Kedira is the baby of my first Haitian friend. I met him on my first trip to Haiti. We were both doing construction, excavating the foundation for the new St. Joseph's home. Kedira wasn't born yet, but Marc Arthur, who we call 'Africa' and I became fast friends. Kedira was only a few months old when I moved to Haiti permanently last November. He's now a walking and gurgling machine, and we spend a great deal of time together, aimlessly walking the streets, eating sugar cane, and throwing pebbles.
When I went to St. Joseph's on Friday, it was my first trip down the mountain since arriving back in Haiti. Careening down the mountain by taptap, being dumped in Petionville, once again all alone, once again the only white girl in sight, I prayed that muscle memory would take over. that the habit of navigating the market would kick back in, and while I was rusty, after four casual months stateside, it did. I recognized all the sights and sounds. Turning and weaving, dodging motorcycles and basket clad heads, I hitched my second taptap on Delmas street. The rain was torrential, and it dripped through my eyelashes and stung my eyes. Sitting on the last available sliver of bench, exposed to the elements, I was glad to be going home. Excited to see my boys, and feeling like I was finally getting my bearings back, I hollered "mesi" and banged the side of the truck with my fist. The driver slowed to a roll and I hopped off the back, handing the moneyman 10 Gourdes, and smiling for the hell of it, I began the march down Delmas 91, to St. Joseph's home for Boys.
THIS is my neighborhood. I know the fruit vendors, I know the soccer players. I know the crazy man who doesn't wear enough clothes. I know the laundry ladies and the gang members. I know which tents my friends live in and who likes who. In reality, as close as I have become to the St. Joseph's family, I've come to love this group of neighborhood friends just as much. We drink beers on Friday nights and listen to music. I bring my coffee out on Saturday morning, I sit on the street while the women peel green beans, and I watch the boys play soccer. In the afternoons, I throw on my formerly shiny blue and white sneakers, which have now been well worn and assaulted with dust and mud and clay, and I play too. We skid and we holler. I scream for no reason when everyone else screams. We shake our fists at the cars that go by, demanding we move our goals. We catcall at the church ladies, and we pull on the pony tails of the little girls. I walk down the street and I pick up whichever kid arrives at my feet first, twirling around with them, and throwing their little bodies upside down under my arm like a football. I set them back on their feet and we march on in stride. At night we play cards and dominos. We crowd around one television in a single level cement room, we pass around beers and make nickel bets on the winning team.
On Friday, I tried to pace myself down the steep and windy street. I couldn't temper my steps. My excitement. I was ready to be there, to see them, to be back, in this home. This place that was built out of tarps and rubble. This place we had made our own.
And it was gone.
Walking past the turn that would enter into our tent city, there was a wall. The houses were demolished, chickens stood on piles of debris and most of the neigborhood was barricaded with tall sheets of tin.
Gone.
One lonely tent sat in the middle of it all. No walls, just a roof, and 4 poles. A handful of my friends were still there. Not my closest friends, but men and boys I recognized.
"Hello," I exclaimed.
They turned to look at me. A ghost. Gone 4 months. And everything else gone with me.
"You're back," one said.
"Yes. What happened? Where is everybody?"
"They're gone."
"Yes, but where? What happened?"
"Everyone had to go."
"Why?"
"No more houses. Destroyed."
Fini.
"That's it," he said.
"Well, where is everybody?"
"Different places."
And so it began. I spent my Saturday doing reconnaissance on my long lost friends, far and wide.
And I found so many of them. Marc Arthur, his wife, and Kedira are down the street and a few turns away. Some have gone to live with siblings, moved into rooms with friends, or moved into new neighborhoods all together. Some seem to be living amongst the rubble, crowded into homes together, unsure of what has happened or how to proceed.
But I couldn't find everyone. Hell, I didn't know everyone's name. When you build your life around an entire neighborhood, no single aspect of the day was better than any other.
I can't go out and find the woman that I always spent a conversation in mock bartering over bananas before she gave me one, and I gave her a cup of coffee. I don't know how to find the orphan boy I called tiny who waited on me every friday afternoon outside the doors of st. Josephs. Sitting patiently, waiting for prayers to end, for me to come out and play.
I don't know where the boys who had the shop and sold beer are. I see their friends, but they haven't come around.
And I'm lost.
We lost each other. An entire neighborhood, vanished.
Kedira's home is gone.
I spent Sunday afternoon with him. I held him to my chest and prayed silently. I sang the song that I sing to Elli Mariah when we're going to sleep.
On Monday I went to visit the orphanage in my neighborhood, to catch up with a couple of my friends.
Have you heard the nursery rhyme about the crying infants, deserted and malnourished. Half dressed. Puddles of babies, draped on the floor. Nine babies. Sick, and dying. Maybe, dying. And trying to live, laying on mats on the floor. Cool and shivering. Damp. Staring vacantly through the balcony bars of this second story nightmare.
Covered in flies, and being cared for by twelve and thirteen year old orphaned girls, these babies don't even cry, really, only whimper.
I spent the whole of my afternoon with them. I picked up each baby, I held their bodies close to mine. Sticky and dirty, leaking urine onto my shirt and smelling of sickness and rot, drooling and crusty mouths. and glossy eyes.
I stare into the eyes of these babies. I remind myself that God loved us before we were born. That we cannot know the plan. For my friends from the neighborhood that's gone. For these babies that stare into the depths and clench their jaws. Languid hands falling against my chest, resigned and resolved. Placated. Miserable.
These babies.
These old, old faces.
I held them close to my chest, and I prayed silently. I sang the song that I sing with Elli Mariah when we're going to sleep.
Elli Mariah Johnson will be my second Godchild. She is the daughter of my 'brother' for all intents and purposes, Matthew, and his wife Katharina.
On November third, she will be baptized. The congregation will whisper her name under their breath. They will vow to love and support her. They will affirm their faith. They will show her Christ's love. They will promise her, that they will show her Christ's love.
I have loved Elli since before she was born. I was at her house watching over Attie while she was coming into the world. In fact, we didn't know she was going to be a she. I bought her Goodnight Moon. My first gift to my sweet new niece or nephew. I signed it "to baby." It was dated a day early because she took her sweet time joining us, but all the while, she was loved. She was already loved.
Elli is one of the dearest human beings on this planet. We're genuinely good friends. We crack each other up. We go to the river together, taking long walks. And I tell her about all the things I used to talk about with my dad, on long walks at the river. We throw rocks that splash and hum soft melodies that disappear into the breeze as soon as they've left our mouths.
At night we rock in the rocking chair. I hold her close to my chest, I pray a silent prayer, and I sing the song that I sing when Elli goes to sleep.
"Dear Lord and Father of mankind
Forgive our foolish ways
reclothe us in our rightful mind
in purer lives thy service find
in deeper reverence, praise. "
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