There was a definitive moment in college when my walls went
up, when I resolved to never allow the feeling of hurt again. It was not a reaction
to singular heartbreak, but the culmination of losses and pain throughout my adolescence
that built like a silent wave. There is a name for these – ACES, adverse childhood
experiences, a psychological battery that attempts to quantify the damage. I don’t
know where I fall on the scale, but whatever the measure I had hit my magic
number, and through force of will I built my hard shell. For three decades my barrier
held with only chips and scratches. Then I went to Haiti.
A close friend had called a few weeks ago asking me
to consider a trip with him a year hence, and only as an aside mentioned he
would also make a quick but urgent Haiti visit over the coming Thanksgiving
holiday. My friend Res is deeply involved in a ministry attempting to build a social
network and support system with committed locals in the town of Montrouis. It is a grassroots effort still in the early stages. I considered his offer then
realized I would have a more intimate experience if he would entertain me as a
third wheel for his Thanksgiving run. One email later he eagerly obliged and
the plan was set. Be careful what you ask for.
So it came that I departed home at 2:00am Friday morning to
join up with Res and Adam for the journey southward. After a day filled with
tense moments in Port-au-Prince, and a death defying drive up the coast, we
settled into an unfinished house in the center of Montrouis. We were hosted
there by a resident Haitian, Alex Vixamar, and his fourteen-year-old ward,
Christo. Alex is a “big brother” to Christo, and he and the ministry provide a sanctuary
for Christo from the dark forces and disconsolate future Mountrouis would otherwise
hold.
Our first morning I found Christo and his friend Jadin
reveling in new Legos, and with Alex’s blessing I sat in. Their English was as
good as my Creole, but through pantomime and shared Lego love we built a rapport.
We moved on to balloon art and pipe-filter creatures, then they found my
Connect Four board. They launched in with virtually no instruction. After three
games they decided “four” was boring, henceforth it became “Connect Five.” They
proceeded to whip me game after game amid laughter and floor rolls.
In due time Res and Adam summoned me for our day’s work. I
attempted to ask Christo how to say “I will come back.” He and Jadin looked at
me with blank expressions, and Alex chimed in, “M’ap vini.” I clumsily uttered “my
beignet” eliciting more rolls of laughter. At laughter’s end Christo faced me
with an earnest expression, slowly repeating “m’ap vini” and would
not release me until I mirrored the phrase fluently.
In the ensuing days our play continued - courtyard soccer,
tennis ball catch, games on his flip-phone, and endless “Connect Five” until my
proficiency grew. Our Creole-English barrier left town, and we communicated
effortlessly with winks, eye-rolls, nods, and head-tilts. We became one another’s
shadow.
On the morning of my departure as I kneeled over my pack, I
turned to find Christo standing silently behind me, his arms straight at his
side. He whispered in intelligible English, “You go back to America today?”
I nodded yes.
He said, “I will pray for you.”
I was caught off guard not grasping the nuance of his
sentiment and reflexively replied, “I will pray for you, Christo.” With that he
left the room.
Res, Adam, Alex, and I gathered on the porch to discuss the
itinerary for our departure to Port-au-Prince. I assumed Christo had left for
school, but Alex told me no, school did not start until afternoon and Christo
was in his room. I entered the house, pushed aside the bedroom curtain and
found Christo lying on his cot. He turned his head slowly toward me revealing a
single tear running down his cheek. He would not meet my gaze and locked his
stare back on his flip-phone.
Pieces began falling on the floor. My deepest feelings of childhood
hurt unleashed their rusted chains and squeezed my chest. More pieces fell away
cascading like broken china. How many times past had someone cast a spell on
Christo only to disappear? My shell was broken in a hundred pieces, strewn
about my feet.
I laid next to Christo, but he refused to acknowledge me. I
slid back slightly, attempting to contain the flood welling in my eyes. We
would not part like this, so I resolved to simply remain by his side. Be
present.
Minutes passed and Christo held tightly to his phone
randomly picking through ring tones and game settings. In time a song arose and
Christo mouthed the words. I recognized the tune and began singing too. Our
voices rose to finish the song. He turned toward me with a reluctant
smile, “You sing badly.”
Laughter. Selfies. Alex shouted it was time to go.
Now, thirty years on, I walk defenseless once more. Though
my shield is gone, my heart is open. Sorrow
is joy’s brother.
Live. Love.
M’ap vini, Christo. M’ap vini.
