1-31-09
1) Throughout Port-au-Price one can hear the little hand held bells of shoe shiners calling out to customers whose shoes are desperately in need of having the dust and mud of Port-au-Prince removed. I imagine these guys can keep as busy as they would like maintaining the filthy shoes of Haitian men across the city. Before my arrival in Haiti, I had had my shoes cleaned and polished approximately zero times. This probably gives you an idea of my wardrobe back in America. However, I have agreed to a job where the dress code requires “dress shoes” most days. So recently I asked our friend and interpreter, Freno, what the Creole word is for these men? His answer was a microcosm of our experience in Haiti thus far. He said, “They are called ‘chany’, but if you call them ‘George’ they will come.” Of course they will.
2) Living in Haiti I work and live amongst some of the poorest people in the world. But I am not poor. However inaccurate the Haitians’ understanding of my financial situation may be, they are correct in the general assertion that I have access to things they do not. I have enough money to buy food whenever I am hungry. If I get sick I can go to the doctor, get medicine, and get better relatively quickly. They know this. I know they know this. And they know I know they know this. I guess this could be called “the psychology of privilege and oppression”…or something. This reality is something I carry with me in the forefront of my mind. If I forget it for a moment there is usually someone close by to remind me. For example, Kim and I are approached daily and asked for money by street children, beggars, and those we meet randomly on the street. More specifically, people we have gotten to know here have asked us for the following; to send them to English school for 2 or 3 months, for rent money, a laptop, a camera, medicine, shoes, money for their wedding, and a job. They see us for what we are: people of privilege. While I certainly believe in recognizing our common humanity and paying some sort of homage to that mysterious connection that binds us all together, we should not do so at the expense of downplaying or ignoring the colossal injustices that create such radically different socioeconomic realities. To honor both our connectedness, as well as the gulf between us, is a dual task that must be worked out together. It is a challenge Kim and I struggle with daily.
3) This week I have been visiting orphanages in the Port-au-Prince area for a project that I am working on. Stepping into an orphanage is an intense experience, especially if you adore children like I do. The first orphanage I visited had 129 children. There were tiny babies crying, snotty-nosed toddlers chasing balls, and older children helping with the daily chores and with the care of the younger children. I spent a couple of hours in the nursery holding and playing with the babies. Every time I picked one of the children up the women working there would say to me, “Ou papa li” (You are his/her father). Then they would tell me background information about the child, one child whose mother died and whose father wasn’t interested in raising the child. There was another who was abandoned at the orphanage and one who was found in a trash can during Carnival last year. The most common story however, was simply that the parents of these children could not afford to take care of them. They didn’t have the resources to feed them, nevertheless provide medical care or an education. I sat briefly with the mother of a one-month-old little girl while she breast-fed her daughter. She asked me if I was interested in adopting her daughter. She had brought her to the orphanage because she had no place to live and no money to care for her child. This is what poverty does; it dehumanizes people to such a degree that they are forced to give up one of the most beautiful gifts of life, their children. While I think adoption is a beautiful thing and something that Kim and I may look into while we are in Haiti, let us not forgot while so many children are available for adoption in the first place.
4) Learning a foreign language messes with your head. Kim and I are currently living in a guesthouse where we hear English, Spanish, Creole, and French everyday. We are obviously focusing on Creole, but sometimes we have to take a moment just to determine what language someone is speaking to us. This can be discombobulating. For example, the other day Kim and I came upon one of the numerous traffic stops run by the Haitian police. I rolled down my window and handed the man our insurance and registration papers, as we had been through this routine numerous times before. I thought he said something to me in Creole about “konduit,” which means ‘to drive.’ As I was attempting to understand what this man was asking me suddenly my wife yells out to the officer from the passenger seat, “Favorite country? Our favorite country is Haiti!” Apparently Kim thought the officer was speaking English and that he was asking me what our favorite country was. The officer looked at me to try to determine what my wife could possibly be yelling at him in English with such enthusiasm, and I, no longer certain that he was speaking Creole, was looking at him to see if he was indeed inquiring into our favorite country. He was not. After a few awkward moments we were allowed to pass.
5) The quote of the day is not a quote at all, but instead a Haitian proverb. It reads, “Woch nan dlo pa konnen mize woch nan soley.” It literally translates, “The rock in the water doesn’t know the misery of the rock in the sun.” This proverb speaks to the economic disparity that exists between the rich and poor in Haiti and throughout the world. I think the first step in coming to know the plight of the poor is simply to educate oneself on what is going on. For example, did you know that more than 50% of the Haitian population lives on less than $1 a day? Did you also know that Haiti has the most millionaires per capita than any other country in Latin America or the Caribbean? While I’m not sure any of us in the States can ever really know what it’s like to live in abject poverty, we can educate ourselves on what is going on and make a decision to be in solidarity with the disenfranchised of the world.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Methods of Patience
Jan 27, 2008
My Creole professor told us, “Haiti is the best place in the world to learn patience.” I think he is right. No Buddhist temple could teach you better. It is a place that challenges your capacity for patience every day, especially for the westerner coming from an instant-gratification and production-per-hour society. And just when I think I can’t possibly become more patient, that I’ve hit the nirvana of patience, we’re thrown a new challenge only to remind us we have a long way to go. The foot starts tapping, the heart starts racing, the familiar taste of frustration rises somewhere from deep inside our gut. These days I’m able to recognize it, and give-in a little faster. But I still have a long way to go.
Last night the Galloper’s muffler fell off—not entirely, which would have been easier, but only partially making driving impossible without knotting the metal into a bowtie under the car. The muffler itself is fine, the pipe attaching the muffler to the car “rotted off” as our mechanic eloquently put it. Not a big deal in the scheme of things. Definitely repairable. A blip in time. But it came in the middle of “plans” (how dare we make plans!!), in the middle of scheduled meetings to attend, clinics to run, apartments to move into. The galloper, with its infinite sage wisdom told us to, “Slow down.” “Get creative.” “Find a way.” So we do, and we did.
It is with such times when I find my toes-a-tapping, when I hear my groans of “not again” frustration, I am reminded to take a step back and remember what is a big deal, and what is something to laugh at. This is what Haiti teaches us.
If a father can wait patiently, praying that if he sells one more basket he’ll be able to buy the medicine he needs to treat his daughter’s diarrhea, I can wait. If a husband can wait, patiently hoping that today is the day his wife will feel better, will stop bleeding after the delivery of his child and be able to help him care for their children, I can wait. If a school child can wait patiently all day for meal that will come in the evening, I can wait. I can adjust. I can lean patience for the inconveniencies in life and those that feel more dire. I learn from Haiti.
Today, I got into Patrick V. and Francois’s car since they were kind enough to give me a ride home after class. They were nearly out of gas. Francois looked a little worried. There is currently a big gas crisis in the country. Most gas stations don’t have any gas. The ones that do also have a line 2 blocks long day and night with people waiting for the precious liquid to fuel their ride. Our Creole teacher came in flustered last night after waiting a fruitless 3 hours for gas only to have to leave on empty. What was Patrick V’s response to Francois’s question today? A song. A song made up impromptu about “there’s no gas, in this country.” And we all doubled over laughing. This is one example of a Haitian’s reaction to events out of their immediate control and that are ultimately not that important. No fuming, no head banging, no fist against the window. Singing and laughing because that is really the only thing that makes sense. And it made us all feel better.
Patrick and I are humbled, because the patience of the people here always trumps our own feeble attempts. We learn not to be completely thrown by little bumps in the road. Because really, that’s all they are--bumps. Life goes on, largely undisturbed. It is our expectations we must adjust, our timeline, our toe-tapping impatience. We must learn to sing instead. And always, let laughter bring us back in perspective.
My Creole professor told us, “Haiti is the best place in the world to learn patience.” I think he is right. No Buddhist temple could teach you better. It is a place that challenges your capacity for patience every day, especially for the westerner coming from an instant-gratification and production-per-hour society. And just when I think I can’t possibly become more patient, that I’ve hit the nirvana of patience, we’re thrown a new challenge only to remind us we have a long way to go. The foot starts tapping, the heart starts racing, the familiar taste of frustration rises somewhere from deep inside our gut. These days I’m able to recognize it, and give-in a little faster. But I still have a long way to go.
Last night the Galloper’s muffler fell off—not entirely, which would have been easier, but only partially making driving impossible without knotting the metal into a bowtie under the car. The muffler itself is fine, the pipe attaching the muffler to the car “rotted off” as our mechanic eloquently put it. Not a big deal in the scheme of things. Definitely repairable. A blip in time. But it came in the middle of “plans” (how dare we make plans!!), in the middle of scheduled meetings to attend, clinics to run, apartments to move into. The galloper, with its infinite sage wisdom told us to, “Slow down.” “Get creative.” “Find a way.” So we do, and we did.
It is with such times when I find my toes-a-tapping, when I hear my groans of “not again” frustration, I am reminded to take a step back and remember what is a big deal, and what is something to laugh at. This is what Haiti teaches us.
If a father can wait patiently, praying that if he sells one more basket he’ll be able to buy the medicine he needs to treat his daughter’s diarrhea, I can wait. If a husband can wait, patiently hoping that today is the day his wife will feel better, will stop bleeding after the delivery of his child and be able to help him care for their children, I can wait. If a school child can wait patiently all day for meal that will come in the evening, I can wait. I can adjust. I can lean patience for the inconveniencies in life and those that feel more dire. I learn from Haiti.
Today, I got into Patrick V. and Francois’s car since they were kind enough to give me a ride home after class. They were nearly out of gas. Francois looked a little worried. There is currently a big gas crisis in the country. Most gas stations don’t have any gas. The ones that do also have a line 2 blocks long day and night with people waiting for the precious liquid to fuel their ride. Our Creole teacher came in flustered last night after waiting a fruitless 3 hours for gas only to have to leave on empty. What was Patrick V’s response to Francois’s question today? A song. A song made up impromptu about “there’s no gas, in this country.” And we all doubled over laughing. This is one example of a Haitian’s reaction to events out of their immediate control and that are ultimately not that important. No fuming, no head banging, no fist against the window. Singing and laughing because that is really the only thing that makes sense. And it made us all feel better.
Patrick and I are humbled, because the patience of the people here always trumps our own feeble attempts. We learn not to be completely thrown by little bumps in the road. Because really, that’s all they are--bumps. Life goes on, largely undisturbed. It is our expectations we must adjust, our timeline, our toe-tapping impatience. We must learn to sing instead. And always, let laughter bring us back in perspective.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Community matters
Maybe my lack of journaling is a sign that we are getting established enough that days are filled to the brim, that we are too tired at the end of the day to do much more than fall into bed. I consider that a good thing.
We found an apartment! Although our time in the guesthouse has opened doors to friendship, to networking, and given us space to get familiar with this country, we have come to a point where we are anxious for our own space. An apartment will add more responsibility to our lives, but also allows for some ownership. We found a place in the upper level of a house, with a balcony that looks out onto the mountains catching clean breezes above the streets. Now to find something to sleep on, eat on and sit on. While the manager of the apartment cleans and paints it for us, Patrick and I are now on the furniture/house trappings hunt which proves interesting. Again, we discover that the trappings of life and comfort are made even more unaffordable for people here; even by American standards, the prices seem steep! Seems ridiculous in a place where most people can’t afford rice, much less a mattress. Only the rich can afford trappings of a house, a further division of the economic classes here. There aren’t any discount stores to speak of, no Craig’s list. The street-side-sale of used furniture hikes prices up as high as new items in a store. Can’t really blame the salesmen. They are trying to build up their own family’s home.
This week we started lessons with a new Creole teacher. We found him through a new acquaintance we’ve met here, and he is phenomenal. He is a professional, a linguist, and works with some of the leading Creole programs in the States to better their programs. He makes my brain tired, but in a good way. With our schedule, we are left with only the late afternoon/early evening time slot which is a under utilized method of torture, I do believe. Even for the teacher. We all sit around trying to stifle yawns, whipping our brain to go one mile further. But we are happy and relieved to have a teacher who has invested his own time into our efforts to learn the language.
This week, our regional director for Global Ministries, Felix, came for a visit. We are always happy to see him. His years of experience as a missionary are evident in the way he facilitates conversations, interactions and sharing. And his own vision of how our presence in this world should be shines through all of his actions and words.
And his visit gave us a chance to step back and re-evaluate the reasons we came here through conversation and reflection. Funny how in the midst of the life, in the midst of problems to solve, inefficiencies recognized, personal agendas to reckon with, to-do lists and meetings to complete, lines can get blurred. Felix helped us to again see the big picture of our presence of mission. We reflected on our philosophy of mission, and whether we are being true to it or letting the details blur the larger outreach. Although we haven’t been perfect, we’ve had frustrations and been impatient, I’d like to think that ultimately we are staying true to our beliefs, staying true to the call of being a critical presence. And I trust we'll get better with practice. Piti piti nap rive.
I continue working in the Karfou clinic on Wednesdays, which is a place I’m happy to go. Although the clinic isn’t sophisticated, it has been in the community for a while, and a Haitian doctor works there as well. The community therefore has reasonable expectations about what can be done. There are always patients waiting to be seen. Slowly my Creole is getting better, the patients understand more of what I try to say, and Miss Fano and I have a good working relationship. She's able to elicit a reasonable history when patients aren't forthcoming, and we have two different styles that seem to meld well together. She can pick up on what I'm thinking and carry on with an education point. This week Felix accompanied me to clinic to observe and to talk to patients. We then had a little meeting with Felix, Miss Fano and the Haitian physician who works there. Felix's mediation skills, which likely evolved over years of being a missionary, were amazing to observe. I recognize how blinded I can get on my projects allowing me to loose sight of the big picture of what we were asked to do. I don't kick myself too hard because until I have a really true grasp on the language, I can't do what Felix did today. I can only be a loving presence, try hard, laugh at myself, and offer my opinion on the things that I know about. But it was fun for me to be re-inspired.
Today we had the third family seminar day, this time in a rural village outside of Port-au-Prince. The road was rough and bumpy, but full of people, cows, chickens, goats and fields of corn and banana trees. The people in attendence looked bored at first, but surprised us with their insightful sharing and questions. We heard stories of from women of husbands that had left them for someone more beautiful, of infidelity, the inability to get jobs, the inability to feed their children. We heard stories from men of women who had lost faith in them because they can’t find a job, of children that don’t respect them because they don’t work. And Patrick and I were once again humbled when they turned in our direction for advice. We’ve not had to survive such trials, not in the least. We can only hope that teaching partnership, mutual respect, support and love will somehow make sense to someone, may spark new ideas in another. But mostly we humbly honor their incredible challenges and the strength that they must have to get through them so bravely. We honor and respect. Somedays that's all we can do.
As always, the family seminar clinic ended with a time of free medical consultations to the people there. My earlier nervous worries about holding a "clinic" without lab, medicine, or equipment has relaxed with time. Now I look forward to sitting in a small room seeing one patient after another, hearing their complaints, educating when I can, prescribing when I can, and making recommendations for follow-up. One little boy, probably age 9, came in to show me his rash. He was alone. His mom was at home with his brothers and sisters, and had sent him to come see me. He sat very professional in the chair, spoke like a little man about his rash. And as I prescribed ointments for him and gave him directions, the women of the community who had gathered around (there is no such thing as a private patient-doctor interaction that I've yet found) took notes for him so that they could relay the information back to his mother. I loved the community effort on taking care of each other, of the common maternalism that reached out to all the neighbors' children to ensure that information was shared.
