If you don't like them, don't come and visit me. They are everywhere. Under the sink in the bathroom, by the trash can in the kitchen, over the doorway to the back patio. Some of them have spindly little legs and look as gentle as Daddy Long Legs. Some of them are stocky, striped, and remind me of the Wolf Spiders at Fraser we would trap in buckets, equally harmless in my opinion, but ferociously designed.
My love for living creatures is based heavily on their ability to deplete the environment of mosquitoes. The more mosquitoes something eats, the more I love it. Which is why I don't get a creepy feeling around spiders anymore. I have boundaries with them. They are allowed in my room, but not in my bed, so anytime they are over or next to my bed they are caught in a cup and removed outside. They also are allowed in the bathroom, but not in the shower, and go through the same removal process when found there. I usually do this with grace, but I must admit I can think of at least three times when the spider I have removed seemed big and fierce enough to me that the cup and paper were dropped in the lawn and I ran back inside and closed the door between me and the Aragog (the cup and paper were retrieved the next morning).
For the most part though, spiders are friends. The trickiest boundary I have had to navigate with them recently has been related to the hammock. While walking up the steps to the clearing where the hammock lays, both hands full with my tea and cereal, I usually feel a bit of web on my face or hands. One day, it goes too far. I walk directly into a spider web and see the culprit scuttling on the belly of my T-shirt. A lot of tea was sacrificed to the earth, and the spider was flung unceremoniously, but I am hoping harmlessly, as well.
I would like a clear shot to the hammock from the back door, but I always feel wrong messing with spiders outside, since that's their home and I should be the one to adjust the boundaries. For now, I have gotten better about double checking and maneuvering around the webs, and the spiders have gotten a bit better at building up higher, out of head reach, at least for someone who is 5'2.
Little dreamcatchers
So we figure out how to co-exist, and I take my place in the hammock for a morning sit spot. Spiders are magical to me, the way the longer you sit in one spot, the more webs start popping into view, seeming to materialize from nothing. I remember talking to my childhood friend, Mariam, about her Islamic faith. She told me a story about Muhammad (peace be upon him) being persecuted by a group of angry people. He hid inside a cave, and a spider spun a web over the entrance, protecting him. I think about this story as I lay in the hammock and count more and more spider webs surrounding me. The spider webs are dreamcatchers, trapping all the negative energy in the world, keeping bad thoughts and feelings at bay.
Listening to the Chickadees, I find an additional surprise for the sit spots: slugs mating on the first step up to the clearing with the hammock!
There is something extremely comforting about doing dishes three times a day in a sink you took a bath in as a baby. Sleeping in a bed in a room where you once slept in a suitcase. Walking by a creek you used to dam up for a swimming hole. Feeding chipmunks you used to swear you could communicate with by squeaking and moving your forefinger like a tail. I needed this week, to remind me of the constants in life, myself, my personality, my spirit.
Lately I've seen my grandfather around the holidays, when we all come into town for a week. It's busy, it's confusing for a man already struggling with his memory.
Being at the cabin with him has been a nice, quiet, calm, refreshing time. There are still lots of details he struggles with on an hourly basis. Where did that jam on the table come from? Where did all of his children get married?
My oldest cousin on the Goodman side, Gwen, started the tradition of creating scavenger hunts for the younger cousins whenever we got together. One summer, my cousin Jessica and her immediate family were at the cabin at the beginning of the summer. Jessica left a scavenger hunt for my sister and I, who were coming several weeks later.
It was exciting to do a scavenger hunt when the creator wasn't around, but it did provide some challenges. There had been a few tenants at the cabin between Jessica's stay and ours, and a few of the clues had been moved or had gone missing by the time we started trying to follow the path of clues. If the trail ran dry, we'd have to skip ahead a clue or two to find it again. We ultimately did find the prize, our names carved on a downed tree on the way to the meadow!
Talking with my grandfather at the cabin reminded me of that scavenger hunt. I tell him it's a fun game to try to answer the questions he asks, and use whatever puzzle pieces we have to figure out the answers, or make up our own stories. (As my grandmother always said, "Never let the truth interfere with a good story.") He laughs at my perspective on our story creating. We decide the jam looks homemade, and is a berry neither of us know, so it was probably a gift from Christine who's from California, and it's probably a California berry. We also figure out where all of his children have been married so far (Winfield, Ottawa, and Madison) by thinking of when they got married and where everyone was at the time.
I am impressed with how well he recalls the stories directly related to him. How he broke his arm two weeks before marrying my grandmother. How he parked his car ten miles north of her house, so Uncle Bob couldn't find it during the ceremony or reception, although he looked all over Superior. How he was horrible at picking strawberries, and learned when he went to college that he was red/green color blind, which still did not impress his dad. All the different churches he worked at, where he was associate pastor, where he was senior pastor, where all his children were born.
As we drove in the first day and passed the first car on the old country road, we wave hello. At the same time, we both remember the same moment. I used to sit in the middle of the front seat of the Great Grey. One summer I learned about the country wave (you leave your wrist on the wheel but lift your hand in greeting) and the farmer wave (you just lift your forefinger). I was so amused by that idea I used the dashboard of the Great Grey as my wheel and lifted one finger to each car we passed, which made my grandparents sitting on either side of me chuckle.
