Brush with Haiti (9 page)

Before we left Port-au-Prince we did find some time to explore artists' work displayed along the streets, in the daylight. I wanted to purchase a painting. Many of them looked very similar to one another and we were told to assume they may be mass-produced. But there were plenty that stood out as wonderfully unique and captivating. I chose one portraying two faces of the same woman, one a profile and the other staring directly forward. Her skin was rich in several shades of brown, both sets oflips full and red. She was cloaked in orange, pink, green, yellow, and lavender, positioned to resemble a blossoming flower against a blue sky. Her dark eyes opened to the depths of her mind, looking ahead and not down.

For years, I carried around the canvas, promising one day to have it suitably framed to hang in my living room. And I finally did. She now looks over me, a reminder of my gratitude for having had the opportunity to see her homeland. And she is notably without children or even a body that might produce children. Even mothers of children deserve to be reminded that they are women first, women who can stand alone.

Even though I had warned
Tom that I did not want to visit any orphanages I knew the day would come when I had to go along. My heart was still pretty fragile and I was afraid it might break. But I could not very well stay behind. Port-au-Prince has hundreds of orphanages. It is a way of life for many. Children are often left without parents due to AIDS or other diseases and many times their parents are alive but unable to care for them.

The first one we visited had been started by a priest who one day found a baby left on his doorstep. There was nothing he could do but take care of the child. Once word of his kindness spread other babies began appearing on his doorstep. By 2003, he was able to organize a staff and acquire a large house, where they cared for more than 40 children.

The house was white and children greeted us on the front steps. They smiled excitedly at the sight of visitors and pulled on our hands to help us inside. Light poured into the living area which was full of toys and books. They wanted to show us everything. A few of the others in our group seemed more comfortable, apparently more experienced in such visits. As I watched them at ease with the children I felt someone tugging at my knee. He was a boy of around two, wearing a red t-shirt and soft khaki pants. He looked up at me and put his arm around my leg as if we went together. We stood there while the others mixed and mingled. We were told that human touch was something the children had come to crave, and he held on so tight I could not walk. My head told me to pick him up and carry him over to the sofa, but my own issues with human touch seemed to be standing in the way.

Months had passed since the man I had fallen in love with moved to California, and I still missed his touch. Sam, my youngest, thank goodness was still open to hugs. Danny and Katie were teens and hugged less frequently and more reluctantly. Looking down I realized I could probably use some more good human touch myself. I peeled one of his hands from my pant leg. He would not let go with the other, but it was enough for me to hobble to the other side ofthe room with him attached so I could sit down. He continued to lean in as close as he could, never letting go of my leg. I continued to watch the others, but he never took his eyes off me. I learned that he had been brought there as an infant severely malnourished, which placed him far below normal weight. His size had eventually reached average, but his cognitive development had not quite caught up.

The other children moved quickly around the room showing off what they could do with balls and blocks, the common language being smiles. I picked up the boy, placed him on my lap, and put my arms around him. He melted back into me, letting me know he was a perfect fit. I wanted to let him know this would last only a minute, and wondered if this kind of meeting with attaching and letting go of strangers was a common occurrence in his life.

When it was time to leave, I stood up and planted his feet firmly on the floor. His arms rewound tightly at my knee. As I attempted to walk toward the door, one of the staff members worked gently to help him let go. I reluctantly turned to say good-bye and his eyes met mine. They seemed to say that he was ok with parting. Or maybe that is what I wanted them to say. In any case, I was ok with it. More ok than I had predicted. The experience made me more conscious of how often people come in and out of our lives, often there for only a very short time. Within the intersection there may be meaning, purpose. It might happen at a sales counter or in a restaurant, at the circulation desk of a library, or on a city sidewalk. The need for some sort of exchange brings two people together, even ifwe do not fully understand at the time what it is. Sometimes all we can do is to acknowledge it and offer eye contact and a smile. That is what the boy and I gave to each other before I walked back down the steps. There was nothing more we could do. Whew, I thought. Not so bad. One orphanage down. Three to go.