May we all reach out together in community, taking care of each other and each other's children, stepping outside of our homes into open spaces to share our stories, to listen to each other's worries and suffering, to help when we can. Because this is the beauty of being human, this is the beauty of community.
Thank you for being our community.
We found an apartment! Although our time in the guesthouse has opened doors to friendship, to networking, and given us space to get familiar with this country, we have come to a point where we are anxious for our own space. An apartment will add more responsibility to our lives, but also allows for some ownership. We found a place in the upper level of a house, with a balcony that looks out onto the mountains catching clean breezes above the streets. Now to find something to sleep on, eat on and sit on. While the manager of the apartment cleans and paints it for us, Patrick and I are now on the furniture/house trappings hunt which proves interesting. Again, we discover that the trappings of life and comfort are made even more unaffordable for people here; even by American standards, the prices seem steep! Seems ridiculous in a place where most people can’t afford rice, much less a mattress. Only the rich can afford trappings of a house, a further division of the economic classes here. There aren’t any discount stores to speak of, no Craig’s list. The street-side-sale of used furniture hikes prices up as high as new items in a store. Can’t really blame the salesmen. They are trying to build up their own family’s home.
This week we started lessons with a new Creole teacher. We found him through a new acquaintance we’ve met here, and he is phenomenal. He is a professional, a linguist, and works with some of the leading Creole programs in the States to better their programs. He makes my brain tired, but in a good way. With our schedule, we are left with only the late afternoon/early evening time slot which is a under utilized method of torture, I do believe. Even for the teacher. We all sit around trying to stifle yawns, whipping our brain to go one mile further. But we are happy and relieved to have a teacher who has invested his own time into our efforts to learn the language.
This week, our regional director for Global Ministries, Felix, came for a visit. We are always happy to see him. His years of experience as a missionary are evident in the way he facilitates conversations, interactions and sharing. And his own vision of how our presence in this world should be shines through all of his actions and words.
And his visit gave us a chance to step back and re-evaluate the reasons we came here through conversation and reflection. Funny how in the midst of the life, in the midst of problems to solve, inefficiencies recognized, personal agendas to reckon with, to-do lists and meetings to complete, lines can get blurred. Felix helped us to again see the big picture of our presence of mission. We reflected on our philosophy of mission, and whether we are being true to it or letting the details blur the larger outreach. Although we haven’t been perfect, we’ve had frustrations and been impatient, I’d like to think that ultimately we are staying true to our beliefs, staying true to the call of being a critical presence. And I trust we'll get better with practice. Piti piti nap rive.
I continue working in the Karfou clinic on Wednesdays, which is a place I’m happy to go. Although the clinic isn’t sophisticated, it has been in the community for a while, and a Haitian doctor works there as well. The community therefore has reasonable expectations about what can be done. There are always patients waiting to be seen. Slowly my Creole is getting better, the patients understand more of what I try to say, and Miss Fano and I have a good working relationship. She's able to elicit a reasonable history when patients aren't forthcoming, and we have two different styles that seem to meld well together. She can pick up on what I'm thinking and carry on with an education point. This week Felix accompanied me to clinic to observe and to talk to patients. We then had a little meeting with Felix, Miss Fano and the Haitian physician who works there. Felix's mediation skills, which likely evolved over years of being a missionary, were amazing to observe. I recognize how blinded I can get on my projects allowing me to loose sight of the big picture of what we were asked to do. I don't kick myself too hard because until I have a really true grasp on the language, I can't do what Felix did today. I can only be a loving presence, try hard, laugh at myself, and offer my opinion on the things that I know about. But it was fun for me to be re-inspired.
Today we had the third family seminar day, this time in a rural village outside of Port-au-Prince. The road was rough and bumpy, but full of people, cows, chickens, goats and fields of corn and banana trees. The people in attendence looked bored at first, but surprised us with their insightful sharing and questions. We heard stories of from women of husbands that had left them for someone more beautiful, of infidelity, the inability to get jobs, the inability to feed their children. We heard stories from men of women who had lost faith in them because they can’t find a job, of children that don’t respect them because they don’t work. And Patrick and I were once again humbled when they turned in our direction for advice. We’ve not had to survive such trials, not in the least. We can only hope that teaching partnership, mutual respect, support and love will somehow make sense to someone, may spark new ideas in another. But mostly we humbly honor their incredible challenges and the strength that they must have to get through them so bravely. We honor and respect. Somedays that's all we can do.
As always, the family seminar clinic ended with a time of free medical consultations to the people there. My earlier nervous worries about holding a "clinic" without lab, medicine, or equipment has relaxed with time. Now I look forward to sitting in a small room seeing one patient after another, hearing their complaints, educating when I can, prescribing when I can, and making recommendations for follow-up. One little boy, probably age 9, came in to show me his rash. He was alone. His mom was at home with his brothers and sisters, and had sent him to come see me. He sat very professional in the chair, spoke like a little man about his rash. And as I prescribed ointments for him and gave him directions, the women of the community who had gathered around (there is no such thing as a private patient-doctor interaction that I've yet found) took notes for him so that they could relay the information back to his mother. I loved the community effort on taking care of each other, of the common maternalism that reached out to all the neighbors' children to ensure that information was shared.
May we all reach out together in community, taking care of each other and each other's children, stepping outside of our homes into open spaces to share our stories, to listen to each other's worries and suffering, to help when we can. Because this is the beauty of being human, this is the beauty of community.
Thank you for being our community.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Buzz free day
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Today began with bad news: the guesthouse coffee maker was on the fritz. Wow. Not cool. Not cool at all. I had no idea how much I relied on coffee until today. My spoiled Starbucks-loving-self moaned the fact that there is NO WHERE to drive-through, to stand in line, to sit down and order COFFEE in Haiti. Everyone drinks coffee here (even the children), but it is such a basic household item that it isn't available anywhere but in the home. Not at work, not in stores, not in restaurants. Home. So if home doesn't have it, you are caffeine free all day. Kind-of like the way water used to be until we marketed it in the States. Now you can drive through Starbucks and just order water. Ah the land of the free to market anything. I missed it today.
I sleepily arrived at CONASPEH. Mere moments after putting my books down, Francois came running into the clinic looking frazzled and asked me to accompany her to her son's school across town. She had just got a call that he fell and probably broke his leg and potentially had a bad head injury as well. In my coffee-less daze, I wondered why a school would call and say, "come get your kid with a head injury and take him home." I hopped in the car with Francois thinking it must just be my uncaffenated state that made me question such reason. Arriving at the school, we found her son sitting on a chair sort of stuporous with bandaids all over the side of his face. I commenced with my exam while the nurse gave me a report. The school nurse told me she thought his pupils were unequal immediately after the accident (the sign of serious brain damage). Why hadn't he been taken to the ER? --again, lack of coffee was making me confused. He mumbled when I'd ask questions, but I had my suspicions. I commenced with examining his knee (the secretary said he wouldn't/couldn't walk on it after the fall) which he was hesitant to let me lift, but when his mom distracted him, I was able to mash around just fine with out any significant wincing. So still impressed that he was really quiet and mumbly, and not having completely abandoned the US "must rule out the worst case scenario first", I thought maybe I should suggest we go to the ER at great expense to Francois. The boy was carried to the car by a 10-foot-tall security guard since he couldn't walk. I wasn't done with my exam. We started talking to the boy in the car as we were driving away. He was able to speak up if prompted. And my neuro exam was stone cold normal. I told Francois that I thought he might have had a mild concussion--it was obvious he did a face plant while running through the playground. And I recommended that he not play any sports for a month so as not to risk another head injury. This prompted the boy to speak RIGHT up... wiggle himself to the edge of the seat and look at his mom with wide eyes, "no sports?" AHHH. Cured. "No riding bicycles?" he asked me. "How are you going to ride a bike when you can't walk??" So miracles of miracles, he was able to walk himself right out of the car into the CONASPEH school without problems. He definitely gimped it up for all to see, but Patrick observed a quite normal jog after he turned the corner. :) I guess I CAN practice miraculous medicine after all!
So then back to preparing for my classes. Let me reiterate again how much I'm NOT a natural teacher, ESPECIALLY without coffee. I'd probably enjoy it better if I could speak freely the language, or write notes without hours of diving through english-to-french, french-to-creole dictionaries, or have to teach medicine to students who don't have easy access to text books. If I don't give the information to the students, they don't get it. I can hardly comprehend this as most of what I learned in medical school was what I read which was then perhaps HIGHLIGHTED in class. I know I need to let go of certain expectations. But I still feel like the students have a right to learn well.
So Tuesday I was in sort of a funk in clinic as I prepared for class. I had some kids come into the clinic with headaches and stomach aches, had a couple of pastors come in for simple evaluations, but mostly it was pretty slow. Then I heard a child screaming and crying outside. I looked out the window above my desk to see his mother whipping the child in the middle of the school yard with a leather belt. Whipping whipping whipping. I about threw up. I couldn't take it. I hid in my office trying not to cry only to have the sound of the child's screams follow me in the room; I then went out to say something which also felt completely wrong (like telling someone they have bad manners in their own house... its not my country, its not my rules). Thank goodness one of the women of the school beat me to it. All she did was yell from the door way about what was going on. And the mother walked over to her and talked while the child sobbed. Would you believe that later that very morning, I heard another boy crying, and before I could see what was happening, he ran into the clinic followed by his enormous father whipping him as well with a belt? It could have been the same kid, but I can't say for certain. This time I felt just fine saying, "NOT IN HERE." I know that whipping is a broad cultural practice, and that many people I know had to pick their own switch, but it was shocking to see it in such a public way. It shook me. And I worked hard to not be judgmental while waging an internal battle on what was right and wrong and where my responsibilities like in speaking up and out. I mean seriously, whipping in a school?
So that didn't help my caffeine-free funk.
Class went well. It always goes better than what I dread might happen. I like the students although I am very certain they make fun of me constantly. I have no pride any longer, so I am unfazed. And the basic math problem I put on the board as an example became the rest of my lesson. So the information I was supposed to get through on day one is now taking 3 days to teach. So much for getting through a text-book full of information. Makes me realize how I need to prioritize the information I give. Teaching is hard. I like my job better. Yes, I teach every day, but it is one-person centered and I can read my patient's face and see if they understand or not, and rephrase if they don't. A whole class is overwhelming, knowing there is a quiet one in the corner who isn't saying anything because they are shy, and a loud one in front saying everything is easy when its not consensus. I tip my hat to you teachers everywhere.
After 2 1/2 hours of class, Patrick picked me up and dropped me off a the guest house to meet up with the Creole tutor while he ran to the airport to pick up Felix--our regional director from GM. We had a creole lesson, painfully after a day without coffee, then afterwards went to Felix's hotel for a meeting. And Felix asked us, "how has your time been here?" I'm Haiti-i-fied enough not to have responded based on how I was feeling in that moment.
I really like Felix. He's hard not to like. And he is smart and political and a beautiful person. And he kept telling us we were doing too much, that we needed to slow down, that our focus was to be on language and culture. That we needed to "land." Yes, I agree. Agree to all. But seriously. That is not the partner's expectation. That is not what the partner has asked of us. That is not what the people are impatiently tapping their foot for. And Patrick and I are very very very very very bad at saying no. So I suppose ultimately we came into this all a little naive and we are learning by fire. And I honestly think we are too far into the mess to "slow down" now. If I pulled out of class because it is ridiculous that I"m teaching at this stage, a class full of students would suffer because there is no replacement. If I pull out of clinic, the woman I saw today with high blood pressure and heart failure will wonder why her doctor, who told her to come back in a week, isn't following through when she DID at the expense of tap-tap fair or a long, hot walk. And its fine. I can start saying no now to new "will you do's." Maybe.
So now, back in the room, I'm tired. I blame it all on lack of coffee. Seems reasonable enough. Tomorrow maybe the coffee Gods will be kind and I'll have my dark cup of perspective to get through another day.
Today began with bad news: the guesthouse coffee maker was on the fritz. Wow. Not cool. Not cool at all. I had no idea how much I relied on coffee until today. My spoiled Starbucks-loving-self moaned the fact that there is NO WHERE to drive-through, to stand in line, to sit down and order COFFEE in Haiti. Everyone drinks coffee here (even the children), but it is such a basic household item that it isn't available anywhere but in the home. Not at work, not in stores, not in restaurants. Home. So if home doesn't have it, you are caffeine free all day. Kind-of like the way water used to be until we marketed it in the States. Now you can drive through Starbucks and just order water. Ah the land of the free to market anything. I missed it today.
I sleepily arrived at CONASPEH. Mere moments after putting my books down, Francois came running into the clinic looking frazzled and asked me to accompany her to her son's school across town. She had just got a call that he fell and probably broke his leg and potentially had a bad head injury as well. In my coffee-less daze, I wondered why a school would call and say, "come get your kid with a head injury and take him home." I hopped in the car with Francois thinking it must just be my uncaffenated state that made me question such reason. Arriving at the school, we found her son sitting on a chair sort of stuporous with bandaids all over the side of his face. I commenced with my exam while the nurse gave me a report. The school nurse told me she thought his pupils were unequal immediately after the accident (the sign of serious brain damage). Why hadn't he been taken to the ER? --again, lack of coffee was making me confused. He mumbled when I'd ask questions, but I had my suspicions. I commenced with examining his knee (the secretary said he wouldn't/couldn't walk on it after the fall) which he was hesitant to let me lift, but when his mom distracted him, I was able to mash around just fine with out any significant wincing. So still impressed that he was really quiet and mumbly, and not having completely abandoned the US "must rule out the worst case scenario first", I thought maybe I should suggest we go to the ER at great expense to Francois. The boy was carried to the car by a 10-foot-tall security guard since he couldn't walk. I wasn't done with my exam. We started talking to the boy in the car as we were driving away. He was able to speak up if prompted. And my neuro exam was stone cold normal. I told Francois that I thought he might have had a mild concussion--it was obvious he did a face plant while running through the playground. And I recommended that he not play any sports for a month so as not to risk another head injury. This prompted the boy to speak RIGHT up... wiggle himself to the edge of the seat and look at his mom with wide eyes, "no sports?" AHHH. Cured. "No riding bicycles?" he asked me. "How are you going to ride a bike when you can't walk??" So miracles of miracles, he was able to walk himself right out of the car into the CONASPEH school without problems. He definitely gimped it up for all to see, but Patrick observed a quite normal jog after he turned the corner. :) I guess I CAN practice miraculous medicine after all!
So then back to preparing for my classes. Let me reiterate again how much I'm NOT a natural teacher, ESPECIALLY without coffee. I'd probably enjoy it better if I could speak freely the language, or write notes without hours of diving through english-to-french, french-to-creole dictionaries, or have to teach medicine to students who don't have easy access to text books. If I don't give the information to the students, they don't get it. I can hardly comprehend this as most of what I learned in medical school was what I read which was then perhaps HIGHLIGHTED in class. I know I need to let go of certain expectations. But I still feel like the students have a right to learn well.
