Field Trip!

While I greatly appreciate the resource of school curriculum, not having one for science has provided me with a lot of freedom in my lesson planning.  I have been planning and teaching an entire unit on the ocean.  I chose that topic first for my 2nd grade class since the ocean is so easily accessible.  It is, after all, visible from the school.

This week, I decided to take my class on a mini field trip to the ocean.  I sent notes home warning parents to send the children to school in old clothes in case they got muddy.  At 2:00 PM, my class and took the 20 minute walk from the school across the salt flats to the ocean.

Naturally, all the other children in Jubilee wanted to see what we were up to.  So, my class of 11 ended up being more like 30 by the time we actually reached the water.

As soon as we arrived, children started stripping down to their skivvies as not to get their school uniforms dirty.

Earlier in the week, we learned about the seven characteristics of living things.  So, the intent of the field trip was to collect whatever they could find in a bucket and compare whether is was living or non-living.  The kids immediately began searching for crabs, seashells, and whatever else they could find.

They got quite a collection by the time we had to walk back to the school.

Since it was the end of the day, I had to save their findings until the following day.  I knew my class wouldn't smell very good with a bucket full of dead and live crabs, a dead jellyfish, sea water and shells.  However, if I left the bucket outside of my room, I knew it would either be stolen or disturbed.  It didn't go quite how I planned because my room ended up smelling worse than I imagined it would.  But, in the end it all worked out and the kids had fun!

They are more than that.

Daily my heart is broken in this new home of mine.  I see things that hit me deep inside, and deep inside me they rest until I can lay them before God during my quiet times with Him.

While these things hurt, they draw me closer to Him.  They force me to think about unpleasant and difficult things....real things....things that matter.

School is out and I am sitting in my classroom doing some prep work for the next day.  I hear a tiny voice outside my door.  "May I come in, mademoiselle Katie?" I open the door to find Biolan.  He is one of my first grade students who I suspect has autism.  He is eleven years old but probably could pass as a scrawny six year old in the United States.  From what I know, he lives with extended family.  There are at least twelve other children living in his house.  I'm certain that he is put last when it comes to food, clothing, and affection.  While I know that I would get more work done if I were alone, I allow him to come inside.  He has changed out of his school uniform and is wearing nothing but an old t-shirt.  He opens his hands to show me his treasures: a bottle cap and a few plastic beads.  He sits down beside me and watches me as I cut up pieces of construction paper for a school project.  When I make a pile of bits and pieces of scrap paper, his eyes light up.  "Can I have these??" he asks.  I tell him yes, and he immediately adds the tiny pieces of paper to his collection of treasures.

I'm in my classroom full of 1st graders.  As I walk around the classroom checking their work, I award a sticker for each correct paper.  When the packet of stickers runs out, I walk to the trashcan and without even thinking I drop the empty sticker sheet into the trash.  I turn around and walk to the front of the classroom.  When I turn back to face the class, I see one of the boys bending down over the trashcan.  He stands up proudly smiling.  In his hand is the cover of the sticker pack.  It is a piece of paper with a few pictures of farm animals printed on it.  He looks as if he just found twenty dollars.

It is 3:00 and the students are filing out of their classrooms.  I am tidying up in my class when I hear some rowdy kids outside of my door.  I step outside to see what the fuss is about.  Two 1st grade girls are fighting.  They're fighting over trash.  They had been digging through the one of the school's large trashcans and discovered some used styrofoam coffee cups.  Lorisena looks at me proudly and says, "I can use these to make a game!"

I see things like this all the time in Jubilee.  In the midst of my busy day teaching, I can't stop to think about it or focus on it.  When I'm home, it hits me and it comes up from that deep place where it was resting.  I look around.  I have a bed, a computer, clothes, shoes, food, and more than I can count.  And they fight over trash.  My kids, my students fight over trash.  As I think about it more, I am realizing that is not the heart of the matter.  That is not what bothers me the most.

I know how poor the children in Jubilee are.   I know where they live, and for the most part, I have an understanding of what their life is like.  However, in my classroom I forget about all of that.  I hold them to a higher standard.  I don't look at them as "the poor kids of Jubilee".  I know they are able to learn.  I know they are smart and capable.  I view them as God's children.  I view them as more than their circumstances.  So, when I  see them digging through the trash it hurts because I know they are more than that.  They are sons and daughters of the creator of the universe.  They are heirs to the Kingdom of God.  I want the people of Gonaives to recognize that my students are more than that.  Most importantly, I want my students to recognize believe that they are more than that.

