiny new toys…or the strange white people asking to see inside their home and sit on their chairs!
One of the many things I love about Haitians is how generous they are. They have so little and yet here comes a group of sweaty blans invading their land and what do they do? They go into three or four houses to scrounge up as many chairs as they can so that we can sit and have a rest. And they don’t stop until they find enough for all of us, even after our persistence to stand. These people who have so little, giving without reservation to people who have so much. Again, generosity at its finest. I’m constantly learning from these beautiful people.
We reached the top of the mountain to find a warm welcome of at least a hundred village people (mainly children) and several tables with tablecloths and chairs. What a surprise on all fronts. We were flabbergasted and incredibly grateful in so many ways.
The top of the mountain came to a plateau where a school for all the mountain children used to stand. It used to look out over more mountains and beyond that Caribbean-blue water that sparkles in the sun. Like so much of Haiti, it too was destroyed in the earthquake. SASH hands out tents to those who lost their homes, and in this case they also were provided with two large tents (about the size of my studio apartment in NYC a couple years back) that would suffice as temporary classrooms. We helped the people of SASH put up the tents- something of which we were all eager to help. We set the tents up with the entire village looking on. They were so intrigued by us, yet they looked on as if staring at a lion in the zoo with a glass wall separating you from this foreign creature.
We were cooked a meal with all products grown or raised on the mountain (a typical Haitian meal: chicken, rice, and onions.) They served us incredibly generous portions, without taking any for themselves, and then the entire village watched us eat. It was a bit disconcerting to sit at such nice tables that you knew took a lot of scrounging around to find, eating such a hearty meal in gigantic portions, while people who are generally always starving stared on from the other side of the glass.
It was also intriguing how quiet and well behaved the children were. By the time the school tents were up and lunch was finished there were at least 100 children standing nearby. If we were in Leogane the children would’ve been running up to hold our hands or hug our legs, or calling out “hey you” repetitively. But these children stayed a safe distance back without smiling faces. I tried several times to interact and they slowly came around, and even once I caught a few smiles. Life in the mountains shields them from many things, including Canadian armies that teach you such awful phrases as “hey you.” (Ha!)
After lunch a local man showed us how to climb a coconut tree. I instantly slipped off my shoes and ran to the base - how often do you get to climb a palm tree? The village people loved it. The cheers and laughter at seeing not only a white person, but a white woman try to climb a tree and then smack a coconut (it’s very hard to rip one down especially twenty feet in the air.) We were such entertainment for them. Another volunteer used a machetee to open a coconut and then passed the milk around for all of us to share. We tried a half dozen fruits, none of which I’d ever had before. Bread fruit was my favorite – its name describes it perfectly. When it’s ripe enough you can pull a piece right from the tough outer shell and the inside has the color and consistency of bread. Bizarre yet fantastic.
Then we made our way back down as the dark clouds rolled in over the opposite mountains. The entire village followed us down, slowly dropping off group by group as they passed their houses. It was such a beautiful and unique experience. Never again will it be like this for any group of tourists visiting. We were the first they had ever seen and that offered such a different light on the experience. I was in awe from the moment we took our first step on the mountain to the moment I wrote this blog. The people, the food, the view…indescribable.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Day 8: Your Call
I feel I am always torn between two sides. A constant moral dilemma or internal struggle. Everyday is a fight within the realms of my own imagination. As a writer, this is all magnified. Every editor I have spoken with has offered completely opposing advice than the one previous. One tells me to focus on myself since I am not an expert about Haiti. Another tells me to leave myself out of it. And some assure me to find myself somewhere in between. (Add family and friends into the mix and my head’s spinning from so many opinions.) So now I sit, exhausted, trying to get in my daily writing session and my fingers are paralyzed from wrestling with so many demons. Do I discuss the events of the day? A Haiti I am experiencing as a fresh face, so far from ever being an expert? Or do I delve into my emotional reactions to what’s going on around me? Maybe I’m writing too much and should keep these blogs to a minimal summary of the day. I find myself so tattered in what to say I can’t say anything, and for me that is something new and frustrating.
So what to do?
I have wondered since I have been in Leogane why HODR hasn’t gathered the community together and asked them what they want. We, as humans, tend to assume we know what others want and need. But I can’t help but imagine what sort of responses would arise if we directly asked the Haitians of Leogane what they wanted or needed. So… here is my proposal: I leave it to you, dear reader. Leave me a comment, write an email, send a smoke signal – let me know what you prefer I focus on and that is what I’ll do, since after all this blog is for you (ok, well mostly for you.)
So what to do?
I have wondered since I have been in Leogane why HODR hasn’t gathered the community together and asked them what they want. We, as humans, tend to assume we know what others want and need. But I can’t help but imagine what sort of responses would arise if we directly asked the Haitians of Leogane what they wanted or needed. So… here is my proposal: I leave it to you, dear reader. Leave me a comment, write an email, send a smoke signal – let me know what you prefer I focus on and that is what I’ll do, since after all this blog is for you (ok, well mostly for you.)
