My girl

The best way that I can think of to describe Mawmaw, would be to say, that even the things that you didn't like about her. the things that she did, or the ways that she was, were things about her that you loved.

Stubborn. Spirited. Tenacious. Creative. Joyful. Courageous. Loyal. Did I say stubborn?

You could probably have punched Mawmaw in the face before you could say something bad about a member of her family.

Especially one of her boys.

And, the way she loved.

You never had to wonder. Never had to guess. There was never any room for doubt, any hesitation.

She loved you.

but I remember being younger.

I remember being angry with my dad.

Or some cousin was angry with an uncle.

If you were looking for comfort, little one, don't go to Mawmaw. She didn't want to hear it. She'd purse her lips and put her thumb and forefinger to her chin and cheekbone. Her eyebrows would raise.

A dissatisfied and bemused, don't come crying to me, little girl.

And sure enough,

As it always seems to go in our family,

Whatever the issue had been would be forgotten, or laughed about, and minutes later, you'd find yourself planted firmly in mawmaw's lap.

Ring clad fingers wrapping around your stomach, hand on your arm, a cheek against your shoulder blade.

She'd squeeze and remark, ooh how we love this girl. Girl, we sure do love you. Don't you know how much we love you. You're our girl.

And I could go on.

The refrains pour out of me. They echo in my head.

The pride. And the loyalty.

The love.

who am I?

I'm mawmaw's granddaughter.

Made with overflowing love, shattering laughter, and the occasional joke at your personal expense.

I'm still crying. And I'm still saying goodnight in my prayers. I know she's with pawpaw, I know she's taking care of our Oskar, and I know, that when I tripped this morning and stubbed my toe, cursing...

She would have chuckled and patted me on the bottom.

Oh come on, girl.

It's just a beautiful day.

Happy 26th birthday to me

A quiet vigil

Tonight I pressed my forehead against the airplane window. That thin partition. Plastic. Cool against my aching head, I passively watched the concrete acres where the airplanes live. Blue and green lights blur and oranges and yellows flash in the periphery. The planes sidled and moseyed in the darkness. In the deep abyss. Some menacing, some awkward and dawdling. Sharks. They crept along without effort. The way only a shark can propel itself. Gaining momentum without the flapping of gummy feet on the pavement.

I can't believe it. These planes.

We can go anywhere in the entire world.

But I looked down as we crept into the night sky, highways and lights. Dots on a map. Lightbulbs on commercial offices and baseball fields.


Ants in a sandbox.

And we think, that because we can go anywhere, that we know more?

And the mystery of things. Tell me of that.

The moon. That gaping and stupid white face.

The sound of the ocean. And that feeling when you can hear the roar and rush of waves in the night.

The hairs that stand up on the back of your neck when you're afraid.

When you're overwhelmed with feeling.

We can go anywhere, and we can know. Anything? The Internet. We can look up anything we want to in the world.

But I got on that plane, tapped my forehead against the thin plastic. I don't know how a plane works.

Don't know this pilot. Don't know.

And we have the science to know. The information at our fingertips. Was it in my hands?

Is anything?

Today I came from port-au-prince to Miami- and I didn't speak to a single person in passing.

I looked up from my book in the terminal and counted no less than 18 people on electronic devices. Gadgets.

We're going all over the world

And we're getting smaller and smaller.

Everyone is safe in their sense of things.

But when the lights go out.

When you're sitting in a room in the evening sunlight, the power is out and the water is cold. The language is foreign and no one cares about all the rest of the things that we've told ourselves. told each other. the us that we have ascribed to.

When we're left alone with ourselves, and the mystery of things.

Sacred heart

I skipped church on Palm Sunday.

To go to the beach.

I think it's the first time I've ever missed a Palm Sunday service.

Even last year, I was in Haiti, and was delightfully surprised to find that we marched with palms.

That unlike Santa Claus, Jesus does make it to the third world in one piece.

And despite language barriers, he marches into Jerusalem, and we throw palms at his feet.

But today. I'm in a car. We're lulling through traffic, and I hear people, raising their hands to the heavens and pressing their lungs with their praises to God.

And I had thought to myself,

I'm leaving on Tuesday, and I've been working so hard... I need a break.

I deserve this.

I deserve a break from church?

As we drive, I don't feel good. I feel empty and decomposed. Selfish even.

Not necessarily because I missed the literal process of sitting in a church service,

But mostly because, on this morning.

So many years ago.

Jesus woke up,

And processed into a city.

Knowing all the while he was going to die

For me.

And I woke up,

Thinking I deserved a day at the beach.

love unknown, known.

I've got a lot of thoughts rolling around in my head. Normally, when I sit down to write, they're cordial, and timely. They politely align themselves in my brain, and introduce themselves to the page with a leisurely confidence. But right now, I've got a head cold, every article of clothing that I brought with me is dirty and (or) wet, and my feet have become so rough and callused that I'm genuinely considering switching pedicure places so as to avoid judgement, but hear me out. 

It's the first day of spring. And while we're in the rainy season here in Haiti  for the most part the change is negligible. I hear it gets unbearably hot in August, but I've got west Texas in my blood, and part of me thinks that we'll just see about that. 