James 2:5 Listen to me, dear brothers and sisters. Hasn't God chosen the poor in this world to be rich in faith? Aren't they the ones who will inherit the Kingdom he promised to those who love him?

Show us how to love - to love like You loved

I have been in Gonaives for almost a month.  I've begun building relationships and getting to know those around me.  I realize that I have just barely touched the surface of these new relationships, but I've already seen how complex and complicated they are. 

The children of Jubilee are distinctly different than the children that I taught last year in Port-au-Prince.  I've found that the closer I grow to these children the quicker they are to get mad at me and to play hard to get.  

One young girl in particular has been very difficult to spend time with.  When she doesn't get her way, she gets mad.  She says mean things.  When I tell her that I will still love her and be her friend even if they she is mad at me, she turns her back.  She stands outside my classroom watching me teach, but when I try to talk to her, she runs away or tells me she is mad at me.  

One day, she came to me and gave me a lollipop that she bought.  This young girl who probably doesn't eat more than once a day gave ME a lollipop.  I couldn't believe it.  A few days later, she asked me for money.  This is where relationships get harder.  Does she want a relationship with me or is she using the white girl?  Probably a combination of both.  And can you blame her?  If you start giving money to one person, everyone will start asking you.  It perpetuates the reliance on us.  I never know what the right answer is.  I'm never 100% confident in what I should do.  I told her no I would not give her money.  She instantly got mad at me and made a face at me.  She told me I was selfish.  She told me she was not my friend.  She said, don't you remember I gave you a lollipop?  I reminded her that I had shared my water, my coke, and my food with her nearly every day and that I bought her fresco in the market.  But, I told her I was not going to give her money.  For days, she would not talk to me.

I've tried to understand this.  Does she get mad at me because she expects me, the white girl, to give her whatever she asks?  Or, does she look for reasons to get mad at me?  Does my love for her confuse and scare her?  She told me once that her mother leaves for days on end and her sister beats her frequently.  She's not a particularly pretty young girl, and people make sure that she knows it.  More than once I've heard people making fun of her and calling her ugly.  One day while we were walking together, a grown man redundantly asked her if she was Haitian.  When she replied, yes.  He said that she couldn't possibly be Haitian because she was too ugly.  When I stepped in and defended her, and told the man that I thought she was beautiful and I didn't want to hear him talk to my friend that way, I saw her smile.  I can't imagine being harassed that way.  I can't imagine being in her shoes.  I wonder, is she confused by me still showing her love even when she treats me badly?  Is she shocked that I keep pursuing her despite how she treats me?  Is she testing me?  Does she want to know how much I care for her?

These are questions that I don't know the answer to.  This is just one small example of the complexity of relationships here.

This quote is very fitting.

“There is no safe investment. To love is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it in tact you must give it to no one. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket-safe, dark, motionless, airle

ss—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell... We shall draw nearer to God, not by trying to avoid the sufferings inherent in all loves, but by accepting and offering them to Him; throwing away all defensive armour. If our hearts need to be broken, and if He chooses this as the way in which they should break, so be it." ~C.S. Lewis

This new life of mine

I've been continuing to adjust and learn about this new place that I call home.  Despite having lived in Port-au-Prince for two years, I am often in shock and awe of my surroundings here in Gonaives.  I am so incredibly thankful that God has allowed me to be a part of this place...a part of this family.  Sometimes when I look around, I can't help but wonder how I got to be so lucky to be here.

Jubilee school has been in session since September 6th.

I've been working hard to write lesson plans and get to know my students.  I am the kindergarten homeroom teacher, and I teach four different classes each day: Kindergarten English, two different classes of 1st grade English, and 2nd grade Science.

The children forgot a lot of the English that they learned over the summer.  So, I have been spending the large portion of my time catching them up again and reviewing what they learned last year.  The students challenge me on a daily basis.

My classroom is one half of a large room.

The room is divided by three large cabinets.  The other half of the room is for another class.  My students and I are blessed to have four walls and a roof over our classroom.  

This set-up does occasionally make it difficult for my students and I to stay focused.  The noise coming from the other class often gets too loud to concentrate or hear.  On top of that noise, I also get the noise of the pre-k class because there are holes in the wall that we share with Pre-K.

