Speaking on Our Thoughts...

The Haitian Chronicles, Day 5

i'm home. well...almost.

Miami's airport is home, for the next few hours at least, but i am back in the U. S. of A. and so that counts a lot toward the prospect of seeing my own bed tonight, even if it seems i will be on one of the last planes leaving the southeast coast. by the time i'll arrive, today will be becoming tomorrow, and i will go back to awakening in the mornings, taking my children to school, and working on the weaving of dreams that i hope will build walls onto the foundation of faith i have been laboring on for years.

fortunately, i do not have to go it alone. i've been blessed with a partner in this passion, and a group of friends and colleagues who believe, as i do, that we can do all things, but fail. and so we labor on in good spirit, because we have each other to lean on. that's rare, i know. and for this, i am beyond thankful, beyond grateful. i have learned a message that has been handed down to human beings from the moment we began to learn to lean on one another. i think the Hebrew Bible sums it up quite well with the scripture that reminds us all, from any and all faiths, that in life, as in farming, "the harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few."

throughout the course of the journey of art (and ART) i have been on in my relatively short existence, i've learned that you have to truly pick your friends and associates like you pick your fruit. everyone cannot see the same vision--nor should they! each of us has a dream, and when we share it, there are those who will balk at it; others who may turn up their noses; some who will attempt to be an obstacle; and others who just will never get it. then there are those who can assist us in reaching our dreams, and they don't all fit neatly into packages either. they are as diverse as those who would steer us from the path, each serving their own unique purpose: the ones who say they cannot offer any help, but will step of your way and not be a deterrent or a nay-sayer; the few who will offer to do what they can, as they can, to assist you along the way; the still fewer in number who will see the similarities in their dreams and yours and go with you as far as they can; and the most elite group, smallest in number, but largest in possession of the raw and awesome power to snatch a dream from the mist of the subconscious mind and give it solid shape and form:

the ride or die.

i've got some solid folks in all those categories, especially the last one, and that's why i believe things are manifesting as they have over the last few years like never before in my life. sure, i've been on television since my late teen years, in movies and newspapers and radio signals since my twenties, in national media in my 30s and help to build institutions in my--well, in my current time. but only now have i come to realize that the greatest gift in life has been those few, those magical few, in whose eyes i gaze and find a bottomless, enduring, nurturing source of Possibility. that kind of shared focus, support, and power, can help you tear down walls and build them again anew, anywhere, at anytime, with anything.

a few minutes ago, i was reflecting on my trip to Haiti and the incredible and inspirational souls i encountered young and old.  i was talking to my wife about everything we could do to increase our outreach when i got home. the charger on her battery died, and while i was waiting on her to plug and charge, i checked a stack of visual voice mails that had come in on the trusty iphone while i was out of the country and out of cell signal range. there were mostly great messages, well wishes, some business calls.  there was only one disturbing one, from a theater vendor i used over a year ago. 

it pissed me off. at least, for a minute.

it pissed me off, because of the nature of the business. business my entire staff worked to square away for months to no avail. nothing huge, but something major enough to constitute the headaches of accommodation that come when people don't follow simple instructions, then issue blame, rage, and even defamation toward you for their own lack of follow through. i spare details in matters like these because i, just frankly, don't believe in a whole lot of shit icing on top of bullshit cake. just as i'm honest enough to say that i was highly offended by the threatening tone of the voicemail, i'm also honest enough to say that i almost phoned in a provocative response just to invite the "next level" of engagement, only because of my confidence in my people doing the right thing, as we always strive to do. then i realized something.

this was a distraction. a meaningless distraction.

i've lived long enough to know that whenever meaningless distractions come up in your life, it means that you are on the cusp of something major occurring, a fact i had to remind myself of. and i reflected on where i've been and what i've seen, who i've met and the miracles i've seen happen on a global scale. not to mention the incredible things that live on the horizon of tomorrow. and i decide not to get caught up in the drama and engage the small stuff. i sucked up my normal warrior spirit, took a deep yoga breath, imagined peace as my intention, and wrote an email that should resolve the situation amicably. then turned my attention, briefly, to an even more meaningless distraction.

the NCAA Championship game was on TV.

