Brush with Haiti (17 page)

Those present at our gathering represented a number of disciplines. Still, I wanted to spend a bit more time speaking with the social studies instructor to learn what his expectations were and what his work was like. Having worked to prepare social studies teachers at my own campus, I knew something of state standards and found striking similarities. Very early in the primary grades children are introduced to ideas of community and eventually in the upper levels they come to learn geography and history that is more regional, national, and then global. The concepts emphasized in each country are similar - governments, democracy, independence, and so on. Sometimes it is impossible to imagine two more distinct countries than the United State and Haiti, but when we step back to take an honest look, we see how similar how similar our strategies and expectations are.

In the United States, our students and, still too often, teachers and professors, see the world from a perspective of U.S. exceptionalism - that our history, continued existence, and our frequent superiority in economics and war are reflections of our "specialness." This goes beyond an acknowledgement that the United States has exploited advantages or that it has used resources for its own gain. Rather, it suggests the nation has been "blessed" with advantages, indicating that they have come from a higher power. During the mid-19th century the concept of Manifest Destiny was used widely to prove that God had destined the United States to grow and prosper, and spread its influence from coast to coast. By the 1890s and beyond, U.S. influence reached elsewhere, many have said transforming its role from one of a republic to one of an empire.

In getting back to the basics of history, foundations, and social structures it is the idea of "republic" that should serve as the crux of our worldview. In doing so, we can see that our citizenship in a republic makes us more like Haitians than different from them. And sitting aside one another - U.S. teacher and Haitian teacher - in desks made for their students and more suitable and comfortable than can be imagined.

The United States and Haiti established themselves as independent republics, closer in history than perhaps any others. The two had been home to indigenous populations, had been explored and colonized by Europeans, and had developed with dependency on African slavery. Basing their arguments on Enlightenment principles of liberty and self-government, revolutionaries fought for representation within the empire and then for independence. Historical development from that point on took very different paths, but their constitutional foundations and struggle for world recognition shaped values taught to the children of each in very similar ways.

Our discussion that day turned to philosophies and purposes of education in a free society and ways in which we encourage students from elementary through middle school, high school, and into college to care about their nation's history and become more civically engaged. Gestures and body language became more vibrant and near electricity seemed to brighten the little daylight reaching from above.

"Isn't learning one's history integral to the molding of good citizens?" I asked.

"Yes!" he shouted. "Of course it is!"

"How can we live in a democratic society without it?"

"We can't."

"But how do we teach the truth about history? Does knowing the truth make the citizenry less patriotic?" He sat back in his seat. "It is a problem for us."

"It is a problem for us, too," I assured him. We further discussed differences between citizenship and patriotism, at one point questioning whether it was a school's responsibility to teach patriotism at all.

"We need to teach the truth," he said.

"I like to see young children who are proud of their country and I am not sure at what age they are ready to learn the truth." He smiled and nodded. His eyes cast down on his hands with a knowing look. He had clearly thought of these things, as well.

Also in the group was a math teacher. In addition to teaching, Henri did administrative work at the school. He described the growth in enrollment and said the school currently served 52 students from the ages of 12 to 20. Having taught math for several years at other schools, he seemed to make the transition to administration well. I asked him about it. He said much of his time is used to develop files on the children - one for each - to record academic progress and any disciplinary actions taken. The founder of the school insisted on maintaining high quality instruction and has required higher level systemization and assessment. At the very least this requires good record keeping. Henri added that he not only has set the tone for discipline among students, but also among the teachers. As he continued talking, my mind turned to what the possibilities of that might mean and I regret not asking for more explanation.

Henri was good at math, so he became a math teacher. The case with many Haitian teachers is that their ability in one subject area or another is noticed by one of their own teachers who recommend that they consider teaching themselves. For Henri, there were few other options in Jeremie, so teaching math it was. There was a polytechnic school nearby and he took advantage of it. The school offered no formal courses in pedagogy, but it was common for Haitians to teach with no formal training in education. Henri noted that there was now a law school in Jeremie affiliated with Seton Hall University and he hoped to complete a certification program there. What seems to be the case in Haiti is that where there is a school students will attend.

More students would attend at higher levels if it were possible. The transition from primary school to secondary school is a difficult one. Not necessarily because parents feel primary education is sufficient or that there is a sudden shift in the cost of an education at that point, both of which are true in many other countries. Rather, the entrance exam acts as an obstacle for most. First, only half of Haiti's children attend any sort of school at all so those who enter the formal education system are essentially privileged and eventually destined to complete as much as possible. In other words, those who are fortunate enough to attend school are already comparatively few, so this selectivity might insure greater success. However, the entrance exams for entering into secondary school - the equivalent of combined middle and high schooling in the U.S. system - are difficult. Only one percent of those who take the exam pass it. Even at that, disparity in levels of preparation, according to Henri, poses what he considers one of the biggest challenges for secondary school teachers.

Though not what one would consider "called" to the profession through vocation, Henri seemed as passionate about math as any teacher I have known. He looked on when the conversation had centered on civics as if it were the most important subject a child could learn. I assured him we shared a common respect for math. It pains me when I hear a student say they chose history as a major because they were not good in math. I want them to choose history for better reasons than that. Plus, I would like everyone to work at being good in math.

"The Department of Mathematics is near my office on campus," I told him. "There are posters in the hallway that say, 'We all do math every day.'" He smiled at that as only a math teacher could.

