Authors: Kathleen A. Tobin
"I have a lot to learn about Haiti," I told him.
"You will have to come back," he said.
"I would like that." It was my plan, but I knew that plans did not always work out.
One day I arrived home
after teaching to find my underthings hand-washed and hanging on the balcony rail. It was a bit of a surprise and a little disconcerting but Micheline was doing everything she could to make my stay perfect.
The proficiency level of her English paralleled that of my Creole, which meant both were pretty much next to nonexistent. But that did not stop us from communicating. We both said "thank you/mesi" a lot. What could be better than that? In the greater scheme of things, gratitude is what one should express more than anything. The universe, it is said, will not give us more of what we want or what we think we need unless we are truly grateful for what we have already been given. A sincere state of mind and heart will allow our energy to vibrate at a higher frequency, making us feel better and allowing us to attract more goodness into our lives. In any case, I was truly thankful for all that Micheline was doing, and that we at least had a common understanding of "thank you/ mesi." Thinking back, I'm not sure why she was thanking me for anything. On the other hand, I had everything to be thankful for.
A few days into my stay at the house, I returned from long hours of teaching. Micheline appeared and greeted me with her wonderfully cheerful
"bonsoir"
She let me know that she had made something that sounded like "quiche" for dinner and on the table, there was something that looked like quiche. I knew it would be delicious, because everything she made was just that. Then she motioned with her hands and spoke of something that sounded like "culottes." From my mid-70s high school French class I vaguely remembered this meaning something different from the culottes that were fashionable then. Seeing that it would take me a while to make sense of what she was saying, Micheline took my arm and led me upstairs. I started toward my room, but she instead took me down the narrow hallway to a small balcony from which the Caribbean was visible in the distance. There all the panties I had worn thus far were gleaming in the late afternoon sun. And I had not even asked. As difficult as it is to live in Haiti, having one's bed made, meals prepared, and clothes washed can spoil a person. At that moment, the idea of taking her home with me flashed across my mind.
Micheline was more than gracious from the beginning of my stay. She even loaned me a dress to wear. It was a sleeveless, navy, rayon shift, tying at the back, with a medium print of lighter blue flowers. It was a perfect fit and far more comfortable than the slacks I had brought, which in advance seemed perfectly appropriate. They were suitable for teaching but this was the weekend after all. Already the Caribbean air was shifting my outlook on things, and that included the way in which I welcomed the potential for a breeze to penetrate my clothing. A loose, sleeveless dress was just what I needed.
Though her actions and language were foreign to me, Micheline made my stay at the teachers' house somehow less strange. With each day, I realized more how the accommodations might have made me uneasy and considered which of my colleagues back home would find them acceptable should they agree to teach a short course at UNOGA. Electricity was available only a few hours each evening, thanks to a generator. There was no internet access, but conversations with people who lived nearby were possible, at least until 8:30 or 9:00. In bed upstairs and armed with a flashlight, I read every word of the
New York Times
I had brought with me at least three times, even memorizing a recipe for compote I anticipated making once I returned to the October Midwest. I had intended to write while there, but preparing for and conducting classes drained me of my intellectual capacities. So, I read myself to sleep.
Netting draped around my bed, more for keeping away bees than mosquitoes, for a hive hung just outside one of my windows. The windows were tall and covered not with screens but with heavy wooden shutters that were difficult to latch. Neighboring houses were separated by vegetation, but I carefully closed the shutters each evening, trying not to give too much thought to what might take an opportunity to enter. Walking down the old wooden staircase in the middle of the night made me a bit nervous but that is where the lone bathroom was located. The toilet was not operational but the sink faucet was, though I was less interested in filling a bucket to flush manually than I was in running back upstairs to climb under the covers. I was staying in the house alone. Micheline would arrive very early each morning to begin preparing breakfast.
A large rodent seemed to scurry across the tin roof as I tried to fall asleep and convince myself they could not possibly find its way into my room. But I knew better. Years before, I had worked in the office of a domestic violence shelter on the south side of Chicago where the residents told us of their encounters with rats. Mine was a day job, so I had not seen them - only mice dropping on the keys of my typewriter when I came into work.
"Are you sure they're not mice?" I asked the women.
"They're not mice," they assured me. "They wake up our babies at night." It took some effort and a bit of adjustment in the budget, but we found a way to patch holes with wire mesh and plaster to the problem. We occupied a former convent of three stories donated to us by the Archdiocese. It was an incredible gesture for which the shelter director was eternally grateful, but some of the structure had devolved into a state of disrepair and demanded tremendous upkeep. Old buildings have their charm until modern residents are witness to their flaws.
The solution at the teachers' house was to add a cat, but the cat added was still a tiny kitten and undoubtedly incapable of confronting any rodents the size of what I heard on the roof. The wood flooring and trim was marked with holes through which something might squeeze, but I closed my eyes to make them disappear. Except for the scratching, the night was quiet. I wondered why I was not more afraid, alone on the second floor of this house situated in a tree-filled area home to voodoo practitioners. But I am never very afraid. Not really.
