It's a Boy

It's A Boy
Jameson is Born
July 6, 1998
Philadelphia, PA

“It’s a boy.  We had a boy. Jameson was born this afternoon”’, Brian tells me with great delight.  But his telephone call fills me with deep sadness.  Brian, my younger brother by 15 years, just had his first child.  In his excitement, he called me first to tell me his wonderful news.  I am filled with so much emotion that I hold back tears as we talk for a few minutes.  He hangs up quickly because he wants to call the others.  I hang up the phone and cry.

It is July 1998, just two months since our mother’s death.  She died during Mother’s Day weekend.  A few days prior, in her hospital bed, she directed me to buy Cindy, Brian’s wife, a Mother’s day gift.

“Here Cindy, my first and last Mothers’ Day gift.  You will make a wonderful mother”, she tells Cindy.  “I wanted to give this to you just in case I didn’t make it until Mother’s Day”.  She laughs to cut the sadness in the room.  We laugh along but not because her statement is funny.  We are just exhausted with emotions.

She doesn’t make it to Mother’s day.  She dies two days later.  Now it is two months after her death and her baby son has just become a father. In a perfect world, Brian would have called his mother first. They should have had a moment of deep joy, of tears and hope and love.  But that didn’t happen.

Instead, he called me, his sister who could barely speak because my heart is so, so heavy. I am filled with so much sadness because this little brother, this little boy doesn’t have a mother.  At 27 years old, Brian should have a mother.  But he doesn’t and that just doesn’t seem fair to me.  He doesn’t have a mother. And now his son doesn’t have a grandmother.  And this harsh reality of life hits me too hard at this moment.  My heart is broken.

The Kids of Haiti

For more stories about my time in Haiti, please of to Bridgetkellyinhaiti.blogspot.com

ULURU (Ayers Rock)- Australia

ULURU

Alice Springs, Australia

February 2015

The last trip my mother took was to Uluru, Alice Springs, Australia in the spring of 1997.  After that, she was too ill to ever travel again.  She was an artist so when she came home, she painted Uluru (Ayers Rock).  The painting hangs in my sister’s house and I have looked at it for the last 18 years. Those pink hues at sunset linger in my mind as I book a trip to travel to Uluru, the sacred rock of the Aboriginals.

6:00 AM- I am picked up at my hotel.  It is still dark as I board the bus.   The other passengers are sleepy.  The driver/guide, Tony, hands me a plastic sandwich bag, “G’day Miss. Breakfast for ya, hope you enjoy it.”  I take my seat and stare out the window, determined to make the most out of today.

Tim and Tony are our guides for the day.   They are chipper and good hearted but the crowd is not with them at the moment.  It is too early to be social.

7:30 AM - “These are desert oak trees.  They are magnificent and they are magical they are,” Tony tells us with a tone of admiration.

9:30 AM- Our first stop is at a site of 30,000-year-old sand dunes.  Before we get off the bus, Tony tells us,  “we will stop here for ten minutes and then we will leave.  I hope you will be with us when I take off.”

9:45 AM- Back on the bus, he continues with his monologue.  “The aboriginals have some unusual beliefs. But I think all cultures do.  Look at us; we have a story that someone walked on water.  That’s a wacky story isn’t it, mate?”

10:00 AM- Tony reminds us, “You need to drink water all day.  Lots of it.  But don’t tap your water at the taps in the park.  It tastes like shit.”

10:30 AM- The scenery doesn’t change but it is mesmerizing. The subtle tints of celery colored grass against the intense hue of the rusty sand distract me with pleasure.

11:00 AM- Tony’s accent is so different from mine that I can’t understand much of what he says which is unfortunate because he just told us to be very careful about encounters with some sort of creature. “It’s a dangerous bugger”, he emphasizes.  He continues with another important warning.  “Keep your eye out for  …(?)  They can get nasty.  We aren’t seeing as many as we normally do but watch out for them”.

Noon: “3 minutes and 7 seconds until we get our first sighting of the rock.  Get ready. Get your cameras out.” As we get even closer, he tells is to look to the right so we all strain our necks in compliance and anticipation.  Then he laughs, “Ha, ha. I’m joking; it’s on the left.