Remembering these stories, hearing new ones about my grandfather's life, is reviving me. My grandfather hikes with me all the way to the meadow. We go slowly and notice the flowers together. The main thing he notices, of course, is how much good firewood there is up here. I tell him my mom and I will walk up and get it when she comes, which makes him laugh.
We get to the meadow, and he decides it might be the last time he walks that far up the trail. I remember one more story. About 8 years ago, when my family, my friend Steph, and my grandparents were at the cabin together, my grandfather told us a story about a hike to the meadow he took by himself. It started with some rustling in the bushes behind him as he walked back. He finally broke out into a run, which is when a mountain lion jumped out of the bushes at him. Without thinking, my grandfather stuck his walking stick up in the air, and pole-vaulted the mountain lion across the creek into a bush. He went back the next day to check out the scene, and saw there were some berries on the bush. My grandfather ate some of those berries, and they gave him just about the worst stomachache he'd ever had, but he never did find out what happened to that mountain lion.
My mother's reaction to this story: "Dad! I can't believe you ate those berries!"
I'm feeling good in the moment. Airports will do that for me. So many people with so many stories. So many opportunities for plans to change at a moments notice. So much time to spend reading, writing, chatting, calling people, going for walks, observing from coffee shops.
The stout wrinkled woman comes up to me smiling. "Pasco?" she asked.
"Pasco?" I repeat stupidly.
"Washington?" she asks next.
"Washington?" I say, feeling like a parrot.
"Va a llegar Pasco..." is all I catch as she says something to herself, thinking over how to translate it to English. (I've done this myself many times, the opposite way.)
"Yo no se," I offer. "Lo siento."
"Ah! Ok." She laughs in delight at my attempt to communicate with her in Spanish. We smile and go our separate ways.
I approach Gate 80 cautiously. My flight was supposed to leave from Gate 64 at 2:00. When I got to the airport, it had been moved to Gate 84 according to the Departure Boards, but Gate 84 wasn't publicizing that it was home to flight 6337 to Colorado Springs yet. When it finally claimed the flight, it was delayed by half an hour. Within half an hour, the flight was moved to Gate 80, hence my hesitation.
I hear one of the people sitting in the waiting area remark "...not leaving until 2:30 now." I approach them, "Is this the flight to Colorado Springs?"
They shrug their shoulders with a smile, "We hope so!" The gate has yet to own the flight, but I decide to sit down with this crew, because at least we're in this together now. I warned my mother, I should never fly United.
I was about 12 when the curse started. My dad was supposed to fly from the cabin to KC for a Goodman family reunion, and then drive my Blythe grandparents back to the cabin. My mom asked my sister and I to get my dad a paper to help his nerves while he flew. The front page had a story about a plane crash, a bad omen, but my mom said give im the paper anyway.
We hung out in Denver all day because Aunt Diane and Ryan were flying in later that day. We went back to the airport to pick them up, and my mom called the Blythe grandparents from a pay phone, who were grateful to hear from us! They had been hoping we would call, and told us not to leave the airport, that my dad was still at the gate, where he'd been for hours, and his plane was going nowhere.
Since then flying United for me has resulted in lost luggage, delayed flights, and any mix-up you can have in an airport. I still shudder when I think about trying to get myself and all my baggage to the Sierra Nevadas.
An agent appears at our gate. "Where'd she go?" he asks us, inquiring about the last agent who has left. We smile blankly.
"She went to find us a plane!" someone jokes.
"So she just left you all here, all alone," he shakes his head and smiles.
People have their smart phones out, checking statuses. The plane has left its last location one mom informs us all, so its running behind but still moving along.
"You all could have driven to Colorado Springs by now," our agent points out to the mom.
"I think about that all the time while I'm in Denver," she replies, still with a smile on her face.
For however temporary, it is refreshing to be in a group of people that so easily bonded together to share this travel experience, with smiles on their faces and light laughs when we're supposed to be boarding and there's no plane in sight. I can't remember being surrounded by such a stress free group of travelers before.
I pause, turn and look at the person sitting on the sidewalk, "Sorry, not today."
My friend Nick once made fun of me for saying this, ("Not today? You gonna come back tomorrow?") but I really mean it. Today I am a volunteer, living on a stipend that doesn't cover rent. Tomorrow I could have a full time job, with a salary and benefits, and that will be a different conversation about the change in my pocket and whether or not I really need it.
In this situation, I usually hear several times a week, "You have a beautiful smile." Usually from the men. Many people tell me that is creepy, but I think this is one of the nicest compliments to hear from someone you don't know very well. I don't feel it's objectifying, it doesn't make me uncomfortable, and although it's a comment on a physical feature, I don't think it really is. I think people tell me I have a beautiful smile because they see genuine happiness behind it.