So Tuesday I was in sort of a funk in clinic as I prepared for class. I had some kids come into the clinic with headaches and stomach aches, had a couple of pastors come in for simple evaluations, but mostly it was pretty slow. Then I heard a child screaming and crying outside. I looked out the window above my desk to see his mother whipping the child in the middle of the school yard with a leather belt. Whipping whipping whipping. I about threw up. I couldn't take it. I hid in my office trying not to cry only to have the sound of the child's screams follow me in the room; I then went out to say something which also felt completely wrong (like telling someone they have bad manners in their own house... its not my country, its not my rules). Thank goodness one of the women of the school beat me to it. All she did was yell from the door way about what was going on. And the mother walked over to her and talked while the child sobbed. Would you believe that later that very morning, I heard another boy crying, and before I could see what was happening, he ran into the clinic followed by his enormous father whipping him as well with a belt? It could have been the same kid, but I can't say for certain. This time I felt just fine saying, "NOT IN HERE." I know that whipping is a broad cultural practice, and that many people I know had to pick their own switch, but it was shocking to see it in such a public way. It shook me. And I worked hard to not be judgmental while waging an internal battle on what was right and wrong and where my responsibilities like in speaking up and out. I mean seriously, whipping in a school?
So that didn't help my caffeine-free funk.
Class went well. It always goes better than what I dread might happen. I like the students although I am very certain they make fun of me constantly. I have no pride any longer, so I am unfazed. And the basic math problem I put on the board as an example became the rest of my lesson. So the information I was supposed to get through on day one is now taking 3 days to teach. So much for getting through a text-book full of information. Makes me realize how I need to prioritize the information I give. Teaching is hard. I like my job better. Yes, I teach every day, but it is one-person centered and I can read my patient's face and see if they understand or not, and rephrase if they don't. A whole class is overwhelming, knowing there is a quiet one in the corner who isn't saying anything because they are shy, and a loud one in front saying everything is easy when its not consensus. I tip my hat to you teachers everywhere.
After 2 1/2 hours of class, Patrick picked me up and dropped me off a the guest house to meet up with the Creole tutor while he ran to the airport to pick up Felix--our regional director from GM. We had a creole lesson, painfully after a day without coffee, then afterwards went to Felix's hotel for a meeting. And Felix asked us, "how has your time been here?" I'm Haiti-i-fied enough not to have responded based on how I was feeling in that moment.
I really like Felix. He's hard not to like. And he is smart and political and a beautiful person. And he kept telling us we were doing too much, that we needed to slow down, that our focus was to be on language and culture. That we needed to "land." Yes, I agree. Agree to all. But seriously. That is not the partner's expectation. That is not what the partner has asked of us. That is not what the people are impatiently tapping their foot for. And Patrick and I are very very very very very bad at saying no. So I suppose ultimately we came into this all a little naive and we are learning by fire. And I honestly think we are too far into the mess to "slow down" now. If I pulled out of class because it is ridiculous that I"m teaching at this stage, a class full of students would suffer because there is no replacement. If I pull out of clinic, the woman I saw today with high blood pressure and heart failure will wonder why her doctor, who told her to come back in a week, isn't following through when she DID at the expense of tap-tap fair or a long, hot walk. And its fine. I can start saying no now to new "will you do's." Maybe.
So now, back in the room, I'm tired. I blame it all on lack of coffee. Seems reasonable enough. Tomorrow maybe the coffee Gods will be kind and I'll have my dark cup of perspective to get through another day.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Daring to be Honest
Sunday night--its always a bittersweet time of the last remains of a weekend mixed with needing to prepare for the busy week ahead. I have a class lecture to prepare, an outline to write in creole (oh help), and a clinic day planned in the morning, but I'd rather watch a movie and snuggle with my husband. Is that so wrong?
We were guests today at the church of the president of the national consortium of protestant churches that CONASPEH is a member of, and who meets regularly with government officials to solicit help for the protestant church. The pastor is a kind and humble man who Patrick and I like so much. HIs church was lively, full of music, and the congregation warm and welcoming. Patrick gave, in my opinion, his best sermon of his time here.
Patrick has been struggling with where his own theology meets that of the conservative churches he serves. He has been humbled and at times deeply depressed as he searches for a way to be true to himself, to be of service to the people here, yet to work for healing in churches who have been greatly influenced by theology that fails to honor, respect and build up the people making up the congregation. Although from an observer's perspective he's been doing a beautiful job, his own personal honesty has been his biggest challenge, and he struggles to feel right in his own skin in a role he isn't completely comfortable with.
But today Patrick spoke humbly, honestly. "I want to tell you about my faith. And I hope one day you tell me about yours." He spoke of his vision of God, of his understanding of the message of Jesus, of his own reasons for coming to Haiti, and his hope that the people of Haiti could work together using the strength of their faith to build a more beautiful and bountiful world to live in. And instead of trying to use the language of the conservative church to usher in more broad ideas, he used his own words. He described his own understanding. And more than ever, the people understood. "Amens" resounded. The people welcomed him. I'm so proud of the man I married.
After church, we were invited to Pastor Milfort's house along with a group of the church members. He lives on a beautiful property that used to be an active sports center. He has a pool, a gym full of weights, two tennis courts and a full sized basketball court. We sat in the shade of an enormous mango tree and visited. We were told that this used to be a very active community sports center, but since the most recent of instabilities, activity has died off. The pastor and his wife shared dreams of breathing life back into such an incredible space. One of the men scaled a 20 foot coconut tree and tossed down a dozen coconuts. He then used a giant machete to crack open the tops. We were passed a coconut and encouraged to drink the sweet water within. Today I had coconut water for the first time, and it was delicious.
Patrick played basketball with some of the young men there, and then engaged in a lively game of tennis. His first short-lived match was with a young man who hadn't had much experience with a racket, much to the amusement of the group of men sitting in the shade spectating. Patrick would volley a well-placed hit, only to have his new friend send the ball flying high in return. Laughter erupted as did light-hearted gibes. Pastor Miflort removed his tie and took the place of the inexperienced youth. He clearly has played some tennis, and he and Patrick worked up a bit of a sweat volleying the ball across the court to each other. So I sat and talked to the pastors wife while sipping on coconut water watching a lively tennis match. What a happy moment.
I had a moment of disturbance when suddenly another game erupted near-by of "kick the mouse." A little fat mouse had wandered into the clearing, and a couple of boys started playing soccer with this tiny living thing. You can call me a freak animal lover, but I just couldn't stand it. After watching for a moment horrified at this tiny little animal flying through the air, trying to flee for its life looking dazed, only to be launched by another foot brought me close to nausea. But I dared to be honest today too. I asked the boys to stop, and reminded them that God made the mouse too (in my best pastor's wife impression). They looked a little taken aback, probably completely confused as to why I looked green and horrified and was defending the well-being of an animal generally thought of as a pest. But the boys respected my request and actually ushered the dizzy and terrified little mouse under a bush. Yes I eat meat. Yes I swat mosquitos. But I believe life should be respected, never tortured. And likely i'll be the joke at some dinner table of the mouse-loving blan, but I'm ok with that.
Otherwise, we spent a lovely afternoon sharing time and laughter at the pastor's house. We dreamed up new projects of bringing the youth of the church and the CONASPEH school to his sports complex, organizing games and other youth activities. The pastor's generosity and hospitality gave us a beautiful moment with new friends and dreams of more great afternoons there to come.
Now, back at the guest house, I'm happy because I just was able to Skype my Grandma. How I miss her spunk and her beautiful face. Earlier I was able to talk to mom and dad a bit after a long time of our skype connection not working well. Loved seeing my father's ornery grin and watching my mother react, head tossed back in laughter to stories and tales told. My heart feels more peaceful with a peek at the faces I adore so much.
It has just started to rain. Raindrops dance on pavement, sending sounds of wet pitter patter through in our window. Already, the air smells fresh and clean. I think I'll wander outside a bit and enjoy the gift the clouds above give to the dry earth. The rain promises a night of deep sleep lulled by the sound of a storm, and an extra beautiful morning to wake up to. Something to look forward to. Bon nwit.
We were guests today at the church of the president of the national consortium of protestant churches that CONASPEH is a member of, and who meets regularly with government officials to solicit help for the protestant church. The pastor is a kind and humble man who Patrick and I like so much. HIs church was lively, full of music, and the congregation warm and welcoming. Patrick gave, in my opinion, his best sermon of his time here.
Patrick has been struggling with where his own theology meets that of the conservative churches he serves. He has been humbled and at times deeply depressed as he searches for a way to be true to himself, to be of service to the people here, yet to work for healing in churches who have been greatly influenced by theology that fails to honor, respect and build up the people making up the congregation. Although from an observer's perspective he's been doing a beautiful job, his own personal honesty has been his biggest challenge, and he struggles to feel right in his own skin in a role he isn't completely comfortable with.
But today Patrick spoke humbly, honestly. "I want to tell you about my faith. And I hope one day you tell me about yours." He spoke of his vision of God, of his understanding of the message of Jesus, of his own reasons for coming to Haiti, and his hope that the people of Haiti could work together using the strength of their faith to build a more beautiful and bountiful world to live in. And instead of trying to use the language of the conservative church to usher in more broad ideas, he used his own words. He described his own understanding. And more than ever, the people understood. "Amens" resounded. The people welcomed him. I'm so proud of the man I married.
After church, we were invited to Pastor Milfort's house along with a group of the church members. He lives on a beautiful property that used to be an active sports center. He has a pool, a gym full of weights, two tennis courts and a full sized basketball court. We sat in the shade of an enormous mango tree and visited. We were told that this used to be a very active community sports center, but since the most recent of instabilities, activity has died off. The pastor and his wife shared dreams of breathing life back into such an incredible space. One of the men scaled a 20 foot coconut tree and tossed down a dozen coconuts. He then used a giant machete to crack open the tops. We were passed a coconut and encouraged to drink the sweet water within. Today I had coconut water for the first time, and it was delicious.
Patrick played basketball with some of the young men there, and then engaged in a lively game of tennis. His first short-lived match was with a young man who hadn't had much experience with a racket, much to the amusement of the group of men sitting in the shade spectating. Patrick would volley a well-placed hit, only to have his new friend send the ball flying high in return. Laughter erupted as did light-hearted gibes. Pastor Miflort removed his tie and took the place of the inexperienced youth. He clearly has played some tennis, and he and Patrick worked up a bit of a sweat volleying the ball across the court to each other. So I sat and talked to the pastors wife while sipping on coconut water watching a lively tennis match. What a happy moment.
I had a moment of disturbance when suddenly another game erupted near-by of "kick the mouse." A little fat mouse had wandered into the clearing, and a couple of boys started playing soccer with this tiny living thing. You can call me a freak animal lover, but I just couldn't stand it. After watching for a moment horrified at this tiny little animal flying through the air, trying to flee for its life looking dazed, only to be launched by another foot brought me close to nausea. But I dared to be honest today too. I asked the boys to stop, and reminded them that God made the mouse too (in my best pastor's wife impression). They looked a little taken aback, probably completely confused as to why I looked green and horrified and was defending the well-being of an animal generally thought of as a pest. But the boys respected my request and actually ushered the dizzy and terrified little mouse under a bush. Yes I eat meat. Yes I swat mosquitos. But I believe life should be respected, never tortured. And likely i'll be the joke at some dinner table of the mouse-loving blan, but I'm ok with that.
Otherwise, we spent a lovely afternoon sharing time and laughter at the pastor's house. We dreamed up new projects of bringing the youth of the church and the CONASPEH school to his sports complex, organizing games and other youth activities. The pastor's generosity and hospitality gave us a beautiful moment with new friends and dreams of more great afternoons there to come.
Now, back at the guest house, I'm happy because I just was able to Skype my Grandma. How I miss her spunk and her beautiful face. Earlier I was able to talk to mom and dad a bit after a long time of our skype connection not working well. Loved seeing my father's ornery grin and watching my mother react, head tossed back in laughter to stories and tales told. My heart feels more peaceful with a peek at the faces I adore so much.
It has just started to rain. Raindrops dance on pavement, sending sounds of wet pitter patter through in our window. Already, the air smells fresh and clean. I think I'll wander outside a bit and enjoy the gift the clouds above give to the dry earth. The rain promises a night of deep sleep lulled by the sound of a storm, and an extra beautiful morning to wake up to. Something to look forward to. Bon nwit.
Stories Shared
January 18, 2009
Sunday morning. I’m enjoying a second cup of hot coffee before we depart for church. Nice to sit in the quiet of morning and just “be” for a little while. The sounds of traffic lurching to life tell of a world already awake and active outside the guesthouse walls. Patrick is working on his sermon. He sits bent over his notebook deep in concentration. The coffee is extra strong this morning, and I'm happily content writing you all.
Friday night we went dancing for the first time. We have met a man in the guesthouse who had previously lived in Haiti for about a year. He is French, and a connoisseur of nightlife, and he finally convinced us to explore Port-au-Prince after hours. We went to a place largely occupied by UN and NGO workers. The atmosphere was styled like a beach cabana, the music caribbean with a latino influence. The owners of the bar were from Dominican Republic, and the atmosphere represented their origins. The restaurant felt like an oasis from the reality of the streets outside. We had a fun evening.
We also observed a phenomenon of nightlife here. What was hugely apparent was the number of foreign men frequenting the bar, and the equally large population of single Haitian women. The women were young and beautiful. The man we were with made a comment, “ah the women are beautiful, but they charge.”
My heart felt heavy with such a statement. Rather than being on a fun "girls night out" some women had come to such a place in order to partake in the oldest business in human history. Perhaps others were simply in search of prince charming in a white SUV who could take them from their shack into a castle. Certainly we saw Haitian couples there celebrating an evening out as well as other women who looked to be having a good time. But I did watch one beautiful, young Haitian woman dancing with an over-fed foreign man twice her age. She had no joy on her face, and her dancing seemed almost programmed. I suspected why. This was work. This was not a carefree night on the town to relax from stress from the day. Such is the reality for some women here. International workers are a source of money and potential opportunity. It’s a complication of foreign presence in a country where people are desperate for income. And its yet another way that we, the relatively rich and powerful, can take advantage of and, in-essence, colonize the poor. I felt myself hoping for this woman's safety, hoping that her dance partner would treat her well.
Despite the window into another reality, we had a fun evening. I don’t often have the chance to dance with my husband, and to do so with twinkly lights overhead hanging from a thatched roof, Caribbean music pulsating on a cool tropical night breeze made for a beautiful moment. I am one of the lucky women in the world. I have a partner I love and that I trust. I am liberated through education and social circumstance. I can spend an evening dancing just for the fun of it. And I won't ever take that for granted.
Yesterday, was indeed a full day. We had the second of our family seminars in the morning, this time in a church in Petionville. Yesterday’s session went better than the first, likely because we had learned a lot from our initial attempt. This morning's audience also seemed more interested. After our presentation, a lively group discussion followed for over an hour. Sometimes questions were posed, other times people stood and shared the story of their life, of relationships gone array, of the challenges Haitian families face, especially when a mother or father had died or left unexpectedly. Often there was no “right” answer we could dare give, no solution we could offer. We could only validate that their situation was extremely hard, that we appreciated their sharing, and that the church could serve as a larger supportive unit to help such families get by. Like last week, the most popular subject of discussion was the area of conflict and conflict resolution. The issue of domestic violence came up, and we talked about it openly. We felt good about having a very diverse forum to speak our mind about a subject we feel so passionately about. And I felt like everyone in attendance was very receptive. Sometimes permission is sought out from some perceived authority such as a doctor or a pastor before some people can really believe that getting hit is not ok. For those people needing such permission, we made our thought clear.
One woman stood up and told us that she had 8 children, that her husband recently died, and she has no good job to support her family. She told her story fighting back tears, and spoke of her reliance on the church and on her faith that her luck would change soon. Her sharing prompted other women to stand and give their own story, often of hard luck or impossible circumstances. I noticed more wavering voices than usual… making me wonder whether this seminar on family was evolving into a support group of sorts.
