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Little Haiti

// April 14th, 2010 // No Comments » // Story

The day I received my mission call our family was loading a U-Haul. We were moving. My native Southern Californian parents decided that the economy was too weak, the smog was too thick and the freeways were too crowded. They set their sites on the land of Bountiful, Utah. Opening up a mission call in front of 20 people was almost too much as I do not like to be in the spotlight. When I opened my call I had to act happy, but honestly, I was disappointed reading that I would be serving stateside in the Florida Ft. Lauderdale mission. After 2 years of high school Spanish and having to speak basic Spanish at my water park job for 3 years, I assumed that South America was the place for me. I was wrong. I was relieved, however, when I saw the words Haitian Creole, even though I pronounced it as Ha Tee In. Only one person out of 20 at our house that day had any idea of what Haitian was-gutter French. That was the best he could do to explain the language.  I was excited to learn a new language and eventually got over the disappointment of going stateside.

I remember my first real encounter with a Haitian. It was in Ft. Lauderdale on a typical hot and humid day in February 1992. I remember street contacting this older man. He was carrying a rose and I had no clue what he was saying. I wondered if I would ever understand. In the MTC we learned French for 5 weeks and then the final 3 weeks we learned Haitian. When I later taught in the MTC in 1996, I got permission from the MTC gods to reverse the time spent on each language. That seemed to make the most sense. Within 5 months of my mission I felt confident in the language. It still is odd to think that I learned Haitian in Florida and not Haiti.

One of the greatest things that has ever happened to the Creole missionaries in Ft. Laud was when the Haiti ‘blan” missionaries and the mission were relocated to Ft.Lauderdale around December 1991. Having 2 missions (Haiti and Ft. Lauderdale) in the same area was unique. The Haiti mission shortly merged into the Ft. Lauderdale mission. Most of the Haiti missionaries I encountered spoke better Creole, knew more Krik Krak jokes, and had a special bond with the Haitians. I was envious of this and wished I had also served in Haiti. I learned a lot from the my Haiti companions and tried to learn as much as I could from them about the culture and different areas of Haiti (ex. Leogane-peyi lougawou). The legacy of these Haiti missionaries, who survived the Aristide coup and months of curfew and house confinement, lived on when their mission finished because they taught us how to better interact with Florida Haitians.

LITTLE HAITI-you could not be a Creole missionary without biking Sekankat (NE 54th street). This street was “owned” by Haitians. It was as close to Haiti as you could get. There were Haitian murals on the walls of small shops. My favorite is the picture of a Haitian guy holding up papers to the Statue of Liberty and being rejected. Shop keepers would put out speakers on the sidewalk and blast Kompas music-Zin, Sweet Mickey, Phantoms, Tabou Combo. Any type of protest would happen on this street. The smell of rice and beans made you want to stop and eat but knew you had a great chance of getting your bike stolen.

In Florida I associated Haitians with old beat-up Toyotas. If a car was an 80s Toyota I would bet my bike a Haitian would be behind the wheel. Red curtains hanging in the living room window were a dead giveaway when tracking for Haitians. I never would get used to teaching discussions on furniture covered in plastic and leaving behind a puddle of sweat. Most Haitian homes didn’t have or use air-conditioning. It cost too much. Being called CIA or Immigration officers was a constant. George H. Bush fans they were not. Bush was blamed for everything. I appreciated their bluntness and honesty when it came to their political views and ideas on how to make Haiti better.

I never will forget the Haitian man, driving a Toyota hatchback, coming to our rescue and racing down a Miami street because he noticed 2 white guys running about a bike being stolen. He nearly hit the kid with the car but managed to quickly stop the car, run to his trunk, grab a golf club and go after the boy with the club ready to swing. The boy wisely ditched the bike and the bike was quickly returned to us.

Every Florida Haitian has a story to tell whether it be coming over on a boat and being granted political asylum or living with extended family to avoid a voodoo curse. I met many Haitian men who came over from Haiti to work in the Florida sugar cane fields or whatever work they could find while leaving their entire family behind in Haiti so they could provide for their wife and children. It was a very difficult situation with months even years of separation.

Doing service hours at English language schools was enjoyable. Many times the Haitian students preferred us as teachers because we spoke Creole. We were often treated as rock stars. Ironically it was us, the Elders, who would go to these people’s homes and take pictures of them because they didn’t own a camera. Haitians love to dress up and take serious looking pictures. It was a simple treasure that could send to family in Haiti.

Haitians taught me faith, to include God in all that you do and to share anything you have with those around you. Haitians are generous with the little that most have. If they could they would give you everything they owned. They are extremely friendly, accept you for who you are, and above all know how to enjoy life in its simplest form.  For me, serving among the Florida Haitians was where I was supposed to be.

Brett Freeman (neglib)

Ayiti Cheri

// March 29th, 2010 // 1 Comment » // Story

     Unlike a lot of other missionaries I knew, I had actually heard of Haiti before I got my mission call. Wyclef Jean of the hip-hop group the “Fugees,” who later went solo, talked about Haiti (and in Haitian Creole) quite a bit in his music. I liked a lot of hip-hop music in high school, and Wyclef’s remix of the Bee Gees’ “Staying Alive” was one of my favorites. So when I got my mission call to serve in Haiti, I was actually ecstatic. My excitement heightened, a few days later, when I saw a Haiti special on the Travel Channel. The one-of-a-kind culture, the bright colors, the vibrant music, the tropical climate, the rich history, and everything else you can imagine was featured.