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Day 7: Jupiter
Tonight I am staring out at an ALMOST full moon. The skies are quiet and calm after the ALMOST hurricane rains that tormented the sky earlier in the day (I clearly underestimated the rains; the rain two days ago was nothing compared to today.) Across from the smiling face is a bright Jupiter, battling for ownership of the heavens. Beautiful. It’s amazing to think that here in the midst of utmost poverty, thousands of miles from home, I am staring at the same moon as the one seen in NYC, in Detroit, wherever you are, dear reader. It’s a funny thing that we can be worlds away and yet stare at the same brilliant moon. I wonder what it is that you are doing right now? Perhaps you are enjoying an ice cold beverage (something I’d give my right arm for), or laying in your air conditioned room on a bed that does not need to be blown up nor is sopping wet from this morning’s showers. Or perhaps, you are staring at the same moon wondering what it is exactly that I am doing. And if that is the case, then you and I are not as far apart as it may seem.
...
I worked on the rubble site for a school today. A three-story kindergarten collapsed to almost ground level. Some of the children are attending school under a tarp in a space about ten feet by ten feet, or so. It was a strange thing to dig up rubble and find smashed chairs, ripped homework, and worst of all clothing. I told myself they were extra clothes kept for emergencies to keep myself from thinking of the alternative. After lunch, the headmaster informed us that no children had died in the school; they had all been dismissed about an hour or two before the quake hit. It was like taking off my winter coat in the middle of a Haitian summer.
A lot of people (non-Haitian) have asked “why aren’t they doing more for themselves?” or “ why haven’t they cleaned up more of the mess?” If you have never stood at the base of a 6 foot tall pile of rubble, with not enough tools (or no tools for most Haitians), no help, no money, and nowhere to put all the rubble you will be removing, than you have absolutely no idea how unbelievably overwhelming and impossible of a job it is. This is not my homeland nor are any of these piles of rubble my house, and I come with a group of willing and able-bodied workers with more than enough tools and supplies. And yet, when I arrive at sites like the one today and see all of that broken concrete I want to cry thinking about how absurdly exhausting and incredibly overwhelming that pile is. And I get to leave at the end of the day. Sooner or later I get to go home to my therapeutic bed and apartment building with running water and electricity, without fear of it crumbling on top of my head. There is so much to do on just ONE site, not to mention the whole of Haiti. But they don’t cry, at least not openly. They just smile and say “bonjou! Komon ou ye?” (Hello. How are you?)
Another volunteer and I were talking about post traumatic stress and how many Haitians had to be suffering from it and yet they would never receive any medical attention or help. They would simply (or not so simply) have to live with it. And then shortly after a different volunteer told me how she had taken a walk with a Local and he showed her his house. A few steps later he pointed out, “and this is where I sleep.” She didn’t understand why his house and his sleeping grounds were separate from each other. He explained to her that they lived in their house, ate there, kept their belongings there, but they did not feel safe to sleep there in case another quake were to shake their world. So every night he went to a tiny tent to sleep - the only way he felt safe. It made me think how many people must feel that way. Imagine to never feel safe in your house again. I also heard from a schoolmaster that since many children were still in school when the quake happened, even though some schools have been rebuilt, the children are afraid to return to them. Can you blame them? To experience something immensely traumatic at such an early age - how do you ever go back?
The rest of your life in fear…I can’t fathom it. However, above all that, they just keep going on, smiling, and living life – in fear or not – they just keep living life.
...
I worked on the rubble site for a school today. A three-story kindergarten collapsed to almost ground level. Some of the children are attending school under a tarp in a space about ten feet by ten feet, or so. It was a strange thing to dig up rubble and find smashed chairs, ripped homework, and worst of all clothing. I told myself they were extra clothes kept for emergencies to keep myself from thinking of the alternative. After lunch, the headmaster informed us that no children had died in the school; they had all been dismissed about an hour or two before the quake hit. It was like taking off my winter coat in the middle of a Haitian summer.
A lot of people (non-Haitian) have asked “why aren’t they doing more for themselves?” or “ why haven’t they cleaned up more of the mess?” If you have never stood at the base of a 6 foot tall pile of rubble, with not enough tools (or no tools for most Haitians), no help, no money, and nowhere to put all the rubble you will be removing, than you have absolutely no idea how unbelievably overwhelming and impossible of a job it is. This is not my homeland nor are any of these piles of rubble my house, and I come with a group of willing and able-bodied workers with more than enough tools and supplies. And yet, when I arrive at sites like the one today and see all of that broken concrete I want to cry thinking about how absurdly exhausting and incredibly overwhelming that pile is. And I get to leave at the end of the day. Sooner or later I get to go home to my therapeutic bed and apartment building with running water and electricity, without fear of it crumbling on top of my head. There is so much to do on just ONE site, not to mention the whole of Haiti. But they don’t cry, at least not openly. They just smile and say “bonjou! Komon ou ye?” (Hello. How are you?)
Another volunteer and I were talking about post traumatic stress and how many Haitians had to be suffering from it and yet they would never receive any medical attention or help. They would simply (or not so simply) have to live with it. And then shortly after a different volunteer told me how she had taken a walk with a Local and he showed her his house. A few steps later he pointed out, “and this is where I sleep.” She didn’t understand why his house and his sleeping grounds were separate from each other. He explained to her that they lived in their house, ate there, kept their belongings there, but they did not feel safe to sleep there in case another quake were to shake their world. So every night he went to a tiny tent to sleep - the only way he felt safe. It made me think how many people must feel that way. Imagine to never feel safe in your house again. I also heard from a schoolmaster that since many children were still in school when the quake happened, even though some schools have been rebuilt, the children are afraid to return to them. Can you blame them? To experience something immensely traumatic at such an early age - how do you ever go back?