So often in my time here, new ideas for mission, for outreach arise. Haiti could certainly benefit from someone's expertise in leading support groups for various things, to encourage sharing, discussion, group counseling. It isn’t a concept well known or practiced here, but witnessing what was happening in our seminar made me believe that it could certainly work.
In the my mobile "consultation" clinic that followed the seminar, I met with an 80 year-old woman who has outlived her entire family, children included. She lives alone with no one to help her. She suffers from back pain, and falls often. She has no income, no social security check and relies on faith alone to get from day to day. What does Haiti have for the elderly here? Often families are left to take care of such folks, but you can imagine if parents can’t feed their babies, likely they can’t feed their elders either. Given the fact that the average lifespan of a Haitian is 52 years old, the elderly make up a small portion of the population, but certainly a part of the population in need. So as CONASPEH paid for arthritis medication for this tiny grandmother, and as I hunted for a sturdy stick she could use as a walking cane, I dreamed up another outreach vision: a refuge house for the aged and elderly, a place to allow people to live the end of their life in an atmosphere of honor and respect. The elderly amaze me. I look into their wrinkled faces and am in awe of just how incredibly strong they have had to be to survived life here with its history of incredible violence and turmoil. Certainly they've experienced such heart break and loss, disease, and possible violence. Yet they are the survivors. And I can’t help but be in awe.
The beautify of our experience here is having such opportunities to observe, to hear stories, to be a listening presence, and then to be in a position to validate a person’s worth, their accomplishments, to celebrate their inspiring strength that helps them persevere through such incredibly hard life circumstances. What an honor to share life in such a way. Such is my experience in the clinics, as was our experience in the seminar yesterday.
Patrick just peeked his head in. Time for church. May you all have a happy end of your weekend. Thank you for listening to the story of our days. Until next time....
Sunday morning. I’m enjoying a second cup of hot coffee before we depart for church. Nice to sit in the quiet of morning and just “be” for a little while. The sounds of traffic lurching to life tell of a world already awake and active outside the guesthouse walls. Patrick is working on his sermon. He sits bent over his notebook deep in concentration. The coffee is extra strong this morning, and I'm happily content writing you all.
Friday night we went dancing for the first time. We have met a man in the guesthouse who had previously lived in Haiti for about a year. He is French, and a connoisseur of nightlife, and he finally convinced us to explore Port-au-Prince after hours. We went to a place largely occupied by UN and NGO workers. The atmosphere was styled like a beach cabana, the music caribbean with a latino influence. The owners of the bar were from Dominican Republic, and the atmosphere represented their origins. The restaurant felt like an oasis from the reality of the streets outside. We had a fun evening.
We also observed a phenomenon of nightlife here. What was hugely apparent was the number of foreign men frequenting the bar, and the equally large population of single Haitian women. The women were young and beautiful. The man we were with made a comment, “ah the women are beautiful, but they charge.”
My heart felt heavy with such a statement. Rather than being on a fun "girls night out" some women had come to such a place in order to partake in the oldest business in human history. Perhaps others were simply in search of prince charming in a white SUV who could take them from their shack into a castle. Certainly we saw Haitian couples there celebrating an evening out as well as other women who looked to be having a good time. But I did watch one beautiful, young Haitian woman dancing with an over-fed foreign man twice her age. She had no joy on her face, and her dancing seemed almost programmed. I suspected why. This was work. This was not a carefree night on the town to relax from stress from the day. Such is the reality for some women here. International workers are a source of money and potential opportunity. It’s a complication of foreign presence in a country where people are desperate for income. And its yet another way that we, the relatively rich and powerful, can take advantage of and, in-essence, colonize the poor. I felt myself hoping for this woman's safety, hoping that her dance partner would treat her well.
Despite the window into another reality, we had a fun evening. I don’t often have the chance to dance with my husband, and to do so with twinkly lights overhead hanging from a thatched roof, Caribbean music pulsating on a cool tropical night breeze made for a beautiful moment. I am one of the lucky women in the world. I have a partner I love and that I trust. I am liberated through education and social circumstance. I can spend an evening dancing just for the fun of it. And I won't ever take that for granted.
Yesterday, was indeed a full day. We had the second of our family seminars in the morning, this time in a church in Petionville. Yesterday’s session went better than the first, likely because we had learned a lot from our initial attempt. This morning's audience also seemed more interested. After our presentation, a lively group discussion followed for over an hour. Sometimes questions were posed, other times people stood and shared the story of their life, of relationships gone array, of the challenges Haitian families face, especially when a mother or father had died or left unexpectedly. Often there was no “right” answer we could dare give, no solution we could offer. We could only validate that their situation was extremely hard, that we appreciated their sharing, and that the church could serve as a larger supportive unit to help such families get by. Like last week, the most popular subject of discussion was the area of conflict and conflict resolution. The issue of domestic violence came up, and we talked about it openly. We felt good about having a very diverse forum to speak our mind about a subject we feel so passionately about. And I felt like everyone in attendance was very receptive. Sometimes permission is sought out from some perceived authority such as a doctor or a pastor before some people can really believe that getting hit is not ok. For those people needing such permission, we made our thought clear.
One woman stood up and told us that she had 8 children, that her husband recently died, and she has no good job to support her family. She told her story fighting back tears, and spoke of her reliance on the church and on her faith that her luck would change soon. Her sharing prompted other women to stand and give their own story, often of hard luck or impossible circumstances. I noticed more wavering voices than usual… making me wonder whether this seminar on family was evolving into a support group of sorts.
So often in my time here, new ideas for mission, for outreach arise. Haiti could certainly benefit from someone's expertise in leading support groups for various things, to encourage sharing, discussion, group counseling. It isn’t a concept well known or practiced here, but witnessing what was happening in our seminar made me believe that it could certainly work.
In the my mobile "consultation" clinic that followed the seminar, I met with an 80 year-old woman who has outlived her entire family, children included. She lives alone with no one to help her. She suffers from back pain, and falls often. She has no income, no social security check and relies on faith alone to get from day to day. What does Haiti have for the elderly here? Often families are left to take care of such folks, but you can imagine if parents can’t feed their babies, likely they can’t feed their elders either. Given the fact that the average lifespan of a Haitian is 52 years old, the elderly make up a small portion of the population, but certainly a part of the population in need. So as CONASPEH paid for arthritis medication for this tiny grandmother, and as I hunted for a sturdy stick she could use as a walking cane, I dreamed up another outreach vision: a refuge house for the aged and elderly, a place to allow people to live the end of their life in an atmosphere of honor and respect. The elderly amaze me. I look into their wrinkled faces and am in awe of just how incredibly strong they have had to be to survived life here with its history of incredible violence and turmoil. Certainly they've experienced such heart break and loss, disease, and possible violence. Yet they are the survivors. And I can’t help but be in awe.
The beautify of our experience here is having such opportunities to observe, to hear stories, to be a listening presence, and then to be in a position to validate a person’s worth, their accomplishments, to celebrate their inspiring strength that helps them persevere through such incredibly hard life circumstances. What an honor to share life in such a way. Such is my experience in the clinics, as was our experience in the seminar yesterday.
Patrick just peeked his head in. Time for church. May you all have a happy end of your weekend. Thank you for listening to the story of our days. Until next time....
Friday, January 16, 2009
TGIF
January 17, 2009
Happy Friday. And it has been a happy one. Fridays are our designated “day off “ of the week, and we’ve spent the day padding around the guesthouse, catching up with e-mails, reading fun books, and preparing for the week ahead. Our sole venture out was to look at an apartment and to stand for over an hour in line at Unibank to deposit a single check. Oh how I miss the drive-up ATM. But I can attest that our patience has climbed to all new heights; today we were able to stand in a line that inched forward (a snail would win the race) without twitching at the immobility of it all. Tonight we are venturing out on the town for an evening of music and dancing--our date night is taking a brave new step. Happy day off to us.
The week has been busy and diverse. After finding out that the house we were preparing to move into Feb 1 will not be available for another 3 months, and this being the 3rd change of “move-in” date, we have lost confidence and have started an apartment search anew. This experience has proved to be quite interesting. We have been shown everything from a large house with a pool, pool-side cabana, extensive yard and a palm-tree lined walk-way to a roach-infested, dark cement hole. Something in between would be nice. So the hunt continues.
Our partnership with Dr. Laplanch has been put on hold for a while until CONASPEH can come up with funds to pay her a “consultative” salary. This only means that developing medical service outreach in a way that is truly beneficial for patients will continue to plod along slowly as I develop language skills and continue to try to learn about resources and networking potential. But several generous church families in the States have donated funds as we raise money for the purchase of a mobile lab. I am repeatedly amazed at what can be accomplished when people come together. We hope to be able to purchase the mobile lab this spring and use it in the CONASPEH clinic, in the Karfour clinic, in mobile clinic outreach, and as a teaching tool in the nursing school.
My weekly visits to the clinic in Karfour have resumed, although without the translator that I asked for. Miss Fano accompanied me this week and slowly we worked with one patient after another trying to come to mutual understanding. It is slow going and a little scary. I have to admit though that I had missed the interaction with patients. Among my patients this week I saw a little old woman from the country who looked strong and healthy, but was convinced she needed many medicines. Hopefully the multivitamins we filled her pockets with will keep her moderately pacified for the moment. I had a few patients scare me as well. A teenager came in reporting 3 days of fever and “pink” diarrhea. I can only assume this means blood. My exam revealed a very tender stomach. I hopped for a case of infectious diarrhea, but feared the possibility of something more grave. We spent a long time counseling his mother about the need to seek out more definitive diagnostics. So I hope. I do a lot of hoping here.
Patrick resumed teaching in the seminary. He’ll continue his Old Testament class as well as two English classes. We’ve enjoyed becoming once again wrapped up in the energy of the children of the school. No longer do we work at our desk without a face in the window or visitors hovering at the door. The kids have been anxious to have their basketball coach back, and Patrick hasn’t let a little dislocated finger slow him down much, despite his wife’s nagging.
Almost time for dinner; I wonder what Rosalina has cooked up tonight. Time to go join our friends and the new faces that arrived in the guesthouse tonight for another meal together. In a country where so many go without dinner, we count ourselves among the privileged and lucky to sit down to a meal night after night. It is with grateful thanks I bid you all bon appetite.
Happy Friday. And it has been a happy one. Fridays are our designated “day off “ of the week, and we’ve spent the day padding around the guesthouse, catching up with e-mails, reading fun books, and preparing for the week ahead. Our sole venture out was to look at an apartment and to stand for over an hour in line at Unibank to deposit a single check. Oh how I miss the drive-up ATM. But I can attest that our patience has climbed to all new heights; today we were able to stand in a line that inched forward (a snail would win the race) without twitching at the immobility of it all. Tonight we are venturing out on the town for an evening of music and dancing--our date night is taking a brave new step. Happy day off to us.
The week has been busy and diverse. After finding out that the house we were preparing to move into Feb 1 will not be available for another 3 months, and this being the 3rd change of “move-in” date, we have lost confidence and have started an apartment search anew. This experience has proved to be quite interesting. We have been shown everything from a large house with a pool, pool-side cabana, extensive yard and a palm-tree lined walk-way to a roach-infested, dark cement hole. Something in between would be nice. So the hunt continues.
Our partnership with Dr. Laplanch has been put on hold for a while until CONASPEH can come up with funds to pay her a “consultative” salary. This only means that developing medical service outreach in a way that is truly beneficial for patients will continue to plod along slowly as I develop language skills and continue to try to learn about resources and networking potential. But several generous church families in the States have donated funds as we raise money for the purchase of a mobile lab. I am repeatedly amazed at what can be accomplished when people come together. We hope to be able to purchase the mobile lab this spring and use it in the CONASPEH clinic, in the Karfour clinic, in mobile clinic outreach, and as a teaching tool in the nursing school.
My weekly visits to the clinic in Karfour have resumed, although without the translator that I asked for. Miss Fano accompanied me this week and slowly we worked with one patient after another trying to come to mutual understanding. It is slow going and a little scary. I have to admit though that I had missed the interaction with patients. Among my patients this week I saw a little old woman from the country who looked strong and healthy, but was convinced she needed many medicines. Hopefully the multivitamins we filled her pockets with will keep her moderately pacified for the moment. I had a few patients scare me as well. A teenager came in reporting 3 days of fever and “pink” diarrhea. I can only assume this means blood. My exam revealed a very tender stomach. I hopped for a case of infectious diarrhea, but feared the possibility of something more grave. We spent a long time counseling his mother about the need to seek out more definitive diagnostics. So I hope. I do a lot of hoping here.
Patrick resumed teaching in the seminary. He’ll continue his Old Testament class as well as two English classes. We’ve enjoyed becoming once again wrapped up in the energy of the children of the school. No longer do we work at our desk without a face in the window or visitors hovering at the door. The kids have been anxious to have their basketball coach back, and Patrick hasn’t let a little dislocated finger slow him down much, despite his wife’s nagging.
Almost time for dinner; I wonder what Rosalina has cooked up tonight. Time to go join our friends and the new faces that arrived in the guesthouse tonight for another meal together. In a country where so many go without dinner, we count ourselves among the privileged and lucky to sit down to a meal night after night. It is with grateful thanks I bid you all bon appetite.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Back at the Blackboard
The last few days have blessed us with deliciously cool evenings. Now in full-blown Haitian "winter" I'm enjoying relatively sweat-free days and cool night air. Granted, when I say cool I'm talking high 70's. I recognize that most of you reading this are trying to rub circulation back into to your stiffly frozen toes, so I'll try not perseverate on this tropical cool-spell.
Tonight I sit beside a 9 year old girl who just met her adoptive parents this morning. I haven't heard her speak yet, but she smiles often and seems trusting and easy going. Tonigh she wandered into our room following Christanor who was in search of a little music to dance to (he heads strait to our laptop demanding MISIK!!). In order to finish a few e-mails, I distracted the kids with paper and markers. Christanor's humming-bird attention span, appropriate for his age of 3, took him running off to tackle Patrick on the yoga mat. But this little girl's grin got wider, and now she joins me at one of the conference room tables. As I write, she's been shelling out one beautifully intricate, multicolored masterpiece after another. I'm enjoying watching her work, drawing houses, people with brown faces, bunnie, stars, rainbows and flowers. When she finds and extra bright marker, her smile grows even wider. Now her brow is furrowed in concentration as she works on the details of a face. She is a peaceful presence, this little girl. I wonder what must be going on in her mind. Soon, she'll be taking off on her first plane ride, and traveling across the sea to France where her life will look in every way different from the one she's had thus far. But she seems to be taking it all in stride, adapting to her environment with an easy smile and a quiet concentration.
Today was my first day at the blackboard. I have to admit, I wasn't looking forward to it at all. The last time I stood in front of a class as "teacher" here I was sweating profusely, sending bits of chalk flying through the air, covering myself with white dust, panicking and throwing my body into convulsive imitations of English verbs much to the amusement of teenagers. So you can imagine my PTSD at the thought of standing up in front of another class ever again. I certainly didn't get the Super Teacher genes passed down from my mother that my brother inherited. But today I had Frenauld as an interpreter, and had two lessons prepared for the nursing classes: one an introduction to Pharmacology, the other an Introduction to Pediatrics.
