Scavenging stories

I imagine that there's something important and constructive and healthy about identifying the beginnings, ends, and even middles of the various chapters of one's life. Perhaps this is why we focus on stories so much in our schools--why the early career teachers in my young adult literature course are creatively scaffolding their students toward knowledge of theme, tone, conflict, and climax. Maybe, then, it's particularly necessary for me, as a writer, an English teacher, and a traveler to choose a closing point for this Haiti blog. This Web-based documentation will morph and at some point I imagine I will return to it to consider what it all means, what lessons and insights are here that might guide me or inform others. But I think this, my 280th entry, will be my last--at least for this long moment. I've now been back in the US for about 40 hours, and I'll admit that the transition is jarring. Seeing family and friends is in many ways more satisfying than ever, but the words "I just moved from Haiti back to the US" can in no way begin to capture the depth or range of sentiments I know. It's appropriate that any final notes about my life in Haiti include an image of a tap-tap, as these artful bus equivalents represent so much of my experience in that intriguing, troubled island nation. The craft of them, the very notion of these vehicles as "public" transit, the every day and every minute transportation challenges that virtually every Haiti resident encounters, the very idea of movement and shifts, and the unfinished business of my life in Port-au-Prince. As I was driven to the airport on Friday we passed through a few more of those "Quaker" red lights--you know, the ones that flash only when the spirit moves them. And then by a huge rental facility, where for the first time I noticed that a large percentage of the vehicles for lease were "Defense de Fumer" trucks. How strange, sad, and dangerous that the community would have to BORROW such requisite safety tools. And then, on this Good Friday, ahead on our curving downtown street, I spied a man slowly making his way alongside the road, struggling a bit to bear some of the scavenged material that so many Haitians port around, discovered in some pile of another person's trash, and to be recycled and utilized in some ingenious manner. The profile of this man even from a distance was obvious and ironic and when we eventually passed him my Christian-influenced suspicions were confirmed--the 50ish fellow was holding a large wooden cross, with, I'm quite certain, absolutely no sense of the multiple meanings of his find. His business on that day was an incomplete as my own in Haiti. There are so many stories I have not yet told, perhaps the first being the one the pictures and words on the rolling murals and graffiti that are Haiti's tap-taps could tell. Perhaps one day.

Moss and stones rolling

In just a few hours an embassy car will arrive at our Juvenat home to pick me up and deliver me to the Port-au-Prince airport for my return to the US. By tonight I will be in Cleveland, at the home of my dear friend Diane, then I'll have breakfast with Diane and Jim--one of my other bestest friends--and then make my way to Indiana to see family. I'm sure the quantity and range of emotions that will ensue will be more than I'll want to handle and more than you'll want to hear about. This move, though, is particularly difficult, as Justine remains in Washington with work, and I am leaving our home without a proper farewell here. The house is empty--and not. I'll Skype with Justine soon, but it won't be enough. There is something almost stupidly metaphorical in the fact that I will be leaving Haiti on Good Friday, on Easter weekend--you know, all that "rebirth" stuff. I won't touch the symbolism for now--I don't even know if that's a part of the range of sentiments I'm experiencing. On this final day in Haiti, I think of notions of power, growth, inertia, and home. I've shared often how electricity is such a troubled and troubling entity here--most people don't have access to it and even those of us "on the grid" are only plugged in part of the time. And some of the most peculiar, but likely not surprising, sights here are of power lines and electrical meters. More often than not, those little grey boxes with the round glass bubbles that track power usage are disconnected and scavenged here. Like obsolete artifacts, evidence of a bygone time. As if some other, much more efficient monitoring and delivery method has been invented and the meters are now just industrial decorations. Even more interesting are the power lines themselves, often similarly useless, cut, broken, and pilfered. Hanging freely from poles, boards, trees, frequently into the street, over fences, on the road. Lifeless. I noticed again this week one particular tangled mess of lines in Petionville, the evidence of their long inactivity made clear by the fact that plants--small masses of grass--had grown around them, found a seemingly precarious home. There was life in those strings, but of an organic variety. So much for "utility." And then I passed by again the above pictured collection of model houses, established next to a large gas station and just down the road from a shrinking tent camp. Such an odd, almost evil, domestic demonstration--the sign says that these colorful little boxes are open seven days a week, but they sit unoccupied, behind razor wire-topped gates, and beyond almost everyone's reach.