The rest of your life in fear…I can’t fathom it. However, above all that, they just keep going on, smiling, and living life – in fear or not – they just keep living life.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Day 6: Full Circle
* Editorial Note: 1. Despite what you may think, especially if you know me well, the “torrential downpour in more ways than one” comment from the prior post did not refer to crying. Surprise, surprise. Though I may be a Kleenex commercial’s target audience, I don’t think I have enough emotion left to even form a tear, and I would feel both rude and disrespectful to cry in the middle of a country that has lost so much and I have yet to see a single tear hit their dusty ground. *
Yesterday I forgot to mention a beautiful fact about the “house” we were working on. The homeowner, Mitel, had told me that his wife, child, and three others had been trapped under the fallen rubble after the quake. Him, his brother, some neighbors, and a few children from the school down the road helped to un-bury them (can we take a moment to let that sink in…they had to UN-BURY their family from under their house.) All five people were rescued without any casualties. All buried, and yet all survived. Amazing. He finished his incredible story with “God is good.” Yes, indeed God is.
...
I made a bold move today for a “newbie” but a rather simple and practical move for myself. I signed up as team leader for the orphanage. Working with the local orphanage (which is not what you think when you think of an orphanage – it’s just a tent with 4 tables) takes place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tuesday I went for the first time and after 2 minutes I couldn’t help but take charge. Maybe it’s the teacher in me, but there’s nothing worse than seeing children losing attention and talking, squirming, and getting out of their seats. I will have none of that. Especially when it’s so easy to engage them, mainly because they all really want to be there. I tried not to step on anyone’s toes, but I also had to remind myself that we weren’t here for the ego boost of volunteers, but for the education of the children. So when it came time to sign up for Thursday's jobs, I jumped at the chance to lead the group.
In our pre-meeting talk one of the volunteers asked, “Didn’t you just get here?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re leading the group?” Clearly she doesn’t know me well. I don’t like to do most things unless I can lead them (annoying, I know, but I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am without that quality.)
“Yes.” I said firmly. She didn’t speak up again.
The class went wonderfully well. During the classes the kids learn about animals, numbers, colors, and the alphabet in English. I find that children always learn better when they are able to do, whether it’s writing, drawing, making something…whatever. So, I came up with a project for the children to make cat necklaces. They got to glue the ears to the face, draw in the appropriate parts, and wear the cats around their necks. Very simple project. But they loved it. And they got to take it home with them, which they loved even more.
Glue. Something we take for granted. The look on their faces when they got to use glue, many for the first time. I held a little boy's hand and helped him squeeze the glue onto the edge of the ear. When the gooey mess came out of the bottle he nearly toppled over from surprise and excitement. His eyes were as big as a deer's in headlight – he had never seen glue before.
The most amazing moment came when the classroom full of Haitian children -ranging in age from under 1 to 11, some covered in dirt from head to toe, a couple so small they didn’t even have pants or underwear on - sat straight up with one finger over their mouth and the other hand up in the air. They had just learned that was the symbol for "I’m quiet and ready." And there they sat, quiet and ready, showing me the signal when two days ago it took a hundred “shh’s” and “be quiet’s” from the local volunteers to get their attention. This, dear reader, is a teacher’s great joy – to get a classroom full of students at attention and perfectly quiet. Especially children that the staff said was "hard to control." Once again, they clearly have never met me before. Difficult children are my specialty. I love the challenge. But most times it's just about meeting the kids where they are without assuming you know where they come from.
Amazing how somehow or another it always comes back to children and teaching. Apparently everything really is full circle.
Yesterday I forgot to mention a beautiful fact about the “house” we were working on. The homeowner, Mitel, had told me that his wife, child, and three others had been trapped under the fallen rubble after the quake. Him, his brother, some neighbors, and a few children from the school down the road helped to un-bury them (can we take a moment to let that sink in…they had to UN-BURY their family from under their house.) All five people were rescued without any casualties. All buried, and yet all survived. Amazing. He finished his incredible story with “God is good.” Yes, indeed God is.
...
I made a bold move today for a “newbie” but a rather simple and practical move for myself. I signed up as team leader for the orphanage. Working with the local orphanage (which is not what you think when you think of an orphanage – it’s just a tent with 4 tables) takes place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tuesday I went for the first time and after 2 minutes I couldn’t help but take charge. Maybe it’s the teacher in me, but there’s nothing worse than seeing children losing attention and talking, squirming, and getting out of their seats. I will have none of that. Especially when it’s so easy to engage them, mainly because they all really want to be there. I tried not to step on anyone’s toes, but I also had to remind myself that we weren’t here for the ego boost of volunteers, but for the education of the children. So when it came time to sign up for Thursday's jobs, I jumped at the chance to lead the group.