The class went better than I thought it would--granted my expectations had been set below sea-level. I don't have the ease and smoothness inspires confidence, but I'm hoping my genuine interest in helping the students learn will shine through my nerves. All seemed patient and relatively attentive. A few women were nodding off during class, but managed to answer questions and give appropriate feedback through closed eye-lids, so I'm certainly not judging. One woman, had her finger buried in the depths of her nose for half of the first lecture, an event I tried hard not to stare at, prompted a nice segway on the subject of hygiene. Unlike with the teenagers, I was able to feel out with this more mature class the concepts they were already familiar with, and those they needed introduction to. And eventually my heart stopped racing, the sweat beads dried up, and I managed to relax and muttle through the lectures without too much flailing about. And when I waved goodbye, I took joy in the smiles some of the students offered... maybe they were smiles of pitty of relief, but they did my heart good.
Although I hadn't been excited about teaching, today I was overcome by an intense desire to give as much information to my new students as I possibly can in order to equip them to go out into their communities and advocate for health. Until we beef up our library, I currently stand as the link to the texts and therefore feel commissioned to give as many details as clearly as possible, to work hard for understanding. I pray that my efforts will help contribute and equip them to be confident, intelligent self-possessed nurses who can take their work into the streets, into the countryside, into the lives of the people of this country. Education is where it all begins. I just hope I can be the teacher that is needed.
Tonight I sit beside a 9 year old girl who just met her adoptive parents this morning. I haven't heard her speak yet, but she smiles often and seems trusting and easy going. Tonigh she wandered into our room following Christanor who was in search of a little music to dance to (he heads strait to our laptop demanding MISIK!!). In order to finish a few e-mails, I distracted the kids with paper and markers. Christanor's humming-bird attention span, appropriate for his age of 3, took him running off to tackle Patrick on the yoga mat. But this little girl's grin got wider, and now she joins me at one of the conference room tables. As I write, she's been shelling out one beautifully intricate, multicolored masterpiece after another. I'm enjoying watching her work, drawing houses, people with brown faces, bunnie, stars, rainbows and flowers. When she finds and extra bright marker, her smile grows even wider. Now her brow is furrowed in concentration as she works on the details of a face. She is a peaceful presence, this little girl. I wonder what must be going on in her mind. Soon, she'll be taking off on her first plane ride, and traveling across the sea to France where her life will look in every way different from the one she's had thus far. But she seems to be taking it all in stride, adapting to her environment with an easy smile and a quiet concentration.
Today was my first day at the blackboard. I have to admit, I wasn't looking forward to it at all. The last time I stood in front of a class as "teacher" here I was sweating profusely, sending bits of chalk flying through the air, covering myself with white dust, panicking and throwing my body into convulsive imitations of English verbs much to the amusement of teenagers. So you can imagine my PTSD at the thought of standing up in front of another class ever again. I certainly didn't get the Super Teacher genes passed down from my mother that my brother inherited. But today I had Frenauld as an interpreter, and had two lessons prepared for the nursing classes: one an introduction to Pharmacology, the other an Introduction to Pediatrics.
The class went better than I thought it would--granted my expectations had been set below sea-level. I don't have the ease and smoothness inspires confidence, but I'm hoping my genuine interest in helping the students learn will shine through my nerves. All seemed patient and relatively attentive. A few women were nodding off during class, but managed to answer questions and give appropriate feedback through closed eye-lids, so I'm certainly not judging. One woman, had her finger buried in the depths of her nose for half of the first lecture, an event I tried hard not to stare at, prompted a nice segway on the subject of hygiene. Unlike with the teenagers, I was able to feel out with this more mature class the concepts they were already familiar with, and those they needed introduction to. And eventually my heart stopped racing, the sweat beads dried up, and I managed to relax and muttle through the lectures without too much flailing about. And when I waved goodbye, I took joy in the smiles some of the students offered... maybe they were smiles of pitty of relief, but they did my heart good.
Although I hadn't been excited about teaching, today I was overcome by an intense desire to give as much information to my new students as I possibly can in order to equip them to go out into their communities and advocate for health. Until we beef up our library, I currently stand as the link to the texts and therefore feel commissioned to give as many details as clearly as possible, to work hard for understanding. I pray that my efforts will help contribute and equip them to be confident, intelligent self-possessed nurses who can take their work into the streets, into the countryside, into the lives of the people of this country. Education is where it all begins. I just hope I can be the teacher that is needed.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Dwet Fe Mal
"Finger Hurts"
Just when I think my medical practice isn't busy enough, or that I might be getting rusty, my husband steps up and sacrifices himself so keep my skills fresh.
Today I was in the middle of a yet another meeting--in French-- and therefore was lost in thought about the lecture I still needed to prepare. All of a sudden, I heard, "doctor, doctor" shouted from outside. My husband hustled into the meeting seeking his wife on a professional level. While I was in a meeting with Dr. Laplaunche, Patrick had been engaging some of the school kids in a game of basketball. He ran in the meeting room, sweaty and looking worried, holding up a pinky finger that was quite deformed.
Dislocated pinky.
Honestly, I've never reduced a pinky before (I didn't confess that when I pulled him out of the room and into our office), but felt pretty well equipped after a busy orthopedics rotation at a ski-slope clinic in WinterPark. After inspecting to make sure that the deformity looked like a simple dislocation and not a compound fracture, and seeing that he wasn't in that much pain (just grossed out by his doubled-over digit), I was able to click it back into place without too much effort and before Patrick cold fully grasp that I was taking hold of his deformed dwet. I don't think he's fractured it, and is complaining loudly about the splint I fashioned for him (although it didn't stop him from finishing his basketball game). I lovingly call it his Pinky of Power.
Of course all the women at school have had a ball at his expense, and Patrick has laughed along with them, waving his appendage. Velena and Gouka greated Patrick later by wiggling their pinkys hello saying, "Bonjour Patrick." He's been sharing war stories with one of the guesthouse cooks. She had asked me this morning to help her administer some shots she needed to give herself in the rump. Although she endured the "piki" in the tooshie without so much as a flinch, she happily exchanged dramatic stories of "ampil fe mal." Patrick dared to call her a "ti babe," and snorting in laughter, she teased him right back that he was a "ti babe" and her "piki" hurt much more than his finger, and that if he kept whining she'd have to give him a piki too. Funny how a cotton wrapped, post-reduction finger can create such bonding and entertainment.
God love my husband and the lengths he goes to help his wife and entertain his community.
Just when I think my medical practice isn't busy enough, or that I might be getting rusty, my husband steps up and sacrifices himself so keep my skills fresh.
Today I was in the middle of a yet another meeting--in French-- and therefore was lost in thought about the lecture I still needed to prepare. All of a sudden, I heard, "doctor, doctor" shouted from outside. My husband hustled into the meeting seeking his wife on a professional level. While I was in a meeting with Dr. Laplaunche, Patrick had been engaging some of the school kids in a game of basketball. He ran in the meeting room, sweaty and looking worried, holding up a pinky finger that was quite deformed.
Dislocated pinky.
Honestly, I've never reduced a pinky before (I didn't confess that when I pulled him out of the room and into our office), but felt pretty well equipped after a busy orthopedics rotation at a ski-slope clinic in WinterPark. After inspecting to make sure that the deformity looked like a simple dislocation and not a compound fracture, and seeing that he wasn't in that much pain (just grossed out by his doubled-over digit), I was able to click it back into place without too much effort and before Patrick cold fully grasp that I was taking hold of his deformed dwet. I don't think he's fractured it, and is complaining loudly about the splint I fashioned for him (although it didn't stop him from finishing his basketball game). I lovingly call it his Pinky of Power.
Of course all the women at school have had a ball at his expense, and Patrick has laughed along with them, waving his appendage. Velena and Gouka greated Patrick later by wiggling their pinkys hello saying, "Bonjour Patrick." He's been sharing war stories with one of the guesthouse cooks. She had asked me this morning to help her administer some shots she needed to give herself in the rump. Although she endured the "piki" in the tooshie without so much as a flinch, she happily exchanged dramatic stories of "ampil fe mal." Patrick dared to call her a "ti babe," and snorting in laughter, she teased him right back that he was a "ti babe" and her "piki" hurt much more than his finger, and that if he kept whining she'd have to give him a piki too. Funny how a cotton wrapped, post-reduction finger can create such bonding and entertainment.
God love my husband and the lengths he goes to help his wife and entertain his community.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Cap Haitian
Back in Port-au-Prince tonight after a weekend away. Funny that coming home this afternoon felt welcoming and familiar.
We've just returned from a well-spent weekend in Cap Haitian. After leaving Milot Saturday morning, we met up with some new acquaintances and friends at a hotel on the bay. Saturday we spent time walking the streets of Cap, appreciating the architecture and lack of imposing walls surrounding every city block. We toured an art market where we were obliged to enter each and every stall so as not to offend a shop keeper, but were rewarded with funny interactions and conversations. We let our eyes drift out to the watery horizon, and tried to ignore the incredibly polluted beach scene at our feet. A swim in the ocean was not a desirable (or health-conscious) option, nor was eating anything caught from the bay. We passed canals lined with fishing boats whose sides were painted as brightly as the tap-taps on the street, and whose sails were often patchwork recycled sheets. We enjoyed sharing meals and conversation with our new friends who are currently in Haiti working on a Public Health research project.
One incredible part of living in a place like Haiti is the paths of people you have the good fortune to cross. Haiti attracts a variety of people, but most that we've met are kind, compassionate, adventure-loving, spiritual, inspired, social justice-driven people with incredible life stories. We came across such people this weekend, and the conversations were rich for it.
This morning we visited a CONASPEH member church which happened to have a big celebration in honor of the birthday of its pastor. The pastor was dressed head-to-toe in a white suit, white leather shoes, and was proud as a peacock. Church commenced at 8:30, and the last of the final songs and prayers and speeches and songs and prayers ended at 12:30. It was a marathon of a church service, but full of entertainment in the faces of the young and old that filled its seats. This was also the first Sunday that Patrick and I gave our introductions completely without the assistance of anyone familiar with English. Patrick, although not asked to give the sermon, kept having to add sentences to his ever elongating introduction at the request of the pastor who prompted, "say more" after Patrick's meager attempts to sign off. It was Creole speaking torture, but he faired well. Who's to know what thoughts were passing through the congregations heads... I pray we'll never know.
We were invited into the pastor's home after church, and shared a generous meal with he and his wife. He gave us a tour of his land, showed us the trees he was planting, his chickens and his turkeys, talked about his plans for his garden and the children he hoped to fill his home with. A young pastor recently married, his eyes were full of hope and excitement for the dream he was working diligently to reveal.
Catching the plane back home to Port-au-Prince was happily uneventful. Flying small in-country airlines is much less of a hassle than any American and/or international flight. There is not much of a security maze to weave through either. Today I had a man lazily unzip all the pockets of my book bag and scan the pockets with an uninspired eye. He did pick up and consider my completely full water bottle only to replace it snugly in my bag, and disregard the pair of scissors, the bug spray, and other mysterious items in the depths of the pockets. This was significant more security than our outgoing flight. We did put our bags through a "scanner," but discovered after passing quickly through that the x-ray TV wasn't working, and we caught the "scanner police" sleeping against the side of the machine as our bags ran through uninspected, potentially full of bottles of liquids, bombs, guns and the like. I have to say, I found it refreshing to be a place currently un-terrorized by air travel, unparanoid. No shucking off shoes, emptying briefcases, de-robing accessories, praying to make it through the scanner door without a beep. Made me like flying again. We also observed today that flying first thing in the morning is preferable to late afternoon. Late afternoon is hot. And so are all the people jammed into the tiny space of the propeller plane. Thank goodness for the incredible view.
So back home, we are anticipating a busy week back at school, that is if the children are finished with their holiday play. Happy for a good weekend full of discovery, exploration, conversation and glimpses of Haiti.
We've just returned from a well-spent weekend in Cap Haitian. After leaving Milot Saturday morning, we met up with some new acquaintances and friends at a hotel on the bay. Saturday we spent time walking the streets of Cap, appreciating the architecture and lack of imposing walls surrounding every city block. We toured an art market where we were obliged to enter each and every stall so as not to offend a shop keeper, but were rewarded with funny interactions and conversations. We let our eyes drift out to the watery horizon, and tried to ignore the incredibly polluted beach scene at our feet. A swim in the ocean was not a desirable (or health-conscious) option, nor was eating anything caught from the bay. We passed canals lined with fishing boats whose sides were painted as brightly as the tap-taps on the street, and whose sails were often patchwork recycled sheets. We enjoyed sharing meals and conversation with our new friends who are currently in Haiti working on a Public Health research project.
One incredible part of living in a place like Haiti is the paths of people you have the good fortune to cross. Haiti attracts a variety of people, but most that we've met are kind, compassionate, adventure-loving, spiritual, inspired, social justice-driven people with incredible life stories. We came across such people this weekend, and the conversations were rich for it.
This morning we visited a CONASPEH member church which happened to have a big celebration in honor of the birthday of its pastor. The pastor was dressed head-to-toe in a white suit, white leather shoes, and was proud as a peacock. Church commenced at 8:30, and the last of the final songs and prayers and speeches and songs and prayers ended at 12:30. It was a marathon of a church service, but full of entertainment in the faces of the young and old that filled its seats. This was also the first Sunday that Patrick and I gave our introductions completely without the assistance of anyone familiar with English. Patrick, although not asked to give the sermon, kept having to add sentences to his ever elongating introduction at the request of the pastor who prompted, "say more" after Patrick's meager attempts to sign off. It was Creole speaking torture, but he faired well. Who's to know what thoughts were passing through the congregations heads... I pray we'll never know.
We were invited into the pastor's home after church, and shared a generous meal with he and his wife. He gave us a tour of his land, showed us the trees he was planting, his chickens and his turkeys, talked about his plans for his garden and the children he hoped to fill his home with. A young pastor recently married, his eyes were full of hope and excitement for the dream he was working diligently to reveal.
Catching the plane back home to Port-au-Prince was happily uneventful. Flying small in-country airlines is much less of a hassle than any American and/or international flight. There is not much of a security maze to weave through either. Today I had a man lazily unzip all the pockets of my book bag and scan the pockets with an uninspired eye. He did pick up and consider my completely full water bottle only to replace it snugly in my bag, and disregard the pair of scissors, the bug spray, and other mysterious items in the depths of the pockets. This was significant more security than our outgoing flight. We did put our bags through a "scanner," but discovered after passing quickly through that the x-ray TV wasn't working, and we caught the "scanner police" sleeping against the side of the machine as our bags ran through uninspected, potentially full of bottles of liquids, bombs, guns and the like. I have to say, I found it refreshing to be a place currently un-terrorized by air travel, unparanoid. No shucking off shoes, emptying briefcases, de-robing accessories, praying to make it through the scanner door without a beep. Made me like flying again. We also observed today that flying first thing in the morning is preferable to late afternoon. Late afternoon is hot. And so are all the people jammed into the tiny space of the propeller plane. Thank goodness for the incredible view.
So back home, we are anticipating a busy week back at school, that is if the children are finished with their holiday play. Happy for a good weekend full of discovery, exploration, conversation and glimpses of Haiti.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
a dream
Saturday Jan 10, 2008
I just woke from a dream. In it, I was back in my hometown of Belleville for a short visit. I had been asked to give a talk in church about Haiti, and I tried to summarize my experiences thus far, tried to relay some grand message. Mom sat tearful with pride on the front row, but the rest of the congregation was restless, talking amongst themselves, getting up and leaving frequently, not really interested in my presentation. I had had a list of quotes written out that I wanted to present, but someone had lost them. So I was left to try to speak completely off the cuff. The funny thing was that the dream wasn’t panicked; I don’t remember feeling annoyed or sad watching people in their impatience. Maybe it speaks to the new attitude of acceptance I’ve had lately, to the process of having to drive without a manual, to work off the cuff. I’m not sure what the people stood for. Maybe I know that my message is still developing and I don't have the answers. Maybe I know this well enough that when people stand up to leave the room while I’m talking, I’m not bothered. Likely it was just a dream. But regardless, I know my mother loves me.