Other people's pictures

I write this on Wednesday morning as I await arrival of the packing company who will gather and organize all of my belongings here in Haiti and--eventually--ship them back to Washington. It's difficult not to think about the memories of this nation, this life, and these people that I've gathered, and to worry that I will have too little evidence of all that I have experienced, all that I have appreciated, all that I have learned. Not that I want to TAKE much with me--I'm not the souvenir type--but I desperately long to be able to show other people in my world what I have encountered. And, perhaps even more importantly, to demonstrate to the tremendous individuals--adults and kids--who have mattered so much this past year in Haiti just that: that they signify something extraordinarily good and powerful to me. I've also lamented numerous times over these months that I have been wary--terrified even--of taking pictures of Haitians and even my surroundings. If there is a place or a people who have been abused by photographs and photographers, it's Haiti and Haitians. The image above is one of a relative handful that I've shot--almost all with my camera phone, in an effort to be somewhat less conspicuous--of two of my dear colleagues at the embassy, from the USAID education team. They are wonderful co-workers and friends--Carole and Fabiola (part of a great partnership led by Loretta and also including Parola and Herve)--and I hope they won't mind that I've shared this image. What I realized last week, though, is that, in fact, I have thousands upon thousands of physical, or at least digital, mementos to share with anyone who is interested. In the form of the images the more than forty young people, adolescents to young adults, with whom I've worked have taken. Of course, I can't share these pictures too freely, as they are not my own, and I must be cautious about privacy and ownership. But what a relief that with a few close friends and family in the US I will be able to share in ways that they can SEE much of what I've lived while in this other, other world.

Would you like some starch with that?

I have been conscious of--and have shared--how my tastes have been required to change over the past year (an ACADEMIC year, but that's how I roll), due to the different food options to which we have access here in Haiti. The fact is that I can purchase just about everything that I might find in a local grocery store in the US here in Port-au-Prince. If I want to pay $14 for a bag of Brussels sprouts or $20 for a single California Pizza Kitchen offering or $12 for a pint of Starbucks ice cream. In a tropical land, I imagined I would have access to untold varieties and quantities of vegetables and fruits, and I do. But there's that seemingly simple, magical thing called "refrigeration" which is still not available everywhere on island nation, or at least not at various points while goods are being transported. And, so, I have experienced some sort of fountain of youth, at least in terms of my tastebuds. I long now not so much for fresh arugula--oh, but I miss that--but for everyday flavors from my childhood. I could live on Oreos--aren't those a food group? And Kraft Macaroni and Cheese--there's got to be some illegal, very powerful drug in that bizarre orange food coloring. And those little envelopes of hyper-processed "meat"--you know, the ones that list sodium as their primary ingredient?--pure ambrosia. I have not devolved to the point of longing for Wonder bread, but if I lived here much longer I'd swear it came directly from bakers' heaven. One thing I have not missed--because in some way I never left it--is that Midwestern US trend of serving starch upon starch, followed by starch, covered in starch, all blended together into one big carbohydrate. Spaghetti or potato chip casserole? Haitians have their own versions of these culinary disasters. It's not uncommon to have entire meals--entire days' worth of meals--comprised only of various forms of starch. And anything green must be cooked to near paste and covered in vegetable oil. Somehow, I've survived. Oh, really, the flavors of even these overdone and everpresent starches are quite flavorful, plus the Kreyol recipes are spicy, delicious, and filling. And who knew that an entire cuisine could revolve around broccoli? I think I'll pass that up for some time once I'm back in the US. Forgive me if don't leave my American land of salads for a while.

Haiti Facebook stories

The image above is a modified screen capture from one of my many Haiti-connected Facebook "friends." I've observed this individual's postings over the past several months, intrigued and often troubled by his peculiar sympathies, which run from adopting orphaned Haitian children to Obama hating and Tea Party sympathizing. Long ago, a mentor offered me a quote that my Web acquaintance brings to mind: we live our contradictions. I could never argue that I am the vision of consistency--I'm not even sure what that means for a human being, let alone for the human race--but the USians who are dedicated to Haiti are a uniquely contradictory bunch. And, on many levels, I'm one of them. Yes, we are here by choice or as the result of some sense of mission. And, yes, we all hope to assist the Haitian people so that their future is dramatically different from, better than, their past. But to be willing to spend untold hours raising money for worthy causes in an impoverished nation while simultaneously believing that our current Democratic president's policies are in any way inferior to those of previous Republican elected officials, in terms of serving those in our own nation who are most needy, is absolutely beyond me. To argue that every individual in the US has the "freedom" to pull themselves up by those proverbial bootstraps, but then acting, blindly, in a manner that suggests that the Haitian people do not have the same capacity or a similar responsibility, just seems so far beyond any form of logic that I'm--almost--left speechless. As I consider my nigh departure from Haiti--with many lasting, tremendously important ties here, in the obvious form of Justine, who will remain and finish her tour, and in my many Haitian friends--I cannot help but wonder just who it is that chooses to come to a place like our little Hispaniola nation. And who returns over and over, to attempt to do some good? What are our motivations? I look forward to considering just what my relationship to Haiti will be, over the coming months, and even into the next decades.