He then continues with more warnings of who or what could harm us today, “It’s important to stay on the paths for one reason, snakes.  We have the deadliest snakes in the world.  If you come across one, stay still. You move quickly and they feel threatened.  99.9% of the time, they will just slither by.  If you get bit today, tell us what it looked like and we can tell if that was a venomous snake or not.” Then he laughs.

“Camels can be dangerous too.  So don’t pet one if you see one. And no matter what, don’t squeal like a Shelia.”

“Have a lolly, mate,” Tim offers as he strolls down the aisle of the bus.

12:05 The rock comes in our view and we jump up from our seats and bump into each other as we all attempt to capture that award-winning photo of this beauty.

12:15 PM There is an air of superiority from this massive rock that has been here longer than mankind.  Its massive presence demands our respect.  It is so large that I cannot get a complete sense of its size.  We drive around but the access roads are purposely limited to keep us, the tourists, away.  It does not belong to us and so our boundaries are clearly defined. That being said, it will take four hours for us to see all that we are allowed to see.

Clearly laid out, well maintained pathways make it easy to explore and understand the magnificent of this rock.  Its history is steeped in mythology and practices that are foreign to me.

1:00PM- every angle, every nook and cranny catches my attention.  There are cracks and caves and crevasses, thousands of years old. And while the rock holds my attention, I am also lured into observing the desert, this lush desert that has more lush green plant life that I have ever seen.  There is mint and spearmint and celery colored grasses. There are blue green bushes and dark green trees.  There are lime colored leaves and sea green vines.  And while others are listening to tony, I wander off just to the perimeter of the pathway and reach out and touch all 50 shades of green in hopes that my hands will become permanently indelible with these wonderful hues.

I am so grateful for my fly net.  This thin membrane of netting is exactly what I needed to keep these pesty flies from running my day.’

2:00 PM- Years ago, my mother showed me a photo of her as she was painting with one of the local Aboriginal artist. This woman was wearing nothing more than a sarong around her ample belly.  Her long, bare breasts  adored  paintings of the moon and the stars.  My mother  wore long sleeves, long pants, a wide brimmed hat with a fly net.  I made a snide comment and told her she looked ridiculous, so American.  She ignored me and commented on the woman’s attire. “Ridiculous, ridiculous, my mother responded with a tone of indignation, “she let someone paint all over her breast.”

At this moment, I take a look at me.  I am wearing long pants and long sleeves on this very hot day.  I have a hat with a mosquito net and I slowly realize that I have become my mother.  In desperation, I look around for someone, anyone who can paint the moon and the stars and the sun on my breasts.

3:00 PM- Suntan lotion and salty sweat drip into my eyes.  I have to keep one eye closed and squint with the other as I gingerly make my way down the rocky trail, back to the bus.

3:15 PM- The flies are a menace. I am so grateful for this unflattering net.

3:300 PM- It’s hot, draining hot. Tim wants us to get off the bus and see a cave and I want to stay on the bus and crank up the air conditioning.

4:00PM- We walk pass the Cave of Women, a sacred place of fertility.  We are not allowed to take photos and we must walk in silence.  Aboriginal women came here to pray and fix their problems of infertility.

500PM- Tim tells us we are going to walk to the waterfalls, “Like no other waterfall you have ever seen before, “ he tells us.  And he is right because this waterfall has been dry for a long, long time.  “Back in its day, this was the prime source of water but that was hundreds of years ago.

Then he asks, “Now, does anyone want to see an aerial view of the rock?”  We all eagerly say yes.  “Then go on Google Earth when you get make to your hotels and you will see a beautiful view.”  He laughs and leads us on the next site.

5:30PM- We take a drive around the perimeter of the entire rock.  I try to video the  ride but my hand gets tired of holding the camera.  And I realize I am not in the moment as I try to capture the moment.  I put my camera away and just sit back and become mesmerized by the size of this rock.  It is larger than life.

5:45 PM- All day long we have been instructed to drink lots and lots of water.  We complied as we are sweating profusely. But just now we are given a toilet stop break and told to make the best of it.  “We won’t see another toilet until 10 o’clock tonight”, Tim warns us.

