Brush with Haiti (27 page)

"Why not?" I asked.

"It is none of their business," he replied. I was not sure why the question bothered him more than it bothered me, but I realized how difficult it would be to answer. I just smiled and said that I had three wonderful children from the marriage. My answer did not differ much from those I had given to acquaintances back home. Better to leave it at that, I thought.

The topic turned to politics, and they asked me to comment on the state of Haitian affairs. The election was approaching, just a little more than a month away. There was still a diverse array of candidates and I could not predict which way it might go, let alone which way it should go. Their experiences were better than mine, I reminded them, and the country's political history was more complex for me.

"I'm sorry. Your country's political situation is very interesting, I must say, but I don't know how to answer that." I did not feel equipped to comment. In retrospect, it probably seemed an appropriate response. But the truth was I did not know how to comment, and it is rare that I am left without words.

"Politicians don't do anything," one student commented. "They just make promises."

"Yes, they just want to win," added another.

Their cynicism was disheartening but understandable. The same sentiment exists among American college students and here, ten months following the earthquake, their government buildings remained in shambles and an estimated 1,000,000 Haitians were still living in tents. But my primary intention in coming to Haiti before the earthquake had been to explore how civic engagement might be inspired through education. Learning about democracy and the potential that existed within representative governments was indeed infused in their history and social studies curricula. And I wanted to do my part in helping to reinforce that at the college level.

While the Grand'Anse may seem absent from the radar of policy makers in Port-au-Prince, much of my intention in going there was to help in regional development outside the capital and empower young people to play leading roles in making things better. That is why I emphasized economic development, the struggles for independence, and the establishment of self-government in my lectures and assignments. The course of history has changed where individuals or groups of people have taken the future into their own hands, I showed them. As much as the powers that be might resist in order to maintain the status quo, situations can be changed. As a "democrat with a small d" I try to instill in my students the idea that change can come from them. I hoped this had not been lost on my UNOGA students.

"I can understand why you are frustrated, but if the politicians in Port-au-Prince aren't making things better, who can?" It did not take long for them to respond, but their answer was not at all what I expected.

"God!" a number of them shouted. I felt as if I were leading a revival meeting. Their belief in God was amazing. But their apparent dependence on God for solutions was, to be honest, discouraging. I sat in silence for a moment, but could not leave the conversation there.

"But these are worldly problems," I reminded them. To many of them the earthquake itself was viewed as an act of God, but I wanted them to see that the response to the devastation was in the hands of man. "How does God work in the world?" I asked, yielding to their approach, and again sat in silence.

"Through us?" one student asked.

In an instant, years of my own post-secondary education through which I learned of the world's religions and their attempts to explain man's relationship to a higher power came flooding back. So, too, did my years teaching the basics of the Renaissance, Reformation, and Counterreformation in world history classes, highlighting the conflicts between denominational positions on faith and good works. I knew that I was not here to teach religion any more than I had been hired to do so in the States. I can teach about religion, but this was crossing the line and it was almost time to go.

"Maybe," I replied. "I don't know." And I didn't know. There was no satisfactory answer. In a way, I knew I was really asking the question of myself and not of them.

"Is there anything you want to know about us?" a student asked.

"Hmm..." There were so many things I wanted to know, and I was grateful for the change in subject. "I would like to know more about voodoo." I was sincere. Some students laughed nervously, while others gasped and sunk back in their seats.

"No," said the interpreter, staring at me. "You shouldn't ask about that."

"What do you mean? I'm very curious."

"You shouldn't be curious about such things. It's dangerous."

"Voodoo is dangerous, or curiosity about it is?" Now I was laughing nervously. He was so serious. On one of our rides outside of town, Renate and I had seen a group of people dressed in white engaged in some sort of ritual. We knew of voodoo's prevalence, and accepted it as part of the culture. I just wanted to get a better sense of it all from a Haitian perspective. But the students seemed hesitant to talk about it.

