Brush with Haiti (11 page)

Following the 2003
visit to Haiti, I very much looked forward to returning. It was draining and I wondered how non-Haitians spent so much of their lives there, but I knew there was something between Haiti and me that was not quite finished. However, the next trip would be delayed. Just a year later, Haiti was in turmoil. The violence against the Aristide administration had grown to unprecedented proportions. We had been warned for some time by Catholic Relief Services that tensions were growing, making a return trip unlikely for some time. I underestimated the tensions, and thought the group organizers were being overprotective. It is true that hosting visitors detracts from their own work, so I suspected that a subsequent delegation might be too much to take on for a while. They truly felt responsible for us, and perhaps traveling with the bishop intensified their efforts. But they assured us that they would be happy for us to return sometime later when it was safe. They kindly reiterated that they knew best and had our interests at heart.

In coming months, news of political violence swept news channels and it became increasingly apparent that they had known something we did not. Haiti would not make the news if this had not been a major development. The violence this time was different from what I had heard described before. Or perhaps it seemed so, because I was more familiar with the country, its geography, and its people than I had been. In Fort Liberte we had been strikingly close to the Dominican border, so when it was reported that armed Haitians were entering the country just south of there, I could picture it more vividly.

The images finally available on news sites showed people with expensive garb and weaponry, indicating they were being outfitted from somewhere outside Haiti. The cynic in me suggested it might be the United States. After all, discontent seemed to be mounting in various areas in an effort to destabilize the entire country. It was possible the emergence was organic and homegrown but knowing what I did about the history of U.S.-Latin American relations it was also quite possibly influenced by non-Haitian players. Aristide was no friend of the Bush administration. Though Clinton had succeeded in assisting him to his rightful place in 1994, Aristide's relationship with the United States had grown sour under his second term in office.

The Haitian President's approach toward economic justice still appeared grounded in liberation theology, which to U.S. conservatives, especially fundamentalist Protestants, smacked of Left wing, socialist heresy. Following the attacks on the United States on September 11, 2001, Latin American terrorist watch lists grew and included countless left-leaning groups. Perhaps the Department of State felt it could not afford critics so close to home to maintain their status of legitimacy. By 2003, U.S. diplomats were working tirelessly to gain Latin American support for U.S. military efforts in Iraq.

Having studied more about the School of the Americas (SOA) in recent years (now called the Western Hemispheric Institute for Security Cooperation or WHINSEC) I wondered what role the U.S. military might have played in training Haitians to take armed control of their country. The SOA worked in counterinsurgency, not insurgency, training, but I did discover there was a branch in Missouri devoted to teaching courses in Haitian Creole. Historians do not speculate, I reminded myself. Unless I could take time to investigate my suspicions adequately, I should just stay away from the topic. Still, developments in Haiti were disturbing, especially now that I had become more intimately familiar with the country. I discussed my concerns with some colleagues. A few dismissed my fears while others confirmed my suspicions indicating there was probably even more to the story than I had considered.

I decided a campus presentation on the matter was in order and sought a guest speaker with some expertise through the Haitian Consulate in Chicago. The receptionist said the Consul General would be happy to see me, and scheduled an appointment for the following day. Attention to Haiti and work in general had taken my mind off my personal life, and that became more apparent as I made the trek downtown. Walking along State Street reminded me that there used to be a life for me outside the classroom, library, and attempts to keep my children's lives as stable and secure as possible. The bright sun made this other world populated by urban workers and retail shoppers more visible.

