Authors: Kathleen A. Tobin
Then one day while sitting in my living room, just being still and letting everything in my life take care of itself for the time being, it came to me: urban vulnerability. It was not the first time I had thought of it. My best research had been on urban vulnerability in the early Cold War and policy makers' successful attempts to inspire suburbanization to protect the U.S. population in case of atomic attack. This was before I had shifted my teaching to Latin America but I always knew there would be an opportunity to someday explore aspects of vulnerability there. Though my argument and evidence were solid, I had no success in publishing it until just after the attacks on New York and the Pentagon on September 11, 2001. Within weeks, the editors at the British journal
Cold War History,
where I had recently submitted the article, contacted me. Urban vulnerability was of dire concern.
Within only a few days of the Haiti earthquake, a professor of public policy from Purdue in West Lafayette contacted me and I told him I had written on urban vulnerability in the past and wanted to address the topic with Port-au-Prince in mind.
"I look forward to reading our work," he wrote. "Please let me know when it's finished."
Finished? At that point I could barely make it through the day. It was reported that within the past 18 months or so a Purdue geologist had predicted the possibility ofan earthquake devastating to Port-au-Prince.He and his team had presented their work at a conference, but as is the case with scientists, the fruits of their labors do not always gets the public's attention. Even if the vulnerability of Port-au-Prince was unrecognized by almost everyone in the world it was still vulnerable, and I wanted to know how it came to be that way.
Once I allowed the story to be told, materials fell into my hands. My library of choice is the University of Chicago's Regenstein and during each visit I stacked what I could handle, determined to digest the maximum possible in one sitting. I wondered whether I might find more materials elsewhere, traveling to a university with a stronger geography department for example, but as long as I was finding what I needed, I just kept going. My skills in reading French were repeatedly challenged and I kept a dictionary beside me to use as needed. Many of the most useful resources were shelved on Level B, a sub-basement of the library, where I never believed I would feel so comfortable. I thrive on sunshine and feel my body and mind change without it. But here, underground, I grabbed all of the mental energy I could possibly muster.
Historical investigation is not unlike detective work and I remind my students ofthat as they flock to majors in criminal justice and forensics, based on what television portrays as captivating work. Digging up the truth on events of the past might not get the same level of attention, but what is the difference between the truth of yesterday, or ten years ago, or one hundred years ago, or one thousand years ago? Maybe I should refer to their history assignments as "cold cases."
But the devastation of Port-au-Prince was not a cold case, was it? It was perhaps the most open of cases I had tackled and that is what made the work so difficult. It was open, as in an open wound. I had distanced myself from it the best that I could, either consciously or subconsciously. To revisit the history was to unearth a city built without a strong foundation and then buried in the rubble. It would unearth human bodies, human grief, and the spirits that accompanied them. It was not my intention to uncover some conspiracy that purposely led so many to their deaths. I simply wanted to piece together the development of what might be termed urban vulnerability.
The fragile nature of urban existence in other parts of the world differed in historical development from that of the United States, where issues of vulnerability often centered on threats of enemy attacks. But in all cases, survival and functionality were at stake and where poverty was rampant the social and economic effects of destruction might be even worse. That was the case with Port-au-Prince. Much of the population was densely concentrated there, as were government administrative services, and economic infrastructure and decision-making. The ineffectiveness of agencies and the government made recovery more difficult, but it was that same ineffectiveness that allowed for unchecked growth and unregulated construction of homes and other buildings for the last half century.
There was not a clear path in putting together the story. It had not been told before, and this was one of those instances where the lack of documentation served as an important aspect of the story. The fact that there was so little attention paid to the possible consequences and documented attempts to plan for a more stable future. But very few knew of the potential for an earthquake there. And I needed to make that clear. After being holed up for hours in a corner of the library seemingly unnoticed to others, I emerged to log onto a computer among a sea of computers stationed in the wide open spaces of the first floor. Students were conducting research of their own, writing essays, and engaging in various types of social networking. They looked, perhaps, a little worn around the edges, but overall student-like. I on the other hand appeared a virtual bag lady, the multiple days' darkness paling my complexion and my most valuable belongings, plus lunch, in any number of briefcases and tote bags.
Immersion in research customarily results in fewer showers and more wrinkled clothing. Though I had not slept in my clothes, it became convenient to put on whatever I had thrown onto the chair in my bedroom the night before, and this was probably day number three. I sometimes imagine dressing all in white to write - clean shirt and pants - like Diane Keaton did in that film where she wrote plays and had sex with Jack Nicholson. I envied her dedicated walk to her beautiful and pristine work space each morning, looking out through a large picture window over the sunlit sea. Somehow I always found myself in much less glamorous writing situation.
One day a workman on a remodeling project at the Regenstein stopped me before I could place my hand on a freshly painted railing.
"Sir," he said. I only vaguely heard him, not knowing he was talking to me. "Be careful where you touch."
"Sir?" I thought, looking down at my baggy jeans, gray t-shirt graced with an Einstein quote, and hoodie. I had my hair up in my favorite baseball cap, which was the color of Georgia clay. From that point on I vowed never again to look completely like a man while working. Still, there was something reassuring about being non-descript, even invisible, while entering the realm of lives past.
This day, as I sat down at the computer in clear view, I was once again aware that no one around had any idea what was swimming around in my head. I wanted to find a report, conference paper, anything, that referenced the work of Purdue University scientists who knew of the seismic potential in Haiti.
Enter: google.com.
Enter: Purdue, Haiti, earthquake.
Search.
Find: Names.
Find: Academic search databases.
Enter: Names.
Enter: Purdue.
Enter: Haiti, earthquake.
Search.
There it was. I read through the abstract and into the article. My hands froze on the keys and then dropped to my lap. Tears fell down my cheeks and dripped from my chin. It was real and I was no longer numb.