I try to soften my face toward the world and give the same smile to my bus seatmate as I do the woman in the elevator at the doctor's office, Wings at Starlife Cafe making me lunch, the beggar or vendor or busker on the sidewalk, the cashier at the grocery store. I think opening an interaction with a stranger with a smile shows the other person that I am happy to be sharing a moment with them, that I am excited about the possibilities in the world, that I am a friendly, optimistic, hopeful, happy person.
No one has told me I have a nice smile this week. Polly was a reference for a job application of mine recently, and she told me she was a big advocate for me to get the job, because I'm an authentic person with everyone I meet, no matter how different we are. I haven't been feeling as authentic this week, which is probably why no one is raving about my beautiful smile. I still have the moments with strangers I've started writing about each day, but I think the people I interact with can tell I'm struggling. I'm being pulled inward by my thoughts, I'm engaging but only on a surface level. I'm consumed by my own feelings and less open to creating a relationship with everyone I meet.
A student cancelled our appointment this morning. I called to reschedule. The student, Maurice (or Marty) started to ask some questions about where he should go to school, UW, or community college? I gave him the standard answer that I've learned, community college is cheaper, the classes are smaller, the teachers are there to teach, some at UW are there for research first. He started to say more: he was an African-American male so he could get some diversity scholarships, he was interested in playing football. I tried to cut him off politely, and let him know this was Polly's area of expertise. I scheduled an appointment for him and Polly to meet, because she does the career and academic counseling, I'm just the tutor.
He was persistant though, and kept me on the line. He wanted to be a teacher, he said. If he got grants in Washington, did he have to teach in Washington, or could he go back to Georgia, where he really wanted to teach? He finally had me listening. "I went to school to be a teacher too," I said. "Have you heard of the TEACH Grants? You'll have to teach in the state of Washington for four years, but then you can go teach wherever you want. And you have to teach in a high needs school, at risk students, special ed, something along those lines."
"That's what I really want to do," said Maurice. He explained that what he cared about most was going home to Georgia to teach in some of the neighborhoods that he knew needed the most help, connecting with the at risk, the under-served, the troubled youth.
"What do you want to teach?" I asked.
"Math," he said. "My passion is music, but so many schools are cutting Fine Arts programs, I know I won't get a job if I get a music degree and try to work in the schools." He went on to talk about how he decided math was the next best thing, because of how connected music and math were. Music has patterns in it, math is about patterns. Music has rhythm and measures, math is about counting and multiplying.
I interrupted him to talk about integrative learning, and how he was inspiring me. I told him I also taught math, and one thing I'd learned is that most students fear math, usually because of one awful teacher that made them feel that they were bad at math, when really the student had been failed by the public education system. I was growing excited listening to Marty describe what sounded like an integrative approach to math education, using music to teach students math.
"I'm just getting started," Marty laughed, amused by my enthusiasm. He recommended we sit down sometime so I can hear his whole story. That should happen this Friday and I can't wait.
He started to say it was more specific than music, he wanted to teach students math using a drumline. The counting, the rhythms, the discipline needed on a drumline would translate impeccably well with math.
I had to end the conversation, because I had to meet with another student. Going through a funk isn't usually solved in one moment, or even through one night. I think it can be solved with a thousand moments like this. I was trying to stay on the surface, to close myself off. I was trying to schedule this student with Polly and get off the phone because I felt tired, drained, hopeless, defeated, overworked, and hectic. Instead Marty pushed me to listen to him, really listen, and that moment made me take a breath and remember that I have a beautiful smile to share with the world, and it is most genuine when I take the time to connect with someone the way Marty challenged me to connect.
I heard them this morning, the chickadees! I'm glad they live on this side of Lake Union too.
slug trail, look close!
As I sip my tea, I look between my feet and see a slug trail that went all over a plant by the back stoop, but the slug was nowhere to be seen. I hope to find it one day.
There is a gentle coolness in the air, temperature is the low 60s. It's dry, but feels fresh. There are partial clouds in the sky. Basically, Seattle before the Fourth of July. If I was in D.C. I would swear it was fall and not summer. My new sit spot is on the back step, below Raffaela's (upstairs roommate) porch, so it's shaded and tucked away in the forest of our backyard.
The chickadees make their namesake noise for me again. I can hear them and many others, but I can't see any of them yet. I'm the new kid on the block, and they're not sure if they're ok with me coming out to play.
6/13/2012 - Familiarizing with the neighbors
I was lucky enough to look between my feet, and see the slug this morning! Somehow it is the ugliest and cutest slug I've ever seen, all at once.
Some of the birds emerged this morning, just for a moment. I vainly assumed they had come to see me, that after two days I had become a consistent, reliable, and safe presence. Then I heard Raffaela by the side stairs to her flat. They had come over because they had been disrupted elsewhere. Still, once they saw me they seemed curious. They were probably a type of sparrow. What one of my college professors, Jay Roberts, would call LBJs (Little Brown Jabbers). Their brown feathers were a dark, rich brown. The tail feathers were long and royal looking.
I notice some of the flora characters this morning. A few Bracken ferns, a Maple tree, Big Leaf I believe. A few other species I'll need to identify later. And the familiar morning glory with its beautiful white flowers, crawling all over the horsetail fern with a King Midas touch, choking the life out of anything it comes across.