6:00PM- We drive to the sunset viewing parking lot.  There is a specific lot for the sunrise and then one for the sunset. I become concerned that we are at the wrong lot because the sun is setting away from the rock.  Tony tells me that we have not come to watch the sun set but rather to see how the sun changes the color of the rock as it sets.  Then he hands me a glass of champagne and a chair and I settle in for the light show. 

Most of the group sits together but I go off a little way to what I think is a better view.  A woman from Sydney comes over and sits next to me.  She is a dentist who travels to different schools in the country.  Right now, she is spending a month in Alice Springs, offering services to aboriginal kids.  “They are very different. They have a different concept about money.  It isn’t important to them.” She tells me. 

“What is important to them?” I want to know.

“Their families and being together and being outdoors. They love to be outdoors”, she nods her head as she replies.

That statement answers my questions I have had since I arrived in Darwin.  In Darwin and now in Alice Springs, I have only seen them in packs of people, of all ages, gathered outside on the streets and in parks, just sitting and chatting with each other.

Every five minutes I take a photo of the rock.  As I watch the sun go down, I don’t see any differences in coloring.  But when I go back and look at my photos, I see dramatic variations.

7:00 PM- Tony has gathered up everyone chair but ours.  My dentist friend tells me that we should return ours as well.  “No”, I tell her. “He will come get them when it is absolutely necessary.  Don’t surrounded a moment of this time to view the rock.  I may never be here again.”  She is relieved to have a defiant partner with her so she just sits back and clicks another photo.

7:15 PM_- “OK ladies, you are the last ones, come on, I need your chairs.”  I turn around and look and most of our group is back on the bus.  And that is when I notice the sunset, the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen.  It is blue and gold and it takes up the entire sky.  Now I turn to the rock again and it too is now covered in these magnificent hues.  I begin to hyperventilate in excitement and I can’t snap enough photos of this moment.  Tony comes back to me and tells me to hurry up and get on the bus because he wants to take me to one more place before the sun sets.  At that moment, I believe him.  But once inside the bus I realize he has only said this to get me on the bus quickly.  Within minutes, the sun is gone and everything is black, black, black.  Nothing more is visible outside my window.

7:20PM-  “OK people, we have a long ride ahead of us.  Sit back and take a nap.  If we hit anything don’t worry, it’s just a kangaroo, that’s all. No need to worry”.   And for one fleeting moment, I think to myself, “I hope we hit a kangaroo, I’ve never seen a kangaroo in the wild.”

10:00 PM- I look out the window and see nothing. There are no cars on the road.  There are no streetlights and there are no houses for hundreds of miles.  We are the only ones and the only light is coming from our dim headlights.  It is dark, very dark.

12:30AM- The bus pulls up to my hotel.  I gather my things and waddle down the aisle.  Most people are asleep. Tony bids me goodbye and the doorman greets me as I stumble off the bus.

“Welcome home, did you have a good day”, he cheerfully asks?

“Yes, yes I did and now I am very tired.”

Accepting Gifts- China 2012

Accepting Gifts
SIAS University
Henan Province, China
Spring 2012


The phone rings.  It is  one of my students. Usually, I can understand her accent but something is off in our communication today. I can’t understand her and she doesn’t understand me. After a few minutes I am able to determine that she wants to come over to talk to me, immediately. I tell her I have an appointment with another student in a few minutes and that I will call her when we finish and then she can come over.

“Ok, ok, just one thing please, what is your room number?” And then she hangs up. Two minutes later she is at my door, handing me a large grapefruit. She fights back near tears and desperately whispers that she has to talk to me.

We sit down and she tells me that her father died last year. So her friends introduced her to a boy who lost his mother recently. And now the boy wants her to be his girlfriend and she doesn’t want a boyfriend. To make matters worse, this afternoon he  gave her a gift: a large grapefruit and she accepted it which means she is interested in him. She didn’t want to take it because she doesn’t want a boyfriend. But she didn’t want to hurt his feelings because his mother just died and she is afraid of him. He is too aggressive for her and he told her that they should date while they are in college and if things don’t work out after she graduates from college, they could break up.

She feels out of control. Now she doesn’t know what to do and to make matters worse, she is lugging around this huge grapefruit and she just wants to get rid of it as the first step in getting rid of him.

