Authors: Kathleen A. Tobin
We finally chose a day in May. She booked a room at Innsbrook Country Club and a strong sense of anticipation set in. I did have so much to share and I could not ignore the fact that I had strong family ties to the ground on which Innsbrook lay. Both my grandmother and father were born in houses that bordered the property there. The land had once been part of my great grandfather's farm. I had driven past many times, but never got out of the car to let my feet touch the earth. I knew being there would hold additional meaning for me.
Sadly, the presentation would not take place. Just hours before, my father fell gravely ill with an acute case of pneumonia. There was a chance he might not make it through the night. He had been ill for some time, battling the effects of diabetes and bouts of illness following a stroke. But that day things had taken a turn and his cough was relentless. Already in a weakened state, he seemed especially fragile. My mother and I conversed with him the best we could and then with each other, and we finally let him know we thought it best that he go to the hospital.
"Dad, we're going to call an ambulance," I told him.
He seemed relieved. He had been a strong, reliable, 1950s type of father and it was difficult for him to yield power and decision-making responsibility over the past few years. He had become physically incapacitated and mentally changed. As the eldest, and a daughter, I had had my share of clashes with him before I matured into young adulthood. He was an admirable family man who chose a decent way of life, coming home from work at 5:00 on the dot and tending to his garden when the weather was good. Above all, he was a man we could rely on.
Over the past many months, his body had become thin and stiff. He ate less and less and moved with increasing difficulty. It had been just a few weeks since we helped him to his last trip up the stairs, to stay in what used to be the "girls' room". My sisters and I helped our mother lift him from the bed to the chair and back again. It was the least we could do. I don't know how she managed.
Within a short time at the hospital, Dad was taken to the Intensive Care Unit. It was a solemn place. It saddened me to see so many patients there alone. I walked into the hallway and stared out the window. The ticking of time was palpable. I knew I had to phone Christine and back out. Remembering innumerable excuses from my students on test days and assignment due dates, I wondered if she would understand, if she would believe me. I did not know if this was truly the end, or just a close call. We had waited four months for the talk on Haiti, and I owed her a presentation. I could be back in three hours, I told myself. But I looked into the faces of my sisters, and knew I couldn't leave. My brother was on his way from Wisconsin.
"No, it's all right. Really." Christine sounded convincing, but my perception was skewed. "Listen, you need to be with your father."
Once again, I stared out the window. Community Hospital was just a half block from my parents' house, the house where I grew up. It was a neighborhood fixture, and from my 5th floor view, I could envision us running around the blocks as children, sometimes tying jump ropes to our bicycles and pulling our friends on roller skates. The area was nothing but a cornfield when my dad bought the lot, and he contracted the construction himself. Next to his family and garden, that house meant everything to him.
"Dad, I need to go talk to some people about Haiti," I wanted to say to him. "I'll be right back. I promise." I knew he would understand. But I couldn't bring myself to go. "Dad, you were the first person to teach me about Haiti," I whispered.
My dad was stationed in the Caribbean while in the Navy. He joked that when the Korean War broke out he was called back to the Great Lakes Naval Base to defend Chicago. But he must have spent enough time in the islands to make an impact on him. He never seemed much for souvenirs, but I remember handkerchiefs and painted pins with pictures of palm trees and sunlight. Some of my first memories were of looking through his boxes and wondering what kinds of places were home to such unusual things. There were photographs of him with other sailors standing near gigantic ships. The images were in black and white, but every time I saw a film about the Navy, I pictured him in living color, surrounded by blue skies and water. There was something about this Jamaica and Cuba and Haiti that lingered in his memory, and I was convinced my decision to study the Caribbean was influenced by that.
My thoughts turned to Innsbrook and a missed opportunity to be near the house where he was brought into the world at the same time he was so close to leaving it. I hoped to be there one day, but then again I also hoped he would live forever.
Dad lived a few weeks longer and died at home in hospice care. The sun shone on his funeral and he was buried at Calumet Park cemetery just south of the house where he was born. The cemetery property, too, was once part of his grandfather's farm. The funeral director was a family friend, and had arranged for a military commemoration. As the bugler played "Taps" I gazed at the men in the sailors' uniforms. They seemed so very young.
Renate and I stayed
in close contact. The experience ofbeing in Haiti at such a crucial time and then separated from the disaster made us feel powerless but brought us together. She was able to return a few months later and reported back whatever she could find out. Having spent so much time there, she had very close friends she needed to check on and had a good sense of what tangible steps might be taken that could help in long term development. After a good deal of thought, she told me about an idea for expanding the Universite de la Nouvelle Grand'Anse through Haitian Connection, and organization she had developed to coordinate projects in the area.
UNOGA was situated far from the capital, and while it offered programs only in agronomy and management at a technical school level, the facilities were solid and the campus worth developing. Expanding offerings there that were improved with a foundation ofone year ofgeneral studies could help raise the school to university status. It could also provide opportunities to surviving students who were displaced by the earthquake. And with adequate growth and sustainability it could help in regional development of the Grand'Anse. While Haitian university faculty might not yet be available, she said we could work to staff the first year program with U.S. and European faculty who could teach in any of the social sciences, humanities, physical and biological sciences, and mathematics. We could also offer continuous instruction in languages and computer technology. By scheduling the courses in 3-week modules, students could experience intensive immersion in one subject at a time and faculty could volunteer their time without neglecting their classes back home. The idea sounded feasible and exciting and, knowing Renate, she could make it happen. I agreed to teach a course and offered to spread the word to other faculty who were interested. In a short time, we had commitments from professors in a wide variety of areas.