The next was easier. There were no children there at the time of our visit, as they were away on a field trip of some kind. We had traveled high into the hills above the city center and the space available for the children there was incredible. So was the view. The meals provided were essentially based on a grain mixture provided by the United States, very common in institutions serving children. It was stored in large plastic drums and mixed with water at meal time, providing basic sustenance. The sleeping areas were stark, with metal triple bunks lining the walls. Again, only what was needed. I imagined children filling the rooms at bedtime.

Outdoors there was a vast green space with a play area and trees, and what seemed to be a pretty decent basketball court. The universality of basketball always strikes a chord in me, especially in a place so far from home. Particularly sweet was the Chicago Bulls backboard. Traveling inevitably inspires discussions of origins as it brings people together from distant places. Though Indiana gave birth to individuals like Cole Porter, James Dean, and Eugene Debs, it is unlikely that people from other countries identify them as Hoosiers or can even locate the state on a mental map. And because the Calumet Region lies in the most northwest corner of the state and exists more as a part of the Chicago metropolitan area, those of us from there often simply tell people we meet that we are from Chicago. Much of the rest of the state's inhabitants would like us to secede anyway, as our Democratic politics and continued position as a union stronghold make us so unlike the majority of them.

It has always been a bit unsettling that Chicago was so well-known in other parts of the world for being home to Al Capone, even decades after his escapades. Now it was refreshing to learn that Chicago was identified with Michael Jordan. Kids everywhere knew him, even here looking out over Port-au-Prince. I missed my boys. When Sam was born in 1992, Dan was turning four and had become a bigger Bulls fan than I imagined anyone could be at that age. He told me if the new baby was a boy, he wanted us to name him Michael Jordan Schlesinger. As much as we were fans, too, his father and I had to tell him that we probably would not do that. Now I wanted both my sons to be with me.

The next orphanage visit was far more challenging. It was one that housed strictly AIDS-infected babies -many dozens of them - and was run by the Missionaries of Charity. This is the order founded by Mother Teresa and they each resembled her in their dress and undying devotion and selfless service marking their work and demeanor. We took a few photos of the babies, but the sisters refused to be photographed, as doing so violated their vows. The youngest infants were housed two to a crib, and it was meal time when we arrived. Their cries turned into wails and we did our best to help keep them calm. Between the sisters and the members of our group, there was still only one of us for about every five or six babies. Any concern for the spread of AIDS disappeared, as the desperate need for comfort superseded.

The wails grew louder in room after room and feeding was the only thing that came close to calming them. And when it was not feeding that demanded our attention, it was changing diapers. We stepped up quickly to help the sisters - who never seemed to stop smiling - tend to one after another. As I tried to comfort one, I saw Carol put another back into a crib and walk outside. I followed her to see what had happened. She was in tears. It got to her. It got to me, too. One by one, the women in our group appeared outside. Deep breaths and silence were all we could muster. Anyone who has had to comfort a hungry, sick baby knows how heart-wrenching and exhausting it can be. The sisters dealt with this all day, every day, and suddenly their lives seemed something beyond my comprehension.

Without my knowing, John had taken a photo of me leaning over to rub the back of one of two babies in a crib. I am not a big fan of documenting every experience with photos, as has become so common now. For some, it seems to have reached the point that unless there is a photographic record, they have not really lived it. But John was there because the bishop was there. And having the orphanage photo on my desk reminds me of a day I might otherwise have not believed myself. It is said that we remember positive experiences in more detail than we do negative ones. If that is the case, I wonder why I remember that day at all. It must have been the sisters.

The last orphanage we visited was affiliated with Montessori education. A Canadian woman began the project and ended up making it her life's work. It started small, as do many worthwhile undertakings, and grew impressively. The operation had recently moved into a very large, unoccupied home the size of a mansion. Property ownership, rights, and responsibilities are skewed in Haiti and often what is owned is left uncared for, unoccupied, and otherwise unused. The acquisition of land and buildings is a status symbol, and while much of the population remains poor, hungry, and homeless, there appears little guilt derived from failing to utilize soil or space for a greater social purpose.