“I cannot take it back to my dorm room”, she shamefully tells me. She doesn’t want anyone to see that she accepted a gift from a boy. So I have the grapefruit now. And I am too jaded from my long experience with high school students to comprehend the simplicity of her dilemma. She is trembling with fear and regret for taking the grapefruit. She has overstepped a cultural line that I don’t fully understand.

Tea Bitches- Parts I, II and III

Beijing, China

February 2012

The Tea Bitches: Part I

 Leaving the walls of the Forbidden City, I was approached by two women in their late thirties. 

 "Hello, Hello, You speak English, I speak Chinese.  Ha, ha, we walk with you and practice our English." She is so cheery and pleasant.

When I am in Asia, this is a request that is made of me a hundred times over.  I never say no but it is tiring to be interviewed by these people.  And it is equally hard to be polite when they distract me from my original plans.  So these two women, Jen and Tan, tagged along and asked me the same damn questions I am always asked. “You from America? You have husband? You have children?  Where your family?"

After about a half hour, Jen, asked me if I wanted to join them for a cup of tea, "It very cold today. Tea hot, good for you.  Good for you digestive system." It was cold and I was tired so I said yes and off we went to a nearby tea house. Jen seemed to know everyone in the place and they seemed to know her. We got a private room and Jen asked me what kind of tea I liked.  I asked to look at a menu and reached for the one on the table but Jen grabbed the menu and abruptly said, "No, this not ours.  This something different." She handed me a different menu and suggested that we try a variety of teas.  So a waitress in her 20s can in and poured us six different cups of tea and all of them were great.

Then the waitress came in and mentioned something about my credit card and handed me the bill.  I was a little confused but noticed that the second woman, Tan, looked away, almost in shame and then I knew something was up.  I looked at the bill and it was over $300.  Jen told me I could put this bill on my credit card.  I protested and said that this was outrageous but then Jen pulled out that original menu and I saw that all of the prices were grossly inflated. The three of them worked in unison on this scheme and I realized I was not going to get out without paying some sort of hefty price.  Then I heard the gurgle of the boiling tea pot.  Jen was holding a pot of hot water, standing right beside me.  I didn't think she would throw it on me.  But then I also didn't think she would try to take me for my money.  So I just angrily decided to cut my losses and get out unhurt.  There were three of them.  Now, they were all talking to each other only in Chinese and the waitress was growing impatient.

"I don't have my credit card with me.  I don't have enough money to pay for this." I tell them without confidence. "That OK", Jen says, "we pay half and you pay half.  You pay more because you college professor and we just lowly kindergarten teachers".  So they forked over about a third of the cost.  I paid the equivalent of about $200 and we quickly left after that.  Once outside, Jen asked if there was anywhere I wanted to go next.  I told her I had to leave right away; I wanted to get away from her.  She seemed surprised, but said goodbye.  I went back to my hotel, seething with anger.  When I was in the midst of the confrontation at the tea house, I just thought that I had to get out unhurt.  But now that I was away from them and safe, I was so angry with them and with myself.  How did I let this situation get so out of hand?  And when I reflect back, was I being cowardly or prudent?

The Tea Bitches: Part II

I was up all night, so angry that I couldn't sleep.  So I decided that I would go to the police station in the morning and file a complaint.  I was not going to leave Beijing until some sort of justice had been served.

I was up, bright and early by 7AM.  It was till a little dark outside but I didn't care. I went down to the front desk and asked the staff member if she would call the police for me.

"No, I can’t" she tells me.

"Why not?"

“I don't know the number".

"Can't we look it up?"

 "I don't know how to do that"

"Well, we can look it up on the Internet," I suggested with a little tone.

"No, the Internet is broken for three days now."

"No it isn't. I used it last night and your system is on right now.  Can’t you look up the number for me?"  I am determined that she is going to help me.

"No, the police will do nothing about it.  It happens all the time.  Last week a lady lost $500.  Police can’t do anything because they didn't see it."

Finally, she relented and drew a map of where she thought the local police station is so I set out on my own to find the police.  But that was a wasted effort because I found nothing that remotely resembled a police station.  So I came back to my hotel in defeat but more determined that the staff woman was going to help me.

