This is Haiti: October 17

At 7 I sat on the balcony with Bible and journal and coffee. At 7:30 my eleven year old housemate sat beside me poking the Kindle. I handed him the Creole Jesus Storybook Bible. We read of David and Goliath and Zaccheus. He laughed as I laughed like Goliath. We read that we should love like Jesus and not hate those who steal or who are short.

At 8 I called my mom and left a voicemail wishing her Happy Birthday.

We got in the car at 8:45 to depart for the parent meeting. I snapped a banana and handed half to our neighbor who was riding with us. We threw our banana peels out the window. There was little traffic on the road. We parked awkwardly sideways in front of the school as sand piles blocked our usual spot. Inside the courtyard were boards and sand and rocks. Inside the school were more piles of sand and splatters of cement and men standing on scaffolding to smear the ceiling.

The parents filed in after us, stepping over the boards and puddles, diverting through Madame Patricia’s empty classroom to come out on the other side of the sand piles. Six classes of parents crammed into three classrooms, long legs folding down onto children’s chairs and benches, attending the teachers.

We teachers gathered in office and Beverly led us in laughter.

“We have joy. We keep joy. The devil will not win today,” she said. Madame Rose translated. We sang “Sunshine in My Soul” in Creole and English, mostly from memory. We prayed, we invoked God’s blessing, we hugged and we parted in laughter.

The parents waited.

The stairs were littered with workmen’s belongings. We navigated past another sand pile to the second grade classroom. Beverly and Rose spoke their piece. Questions began. Person after person gave his and her life story, then repeated the same question his forerunner had posed. Madame Rose continued to respond.

Beverly’s shirt changed color in her sweat. I ducked out to cough out cement dust in the hall. Beverly and Rose moved on to the other classes. I congratulated the third grade parents on their children’s English and encouraged them to listen to them speak. I assured second grade parents the class was beginning to learn afresh after they’d forgotten much during vacation. I asked for patience with my poor Creole and thanked them for the privilege of teaching their children. Thirty-odd parents and guardians told me they loved me. I ducked out with a bashful wave.

I greeted a four year old student. Her father reminded me of her sickle-cell anemia. I reminded him that this year she smiled and played—she was happy. She came to me and smiled, body light as a feather in my arms.

I greeted a tiny two-year old student and her petite mother, a head shorter than myself. The girl didn’t laugh when I played with her. Her serious face seemed sick. I listened to the Boss of the construction tell me their plans for finishing every classroom, making each floor level and each wall equally smooth. We established there could not be school before Monday.

At 11 we thanked parents for coming and said farewell. We spoke with a mama concerned for her four year old daughter’s lab results and her first grade son’s poor behavior and her own lightheadedness. We took her blood pressure. It was high. We asked her if she’d eaten that day. She had not. We asked if the family of six had eaten yesterday. She said yes. They had eaten plantain.

The Spirit spoke in our hearts. Beverly spoke aloud. “We want to give you a box of food,” she said. “Bondye beni ou,” Mama said.

We got in the car at 11:30 to go home. We picked up a box of food and took Mama home. At her house the children were outside. The two boys wore shirts and no pants. No underwear. The girl wore a dress. All were barefoot in the yard with the chickens, pots, pans, and laundry. We could hear the creek chuckling behind the house. Mama deposited the box of food. I picked up the daughter, our four year old student. She immediately slumped down on my shoulder, as is habit. We explained to the first grade son why we’d brought the food. We reminded him we love him, Mama loves him, Jesus loves us. He and Mama hugged. I put down the girl. She clutched my finger. We said bu-bye. Mama had to go collect the oldest child at church where she’d left him under the eye of church-goers, afraid to leave him at home with his headache. The two boys followed us out of the gate and watched the car pull away with wide eyes.  

The road to the house was beautiful with sunbeams and banana trees. The car mounted over a pile of gravel and brushed past a wire fence.

