My Heart Cries Out

I had to console my baby today while tears streamed down his face and his shreiking cry echoed in the distance. It was his first experience with being, shall we say, bullied at the park. This boy about 10 years of age, had been at the park before. I recognized him from his personality. He was the kind of boy who would say anything to anyone. Today he was taking care of his younger brother (of about 3 years of age) while his mother sat in her run-down car at the end of the sidewalk. I was taking pictures of my kids with my cell phone to send to Jeremy while he was at work. Over and over I could hear this boy telling Declan to get out of his way and pushing his brother aside as well. At one point, while Declan was attempting to be nice, the older boy asked "What are you saying, I can't understand you?" Maya and Declan backed off - at least for a moment. Just as Declan was pulling himself up onto one level of the play structure, the boy stepped down onto his arm. I hadn't noticed if it was intentional or how hard he landed on Declan, but the crying had caused my baby to gasp for breath. For the next 20 minutes I tried to console Declan, thinking it wasn't too bad and he'd be back on his feet in no time. I noticed that Declan couldn't even look at this boy so I gathered up the kids and headed to our house down the street. Declan didn't stop crying for about 45 minutes after the incident. I sat him in front of the TV and with his blanky wrapped around him he watched a whole 90 minute movie without moving. He still can't put pressure on his wrist and his palm is bruised so we are assuming it is a sprain as there doesn't seem to be any broken bones. We are waiting to see how the night pans out before we decide on taking him to the doctor.

On Sunday my 1 year old nephew ran into a wall and ended up with 6 stitches in his head. That same night I received a call that my dad had to stay in the hospital for a couple of nights. And later that night Jeremy received word that his sister's father-in-law had just suffered a stroke. To everyone reading this, it may seem that we have had a terrible week and the truth is you're right. But how can I complain when all of the people I have mentioned are actually breathing and are living in safe comfortable homes. I heard the cry of my baby today and I was reminded of the thousands of babies in Haiti crying out for their mothers. Mothers they may never see again.

This earthquake has shaken the world, myself included.

In 2003, I had the wonderful opportunity to teach English at a Christian school in San Francisco de Macoris in the Dominican Republic. I stayed with a local family whose house-keeper happend to be Haitian. She did not speak English nor did I speak Spanish or Creole so the majority of my day was spent doing hand gestures with her as a way to communicate. She wouldn't allow me to do my own laundry so she spent hours scrubbing my clothes and hanging them on the line in the dirt yard behind the house. I would watch her make my morning cafe con leche and witness her killing tiny bugs on the dining table. She rocked in her chair while watching her favorite Spanish soap opera on TV and she would ask my host mother for money every day so she could buy fresh fruit from a road side vendor up the street. While I was staying there she slept in the dressing room of the dress shop owned by my host mom. She normally slept in the room I was occupying which was made of cracked concrete floors with a half concrete and half grass floor in the bathroom off to the side. (I never used that bathroom the whole 6 weeks I was there). Mata was her name and she quickly became my good friend. The motherly type.

At the school, I was teaching Basic and Advanced Grammar so I had approximately 35 students altogether. Noel, the soccer player who wanted to make it big. Jose, the baseball player who would often miss class because of baseball priorities. Ana, the very smart and only white girl in class. I do not know all of their backgrounds but I know their names. They could be Dominican, Haitian, or both.

And now nearly 7 years later as I am watching the news and I hear them naming the survivors, I get goosebumps. Am I going to hear a name I recognize? Is there anyone I know, I've taught, under that rubble?

Me and Mata's grandson Louis

These boys are from an orphanage I visited outside San Francisco de Macoris. Notice the little boy playing with sticks. It doesn't take much to entertain children in these parts of the world.