Creating a syllabus was a daunting task, though I kept telling myself it need not be. They were just students, after all, and I would be their professor. And this was a history course. I had taught history for years. Enough said. However, there were clearly new challenges here. First, the curriculum needed to be condensed into a three-week module. This was not impossible. As a graduate student I completed summer courses at the University of Chicago, which lasted only three weeks. Yes, they were intense, but I still remember much of what I learned. And in Haiti I would have them for longer periods of the day. Second, their English skills were minimal. There would be an interpreter, but that at least doubled the time it would take to get the information across in lecture, or cut in half the amount of material I could cover.
Also, it was difficult to determine what level of preparation they had. Because I had met with social studies teachers on my previous trip I had some idea of what was taught in middle school and high school. I knew they were accustomed to lectures, and that put my mind at ease. But I still was not sure just how much they knew about history and what nuanced understanding they would bring to class.
To a large degree this was more of a problem on my part, as the perspective I bring to my lectures was increasingly lost on students. Much of it has to do with the level of knowledge I have gained over the years, but it is compounded with the generational gap between me and my students that continues to grow wider. Common references to pop culture or current events I use at home might return puzzled looks. In Haiti they might be misunderstood even more.
Then there was the mystery of the classroom space. When at all possible, I visit my classrooms sometime before the semester begins, in order to get a feel for the rooms and to envision myself teaching there. No matter how many descriptions I had heard about the facilities at the Universite de la Nouvelle Grand'Anse, I knew it would be unlike any I had ever worked in. On my previous visit with Renate and Corinne I had not set foot in the classroom buildings.
Putting the materials together posed a challenge as well. Successful learning of history relies on substantial reading and writing and it takes time to digest. Knowing that their skills in French were better than those in English, I searched for reading materials in French and I named the course
Histoire de t'Atlantique.
My intention was to look at the Atlantic world as a cohesive unit that has shared a common history through interaction of incredibly diverse cultures from Europe, Africa, and the Americas. I was able to find book chapters and articles that addressed native cultures, colonization, slavery, sugar and the development of Haiti, missionaries in the Caribbean, commercial competition between the French and Spanish, economic-based Caribbean wars between the French and British, and the American Revolution and its address of abolition. The reading demands may have seemed excessive, but I was careful to limit the number of pages required. I agree the concepts were huge, but hat is often the case in introductory history courses. There is just so much to cover.
As with my American students, even if they cannot read or grasp everything, it is essential for them to know what is out there, to know just how big the field is. This way, the more educated one gets the more likely they are to realize how little they know. That is not necessarily a bad thing. True education should foster a sense of confidence, but also humility. I do not want any students to feel overwhelmed to the point that they give up trying; rather, I want them to realize there is always more out there. Always more to learn. This is no more or less than I expect of myself.
I was advised to send a pdf file of the reading packet in advance so that someone from the school, or the students themselves, could print it out. As much as I hate to admit it, I did not trust the system to accomplish this. It was not that I didn't trust the school administrators or the students to do it. But knowing what I know about Haiti and its limits in technology, electricity and paper, I didn't want to put that burden on them. I would do it myself.
There was a lesson learned here. They could have done it themselves. As the first day of classes neared, enrollment soared, and I found myself attempting to reproduce more than 100 reading packets. My department photocopy machine was of little use. I resorted to paying for copies at a local office supply chain store. I signed up for every kind of deal in order to save the largest percentage, as this was suddenly costing hundreds of dollars. I even think I am now a member of some kind of "copy club" as I receive e-mail announcements from them still.
An even bigger challenge, however, was getting them there. I packed and repacked my suitcases, losing sleep the night before my trip and making difficult choices about what to leave behind. One of the instructors in our campus English as a Second Language program had been kind enough to donate boxes of textbooks and instructor's manuals for UNOGA, but I found it impossible to take more than a dozen or so. Books and anything like reading packets are tremendously heavy. Even though airlines had relaxed their baggage restrictions since the earthquake, allowing relief workers to take multiple suitcases filled with supplies at no extra cost, I was traveling alone and did not know how I could possibly maneuver with everything I wanted to take. This was one time when I could have kept things simple, but I have no regrets in asking them to read what I had decided on. Their dedication was excellent and their responses satisfying, at least for the most part. They were college students after all.
Knowing I would be physically in the classroom for only the middle week of the three scheduled for this module, I sent a list of essay questions ahead. There were two professors from other universities teaching modules in economics and English before I was to arrive, so I knew the questions could be distributed to the students easily. I kept the questions brief yet broad, allowing for a wide range of responses. I was not sure what to expect, but wanted to stimulate historical thinking before I arrived. I was happy my course fell comparatively early in the academic year - in late September to early October. History ideally should fall early in one's studies, as it sets the stage for everything else. Historians tend to think literally and chronologically, and perhaps I give my field far more worth than it deserves. Still, it is good to start with first things first.
These are the questions sent ahead:
-- Why do we study history?
-- How do historians and students find out what has happened in the past?
--Why do you think it might be important to study Atlantic history?
I believed they were universal and answerable. I added, "You may meet with other students to discuss these questions in groups before you write your essays. They will be due on Monday, September 27."
It was my hope that they would take time to meet with their classmates to talk about history. Haitian culture is known for the value it places on relationships, and I believed that their existing relationships would facilitate this exercise as much as the exercise could help build future relationships. I have no way of knowing whether this worked or what impact it might have had, but I knew it was worth a try. College matriculation can be daunting, and fostering relationships early on can help with success. This concept is now something that gets a good deal of attention by university administrators and influencers of budgeting forces in the United States. It seems common sense to me, something I believed would transcend borders and work even better in a place like Haiti.