Women and Children

Reflections on my stay at a feeding clinic in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti.

Winston was not much of a mystery to me. But there is a mystery about my experience in Port-Au-Prince that I am still trying to solve. It is the mystery of how the strength and intelligence of women remain so completely undervalued in this world.

The backs of Winston’s little thighs were a light press against the fronts of mine, radiating fever-heat through his blue shorts. His bare feet dangled- limp above the cracked tile of the patio. It was also just hot at the edge of things, on the line between the shade and the soon-to-be setting sun.

Mostly we spent our time together gazing at each other. At first, he kept his body at a slight angle that allowed for the gazing. Between gazes, we would turn our attention to the dusty yard where the school-aged children who had the strength and energy to play were pushing each other down an unstable plastic sliding board on wobbly broken tricycles and skateboards.

When the play got a little too chaotic, Winston would catch my eye and raise an eyebrow. After about thirty minutes of vigilance, he turned away from my face to relax his torso all the way against mine.

Taller than any of the toddlers I had held during my stay at the feeding clinic in Port-Au-Prince, though not much heavier, he wore a bracelet that said “Winston age 6”.

Because he was, as far as I could tell, a selective mute, he didn’t speak to me. Because I knew, I’m sorry to say, not a word of Creole, I did not speak to him. Nonetheless, and even though his mouth never moved into any form of expression, we remained deep in conversation for the week I was there as a volunteer.

It felt natural for me to be with Winston because I had taught a few children with various forms of mutism over my years as a school teacher. While it’s a fairly uncommon condition, one of the students in my very first class had “traumatic mutism”. I can still see the hand printed words on his file. “Ivan developed traumatic mutism after witnessing a violent event”. Ivan and some of the others had been gazers too, drawing me in close, trying, but ultimately failing to tell their stories.

Given our skin-to-skin contact, I knew Winston’s fever was really high, but more worrisome was his lethargy, especially because of how it was compared to the day before when he had been so busy helping the adults take care of feeding the babies.

In spite of the lethargy, he definitely did not want to be in his crib. I knew this because he had somehow caught my eye from far across the room where he was lying in the fetal position. He reached his thin arms through the slats of the crib indicating to me that he wanted to be picked up.

That’s how we ended up on the patio where we sat for a very, very long time during my last afternoon in Haiti.

Tracking down a thermometer or investigating his illness was out of the question. I don’t know if the nuns, shrouded in their white with blue stripe habits, or the two laywomen workers in their thin flip flops and flowy long skirts ever doled out Tylenol or other medicines, but over the course of the week of my stay, the only things I saw being doled out were endless rounds of clumpy cereal, tin cups of water, extremely well-worn cloth diapers, and crib sheets. A couple of times while I was there a big bucket of very ripe petite bananas appeared and a gigantic mess ensued.

Well before I arrived, I decided that I definitely would not latch on to any of the babies in that room full of old metal cribs. I had worked long enough as a teacher of children with many needs to learn some lessons about boundaries and about staying in my emotional lane.

In a country where 60% of the people live in poverty due to any number of historical, racially-motivated injustices, the children I would encounter didn’t need me or anyone else to fall in love with them. What they needed was some cereal, medical care, and affection while they grew strong enough to return home to their families. That’s how I saw things.

So I went in with some pretty strong defenses, but Winston decided to latch onto me, first with his gazes, and then with his arms, and I did not resist.

I would have noticed him even if he hadn’t latched though, because he was, at age six, four years older than any of the other children in the room. He spent a lot of his time in a crib that was only slightly bigger than those meant for one-year-olds. He also stood out because he was the only child free to roam as he pleased.

There was no chance anyone would explain to me why he was in this room and not with older children. It might have been that most kids as malnourished as he was don’t usually make it to six. I don’t know. But I wasn’t going to bother the sisters, all of whom spoke English and at least two other languages, but were totally busy with paperwork and other comings and goings, and I most definitely did not want to bother the two laywomen workers who were, at all times, completely and utterly consumed with diapering, cleaning, and preparing or spooning out food.

Even the beautiful, cheerful, thirty-something Spaniard nun who headed the clinic would not have really known most of the babies by name had I made an inquiry. There were too many, and once they reached a certain state of health, they would go home with their parents or move up to the section for children whose parents did not return for them. I wanted to know more about Winston’s case, but the only thing anyone probably really knew about him was on a chart somewhere for a visiting doctor to review if and when necessary.

So I was left to understand Winston only through his actions and his attempts at the mental telepathy he seemed to initiate with his gripping gaze.

When I was trying to figure out which one year old was supposed to get some cereal next (there was some order that only Winston and the two full-time workers knew), he would point from his crib or meander over to a baby and indicate with an expressionless nod that he or she was next in line. Without direction from anyone, Winston also fed the babies himself. He would climb up on a stool and spoon the cereal out as skillfully as any of the women in the room.

