ou merite sa

The cows in Haiti are tied up and tethered to stakes in the ground. Their ropes are no more than a stone's throw  away. What they eat, and where they go, it isn't up to them. Their locations greatly affect their lot in life as well. Some are posted on rocky crags on the side of the mountain. Some on piles of trash. The grass has worn thin. Some cows lay pinned between streets and piles of trash, their ribs promenading beneath ragged, sun burnt skin. The cows in Haiti make me cry. Their eyes are desperate. And what's worse- they're always so close to grass. to sustenance. so close, and unable to get there. I'm filled with rage. I don't understand why. It makes no sense. And there's nothing they can do about it. So they suffer

And what of these cows? born here, born to their masters, born to the inevitability of their situation. there is no room for growth, there is only luck. Luck, good luck, and lots of it. 

if you're lucky. 

if you're worth it?

we've all grown up with the tried and true boot straps routine. 

the self made man. 

you can be anything you put your mind to. 

Here I am. 25, an optimist, a believer in Christ, and generally speaking, a glass overflowing kind of woman, and I'm here to tell you

there are mantras that don't apply to everyone. 

mantras that we're familiar with. that we put into action. in our homes, with our friends. 

standards. that we hold ourselves to. that we hold everyone to.

Sitting for hours on the ride home from Jacmel yesterday, too crowded to shift my weight. to adjust a foot. swaying and fidgeting. sighing and rolling my head between my shoulders, breathing in fumes and exhaust, I looked out the window and saw a woman. 

She was probably in her late fifties. She wore a frayed pink and white dress. So worn, the cloth had grown thin and transparent in places. The sleeves were tattered and she wore shoes too small, stepping on the backs of the heels, she crouched on a pile of charcoal. She had made it, or she had bought it. it was her husband's or it was her son's. She was selling it. The road was lined with people selling the stuff. an avenue of filth. of blackness. of charcoal. 

who was going to buy charcoal from her? 

i think she knew. she propped on elbow on one knee, her other leg sprawling down the expanse of the mound. 

i looked at her. and she looked back into my eyes

tethered to a stake, sitting on a pile of trash. 

born to her master

But me?

I chose to be here. I tethered myself to this place. I tether myself to God. 

I tether myself to God, and I try to hold on.

In Haitian, we say thank you. 'Mesi.'

In Haitian, we say you are welcome. 'Ou Merite sa.'

The literal translation- you are worth it. 

What lies in our worth? and what are we made of? 

I want to tell every woman I see in the streets in Haiti. That they are worth it. 

and that I know. 

Boots in Haiti don't come with straps. 

no matter how hard you pull.