Blessed Be Your Name

This is a story about the third (out of four) orphanage that we visited last Friday on the rice run (more about the rice run and what it was here).

We arrived at this orphanage as the sun was beginning to set. This one, if you can possibly believe it, was even worse than the first and the second. It was an odd conglomeration of tents and cement bricks. One tent looked actually pretty nice, and inside was a desk with a bunch of books – an odd sight to see in the middle of a tent orphanage. The yard was surrounded by torn US AID tarps and bits of barbed wire. When we arrived, a somewhat rotund Haitian man was lounging on a mattress outside of one of the dilapidated brick structures. There were two brick structures. The brick structure without a rotund Haitian man lounging outside of it had no roof. It barely had walls, and the walls that it did have were covered in bright green mildew.

The kids looked awful. Few had pants or any kind of diaper or underwear on. The clothes they were wearing didn't fit, weren't clean, and were falling apart. Many had bright orange highlights in their hair and bloated bellies. Fleas and gnats and bugs clung on their faces, and they didn't do anything to brush them off. It confused me that they should appear such when the man who ran it (the man who was lounging on the ground) should look so clean and full. He didn't come over for the singing and preaching that my friends from OEBC did because he was apparently feeling sick. He must be a great actor, because I went to talk to him after the singing and preaching, and he was quite chipper. He was excited because I spoke French, and so did he. He actually was apparently very educated, and those books in that tent were his books. He spoke French, Creole, and English, and he said that he is a professor by trade. He teaches sociology, mathematics, and French at the university level. He said that he teaches at a University here in Haiti. It was quite confusing. I don't know how he ended up there, or how he ended up taking in all those kids, but hopefully it was out of the goodness of his heart and hopefully the boxes of food we delivered don't all end up in his fat stomach.

One of the songs that we sang at this orphanage caught me off guard. Usually, the kids from OEBC led the worship, but it was quite disorganized, and the songs stopped, the preaching stopped, and there was a temporary silence punctuated only by the sounds children are wont to make. All of a sudden – it seemed spontaneous – these children were singing, “Blessed be the name of the Lord, blessed be your name. Blessed be the name of the Lord, blessed be your glorious name.” In English. The same song that we sing in church so often. The tune floated through the twilight air, here at the epicenter of that devastating earthquake. It was an eerie and hollow sound. They were just getting to the bridge – you give and take away, you give and take away – when they stopped just as abruptly as they had begun. The notes lingered in the air and then were gone as quickly as they had come.

Picture Day!

Today was picture day at GLA! Every month, the kids all get a nice picture taken to be sent to parents and sponsors. If the parents have sent their kids outfits, they get their pictures taken with these clothes.  Each baby is taken up from the nursery, changed into cute and clean clothes, the snot and spit up is wiped off of their faces, their chubby little legs get coated in baby lotion, and their picture is taken with an appropriate background (this month's theme was back to school). This is no trivial task, especially as some of the toddlers are very much against their photo being taken in such a manner. I loved every moment of it, though, because I got to know some of the other kids besides my own seven. It was also quite the exhausting operation – carrying dozens of babies up and down stairs, changing them out of their play clothes into their picture clothes, then changing them back into their play clothes and bringing them downstairs again is no simple task. What GLA does here is very valuable, though. For the adoptive parents to receive a photo like this every month is so special. I still remember quite clearly how important it was for us to receive pictures of Ben and Josiah. I only remember getting one of Ben and two of Josiah. But those one or two photos came with us everywhere. The monthly photos come with updates of the kids – stories about how they've grown, what they have been doing, details that parents want to know about their child. When the families come to pick up their children, GLA gives them a disk with all the pictures of their kids. I have a lot of respect for GLA's dedication to this kind of communication with the adoptive parents.

In other news, I was somewhat sick today. Just a little on the queasy side all the day long. Hopefully it will pass by tomorrow...

Pictures from the day!