During the early evening after Micheline showed me my freshly-washed panties I took some time to take in the view from the balcony looking out toward the sea. The sun was just beginning to lower, changing the color of the sky to a warm yellow against the horizon. It truly was beautiful there. I held the railing and admired the many coats of paint beneath my hands, contemplating the history of the home - the ghosts. Not ghosts in a threatening sense, though Haiti had more than its share of past violence; just whatever lingered from earlier times spent there. I smiled and turned back to walk inside to take off my work clothes and lie down on the bed for a short time before dinner. Before I stepped in, something caught my eye in the sun's rays, which were streaming into the corner just a few feet from where I stood. It was a machete - a rusty machete standing against the outside wall. Anyone who knows Caribbean history realizes the prominent role machetes have played in all aspects of culture, but I wondered what it was doing on the second floor balcony. I considered it a good thing, for I dared not consider it anything else. I prayed it would act as a symbolic shield for me against any danger. In doing so, I noticed the nature of my prayers had changed. No longer did I find myself overcome or brought to tears; rather, I was in a state of calm, reflecting on the years that had brought me to this moment.
I lay on my bed as the aroma of dinner preparations floated up the staircase. The sound of music arose from a neighbor's CD player, growing louder until it filled the space between the houses and through the trees. It was Schubert's
Ave Maria.
There was a time when I fantasized about being married in a church and making the traditional walk to the statue of Mary, as brides do, while a full choir lifted their voices to
Ave Maria.
But those days were gone. Such a wedding was not in the stars. The piece still evoked feelings of love and I lay still, sensing its universality among the world's Catholic and non-Catholic people.
After dinner I sat on the porch and conversed with Micheline's daughter. She was an engaging teenager who wanted very much to practice her English with me. I happily obliged. She taught me Creole words for house and chair and tree, among other things, all of which I soon forgot. My language learning depends on sentences and practice and for some reason writing things down, and I'm afraid I did not make much progress. But it was delightful talking with her. I saw as much joy in her eyes seeing me try as I felt in watching my own students. Her English skills were notably advanced, and I asked her whether she would like some books to help her learn some more. She was thrilled.
The friends at work who had been kind enough to donate books for English language learners and their teachers expected me to pass them on to someone who would make good use of them. Though I had brought all I could possibly carry, distributing them to students would have required some difficult choices. If I were able to bring more, they might have been a nice addition to the small campus library. They seemed ofno use to the lecture interpreters, as their English was already so good. But they were perfect for Micheline's daughter. She took the with much appreciation. Each day she came to me to show the exercises she had completed and report what she had learned. Micheline stood over her, clearly pleased with her progress.
In discussions at my home campus prior to this visit a thoughtful and caring faculty member criticized UNOGA's program for emphasizing English lessons. English, she warned, was a language of colonialism and historical domination. To be honest, I resented her tone. She was speaking to me as if I had no sense ofhistorical power structures. Of course I understood the politics of language, I thought to myself as she glared at me. In Guatemala, for example, the recognition of indigenous languages during the 1990s peace process was fundamental to the acceptance of a vast proportion of the population. And that was just one case illustrating how significantly the tide was changing. But to deny accessibility to the increasingly global language of English would only hinder improvement in underdeveloped regions. Replacing Creole was not our aim.
At the same time, I was increasingly ashamed of my inability to communicate in Creole. One of my very last memories of Haiti before the earthquake was sitting in the impressively modernized Port-au-Prince airport, listening to an American man boast of his contributions to the country. I am not inclined to eavesdrop, but it was impossible not to hear him. His voice was deep and carried through the entire waiting area. He represented an evangelical church in a very small town somewhere in the Dakotas and had made more than forty trips to Haiti primarily to build Christian churches, which he said were "sorely needed." His millionaire son donated the funds for a truck to haul building materials. He was particularly proud to be the father of a millionaire. A kind, middle-aged Haitian couple served as a captive audience and listened patiently to his stories.
"Do you speak Creole?" the woman softly interrupted.
"Nah," he replied. "Never took the time to try. But it didn't keep us from getting our work done." How crass, I thought, judging him as a typical ugly American imposing his language as well as his religion. And here I sat on my third trip to Haiti and looking at Micheline and not knowing what to say.
Our last class together
ended early. Perhaps I was a bit overwhelmed with the task of covering so much ground in so little time. On the other hand, I was satisfied that we had been able to accomplish a great deal. Their final essays came flooding in, one after the other, and I looked forward to grading them when I returned home. The task was a bit unnerving; the vast majority had written in French. I had encouraged them to do so because I did not want their thinking processes to be stifled by language limitations. It was better that I struggle in grading them than they struggle in writing them.
I thought they would look forward to ending our time together early; after all, American students would. But they did not. They wanted to stay, and they wanted me to stay. They asked that I spend some time helping them to practice their English and sat me on a chair on the raised area, elevated above their desks. It was a bit uncomfortable, as only about 40 or 50 students remained and I could have easily sat among them, but they said they preferred it that way. Even though they insisted that I converse with them, once we were situated they seemed quite shy. Strange, I thought, as they appeared so eager to keep me there to work on their skills. But as can be the case in any classroom, no one wanted to speak first.
Once the ice was broken however, they fired away, students joking about one another's inquisitiveness and courage to formulate questions in English. The less daring relied on the interpreter, who carefully gave me the questions. This interpreter was different from the others - a young man not much older than the students. In fact, I mistook him for a student that morning. I even mistook him for a Haitian. I should have known better, for a longer look revealed a swagger and a stance with an attitude so common in urban America. He was from Boston, he told me, born in Haiti but living the last dozen or so years in Boston. He had returned to Haiti just before the earthquake to live with family because things had not been working out for him. I tried to imagine what sorts of challenges he had faced - or what kind of trouble he had gotten into - to make Jeremie the better option for him. He worked hard to impress me in the post-class session and it became clear that he wanted to dictate who asked what and which questions I should answer. No matter, I thought, since the subjects were pretty mundane. I fielded inquiries about my town, my work, my activities, and my family. And then one wanted to know why I got divorced. The interpreter looked at me and told me not to answer.