In the coming weeks, my roommates and I all leave for two weeks, and we return to find Raffaela's bike under the outside stairs, covered in Morning Glory!
6/14/2012 - Nesting Ninja
One of the LBJs made an appearance today, third day in a row and it seemed willing to tolerate me. The bird looked like a wren to me. Tiny body with a long, elegant tail sticking straight up. A white headband cuts across the eyes, making me think of a ninja.
Ninja wren nest
Ninja wren picked up some fluff that looked like dandelion bits. It shook them against the ground, dusting them with dirt. I still find it funny the way birds move, such twitchy little creatures. Ninja wren went to deposit its nest materials in a hole between the house and Raffaela's porch.
I notice today that one of the ferns is bracken, but the other one looks more like Spiney Wood Fern.
6/20/2012 - Naturalizing at Green Lake
I've been staying at Chris' all week, dog-sitting Denali while Chris and everyone are in the backcountry for staff training. We sat on the front steps this morning, Denali in front of me, just in case the couple across the street walking their toddler tried to attack me (he has some neurotic wolf guarding tendencies).
I've heard naturalists say don't try to do a sit spot with a dog. This advice makes sense, but I do also like the different dynamics you observe sitting outside with a dog. The flies were swarming because of a present Denali had dropped in the front yard yesterday that I hadn't cleaned up yet. The bees also swung by, particularly interested in the purple flowers Ally (Chris' roommate) had planted. They had giant pouches of pollen hanging off of either side of their abdomen!
E.J. found a dead honeybee once, with a honey bubble still attached to its leg. She put it in a tiny, clear box, in her car, and I could stare at that bee for hours and the bubble that still hasn't popped.
I try to make my morning sits only about observing, leave the stresses of the world for later, but I can't help but think about all the bees that are dying, and wonder what a world without honey, or pollinated flowers, would be like.
A robin perches on a telephone wire and sends out a call twice. The robin's ears must be better than mine, because after the second call, the robin flies over George's (the landlord who lives next door) house, presumably to find someone who had answered the call.
Denali and I are done sitting, so we head out on our walk. We see the rabbits he chased once when I let him off leash in a field before noticing them. That experience must not have left a lasting impression for the rabbits, or maybe they recognize that he's on a leash, but either way, they barely scooch away as he lunges for them and tries desperately to break my hold.
I head back to my house to get ready for work. As I sit on the corner of Dexter and Westlake waiting for the 30 to take me to the Seattle Center, the top grass and hay layer beside the bus bench starts throbbing, like a vampire digging through a grave (I watched an episode of Buffy last night), or a critter trying to break the surface (more likely). The bus comes before I can see what comes out of there.
6/10/2012 - Moving in
As I pulled into Ken's Market, the small neighborhood grocery store, for the first time, someone in an apron smiled big at me. "Zipcar!" he said. Later I found a Safeway around the corner that google maps didn't show on my search. Maybe it knew I was moving in, and needed a local moment to get me started.
I get home from the market and my neighbor across the street emerged from under his car. "I'm Wally." He welcomed me to the neighborhood and invited me to a 4th of July barbecue with his roommates, after knowing me for less than 5 minutes. This could be a special place.
6/15/2012 - Elevator Pitch
We were all waiting for the elevator. I got there first and pushed the up button. The woman with the cart got there next and jabbed at the (already lit up) up button several times, as if she felt with each jab the elevator would feel her urgency and hurry itself. The last woman arrived to witness the rest of the scene.
An elevator finally arrived, going down. The woman with the cart let out a big sigh. As soon as the door closed, she pushed the down button with as much vigor as she had pushed the up button. That's when the other observer and I made eye contact. The next elevator that came was also down, and empty this time. The woman with the cart got on and as soon as the doors closed behind her, the remaining two of us couldn't help but laugh.
"Someone was in a hurry!" she said as we boarded the elevator that had come to take us up. "That first elevator was going down too. Why didn't she get on it?"
"It's Friday," I offered. "We're all a little off."
"Ain't that the truth!" she said. "I've been here for four hours. I come four days a week and help an older woman with her dialysis. I'm ready to get out of here now, but I didn't want to go wherever she was heading!" I could understand that, since the very aura of that woman exuded stress.
"That's nice that you help someone with her dialysis," I said as we reached my floor.
As I got off the elevator, who had materialized but the same woman with a cart, now smiling broadly and asking, "Going down?" I stared in awe as I stepped out of the way of this magical transporting mail woman.
As I walked away, I could practically hear from the elevator the sound of my friend trying not to laugh.
The reverse culture shock from Haiti has been rough. I made myself get up the first week every morning, drink my tea on the front porch, and think about how beautiful Seattle is, the greatest city in the world. I want to go back, but I don't want to miss the moments now by obsessing, so I'm forcing myself to focus on the present instead. There's been a move to Queen Anne with some new, exciting naturalizing to come. In the meantime, the last of the sit spots from the Alleyside:
April 30, 2012
Windy. Overcast. High 50s.