In our pre-meeting talk one of the volunteers asked, “Didn’t you just get here?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re leading the group?” Clearly she doesn’t know me well. I don’t like to do most things unless I can lead them (annoying, I know, but I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am without that quality.)
“Yes.” I said firmly. She didn’t speak up again.
The class went wonderfully well. During the classes the kids learn about animals, numbers, colors, and the alphabet in English. I find that children always learn better when they are able to do, whether it’s writing, drawing, making something…whatever. So, I came up with a project for the children to make cat necklaces. They got to glue the ears to the face, draw in the appropriate parts, and wear the cats around their necks. Very simple project. But they loved it. And they got to take it home with them, which they loved even more.
Glue. Something we take for granted. The look on their faces when they got to use glue, many for the first time. I held a little boy's hand and helped him squeeze the glue onto the edge of the ear. When the gooey mess came out of the bottle he nearly toppled over from surprise and excitement. His eyes were as big as a deer's in headlight – he had never seen glue before.
The most amazing moment came when the classroom full of Haitian children -ranging in age from under 1 to 11, some covered in dirt from head to toe, a couple so small they didn’t even have pants or underwear on - sat straight up with one finger over their mouth and the other hand up in the air. They had just learned that was the symbol for "I’m quiet and ready." And there they sat, quiet and ready, showing me the signal when two days ago it took a hundred “shh’s” and “be quiet’s” from the local volunteers to get their attention. This, dear reader, is a teacher’s great joy – to get a classroom full of students at attention and perfectly quiet. Especially children that the staff said was "hard to control." Once again, they clearly have never met me before. Difficult children are my specialty. I love the challenge. But most times it's just about meeting the kids where they are without assuming you know where they come from.
Amazing how somehow or another it always comes back to children and teaching. Apparently everything really is full circle.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Day 5: Humility
* Before I start, let me acknowledge that I am aware there is a gap in dates between posts. Exhaustion, stomach ache, and lack of internet has kept me from posting (and I'm ashamed to say, writing) the past two days. Hopefully those days will follow shortly. *
This morning I worked at a rubble site. The homeowner had a bucket of icecream for us vounteers that we would share on the break. When the break neared, I was called upon to ask for spoons from one of the elderly local women standing nearby. She took me by the hand, led me through the 6 inch mud path that led between tents, around naked children, under hanging laundry, and over the garbage to her tent. Children waived and smiled, pointing, calling me “blan” (white person), and laughing with excitement when I spoke creole to them - something they didn’t expect. She had a tent from USAID. Something I find comical (USAID tents, that is.) Most USAID tents I’ve seen in the tent cities around here are one tarp that does not cover all the sides; most only cover the top. Imagine that - a “house” with no sides. What do you do when it rains? So the locals still have to find other tarps and figure out ways to Macgyver some sort of living space. Come on people.
The woman's (Victane) tent was the size of my bathroom in NYC. (And that says a lot because nothing is big in NYC.) A tiny bed took up ¾ of the room and the rest was crap piled on top of each other in some sort of organized chaos because she knew exactly where to go to retrieve plastic silverware. She took out the little bag of soap she had and the almost empty jug of water (something scarce in Haiti) and washed the three plastic spoons, two forks, and one knife she was lending to us. Let me repeat, this woman who lost her home and later to find out one of her children in the earthquake, who already lived in poverty before the quake, who does not have enough food to eat, water to drink, or enough of anything in general - gave us, all of whom come from thriving countries, her only silverware and on top of that used her little resources to wash them. All so we could have some icecream. ICE CREAM! I was embarrassed to ask her. I was embarrassed for all that I have and ashamed of myself for all that she didn’t have. But beyond all of that, I was amazed and awed by her extreme willingness to help. It always seems to work that way – people who have nothing are always eager to give, and people who have plenty are always eager to withhold. This, dear readers, is a lesson for all of us to learn. If a 70 year old Haitian woman with 8 children, 2 of whom were lost in the earthquake, living in a tent smaller than most of our closets can give, then you better believe each and everyone of us can and should give, and should be giving more than we deem necessary.
The rest of the day she stayed at the site with us. Let me take this moment to describe this rubble site. It was a two story house that now looked like one story – the second floor becoming the first. This means there was more rubble than one would care to imagine. The international volunteers spent the whole morning sledging (if you’ve never swung a sledge hammer, let me tell to sledge for four hours is one of the most exhausting things you will ever do, especially in Haitian heat.) We didn’t even focus on the millions of pieces of broken cement that would have to be moved eventually before a temporary home could be placed on the slab of cement the first house was built upon.
I remember in between swings of the sledge hammer looking up to see this frail, 70-something Haitian woman half starved to death, picking up pieces of the rubble one at a time and throwing them across the street in the rubble pile. Once again I was both touched and humbled. I looked at the rubble and was utterly overwhelmed at how much there was. But Victane didn’t see it that way. She just took one piece of rubble at a time. Because that is, in fact, how one rebuilds the broken pieces of their life - one piece at a time. All morning she worked. Never once did she complain. God forgive me for all I’ve ever complained about.
