Brush with Haiti (6 page)

"Are you a member of the parish?" one of the women asked, peering over her glasses.

"Um..." She caught me off guard and I was not sure how to answer.

"I haven't seen you here before," another noted. I suddenly felt I was somewhere I shouldn't be. All of the depth and breadth of my understanding of the universal church and God and humanity and goodness and justice could not outweigh the gate-keeping nature of those women.

I made my presentation somewhere after a discussion of an upcoming blood drive. I was careful not to go too far in attempting to explain the need for economic and social restructuring in underdeveloped places like Haiti. Authentic social justice can indeed call for radical changes, but this was a time to keep things simple. I just told them the basics of the project, emphasizing the one of orphanage support and reminding them that the bishop was behind this. I figured if they were sticklers about my church membership status, they were likely followers of the bishop's authority.

Not long after that meeting I returned to the parish office to inquire about becoming a member. Maybe it was the eight years of Catholic school that urged me to play by the rules or a sense that if I had some official backing of the church office, no one could make me feel excluded. I had felt an allegiance to St. Thomas More parish and still had fond memories of school and my class marching down to Mass on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I did not want the fact that I had married a man I loved who happened to be Jewish to rob me of any possibility to preserve those memories with fondness.

The woman sitting behind the counter looked up when I came into the office.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"I would like to become a member of the parish," I told her. I was sure to say it as if I had just moved into town and had a perfectly normal and consistently Catholic history.

"Have you been attending Mass here?"

"Yes," I replied. "In fact, I went to school here and even remember the old church. Before they built this one, where we're standing, the area was all covered with grass and there were monkey bars over there and once I fell off and my mother had to pick me up from school and take me to the emergency room. My nose wasn't broken but there was blood all over the front of my white blouse..." I could not lie. And I could not seem to stop. The memories of being part of the parish all came flooding back. And I wanted so much to convince her that I deserved to be an official member.

"You'll have to fill this out." She handed me a two-sided form.

"You can take it home and bring it back later, ifyou like."

"Thank you," I replied. I walked out the door and stood on the step next to the stone statue ofJesus, looking out toward the area where we used to jump rope.

"Florida oranges tap me on the back, on the back, on the back..." I could almost make out young ghosts of my friends, their navy blue skirts flying and knee socks sliding down their calves. This time I felt as if I were almost there, just needing to fill out one sheet of paper, front and back. The sun glowed brightly over the parking lot once a playground.

I looked down at the form. "Name. Address.

Phone Number... etc., etc. Marital Status." Ouch. "Number of children... Date(s) of baptism." My heart sank. They had not been baptized. They were 9, 13 and 17 by then and trying to introduce the idea of baptism at that point would have created havoc in their lives.

I took the paper home and did not return it. I did return to Mass, however, but did not take Communion. I dutifully sat, letting people climb over me as they went up to the altar, and politely stood in the aisle as they returned to their pew, wondering what it was like and whether I would recognize the taste. I wished to be invisible, sitting in a pew toward the back, working on the Haiti project in my head, planning lessons about the history of poverty in Latin America, pretending to be Catholic, and wondering whether God cared one way or the other.

Gathering at O'Hare
provided an opportunity for all of us to be together for the first time. Only Tom had been to Haiti, and perhaps the bishop. I had been to El Salvador a few years before and it was the only other time I had observed extraordinarily deep and rampant poverty that reached mile after mile after mile after mile. I anticipated something similar in Haiti. Because of Tom's experience, we followed his lead.

The first leg to Miami was similar to any such flight, with a mixture young and old traveling for business or pleasure. The trip from Miami to Port-au-Prince was very different. There were some Haitians, but the majority of passengers were clearly not. They mostly traveled in groups, as did we; and they were white, as were we. Each group took on its own personality. Ours was pretty eclectic and while fairly upbeat we tended to be a bit solemn. Perhaps it was due to the fact that we did not know each other well, but I attributed it to acknowledgment of what lay ahead. Others, however, seemed to be on some kind of high. A Jesus high. Many were wearing matching t-shirts, signifying they were with one another. The shirts generally noted a particular church and some message of hope and/or help. I did not really envy the giddiness that they exhibited; rather, I sat in wonder. We kidded with Tom, asking why we did not get matching t-shirts.

"We're already going to stand out there," he said, shaking his head. "We want to blend in with the community as much as possible, not set ourselves apart." That was not to judge others who go on group mission trips, but it is harder to feel a member of the family of man while wearing something that distinguishes you from others. I also wanted to be very careful not to judge their intentions. Before the trip some of my friends admonished me for wanting to go there to convert people. They were quite critical of conventional religion and assumed that was the point of my visit since I was traveling with the bishop, a priest, and some church ladies. I assured them that the idea of converting anyone to anything could not have been further from my mind. For me, this trip was just another step in my journey as a perpetual learner. I was going there as a student of the planet, a student of life.

When we arrived the air was warm and moist, a welcome change from January in the Midwest. Our spirits were light with the bustle of the airport and people were excited to meet us there. Moving quickly through a corridor I looked up and saw a sign that read "VIPs" above a doorway. I laughed, knowing just how gritty most of my travels had been. Jeans and backpacks normally served as the basis of my dress code, and I was more comfortable in a tent than a five-star hotel. Before I could comment, we were whisked through the doors. At that moment I realized this would not be like other trips. We were, after all, acting as a delegation and accompanying a bishop. Throughout our stay, he was humble and gracious, but there was a certain level of decorum expected. We were indeed treated as VIPs.