Stories From Travel

Although Wednesday and Thursday feel like forever and a day ago, I am now going to try to account some of the stories from my travels. Because there are a great many. My flight to New York was smooth and fast. The only slightly uncomfortable part of it was that I was sitting next to an utterly massive man who took up at least a quarter of my seat. Wednesday night with my Auntie Lulu and Uncle Frank was quite lovely. I watched the Republican National Convention with them, ate a bunch of food, and then went to bed.

Thursday started with my Auntie Lulu coming into my room at 5:29 AM to wake me up. I slept in a beautiful room that Wednesday night. Very comfortable. Very air conditioned. With a mattress like heaven and pillows of sheer plush. I actually do not recall a time when I have slept on pillows that were quite so plushy. Very clean. Very bug free. Very warm and homey and lovely.

Auntie Lulu and Uncle Frank drove me to the airport, and when I got there and it all started to become surreal. There were many Haitians checking in. All converging in one place, all preparing to go to the same place. It was so surreal to hear the bouncy intonation of creole resonate all around. It got even more so when I got past security (With only a minor glitch...the guy had to hand search my backpack. Hope he enjoyed going through all of my books...) and arrived at Gate 12. So. Many. Haitians. All Haitians, to be precise. I saw maybe two other white people on the plane. Maybe three.

Everything went smoothly. I got on the plane with basically no trouble. Made my way to seat 26J. Sat down. The only real issue was that true to the culture of my family, Auntie Lulu had provided me with a whole big bag of food, and it didn't really fit anywhere and I wasn't anything even close to hungry because of the egg sandwich she fed me that morning. This bag of food is important to note, because it comes in later in the story!

Every which way I turned, there were only Haitian faces. A woman came and sat down next to me. I loved her so much! Didn't know how I would feel about her for about the first 3 seconds. Although this is breaking from telling the story chronologically since I didn't learn her name for quite a long time, her name was Ramelle. Ramelle Joseph. She was great. She approached me talking in grunts and that weird “do you understand the language that I understand” sort of tone of voice. That soon evaporated, because I got up the guts to say, “Est-ce que vous parlez francais? Parce que je parle francaise, mais PAS BEAUCOUP.” And the response... “Ah Oui!!!! Vous parlez francais!! dududududududududud isca basca wasca ba!!!!!!” (that is a fairly accurate description of what I heard coming out of her mouth.) It was so hard to understand at first. Probably because not only am I rusty on my French (or rather, was rusty...) but she also broke every rule of French intonation I've learned throughout high school and she also talked like she was speaking to someone who knew French. As in she talked REALLY FAST.

But slowly, slowly I came to understand, and we talked about basically everything that I could figure out how to talk about in French. This included a number of French lessons and a number of Creole lessons, a thorough exploration of her family, a tour of the photos she had on her phone, an explanation of how many people speak Creole and how many people speak French, a rather garbled rendition of “I graduated from high school, I'm going to Haiti to work in a <didn't know the word for orphanage> and I have friends from Haiti and I am going to be going to France to study French and then I am going to go to college.” She asked what my mom did as a profession, so I said “journaliste”, and I said that she wrote two books, and then I pull out a copy of Fierce Compassion and showed it to her, and I worked very hard to explain to her what Donaldina Cameron did with her life, and I showed her the pictures, and I talked to her about the picture of the tremblement (earthquake) in SF which she obviously could relate to, and I told her about how Donaldina Cameron rescued slaves (thank goodness my topics for French class presentations usually had to do with social justice issues!) and about how she rescued Chinese slaves and about how “beaucoup des personnes pensent que l'esclaves dans aux Etats-Unis ont été seulement Afrique, mais il y'a été beaucoup des esclaves dans aux Etats-Unis qui a été Chinoise aussi.” She was totally enamored with the book, so much so that she turned and showed all of the people sitting in the general vicinity and told them I don't know what about who Donaldina Cameron was. And I ended up giving her a copy of the book, because she asked if she could keep it!

We pretty much were in conversation the ENTIRE WAY. And it was a four hour flight. Instead of feeling completely Frenched-out, however, I pretty much wanted to talk to every available Haitian in French. I was loving it.