We take breaks rather frequently to keep from getting heat exhaustion, us blans. At every sight I’ve been on local people have helped and yet we never offer them water. That is something I will not stand for. I immediately questioned that the first day, and they allowed the children to bring cups for water IF they had been helping. I understand the "if you give a mouse a cookie scenario." But there is a difference between being careful and being negligent. If they have been helping, they deserve water. It is the only humane thing to do.
I offered Victane my water bottle without second thought. My fear of disease or infection could not trump humanity. And was it not Jesus himself who said, "whatever you do unto the least of my brothers or sisters you do unto me. When I was thirsty you gave me drink." Who would I be if I turned Jesus away because I wasn’t certain where his lips had been? The look on her face when I offered her water – heartbreaking. Relief at being able to quench her thirst finally. Amazement at a blan sharing with her. And thanks.
It was the least I could do. Volunteers' wary eyes looked on at this interaction and quickly turned away, while others no doubt felt a wall fall down. These people are not “others.” They are us, just less fortunate. They are us at any moment, at any lost job, at any lost insurance, at any miserable circumstance. There is not a barrier between us, an invisible line we desperately try not to cross. Many volunteers treat them that way because that is how we are taught to see them. Because society and doctors put the fear of God in us about catching diseases and everything else under the sun. Shame on us. Shame on us indeed for feeling so superior. For drawing that invisible line and than doing our best to keep ourselves and everyone we know on the “right” side of it. Share your water with those who are thirsty. Period. End of story.
I will step off my soap box now.
It was a fantastic morning. Many lessons were learned. And that is priceless.
And then the torrential downpour came after lunch, in more ways than one.
This morning I worked at a rubble site. The homeowner had a bucket of icecream for us vounteers that we would share on the break. When the break neared, I was called upon to ask for spoons from one of the elderly local women standing nearby. She took me by the hand, led me through the 6 inch mud path that led between tents, around naked children, under hanging laundry, and over the garbage to her tent. Children waived and smiled, pointing, calling me “blan” (white person), and laughing with excitement when I spoke creole to them - something they didn’t expect. She had a tent from USAID. Something I find comical (USAID tents, that is.) Most USAID tents I’ve seen in the tent cities around here are one tarp that does not cover all the sides; most only cover the top. Imagine that - a “house” with no sides. What do you do when it rains? So the locals still have to find other tarps and figure out ways to Macgyver some sort of living space. Come on people.
The woman's (Victane) tent was the size of my bathroom in NYC. (And that says a lot because nothing is big in NYC.) A tiny bed took up ¾ of the room and the rest was crap piled on top of each other in some sort of organized chaos because she knew exactly where to go to retrieve plastic silverware. She took out the little bag of soap she had and the almost empty jug of water (something scarce in Haiti) and washed the three plastic spoons, two forks, and one knife she was lending to us. Let me repeat, this woman who lost her home and later to find out one of her children in the earthquake, who already lived in poverty before the quake, who does not have enough food to eat, water to drink, or enough of anything in general - gave us, all of whom come from thriving countries, her only silverware and on top of that used her little resources to wash them. All so we could have some icecream. ICE CREAM! I was embarrassed to ask her. I was embarrassed for all that I have and ashamed of myself for all that she didn’t have. But beyond all of that, I was amazed and awed by her extreme willingness to help. It always seems to work that way – people who have nothing are always eager to give, and people who have plenty are always eager to withhold. This, dear readers, is a lesson for all of us to learn. If a 70 year old Haitian woman with 8 children, 2 of whom were lost in the earthquake, living in a tent smaller than most of our closets can give, then you better believe each and everyone of us can and should give, and should be giving more than we deem necessary.
The rest of the day she stayed at the site with us. Let me take this moment to describe this rubble site. It was a two story house that now looked like one story – the second floor becoming the first. This means there was more rubble than one would care to imagine. The international volunteers spent the whole morning sledging (if you’ve never swung a sledge hammer, let me tell to sledge for four hours is one of the most exhausting things you will ever do, especially in Haitian heat.) We didn’t even focus on the millions of pieces of broken cement that would have to be moved eventually before a temporary home could be placed on the slab of cement the first house was built upon.
I remember in between swings of the sledge hammer looking up to see this frail, 70-something Haitian woman half starved to death, picking up pieces of the rubble one at a time and throwing them across the street in the rubble pile. Once again I was both touched and humbled. I looked at the rubble and was utterly overwhelmed at how much there was. But Victane didn’t see it that way. She just took one piece of rubble at a time. Because that is, in fact, how one rebuilds the broken pieces of their life - one piece at a time. All morning she worked. Never once did she complain. God forgive me for all I’ve ever complained about.
We take breaks rather frequently to keep from getting heat exhaustion, us blans. At every sight I’ve been on local people have helped and yet we never offer them water. That is something I will not stand for. I immediately questioned that the first day, and they allowed the children to bring cups for water IF they had been helping. I understand the "if you give a mouse a cookie scenario." But there is a difference between being careful and being negligent. If they have been helping, they deserve water. It is the only humane thing to do.
I offered Victane my water bottle without second thought. My fear of disease or infection could not trump humanity. And was it not Jesus himself who said, "whatever you do unto the least of my brothers or sisters you do unto me. When I was thirsty you gave me drink." Who would I be if I turned Jesus away because I wasn’t certain where his lips had been? The look on her face when I offered her water – heartbreaking. Relief at being able to quench her thirst finally. Amazement at a blan sharing with her. And thanks.