While it can be frustrating, it sometimes makes me laugh when my students decide to join in with counting, reciting, or singing when they hear the other classes.

The school is located in Jubilee, which is literally located in the city dump.  So, when I look outside my window I see people going to the bathroom or watch dump trucks burning loads of trash.

In the distance you can see the trash burning

In between teaching, I've found myself as a mediator for arguments between children, rubbing cream on little bodies covered in ringworm, holding down a small child as he gets stitches in his head, or simply just getting to know the people of Jubilee.

It is a hard place.  A harsh place.  A beautiful place.

Distinctly Different

The sun is beating down as I leave the school at the end of the day.  I walk alone.  My sandaled feet are dust covered.  I feel sweat run down my back.  Heads turn to look in my direction.  I'm constantly reminded that I'm different.  It was the same in Port-au-Prince but in this new city, there are less foreigners.  Here, Haitians are not especially fond of white people.

I smile as small children wave to me.  I say good afternoon to some of the people that I pass.  Several women hold out their hands and ask me for money.  A few teenagers ask, "Blanc, wa tis yo name?"  I feel all eyes on me and almost wish that I were invisible.  For once, I would like to blend in and go unnoticed. 

Suddenly, I hear my name.  Not blanc, but my real name.  I turn to see a familiar face.  One of the young girls that I've spent time with since I moved here calls me over and asks me to come inside.  I step over a small canal with dark black water and trash running through it and pull open a rusty door made of a piece of tin.  As I step into the yard, her whole family is there.  Mama is leaning over a plastic basin washing clothes while some young men play dominoes.  She introduces me to her family and we exchange names and small talk for a few minutes.  As I turn to leave, the mama asks me, "Aren't you scared walking around alone?"  I tell her that I'm not afraid.  This is, after all, my home.  I leave smiling, happy to make new friends. 

As I step back onto the street, I'm just a stranger once again.  I hear men calling out to me, some saying vulgar things, some cat calling or whistling, and some professing their love.  The way some of them look at me makes me feel a sick to my stomach.  I ignore them and put one foot in front of the other.  Some days it doesn't bother me, but today I feel my blood boil.  

I reach the center of town.  

The money changers call to me and vendors point out their goods.  As I walk, a man and woman pass by.  They smirk at me and one of them looks directly at me and tells me that I am Satan.  I keep walking.  I pretend that I didn't hear them or that I didn't understand.  I know I shouldn't let it bother me, but unfortunately it hurts.  I keep walking and I hear my name being called.  I feel relief as I see another face that I recognize, a man that I met the previous week.  He sells jewelry in the square to support his young son.  He shakes my hand and we talk for a few minutes.  I see people nearby watching me with curiosity, probably surprised to see that I can speak Creole.  He doesn't ask for anything.  He doesn't try to sell anything to me.  He simply wants to talk.  I forget about the rude people on the street.  We part ways and I decide to buy a fresco because its hot and my mouth is parched.  

I find my favorite fresco vendor and approach his little cart.  He pulls back a burlap sack to reveal a giant block of ice.  He shaves some ice with a metal razor, fills a small cup, and after swatting away some flies and bees, he pours a homemade coconut flavored syrup over the ice.  I hand him five gourdes and walk towards the tap-taps.  

I find a tap-tap that will take me on the correct route and I climb inside.  I sit down on the hard bench.  The people inside curiously glance in my direction.  A couple sitting across from me start to talk about me.  They make fun of me and laugh to each other about how I can't understand what they are saying.  I don't say a word.  Typically, you pay the driver when you get off the tap-tap, but this time he pulls over and wants to be paid before we leave.  It costs five gourdes to ride a tap-tap.  The driver tries to tell me that it costs me twenty gourdes.  I don't say anything, but I reach out my hand and give him five gourdes.  Today, I don't have the energy for smart responses or comebacks.  I'm hot and I'm tired.  Most days, I'm used to being different.  Most days, I can laugh it off and just joke along with them, but today I just want to be invisible.  I want to blend in with everyone else. 

I pray for patience.  I pray I will be able to do what it says in 1st Corinthians 4:2 - We bless those who curse us.  We are patient with those who abuse us.  We appeal gently when evil things are said about us. 

Again, only in Haiti...