The situation breeds some class conflict, sometimes nurtured by politicians but often emerging organically because of circumstances. It also breeds a disregard for ownership when practical, entrepreneurial people see a need and endeavor to put their ideas to work. This seemed the case with this school director. As her operation grew increasingly popular and successful it required a larger facility, and she, her staff, and students bravely "squatted" in the building. By the time we arrived, it appeared to serve wonderfully, its large rooms housing classes and office workers with simple beauty and efficiency. The rooms' walls were painted in warm hues of yellow and orange and decorated with messages of inspiration and students' work. Walking through them brought back the most soothing of memories of visiting my own elementary school during open houses, and those of my children. It was a happy place.

Katie, Dan, and Sam had each attended a Montessori school for at least a couple years in their early childhood, so I was familiar with its philosophy and methods. Students generally work independently at their own pace, making new discoveries in learning and expression. They are encouraged to be respectful of their environment, taking care of plants, for example, and being considerate of others. They work alone but for the good of the classroom community, and become curiously adept at subjects and skills related to mathematics, languages, sciences, geography, and culture. It was mesmerizing to observe the enthusiasm and devotion that this woman and her staff had brought to Port-au-Prince children. What was even more striking was the fact that each of the residents there was infected with HIV.

I looked carefully at each drawing and piece of writing decorating the hallways and classrooms, and found myself lagging behind as the group moved ahead. Soon I turned back toward what had been pointed out the nurse's office just off the main entrance. I was missing my children dearly, or I should say missing their younger days. Each one had ended up in their nurse's office at one time or another with a playground injury, a sudden fever, a real or imagined stomach ache, or congestion that I should not have ignored as I led them to school and then hurried off to work. Each episode tied me to them more tightly. Just feeling nostalgic, I suppose, and curious about the nurturing of a child back to health during a Port-au-Prince school day.

When I entered the room, there was a small bed in the corner, just as I had imagined, and a child snuggled under warm blankets. She looked no more than 3- or 4-years-old. She gazed up at me and smiled weakly. I recalled my own junior high days of feigning illness during an exam here and there, knowing now that I was fooling no one. She was too young to be faking it, I thought, but she seemed more at peace than in pain. Perhaps she was a bit drained that day, too hungry or tired to make it through the afternoon without a rest.

She squirmed from under the covers and looked as if she wanted to talk. Another girl walked in and explained to me in Creole what was wrong with her friend - at least that is what I imagined. She seemed to try it again in French, and I smiled at both of them. The friend standing next to me patted my arm and the sick girl's shoulder. She then took my hand and placed it on the girl and smiled. Soon the covers were inching down and arms stretched out for a hug. The length of her reach stunned me. As it became clear she wanted me to hold her, I let her hands grasp the back of my neck while I attempted to pick her up. Her hips and legs were frighteningly thin, and I suddenly realized she had to be 9- or 10-years-old, more than four and a half feet tall, though maybe only 60 pounds. She was not a preschooler at all. She held on to me with the little strength she had, and her friend watched with love. Then, much to my surprise, the girl had a bowel movement so loose that it ran through her clothing and dripped down my arm. I do not recall shrieking, but I must have let out a cry of some kind. She pressed her cheek into my chest as her friend ran from the room for help.

A staff member entered, ran out, and then returned with a bundle of cotton and what appeared to be rubbing alcohol. She gently took the girl from my arms, placed her back on the bed and then turned her attention to me. Resources of any kind are scarce across the country, but she seemed to spare no expense in cleaning me up. Handful after handful of cotton was drenched in alcohol and wiped across my skin. She carefully examined my clothing but it was clean. It turned out that the girl was in the later stages of AIDS and near death. It had become customary in this school for the children to learn age-appropriate truths about AIDS and have afflicted and dying classmates nearby. It was the intention of the school director to make sure students comprehended what was happening.