HALF-TIME/DOUBLE TIME

i was excited for Butler as the half ended and they were totally handling Duke. i'm not a Butler or a Duke fan. i went to Tennessee State and if anything, that's the only team i'd go crazy over in a Basketball tournament. but i was rooting for the underdog, because i know how that is.  after being in the airport for going on 7 hours, the game was a welcome distraction. glancing at my cellphone, i noted the time, 10:28. man, time has flown, i thought. soon it'll be time to board and---waitamint! it's TEN twenty-eight, not NINE. my plane leaves at 10:45!! what the...

throwing everything in the backpack, i sprinted down the concourse, in time to be one of the last people on the plane. talk about a beating heart. Lord. as it happened, one of the exit row seats was clear, and i ended up having a valuable commodity for me: leg room! i placed my bag in the overhead compartment, and stretched back for the flight home. the couple behind me called out my name, and i turned and recognized them as the parents of a college buddy. they had been on a cruise out of Miami and were headed home. we caught up about a few things Nashville, and TSU Football, and the arts, before the plane took off.

i unzipped my fleece top, and took a long look down at the picture of the Gradec kids that had been iron-transferred onto my shirt by Yonel and Pastor Wilson, given to us in thanks for supporting them. i reflected on the day: a morning trip to the US Embassy to get information on getting Yonel a Visa to come to college and Pastor Wilson one to visit; bumpy roads to make it to the airport; the swarm of valets attempting to grab our bags for tips; more than a few security checks, the last of which broke a stem on the handmade kite i proudly still had in my possession; the conversations held in the waiting area of the airport with so many different kinds of people who were returning home from helping in the various ways they came to. 

for some reason, i could not erase the memory of the kids. i got a Facebook notification on my phone, just as the announcement to shut off all electrical devices came over the PA system, from Yonel (where in the world did that cat find a computer at that time of night??) saying thanks for coming and letting me know that several of the kids were with him and they were all crying because they missed me. i packed away the phone, took a deep breath, and looked out the window as the giant spotlights that lit the runway gave way to the countless symmetrical dots that made up the night scape of Miami from above.

and i wept.

i wept in remembrance of those tiny sweet faces who bombarded me with unsolicited love and adoration. i wept in thanksgiving for the gift i had been given; i wept in praise to a God and Ancestors who blessed me with a working body, a functional mind, and a hopeful spirit. i wept in amazement at the intense happiness i saw in the hearts of children i thought to be poor when i first arrived in Haiti.  i wept in the realization that they were, indeed, the wealthy ones, for they possessed within them that which many of us lose in the transition from childhood to adults. it is taken away from us somehow by material pursuits, the imposition of parental failed dreams and expectations imposed upon us for a future defined more by titles and accolades than actual works. 

they were rich with joy. pure, unadulterated joy.

i found myself jealous of them, so i made a little promise to myself: to embrace the things that bring me joy even more, and to never hesitate when given the opportunity to share that joy with another person, not by preaching or by postulating, but by serving. that thought gave pause to my tears, and allowed to get myself together enough to write and think about things present and future. seed planted. now it's time to watch it grow.

Chapter 4 of The Haitian Chronicles...

this morning was Easter Sunday, but there were no Giant Rabbits bouncing around here hiding colored eggs; no other remnants of the pagan fertility rituals long since faded and folded into the commercialized celebration of new  fashion, candy, and greeting cards that buoy the Spring financial quarter at a time we call Easter. make no mistake.

this was Resurrection Sunday.

i was raised in the Baptist Church, so i've been used to hearing preachers get stuck in the celebratory segment of the 4 point homiletics of a sermon and take it right "to the cross." you know what i speak of, i'm sure: "He laid in the tomb all night Friday night; all night Saturday night; but then...early...Early...EARRRRLY Sunday Morning, he got UP..." 

it was exactly the remembrance of that feat that resurrected me from my slumber today.  i figured if the Son could get up from Death with the Sun, then i could roll out of bed, even if it was before the Sun itself rose.

church starts early around here.