I remember a conversation with a Haitian man who had lived in exile in the States since the Duvalier regimen. When telling about his life story, he described the challenges of having to flee a foreign country in fear of his life, integrating into a country that didn’t fully trust him, where racism has affected his own work and the lives of his children. “It must make you angry,” I said. “No, I didn't let it bother me much. My mother loved me. She thought I was the best thing on earth, she thought I was smarter than Einstein. And as long as your mother loves you, you can do anything.”
I just woke from a dream. In it, I was back in my hometown of Belleville for a short visit. I had been asked to give a talk in church about Haiti, and I tried to summarize my experiences thus far, tried to relay some grand message. Mom sat tearful with pride on the front row, but the rest of the congregation was restless, talking amongst themselves, getting up and leaving frequently, not really interested in my presentation. I had had a list of quotes written out that I wanted to present, but someone had lost them. So I was left to try to speak completely off the cuff. The funny thing was that the dream wasn’t panicked; I don’t remember feeling annoyed or sad watching people in their impatience. Maybe it speaks to the new attitude of acceptance I’ve had lately, to the process of having to drive without a manual, to work off the cuff. I’m not sure what the people stood for. Maybe I know that my message is still developing and I don't have the answers. Maybe I know this well enough that when people stand up to leave the room while I’m talking, I’m not bothered. Likely it was just a dream. But regardless, I know my mother loves me.
I remember a conversation with a Haitian man who had lived in exile in the States since the Duvalier regimen. When telling about his life story, he described the challenges of having to flee a foreign country in fear of his life, integrating into a country that didn’t fully trust him, where racism has affected his own work and the lives of his children. “It must make you angry,” I said. “No, I didn't let it bother me much. My mother loved me. She thought I was the best thing on earth, she thought I was smarter than Einstein. And as long as your mother loves you, you can do anything.”
Friday, January 9, 2009
Milot
Friday Jan 9, 2008
My watch alarm beeped at us extra early today. By the time we had become fully conscious, we were stumbling into the airport to catch a flight to Cap Haitian.
Through friends in the States, we were introduced to Dr. Peter Kelley of CRUDEM who works extensively with a hospital in Milot, a small villiage outside of Cap Haitian. We accepted an invitation to come visit his hospital and surrounding facilities and learn about the history of the organization, what services are provided, how resources are used, and how volunteers are utilized.
Early this morning after waiting for 45 minutes in to Tortuga Air waiting room, standing in a line with our laminated boarding cards, walking single-file across the tarmac, we boarded a 20-seat propeller plane. Trusting voyage to such planes is an exercise in faith. Or resignation. The seats looked like extra-padded patio furniture, the seat back hitting us just below the shoulder blades. I never appreciated the sense of privacy the big 747 high-back chairs offer, but it was quite a different thing to be all crammed together in one tiny communal plane. The pilots entered the door behind us, and squeezed into the cockpit open on the sides to the cabin. No bulletproof door keeping them from us. In fact, we watched them push their buttons and pull their levers, speak into their headsets and ready the plane for take-off.
The flight was beautiful. Not climbing to the world-erasing heights of commercial airlines, we flew low over land and mountain, watching little villages pop up over ridges on the mountains or lie nestled in the valleys. Lines of erosion on the mountainside traced the waterways; patchwork fields lay fitted together like a giant puzzle. Most roads looked to be footpaths. Vegetation seemed to get a big thicker and greener as we passed the central plateau and flew closer to the northern coast. The wide fronds of palm and banana trees could be seen from the plane dotting the land.
We were met at the airport by a British nun who has lived and worked in Haiti for the last 6 years; she drove us to the village of Milot. Immediately noticeable in the change of landscape was the freshness of the air, the lush tropical vegetation hugging the road, and the busy work life of the villages we passed. We passed more donkeys, more horses, bony cows grazing amongst the palm fronds, and as always people. We passed a man carrying chickens upside down tethered together, women tending homes sweeping their front porch, men in straw hats working the land with hoes, young women carrying items to market in baskets perched on their heads, children toddling around front yards chasing dogs or grinning and waving at us in curiosity.
We arrived to the beautiful town of Milot where CRUDEM has built and maintain a diverse hospital and community health outreach program. We met with Dr. Kelly who gave us a tour of the hospital, the clinics, and all the ancillary projects that support total community health. I was impressed by the organization and range of services provided from this village-based hospital. Incredible to see such outreach that has come from the efforts of people invested in creating healthier lives for Haitians.
We had some time in the late morning to explore the village of Milot. Patrick and I walked up the street past brightly colored houses with neatly raked yards. Here, no trash littered the road side. Although the paint on the houses was worn, the colors still decorated the village and setting a colorful background to the activity we passed. We were quickly joined by Tony and Serge—two Haitian young men eager to escort blan’s through town, hoping to get employed as guides to the Citadel. Tony shared with us in both English and Creole some of the legends of Henry Christoph—one of the liberators of Haiti. Our history professors did not leave out gory details, and repeated the stories in great detail bilingually to make sure that we for sure knew the history of the man who had built a palace and a Citadel that put Milot on the map. It was sort of like having one of those audio museum guides without an off button.
We climbed the ruins of the palace, peered up at the Citadel perched on the mountainous ridge above, vowing to return to make the hike one day, promising Tony that he could be our guide. We found a high perch on top of the palace ruins, and sat down to enjoy the breeze blowing off the mountains, the lush view of vegetation, and the unique peace that the countryside offers.
This afternoon we've enjoyed a variety of conversations. Our hosts have been generous with accommodation and with information. I was able to talk to some health care providers about victories and challenges in their outreach and community health care organizers eliciting advice in the training of public health agents. We visited with a group of people here from the states on a medical mission as well as with some longer-term ex-pats who had unique views of the country and the community they worked in. As the day comes to an end, the air is cooling, the wind rustling the wide palm fronds outside our window. We wind down from the day enjoying a quiet evening in the Haitian countryside, away from beeping, honking and the water truck's incessant Titanic Theme-song, away from polluted air and noise. The country wraps us in a velvety cool night, inviting us out for a walk to see what we can see. And so, I lace up my shoes and head out the door hoping to catch a star or two, or a good gaze at the moon.
My watch alarm beeped at us extra early today. By the time we had become fully conscious, we were stumbling into the airport to catch a flight to Cap Haitian.
Through friends in the States, we were introduced to Dr. Peter Kelley of CRUDEM who works extensively with a hospital in Milot, a small villiage outside of Cap Haitian. We accepted an invitation to come visit his hospital and surrounding facilities and learn about the history of the organization, what services are provided, how resources are used, and how volunteers are utilized.
Early this morning after waiting for 45 minutes in to Tortuga Air waiting room, standing in a line with our laminated boarding cards, walking single-file across the tarmac, we boarded a 20-seat propeller plane. Trusting voyage to such planes is an exercise in faith. Or resignation. The seats looked like extra-padded patio furniture, the seat back hitting us just below the shoulder blades. I never appreciated the sense of privacy the big 747 high-back chairs offer, but it was quite a different thing to be all crammed together in one tiny communal plane. The pilots entered the door behind us, and squeezed into the cockpit open on the sides to the cabin. No bulletproof door keeping them from us. In fact, we watched them push their buttons and pull their levers, speak into their headsets and ready the plane for take-off.
The flight was beautiful. Not climbing to the world-erasing heights of commercial airlines, we flew low over land and mountain, watching little villages pop up over ridges on the mountains or lie nestled in the valleys. Lines of erosion on the mountainside traced the waterways; patchwork fields lay fitted together like a giant puzzle. Most roads looked to be footpaths. Vegetation seemed to get a big thicker and greener as we passed the central plateau and flew closer to the northern coast. The wide fronds of palm and banana trees could be seen from the plane dotting the land.
We were met at the airport by a British nun who has lived and worked in Haiti for the last 6 years; she drove us to the village of Milot. Immediately noticeable in the change of landscape was the freshness of the air, the lush tropical vegetation hugging the road, and the busy work life of the villages we passed. We passed more donkeys, more horses, bony cows grazing amongst the palm fronds, and as always people. We passed a man carrying chickens upside down tethered together, women tending homes sweeping their front porch, men in straw hats working the land with hoes, young women carrying items to market in baskets perched on their heads, children toddling around front yards chasing dogs or grinning and waving at us in curiosity.
We arrived to the beautiful town of Milot where CRUDEM has built and maintain a diverse hospital and community health outreach program. We met with Dr. Kelly who gave us a tour of the hospital, the clinics, and all the ancillary projects that support total community health. I was impressed by the organization and range of services provided from this village-based hospital. Incredible to see such outreach that has come from the efforts of people invested in creating healthier lives for Haitians.
We had some time in the late morning to explore the village of Milot. Patrick and I walked up the street past brightly colored houses with neatly raked yards. Here, no trash littered the road side. Although the paint on the houses was worn, the colors still decorated the village and setting a colorful background to the activity we passed. We were quickly joined by Tony and Serge—two Haitian young men eager to escort blan’s through town, hoping to get employed as guides to the Citadel. Tony shared with us in both English and Creole some of the legends of Henry Christoph—one of the liberators of Haiti. Our history professors did not leave out gory details, and repeated the stories in great detail bilingually to make sure that we for sure knew the history of the man who had built a palace and a Citadel that put Milot on the map. It was sort of like having one of those audio museum guides without an off button.
We climbed the ruins of the palace, peered up at the Citadel perched on the mountainous ridge above, vowing to return to make the hike one day, promising Tony that he could be our guide. We found a high perch on top of the palace ruins, and sat down to enjoy the breeze blowing off the mountains, the lush view of vegetation, and the unique peace that the countryside offers.
This afternoon we've enjoyed a variety of conversations. Our hosts have been generous with accommodation and with information. I was able to talk to some health care providers about victories and challenges in their outreach and community health care organizers eliciting advice in the training of public health agents. We visited with a group of people here from the states on a medical mission as well as with some longer-term ex-pats who had unique views of the country and the community they worked in. As the day comes to an end, the air is cooling, the wind rustling the wide palm fronds outside our window. We wind down from the day enjoying a quiet evening in the Haitian countryside, away from beeping, honking and the water truck's incessant Titanic Theme-song, away from polluted air and noise. The country wraps us in a velvety cool night, inviting us out for a walk to see what we can see. And so, I lace up my shoes and head out the door hoping to catch a star or two, or a good gaze at the moon.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Middle O' the Week Report
Thursday Jan 8, 2008
Over the last 2 days we have met a lot of people, made some new connections in Haiti, worked in clinics and on sermons. But most importantly, I drove for the first time and am alive to tell about it.
Yesterday, I had clinic in Karfour. On our way there, the traffic wasn’t terrible, so Patrick and I switched seats. Although my heart had the Galloper beat in gallops per minute, Patrick says I did pretty well. I didn’t kill the clutch, didn’t kill us, didn’t hit any innocents, and the car wasn’t emitting any strange smoke and/or smells like it did after my first attempts at driving manual with my dear friend Emily. Granted, there was no bumper-to-bumper traffic on a vertical hill, but today I celebrate baby steps. And my first step got me over the initial hump of fear that lies entirely in the anticipation of driving in Port-au-Prince.
After walking through the narrow, twisty dirt road that weaved between houses to the Karfour clinic, the nurse greeted me. She warned that we wouldn’t have too many patients today--a blessing in disguise because my translator didn’t show up.
I’d like to speak here of the recent evolution of my internal emotional state. I’m not really sure how or when it happened. It could be that I snapped. I remember a time last week where I was volleying ferociously between elation and frustration just as wildly as ever, and even a moment when I was ready to throw in the towel. But then something changed. The yo-yo game of my state of contentment has resigned into a more peacefull, zen-like state; for a few days now, I'm able to let go of the things that drive me batty. I hope this evolved state stays around for a while (Patrick does too, I"m sure). But I can honestly say that when no translator arrived, I wasn’t fazed. Here we go. Dive in and do my best.
About 15 patients wandered in during the morning, a large change from the lines of waiting people that usually assemble when the doctor is in. The nurse said it had to do with the holidays, and that the clinic had been closed for a while, so news hadn’t yet spread. The Pastor of the neighborhood had apparently stationed himself on a busy road with a bullhorn announcing my presence in clinic. Horrified (a break in the peace) I told him to tone down his advertising campaign since my translator was a no-show and getting through a patient exchange safely was going to require lots of page flipping, charades, miming, and improvising.
The patients did come. Most had complaints about their vision, others problems with gastritis. One woman who carries heavy baskets of fruit on her head all day told me her back and neck give her pain once in a while. An unusually large Haitian woman sat down next to me complaining of heavy breathing with walking. She was quite overweight, and was not at all surprised that I suggested she loose some. “I don’t want to loose weight because I want to be sexy” is essentially what she told me. This was verified by the nurse. Although the body image view was admittedly refreshing and a break from anorexic dreams of American women, I was saddened that the pendulum had swung so far in the other direction for this woman.
I met with a man who had horrible, end-stage dilated cardiomyopathy who just wanted my advice about the medicines and any further interventions. He was kind enough to bring in the records from his cardiology appointment. I enjoyed being a counselor again, a teacher, even though the news wasn’t good. He was only 45.
Two people had me worried: a young man with night fevers and an older man whose story had tucked within symptoms of cancer. They both seemed receptive to further diagnostics, and today I was able to tell them where to go which was solid proof I’ve made some progress here.
After clinic, Patrick and I met up with a good friend of ours from Washington D.C. who was in town. She formally worked with Beyond Borders, and now is working with Ministry of Money and looking into bringing groups from the States down to Haiti. It is an amazing feeling to see a familiar face here, and she introduced us to a lot of new people that make up part of her network in Haiti. Suddenly our circle of acquaintances had doubled, and we found ourselves amidst people with a wealth of experience, of thought, of gifts, of information about living and working in Haiti. Expansion of community is one of the most exciting parts of our time here.
One of the people we met was a Haitian theologian who was responsible for translating the bible into Creole. An incredible spirit, he welcomed us into he garden, sat with us and discussed Christianity in Haiti. This man was one who admitted to not having the answers, pondered each thought, and who, despite his accomplishments, sat humbly with us taking part in conversation and sharing.
Today we were back at CONASPEH. We met again with Dr. Laplaunch and gave her a tour of the CONASPEH facilities and engaged in a discussion with the head of the nursing department, Mdm Fano, and the Villiers. Again, I was left a little lost when conversation slipped from English into Creole and later into French, but I watched Dr. Laplaunche give her proposal and discuss how many things were possible with the right approach. I felt like she was able to ask some pertinent questions about the nursing school and get some good feedback about it that I have not yet successfully done. I was glad to see her present a similar approach to program planning as I had, reminding me that maybe it wasn’t all Americanism that colored my ideas, but just the systematic approach doctors take to solving problems. Regardless, the people in the meeting seemed very receptive. I know the budget will be the biggest set back to getting things up and running, but I’m hopeful.