"Look how lucky I am!" Chris said this morning. "My car is covered with pink petals!" I needed this, a reason why the wind and cold was so good and beautiful.
The wind picked up those petals and made them dance on the street, the way sand dances on a drum being played.
Each tree has a patch of color under it today. Pink petals, green pollen.
The robin woke up even earlier than I did. It looked well fed. Plump, perched on the tree outside my window, which has bloomed substantially in the past week. Chris saw it fly to our neighbor's roof, where its partner joined it.
A common Alleyside visitor! photo by Kate Maher
Weeks later Kate and I were sitting on the back porch at the Alleyside and saw a hummingbird perched on a telephone wire. We commented on how exotic hummingbirds seem, but then there they are in the city in Seattle, sitting on the telephone wire like any crow, pigeon, or gull would do.
Some of the group started feeling overwhelmed by the conditions we saw. Nzunga advised that we not think about the big picture, instead we focus on one person, one thing at a time. The school being built. The girl we met who Kihomi is helping. The eye clinic, the hospital, the orphanage. I'm so grateful for these projects, for all the hard work Nzunga, Kihomi, Pastor Mano have done in Haiti, for how hard they all fight for education.
However, I can't focus on one person, one project at a time, because this is so contrary to how I was raised. I was raised to look at the whole community, and support causes that help a collective group of people, so there's no unfair distribution of resources. I have been raised on the big picture, the revolution, the community organizing, the collectivising.
(Here is an important point for me to pause, and recognize someone. The person who I absorbed the word collectivising from cares a lot about truth. She also spends portions of her stories recognizing others and their thoughts, so it's important for me to say that this word came from her. I was on Lily So-Too's computer when I saw a folder labeled "Collectivising." She has lived in co-op, communal spaces for a while, and participates in many community oriented groups. When I saw this folder, I had an idea of what it might mean for her, why she might have grown this word, and I immediately went into the words and used it myself to write a poem. The poem didn't come out precisely how I wanted, so I'm still trying the word on for size.)
I remember being impressed when Chris was going to Haiti with All Hands, and he had raised enough money to buy some extra things for the kids, bubbles and coloring books. Chris said he was going to put them in the schools at All Hands suggestion, so that they were a collective resource that all the kids could access, instead of going to five or six families in a town with thirty families with children.
It's hard for me to think about "one at a time" in Haiti, because I've heard so many stories about Haiti that make it the definition of collectivising.
...for the last twenty or thirty years, the U.S. has basically been trying to turn Haiti into kind of an export platform with super-cheap labor and lucrative returns for U.S. investors. And for a long time it seemed to be working: there was a lot of repression, the population was under control, American investors were making big profits, and so on. Then in 1990, something happened which really surprised the hell out of everyone. There was this free election in Haiti, which everyone here assumed would be won by the former World Bank official we were backing [Marc Bazin], who had all the resources, and foreign support, and so on--but meanwhile something had been going on in the slums and peasant communities of Haiti that nobody here was paying any attention to: a lively and vibrant civil society was forming, with big grassroots organizations, and people getting involved in all kinds of activities. There was in fact a huge amount of popular organizing and activisim--but who here was paying any attention? The C.I.A. doesn't look at stuff like that, certainly American journalists don't. So nobody here knew. Well, all of a sudden, in December 1990, these grassroots organizations came out of the woodwork and won the election. (Chomsky)
Nzunga told me things were still bad when Aristide was in power, that he just armed the other side. I believe him, because he lived through it and I didn't even know about it at the time. For me it all comes back to wanting to learn the language, to hear more stories about how things were.
Angeline drove us here!
My favorite times on our Haiti trip were the moments when I felt the barrier come down for just a moment between me and the things and people I was seeing. When Nzunga started letting us ride in the back of the pick-up truck, and we would wave to all the kids in the countryside, shouting "Bonswa" to one another. Driving around the city with just Nzunga and Angeline, and getting to see Angeline merge into traffic, swerve around city streets, and climb her way up a cliff at the wheel in Cap Haitien. Sitting and listening to the DJ at the hotel the first night, and drinking my first Haitien beer. Standing outside of the compound gate, telling the guard I wouldn't come in because I was going somewhere with Nzunga, and chatting with the school girls on the corner who looked and acted as if they had been waiting to meet me.
I definitely want to go back. A big part of this trip was getting to meet some different members and churches of the Evergreen Association, which was really fun and I am extremely grateful for those friendships. However, next time, I want to go back without being part of a group of ten Americans, so I can expand those barrier free moments into whole experiences. Kihomi said the next time we came to Haiti, she would take us to stay with the women she works with in the villages. I am going to start practicing my Creole now, to be ready for that opportunity when it arises.
The reverse culture shock has definitely been a lot harder than the initial culture shock. I have been debriefing like crazy with anyone who will listen. The conversation I had recently that helped me the most was when Ron and I talked about the idea of "one at a time" verses collectively changing a corrupt system. Ron told me about a book, "The 100th Monkey." He says the idea is you teach one monkey something, and then it teaches another, and suddenly by the time 100 monkeys have learned something, every monkey knows it. That at some pivotal turning point, let's say 100, even though your process was "one at a time," there has been a massive shift in the collective conscious. This idea helped me with my struggle of the desire for collective change, but also wanting to be supportive of the important work I saw Nzunga and Kihomi do.