i was up when the sky was dark, and i was still running behind. we were all scheduled to leave at 6 a.m. because church started at 7.  Dwayne had been honored to have been asked to preach (with Yonel as an interpreter), and i was going to sing the pre-sermon song. how about that? we had laid out some linen outfits the night before, and while i was asleep, Pastor Wilson and his wife had managed to locate an iron and press and hang our clothing. Dwayne sported the white island look. i rocked the tan. we got to church, and all of the people of the island were dressed in African-American style church clothes.

on the way, i made an observation. with all the stereotypes that are cast upon this wonderful island--Voodoo (Vodun) Priests, The Pat Robertson Paranoia (there was a pact made with the Devil to free the island from the French, etc.)--i have to say, i don't know how that bullshit lives in this day and age. frankly, i've been wondering if there is anyone around here who does NOT go to church, religiously.

there are churches everywhere, particularly at the end of our block. i know the worship leader's voice well, although we have not met personally, thanks to his penchant to sing one song, with one chorus, repeatedly, for up to 30 minutes at a time, his voice booming through the PA system and the churches open walls. as if that were not enough, the loudspeaker that is positioned on top of the remains of the roof and pointed directly at the side of the tent where my head rests ensures the possibility of a Post Traumatic Stress episode triggered by certain...unforgettable praise and worship songs.

in addition to that church, which is capable of pulling up 6-8 hour worship services at random moments, there are many along the road we travel to go to worship this morning. people are dressed in their Sunday best and carry their bibles. we pick up two elderly church members on the way and give them a ride through the steep hills and sharp curves that lead us to the earthquake-gutted frame that still is the Church of Eden.

as we arrive, we are greeted by ushers, associate ministers in suits, and worshippers dressed like back home. we are seated in the front row and one of the ministers is leading the song portion of the service. Yanel interprets, but really, there is no need. it is obvious who planted this church here. from the moment i heard the repetition, the call for people to say "Amen" and "Hallelujah," and the structure of the prayer and call and response, i instantly felt at home.

these were Baptist folk.

i followed along with the service just like i've done all my life, even catching the tune of some of those familiar Baptist Hymns. when it was Sermon time, i got up and sang "Precious Lord." i wondered if Yonel should interpret, but he told me just to sing, so i did. it was graciously received, even though there were some flat looks on a few faces. i closed my eyes and didn't judge. they gave me good applause, which to me, belonged to God.

Dwayne preached a message of responsibility for the fellow man. he was nowhere near as heavy handed as so many traditional missionaries who come to places like these to proselytize and prod, coerce and convict, psyching souls into the synchronous sycophancy that assuages their spiritually spawned necessity for the subjugation of other spirits. 

his message was simple: walk the faith, and help rebuild. i love it. 

after the service, people were friendly and dubbed me the "artist." they said i sounded like a "professional voice." i don't know if i was that great or if there aren't that many guest singers, but i was humbled nonetheless.

after church, we came back to the orphanage, cleared out some more spaces, then we went toward downtown Port-Au-Prince to view the area. every few buildings were collapsed, and we learned that in several places, especially where the entire frames of buildings went flat, instead of search and rescue, the operation was bulldozer and cover. those remains won't be found for years. 

the downtown was bustling though, and we met a group of documentary filmmakers from Chicago. it was cool to catch up and talk about different approaches to outreach.  Dwayne bought fresh chicken for the kids (shut up black folk, chicken is an extra thing around here) and a special meal was prepared. the kids did their normal setup and clean up. i was able to get a video of them preparing themselves for the meal. hopefully i can get it posted soon.

we started to wind down and enjoy the last major hours we are spending here. i'm already starting to miss the kids. once we got the 'net up, Dwayne pulled up a live streaming service from his church in Memphis. he got a text message sent from Yonel's phone to the Pastor's assistant and in moments, he gave us a shout out in the tent. everyone got a kick out of that. technology. gotta love it.

it's obvious that a difference has been made here. just a few minutes ago, we noticed a growing number of people outside the tent we're in, and some children we haven't seen before.  apparently, the word has gotten out, and people are coming here for shelter. it's all good. today we've had popcorn, peanut butter and crackers, and Celine Dion playing on a rigged up television with an analog signal spotting in and out of it.  the kids sang songs in the darkness, and just a few moments ago, the Wilsons and Yonel came in to offer us prayers and good wishes.  