"It is true!" he said. "We all do math every day!" I looked at the dark gray cement block walls around us and imagined colorful and inspirational posters about learning math. There were only a few small religious pictures and a calendar.

We reluctantly ended our meeting when it was time to go. They asked if I would like to take a look at the new construction on our way out.

"I would love to," I told them. The air was still damp from recent rains and we carefully stepped over mud that surrounded the concrete foundation. The outside walls of additional classrooms were up, and steel reinforcements jutted from the half-finished ceiling.

"These rooms will be much better, much stronger."

The older classrooms seemed perfectly stable to me, and they might have sufficed, except perhaps in the case of a natural disaster. They were far from the epicenter of the earthquake, but the images of steel reinforcements were etched in my mind. I later wished very much that the vulnerable schools in Port-au-Prince had been constructed in such a manner.

Basse-Ville is a section
of Jeremie that lies directly on the Caribbean. Renate took me there on a school visit that turned out to be more inspiring than I could imagine. Americans consider waterfront properties the most desirable and assume that it must be the case in the Caribbean, but it is not so. Historically waterfront sections of cities have been home to outcasts - the poor, unskilled, immigrants and so on. They were typically walled off; often physically and always socially. In Jeremie, a small port city already struggling economically, the people of Basse-Ville were further neglected.

From the water's edge, the narrow, pebbled beach slants up to a stone barrier that meets the edge of a narrow two-lane road. From there, living quarters are stacked up the hill, overlooking the sea. Fishermen cast and drag nets, wading waist-deep not far from the shore. The water is gray, yet it glistens when sunlight peers through the clouds. The beach is gray, too. Kids run barefoot, frequently kicking soccer balls. Goats, pigs, chickens and an occasional donkey walk along the road. More kids stand watching whatever passes their way. Many wear t-shirts sized far too large and sometimes nothing else. The houses are small and dark, and rise steeply. They lie close together and although considered home and made as comfortable as possible are less inviting than the outdoors. A child occasionally crosses the road to empty a bucket of human waste into the sea. This is a crowded neighborhood of 5,000 with no plumbing.

"Is it really like they show on TV?" I am sometimes asked after returning from an underdeveloped area in Latin America.

"Is what like they show on TV?" I respond, though I'm pretty sure I know what they've seen.

"All those children. Living with nothing."

"Sometimes." Images of Basse-Ville come to mind, but not in the ways that television fundraisers present. The children do not stare at me with hunger in their eyes as if they want something from me. They go about their daily activities, which might mean dumping the family urine and excrement, followed by a game of barefoot soccer on a pebbly beach. I am essentially irrelevant to them.

There was a moment while stopped on the road that day, perhaps for a pig or goat crossing, when a young boy smiled at me, came close to the truck, and reached inside the window to touch my hair. He caught me off guard. The curiosity and fearlessness among children never cease to amaze me. A white child who has never encountered a black woman might reach to touch her hair. That is if the natural tendency toward curiosity and fearlessness had not been damaged in some way. When my daughter was in preschool, she had a good friend who was black. One night after bedtime stories and before lights out, she struck up a conversation about her classmates.

"Sola's hands are always dirty," she noted matter-of- factly.

"What do you mean?" I knew who Sola was.

"He washes and washes, but they're still the same color."

"That is the color of his skin."

"Oh." She transitioned to another subject, but I stayed on this one, believing more explanation was in line. The historian in me no doubt provided more information than was necessary for a 3-year-old. I was not sure how the idea of dirt arose in her mind or why the color of his hands might be construed as something negative. I am not an expert in those things, and my kids have since informed me that people my age overthink race and ethnicity, as if we are trying to overcompensate for something. It is incredible how much things can change in one generation. When I was about 4 or 5, I first came face-to-face with a black boy just about my size in a department store during my family's annual Easter shopping trip. My mother somehow managed to come up with play clothes for us, sewed some dresses for regular Sundays, and made sure we had all the pieces to our school uniforms. Easter shopping with my father was a real event. We were treated to gloves, hats, anklets, shoes, and coats - the whole deal.

Once my selections were made and attention turned toward my sisters', I ran up and down aisles running my hands along sleeves as if they were slats in a picket fence. I heard someone in the next aisle doing the same and as we met at the end we stopped dead, our eyes locking. He was just my height. It must have been around 1962. My family lived in a white suburb about five miles or so from Gary and I am not sure what I had learned about race up until that point. I wanted to touch him and I think he, me, but our parents called us away from each other. The Haitian child touching my hair somehow satisfied a need to complete that interaction.

Not only are the residents of Basse-Ville isolated from the world, they are isolated from rest of their own city. It took the special energy, time, and attention a few have invested to make a difference in their lives. One such person was Pierre. About 15 years earlier, he and a friend acknowledged a need for a school there, but they had nothing to give but their time. He told me that the children were considered unworthy of an education. The light in his eyes told me he could never consider any child unworthy of an education. He and his friend started a school with seven students and no building. They sat on rocks and learned.

In 2004, when tensions surrounding the presidency were growing, the Grand'Anse population was primarily pro-Aristide. Far from the capital, the economic and policy-making center, these two practical idealists of the Grand'Anse worked to carryout Aristide's mission ofempowering the poor. Despite criticism, they remained true to his vision. As the forced removal of Aristide neared, the lives of his public supporters were in danger. The close friend of Pierre, and co-founder of this small school, was murdered. Stunned and wondering what they future might hold Pierre decided to move forward with their plans to keep the dream alive. A clearly spiritual man, he acknowledged that a faith in God had aided in moving the project forward.