Nzunga
has lots of ideas about what I should tell you. A few days ago, he just wanted me to tell you I am safe and
alive in Cap Haitien. Now, he
wants me to tell you how hard I worked today. Today we went to the site of the school and helped. We carried concrete bricks and laid
them around the perimeter of the school, so when they are ready to go on the
school when the cement is done being laid on the first level. After that came my favorite part,
making sand. Someone would shovel
a scoop of gravelly, chunky, rocky sand into the sifter. The other person shakes the sifter so
all the good fine sand falls into a mound, and the chunky rocks stay in the
sifter. Then, the best part, you
turn your body, flick the sifter down in a way so the rocks fall out and away
into their own pile. Carrying
bricks I could do for about a half hour to an hour, but sifting the sand and
flicking the pebbles I could do all day!
I want to back up and talk a little about the Haitiens that
we are staying with here. They are
incredible, generous, fun people to know, and I’m so greatful to have such
wonderful hosts. They all have
amazing stories. Nzunga grew up in
the Congo. He talked today about
that experience for the first time, and as soon as I mentioned it I could see
the sorrow in his eyes. He says it
was a hard time for him, sometimes he doesn’t like to remember. His parents passed away while he was a
teenager, and according to him, he joined up with a bad crowd. Nzunga believes if it wasn’t for the
people who pushed him to get an education, he would be dead right now, so he
would give his life for improving the education system. He came to Haiti in 1998 with Kihomi,
his wife.
Kihomi’s story is my favorite. She grew up in the Congo, carrying fruit on her head,
walking for hours to sell it with her mother. When Kihomi got her education, her life changed, and she
became able to provide a different life for her mother. Now, she finds a few girls at a time
and helps them with school. One of
the girls she is supporting came to the compound and sat with us for a few
moments. Kihomi found this girl through
her mother, when Kihomi bought some oranges from her mother. She heard the girl’s story, and has
been supporting her since then, to get her to go to school. We asked Kihomi how old the girl was,
and found out this girl is 23, and still finishing high school. That’s fine, says Kihomi, when they get
to be 25 become a little too old for high school.
I told Kihomi about Seattle Education Access, and how in
Seattle I help low-income and homeless young adults pursue higher education,
and she laughed and said, “That’s what I do!” I am very happy to have flown across the country to work with
the Polly Trout of Haiti.
And finally the story of our Secretary General, Emmanuel
Pierre, who we have been told to call Mano. When he and Kihomi were driving us around Cap Haitien, they
took us to the site of the elementary school being built, a project of the
Haitian Baptist Convention that the Evergreen Association is supporting. As we looked at the site that would one
day hold six classrooms, and then eventually twelve when they built the second
story, Kihomi started translating Mano’s story.
Mano grew up like the poor kids on the street of Cap
Haitien. His father passed away
when he was 14, but there was always someone to look out for him and to push
him to go to school. He went
through seminary, and became a Baptist pastor. The main person who always took care of him was the
Secretary General, and now he has been selected by the people to be the
Secretary General. Mano wants to
use his resources and abilities to help other children get an education. He says his village is not far from Cap
Haitien, so he thinks of this as his city. He has chosen the poorest place in Cap Haitien to build this
school, so the poor kids who are growing up the way he once did can access it.
It has been an incredible experience to hear all of our
hosts’ stories and see how their lives have been transformed by education, and
how much they are giving to the education of future generations. I’m so grateful for this
experience. Nzunga and all our
hosts are taking great care of us.
Every hour, Nzunga tells us we should, “Drink water, drink water, drink
water,” to an extent that not even Sheila Becker could rival. Today we got the word that there was
unrest in Port-au-Prince, and Nzunga rushed us back to the compound, about an
hour’s drive away, just in case.
The police were striking in Port-au-Prince. They are not well protected, and one of
their officers was killed today.
So the police have started putting up barricades to demand attention and
better protection. I appreciate
how Nzunga wants to keep us safe, and is doing so much for us, but I also want
to be at the barricades, to see what is going on there. I’m getting a bit frustrated with how
sheltered I feel, but I have too much respect for my hosts to bush the
boundaries they have set.
On our first day in Cap Haitien, I asked Nzunga if we could
walk around in the daytime. He
hesitantly said yes, but he does not encourage it. Ron asked if it would be best if we went in groups of twos
or threes. Nzunga then explained
how much Mano was risking by hosting us at his compound. He has been kidnapped at gunpoint from
his own bed several months ago.
They assume, but do not know for sure, that he is a target because he
always has American missionaries coming to stay at his compound. If I were to leave the compound and
walk around on the street, people would see me, see where I came from, and then
Mano would be even more of a target.