I implored her to help me but she was unmoving in her steadfast position that the police would do nothing. 

"Get your manager," I demanded. 

So she walked to the back room. When she returned, she told me that the manager was not going to come out because the police can do nothing.  Now I was furious.  In my loud voice, so that the manger could hear, I told her that she had a responsibility to help her guests and she should not he harboring criminals.   Then the manger appeared.  She said they had a night watchman who helped out the lady who lost the $500.  He wrote something on a piece of paper and told the woman to take it back to the shop and she got half of her money back.  The manager called the night watchman at home and he dictated something to her. She wrote it down, told me to go to the tea house right away and see if I could get some of my money back.  I asked her twice what was written on the note but both times, she just ignored my question.

So with note in hand, I marched off to the tea house with anger and determination.  As I opened the door I was greeted by a pleasant young woman and I immediately stepped in to my crazy mood.  I showed her the note and yelled that I demanded all of my money back.  She jumped in fear and I felt empowered.  She immediately called her boss and as she was talking to this woman, I was yelling in the background, "Tell her I am not leaving until I get my money."  I was immediately offered half of what I paid yesterday.  "No," I barked back loudly, “I am not leaving until I get all of it."

Just then he door opens up and in walks the waitress from yesterday.  She begins to greet me but then she realizes who I am.  Her coworkers call to her in Chinese to give her a heads up that a crazed lady is in their midst. She quickly throws out an offer for a 75% return on my money.

"No, I want it all.  I have already called the police and I called the US Embassy and I filed out a report on you."  That seemed to get her attention. "You no go to the police for this."

Then I noticed a police officer outside so I ran to get him.   He directed me to go to Tiananmen Square to get police help.  I came back in a police car and three police officers and I left with all of my money.

Tea Bitches: PART III

It is several days later and I am now comfortable walking about Beijing without getting lost.  Things are looking familiar to me.  I am beginning to recognize some of the neighbors.   I am now returning to my hotel at dusk.  It is really cold and windy.  Everyone is bundled up.  I notice a woman waving to me.  She is wearing a big hat and scarf so I don’t recognize her.  But I wave back.

As I get closer I hear, “Hello, remember me.  I Jenny”, she says so cheerfully, so full of goodwill.

“Jenny, Jenny”, I think, “who is jenny”.  Then I get a good look at her.  She is the tea bitch, the kindergarten teacher who took me to the tea house a few days ago. She has tracked me down and now she is standing right in front of me, happy as can be to see me, acting as if long lost friends have reunited.

Anger rages through me and I have an urge to punch her.  But I don’t.  I am too stunned to see her and I am shocked by her audacity to speak to me with such a pleasant tone.

“Hello. How you.  Hey, we no get our money back at tea house”.  She says and then points to her friend, Tan, who sheepishly nods in agreement.

 “You help us?” she asks with a tone of sincerity, as if now we were comrades against the immortality of the waitresses at the tea house.

“What”, I shout in complete astonishment.

“Yea, they say you take all the money.  They say we get the money from you. We give lot of money but they not give it back. Can we have money”?

My anger starts on my toes and run through every pore in my body.  I am trembling in so anger that I think I am going to throw up. “Are you fucking kidding me?  Get the fuck away from me you thieves.  Fuck you.” I am shouting as loud as I can and the two of them jump back in fear.  They huddle together.

“We need our money.  We have no money”, she pleads with a sad voice of desperation.

“Get the fuck away from me.  Who the hell do you think you are? Get the fuck away from me”, I yell with great confidence and satisfaction.

People are passing us and watching.  No one stops or tries to establish eye contact. But everyone now walks backwards to watch our interactions.

I take a few steps towards the two of them who have now become one big lump of huddled, trembling cowards.  I point at them, “Get the fuck away from me before I call the police. Get away, you thieves.”

They take off, not quite running but they are scurrying.  As they make their way down the alleyway, I am shouting, “Watch your purses, everyone, these two women are thieves.  They are thieves.  They will steal from you.”

Now, everyone in the alleyway has stopped to watch the show. As my volume got louder, their pace got quicker.  Soon they were out of my sight.