It was the least I could do. Volunteers' wary eyes looked on at this interaction and quickly turned away, while others no doubt felt a wall fall down. These people are not “others.” They are us, just less fortunate. They are us at any moment, at any lost job, at any lost insurance, at any miserable circumstance. There is not a barrier between us, an invisible line we desperately try not to cross. Many volunteers treat them that way because that is how we are taught to see them. Because society and doctors put the fear of God in us about catching diseases and everything else under the sun. Shame on us. Shame on us indeed for feeling so superior. For drawing that invisible line and than doing our best to keep ourselves and everyone we know on the “right” side of it. Share your water with those who are thirsty. Period. End of story.
I will step off my soap box now.
It was a fantastic morning. Many lessons were learned. And that is priceless.
And then the torrential downpour came after lunch, in more ways than one.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Day 2: Acclimation (6/20)
I woke up this morning at the crack of dawn (something you can’t avoid when you stay in a building without a roof) stuck to my sweat-drenched sheets and tangled in the haphazardly set up mosquito net that the previous owner of the bunk left behind. And it was a “cool” night I was told. One thing was certain, I was moving to the roof to pitch my tent.
The HODR base used to be a nightclub (and a happening one, too) before the quake. The ground floor has a wide open center area for recreational activities (like a wood version of bowling meets bocce ball) and then rows of bunks under one of the few covered areas. The bunks are packed in tightly like sardines without much breathing space. Up on the second floor, which is now technically the roof since the actual roof was destroyed in the quake, is the home of most of the tents (except the few lucky people who snagged a piece of the limited covered space next to the bunks.) But, since this floor has now become the roof, there is no covering to protect from the rain. Luckily, I brought two tarps – I’m willing to take my chances of a flood over shoulder-to-shoulder sleeping in a space with no ventilation. And the view is breathtaking. Mountains. And if you look further, more mountains.
The bathrooms have toilets that don’t flush. Buckets that catch the dripping water from the sink are used to flush down whatever needs flushing. Then they are placed back under the sink. The pipes are too small for toilet paper; so after you wipe (#1 or #2) you throw the TP in a little wastebasket to the side of the toilet, where everyone else that day threw their own dirty TP. (Yes, your face should be squished up in an “ewh” look!) The showers are stalls made out of thin slabs of wood and a single tarp for a door. Buckets of water from the tap are used to rinse and clean. It’s frowned upon to use more than half a bucket. I’m still trying to work that one out in my head.
Meals are served twice a day by Haitian women, except Sundays. Sunday there is no work and no food. You fend for yourself. I ate a bowl of cereal with powdered milk. I heaped a spoonful on top of my cereal and thought, “well, I guess it’s better than nothing.” (That meal was later accompanied by an egg sandwich sold on the street for around 75 cents and served with ketchup – like everything in Haiti.) I ate my bowl of cereal without hesitation or groaning. Powdered milk was the meal now and that was that. It’s amazing how quickly you acclimate when you allow yourself to. Amazing how quickly you forget that anything else existed outside of powdered milk. It’s almost scary how normal all of this seems, how easy it was to slip into the routine of flushing my urine down with a dirty bucket of water and sharing space with 119 other humans. It’s almost scary how effortless it has been.
I remember watching Sean White snowboard at the Olympics. So smooth, so effortless, so incredible. There’s a guy who’s doing exactly what he was intended to do. Of course it wasn’t easy for him, but he made it look that way and he excelled at it. Bring that down to a smaller scale – things should feel effortless when it’s where we’re supposed to be. Not easy, just without strife. Every bone in my body knew I was supposed to be in Haiti, and when I arrived it all just came so natural. A true sign that I was indeed right about this choice. When you have peace about something that peace carries through to your thoughts and your actions, and soon you’re winning 4 gold medals at the Olympics.
After breakfast (around 7am) we walked through the dirty streets lined by shacks without roofs and tents without four sides to the marche (market). What an experience. I’ve been to many marches, from Brazil to Tunisia to Serbia, each with their own level of poverty and cultural flair. But this was beyond anything I’ve witnessed before. My favorite part was the raw meat thrown onto dirty slabs of wood, covered in flies and festering in the heat. Yum. I’m not sure I’ll ever be that hungry. Starved chickens ran frantically from the stands, but they wouldn’t get far in the massive crowds and narrow walkways. The market’s made up of, what I can only describe as, tents. Four sticks (let me reiterate STICKS) for each person. The vendor must bring the tarp to cover these posts. Then products sprawled across the floor. Or if you are better off, you may perhaps have a piece of wood raised off the ground, like my chopped chicken friends’ bed.
There's so much I'm anxious to do, to learn, to experience. And I really look forward to my increasing knowledge of the language. An experience abroad is completely shaped by your ability to communicate. I look forward to my increasing knowledge of the language. But for now, I just soak it in. I take it all and tuck it away into a special place deep in my soul. And then run into the open space as the rain comes pouring down.
I woke up this morning at the crack of dawn (something you can’t avoid when you stay in a building without a roof) stuck to my sweat-drenched sheets and tangled in the haphazardly set up mosquito net that the previous owner of the bunk left behind. And it was a “cool” night I was told. One thing was certain, I was moving to the roof to pitch my tent.
