Brush with Haiti (4 page)

Those experiences helped empower me to be conscious and fearless when teaching. No subject is taboo when approached openly, honestly, and without bias. An on-again off-again Catholic, I was careful not to bring in my own opinions about the Church. The denominations of my students reached across the spectrum, and some declared themselves atheists. The vast majority had not taken a careful look at the origins of their own faiths, not to mention those of others. And I hoped to give them permission to learn more about all of them, even those they did not yet know - all without passing judgment. Then an incident arose in which I found myself passing judgment.

A history major who I had known from other classes enrolled in my Caribbean class. He had frequently taken advantage of office hours to engage me in numerous discussions of history, most of them not so deep, but some quite interesting. Then one day he made some disturbing comments about the enslavement of Africans. His exact words escape me, but he was essentially repeating some bizarre justification for slavery. I let him go on just a bit; not enough to let him believe I agreed with him, just enough to try to understand what he was thinking and how he came to think that way. His position did not make much sense to me, but he seemed to hold it with such certainty. His assertions included significant historical detail; false, but detail nonetheless. It was impossible for me to imagine he had learned anything like that in classes offered by my colleagues or in high school, so I asked him how he knew so much about the topic.

"My pastor is a fountain of history," he told me. "His sermons are so educational and I've learned so much from him." Oh my, I thought. "And what he says is not at all like what I have learned in school."

Thank goodness, I murmured under my breath. I asked him where he attended services. The church he described was one I had driven past many times. It was on the north end of the town where I lived, situated next to a park with basketball and tennis courts, soccer fields, and a picnic shelter, and surrounded by well-kept, middle class homes built in the 1970s and 80s.

I thought I knew the churches in town well. But at that moment, I realized that I understood nothing about this one except its location, appearance, and the word "Christian" in its name. It did not much matter to me where people went to church, but I am pretty sure I had not known anyone who was a member there. Mine was a medium-sized suburban town with at least one church or synagogue representing each of the following: Roman Catholic, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopalian, Byzantine Catholic, Christian Reformed, and Reform Jewish. There was also a smattering of smaller churches, and the megachurch on the sprawling south end oftown with the Starbucks and life-sized mannequinesque representation of the Last Supper. Regardless of one's denomination there seemed to be a relatively open door policy and activities galore at many of them. Free gym time, blood drives, pancake breakfasts, and so on were held in adjoining rooms at various places of worship. For most of us, the only noticeable differences seemed to lie between those who sponsored bingo and church festival beer tents, and those who did not. Other than that, the whole religion thing seemed sort of average, and a sense of community trumped divisiveness.

But to learn there was pseudo-historian preaching in town disturbed me. I found it puzzling and, then again, disturbing. The student was a nice enough young man -enthusiastic, energetic, and dedicated. He was just being sold a bill of goods on the slavery thing. When I first heard Pat Robertson blame Haitians' centuries-long struggle with impoverishment on a pact with the Devil, I thought of this student. I pictured him listening intently to the preacher, just as he listened to me, somehow reconciling what I taught with a misguided take on history he believed was backed up by biblical teachings. We should be free to discuss all claims about history: that it is based on lies, that it is a fabrication intended to mislead, that it is purely literature, that man has taken no major step without the intervention of God, or that it is only the result of human will and we are indeed making progress. But those discussions should be grounded in intellectualism and critical thinking. No one of those interpretations should be presented as absolute truth. To say to even one of my students, from the pulpit, that the Atlantic slave trade was God's will, would make my job infinitely more difficult. But what concerned me most was a specific request made by this student.

The request came at a time of mounting culture wars, in which spewing venom claimed that U.S. universities were nothing more than liberal dens of iniquity and therefore dangerous to society. Perhaps I was becoming as suspicious of some preachers as they were of professors, and more than once I considered sitting in on one of their sermons to hear just what it was they were saying.

My gut whispered "beware" when the student asked if he could record the lecture on voodoo. I looked at the video camera in his hand. Class was just beginning and I had taken a seat near him, waiting for the presentation to start. This was before Youtube and Facebook had permeated our lives, but I knew the recording would likely be disseminated well beyond my classroom. I wondered what his intentions were. Students had occasionally made audio recordings of my lectures to aid them in studying for exams. But something about this request made me feel uneasy. I told him politely that we had not cleared a recording with the speaker in advance, so it would be inappropriate.

"I think she's ready to start," I told him, nodding as a signal for her to go ahead. He seemed frustrated but agreed, and set the camera next to his notebook. He gazed curiously and took copious notes, and it looked as if the camera may have remained on, capturing audio. I said nothing, believing that protesting too much might fuel a fear that something sinister was taking place.

The presentation was captivating, and what she said about voodoo was powerful. The students' eyes were transfixed on her, as were mine. She spoke of rituals, belief systems, and zombies. It complemented lectures from previous weeks, so students were as prepared as possible. I wondered how inviting her could have been interpreted as anything other than purely educational, and why he would want to search for something evil in the classroom experience. He seemed to like the courses I taught, and the way I taught them.

In retrospect, it seems this had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with voodoo. He may have simply seen this as a rare opportunity to gain an insight into Haitian culture and religion and preserve it; perhaps share it with people from his church, perhaps not share it with anyone at all. Any uneasiness was likely influenced by my own insecurity, as the teaching of Caribbean history continued to raise eyebrows among colleagues. It was worsened by the climate of fear-mongering and attacks on "liberal" universities. The subject never came up again, but an unnecessary wedge had been driven between teacher and student.

As the class ended that day, I thanked our speaker and then continued in conversation with her as the students left.

"That was wonderful," I told her. "Thank you for taking the time to share what you know."