after the prayer and conversation, the women came in with a mound of crumbled looking bread. it was a box cake Dwayne gave to Yonel. his birthday is coming, and he has never had a cake in his 25 years. the only problem is that here, cooking is done over charred wood that resembles charcoal. how do you cook a cake on that? i gave the good old "campfire cake" analogy, but somehow, the cake still ended up crumbling to pieces. never mind that, we assured the ladies. even though you could taste a slight wood chip flavor in the chocolate, the icing would fix that. i seized the cake, dwayne seized the icing, and after a few minutes, not only did it look good, but it was a hit. who woulda thunk it.

it's official now. the sadness is starting to settle in. looking out the dimly lit tent doorway, i miss seeing the shadows of the children stacked outside on a rickety mattress. i have to remember that they are still out there, only now they are across the yard and down the little hill on the new landing, sleeping peacefully in a covered shelter, with an active mosquito net and all. that gives me a sense of relief. only now, i don't know what i'll do when i don't hear their laughter in the mornings and their soft songs in the darkness for the first day.  i'll take refuge in the familial sounds of my own clan i am incomplete without, until the day i can return here and elsewhere, and do my best to give a little more of my self to help make someone else's path a little easier to follow.

The Haitian Chronicles, Chapter 3

there is a dented-up, broken down truck in the front yard. i'm sorry, in the front dirt and gravel space that constitutes a yard in this neighborhood. the front of the truck has a hood held in place by a hinge--no matter, it hasn't moved in God knows how long. the bed of the truck is covered by its original plastic liner, turned upside down, hoisted high above the roof line on its four corners by a welded scrap metal frame, providing a cover for the flatbed. benches made of recycled wood held in place by more rusted metal framing line the back of the truck. people once sat stacked one upon another in this rustbucket runabout during the days it was used as one of countless cabs that battle for room daily on these broken roads. nowadays, however, it serves a purpose:

playground.

yes, it's dangerous. there are jagged pieces of metal over the wheels; the after market steel transport frame protrudes from the missing tailgate at very sharp right angles just high enough to catch a knee, a thigh, a hip, a shoulder, an eye, and a forehead, depending on the age of its would-be master. a flattened front tire leaves the back end raised just enough to qualify it as a danger to fall from. in America, the Department of Codes Enforcement would have been worn out with calls on this heap by now. it would be littered with just enough neon-colored stickers to warrant leaving the gate open for an any-day pickup from the city tow truck.

junk.

well...junk to us. but to the kids of Gradec, the brown truck with a smashed back window and faded multi-colored letters that read "JESUS IS THE WAY OF THE LIFE COME" across the top of the windshield is more than junk; more than castaway; more than garbage.

to creative children, it is--remarkably--a field of dreams.

in the mornings, i see these children gather up on the back of the truck, from tallest to smallest, and sing songs. they then play games, the language of which i do not comprehend, but the Mime in me comes to at least roughly understand. i've seen versions of "House," "Tag," "Dodgeball," and goodness knows what else take place ,with great emotional and physical commitment, in and around that doggone truck. every little while, something happens: a cut leg, a busted lip, a fall or scraped knee. i'm surprised that hours pass between incidents of someone being hurt instead of mere seconds. looking at that truck from my perspective, all i see is one giant, central, frozen symbol of the phrase, "Accident Waiting To Happen."

the accidents do eventually come, but they do not deter these children from loving this truck and using it to love on one another. there will be no stitches for the cut leg; no parental threats of litigation for the busted lip; no prevention of the fall, and the dabbing of the scraped knee by the commodity of "Mr. jeff's baby wipes" is seen as more of a treat than a treatment.

these kids play too much.

eventually, they break into smaller groups, sometimes dividing according to gender. the girls pretend to be models, or take time playing patty cake. Dwayne and i had a ball playing with them, trading up the African-American slants for the Haitian ones on rhythmic hand patterns, from "Slide" to the old school game of "Slap" we played as adolescents, where the object was to either slap the other player's hands as they hovered above your own, or to make them flinch and get a free lick.

