Reflections

Day 1

I can't begin to summarize so I won't. I'm also keeping a journal so I can give you all a more full bodied experience later but here goes.

Stepped off the plane to the sound of an island emanating from a group of young men wearing bright cherry red shirts and white pants.

Pants why is everyone wearing pants? I'm struck by the sweltering heat.

It's 8 am and I'm in a steel shed waiting at immagrayson, immigration, immagracion. The multitudes mutter a mix of Creyole, French, and English.

Shouting, French military conveys, the Haitian men fight over who will help us with our luggage. There are guns everywhere, AK's were at the airport, while shotgun armed guards patrol the grocery store and the gas station.

Outside Avis I meet Jackson. He's in his 40's sports one arm and tells me "Boss, you do anything you like." "Boss, Ms. Emily I won't forget your face." He learned English in school, he didn't finish because he had to go to work for his family. They are poor and live in the country where they have a wonderful "jardin" where they grow potatoes, corn, beans, mangoes, and a few things I didn't recognize. He tells me he loves me too much to see me again. It makes me laugh to flirt with this guy, but at the same time his comfort with deference to Americans is painful. He tells me how honest American's are and I squirm.

He and Watson give me my first lesson in Creyole. Watson was a handsome guy in his 20's, he wasn't self-depreciating like his older friend. His English was wonderful. He finished school but had no money for University. He has worked at the airport for 1 year. He watches a great deal of American TV. I tell him that's how all of my friends had such good English. felt more like a peer until he asked me to take him home where he can teach me Creyole. I declined. He told me he'd remember my face and we would meet again.

I sit and banter with these guys on the stairs waiting for our truck to arrive as the children laugh at my butchered pronunciation. One boy Flori who tried to sell me bracelets even ran home to get me a book with French, English, and Creyole.

"Muy rele Emily" My name is Emily.
"E say i" I'll try.

I gave the young boy my phone number and email. Maybe I shouldn't have but I did.

Race relations here are strange. So far no one has mistaken me for a Mexican, but I seem to be the only Asian person I've seen so far in Haiti. A few "blancs" but only at places we had on our itinerary. Never on the streets. My companions don't seem to interact with the locals. Instead they hang in a circle talking amongst themselves.

One of my companions brought candy for the children. I don't know how that makes me feel. On one hand it gives the kid some joy. On the other hand I feel like the candy is more to assuage our guilt than it is to bring happiness to another. I feel like it brands us, like nobles tossing pennies to the poor. I don't like the social distance it creates. You don't hand out candy to equals. You might share it some or give it as gift, but something handing out candy to the street kids makes me uneasy. Nonetheless, I too gave a piece of gum to a street boy because I had nothing else to give him.

That's a lie. I'm carrying 200 US dollars with me. The average Haitian lived on one dollar a day before the quake.

I just bought a timbuk2 bag to suit my hipster lifestyle. Yeah it's pretty amazing, it converts from a one shouldered backpack to a professional briefcase, it's waterproof, it has a corduroy lined compartment for my awesome new laptop, and it distributes the weight nicely while I cruise on my coaster bike. The bag itself cost 100, not terrible considering it's actually functional and not just an accessory.

$100=10 tents (Home for 10 families, possibly 70 people by Haitian standards)
$100=Food for 2 Haitian Students for a year
$100=Immunizations for 50 children in Burma
$100=School tuitions for 10 girls in Afghanistan

I've eaten meals that cost that much, I've spent that on booze for a party, and a sewing machine. I've always had an overdeveloped sense of guilt. Maybe it comes from being a recovering Catholic or being the daughter of Chinese immigrants. The more and more I know about the world, the more and more I have a problem with being an American.

Were they worth it?

Yes.

An evening at a schizophrenically eclectic Mediterranean diner meets sports bar enjoying an elegantly prepared taste extravaganza during a summer romance. Priceless.

New Year's Speakeasy I'll never forget and many of my friends will never remember. Priceless.

Seeing my friends face light up when he saw the "Project Runway" edition sewing machine as he got ready to apply to Columbia for fashion design. Priceless.

No.

How do excuse myself for squandering money on niceties that could have saved lives?

This is what I'll be struggling with as I lay my head to sleep in my private bedroom in a gated house surrounded by barbed wire.