Tomorrow we will go to a Haitian market so I can attempt to
barter. Nzunga explains that
bartering is not about selling your goods for more then they are worth. Bartering is a chance for the customer
and the vendor to have a conversation, to build a relationship. I think this will help me feel less
sheltered, to get to walk and talk with the vendors in the market.
My Creole teachers at the compound
The other problem for me is if I was allowed to walk around
the streets, I wouldn’t have much to say to anyone. I did enjoy some fun “conversations” with the children
staying on the compound. They were
standing on the steps, making faces and hamming it up while I sat on the
balcony. I ran inside to get my
camera, and they let me take a picture and video of the boy making funny
faces. I said, “Bonswa,” and the
girl said, “Bonswa.” I said, “Como
regule,” and she told me her name, but I couldn’t pronounce it. I asked, “Como i?” and she told me, “I’m
good. How are you?” I said, “Mwen byen.” I pointed to things around the
compound, and asked, “Qui q’cest in Creole?” She taught me fluir, Jeep, meza, fruit, and a few other
words I forgot. I asked her if
papaya, mango, guava, banana are all fruit (pronounced fru-eat), and she said,
“Oui.” She asked if I liked Haiti,
if I liked Creole, and I said, “Oui.”
I pointed to my head and hesitantly asked, “Tet?” She smiled and affirmed me. Then we went through tet, epol, jenou,
otey (head, shoulders, knees, and toes), and Ron came down to video us singing
together. She was very forgiving
with my bad accent, Creole that slipped into Spanish or English, and lack of
things to say. I’m not sure how a
conversation outside the compound will go.
Same as when I went to New Zealand, the culture shock is
slowly seeping in for me. When we
first landed, others in the group remarked about the streets, the lack of
lanes, the goats roaming around with no owner in sight. Nzunga loves to tell us, “Haiti is a
free country. Those are free goats
in a free country.” On day one, I
didn’t feel surprised by all of this.
(Perhaps this is because of Chris’ pictures and stories of
Port-au-Prince.) I told Ron I couldn’t
tell what was going on, but I wasn’t feeling the culture shock. He remarked that he always feels it
more on the way back. When you’re
traveling somewhere new, you take the experience in without letting yourself be
shocked, because this is someone’s way of life. It is what it is.
When you go back to the States, you become astounded with the
differences, and you open your critical eyes to compare the places and
experiences.
I want to back up again to Nzunga’s statement that Haiti is
a free country, the goats are free, the drivers are free, the pedestrians are
free. They follow no laws but
their own. I’m struggling with
being so sheltered and not getting to understand the level of freedom that does
exist here. I know that this
definition of freedom comes with a high cost, but I want to ride in the
tap-tap, the Haitian public transit trucks and buses that hold more than double
the amount of people allowed in the States, and are also traveling murals. I want to walk through the
markets. I want to try manje rapid
(fast food) from a cart by the side of the road. I want to have that experience and be able to understand
first hand what it means to give up the amenities and comforts that are provided
for us on the compound, to have a different sort of freedom.
I asked Nzunga and Mano if I learn enough Creole, what is
the best book I should read. They
both responded, people. A wise
answer, and very fitting for me. I
hope I get the chance to practice it this week.
The one night we stayed in Port-au-Prince, there was a D.J.
at the hotel. Some of the other
travelers were pretty tired and not too happy about having loud music all night
as soon as we got settled. Pharez
(the youngest person on the trip) and I were pretty excited. We went down after the nightly
reflection to go dancing, but there was no one there, just the D.J. and a couple
of friends. We sat with Nzunga, he
bought me a Haitian beer so we could try it. There was a young kid, about 5 or 6, in a red T-shirt who
came out on the dance floor, and had impeccable rhythm. After one Haitien beer and a day full
of flights, I was ready for bed. I
woke up the next morning completley well rested, only to find out the music had
gone on all night and hundreds of people came to dance at midnight.
The big trip is finally here. I've been thinking about it since October, when Chris was building schools there and unknowingly became a catalyst for my journey. I've heard many of his stories, and several others from people at Seattle First or through Companis. Whenever a student would stand me up at the Downtown Library, I would take a few minutes to learn a new word or phrase in the Creole-English Dictionary on the 7th floor. I've learned mostly body parts from the dictionary, and words for food from the Creole podcast I found. When I went home a month ago, my parents bought me some good books talking about the state of Haiti before the earthquake, and one with letters written by Haitins in mostly Creole.
I don't really think any of this will prepare me for what's coming, for actually being there. I don't think I will be able to follow or speak a word of Creole when I am immersed in it. What I was doing while reading and looking up phrases or words was spending time being intentional about this trip, making time to let it take over my thoughts and mind for a few moments of almost every day for months.
Now that it's upon me, I'm really excited! I'm so grateful for all the support I've had making this trip possible. From my two church families, the Women's Mission Society at Calvary and Companis at SFBC for donating some money to Evergreen Association for the cause, and the special commission from SFBC. Thanks to my parents for the books, and the insight that was hard to find elsewhere. Thanks to Chris for being the catalyst. Thanks to the Sunday brunch crew for talking over the trip with me every week. And the biggest thanks to Ned Parker for making it all happen.