Tonight we just got back from a rendezvous with on of our newly met friends at the Hotel Olofson—a historic place made famous in novels and that has weathered the history of this country. The early century French architecture still characterizes this virtual mansion of a hotel, but the years and gravity are weighing heavily on the façade. Our friend joked that the hotel was still standing due to endless layers of paint and the interlocking of millions of termite jaws. But rarely do you sit in a place that takes you back in time. And certainly the hotel did so.
Tomorrow we take off on a new adventure to visit Cap Haitian to visit a medical facility there as well as a CONASPEH church. For now, I close and wish you all a bon nwit.
Over the last 2 days we have met a lot of people, made some new connections in Haiti, worked in clinics and on sermons. But most importantly, I drove for the first time and am alive to tell about it.
Yesterday, I had clinic in Karfour. On our way there, the traffic wasn’t terrible, so Patrick and I switched seats. Although my heart had the Galloper beat in gallops per minute, Patrick says I did pretty well. I didn’t kill the clutch, didn’t kill us, didn’t hit any innocents, and the car wasn’t emitting any strange smoke and/or smells like it did after my first attempts at driving manual with my dear friend Emily. Granted, there was no bumper-to-bumper traffic on a vertical hill, but today I celebrate baby steps. And my first step got me over the initial hump of fear that lies entirely in the anticipation of driving in Port-au-Prince.
After walking through the narrow, twisty dirt road that weaved between houses to the Karfour clinic, the nurse greeted me. She warned that we wouldn’t have too many patients today--a blessing in disguise because my translator didn’t show up.
I’d like to speak here of the recent evolution of my internal emotional state. I’m not really sure how or when it happened. It could be that I snapped. I remember a time last week where I was volleying ferociously between elation and frustration just as wildly as ever, and even a moment when I was ready to throw in the towel. But then something changed. The yo-yo game of my state of contentment has resigned into a more peacefull, zen-like state; for a few days now, I'm able to let go of the things that drive me batty. I hope this evolved state stays around for a while (Patrick does too, I"m sure). But I can honestly say that when no translator arrived, I wasn’t fazed. Here we go. Dive in and do my best.
About 15 patients wandered in during the morning, a large change from the lines of waiting people that usually assemble when the doctor is in. The nurse said it had to do with the holidays, and that the clinic had been closed for a while, so news hadn’t yet spread. The Pastor of the neighborhood had apparently stationed himself on a busy road with a bullhorn announcing my presence in clinic. Horrified (a break in the peace) I told him to tone down his advertising campaign since my translator was a no-show and getting through a patient exchange safely was going to require lots of page flipping, charades, miming, and improvising.
The patients did come. Most had complaints about their vision, others problems with gastritis. One woman who carries heavy baskets of fruit on her head all day told me her back and neck give her pain once in a while. An unusually large Haitian woman sat down next to me complaining of heavy breathing with walking. She was quite overweight, and was not at all surprised that I suggested she loose some. “I don’t want to loose weight because I want to be sexy” is essentially what she told me. This was verified by the nurse. Although the body image view was admittedly refreshing and a break from anorexic dreams of American women, I was saddened that the pendulum had swung so far in the other direction for this woman.
I met with a man who had horrible, end-stage dilated cardiomyopathy who just wanted my advice about the medicines and any further interventions. He was kind enough to bring in the records from his cardiology appointment. I enjoyed being a counselor again, a teacher, even though the news wasn’t good. He was only 45.
Two people had me worried: a young man with night fevers and an older man whose story had tucked within symptoms of cancer. They both seemed receptive to further diagnostics, and today I was able to tell them where to go which was solid proof I’ve made some progress here.
After clinic, Patrick and I met up with a good friend of ours from Washington D.C. who was in town. She formally worked with Beyond Borders, and now is working with Ministry of Money and looking into bringing groups from the States down to Haiti. It is an amazing feeling to see a familiar face here, and she introduced us to a lot of new people that make up part of her network in Haiti. Suddenly our circle of acquaintances had doubled, and we found ourselves amidst people with a wealth of experience, of thought, of gifts, of information about living and working in Haiti. Expansion of community is one of the most exciting parts of our time here.
One of the people we met was a Haitian theologian who was responsible for translating the bible into Creole. An incredible spirit, he welcomed us into he garden, sat with us and discussed Christianity in Haiti. This man was one who admitted to not having the answers, pondered each thought, and who, despite his accomplishments, sat humbly with us taking part in conversation and sharing.
Today we were back at CONASPEH. We met again with Dr. Laplaunch and gave her a tour of the CONASPEH facilities and engaged in a discussion with the head of the nursing department, Mdm Fano, and the Villiers. Again, I was left a little lost when conversation slipped from English into Creole and later into French, but I watched Dr. Laplaunche give her proposal and discuss how many things were possible with the right approach. I felt like she was able to ask some pertinent questions about the nursing school and get some good feedback about it that I have not yet successfully done. I was glad to see her present a similar approach to program planning as I had, reminding me that maybe it wasn’t all Americanism that colored my ideas, but just the systematic approach doctors take to solving problems. Regardless, the people in the meeting seemed very receptive. I know the budget will be the biggest set back to getting things up and running, but I’m hopeful.
Tonight we just got back from a rendezvous with on of our newly met friends at the Hotel Olofson—a historic place made famous in novels and that has weathered the history of this country. The early century French architecture still characterizes this virtual mansion of a hotel, but the years and gravity are weighing heavily on the façade. Our friend joked that the hotel was still standing due to endless layers of paint and the interlocking of millions of termite jaws. But rarely do you sit in a place that takes you back in time. And certainly the hotel did so.
Tomorrow we take off on a new adventure to visit Cap Haitian to visit a medical facility there as well as a CONASPEH church. For now, I close and wish you all a bon nwit.
Patrick's Musings #8
Last Sunday Kim and I journeyed to the large oceanside slum of Cite Soleil. Mother Teresa once called Cite Soleil, “the poorest two-miles on earth.” Needless to say, spending even a morning in this Port-au-Prince neighborhood was intense. CONASPEH has several hundred small community churches in Cite Soleil and I have been fortunate enough to preach at 3 of them in the past few weeks. However, this week’s visit to Cite Soleil was different than the previous two.
After church concluded, Kim and I stepped outside of the building and were immediately bombarded by children that wanted to hold our hands, touch our white skin, and simply be loved for a little while. The children were scantily dressed; most of them did not have shoes, several were without pants, and all of them were dirty and showing signs of malnutrition.Pastor Timothy, whose church we attended, led us through the neighborhood to show us a school he started for the community. As we walked the smiling children clung to us while proudly telling us about their school.The kids managed to navigate us through piles of garbage, puddles of stagnant water, and various street vendors cooking and selling rice and fried plantains amidst the overwhelming filth. Finally, we reached our destination where the children took us by the hand up steep concrete stairs to the school. On the balcony of the school, we found a great view of Cite Soleil. The tin roofs of the tiny shanties spread out almost as far as I could see. Stray dogs, goats, and chickens casually meandered through the neighborhood, mothers washed clothes in large bowls of soapy water while their children played soccer in the street with plastic pop bottles. And yet, alongside the poverty and the repressive nature of Cite Soleil, the blue boundless ocean sat lining one of the edges of the massive slum.
The paradox of the site was profound. For me, the ocean has always been the most spiritual and liberating manifestation of Being in the world. It functions to create a deep sense of connectedness to all life, while speaking to an unfathomable mystery that can never be fully articulated with words or religious dogma.
Seeing this beautiful expression of interconnectivity and truth sitting amongst some of the most oppressive poverty in the world was moving. I internalized the paradox myself, feeling both a sense of utter separation from the everyday reality of the residents of Cite Soleil, and also a glimpse into that deeper reality of the shared experience of existence. I believe the obvious dissimilarities between my life circumstances and those found in Cite Soleil can be honored while still being attuned to the unifying force of life that binds us together. 
In my opinion, one of the reasons that inhumane situations, such as that of Cite Soleil, continue to exist is because a sense of connectedness with others is absent for much of humanity. This is perhaps even more true in the United States where our wealth, military power, and sense of cultural superiority has tended to breed a perceived sense of isolation from other forms of life, including people residing in different parts of the world. I’m not sure that Kim and I have a more important job during our time in Haiti than to foster and explore this mutual connection both with the Haitian people, as well as with our friends and family back home. If our collected consciousness is going to evolve into a more loving and compassionate way of being in the world that more fully reflects our divine nature, then we must began to explore the reality that connects us to other people and to the natural world. Eckhart Tolle writes, “True salvation is to know yourself as an inseparable part of the timeless and formless One Life from which all that exists derives its being.” Jesus once said, “Truly I tell you, what you do unto the least of these my brothers and sisters, you do unto me.” Let 2009 be a year where we explore our divine connection with the people of Haiti and everywhere else in the world.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Networking
The week has gotten off to an interesting start. Yesterday, Patrick and I awoke ready to restart days at CONASPEH. Although the vacation has been nice, we’ve missed the children at the school, and so we happily drove to work ready to get the new semester started. But the halls were strangely quiet. Velena and Gouka were sitting in the foyer, sifting through some papers and laughing to themselves. “Its quiet” I said. We were told that apparently the children weren’t done with partying yet. Maybe they’ll come next week. Huh. And sure enough, most of the teachers were there, milling about in empty rooms. Wish I had known about THAT rule as a kid after Christmas break. Would have milked it for all its worth.
So the week's tasks have evolved into cleaning our office and the clinic, running errands, meeting with the Villiers to discuss plans and meetings ahead. I've enjoyed some alone time in the clinic to rearrange and organize. Some patients have wandered in seeing the clinic door open. We've had informal sessions and much to my surprise, I was able to give some basic counseling in Creole. Maybe our studying is paying off after all!
Yesterday, further networking occurred for the clinic. Over Christmas break, Patrick and I met a German couple who had extensive experience working in Haiti. They gave us the contact information for a Haitian physician close by. I met Dr. Laplaunche initially last week. She is a female physician who has built up a small inpatient hospital, a lab and pharmacy around her multi-specialty clinic. Her facility works to host a variety of interventions from dentistry to surgery, obstetrics to pediatrics. When I met her last week, she seemed eager to help this blan in the city. She recognized the challenges CONASPEH has and reported knowing ways to maneuver through them. She asked for a chance to meet Patrick Villier to discuss her ideas. Although I wasn’t sure what would materialize out of the meeting with a Haitian physician already knee-deep in her own clinic and hospital activities and Patrick whose schedule is overflowing with different responsibilities, the meeting magically materialized today.
After some brief introductions, the doctor and the pastor quickly settled into a rapid flowing conversation in French. Patrick and I were left to interpret tones of voice and facial expressions. Both seemed happy and excited. I’m not sure what the doctor proposed, but Patrick Villier seemed to think it was great. He proposed that I work with her a bit in her own clinic, and she seemed to think that was great. The rest was Greek (or French) to us. At the end of the meeting, Patrick Villier seemed very happy to have had the exchange. We shook hands under an agreement of some sorts to work together. We have a second meeting set up for Thursday so that Dr. Laplaunch can come tour CONASPEH and meet the director of the nursing school as well as the clinic nurse.
In the last week, we've also met some incredible people thanks to friends of friends passing along e-mails, phone numbers given, and introductory meetings around the guesthouse table. We have reveled in the stories told, of lives lived, of knowledge passed on. After each encounter, Patrick and I feel a little bit richer, richer for the chance to encounter people with vibrant life stories, who work tirelessly on their projects, who offer perspective and guidance, and are potential resources to help our own work grow and flourish.
So with the help of friends and acquaintances, slowly we are getting to know people and resources around us, we are building community with every meeting, every encounter, every intentional moment. It feels good reaching out in a spirit of collaboration to see how we can work together to better meet need and make real our visions for outreach.
So the week's tasks have evolved into cleaning our office and the clinic, running errands, meeting with the Villiers to discuss plans and meetings ahead. I've enjoyed some alone time in the clinic to rearrange and organize. Some patients have wandered in seeing the clinic door open. We've had informal sessions and much to my surprise, I was able to give some basic counseling in Creole. Maybe our studying is paying off after all!
Yesterday, further networking occurred for the clinic. Over Christmas break, Patrick and I met a German couple who had extensive experience working in Haiti. They gave us the contact information for a Haitian physician close by. I met Dr. Laplaunche initially last week. She is a female physician who has built up a small inpatient hospital, a lab and pharmacy around her multi-specialty clinic. Her facility works to host a variety of interventions from dentistry to surgery, obstetrics to pediatrics. When I met her last week, she seemed eager to help this blan in the city. She recognized the challenges CONASPEH has and reported knowing ways to maneuver through them. She asked for a chance to meet Patrick Villier to discuss her ideas. Although I wasn’t sure what would materialize out of the meeting with a Haitian physician already knee-deep in her own clinic and hospital activities and Patrick whose schedule is overflowing with different responsibilities, the meeting magically materialized today.
After some brief introductions, the doctor and the pastor quickly settled into a rapid flowing conversation in French. Patrick and I were left to interpret tones of voice and facial expressions. Both seemed happy and excited. I’m not sure what the doctor proposed, but Patrick Villier seemed to think it was great. He proposed that I work with her a bit in her own clinic, and she seemed to think that was great. The rest was Greek (or French) to us. At the end of the meeting, Patrick Villier seemed very happy to have had the exchange. We shook hands under an agreement of some sorts to work together. We have a second meeting set up for Thursday so that Dr. Laplaunch can come tour CONASPEH and meet the director of the nursing school as well as the clinic nurse.
In the last week, we've also met some incredible people thanks to friends of friends passing along e-mails, phone numbers given, and introductory meetings around the guesthouse table. We have reveled in the stories told, of lives lived, of knowledge passed on. After each encounter, Patrick and I feel a little bit richer, richer for the chance to encounter people with vibrant life stories, who work tirelessly on their projects, who offer perspective and guidance, and are potential resources to help our own work grow and flourish.
So with the help of friends and acquaintances, slowly we are getting to know people and resources around us, we are building community with every meeting, every encounter, every intentional moment. It feels good reaching out in a spirit of collaboration to see how we can work together to better meet need and make real our visions for outreach.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
In the Name of Children
Jan 4, 2009
This morning were invited to another church in City Solei. Silvy and Jerome, our French friends, joined us this Sunday with their son Christanor whose biological family was from City Solei. Since Silvy and Jerome had never been to the Port-au-Prince neighborhood, they were anxious to join us for church and have a chance to see the place where their child had been born.
After emerging from the 3 hour church service filled with singing, dancing, clapping, sweating and more serene moments of prayer and communion, we were quickly swarmed by the tiny bodies of the neighborhood children. They stood barefoot, dirty, in oversized shirts hanging loosely on their thin frames. They were eager to smile, anxious to interact, crowd in, be touched. Although we are often subjects of great curiosity anywhere we go, this particular neighborhood’s children were especially heart warming and heart breaking. We suddenly were pied pipers, and desperately wished we had more than a song to offer.
I was most struck by a toddler who couldn’t have been more than 1 year of age. He solemnly stood in a little t-shirt looking up at me with dirt-smeared cheeks, red hair and serious eyes.