"Everything about it," he replied. "Someone once put a curse on me and a demon came to visit." I looked at him, puzzled. I knew that he had lived much of his young life in Boston.

"Here?" I asked.

"I don't want to talk about it." He was tough and had seemed to find some pleasure in confronting me in a way possible only from a young American male. I stood up to look him in the eye, just in case he wanted to say more. "It had wings. It came through the window of my room."

"In Boston?" I wondered just how vibrant the Haitian immigrant community was there. His strong exterior softened and he looked shaken.

"It's ok," I reassured him. "We don't have to talk about it." Suddenly a female student ran into the classroom. I thought she had left for home.

"Teacher!" she called to me. I was getting used to being called that, but I turned with a jolt. The thought of a winged demon frightening this you man had set me on edge. "Oh, I am sorry to interrupt you."

"No, it's ok. What is it?"

"We have a surprise for you!" Others appeared behind her, holding wrapped packages.

"What?" They really did take me by surprise.

"We could not let you leave without goodbyes and some gifts." All of the students remaining burst into applause. I realized their request to practice English was a ploy to stall so they could finish preparing them.

"You don't have to give me gifts," I told them. They were so excited.

"Open them!" I was embarrassed. Teaching is what I do and it had been a long time since a group of students had seemed so grateful. "Open them!"

I carefully opened each one. There was a piece of local driftwood decorated with shells and some fossilized coral. I liked the idea of having pieces from the sea to take home with me. There was also a small, hand-embroidered cloth, decorated with palm trees and the word "Jeremie." It reminded me of the Caribbean souvenirs I had found among my father's things when I was a little girl. And last, there was a loaf of warm bread, fresh from the oven. I looked to the doorway and saw the women who prepared lunch for us each day standing there, smiling. It must have taken them all morning to bake it. As I opened its paper covering just a little to take a peek, the aroma of coconut and nutmeg filled my senses. It was glorious.

"Have a taste!" the students commanded.

"No, I couldn't eat it in front of you."

"We know what it tastes like. Try it while it is warm." I did. It tasted even more wonderful than it smelled, if that were possible.

Saying goodbye was very difficult, but it was time. I stepped down and they gathered around me.

"Promise you will come back," more than one pleaded.

"I would love to," I said, trying very hard not to make a promise I might not be able to keep. "If I can come back, it won't be for a while. I have students back home who are waiting for me."

As usual, Magalie and students piled into the back of the truck for our ride back. I sat quietly, trying to encapsulate every moment. I looked into my briefcase to make sure I had gathered all of my papers and books and caught a glimpse of small slips of paper with students' writing on them. They were course evaluations I had asked them to give me. It is common practice back home and I wanted them to become accustomed to the practice of giving feedback. I pulled out a few and read them.

"Dear Teacher, I love you and your class."

"Dear Teacher, God has blessed us with a very good teacher."

"Dear Teacher, Thank you very much. May God be with you on your journey."

"May God help you in your work always."

I did not know what to make of their comments but they made me feel wonderful. They were unlike anything I would hear from students back home. And again, I wasn't sure what to make of their acknowledgement of God at every turn. I did know, however, that I might need to rely on Him/Her to help me grade papers written in French.

While at the Jeremie airport
on my return flight to the capital, I chatted with Magalie. She was gracious enough to drive me to the airport and stay with me until the plane boarded, even though it had been delayed an hour. I would have been perfectly content to use the time people-watching. It was something Renate and I had done there before, guessing where the travelers had come from and what their business in Haiti might be. We laughed as we recognized our own stereotypes of American clergy and French doctors. On this day the airport was rather quiet, but there was one charismatic man about my age, dressed in cargo shorts and a wrinkled shirt. He was surrounded by a group of people who were listening intently to him tell a story. I was not near enough to hear what he was saying, or whether he was speaking in English, but he seemed to be relating how he got the huge gash on his leg. He was very attractive and a few days past due in shaving. I fantasized that he had been to Haiti on a medical mission and had injured himself trying to help someone.