     Nothing, however, could have prepared me for that hot day, in April 1999, when I landed in Port-au-Prince with seven companions, and I realized that I didn’t have a return flight. Haiti is an extraordinary place. It is hot. It is dusty. It is bright. It is colorful. But it is also desperately poor and, in many ways, forsaken. On that first day, my companions and I had the fortunate experience of being driven around, in the bed of a big 4×4 pickup truck, on a little tour of the city, from Petionville, down to Canape-Vert, and back, where I got to see my first Haitian sunset over the bay of Port-au-Prince, and learn how to say “Sakapfet?” I remember thinking that Haiti looked just as bright, colorful, and exotic as Neverland–where the lost boys lived in the Peter Pan movie “Hook.” There were countless people weaving in and out of steep ravines, dirt pathways, and busy streets, while others climbed up and down through the concrete jungle of homes, alleyways, and stairs, carrying who-knows-what on top of their heads, in loads five times as big as the person carrying them. Mango and coconut trees peppered every hill- and mountain-side. Sewage flowed through the gutters. Naked children ran around yelling “Blan!” And nearly every single person I looked at gave me a huge, white smile in return. They brightened my spirit, and increased my excitement–this would be the adventure of my life.

    It didn’t take long to realize, however, that these wonderful, unbelievably happy people were born into overwhelming and virtually insurmountable disadvantages. I quickly learned that things that we Americans sometimes take for granted, like good medicine and a decent education, are afterthoughts when you have to scrape by just to survive from day to day. Yet, notwithstanding their widespread poverty and travail, the Haitian people really showed me how to smile, sing without care, joke, and love living.  Perhaps nothing illustrates this more than the wonderful, carefree children of Haiti. The kids won’t just treat you like a rock star, they will teach you how to speak, they will teach you how to play, they will teach you how to laugh, and they will teach you how to love. 

     To this day, only Haitians can make me laugh so hard that I have to scream “Anmwe!” because my stomach hurts so bad. Only Haitians can sing, dance, and “bay blag” all day, in the way they do, notwithstanding their desperate circumstances. In America, we say “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” In Haiti, they literally make a life worth loving, and full of joy, out of nothing.  Over a period of approximately two years, Haiti taught me how to appreciate life more, to love more, to count my blessings more, and to remember that “because I have been given much, I too must give.”  Ayiti, cheri, mwen renmen ou netalkole.–My Dear Haiti, I will love you forever and ever.

Seth “Ti Bouch” Mott

Why I fell in love with Haiti

// March 26th, 2010 // 1 Comment » // Story

I was 19 years old and scared. I attended High School in a suburb of Detroit and the Mountains of Salt Lake City. I was about to spend the next 21 months in a country only 700 miles from the US boarder, but it might as well have been another planet. I had studied Haitian Creole as best I could for the prior 2 months, however, I was lucky if I could say my name and ask someone to pass the salt.
My American Airlines jet was unlike any other flight I had ever been on. First it was loud. This flight full of Haitians speaking this strange language I thought, up until that moment that I knew. Second it was crowded. These people didn’t just travel with their luggage, but the were flying with their luggage, and brooms, and food, and other basic items that I would have normally picked up in a grocery store. They were taking all these things to their families in Haiti.
I was riveted. I strained to understand this language. It was faster and seemingly more complex than I could have ever imagined.
After an hour or so our flight landed in Haiti. I looked out the window and noticed old broken down planes along the runway, and grass growing through the Tarmac. The plane came to a stop and the door opened, a wave of hot, humid air quickly over took the cool air conditioned air in the plane. I was instantly sweaty.
I lived in an area of Port-au-Prince called Carrerfour Feuilles. It was in the southern part of Port-au-Prince, and mostly built on a mountain side. Even in a densely populated place like Port-au-Prince news of a “Blan” moving into the neighborhood spread like wildfire.
The children of Haiti first won a place in my heart. I would turn around after walking to the market and see a dozen children chasing behind me calling my name, trying to hold my hand, eager to try out their limited English.
These children amazed me. I was a kid who always wanted the newest, latest and greatest toy, GI Joe, or Nintendo, and here were these children with nothing, and they were happy. I have never met a happier group of children anywhere. They would play soccer in make shift fields of dirt, with 2 cinder blocks as goals, and bound up plastic bags as a ball. They would take rims from old bicycles and roll them down the road chasing after them, laughing all the way.
When it was time to work, they worked hard, and their work was hard. As soon as a child is able to lift a gallon of water, their expected to go to the nearest water source sometimes miles away, a well, a river, a broken water line, and fetch the water for the family. They would make several trips a day hauling this needed water for their family. While they were carrying this water they smiled, they laughed, sometimes they even sang.
If they were lucky, their family could afford to send them to school. Early in the morning children would emerge from their small and dirty homes, dressed in impeccably clean and pressed school uniforms. I remembered watching these kids in the morning as I thought about what I wore to high school, usually ripped jeans, a wrinkled T-shirt. These kids coming from the most extreme poverty dressed 10 times better than I ever did for school.
Originally it was these children who made me fall in love with Haiti. These incredible children always smiling, always laughing, happy, and with nothing.