No diaper, no pants, no socks, no shoes. His feet were black with dirt, his belly round, in his hands was a little stick he had been using to draw in the dust. His brown eyes stared up at me with neither happiness nor fear. When I picked him up to move him out of the way of an oncoming car, he didn’t whimper, didn’t fight, didn’t smile. He merely regarded me, then followed along after the crowed of laughing, talking, pushing children ahead of him. I fought the overwhelming urge to rescue him, to bring him into a world of bubble baths and bedtime stories, fire truck pajamas and milk and cookie snacks. But his mother was likely working somewhere in the maze of houses, a mother who loved him, who fed him, who was doing her very best to work miracles out of nothing, to nurture him from the dust. And the community in this little nook of Port-au-Prince was her daycare: the children grabbed his hand and lead him out of the street, the men of the church dusted him off when he fell. He was loved by a community, even if that community is struggling to provide him with the very most basic of life’s needs.
My heart broke for our friends. The experience in the churchyard was overwhelming, even for Patrick and I. So many children desperate for attention, for food, for affection, for interaction and not enough hands or arms to hold them. They posed for photos, asked us for money, practiced the only English phrase they knew, “Hey You.” Silvy was having a hard time keeping it together. I think the reality of the origins of Christanor’s life was too hard to take in all at once, in such a rush of tiny hands and faces. I found myself having to fight back tears as well, especially observing the littlest child, hoping the mob of older children would continue to look after him, or that his mother was somewhere close keeping a watchful eye from the shadows.
The children here bring such a tumultuous mix of emotions. They make you laugh, they are impossible not to fall in love with, they break your heart in all your helplessness, they shake you in midst of an encounter with a different reality, and they inspire anger at a world that isn't universally gentle to all its babies.
Children are beautiful everywhere you go, no matter if their faces are freshly scrubbed or covered with dirt, their clothes straight from the latest Gap Sales rack or third-hand clothes 3 sizes too big. Children seem to adapt to their playground, whether it be the fields of Kansas, swing sets tucked away in urban America, or the dusty paths of City Solei. But how much should we expect them to adapt to? They are innocent beings born to a world full of realities. Some children get to grow up protected from hunger, violence, lack of resources or neglect. Others are not so lucky. We adults with the power to nurture, to love, make decisions, to form policies, to build bridges, to educate and govern, have a duty to expose the imbalances of the world, to question how we contribute, to fight for a world that is softer to grow in, cleaner to play in, more plentiful to eat and drink from, and that holds the promise of education and opportunity to all.
Today we drove home, Christanor tucked safely in our truck leaving behind the streets of his first home, Silvy dabbing tears out of the corners of her eyes, taking care that her son didn't see her cry, and all of our thoughts haunted. I pray that the children we met today are survivors, that the world will wake up and see them, will change enough in their lifetime to offer opportunity and hope. In the meantime, they play, they look to strangers for kindness, they look to us to get some work done in their name. May we all rise to the challenge.
This morning were invited to another church in City Solei. Silvy and Jerome, our French friends, joined us this Sunday with their son Christanor whose biological family was from City Solei. Since Silvy and Jerome had never been to the Port-au-Prince neighborhood, they were anxious to join us for church and have a chance to see the place where their child had been born.
After emerging from the 3 hour church service filled with singing, dancing, clapping, sweating and more serene moments of prayer and communion, we were quickly swarmed by the tiny bodies of the neighborhood children. They stood barefoot, dirty, in oversized shirts hanging loosely on their thin frames. They were eager to smile, anxious to interact, crowd in, be touched. Although we are often subjects of great curiosity anywhere we go, this particular neighborhood’s children were especially heart warming and heart breaking. We suddenly were pied pipers, and desperately wished we had more than a song to offer.
I was most struck by a toddler who couldn’t have been more than 1 year of age. He solemnly stood in a little t-shirt looking up at me with dirt-smeared cheeks, red hair and serious eyes.
No diaper, no pants, no socks, no shoes. His feet were black with dirt, his belly round, in his hands was a little stick he had been using to draw in the dust. His brown eyes stared up at me with neither happiness nor fear. When I picked him up to move him out of the way of an oncoming car, he didn’t whimper, didn’t fight, didn’t smile. He merely regarded me, then followed along after the crowed of laughing, talking, pushing children ahead of him. I fought the overwhelming urge to rescue him, to bring him into a world of bubble baths and bedtime stories, fire truck pajamas and milk and cookie snacks. But his mother was likely working somewhere in the maze of houses, a mother who loved him, who fed him, who was doing her very best to work miracles out of nothing, to nurture him from the dust. And the community in this little nook of Port-au-Prince was her daycare: the children grabbed his hand and lead him out of the street, the men of the church dusted him off when he fell. He was loved by a community, even if that community is struggling to provide him with the very most basic of life’s needs.
My heart broke for our friends. The experience in the churchyard was overwhelming, even for Patrick and I. So many children desperate for attention, for food, for affection, for interaction and not enough hands or arms to hold them. They posed for photos, asked us for money, practiced the only English phrase they knew, “Hey You.” Silvy was having a hard time keeping it together. I think the reality of the origins of Christanor’s life was too hard to take in all at once, in such a rush of tiny hands and faces. I found myself having to fight back tears as well, especially observing the littlest child, hoping the mob of older children would continue to look after him, or that his mother was somewhere close keeping a watchful eye from the shadows.
The children here bring such a tumultuous mix of emotions. They make you laugh, they are impossible not to fall in love with, they break your heart in all your helplessness, they shake you in midst of an encounter with a different reality, and they inspire anger at a world that isn't universally gentle to all its babies.
Children are beautiful everywhere you go, no matter if their faces are freshly scrubbed or covered with dirt, their clothes straight from the latest Gap Sales rack or third-hand clothes 3 sizes too big. Children seem to adapt to their playground, whether it be the fields of Kansas, swing sets tucked away in urban America, or the dusty paths of City Solei. But how much should we expect them to adapt to? They are innocent beings born to a world full of realities. Some children get to grow up protected from hunger, violence, lack of resources or neglect. Others are not so lucky. We adults with the power to nurture, to love, make decisions, to form policies, to build bridges, to educate and govern, have a duty to expose the imbalances of the world, to question how we contribute, to fight for a world that is softer to grow in, cleaner to play in, more plentiful to eat and drink from, and that holds the promise of education and opportunity to all.
Today we drove home, Christanor tucked safely in our truck leaving behind the streets of his first home, Silvy dabbing tears out of the corners of her eyes, taking care that her son didn't see her cry, and all of our thoughts haunted. I pray that the children we met today are survivors, that the world will wake up and see them, will change enough in their lifetime to offer opportunity and hope. In the meantime, they play, they look to strangers for kindness, they look to us to get some work done in their name. May we all rise to the challenge.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Family and Community
Patrick and I just returned from a ti mache (a little walk), venturing out in the street to pick up a late lunch after a busy morning. We have explored the neighborhood long enough that we are beginning to run into people we recognize whether it be women over cooking fires, street children along-side heavily trafficked roads, the pharmacist lazing outside his store, the man selling straw brooms on the corner or the occasional pastor we pass who knows us from CONASPEH. Such connectivity is exciting and reinforces why we came to Haiti—to build community. We've eaten many times at several of the sidewalk cook-stands, and now the women recognize us, wave and call out, "Bonjour cheri" when we walk by. Today we met a woman after she yelled to us, "Where are you from?" in English, engaged us in conversation about her experiences in the U.S., and gave us kisses on the cheek when we parted. These kinds of moments make me fall absolutely in love with the adventure we are on.
CONASPEH recently created a Yarbough Foundation, in honor of one of their long-time friends, partners and beneficiaries from Kansas City. The first Foundation project planned was a weekend seminar discussing the issues surrounding family and spirituality. Patrick and I were asked to lead the seminar, and couple it with a short mobile clinic where I could make myself available to listen to, examine and offer medical recommendations to the participants of the seminar and their families.
Today was the first of these Saturday sessions. Patrick and I were accompanied by our translator, Frenauld who is a 17 year old boy with a sweet disposition and an excellent language education. A pastor of our host church helped us navigate our way to the village of Fontamara for the seminar that would take place in a large CONASPEH church there.
After lots of introductions, Patrick, Frenauld and I sat at a table positioned in front of the pews with microphones in hand. Even though the audience was relatively small, the microphones were necessary so our voices could compete with outside noise echoing around the concrete walls: the honking, roaring traffic, yelling from street vendors, dogs barking, and a wedding ceremony underway in the balcony above us.
We spent the morning discussing issues of family within the Christian context. Patrick pulled from the Bible references on the role of the family in our spirituality, in our lives on earth and in how we honor God through each other. We also spent some time discussing conflict and conflict resolution. Our attempts at creating a participatory style of seminar initially fell flat after several long moments of silence hanging from blank faces staring back at us in response to questions like, “What do you think? What are some of your ideas?” We did finally have some participation in the question section. Conflict was the subject of most interest, and we spent some entertaining moments talking about ways to work around marital fights and some creative ways to resolve.
After the seminar, some participants stayed for medical consultations. The “clinic” took place in tiny little room in the back of the church, probably the place where the pastor readies himself before hitting the pulpit. Patrick, Frenauld and I crammed ourselves into the tiny space, circling around a small wooden table. The doctor was in. One patient after another entered, sat down and aired their health concerns. Since I didn’t have anything more than Tylenol and a bag full of bandages, I was left with only the offer of advice, prescriptions if appropriate and a listening ear. But in spite of my earlier fears that such a basic service would not be helpful, the patients I saw seemed happy to have the interaction. Luckily, no one really sick came in. I enjoyed a fun day of talking to people and educating with the help of our translator. Even if I'm not saving lives, it feels good to touch people, to listen to them, to reassure them, to educate them. Today I felt in that tiny little room without supplies or medical trappings, people were happier with the consult then they seemed in our little CONASPEH clinic that looks a little more official. Maybe these patients’ expectations were altered. Maybe mine have changed with time. Whatever was different, it allowed space for sharing and education, and that is the foundation of what I hope our work becomes here, how our lives evolve.
CONASPEH recently created a Yarbough Foundation, in honor of one of their long-time friends, partners and beneficiaries from Kansas City. The first Foundation project planned was a weekend seminar discussing the issues surrounding family and spirituality. Patrick and I were asked to lead the seminar, and couple it with a short mobile clinic where I could make myself available to listen to, examine and offer medical recommendations to the participants of the seminar and their families.Today was the first of these Saturday sessions. Patrick and I were accompanied by our translator, Frenauld who is a 17 year old boy with a sweet disposition and an excellent language education. A pastor of our host church helped us navigate our way to the village of Fontamara for the seminar that would take place in a large CONASPEH church there.
After lots of introductions, Patrick, Frenauld and I sat at a table positioned in front of the pews with microphones in hand. Even though the audience was relatively small, the microphones were necessary so our voices could compete with outside noise echoing around the concrete walls: the honking, roaring traffic, yelling from street vendors, dogs barking, and a wedding ceremony underway in the balcony above us.
We spent the morning discussing issues of family within the Christian context. Patrick pulled from the Bible references on the role of the family in our spirituality, in our lives on earth and in how we honor God through each other. We also spent some time discussing conflict and conflict resolution. Our attempts at creating a participatory style of seminar initially fell flat after several long moments of silence hanging from blank faces staring back at us in response to questions like, “What do you think? What are some of your ideas?” We did finally have some participation in the question section. Conflict was the subject of most interest, and we spent some entertaining moments talking about ways to work around marital fights and some creative ways to resolve. After the seminar, some participants stayed for medical consultations. The “clinic” took place in tiny little room in the back of the church, probably the place where the pastor readies himself before hitting the pulpit. Patrick, Frenauld and I crammed ourselves into the tiny space, circling around a small wooden table. The doctor was in. One patient after another entered, sat down and aired their health concerns. Since I didn’t have anything more than Tylenol and a bag full of bandages, I was left with only the offer of advice, prescriptions if appropriate and a listening ear. But in spite of my earlier fears that such a basic service would not be helpful, the patients I saw seemed happy to have the interaction. Luckily, no one really sick came in. I enjoyed a fun day of talking to people and educating with the help of our translator. Even if I'm not saving lives, it feels good to touch people, to listen to them, to reassure them, to educate them. Today I felt in that tiny little room without supplies or medical trappings, people were happier with the consult then they seemed in our little CONASPEH clinic that looks a little more official. Maybe these patients’ expectations were altered. Maybe mine have changed with time. Whatever was different, it allowed space for sharing and education, and that is the foundation of what I hope our work becomes here, how our lives evolve.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
A New Year, day 1
New Year's Eve was relatively low-key for us. Patrick has been battling an ear infection, and our car's breaks have once again started moaning, so our plans to drive up to the mountain and share in a bonfire celebration of the new year with some new friends we've made had to be canceled (would have been a great story!). We considered going dancing with a man we met in the guest house, but we couldn't be certain that he was all-together-trustworthy and suspected that if he came across a beautiful Haitian woman who wanted to entertain him late into the night, he'd leave us on the side of the road. So instead we spent the evening safely cozied in with our French friends at the guesthouse.
We toasted the year past and the year ahead, talked about our frustrations and our hopes. We played with Christanor, drank wine, ate the special cheeses we splurged on in the grocery store, and toasted the new year quietly together. At midnight, fireworks went up around the city. I suspect the UN had a good party, because a pretty spectacular show rose up from around their central barracks. We climbed up to the roof to watch the colorful display in the night sky and had our own private countdown ending with hugs, kisses, a touch of melancholy missing friends and family, but happy contentment in a magical moment under the stars.
Today we went to the Villier's for New Year's Day. In Haiti, the 1st of January is New Years as well as Haitian Independence Day. Every family, regardless of religion or creed, celebrates by eating pumpkin soup. The history of the tradition came from times of slavery. We were told that pumpkin soup was a special treat only eaten by land owners, never shared with the slaves of the fields. After the revolution, the soup became a symbol of freedom, of finally being able to eat at any table the meal of free men. So this morning we were invited into the family celebrations in Villier's home, shared a hearty portion of delicious pumpkin soup—fortified with vegetables, potatoes, meat and spices, and had cake, chocolate and champagne to follow. After the feast, the whole family, the cook, and Patrick and I danced in the kitchen to Konpa music. Patrick and my blan body shimmies were quite entertaining to all, and belly laughs rose up nearly drowning out the music. That moment will stand as one of my favorite of the year.
Happy New Year’s! We send our loves and hopes that this year will be a meaningful year for all.
We toasted the year past and the year ahead, talked about our frustrations and our hopes. We played with Christanor, drank wine, ate the special cheeses we splurged on in the grocery store, and toasted the new year quietly together. At midnight, fireworks went up around the city. I suspect the UN had a good party, because a pretty spectacular show rose up from around their central barracks. We climbed up to the roof to watch the colorful display in the night sky and had our own private countdown ending with hugs, kisses, a touch of melancholy missing friends and family, but happy contentment in a magical moment under the stars.
Today we went to the Villier's for New Year's Day. In Haiti, the 1st of January is New Years as well as Haitian Independence Day. Every family, regardless of religion or creed, celebrates by eating pumpkin soup. The history of the tradition came from times of slavery. We were told that pumpkin soup was a special treat only eaten by land owners, never shared with the slaves of the fields. After the revolution, the soup became a symbol of freedom, of finally being able to eat at any table the meal of free men. So this morning we were invited into the family celebrations in Villier's home, shared a hearty portion of delicious pumpkin soup—fortified with vegetables, potatoes, meat and spices, and had cake, chocolate and champagne to follow. After the feast, the whole family, the cook, and Patrick and I danced in the kitchen to Konpa music. Patrick and my blan body shimmies were quite entertaining to all, and belly laughs rose up nearly drowning out the music. That moment will stand as one of my favorite of the year.
Happy New Year’s! We send our loves and hopes that this year will be a meaningful year for all.
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