the boys play "football," what we call soccer, with a partially inflated ball in a space i cannot believe even one boy would try to kick in, much less 3-5 at any given time. they set a broken piece of cinder block at the gate and the end of a piece of wood under the back end of the truck as goals to protect, and they get right to it. the two fiercest players are both disabled, and in their legs of all places. but no one goes easy on them or treats them differently. they do not ask the others for special consideration or to slow down. they rollick like ordinary kids. check them out:

Breakfast at Gradec

i'm sitting down after a dinner of pasta, potatoes, and plantain, a tasty trifecta that both represented both the starch-based local diet and salvation, the latter because--after being gone all day in the streets of Port Au Prince's neighborhoods--i was beyond famished. i fought the urge to woof down the delicious plate of food that awaited the men upon our return home, choosing to pace myself, laugh, talk, and stay lively. i think part of my perkiness served the purpose of preventing myself from practicing an almost platitudinous pestilence that besets my people.

Itis.

yep, pronounced (eye-tis).

if you don't know, ask your closest African-American friend. :-)

either way, i was able to avoid it, not by eating less or more slowly (i still cleaned the plate, but since we were all hungry, we all ate pretty quickly), but by, quite simply, blogging. the rapid movement of my fingers, and the mental pathways their blurring dance opened up, was enough to rescue me from the jaws of unconsciousness. it was, after all, a full day, and to give anyone any part of the perspective gained today, it would behoove me to "get to crackin'."

Water, Wrecks, and Real Estate

this morning, i was awakened by an intense desire to pee, and i still haven't figured out how to say express it, in either French or Creole. it was before dawn, and there were people sleeping in the front half of the tent, separate from the compartment where dwayne and i are posted up. there was an area somewhere outside, but i hadn't come to be sure of where it was, and i didn't want to disturb anyone. but you gotta understand, i REALLY had to pee. this was oddly familiar. then it hit me--the moment before i wet my shorts. what did i do on the roof that first night when the storms were raging and i couldn't even step outside the tent.

where's that bottle?

locating the largely empty bottle of water that was both cause and Christ of my current crisis, i quietly moved toward the opening in the tarp-constructed tent. i didn't want to go too far, because the ground is half dirt, half boulder, and almost all hill. it would be just my luck to slip and fall, wake up the entire sleeping mass, and end up cut, scarred, and jarred at the bottom corner of a cinder-block wall--with soaking wet cargo pants.

not the kid.

the bottle was half full, so i made a trade off. i guzzled the rest of the water on my way out, and found a not-too-dark corner, on even ground, and relieved myself gratefully. whew.

sneaking back into bed, i got another hour or so of sleep before everyone woke up and started preparing for the day. Dwayne had already been to the bathroom (which was two blue tarps wrapped around two sapling trees in the bottom corner of the yard) and it was soon my turn. Pastor Wilson showed me the area: they had some cinder blocks arranged in a square, on their sides, so they formed an area about 4 ft by 4 ft. on top of the blocks was a pickle bucket full of water, with a smaller bowl floating in it, a bar of soap, a new toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste framing the right side of its circular frame. i grabbed my face rag and towel, and got to rocking.

we watched the children eat a breakfast of scrambled eggs with ketchup and a slice of onion, all seated at a makeshift circle. i snapped a picture and video before we went back into the tent where they feed Dwayne and me. we stopped objecting to any special treatment. everyone here is so, so hospitable and kind. they even found a way to boil some water so that i could have some instant coffee (no starbucks in this 'hood). you'd have thought we were building them a 20-story state-of-the-art complex, instead of providing some extra cover for them and the neighbors, scouting some land for a future facility, and just dreaming the vision out loud.

we needed water, so Dwayne and i accompanied Wilson and Yonell to the van, where we drove the steep and rocky hills in search of the water-refilling station in town, some more bottled drinking water, and some meetings with people who owned property in the hills they were willing to part with. by now, Dwayne has a vision that i'm with 100%: if Gradec is surviving in large part to a regular donation given by New Olivet Baptist Church of Memphis, TN that pales in comparison to what really large mission groups spend on phone calls in a day, what would happen if we really launched an effort to grow this seed here. we could actually build a brand new orphanage. not just that though, but a school, a retail facility, and a place for the community and the kids to come and see performances and have activities. yeah, a theater...