Yesterday I visited an orphanage down the road in Fermathe. Run by an American guy in his late sixties- I accidentally met Paul when I was wondering aimlessly through the halls of the home. The home is large, and houses about 80 orphans ranging from babies to sixteen year olds.  I had brought a couple kiddos from Wings to play soccer, and after loosing them onto the cement battle field, a range of mugwamps and rapscallions against these unknown giants, I watched them tentatively meet, diverge into teams, and began passing the dense blue ball that we'd brought as a token of peace. 

When I felt sure we were safe from attack or ridicule, and that the curiosity was congenial, I began wandering in search of the babies I heard crying. That's when I found Paul. I heard a huge racket coming from down the hallway on the second floor. The building is a jungled maze. Kids are scrambling all over the place. Dressing dolls, throwing balls against the wall, sloshing buckets of water that probably weigh more than them. I turned the corner to discover the source of the noise, and was met by a roomful of kids. A pile, if you will, of about twenty kiddos. all converging on a boombox, I could only make out the hands that held it. They were white. 

Paul was buried under his kids. I liked him already. Originally a furniture restoration guy from Brooklyn, we instantly found common ground when I told him I was an artist, and from Richmond, and we both loved Caravati's Salvage Yard.  It is, indeed, a small world. 

As we walked and talked. As we wove through the path of the children, they were all doing something. Doing something, with nothing. One slide, one soccer ball. Ratty clothes, and dirty and broken ceramic and cement buildings. Tattered and damp blankets and scalded tin pots. 

Playing marbles. Playing make believe. Casting shadow puppets. Sitting in the sunlight dropping leaves into a bucket of water. 

Picking up a two year old named keekee, I entered into that blissful state, that thing that only happens when you're talking to a baby. 

To someone that doesn't know the way a conversation should go. He blabbered on and on in creole, and I responded in patchy creole and English. 

Not entirely sure what was being said, but understanding him all the same, we strolled about. Look how high I can jump, and I like your watch. I have four teeth, and your hair is different than mine. Throw me, I can jump, I can fly. 

It was a sweet moment. kindred spirits.

 It's easy to love these little ones. 

But it isn't easy to understand.  

Setting him down, he ran down the hall and out onto another patio, a boy pulled a toy truck by a string. 

A boy pulled a toy truck, by a string. 

A boy pulled a bleach container, turned on it's side and hollowed out, with rocks in it's belly. The axles were broken-in-half pencils and the wheels were double stacked gallon drinking water lids. 

A boy pulled a toy truck, by a string. 

What is our imagination, and what is our heart. 

When I was little, my sister and I would take tin Folger's Coffee cans and turn them upside down. We would turn them upside down and punch holes in the sides. Tying knots, and weaving shoelaces or twine. String or rope through the holes, we made stilts. We loved them. We would tromp around like giants, a whole foot taller than we had been before, scratching our mother's hard wood floors, and occasionally rolling our ankles. 

Two little girls walked on stilts.  

Two little girls tied old tin cans to their feet. 

Two little girls walked on stilts.

What is our imagination, and what is our heart. 

It's easy to love, but it isn't easy to understand. 

'For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son.'

It is easy to love but it isn't easy to understand. 

What is our imagination, and what is our heart. 

Don't think twice, it's alright.

the Haitians that I am friends with touch my stomach. they squeeze me and poke me. they pinch and grab. they pat me on the belly and wrap their arms around my waste. they hold on tight

I guess it's a funny thing to talk about.

And I don't.

Over the years, it's become a subconscious masking. Layered tank tops and cardigans. Jeans above my waist, and shirts pulled below my hips.

swimsuits.

We don't talk about that stuff. do we?

We talk about what's hard. we're self deprecating and whiny.

we share the appropriate hardships.

I wish I could lose weight, or I am stressed about this or that.

but what about the real ones.

that people putting their hand on my stomach makes it hard for me to breathe.

that when I ride in a car and look out the window, at the expanses of scenery, at new places, at new life, I look at the window too. My reflection, a whirlwind of trees and roads, blurry, but visible.

I look out the window in Haiti, and I look at myself.

Am I scared that I'm selfish? That I'm self conscious?

And what are the real things. That I'll never be in love again. That I'll never be skinny.

Or that I'll never be content.

The Haitians don't think twice about my stomach. It doesn't cross their minds. They grab me and squeeze me.  They kiss my cheek and run a quick thumb along my cheekbone. Tell me I'm beautiful when I wear a dress. Joke with me and flirt.

Dadi works at St. Joseph's. Happily married, raising a baby, harmless and warm, I hear his voice before I see him most times.

Isabelle, ou belle, wi?

Elizabeth, you're beautiful, yes? Ahhh bonjou belle moun. Beautiful girl.

It's true, or it isn't. It just is.

But I want to be able to breathe when people who love me rest their hands on my stomach.

I want to be able to breathe.

And I don't want to think twice about it, either.

Incomgenuity

Incompetence versus ingenuity.

Doing your laundry while standing in the shower naked.

Not because you planned on taking a shower

But because you were so terrible at hand washing and rinsing laundry.

And hey,

We all arrive somehow.