When I read back in my journals and blog to last summer, I read the thread of cravings, yearnings, desires for something amazing. Looking back at this year, and looking ahead at the coming months, I feel satisfied.
High 50s, lower 60s. A little cloudy. Clouds are slowly moving NW.
The heron is the first sighting of the morning. Darker than a Great Blue, slate colored. It's heading west, working its way to the Sound. Jake and I spot it two evenings later, same heron, same shade, same direction, different time of day.
On this morning of April 12, a mom is packing up a stroller to wheel her kid somewhere on Stone Way, right under the heron soaring west.
Two robins make appearances. One of them flits about the yard, gathering nest materials, and stopping for juicy worms if it is so lucky to find one. E.J. was working in the garden the other day, and one of these robins was busy working by the side of the house, tugging and munching on good worms.
The other robin sits up top on a telephone wire and keeps an eye out for its partner. They don't chirp at one another, they stay within eyesight. The robin on the ground poops on the curb then hops under Madden's car as some humans walk by on the sidewalk. It's so funny to see it walk, and hard to describe. It moves quickly, like a run, but with the pace of a walk. Scurrying is probably the best word.
A chickadee flies in to sit on the lower branches of the Cedar tree. It doesn't do the call that named it (chicka dee dee dee), instead it makes some short peeps. I never realized how high pitched Chickadees were.
Then I hear the laughing birds. Each time I see them, I think, "Finch." Something about the beak, or size and shape of the body. The truth is I'm not an expert with birds, really I just feel like they are finches.
They are also in a pair, everyone seems paired up by now. The one I've seen make the laughing sound has a red breast. This laughing noise sounds like a child on the piano learning arpeggios. Jumping up and down across the notes, showing off how well it can hit them.
Two smaller birds who I don't know, and don't come close enough to introduce themselves, are also paired up together in the grass. They are about the size of chickadees, maybe even a little smaller, but they don't have any markings I can notice. They chirp back and forth as they go about their business.
The crows are soaring about up top, they don't come down to the street on April 12. They are acting reasonably sane. Last Saturday, the second day of Passover, when we had our Seder, they were going crazy. One crow would perch on a tree or roof, and call out to the murder of 7 or 8. As if the perching crow was directing the rest of them, the murder would dance, swoop, turn, and dive together. This was around the time of the full moon. E.J. thought they were acting out the story of the plagues.
On April 12, runners and young professionals move by, all in a hurry. Their ears or eyes are shut out by earplugs or a smart phone. I do not write this to judge them. In an hour, in the middle of my work day, I am glued to the computer screen or absorbed with texting my students. These are just more patterns I'm noticing.
A few weeks ago, there was a Hummingbird. I looked at a Crow sitting on top of a house up Interlake, and a hummingbird came and hovered next to it for a fleeting moment.
When I walk up to my room after my sit spot on April 12, I see the
Red-Breasted Laughing Finch sitting in the tree outside my window. I
think they are building a nest over my windows. Fine by me. I can't
think of a better bird song to wake up to on Seattle spring mornings.
You can barely see their nest above the diagonal beam
"Do you go close to Olive Way?" This, or a similar question, is a common beginning to my interaction with my bus driver, as after two years, I continue to live the lifelong learner philosophy when it comes to navigating Seattle.
Today another passenger on the 30, one of the few routes I actually know extremely well, had some difficulty figuring out where he was and where the bus was going. As the bus driver started to paint a map of the U District, Ravenna, and Sand Point for him with her words, I thought about what amazing teachers bus drivers are.
I am one of many passengers who often asks our drivers for some help getting around the city. As the drivers navigate turns and hills with gigantic vehicles, having to keep an eye out for the plethora of Seattle bikers, they never answer questions with a simple "yes" or "no." They really describe where they go, how close to where you're headed, where you should walk to get to the bus you need, what route that bus will take to get you where you want to go. One driver described to her passenger how to find the bus she needed, creatively telling her to follow the electric cables suspended over the road that run the electric buses, until she reached the stop just out of sight beyond the bridge.
This morning I rode the 31 with the driver who goes above and beyond his role as an educator. "What does the German phrase Zebrasteifen, literally translated to 'zebra stripe', describe on the road?" he asked through his microphone. Although this seemed like a relatively easy piece of trivia, I enjoyed even more what the driver said next, "The point is not to get the right answer, but to exercise our brains, to do a push-up with our minds, in search for the answer." An educator attempting to make his students more self-aware of their own educations! (The answer is a crosswalk. He explained that in Germany, the stripes are diagonal, so that it looks like a giant white line on the road until you get close enough to see the zebra pattern.)
Once I got off of a bus, and before I could walk to the front, the driver let up on the brakes a bit. "My bike!" I yelled. He had already slammed on the brakes, the door was still open. He nodded at me. "Make sure to always tell the driver you need to get your bike." It did feel condescending, but a lesson better learned in a patronizing way than from experience of losing my bike to the King County lost and found.
My observations about the surprising teaching qualities in Seattle bus drivers are making me curious about other unexpected educators people have noticed in the world.