I stopped in a popular shop to buy some caramel corn. The aroma-laden air was warm and filled my mind with the simplicity of childhood memories. My father used to repair watches in his spare time and would sometimes bring us downtown with him to pick up watch parts. He never charged more than a dollar or two for his labor, so we were never quite sure what rewards it could have offered him. He spent many hours each week hunched over his workbench, eyepiece aiding in his view of the tiniest of mainsprings, watch stems, and crystals. He patiently let us observe him work, even when friends tagged along. Getting the watch parts he needed required trips to Jewelers' Row in the Loop, for which he preferred a car ride to the El, and the El to South Wabash. When we accompanied him, we would beg to stop for caramel corn. He agreed only rarely, as his method of parenting seemed to rely far more on creating simple experiences of being together than of buying us things. Walking ever so slowly past the caramel corn shop and sticking our faces into the doorway to get a whiff would usually have to suffice.

On my walk back to the car from the Consulate after securing a speaker, I smelled caramel corn. The child in me needed a treat and the adult in me was convinced it would not break the budget. So, caramel corn it was. It would help sweeten an otherwise difficult time in my life, or so I thought. When I returned home, I left on the kitchen counter what I had not eaten and before bed Sam finished it. I was pleased to share the experience of downtown Chicago sweetness, even if he had not been able to accompany me on this trip.

The next day's morning routine stress magnified exponentially as Sam exited his bedroom and met me in the hall.

"I can't breathe," he rasped.

"What? Your voice sounds terrible. I didn't know you were catching a cold." I went on getting ready for work in one of those mom states of mind where I made medical decisions based on my demands at work.

"Mom, I can't breathe." He sat down on the stairs and looked an ashen gray. Oh, my God, I could say only in my mind. I worked desperately to prevent my sudden panic from panicking him. And my knife-like sharpness of mothering instinct became jumbled with stupidity.

"Do you have an inhaler?" My mind turned to the caramel corn, which must have contained nuts, which must have triggered this. His allergy/asthma attacks were rare, and we had become lax about having antihistamines and albuterol around.

"I think there's one at Dad's." His dad lived nearby, but going there on the hope he had an inhaler would have taken just as long as a run to the store, and would likely have been accompanied by unnecessary comments regarding my qualifications as a mother.

"Wait here," I said, as I took off for the one drugstore I knew would be open before 7:30 a.m. Though he was 11-years-old, he looked to me like a toddler as I ran out the door. About six blocks from my house I heard the siren of a police car and saw its flashing lights in my rear view window. No, it couldn't be. I looked down at my speedometer and realized I had quickly reached twenty miles over the speed limit. After pulling over and seeing him park behind me, I jumped out and ran toward him. In retrospect, this was not a smart move.

"Ma'am, stop!" The patrol officer jumped from his car. "You don't do that!"

"My son is having an asthma attack and I'm on my way to the drugstore!"

"Ma'am, you could cause an accident." I looked around and saw no other cars on the road. I thought it not a good idea to point that out to him.

"I have to get to the drugstore!"

"Where is your son?" I have no idea why I did not bring with me, except that I wanted to keep him calm and home seemed the right place for that.

"At home." He let me go, but my heart was still racing as he followed slowly, keeping me to the speed limit.

I reached the pharmacy, parked in the first spot I could find, and ran inside. The pharmacist was notably kind, diligently looking up records and asking the basic questions as quickly as she could. Maybe two hours, or five minutes, later, I ran back to my car. There was the officer, signing a ticket. I could not believe it. I said nothing, took the ticket, and got the inhaler to my son as fast as I possibly could. I then waited with gleeful anticipation for the opportunity to go to traffic court to fight injustice.

When my court date finally arrived, I sat patiently, quite full of myself in this gallant effort. This officer was in for one hell of a heavy-handed reprimand. I was sure of it. My name was called and I argued my case. A familiar looking couple of suited gentlemen sat near the judge, staring in a way that made me uneasy. This was my hometown, but since my marriage ended it seemed to be one in which divorced mothers were pariahs, so one which nearly killed her child with nut-laced caramel corn was apparently a menace to society. They said something I could not hear and then came the voice of the judge.

"Guilty," the judge said, in a manner that left no room for discussion.

"But, Your Honor—" I had to explain.

"You were driving on a suspended license, and apparently still are. The officer was being generous with you."