Upon unlocking our metal gate this evening, Grace noticed sparks.  About an hour later, Kez came into the house yelling that her entire arm was just shocked when she touched the gate.  She and Grace went outside to find that someone from the street had snuck into our yard (concrete walls and razor wire all around it) and rigged up a wire to steal our electricity.  I might add that stealing electricity is a dangerous but very common practice here.

Someone had wrapped a live wire around our razor wire that is connected to our METAL gate.  Very safe.  Like I said....only in Haiti.

There's a Parrot in my Class!

It's not everyday that a bunch of kids randomly walk into your classroom proudly showing off a parrot.  Only in Haiti.

Prayer request: Tomorrow is the first official day of school.  I am teaching kindergarten English/Reading, two classes of 1st grade English/Reading, and 2nd Grade Science and Social Studies.  I have 46 students to meet and 46 names to learn.  I have 9 hours before school starts and I feel like I have a 12 more hours of preparation that could be done.  It should be an interesting day!!  Pray, pray, pray please!

The Never Ending Trip

Saturday, I decided to ride along with Papa Beaver, Mama Kathy, Grace, and Becca to Port-au-Prince. They were going to do some airport drop offs and pick ups and run some errands.  I simply wanted to stop by TLC to pick up some of my personal belongings that were still at my old apartment, and hopefully see Dorothy and Nickson.

From Gonaives, it is a three hour drive to Port-au-Prince.  So, we decided to leave at 6 AM.  The plan was to be back home in Gonaives by 4 PM.  However, things did NOT go as planned.

Grace, Mama Kathy and I all wanted to stop at the scene of the bus accident.

None of us had been past that place since last Sunday.  They had surprisingly pulled the bus up out of the water.  You could see that they had to add some dirt and gravel to level the bank a little bit.

The telephone pole that the bus slammed into was replaced, the water level had gone down, and there was nothing but a bus seat left in the mud. 

 After taking a few pictures, we continued the journey.

Half-way to PAP, we found out one of the flights was delayed by several hours.  So, that meant extra time spent waiting in Port.  To make a long story short, we spent the majority of our day sitting in the bed of the truck in the hot hot sun.  We made the waiting more interesting by telling stupid jokes, taking silly pictures, eating ring pops, hanging out in a gas station because it was air conditioned, creating our own version of the game "Chubby Bunny", listening to music on our iPods and spitting kanep seeds at random objects.

After sitting for over 2 hours in the airport parking lot, the family we were picking up finally arrived.  Then, it was time for the LONG drive home.  Grace and I were not pleased about the idea of driving all the way back to Gonaives in the dark.  Haitian roads are dangerous enough in the daylight.  Also, we were both on edge because of the bus accident last weekend.  There were 4 people inside the truck and the other ten of us were in the bed of the truck with all the luggage.

About ten minutes into the drive, Grace and I noticed dark black clouds hovering over the mountains.  Just great.

A few minutes later, the rain started.

It wasn't bad at first but eventually it was a downpour.  Typically here, the rain doesn't last for too long.  This time, however, it rained for nearly two hours.  I was freezing in my shorts and t-shirt so I covered myself with rice bags and we all huddled as close as we could to the cab of the truck.  Papa Beaver did not want to stop to let the storm pass because that meant we would get home even later.  So, we continued on until the truck headlights started to dim making it difficult to see.

Thankfully, it stopped raining.  Unfortunately, the truck stopped running.  We were, however, lucky that the truck broke down at a gas station.

It took an hour for Papa Beaver to get the truck started again.  By that point we were all cold, wet, very tired, and slightly cranky.

Although the truck was running again, neither the headlights nor the taillights were working.  We were about 45 mins from Gonaives so we waited for Amos to come with the other truck.  His headlights were working but his taillights were not.  Sounds safe, right?

Half of our group loaded up in the truck with Amos and the rest of us stayed in the back of Papa Beaver's truck.  Papa Beaver followed Amos closely so that he could see from his headlights.  My eyes were heavy and I was exhaused, but I was very nervous as I rode in the bed of the truck.  It was pitch dark, Beaver does not have good vision at night, and we had no lights.  That is not a good combination for people who just experienced the trauma of a vehicle accident.  I prayed the entire 45 minutes.  I was riding with my back against the cab so I could not see.  Each time Beaver used the brakes, my heart stopped.  Praise the Lord, we made it home safely.

A trip that was meant to take 10 hours ended up being 17 hours long.  The majority of it was spent sitting.  Needless to say, I am not planning another trip to Port for quite some time.