Back in my hotel, I go to the bar and have a beer in celebration of yet another victory against crime and injustice.  But as I am taking my last sip, a thought crosses my mind.  “What if they come back here with friends and attack me.  Should I change my hotel?”  I only had one more day in Beijing.  I have tentative plans to go to an evening concert.  I decide to lay low for the evening and stay in my hotel. I leave town the next day, thankful to put this incident behind me.

The Women's Group- Haiti

THE WOMEN’S GROUP- Jacmel, Haiti- Summer of 2013

We run a women’s group for the local women. Anywhere from 20 to 40 women show up every day. Alexandra and Sophianna are assigned to work with me. We are scheduled to run the group from 10 to noon every day.  But they show up at 830 along with the camp children.  They sit under the tree, in the shade, with the other adults who are waiting for the medical clinic.

At ten we go in to our small, musty, hot room and everyone finds some place to sit.  The opportunity to sit in a room with more breeze than the streets is a welcomed relief to them.  And other then church, there is really no other place to congregate.  However, I don’t remember seeing any of them at the Salvation Army church service on Sunday. So this is their only social network.

We start with a prayer. Sonia leads us with her booming voice.  She silences everyone.  We bow our heads and they recite a few prayers.  Then the singing begins.  They have one song in particular that just resonates with me.  I don’t understand the words but the tone is so sweet, so hopeful that I usually sit and hold back tears.  I am saddened by all of their troubles and wonder what are their hopes in their world of so much despair.

After prayer, we move on to a lecture run by Alexandra, a bright, young woman filled with confidence, poise and personality.  She needs a mentor because she has so much potential for her future.

She picks a topic and reads from a printout she retrieved from the internet. She doesn’t fully understand what she is reading but she speaks with such authority that everything she says sounds as if it is the absolute truth. So I was in a dilemma as to what to do when she told the group that alcohol consumption causes cancer.

When she told the group that you will not get cancer if you eat right, exercise, regularly and minimize you alcohol consumption, I was torn.  I didn’t want to jump in and shake her confidence. But bad information is just as dangerous as no information.  So I decided to tell her about my mother who lived a life of moderation and still got cancer.  I put a twist on my story:  I indicated that my mother was negligent in recognizing the early signs of cancer.

I think it surprised the women that I, a white woman, could also suffer heart break.

They shoot all sorts of questions at me:

“Can you get cancer in the heart?”

“What does it look like?”

“What do you do when you have cancer?”

“What do you do if you can’t afford a doctor?”

“Does it hurt?”

“What foods do you have to eat when you have cancer?”

“Can you get cancer from your father if he had it?”

I start talking about breast cancer and the importance of self-examinations.  Instantly, everyone started shouting out that they have lumps and hard spots all over their breast, torso and arm pits.  They want me to touch all of these spots. I ask them if they wanted me to get the nurse to show them how to do self-examination and they all cheered.

So I go to Beth, our nurse volunteer, but she is busy with a very sick infant who is dehydrated and lifeless.  The mother is also dehydrated and not producing any milk.  Needless to say, Beth is very busy.

So I go back to the group and tell them we will have to wait for a few minutes.  So we resort to singing and dancing as a way to pass the time. No one is shy.  Women get up individually and in pairs and dance as everyone sings along.

After our lecture we move on at a project.  The first project: purses.  When I was unpacking the barrels of supplies a few days ago, I discovered sixty pieces of upholstery fabric samples from Lazy Boy.  Each pattern was more garish than the last one.  I remember thinking “who packed this shit and what are we going to do with it.”  Then as I stared at all this ugliness, a thought occurred to me.  We could make purses.  I ask Adeline, our cook, if she could sew.  "Oui", she can so I gave her several pieces of cloth and asked her if she can make a purse with all this ugly fabric.  She is delighted to be asked.  So I equip her with the thread, needles and ribbon for the handles.  Off she goes and she comes back the next day with a great looking, sturdy purse.  She is very proud of herself and I am pleasantly surprised at how great the purse looks.

So now I am distributing this ugly fabric to the rest of the women and they are pushing and shoving.  Everyone is hell bent to get as much fabric as possible.  I tell everyone to take just two pieces but some women have taken 8 pieces and others only have 1 piece. I go to each woman individually and ask her to surrender the excess.  Every one of them lies to me.  I stand there and reach behind their backs and retrieve these ugly swatches of fabric.