Twenty minutes of the flight were not at all fun when I panicked due to the fact that I thought that I had left my passport in New York at the airport... That conversation went like this, “Ramelle!!!! Ahhh zut!!! Je pense que j'ai un action mal!!! Je ne sais pas ou est mon passeport!! JE NE SAIS PAS OU EST MON PASSEPORT!!!...ah, oui, oui je cherche dans mon sac a do, mais ce n'est pas ici!!!! Non, non ce n'est pas la. Oui, je cherche beaucoup de fois. Je ne sais pas ou est mon passeport!!!!!”

It was a terrible 20 minutes. I prayed the life out of my brains, and broke out in a cold sweat imagining what would happen to me when I got to the PAP airport WITHOUT A PASSPORT. Thank God (and I did profusely) it was hidden in the dark deep recesses of my seat. Don't know how it ended up there, but it did, and I found it after a major panic and after Ramelle got out of her seat and announced (in French and then in Creole) to whoever wanted to listen that the girl sitting next to her couldn't seem to find her passport while I was all the way upsidedown in my seat on the plane with my bum sailing high in the air until finally, “JE TROUVE! JE TROUVE! C'EST MON PASSEPORT!!!!” And the world started turning properly once more and my heart went back to a normal pace. But it was not a fun 20 minutes let me tell you.

Haiti is breathtaking from the sky. It's beyond beautiful. I won't try to describe it beyond that, because it would utterly ruin everything. But then when you start to get closer, you see the poverty, and it's quite striking. You see the tent cities. You see all the people, mini-people, running to and fro in harrowing patterns. You see the straggling children. You see the rubble and the barbed wire. You see the poverty from the air. Dozens of mini towns with mini-people living in poverty.

The minute we touched down in PAP, something happened that I've never heard happen before on an airplane. The crowd erupted, yes, erupted, in applause and shouts of, “Hallelujah! Thank you! Thank you! Merci! Merci beaucoup! Mesi!” And everyone was shouting thank you and everyone was clapping and everyone was laughing for a solid 3-4 minutes. Quite the thrilling experience I must say.

I got off the plane and the heat hit me in the face. I followed Ramelle like a puppy dog, and she didn't let me get lost either. We went down the hall to the escalator together (while still chatting it up in French) and then we got on the bus and sat down next to each other, and then we got off the bus and Ramelle dragged me along with her when the airport lady yelled at her to go to a different line, and then Ramelle continued to drag me with her when she cut into said line.

The customs building was a warehouse. No other way to describe it. Florescent lighting, lots of fans, lots of heat, and lots of Haitian people. There was a Haitian band playing very colorful and upbeat music right outside of the building when we walked in. So that was fun! Very fun. Got my blood racing and my heart beating and my mouth smiling.

The customs official didn't even say a word to me. He barely even glanced at my passport. Baggage claim was a jungle. After much valiant searching, I located my massive pieces of luggage, grabbed them, and even more valiantly hauled them all the way through the sea of luggage (because they were, of course, on the far, far side of the sea of luggage).

I found Ramelle, and we chatted for a while in French while she searched for her luggage. It was hot and confusing and luggagey in there. And there were lots and lots of Haitians. Haitians everywhere – including the little roundabout with the luggage on it (what is that thing called??) Haitian airport workers were walking all over it as if it were a treadmill!!!

Then I maneuvered my massive amounts of luggage over towards the door where airport people were taking some sort of paper before waving us through. I couldn't tell what they were taking, so I asked Ramelle, and I thought she said that they were taking the luggage receipt to make sure we weren't stealing luggage, so I got that out, and the guy said, “Non, non, non” and then waved me through. I looked back as he waved me through, and saw everyone handing him their customs forms. So.....cool, I found that sheet of paper crumpled up at the bottom of my bag late on Thursday night...

I got outside, and OH JOY! There was a man, tall and Haitian, holding a sign that had my name on it!!!!!!! Oh joy oh blissful joy!!!!!! Oh relief of massive relief!!!!! I would not be stranded in Port-au-Prince. His name was Cherry. Cherry Elie. He was very affable. He loved the fact that I spoke French. We chit chatted. Thankfully, I could understand his French a LOT better than I could understand Ramelle's, and I actually think that I caught about 90% of what he said! It was fantastic. He informed me that I should give him a tip. I told him I knew that “parce que GLA dit te donne tip!”

