HUN Update, March 27, 2007

Hey HUN,

The clock struck midnight; March 23rd arrived like the black sheep in a family of holidays. All around the nation of Haiti, children turned in their beds. It was Friday, the last day of mid-term exams in hundreds of schools throughout the nation. I was aware of this fact, but oblivious to the fact that I was to be tested as well. In my naivety, I had thought that, perhaps, the fact that it was my departure date from the United States would preserve me. How very, very wrong I was.

I had returned home late, and stopped in the house only long enough to get water and a peanut butter sandwich before heading over to my apartment. It was another day without electricity--just one such day among many that week--so my door opened into darkness. I stepped in and set my things down on the table, the location of which I have learned by memory from similar dark days. I lit a candle and set it by my bed side, then read from my T.S. Elliot book. The Wasteland: a poem every bit as comforting as The Exorcist alone in the dark. At one point I remembered my peanut butter sandwich and went to get it. I continued reading while I ate.

It wasn't crunchy peanut butter, and yet it crunched. What could it mean? I hardly had to look at my sandwich to see the swarms of ants crawling in and out; the moment of testing had finally come. But experience is a good teacher, and I cast the ants a scornful glance, shook the sandwich slightly to dislodge a few, and continued eating. I needed the extra protein, anyway.

Twelve hours later, I was in the states; I'll be here until I return to Haiti on the 29th. It sounds so easy when I say it that way, doesn't it? Words have a strange ability to make stretches of time appear irrelevant, as if to say, "time passed, but nothing happened." Well, things have happened. For instance: I was waiting for my Mother to come pick me up from the airport when I realized that I could use the time to sort out some issues with my future plane tickets. I went to do so and meanwhile asked a nice British lady next to me to watch my bags. She was very friendly and agreed to do so, despite the intercom's warning against such things. When I returned, the poor woman was quite undone; I was so busy pitying her for whatever had happened that I didn't notice that my bags were gone. "The police took them!" she said. "I tried to stop them, but I couldn't!" She couldn't have been more distressed if she had been a murder witness. "Don't worry," I told her, "I'll take care of it. Thank you so much." I took off running down the hall.

I quickly reached the conclusion that, given that the airport had at least ten miles of public corridors, my random search would probably fail to produce results. I asked a security guard who directed me to the correct area. The "correct area" was a desk. Behind the desk was a woman. Perched atop the nose of that woman, like a small animal peering down from her face, were her glasses. Thick, leopard-patterned glasses with lenses as round and small as a silver dollar. I approached her and explained the situation as simply as I could: "ma'am, a police officer stole my bags, and I'll be needing them back, now." She asked me why a police officer would have stolen my bags, and I told her that it was probably because he had thought them unattended. Which, I explained, was the furthest thing from the truth. A nice British lady was watching them quite carefully.

But after this I was quite meek, and after some gently scolding they released my items into my custody. I got my cell phone out and saw three missed calls. Uh oh: my Mother was supposed to call when she arrived at the airport. I began running toward the exit, knocking down children and old people in my path. I met my mother without further mishap, and thus began our adventures, which belong, I suppose, to a different newsletter.

And maybe to a different life. I am frequently asked: was it difficult to adapt to Haitian life? And in all honesty, for the most part the answer has been "no." Aspects that have been difficult to deal with might have happened in Spain or Russia or Missouri. Very little about Haiti itself caused me significant distress. Going back to America may prove more difficult. Maybe it's because I'm used to the fact that the simple virtue of my location means that every day carries value to my resume, my relationship, and my religion. Have I grown to depend on that? It's hard to tell.

Now, I am no longer a policeman/soldier/fireman/missionary. My occupation no longer comes with a badge. I find myself worrying: is this the only meaningful thing I have ever done? Is this the only meaningful thing I will ever do? It is time to accept a new commission. And what that commission will be, only God knows, and only time can tell.

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Attention: I will be starting a new newsletter, if any of you are interested. In honor of my new location and in recognition of the irony of my change in circumstance, it will be named FUN - the Floridan Update Network. I will not be moving anybody over to this new list automatically, so if you'd like to be added, please let me know.
Effective March 23rd, I will be reachable at the same old number: 231-631-3016.
God Bless,
Dan