"It was my pleasure," she replied. "It is good to learn there is interest in my country."

"I would really like to hear more about your understanding of voodoo's impact on Haitian society. Maybe we could have lunch one day."

"That would be nice," she said. "There is much more to talk about." I truly looked forward to lunch with her, knowing full well how often faculty lunch plans fail to materialize. "I know someone who was put into an institution because of his zombie experience," she added.

"Really?" The idea of someone being treated for zombie delusions was fascinating, and the fact that she knew such a person made it even more so. "So are there doctors who specialize in dealing with people who think they are zombies?" I asked.

"No, he was a zombie." She spoke so matter-of-factly.

"What do you mean, he was a zombie?"

"We have a lot to talk about."

We never got around to having lunch. How in the world did I let that opportunity slip away? I agreed to find time in my schedule to proofread an article she had written, and did give her feedback. But we never made time to talk more about zombies. As happens with so many adjunct faculty, she was gone the following semester and I have no idea where she went.

My passion
for researching and teaching Caribbean history continued to grow. I experimented with new reading assignments and devoted more resources to travel. Three visits to Cuba in three years, with stops in the Bahamas and Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula, helped to deepen my understanding of culture, politics, and economics. My continued education pulled me in unforeseen directions, and I felt increasingly detached from my friends and colleagues. Some were curious and supportive, but my experiences were taking me to places - both physical and intellectual - that I found difficult to describe. At the same time, work and social obligations served to keep me grounded in my other world. More and more, I felt as if I were living in two realities.

When the local chapter of the American Association of University Women asked if I would speak on "Women in the New Millennium" at its upcoming annual meeting, I could not think of anything I would like to do less. First, I was a historian. I looked back, not forward, so how could I possibly speak to that topic? Was is not a bit broad? And frankly, at that time I could not think of a more stuffy and dull audience. But I said yes.

When I arrived, I realized I was right. Those in the room did look stuffy and dull. I had given a similar speech in previous months, which is probably another reason why I was not looking forward to this. That presentation, for a group of businesswomen, was an unexpected hit. The event was a networking one held in a warm and cozy art gallery and the experience changed my opinion of women in business. I am a bit ashamed to admit they were far more energetic, engaged, and creative than I imagined they could be. And so welcoming. I wondered whether I had made a mistake in choosing a career in academia, where people could be so arrogant, judgmental, and depressing.

I clearly erred in repackaging my presentation for this group, or at least in hoping for an enthusiastic response. The room was large and formal, non-descript in its decor, and attendees sat motionless at round tables of ten or so. It was dreadful. I should have felt more at home than I did. After all, they were university women and I was a university woman. But I was feeling more and more alienated from all things university-related. On top of that, I was in the midst of acknowledging that my marriage was coming to an end. I did not want to be there. The thought of standing before a crowd extolling the accomplishments and potential of women made me sick to my stomach. Between greetings, I stared out the window. It was a warm spring afternoon and I knew my kids were at the ball park with their father. If there were anywhere at all I would rather be it was at the park.

The only saving grace was meeting a delightful woman at my table. Never particularly good at small talk, I was grateful to be seated next to someone so genuinely charming. Her smile and interest in things that mattered kept me going. The meal was fine, but I was not very hungry. After my presentation, I was just glad to sit down.

"So, you've really been to Cuba?" she asked.

"Pardon me?"

"You mentioned that you had traveled to Cuba. That must have been exciting." The talk had been a sort of out-of-body experience. It was a blur, and I couldn't remember exactly what I had said.

"Yes. Yes, it was. I learned a lot. It is a fascinating place."

"By any chance have you been to Haiti?" My ears perked up.

"Haiti? No, why?"

"It's next to Cuba. Just wondered." I was impressed she knew it was located near Cuba.

"Yes, it is. I remember being in Baracoa, in eastern Cuba, when our guide pointed to some heavy clouds and told us it must be raining in Haiti. That's as close as I've been. I'd love to go."

"There is a group planning a trip. If you're interested, I could give you their information."

"Well..." Any other time I would have said yes without hesitation. But I wondered how I could possibly do it now, knowing my family was falling apart. "I have been wanting to for such a long time."

"The organization is called the Heartland Center."

"Thank you," I replied. The Heartland Center. I wondered what kind of group this was, but it didn't really matter to me. I called the office later that afternoon expecting there might be a trip planned some distance in the future.

It turned out to be a Catholic group affiliated with the Diocese of Gary, which devoted its work to social justice issues both locally and globally. Its director, Father Tom Gannon, answered the phone himself. The exchange was eerily easy, and I felt as if I could talk with him for hours. The chance meeting with that anonymous woman would change everything, as it marked the beginning of a new path of discovery.

My marriage did end. I found it strange that a professor of mine had warned me years before when I entered graduate school that women who pursue advanced degrees often divorce. I denied anything like that would happen to me. To say that higher education causes divorce is reminiscent of 19th century claims that the rigors of graduate school pursuits caused sterility. "Experts" based their conclusions on the fact that highly educated women tended to have fewer children. There was no logical connection. And I could not imagine holding myself back on the chance it might preserve my marriage. But, for many reasons, we did grow apart. I was very much in love with him when we married, but nineteen years and three children later, we had little to say to one another. Following an argument one evening I asked him to leave, and he was gone by morning. I filed for divorce later that week.

We attempted briefly, and perhaps half-heartedly, to reconcile. It did not work. Living together again, we went on a Saturday night movie date as we had often done the past and were silent the entire ride home. In the driveway, in the dark car, we agreed to go through with the divorce. We promised to sit down together with the kids and break the news, doing our best to let them know everything would be all right. That was September 8th of2001. I slept on the sofa.