We walked through the airport “parking lot” aka where cars – 95% of which are decrepit, filthy things you would never see driven in the states – are parked in every which way with no reason or rhyme. We walked through several of these parking lots and through several gates, passed a bunch of people sitting in a park...still not a white person to be seen...past crowds of Haitians waiting to greet family members who had just arrived on a plane.

Then we finally halted by the curb, waiting for Watson to come pick me up in what Cherry Elie said would be a very nice car (at least I think that's what he said... “nouvelle voiture!”) We continued to chat. I do believe he liked me. At least he found me highly amusing. Halfway through our walk, he stopped and suggested that I just get it over with and give him his tip right away!!! So I did!!! And happily too.

Here's where the bag of food comes in again. While we were waiting by the side of the road for Watson, I explained that, “Ce matin, ma tante a arrivé a l'aéroport, and elle donne-moi beaucoup de la nourriture, mais je ne mange pas beaucoup de la nourriture...vous aimeriez la nourriture??” (This morning, my aunt came to the airport and she gave me a big bag of food, but I don't eat a lot of food, would you like some food?)

He looked rather shocked in a funny way, “Moi?!?! Donne-moi la nourriture?? Ah, oui, oui je l'aime!” (Me?!?! You give me the food??? Yes, yes, I love!!” And so I proceeded to place in his hands a whole heaping pile of food!!! I do believe he was very pleased, because we continued to discuss nourriture for a decent amount of time after that. Good stuff. Finally, Watson pulled up in a big tan pick up truck. I do believe Watson was quite relieved when after he had attempted some semblance of “hi, how are you?” I responded with, “Vous-parlez francais? Je parle francais, mais pas beaucoup...” Cherry Elie ran beside the car for a little while shouting “nourriture!!!! nourriture!!! Au revoir! Merci beaucoup!” And then my drive through Port-au-Prince began. Time for me to go eat lunch. For now, enjoy those stories from my travels :)

A Few Pictures From My Day...

The view from my room this morning

Play area at the Toddler House (kids 3 and up)

Love that little guy!

I'm coated in spit up, milk, poop, pee, slobber, and snot, I have a little baby on my lap, and I couldn't be happier.

Happy Birthday Bo Bo!

Yesterday was Bo Bo's second birthday. Bo Bo has been at GLA since he was 2 months old. His mother brought him to GLA when she realized that there was something very drastically wrong with her little boy. He has a genetic disorder that to this day has still not been identified. Miss Vicky is in charge of Bo Bo, she is a retired nurse (from Canton, MI!), she has one of the sweetest hearts of anyone I've ever met, and Bo Bo along with one other baby are her only responsibilities at GLA.

Bo Bo cannot stand up; his legs are completely limp and they simply cannot support any amount of weight. But he can now sit up, a real milestone for him. He weighs only 10 pounds. He doesn't talk, although he's started to make babbling noises which is a huge success. He is a living miracle. Few people thought that he would make it this far.

Yesterday morning, I went to a Haitian church where Bo Bo was used during the sermon, and together we marveled at how evident God's hand of love and protection has been in the life of Bo Bo.

Miss Vicky went all out for Bo Bo's birthday. She had balloons, party hats, cupcakes, a happy birthday sign, happy birthday napkins, and party blowers (is that what they're called?! Doesn't sound quite right. Hopefully you all know what I'm talking about anyways...) She was very particular about the way everything was set up. Even though there were lots of different colors of balloons, she asked that we only blow up the orange and yellow ones, because those colors are so bright and cheery. We taped the balloons up all around Bo Bo's seat, and she made sure that the balloons were perfectly centered. At one point, she couldn't find the happy birthday napkins, but the normal napkins would not do for such an important occasion, so we searched until we found them. Every person who walked past Miss Vicky was sure to be asked if a) they would like to participate in the game and b) if they would like to have a birthday cupcake.

