HUN Update, March 9, 2007

Hey HUN,

There is just one person in this country that dislikes me. She is short and wears simple dresses with either white Adidas sneakers or her green off-brand sneakers, neither of which fit her. Her head is a perfect upright oval, and she wears a knit hat everywhere she goes. She smiles a lot, but doesn't talk very much. After all, she's a cook.

But I suppose I should have said that first. The church cook dislikes me. It all began a few weeks ago when Jean and Marci were on a trip to Jamaica, and that very same cook came to stay at our house to look after the children. I did my very best to stay out of her way because she always expects me to know more Creole than I really do and so I constantly have to ask her to repeat herself. But not in a mean way, because I liked her. I suppose I still do, whatever the circumstances.

Well, one night, she made this soupy stuff, the consistency of which reminds me a great deal of melted ice cream. It is yellow, contains cinnamon and bananas, and is sickeningly sweet. The first time I had it, a week or two into my stay, I came close to throwing up after just a few mouthfuls. It was a memorable experience and one I had no desire to repeat. I apologized profusely (in my broken Creole) and told her that I was sorry, but I wasn't hungry.

She said something. I blinked. It didn't sound like something that "yes" or "okay" would fix, so I waited and nodded a little and hoped she would be satisfied. She kept standing there. One of the children came to my aid, saying: "she says, while I'm in charge, you eat what I put in front of you."

I'd love to color myself perfect, but that got to me. First of all, ma'am, you're not in charge of me. You are in charge of them. The children. I've paid my dues. Secondly, nothing goes down my throat if I don't approve of it. Them's the rules. And thirdly, it is not possible for me to ingest this substance without generating a number of clean-up jobs for all of you. This isn't even a meal--it's just a snack! So get off my back.

I pretended that I still didn't understand, shrugged, and walked out to my apartment (this was soon after I had moved to the apartment). A couple weeks later, she protested to Jean that I had been rude and unmanageable. Jean was very upset and spoke to me about it. I apologized and assured him that it wouldn't happen again. What else could I do?

At first I was very unhappy with her, but over a couple of days I acknowledged that what I had done was culturally very rude, and that I had to let go and forgive and forget. And let's face it: being mad at a cook isn't really something I can do. If you feed me long enough, I can forgive almost anything.

But she still dislikes me. She still gives me the same forced smiles no matter what I do. She makes off-handed comments about me to the kitchen staff that she thinks I don't understand. I smile as if I'm clueless and sit down to eat. She cooks well.

It is a melancholy fact, to know that there is somebody in Haiti who wouldn't be pleased to see me return. And as my mind searches for a lesson to be learned from this situation, I find that it feels complete unto itself, as if this particular story has no moral, and offers itself not to be learned, but to be realized. Do you realize, Dan, that sometimes you will do things that you never have the opportunity to fix?

I read in a children's devotional a while ago: "Everybody gets mad sometimes. It is especially easy for us to get mad at the people we love, like our family and our friends and even God, because we know they will keep loving us even if we are mean to them. But it is still important to do what is right." You never know when you will say something that sticks.

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No Haitian Creole today. That was one day when I was happier not to know it. So in the name of symbolic consistency... the lesson is canceled for today. But hey, I've already collected several admissions of skipping it anyway, so I don't think I'll seriously upset anybody. :)