Now everyone has two pieces but most of them do not have two matching pieces.  This does not seem to matter to any of them.  They are just thankful to have enough fabric.

We distribute needles and tell everyone that they have to return the needles.  But at the end of the class, only four needles are returned to us. But every woman leaves with a new bag that is a source of pride for all of them.

The next day we are going to crochet.  But before we hand out materials I give a little speech about honesty, sharing and hoarding.  Everyone agrees to play nice.  We don’t have enough crochet hooks because it appears as if one of our packets of crochet hooks were stolen yesterday.

A woman tells me she knows where to buy these hooks for only 50 cents apiece.  In front of the entire group, she volunteers to get them for us.  We clap for her. In front of the entire group, I praise her for her generous effort, and then I do the math in front of everyone.  If I give her $10, she should come back with 20 needles, just enough for everyone in the class to have a hook.  I also write out exactly what we expect to receive from her.  Feeling confident that I covered my entire basis, I leave camp that day thinking that the women are going to learn a new skill tomorrow, something that they will carry through life because I am going to let them keep the crochet needles. They can begin to make things, sell them and support their families with some degree of modest income.

But what a surprise!  I got taken.  She arrived with only 10 hooks and told us that the price had gone up.  This is all she could buy with the $10.  Now we don’t have enough for everyone so everyone is going to have to pair up and take turns watching each other.

I am really annoyed. I recognize that poverty and self-perseveration can challenge anyone’s ethics.  I am really more disappointed in my own naiveté than annoyed by her cunning behavior.

For at least the first three days we hold on tightly to these crochet hooks.  We lock them up at night. Then the next day, two are missing.  Then the next day, some the stolen needles show up. 

 “You gave them to us last year” is the response we get when we ask the women, “Where did you get these crochet hooks?”

A mother daughter team comes every day.  They sit together and work in unison to hoard everything we give out.  They take more than their share and then tell me, “No get Madame.”  This daughter asked me repeatedly for my shoes.  The translator tells her that I need them.  These are the only pair of shoes I brought with me.  She suggests that I go buy another pair and give these shoes to her.

We discourage women from bringing their children to our meetings.  But their kids come along regardless.  The women tell us that they cannot leave the children alone.  But this just isn’t true.  Small children roam the streets all day long.  No one attends to them.  The truth of the matter is the women know we will feed their children.  So some mothers come in with three or four children who sit quietly in the corner, waiting for their small bowl of rice, beans and sardines.

Two older women sit in the back, almost invisible to the rest of us.  The do not add to the conversation.  But they seem to enjoy every craft project.  They work with a steadfast focus regardless of their poor vision and twisted arthritic fingers.

When they leave each day and thank me, “Merci Madame.”  Sometimes they kiss me on the cheek.  Today, as they left, they both said “thank you, Madame” and giggled with delight at their English skills.

The young women come to socialize.  They laugh and call to each other.  They can be disruptive and speak out regardless of who may be presenting a topic or demonstrating a skill.

With the first whiff of lunch, more all of their children and grandchild appear out of nowhere.  Lucien must let them in along with the two cooks who bring in the buckets of food.  Now, there are an extra  half dozen or more toddlers, small boys and other extraneous people who are with us, in hopes of a free handout. 

The cook’s daughter is in the women’s group.  She runs back and forth from here to her mother’s house as the lunch hour approaches.  She finds the spoons.  Then she helps serve the food.  She stops for a short break and quickly eats a bowl and then scurries around and picks up everyone’s dirty bowls.  Feeding all of us is a family effort.

Some of the women arrive late, leave for a while and roam back in when the food is ready.  If something was given out while they were gone, they can become indignant if they did not get the free sample of lotion or the spool of thread or the bar of soap.

But everyone is here for lunch.  They also make sure they are here for a cup of cool water.  But then these same women just don’t want to leave at the end of the day.  They hang around and chat up the translators.  They are usually the last to leave the compound, showing no interest in returning to their mundane life and homes across the street.

For more stories about my summer in Haiti, go to: bridgetkellyinhaiti.blogspot.com