For our stay in Port-au-Prince Tom had chosen an older hotel that he referred to as one of faded elegance. He had traveled many of the world's major cities and was quite a connoisseur. He knew fine accommodations, fine food, and fine wine, but also knew this was not the time or place to be too extravagant. He did make us a promise, which he kept, of one lunch at the Hotel Oloffson so that we might experience the setting which spawned Graham Greene's
The Comedians.
For now we would settle in at a place just as welcoming but more simple. After a wonderful meal, we relaxed by the pool.

Having lived in the Midwest all my life, sitting by any outdoor pool in January was a treat. The bishop decided to take a swim. Avid about fitness, it was an opportunity he could not pass up. It was a bit unnerving at first, for the only time I had ever been in close proximity to a bishop was at my Confirmation. I was young and tried desperately to make sense of notions of grace, the Holy Spirit, and my new responsibilities as a soldier of Christ. I took Dorothy as my Confirmation name, and she was later erased from the books, no longer a saint, presumably because it was discovered she was not good enough. That chapter in my life made Catholicism very confusing to me. We learned to bow our heads and call the bishop "Your Excellency" making this event in which a subsequent bishop swam laps before me all the more strange.

At night the patio area was dimly lit, as is most of the world outside the United States. Electricity is just too precious. The painted wood facade of the hotel was decorated with carved trim, reminding me of something German or Swiss, or perhaps Victorian. I learned later that this architecture dots the cityscape of Port-au-Prince. After the others retreated to their rooms, I continued to talk with Tom. His experiences and take on life endlessly intrigued me, and I could have listened to him all night.

"My mother told me that I would like what you had to say," I said.

"Why?" I am sure he did not know how to respond.

"I think she was trying to get me to go to Mass again."

After a couple of rum punches I let him know it was Catholic social action, and in particular the trip planned for Haiti, that brought me back to the Church.

"After my divorce, it was comforting to come back, like seeing an old friend." He smiled. "Going to Mass reminded me of who I used to be." Before I knew it, I was confessing everything that the Church had meant to me, and that although I separated my faith from my lectures, teaching the history of Latin America had become a vocation of sorts.

On my third rum punch, the tears started flowing. I described my marriage and divorce, and how much I missed receiving Communion. He smiled and said that it would be all right, that the very idea of a "catholic" Church was one of openness and inclusion. I had gone to official Confession many times in my life, but had never felt more absolved of digressions than I had in that instant.

The next morning as the bishop said Mass at a small church nearby, I bravely walked up to receive Communion. He gave me an unsettling look as he held the host before my eyes. I had let him know in a casual introductory conversation at the airport that I had been divorced and was not much of a practicing Catholic. And it was true, I was not. Certainly not in comparison to the others in the group. He knew that I should not be receiving Communion and he knew that I knew. But that did not stop me.

"The body of Christ," he said carefully. He placed it in my hands.

"Amen." My response was barely audible. The host tasted just as I remembered. Only better.

The trip from Port-au-Prince
to the soil conservation project required a short plane ride to Cap-Haitien followed by a long drive. I looked forward to seeing just how small the plane was. And it was indeed small - just room for the eight of us, plus two guides, the pilot, and copilot. Boarding such a small craft brought to mind the wonder and delicate nature of flight, as we carefully situated ourselves and our belongings to balance the weight evenly. Once seated, I took a deep breath knowing there were plenty of prayers accompanying the group and any from me would not have added much. The sound of the engine made it difficult to chat, but the flight was good, as long as it lasted.

About 45 minutes into what was supposed to be an hour-long flight, the co-pilot turned to inform us that we would need to head back. After an exchange of words I could not decipher we learned that it was impossible to land due to fog. The single light at the Cap-Haitien airport had burned out days before and had not yet been replaced. Evidently other flights had landed successfully, but it seemed the combination of thickening fog and the presence of the bishop made the pilots especially cautious.

We landed back at the regional airport in Port-au-Prince and waited for a later flight. By this time we were very hungry (which becomes a relative term in Haiti) and a little wobbly from the early morning travels to nowhere, but we had bonded well and were becoming a chatty group. We did not mind sitting there and getting to know each other better while we waited indefinitely. And it gave us time to reflect on what we had already witnessed on the trip.

"Hey, Monica. Do you have anything to eat in there?" one of the others asked, pointing to her large tote. In our short time together, Monica earned the reputation of being the most thorough packer ofthe group. It is always good to have one, and it was especially fortunate for me, as she was my roommate.

"I'm sure she does," I replied.

"Yes, I do," she said. "What would you like?" She listed an array of healthy snacks so vast that even she found it amusing. We decided on Luna Bars. We also purchased some small, freshly-made meat pies from a woman working at the airport. I tried to imagine what she would think of the food courts at O'Hare. But nothing there could have been more satisfying than what she provided for us.

After two or three hours we boarded another plane, as the skies in Cap-Haitien had reportedly cleared. By the time we landed and drove to our destination it was late afternoon. We were to meet with a group of community leaders to hear about the status of development projects in the area and were determined not to disappoint them. When we arrived, they were absolutely delighted. They had heard about our travel delays and assumed we would not come at all.

"Of course, we would be here," the bishop told them. We would not miss this opportunity." I could tell he meant it. Seated in a classroom-type space among a dozen or so Haitians working in education, agriculture, and health sectors, we watched and listened as Bishop Melczek and Father Tom spoke. But they more often listened. Yes, there was much work to be done, but people were doing it. It was very heartening. Following the exchange we had a chance to speak with one another. A man approached me and introduced himself.

"You are a teacher," he said. I looked at him, puzzled, and then realized we had each said a few words about ourselves to the group. He remembered.

"Yes, I am."

"I am a teacher, too." We had the most wonderful conversation. It turned out that he was an English teacher in the area. As we went on it became apparent that his English was not very good at all. Any Creole on my part was non-existent. I had studied only one year of French in high school and at that point the only thing I might have been able to verbalize was the first verse of
La Marseillaise.