Bo Bo was one celebrated little man yesterday. Miss Vicky threw a party for all the Haitian nannies at the orphanage. She's been coming to Haiti for years and years now, and she's lived at GLA for the past 2 years, but since she spends all her time with babies, she hasn't learned French or Creole, so I came with her as she walked around the orphanage to help translate as best as I could, and also just to witness the joy Bo Bo and Miss Vicky brought with them wherever they went. Miss Vicky set up a guessing game for all the nannies – they had to guess Bo Bo's current weight, his place of birth, and how many pieces of candy were in a jar! The winner will receive the jar of candy, which had 48 pieces in case you were curious. Each nanny also got to enter her name in a drawing, and for the rest of the week, Miss Vicky will be taking a name out of the envelope each day and that nanny will receive a monetary gift. I got to draw the first name today, and the nanny was quite thrilled! Little Bo Bo was passed around by all the nannies, we sang happy birthday multiple times in Creole, French, and English, the kitchen staff ended up participating in the game as well, everyone ate cupcakes, and we loved on little Bo Bo. I have to believe that no matter how differently his brain and body may be wired, that Bo Bo knows deep down how profoundly loved he is.

Bo Bo with one of the nannies:

With another nanny:

Miss Vicky with Bo Bo and the decorated dining room! :)

Miss Vicky with her little Bo Bo

Do You Know Jesus?

Another story from Friday...

I would like to tell you about Madame. Regrettably, I cannot recall her name, but everyone from the orphanage just called her Madame, and she came with us on the Rice Run. 

She was a beautiful Haitian woman, very slender, with high cheek bones and a radiant smile. She helps nanny the children. She did not speak English or French, but the kids from the orphanage did speak decent English, so they translated for us. When I first walked on the tap tap, this is how my conversation with her went:

Her (in Creole): “Hello, what is your name?”

Me: “My name is Kathryn.”

Her (in Creole): “Ah, Kat-reen, do you know Jesus? Do you love Jesus? Did you find Jesus?”

The question that immediately followed “what is your name”.... Do you know Jesus? Why don't I introduce myself like that? This woman had her priorities straight.

Kevin

I am now in Haiti at the orphanage enjoying a lunch break. Even though I have been sitting at my computer a decent half hour at this point in time, I have not been able to muster up the courage to write a new blog post simply because SO MUCH has happened since I last wrote and I really am at quite a loss as to what stories to tell! In light of the plethora of stories, I shall endeavor to tackle only one for the time being.

Yesterday, I went on an outing with another orphanage down the street from GLA. This orphanage goes on "Rice Runs" every few weeks. These rice runs are when they stack up on food from US AID, and distribute it to various orphanages and hospitals in the town of Léogâne - where the epicenter of the earthquake was. The older kids from the orphanage come along, and they facilitate a sort of a Sunday school for the kids at the orphanage before distributing the food.

I arrived at this other orphanage (called OBEC I believe) at 9 yesterday morning. I was informed that we had a two hour drive ahead of us. It ended up being a 5+ hour drive in a Haitian tap tap, but that's another story for another time...

The story that I want to tell you now takes place at the first orphanage we visited. This orphanage was in a tent. There were about 40 kids living in this orphanage. They used to have two tents, but one of their tents got destroyed in the hurricane this past weekend. A measly little barbed wire fence with sticks for fence posts surrounded the premises. The children were very dirty, many clearly malnourished.

OPEC had brought a few replacement tents, and while they were setting those up, I hung out with the girls from OPEC. We talked as much as we could with my very broken Creole and in their broken English. Soon, we got on the topic of hair. They liked touching my hair, and they wanted to know my history of haircuts. Soon they were asking me to take out my pony tail so that they could do my hair. So I did, and my hair was the messiest of messes you will ever see in your entire life. It was full of sweat from the ridiculously long tap tap ride, it was coarse, coated in layers of dust from the tap tap, it was full of tangles, and just generally speaking downright gross. So they pulled at it for a while – and surprisingly, it didn't hurt at all! – and eventually came up with what was actually a really impressive creation all factors considered. (Those factors being the state of my hair, the fact that they probably never do white people's hair, and the fact that there was not a brush on the premises...) Then they took it out and re-did it a number of times. Here's where I pulled out my strategic move with the camera. I hadn't been able to bring myself to take any pictures. I just couldn't do it. It felt very not okay to be taking pictures of these kids in this place. But I genuinely wanted to see what my hair looked like, so I asked them to take a picture for me. And then they proceeded to take pictures of a lot of things.