Winston didn’t change diapers or sheets, but like the women and unlike me, he could feed babies without having cereal fly all over himself, the baby, and the crib. I didn’t stay long enough at the feeding clinic to acquire any of the swift magician-like skills the women used to turn those disintegrating pieces of cloth into snug-fitting diapers or to make elastic-free sheets fit drum-tight around the well-worn plastic mattresses. The babies were magicians too, though. Even a mostly still infant could undo a seemingly secured diaper or sheet within seconds of a visit from one of the caretakers.

My favorite display of the skills happened when a group of babies would get wiped clean from head to toe with wet towels that had a hint of fresh smelling perfume. I thought I could see that the mostly unsmiling laywomen also took some pleasure during this fleeting moment when the babies were fed, diapered, perfume-fresh, and ready for a nap on a snug, clean sheet- the same kind of pleasure I got from my own children’s baby bodies when a frustrating day of mess-making finally ended with baths and pajamas.

My days at the clinic began with some of that same clean lemony child-perfume scent in the chapel. When I would arrive, I’d find the nuns already sitting on their knees waiting for the arrival of the typically late priest. I would take my seat on a bench in the back of the chapel, with some nonagenarian nuns who could no longer make it up from or down to the floor.

Next, a woman, who must have been a teacher, would lead an utterly silent parade of tallest-to-smallest older children dressed in fresh whites and brights through the door, toward the altar and onto the floor to sit with the shrouded sisters for daily Mass. These were the children who grew up in the orphanage because their parents did not return after leaving their child at the feeding clinic. Especially while sitting in the chapel, it was easy to imagine why a loving parent from the very tough streets of City Soleil would choose this clean, safe, life of school, Mass, and meals, for her child.

After those morning Masses, I would walk over to the clinic on a path lined by bushes with giant shiny green leaves and feathery fuchsia-colored flowers. There were statues of saints, little shaded benches, and tiny devotional gardens at every turn. This wasn’t lush landscaping. It was the work of the nuns who would have used humble tools and materials.

The nuns did everything with humble tools and materials. They gardened, raised babies, educated children, managed an enormous laundry center, organized global volunteers, understood complicated plumbing and electrical systems, kept meticulous records, handled budgets, ran international conferences, provided religious education, took grueling trips to care for the sick in the countryside, and so much more.

The loquacious priest told me that the week before my visit many of the sisters went to a dump to retrieve and prepare for burial the bodies of about twenty dead gang members.

That would have been a few days before Christmas.

I didn’t see Haiti while I was there. I just stayed on the compound. But from the second floor of the hostel for volunteers, I looked over the jagged-green glass-topped walls that separated the Sisters-of-Mercy property from the rest of Port-Au-Prince. I tried to notice what I could.

There was the sky- a cloudless, electric blue and the lovely contrast of the yellow or white buildings of the two-acre compound. There was the smell of burning trash and coal, and other sharp smells I could not place mixed with the sweet smells of tropical flowers and fruit. I could see hilly, crumbling roads, many walkers but no smooth surfaces to walk, jeeps with problem mufflers roaring by, other pastel-painted buildings surrounded by whitewashed, but often, crumbling walls. There was just a lot of crumbling. Trash and flowers. Mango trees. Groups of people gathered around fruit stands. Straight-spined women and girls with large bundles on their heads walking all of the broken surfaces, reminding me of lost ballerinas.

After Mass, Winston and I would nod hello as I approached the door of the clinic. Then, usually, before I could even cross the threshold, the babies would pop right up, many with big flirtatious smiles, holding out their arms wanting to be held. And then the drama would begin. There were jealous babies who, after losing a bid to be picked up, would try to reach to grab or smack a competitor. There were babies who had figured out how to stretch up far enough to tear down the mobiles in a plea for attention. Other babies would watch these trailblazing naughty babies closely. Some would sway and swoon in happy appreciation or, in an attempt to imitate, they might try to destroy whatever they could grab themselves, including another baby’s hair. One baby would drop a crib sheet to the floor with a sly smile, and then a few others would follow suit and adorable baby giggles would ensue. There were antisocial babies too. They would frown or whine in annoyance at the racket of the in-crowd babies. Some would even stand or lie with their backs to the group in silent protest. There were meek babies who would smile demurely, never demanding to be held, but who, once in my arms, would be so loving and cuddly that it was obvious they craved affection as much as any of the attention-seeking babies. But whether they were cool, antisocial, or demure, all of them would cry in devastation when it was time to put them down to move on to the next baby.

Putting down the babies who were too small to sit up was even harder which is partly why I started to avoid that part of the room altogether. Since they were not very socially engaged, the littlest ones really had two modes when they were awake- calm or crying. The two women spent most of their time in the section for the smallest and sickest babies, and they were very conflicted about whether or not we should be picking the littlest ones up at all. A three-month-old would be lying there quietly, and then I would take her for a little jaunt around the place, only to have her scream bloody murder when I put her down.

There came a point when I was banned from picking up certain babies. The women spoke almost no English, but they might say something like, “Bad baby. She cry too much”, suggesting to me that the spoiled-ness of certain babies was the problem, but I knew it was the most diplomatic way they had to tell me that the real problem was that I was dismantling whatever peace they had managed to establish.