The HODR base used to be a nightclub (and a happening one, too) before the quake. The ground floor has a wide open center area for recreational activities (like a wood version of bowling meets bocce ball) and then rows of bunks under one of the few covered areas. The bunks are packed in tightly like sardines without much breathing space. Up on the second floor, which is now technically the roof since the actual roof was destroyed in the quake, is the home of most of the tents (except the few lucky people who snagged a piece of the limited covered space next to the bunks.) But, since this floor has now become the roof, there is no covering to protect from the rain. Luckily, I brought two tarps – I’m willing to take my chances of a flood over shoulder-to-shoulder sleeping in a space with no ventilation. And the view is breathtaking. Mountains. And if you look further, more mountains.
The bathrooms have toilets that don’t flush. Buckets that catch the dripping water from the sink are used to flush down whatever needs flushing. Then they are placed back under the sink. The pipes are too small for toilet paper; so after you wipe (#1 or #2) you throw the TP in a little wastebasket to the side of the toilet, where everyone else that day threw their own dirty TP. (Yes, your face should be squished up in an “ewh” look!) The showers are stalls made out of thin slabs of wood and a single tarp for a door. Buckets of water from the tap are used to rinse and clean. It’s frowned upon to use more than half a bucket. I’m still trying to work that one out in my head.
Meals are served twice a day by Haitian women, except Sundays. Sunday there is no work and no food. You fend for yourself. I ate a bowl of cereal with powdered milk. I heaped a spoonful on top of my cereal and thought, “well, I guess it’s better than nothing.” (That meal was later accompanied by an egg sandwich sold on the street for around 75 cents and served with ketchup – like everything in Haiti.) I ate my bowl of cereal without hesitation or groaning. Powdered milk was the meal now and that was that. It’s amazing how quickly you acclimate when you allow yourself to. Amazing how quickly you forget that anything else existed outside of powdered milk. It’s almost scary how normal all of this seems, how easy it was to slip into the routine of flushing my urine down with a dirty bucket of water and sharing space with 119 other humans. It’s almost scary how effortless it has been.
I remember watching Sean White snowboard at the Olympics. So smooth, so effortless, so incredible. There’s a guy who’s doing exactly what he was intended to do. Of course it wasn’t easy for him, but he made it look that way and he excelled at it. Bring that down to a smaller scale – things should feel effortless when it’s where we’re supposed to be. Not easy, just without strife. Every bone in my body knew I was supposed to be in Haiti, and when I arrived it all just came so natural. A true sign that I was indeed right about this choice. When you have peace about something that peace carries through to your thoughts and your actions, and soon you’re winning 4 gold medals at the Olympics.
After breakfast (around 7am) we walked through the dirty streets lined by shacks without roofs and tents without four sides to the marche (market). What an experience. I’ve been to many marches, from Brazil to Tunisia to Serbia, each with their own level of poverty and cultural flair. But this was beyond anything I’ve witnessed before. My favorite part was the raw meat thrown onto dirty slabs of wood, covered in flies and festering in the heat. Yum. I’m not sure I’ll ever be that hungry. Starved chickens ran frantically from the stands, but they wouldn’t get far in the massive crowds and narrow walkways. The market’s made up of, what I can only describe as, tents. Four sticks (let me reiterate STICKS) for each person. The vendor must bring the tarp to cover these posts. Then products sprawled across the floor. Or if you are better off, you may perhaps have a piece of wood raised off the ground, like my chopped chicken friends’ bed.
There's so much I'm anxious to do, to learn, to experience. And I really look forward to my increasing knowledge of the language. An experience abroad is completely shaped by your ability to communicate. I look forward to my increasing knowledge of the language. But for now, I just soak it in. I take it all and tuck it away into a special place deep in my soul. And then run into the open space as the rain comes pouring down.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Day 1: The Long Run (6/19)
Everyone handles situations differently. Just the same as we all grieve in our own special ways. I handle most situations and emotions by running. I use that words loosely because “running” has come to have many definitions throughout the years. When I went through random sprouts of sadness (particularly this past year) my mom always ended each of my sobbing phone calls with, “why don’t you run - you always feel better after you run.” So true.
There are many different kinds of runs. I categorize mine into four. Two of which are most common, at least as of recently.
1.) I run when I’m confused, unsure, or feeling lost. These runs are long and steady. They are a search for something. Constantly looking forward, in an earnest hunt for an answer. If I keep running long enough, I will eventually find it – at least so I believe.
2.) Runs to clear my head. Those runs always turn out to be practically sprints. Running away from an invisible problem that is forever on my heels, one step shy of running me down. But if I run fast enough, it’s as if I will be able to outrun it. Those runs are very short.
Today I ran again, this time it was 4.5 hours in a plane, 3 hours waiting in the stifling heat at the entrance to Port au Prince, followed by a 2.5 hour drive in a truck that creaked over every bump in the road from PAP to Leogane. Like all my long runs this one, too, was in search of many answers.
...