Attack spiders, hungry children, and blind men walking

I imagine it's a natural human reaction to experience some distaste and anxiousness when you are about to leave a place. Too, you can't help but look ahead, imagining the perfections of the new place to which you are shifting, and finding an increasing number of and seemingly more serious faults with your current circumstance. Haiti, for me, has been so rich, so filled with experiences that I know that I will spend the next several years, maybe the rest of my life, attempting to understand and determine their significance. An odd little observation I've made over the years and in my numerous homes around the United States, in England for a short time, and now in Haiti is how telling can be the varied presence and quality and quantity of insects. My Midwestern homes were devoid of bugs in the winters but overwhelmed in the summers by mosquitoes and flies. My Seattle life was memorable for the sheer lack of these same little critters but also for the introduction of sidewalk- and road-smeared slugs. And Haiti has been a novel experience for the ubiquitous presence of silent itchy stinging pests, lizards, the occasional mammoth cockroach, and one grand attack spider. I won't miss these creatures a bit. But I am first and foremost a teacher, so I pay attention to kids and the qualities of their lives, as much as I can notice through my school situations and my observations of their lives as I meet them in my neighborhood. Just today I was swarmed by five youngsters, again seeking food and spare change, aiming to serve me in any way they could consider that would ingratiate them to me and cajole me to offer them sustenance of the consumable or exchange-worthy variety. Justine and I have shared weeks' worth of groceries with these needy tykes, but it's never been enough. Today, though, brought a troubling and novel experience, which I observed and then turned away from out of some form of courtesy and frustration. I recalled the many philosophical quotes I've read and repeated over the years about how a society is measured--by how it treats its least fortunate, its impoverished, its criminals, its young. As I waited for the movers to arrive who would survey my belongings to plan for my departure next week, I observed the elderly blind man who spends his days camped at the end of my street with what I imagine is his family of an adult daughter and her collection of small children, inching over the rocky, broken pavement, arms stretched forward, aware that he was approaching a fence and gate, through which he would pass to find home. In that moment, I hated Haiti.

Be gone, do-gooder facade

I imagine it was inevitable that the masks must come off. And it was only a matter to time before I was involved--and ever so slightly implicated--in the evils of the "non-profit" industry that thrives in Haiti, perhaps in a more complete and sinister manner than anywhere else on the planet and maybe to a greater extent than ever before seen in history. I've been privy to a few "consultant" budgets which include daily pay rates of thousands of dollars, all spent in the name of serving this challenged nation. And I've watched over the past year as non-government organization do-gooder entrepreneurs cruise around in expensive SUVs with unnecessary caravans, enjoying every bit of the absolute finest that Haiti has to offer. And while I've enjoyed many of the same privileges, I have, foolishly, impossibly, imagined that I could remain outside and above it all, ne'er touched by the guilt of benefiting from others' suffering. I hoped--even prayed, which is unusual for an agnostic but spiritual soul like me--that my own sincere, educational, inquiry-driven empathic activities would never be lumped into the collection of individuals and organizations here supposedly attempting to serve the Haitian people. But it was unavoidable that at some point--perhaps at many points--that questions would be raised about how I am gaining from my presence here. How indeed. Financially, professionally, perhaps even personally. Today, at last, some of the dear, bright young Haitian writers with whom I have had the privilege--and it has been an honor--spoke for one of their absent but more vocal members who had claimed to misunderstand our relationship, conveniently near the end of its most significant components, and inquired about the ways in which they would be compensated for working with me on this gorgeous "Through Students' Eyes" project exploration of what school means to them. Please note that I took no offense, and that these these young women and men were gracious, kind, and far from demanding. But it's only natural--absolutely expected--that they would make such inquiries, wonder aloud about any form of remuneration. Is it enough that I've dedicated unpaid hours and hours of time to use these photo elicitation methods, that I lent them cameras, printed their pictures, and have promised exhibitions of their glorious efforts? That perhaps they will see some financial rewards as a result of potential future sales of their pictures and writings? Really, I think not. While no stipends were ever promised and our exchanges have been richly and mutually beneficial, I still come out way ahead. My donations to support their travel to and from our meetings were always meager, and my gifts of a few meals were always token. Just what, then, is the benefit equation in such a project? In any well-meaning endeavor in a place like Haiti? I leave you with my questions, as I ponder leaving Haiti months, more than a year, ahead of when I'd planned. I only hope to offer these young people--and many others--much more than I have already. To change and challenge the reckoning and come out BEHIND.