Taking care of a few dozen babies is a never-ending torrent of physical and emotional labor, and even if there had been three times as many full-time workers, there still would have been enough work for any number of volunteers like myself. This place of healing for the sickest, poorest, and hungriest children had its own profound beauty, but it was also a bottomless pit of immediate needs.

I was told by another volunteer, a man who had never stayed home with children, that the laywomen were really quite fortunate as far as Haitian workers go because they had reliable work that paid a living wage.

Maybe he was right, but I am not sure he would have said that if he had walked that week in their flip-flops.

So it was not at all surprising to us that on the surface, each of the women could seem a little harsh at times. One of them did not, for instance, take kindly to the sheet-dropping game and made that very clear to the tiny troublemakers by yelling and reclaiming her sheets. I did notice, though, that it was with the smallest and sickest babies that the women would, at unexpected moments, burst with lively affection for a particular child. The affection might come in the form of a snuggle, a song, a tickle, or a loud funny noise. These bursts seemed both spontaneous and deliberate as if they knew that a certain baby needed a little shot of joy right at that moment to keep the healing process moving in the right direction. I realized, too, that many of the happy prankster babies who seemed to aggravate the women at times, were once the smallest and the sickest themselves.

The teacher in me recognized the women as experts, skilled at giving each child what they needed to move forward as quickly as possible.

When the idea for the trip was proposed, and even for much of the time I was there, I wasn’t sure how I felt about spending a week holding and feeding malnourished children. I didn’t feel like I had much to offer, and I had become pretty ashamed of some of the white savior instincts that guided me in my early years of teaching. I decided to go mostly as a commitment to my dad who was a benefactor of the nuns and who had spent one or two weeks per year there for almost twenty-five years.

Looking back, I am glad I didn’t let my ego-based inner conflicts get in the way because I do see that the nuns really needed a lot of help. It wasn’t about a feel-good experience for volunteers or some sort of project of evangelization. It was about diapers and cereal and taking a bit of the burden off of the pairs of women who worked in shifts. And during that particular week, the week after Christmas, there weren’t many of us around. Not to mention that many of the nuns were probably pretty worn out from the work with the bodies on the dump.

Recently, a young teacher asked me how she could process all of the neediness and trauma of her students. At different stages of my career, I would have had different answers. But today I would ask her to imagine her neediest student, and then ask herself if he is indeed the neediest. Winston might be the child who still lives in my heart, (I did fall in love after all), and, yes, he was sick, but in fact, Winston’s genius is that he knew how to get his needs met. I’m quite sure I wasn’t the first or last volunteer to think she was so special to Winston. And I am sure Winston went on to find other ways, besides feeding the babies, to cope with the boredom of the crib-room.

If Winston’s parents did not return, he would eventually become a line leader at the chapel. Given his people-pleasing qualities and his intelligence, he might go on to become the child who earned a scholarship.

If Winston’s parents did return, he would probably evolve into a sensitive friend or a caretaker in his community. It is unjust and true that his life might continue to offer up one harsh circumstance after another, it would be myopic not to think so, but I believe that his innate ability to draw love will also persist.

What parts of your six-year-old self remain intact? If you can look closely, I think you’ll see the best parts of you have survived the journey.

So Winston was not much of a mystery to me.

But there is a mystery about my experience in Port-Au-Prince that I am still trying to solve.

It is the mystery of how the strength and intelligence of women remain so completely undervalued in this world. And, of course, I don’t mean nuns or health care workers in particular, because I’ve seen glimpses of that silent, invisible strength and intelligence in almost every woman I have ever known. And I am certainly not upholding the self-sacrifice and exhausting work schedules that some women (the nuns) choose and other women (the workers) endure, nor am I championing religious life.

I am talking about the kind of brilliance it takes to change disintegrating cloth diapers and run complex organizations in countries with little infrastructure all at once. I am talking about the genius it takes to assess and attend to the subtle and life or death needs of dozens of babies at the same time, all the while planning the next meal for your own family, all the while contending with an endless parade of clueless foreign volunteers.

I am talking about the strength it takes to give yourself over to the day ahead, the day that requires you to make things feel better and smell better and work better for the children and men and families and organizations that surround you.

I am not saying that men don’t work really hard or that they are not intelligent and strong. It just seems to me that it is women who are most likely to be wiping running noses, while they chip away at societal inequality, while they plan the next holiday gathering, while they run homework time, while they lend emotional support, while they fight for respect and positions of leadership.

I know I am not saying much that isn’t expressed in the cliche about women doing everything a man can do better and in heels, but in my time in Port-Au-Prince, when I had the chance to observe the power of this community of mostly Black and brown women, I had time to see that truth in constant action. And seeing it, seeing the power to raise other people’s babies with grace, the power to cradle and resolve hunger and neglect, the power to rise at dawn each morning to kneel before such a confusing God, the power to make harsh things clean and pretty and safe and bright, the strength to clean up after the violence of men- left me wondering, how has that power not yet been unleashed to heal the whole, entire world?