I have been milling over in my head how to describe the drive from PAP to Leogane. And my final conclusion is: there are no words. Nothing I could ever write, no lengthy descriptions or beautifully terrifying adjectives could ever paint a good enough picture of what I saw and experienced on that drive. The sheer amount of people crowding in the so-called streets which were over-filled with make-shift tents and vendors selling everything from tires to papayas. Faces weaving in out of cars trying to sell water, bread, popsicles - anything. Every time the truck slowed even a few miles, little boys begging for money and food bombarded the half raised window - the only protection against reaching arms. At some turns there were so many people in the streets only one lane for cars existed and shirt sleeves flapped across my face. Everywhere I looked there was destruction – mounds of rubble, mile after mile of garbage – and yet it was evident that so much of that existed pre-earthquake. But, you better believe the quake left her filthy prints everywhere, despite the chaos that may have existed before her breath.
I went to Haiti for many reasons (that, I’m certain, is better saved for another day), one of which was to get away. With each pile of broken down buildings we passed, each longing face we left behind, each mile that brought us deeper into the country, my life in New York slipped further into the distance. It all seemed so silly now, so inconsequential, so selfish. All the responsibilities, the problems, the stress, the heartbreaks…they all just melted in the blistering sun, leaving behind a blank slate ready to start over - to be wide open to all the love and suffering this country has to provide.
There are many different kinds of runs. I categorize mine into four. Two of which are most common, at least as of recently.
1.) I run when I’m confused, unsure, or feeling lost. These runs are long and steady. They are a search for something. Constantly looking forward, in an earnest hunt for an answer. If I keep running long enough, I will eventually find it – at least so I believe.
2.) Runs to clear my head. Those runs always turn out to be practically sprints. Running away from an invisible problem that is forever on my heels, one step shy of running me down. But if I run fast enough, it’s as if I will be able to outrun it. Those runs are very short.
Today I ran again, this time it was 4.5 hours in a plane, 3 hours waiting in the stifling heat at the entrance to Port au Prince, followed by a 2.5 hour drive in a truck that creaked over every bump in the road from PAP to Leogane. Like all my long runs this one, too, was in search of many answers.
...
I have been milling over in my head how to describe the drive from PAP to Leogane. And my final conclusion is: there are no words. Nothing I could ever write, no lengthy descriptions or beautifully terrifying adjectives could ever paint a good enough picture of what I saw and experienced on that drive. The sheer amount of people crowding in the so-called streets which were over-filled with make-shift tents and vendors selling everything from tires to papayas. Faces weaving in out of cars trying to sell water, bread, popsicles - anything. Every time the truck slowed even a few miles, little boys begging for money and food bombarded the half raised window - the only protection against reaching arms. At some turns there were so many people in the streets only one lane for cars existed and shirt sleeves flapped across my face. Everywhere I looked there was destruction – mounds of rubble, mile after mile of garbage – and yet it was evident that so much of that existed pre-earthquake. But, you better believe the quake left her filthy prints everywhere, despite the chaos that may have existed before her breath.
I went to Haiti for many reasons (that, I’m certain, is better saved for another day), one of which was to get away. With each pile of broken down buildings we passed, each longing face we left behind, each mile that brought us deeper into the country, my life in New York slipped further into the distance. It all seemed so silly now, so inconsequential, so selfish. All the responsibilities, the problems, the stress, the heartbreaks…they all just melted in the blistering sun, leaving behind a blank slate ready to start over - to be wide open to all the love and suffering this country has to provide.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Bonjou!
Welcome to my blog. Guess that's not too original, but I must admit this is my first blog. I begrudgingly pounded blogspot.com onto my keypad, doodled around with appearances, and incessantly emailed several unexpecting friends over which design to choose; all because it was insisted upon by an Editor friend of mine that I must blog while in Haiti - especially since this small project will eventually become part of a larger project. So there you have it...the truth. I figured if you are going to follow along for the next month, the least I can do is be upfront and honest - this blog was against my better judgment.
That being said. Once I started changing color themes and working with font size, I realized I was actually enjoying the process. Soon the anticipation of starting this new endeavor was quite overwhelmingly fantastic. It turns out that the thing I had been dreading has become something I, daresay, am looking forward to. Then again, isn't that usually how it works?
This is just a welcome, though. A prologue to my experience in Leogane, Haiti. For 28 days I will write daily (a feat I am still struggling to commit to full-heartedly) and will post a blog as often as possible (electricity is only available for a couple hours at night, at best.) This soul-clarifying, life-changing, heart-breaking adventure (that's a lot of weight put onto one one experience!) begins Saturday, June 19th. See you back here in 4 days...and counting.
That being said. Once I started changing color themes and working with font size, I realized I was actually enjoying the process. Soon the anticipation of starting this new endeavor was quite overwhelmingly fantastic. It turns out that the thing I had been dreading has become something I, daresay, am looking forward to. Then again, isn't that usually how it works?
This is just a welcome, though. A prologue to my experience in Leogane, Haiti. For 28 days I will write daily (a feat I am still struggling to commit to full-heartedly) and will post a blog as often as possible (electricity is only available for a couple hours at night, at best.) This soul-clarifying, life-changing, heart-breaking adventure (that's a lot of weight put onto one one experience!) begins Saturday, June 19th. See you back here in 4 days...and counting.
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