"Generous? Suspended license? How?"

"An unpaid ticket for a speeding violation in Kosciusko County last year." Oh jeez. I did get pulled over for speeding on my way back from Dan's basketball tournament in Fort Wayne. Taking the scenic route across the dullest and flattest part of the state with a carful ofboys proved a bit too much and I could not bring myself to stay within the speed limit.

"But I was never notified."

"Did you have a change of address?"

"Yes. I had to move on with my li—" I stopped. Too much information. "Yes, I moved across town."

"Traffic citations are not forwarded."

"How was I supposed to know that?" None of this made sense. And how was this cop looking like the good guy here?

"One hundred and eighty five dollars." I wondered where the hell I was going to get a hundred and eighty five dollars. This was reminding me far too much of the time I had to come up with money to bail Katie and myself out of jail in Chicago.

Oh my God. That had to appear on my record. No wonder I was not getting a break. At this point my record must have looked like that of no other mother in Munster, Indiana. The charges had been dropped after subsequent court appearances, but perhaps there was some way it remained in the computer's database. I don't remember how I came up with the one hundred eighty five dollars to pay the traffic ticket, but I did. Resourcefulness had become one of my strongest traits, as did faith things would all work out in the end.

Reconciling my worldview, professional dedication, and commitment to global affairs with my suburban mom life seemed to become harder rather than easier as time went by. But what got me through was remembering the very basics of life itself which transcended cultural and national boundaries - a mother's love for her children, the prospects for having a home, the desire for peace. And in some strange way I was grateful that I had not become accustomed to the comforts of American life, and all its glories. Because it did not bring me satisfaction I found it easier to strip its elements away, and find common ground with people who in all respects might seem so unlike me. In fact, I often felt more in common with the women of Haiti than I did with women of my own town.

What mostly remains of the caramel corn memory is the awareness of my yearning to protect my own child from the terror of an asthma attack and the broken-heartedness of divorce that surrounded his life. What remains of the jail memories is my daughter's disillusionment with her country's leaders, and my inability to shield her from a terrifying experience. I tried to do what I could to see the experience through her eyes. We had not done anything wrong, and it hurt me beyond words to see her like that. I wondered how women in much more dire situations were able to shelter their children from harm that comes their way.

When I reminisce
about particular classes, memories of seating positions, desk arrangements and flooring come to mind, in addition to students. It was rare that one of my classes was scheduled in room 342, so that semester's History of the Caribbean setting is more vivid. The room differed distinctly from the others. It must have been 2005 or 2006, for that was when I met Renate and it was a joy to invite her as a guest speaker. My classroom was laid out like a very small lecture hall, with angled stationary tables and tiered rows. The carpet and soft wall covering made the space feel more intimate, and though it was difficult to move students around for small group work, we were able to get to know each other well.

To the center right in the first row sat three young women who were majoring in education. They were nearing graduation and becoming excited about the prospects of teaching. They brought a dynamic sensitivity regarding social and cultural issues to their work and to the classroom. Their endless curiosity and commitment to learning was remarkable, as was their determination to make the world a better place through teaching. Each in their own way they made me come to know how any small thing I added to their education might be magnified one hundred fold, in a good way. The experience helped me become more aware of the thread that connects teachers teaching teachers teaching teachers teaching teachers. For that I am eternally grateful.

Neither they nor I saw education as simply a matter of transferring a core of information from one head to another. Rather, we knew it to be a never ending process on the parts of both teacher and student. I have always felt that my primary responsibility in teaching was to continue my journey of discovery and invite others to join me. I had met these students before and was so happy to see that they had chosen to be part of the journey of discovering the Caribbean. They each stayed in touch, and I loved when they shared their teaching experiences with me. The directions they took seemed profound and far beyond any help I might have provided. It is possible for students to view professors as somewhat greater creatures than they really are. I looked back on some of the teachers who inspired me and have since seen more of their humanness.