Doing Kathryn's hair...

 With several of the girls from OBEC who did my hair

 Another style:

 This one was interesting....Can't say it was my favorite:

 The final creation:

After they had done and redone my hair several times, my attentions were suddenly captured by a little girl, standing forlorn, staring sadly into space. She was wearing a tattered pink dress, and the dirtiest little pink dress shoes full of holes and coated in dirt. Her hair was gathered in a few skimpy little braids, and it was tinted orange – a sign of malnutrition. In one hand, she held the gift that the OBEC people had brought for the kids. It was a MacDonald's happy meal toy – a big, plastic action figure of the mouse (at least I think it was supposed to be a mouse) from the movie Flushed Away. 

There she stood, clutching the toy in one hand, and staring with a face as sad as any face I have ever seen on a child. She was probably about three years old, but the face she had was a face only an adult should ever have. I walked over to her, crouched down and held her hand. Every single other child who I've done that to in Haiti so far has instantly latched on and grabbed my hand. This one didn't. Her little hand was limp in mine. She didn't even turn to look at me and see who had touched her. She just continued to stare into space. I picked her up, she smelled awful. I picked her up and held her close and kissed her sunken cheeks. I held her for a long time. We just stood there, I talked to her, and she continued to stare. I wondered what her name was; I thought I heard the kids call her something that sounded like, “Kevin”. 

Then I brought her to a bench and sat down with her in my lap. Her little pink dress got caught and pulled up in the process. She was wearing nothing under her dress, and Kevin was decidedly not a girl. I could not but laugh at the bitter irony of the scene from Pixar's Up that flashed through my head... “Kevin's a girl?”... In this case, Kevin was not a girl. 

I continued to hold little Kevin, and he continued to be unresponsive. I tried opening his MacDonald's happy meal toy for him, and I tried showing it to him, but it was as if he didn't even see it. After opening it, I placed it in his hand, and within seconds, his little hand had dropped it on the ground. Any other kid I know would clearly indicate to me that they wanted it back. He made no noise, no gestures, no facial expressions. His interest was finally a little bit perked by the plastic wrapper. He seemed to actually see it at least. 

Some of the kids had found a little puppy dog, and when I say little, I mean this puppy was tiny. They brought it up to Kevin, laughing, and tried to get him to hold it. Even when a squeaking, squirmy puppy dog was shoved in his face, Kevin was totally unresponsive. He didn't react at all. I can only imagine what must have happened in the course of Kevin's short life to make him act in such a way. 

Shortly after the kids with the puppy left, I looked down to see little Kevin's head had fallen onto my chest, and he was fast asleep. Fleas began to gather on his face and his body. His hair was filthy. Suddenly a little girl started screeching, “pee pee! Pee pee!” I looked down and sure enough, a steady stream of it was squirting out of Kevin and onto my lap. I didn't mind it, though. I moved my leg slightly, and the rest of it landed on the bench. I held Kevin until it was time to go. We were due to visit four orphanages, we had just finished up at the first one, and it was already 5:30. That morning, I had been told that we'd be getting back home between 5 and 6, and we had only just finished at the first orphanage.

I gently woke the little boy up, and set him down on the ground. His eyes opened, and he returned to standing in the same position, gazing sadly into space. In my mind's eye were imagines of clean and glittering American bathrooms; I wanted to take him into one and bathe him and give him handsome boy clothing, and bring him to the doctor's office, and feed him, and teach him what it means to play and laugh and what it feels like to be loved and what it means to sleep in a bed instead of a US AID tent. US AID tents and tarps were everywhere. Branded on them was the slogan, “From the American People.” I turned and looked at Kevin one last time, standing in a patch of dirt in his pink clothing, staring into space. 

Pictures with Kevin.