Magalie sat with me, wanting to be certain what time the plane left so she could notify a man named Jean that I was on my way. I was not sure who he was, but she had arranged for him to meet me in Port-au-Prince. She had been so patient all week with my poor language skills but we grew to like each other very much, and wanted to use our last time together having a conversation. We did so in Spanish, laughing much of the time. We still had a hard time communicating.

A couple of men sitting close to us were engaged in an intense conversation in Creole. Magalie could not help but listen in at the same time she was trying to converse with me. Soon she was adding her opinion. They were talking about politics and the future of the country. The tone was passionate but positive, though it was clear they were frustrated with the way things were being done - or not being done. Magalie became as animated as the others and her speech became faster and faster. It was mesmerizing to watch her. Most of the Haitian women I had come to know seemed to hold back in expressing their opinions, but not Magalie. Even she laughed when she saw me noticing how excited she had become. As the conversation came to an end, they sat back and shook their heads and Magalie offered a brief summary for me.

"Politicians just make promises," she said, and then repeated back to the men in Creole. They all nodded.

She spoke to Jean on her cell to make final arrangements for meeting me in Port-au-Prince. I asked her if he would be carrying a sign with my name on it. Making my way through the crowd of Haitians offering to carry my bags and give me rides was easier if I could see precisely who was there for me. She laughed and said she would describe me to him.

"A t-shirt of aqua blue," she said, after looking me up and down.

I was the last to board the plane and only one seat remained - next to the attractive man in the cargo shorts with a gash in his leg. I was certain it was fate. He was as dashing as Indiana Jones and must have been completing a good will visit of some kind. My mind wandered into a state of make-believe, but I knew this was a real opportunity to meet a real man and get my mind off the fantasy that had moved to California. As we situated ourselves I heard him speak English, with some sort of an East Coast accent. Sure, I would move to the East Coast for the man of my dreams, given the man of my dreams was a genius do-gooder risking injury to save the world. My youngest was nearly finished with high school, after all.

He pulled a camera with a very large lens from his bag and proceeded to take photographs through the window as the plane climbed higher. I looked around him to see Jeremie growing smaller and smaller. The vastness of its lush greenery and beautiful trees glistened in the clear air of early afternoon. It had, indeed, been a good trip. I looked more closely at the camera he held. It was impressive, and while a rich doctor might have been able to afford it, I got the impression he might be a journalist. Perhaps a journalist sent on a mission to capture the lives of the people we were leaving behind.

"If you don't mind, may I ask why you were in Jeremie?" While destiny had brought us together, it was up to me to act on it. He wasn't wearing a ring.

"I'm a birdwatcher," he replied, a little sheepishly.

"Really?" I wasn't sure how to respond. He suddenly looked more like Miss Jane Hathaway on the Beverly Hillbillies, decked out in her bird watching gear.

"It's sort of a hobby for me. I like to travel to different places to watch them migrate."

I love birds, but of all the things happening in Haiti I never would have imagined bird migration could draw someone there. He proceeded to tell me about the different varieties he had spotted. Perhaps I was destined not to spend the rest of my life with this man I was seated next to, but to stop and appreciate birds a little bit more.

When I arrived in Port-au-Prince, I understood why Magalie was amused by my concerns about Jean finding me. I had forgotten that flights from Jeremie arrived at the regional airport, not the international one, so among the sixteen or so people leaving the plane, it was pretty easy to pick out Kathy, the U.S. professor. He seemed to be performing this task as a favor on a day he had better things to do. I had changed my flight back from Sunday to Saturday in order to guarantee connecting back to Miami, but Saturday was a day a work in the capital, especially for a man in his position. He was a manager or a business owner of some kind and he asked if I would mind if we stopped by his work on our way to the hotel, as he had something to tend to. It was no problem for me. There was no place I needed to be.