Life goes on
and as months passed there were more and more days when I never even thought about Haiti. When it did cross my mind I was bothered by the fact that people continued to struggle in their rebuilding efforts while I had returned to my First World comforts. But unless I was going to devote my life to the country, it felt better this way. I continued to do what I could, spreading the word about the ongoing efforts of Haitian Connection and seeking grants to support the Universite de la Nouvelle Grand'Anse. I was embarrassed to admit that I felt more at peace not thinking about it too much. Still, when I least expected it, there were reminders.
Occasionally there would appear news stories about Haiti and they often sought to illustrate how little progress had been made since the earthquake. That was disheartening - both that little progress was being made and that the news media deemed it necessary to continually point it out. Sean Penn was interviewed from time to time and it was impossible not to stop and admire the amazing work he was doing there. The context in which some reminders appeared, however, made the whole thing seem surreal.
I was finding trips to the gym more and more satisfying. My campus had a facility that suited me just fine, but it was good to work out away from campus at a place considerably more posh. Large windows let in morning sunlight that shone over the pool and swimming laps while bathed in it was a joy. So, too, were lying in the steam room or dry sauna. I went there to cleanse and distress. It was a form of meditation for me and it was the best way I knew to feel better about all things. I also liked what it did for my body.
When the weather was good, I would run on the outdoor track and follow up with a series of free weight exercises, my ipod carrying me away with Aretha Franklin or Dave Matthews. I added reps based on whether I had one glass of wine or two the night before and if I were planning to dine out later in the day. When the weather was not good, I would hit an elliptical machine, grabbing a fashion magazine for inspiration. It did not matter to me whether it was a year old; I was usually behind the curve when it came to style anyway.
One particularly dreary spring morning I reached for a
Smithsonian
instead. While stepping more quickly and watching my heart rate rise, an article caught my eye. It described the undying passion of Haitian artists and their attempts to cope post-earthquake by continuing to paint and sculpt. I felt my heart sink and I slowed my pace. I read only a few words from a few paragraphs, looked at a couple of photographs and stepped down to exchange the magazine for something else. Haiti would always be a part of me, but in order to carry on with my workout I needed to put it out of my mind. Concepts ofphysical labor and calorie consumption there were conflicting with what I needed to accomplish. A 60-minute workout, guilt free.
That summer, I found myself sitting with my sons at my mother's dining room table, watching the small television perched on the stand in the corner. I liked that my mom was an avid game show watcher in the late afternoon and only of shows where she had to use her brain. It was rare that any two of my children were in the same place at the same time anymore, so this was a treat. As their birthdays fell that week, just four days apart, she lured them over with a special meal of homemade macaroni and cheese, steaks on the grill, and her signature salad graced with her garden's first tomatoes of the year. It was a challenge physically and emotionally to ten to the garden during this first summer that my dad was gone so they were extra special.
We never eat with the television on but had arrived early with plenty of time to visit.
"Cash Cab Chicago!" Sam shouted. I was as excited as the boys were to see that it was on. I had never seen the Chicago version. A few days before, my aunt had called me out of the blue to ask if I was on Cash Cab. She had seen someone who looked exactly like me, from the side, on the street during a shout-out.
"No," I told her. "It wasn't me." But I secretly wished it had been. We chit-chatted for a while, making plans to attend my cousin's christening party for his new daughter, then said good-bye. I hoped the person who looked just like me had answered the question right.
I had stumbled upon Cash Cab a few times before, not knowing at what time or on what channel it aired. I am fascinated by it; not so much by the questions, though quiz games always suck me in. Rather, the whole idea of random people on their way to other things taking time from their lives to entertain us with their thinking skills and exposing us to their memory banks was captivating, though I suppose the possibility of winning money is what gets them to stop what they're doing. In any case, I liked seeing maps of New York and trying to match them with memories of my visits there, all the while fantasizing that I was the one riding in the cab. Not answering questions, but riding to the theater or to dinner and then to the theater.
Cash Cab Chicago promised an excitement of its own, as the streets were so familiar.
"Do you recognize any of those places?" my mom asked from behind the counter. She insisted that she didn't need any help getting dinner on the table.
"Not sure," Danny replied.
"I'm trying to hear," whispered Sam in my ear, hoping I could keep everyone's attention on the game.
"Haiti," I said. I don't remember what the question was, but the answer was Haiti.
The contestant got it right. I had a feeling he would. He seemed pretty geeky. Just the right kind of genuinely geeky to know all the answers to random questions.
"He looks like a University of Chicago student," said Danny.
"Yep." I wish I could remember the question. I had a hard time reconciling the juxtaposition between Cash Cab and Haiti, and that is all that stuck with me.
Being together with my mom and kids was good. I missed my dad, but he seemed to live on in the tomatoes from the garden. They were sweet and full of sunshine.
The physician I see
when need be is Nigerian and treats holistically. I first visited him years after having babies and being seen almost solely by OB-GYNs. I had not had a regular doctor since before I was married and if any issue unrelated to pregnancy or childbirth arose had been able to get prescriptions from my father-in-law, who was a thoracic surgeon. He was definitely old school, and I mean that in the kindest of ways. He genuinely missed the days of house calls and being paid in fresh sausages and such. That might have been rare for a thoracic surgeon, but it was something he learned from his father, a general practitioner who was old, old school, from what I understand. I never had the pleasure of meeting him. My father-in-law had done the occasional stitching on kitchen tables (he had a reputation of being better skilled at sewing his lawn mower grass catcher than doing conventional household repairs) and even removed a small growth from their pet standard poodle. In regular practice his approach was generally one of cutting people open to see what was wrong. I often wondered what he would have thought of my new doctor.