so we had these conversations as we bounced and rolled along cheerfully. we ended up meeting with more than a few people who were supposedly lot owners. some were serious. some were not. but there was enough of an effort today to visit locations to get us all fired up with possibilities. it really doesn't take that much to make a difference, especially here.

on the way to get the water, a truck was holding up traffic changing a blown tire. when they directed our vehicle around, the side caught a piece of the front mirror. we didn't think it was a problem. the way driving happens here, cars bump each other all the time and no one even winces (i had to get used to that, coming from a society where you might get shot over stepping on the wrong person's tennis shoes). we were halfway down the block when we heard a loud banging on the side of our van. the cats driving the truck and another man were livid and demanding money. oh man. i couldn't understand a word they were saying, but i'm from South Nashville.

i figured it out.

they were hot and wanted cash, even though it was a company security truck they were driving. through translation, we learned that much. through observation, we figured they wanted to pocket the cash. we admonished them to provide a telephone number and information, and we would make sure the repairs were made. Dwayne hopped out and took photos of the truck, and i video taped some of the loudest cats (although they became more reserved when they saw themselves being taped). people in the crowd were all agreeing that it was their fault, but we were intent on remaining calm and staying safe. eventually, we made it out.

we walked through what seemed like an endless tent city, and were told that there are many of them like this one. true, we lost count of the ones we saw on various hills and in sundry valleys. we located the water place, filled up and paid for five 5-gallon jugs, and stopped by the gas station. not only was gas about $8.00 a gallon (in U.S. dollars), but the attendants aren't there to pump gas. they're there to protect it, so they carry pistol-gripped 12-guage shotguns. haven't seen that before, for sure.

when we arrived home, the kids mobbed us as usual. dinner was waiting on us, and well, you know about that part. the diesel fuel just arrived for the generator they were kind enough to rig for us, somehow intrinsically knowing that it's tough without the internet for Westerners. beyond hospitable, i promise. in the darkness, my silly butt got to playing with the flashlight, trying to tell horror stories in a language they did not speak. i mimed a lot and managed to deliver a frightening "Boo" punchline, though. and then aimed the flashlight at the wall, where Dwayne and i started a shadow puppet show that drew the kids in endlessly. fun.

night has indeed fallen, and finally the church 3 doors down has ended the preaching and singing. now, i love church, and i knew many of the hymns they sang earlier (although in French), but you have to understand, they had a loudspeaker, with a worship leader and preacher who got started at about 9 a.m. and just ended less than 30 mins ago. the pastor was preaching when we left this morning, and was still going this afternoon. i joked with Dwayne that they must be Baptists. but then when it continued through dinner, we agreed: Pentecostal.

laugh ya'll. i've been to every kind of church and i know The Lord doesn't mind some humor, especially when it's from some people who are trying to do His work in some small way. thanks for all the prayers. some of you even made a contribution. i saw that and had to smile. there is a difference being made here in a tangible way.

let me say this before i get off the computer and pray my wife will be around on an IM program so i can "see" my family before i sleep: i have seen miracles in my life. i saw it with the theater i helped build; i saw it with the growth of its program; i've seen people stretch themselves above and beyond the boundaries of what they believed they could do. here, in this place, i've seen children with bowed legs and disabilities playing fierce soccer in a space not big enough to fit a car in; i've witnessed women who make nothing-per-hour wash and clean children in groups with rags and water and have those kids be more pristine and groomed and respectful than many kids i've encountered throughout my life; i've seen happiness--no, joy--that comes from a well of spirit that cannot be broken by circumstances that would make most of us wince in pain, discomfort, and disgust.

i believe in the power of individuals. i'm recharged like never before. and for those of you who do know me personally, you know i'm going to come back to Nashville with renewed purpose, free from the making and acceptance of excuses, and ready to do some even bigger, better, global things. keep that in your mind's eye. and let's make some things happen BIG time.

well, i've got to go. need to give up some generator time. Mrs. Wilson just came in with a small plastic wastebasket. she speaks zero english, but has an angelic demeanor and a wonderful smile. walking by towards my area, she catches my eye as i look up from typing, and taps the edge of the basket repeatedly, pointing inside. she utters one giggly word that both shames and amuses me, more the latter, of course.

"Pee."