At home I washed my hands before spreading Laughing Cow cheese and avocado on bread and ate with my fingers. We locked our doors and walked down the lane to The Beach resto-bar. We drank Coke and 7-Up and checked phone numbers and attendance from the meeting. We discussed curriculum standards distributed in French by the Haitian government. We compared the status of our children at school. Beverly noted things to do, people to contact, and we shook our heads. We watched a blan woman and group of children on the wall. Beverly went to say hello. I stared at the blue of the ocean, at the man standing impossibly far out in the water, feet gripping a ridge of coral, the sunshine on the mountain. I went to say hello. The blan woman lives in Carrefour with five children. They were going out on the boat to a beach across the cove to enjoy the holiday. She said their original plan had changed for there was a problem with the vehicle or the driver and no one had ever properly explained what. We agreed on the speed of Papadap drivers.

We watched her group speed away over the water in a small open boat, comparable to a Volkswagon Bug car releasing a group of fifteen or ten persons in a phone booth.

At 3 at the house in front of the windows I worked on Bible pages, typing up French, Creole, and English as my eyes drooped. I leaned back in the chair as my stomach cramped. This was Day 5 of the antibiotic I’m on for the Girardia parasite. I laid down and fell asleep. The family ate.

At 5:00 we got in the car and went to visit a family friend. She’d been working at the house cooking and washing until her new baby was born. A few weeks ago she’d had a C-section and was now at home with her son. Beverly and I were not ready to walk the half-mile distance. We drove the long way, down a lane you might call one-way, or an ATV track, in the States. We turned right at the trash heap and honked continuously at a pig lying in the mud across the lane.

“Please, Bev, I need meat!” Madame Rose called as the pig remained. Then he moved and we were past, without fresh meat. We curved round a big yellow orphanage, passed a big old fashioned bread oven, and turned in to park the car in front of the house.

We entered through the open gate and greeted the husband sewing at his machine, surrounded by people. Someone called “blan!” We entered the bedroom, close and carpeted. Mama was reclining on the bed nursing Baby. He had a onesie and white socks. The four year old daughter stood nearby with a neighbor and her toddler, sucking water from a baby bottle.

We asked Mama the baby’s name. She didn’t know. We asked Papa. Papa extracted the birth certificate and read three names. Now we know. Papa thanked us and went back to his sewing. It’s the season for uniforms.

Beverly and Rose sat on the bed while Rose spoke to Mama as mother to daughter. Beverly checked her phone. I played with the four year old. She shrieked with laughter with just a look. She ducked in and out of the door as I snatched my hand in and out to tickle her stomach. Mama said she doesn’t sleep at night because of Baby, or during the day because of the heat. Someone bothered them the night before at 2 AM, frightening her throwing rocks at the house. Rose says it’s not a good place. Pastor wants to help them move to another house in a better neighborhood. We sang “This Little Light of Mine,” in Creole and English. Beverly prayed. Rose told Mama to pray continuously. We thanked God a neighbor has been cooking for the family.

We got in the car and asked someone to move the motos from the road. There were four and a car parked in our path. One of our Papadap driving friends appeared, then one of our crossing guard friends. He said the school that had employed them did not take them back this year. The cost was too high. He was happy to see us. His child’s mother lived on this street. As we continued we passed a group of children and seated adults.

“Madame Beverly?” said a tiny child. One of our four year old students stood there, staring up at the car in disbelief, drowning in a dress made for a much larger person. Her Mama called to me from her chair.

“Allo Rachelle!” We greeted each other and the crowd of on-lookers.

“See you on Monday!” we told the student and continued down that one-way road, ATV track.

At 6:30 back at the house I got food and we retreated to the roof. We sat in the twilight and began our Bible study, reading John as the sun receded and the stars broke through. We continued by flashlight, sang our hearts joyful with “Old Church Choir,” and prayed beneath the glinting stars over all that had happened and what may come.

We descended. I met with the youngest son for English lesson. We labored over enunciation. His mother told him he must read slowly and if he did not he would do it again. We ended with a Shel Silverstein poem to focus on smooth speech. I sat on the floor while Madame Rose played with my hair, texting loved ones not there and no longer there. Rose dropped my hair in my face. We laughed. I met with the youngest house girl for English lesson. She labored over “th” and “years,” and I praised her persistence. She is a quick learner. We learned new words. I remembered some French.

At 10 I went upstairs and studied Creole. I learned new phrases. At 11:30 I showered and tucked in my mosquito net. Sometime around 12 I turned off the light. The electricity was still on so I fell asleep with the fan blowing.

This is Haiti.