Mama Youdemie

Wislandy is the youngest of the HFC children. She is only 6 years old, which makes her 5 years younger than the next youngest HFC kid, Nehemie. Most of the time, her big sisters treat her well, helping her with her homework, playing with her, letting her hang out with them even if she doesn't understand what's going on. But like most big sisters, they can get frustrated with her too. Every now and then, I catch one of the 13 or 14 year old girls slapping Wislandy across of the hand or yelling at her for breaking a rule or for just being an annoying little sister. This ticks me off. Those girls are too young to discipline her, just like I was too young to discipline my little sister when we were kids - they need to call me, one of the oldest girls, or one of nannies when Wislandy misbehaves.

Fortunately, Wislandy has a surrogate mom among the oldest girls. Youdemie is not the brightest student at school, but when it comes to looking out for her younger sisters, she is A+. She will defend Wislandy when the 13's and 14's get a little too rough, but she will also justly discipline the little girl or take her to Se Pradel for a punishment. She doesn't take any nonsense from anyone. Se Pradel does a marvelous job looking after and taking care of Wislandy (she even bathes Wislandy in her private bathroom every morning and afternoon!) but when she is not around, Youdemie fills her shoes.

Fèy and fatra

What are those leaves sticking up from the back of Keziah's head?

Good question.

One Sunday afternoon, we couldn't go to Jeunesse (Youth Group) so I took a bunch of the boys up to the seminary to play volleyball and basketball. The little ones ran around in the trees, hunting for zandolits, almonds, and chickens. I was sitting with Marie Maude, one of the nannies when they came up behind me. I kept talking with Maude while the boys began to play with my hair. I didn't think anything of it - all the kids are fascinated by my very non-Haitian straight brown/blond hair - until one of the older boys glanced at me and laughed.

The little boys can't keep a secret. They gleefully told me that I had leaves in my hair. "That's fine," I answered. "I've always wanted to be a tree." This cracked them up, so I decided to keep them laughing and let the leaves stay in my hair.

I walked back down the road to the orphanage with the leaves still in my hair. At every turn, people were doing double-takes and announcing, loud enough for me to hear, "Look. The white girl has "fatra" (trash) in her hair. Keziah has trash in her hair." The first few times, I turned and corrected them: "It's "fèy" (leaves), not trash!" After a while, I gave up and just grinned at them when they commented on my trashy head.

Thinking about it later, this strange language gimmick actually makes sense. Suppose Haitians have trash and leaves backwards in their minds. That would explain why leafy trees disappear in this country and why trash is discarded in the street without a second thought. So maybe the solution to the deforestation and pollution in Haiti is simply to spend more time in 2nd grade teaching the difference between "fèy" and "fatra".

My boys

The Haiti blues

This is how I feel. I miss my kids. Four months is a long time.

Under fire

When there is no electricity and it's just too hot to play soccer, what do you do?

If you are an HFC boy and you have a rubber band, you shoot people. Fortunately for those of us who were the targets of said amusement, the ammunition was paper. Unfortunately, said paper was folded into miniature pellets that were as hard as rocks and hurt almost as much. The wiser victims stayed in secure positions like the gallerie where they could hide behind the benches when the missiles began to fly.
Less wise victims remained on the staircase where you would have to be blind to miss, especially when firing from this close range. (Don't worry, he wasn't actually shooting at me. He was just demonstrating good form.)
Miscardet was the instigator of the sport and he was the clear gold medalist. He could hit a target at 40 feet and when he did, OH BOY, did it sting! I was perfectly happy when he turned his prowess to hunting birds instead of helpless interns.
This is my favorite photo. It proves that I am a quality war correspondent. Miscardet was actually shooting at me - at my head, to be exact - and I successfully captured the shot while flinging myself on the ground to save my life. I heard the bullet - I mean, wad of paper - ricochet off the wall behind me and from the courtyard floor, I gave up a prayer of thanks that I was still breathing. Look at the grin on his face! Do you think he was amused to see me scramble for my life or what? Oh, I love that boy.

The models

When the girls stole my camera (on the same evening as the boys - what was I thinking that night?) they went crazy posing with pillows, cell phones, my bed, the mirror, each other, the babies...They even blew pixie dust around (which I then had to sweep up). Still, I can't complain because it got shy Alexandra and camera-shy Carmelle into some photos.

On the boys' roof

Whenever I start playing at the boys' house, I have to take off my camera. I generally leave it in the gallerie on the bench or the window sill. Inevitably, it is gone when I go looking for it later. I never worry though, because I know that it is in one of two places: on Renick's or Job's shoulders. They have become my self-appointed camera keepers and whenever given the opportunity, they become my photographers too. I do not let the kids take photos with my camera unless I am there, (too great a risk of breaking an expensive camera or inadvertantly deleting my photos) but that rule gets broken at least once every trip by both boys and girls. This time, it was a Sunday afternoon at the boys' house when Job snuck my camera up to the roof and captured these priceless portraits.