When Home Feels More Foreign Than the Place From Which You Just Came

It hasn’t been a week since I’ve been back and I can already feel the value, the relevance, and the importance of my time in Haiti slipping out of my grasp.

But let me start at the beginning…

Just two weeks ago I was laying on my best friends bed, completely restless, counting the hours I had left in the comfort of my own dorm before I was about to be thrown out into the world, the unknown. I couldn’t sleep but I couldn’t be fully awake, either. Trying to recall the way I felt in those final hours before I boarded the bus for Logan International Airport is nearly impossible because even in the moment itself I felt a complete loss of reality. Its as if I was trying so hard to wrap my head around what I was feeling in the moment that I ended up choking myself in the process. Slowly though, time passed, and as each hour rolled on and slid beneath the hour hand of the clock my breathing became less and less consistent, more fragmented, more uneasy. And as the minute hand slowly carved its way around the clock, hour by hour passing under its belt, I had a growing sense of discomfort. At last the clock on my phone read 2:00am, and I finally moved from my restlessness into pure anxiety. I grabbed my bags and headed out the doors into the 7-degree weather that outwardly greeted me with as much unease as I was probably radiating from within. By 2:30 the Gordon bus, loaded with 14 people, 28 personal bags, and 10 medical bags pulled away from the Chapel loop and we were Logan bound.

When we arrived at the airport it was lifeless. We were the only people, it seemed, and we sat just inside the doors for nearly two hours before the once desolate room began to come to life. This time I had with my team, though, was precious, and it was the catalyst for the week ahead. Though overwhelmed by exhaustion, we spent much of this time laughing, cracking jokes, and sharing in our anticipation.

                                          Photo Credit: Sohenga Depestre 

It was about 1:00pm and our plane began its final decent into Toussaint Louverture International Airport in Port-Au-Prince. After what was undoubtedly the most terrifying flight of my life, it was with great anticipation that I awaited the moment that our wheels would touch the earth, this time, though, on Haitian ground. As we sat on the plane waiting to finish taxiing and for the cabin doors to open, the heat from the world just outside this aircraft was intoxicating. In jeans and a tee shirt I could feel the first of many beads of sweat roll down my back. As the plane began to de-board, we were directed to exit the plane from the back, down the stairs, and onto the tarmac. As I stepped outside the aircraft and onto the moveable staircase that kissed the side of the plane I was instantly in awe of the beauty that lay outside. As we were landing I could see the glorious mountain ranges that stretched high above ground, reaching into the sky as if arms reaching up from the ground waiting to wrap each traveler into their embrace. We crossed the tarmac with many eyes following our path and though only outside a moment, it was with great joy that I entered the air-conditioned airport. We stood in a line, as long as Disney World, before passing through customs and getting what would be the first stamp in my newest passport.

                                         Photo Credit: Sohenga Depestre

I could spend time detailing for you every moment and every event that would construct the next 8 days of my life, but even in so doing, I'm not sure I could fully encapsulate my experience, and to provide any less detail would be a disservice. And in my attempt to break down each and every day I would fail to bring justice the main point of this story, and that is how coming home was exponentially more challenging that I had ever thought it would be.

Throughout the next 8 days I was exposed to things I had never before seen except in pictures, maybe. I met people whose lives told the story of struggle and faith and persistence and of joy. I ate food that gave my grandmothers cooking a run for its money. I slept in bunks that made Saranac seem like simplicity and I woke up at hours that only ever roll away unnoticed behind shut eyelids. I saw sunsets that were more orange than an orange, and I spent time with a family that I have no blood connection with. I experienced a new culture that made America seem like a fraud and I witnessed God in ways I’d otherwise never see. I heard stories of trial and of love. I found within myself inner strength I never knew I had. And in 8 days in Haiti I had more exposure to life than I think I ever have in a year’s time at home.

                                         Photo Credit: Moriah Gross

                                          Photo Credit: Amanda Calabro

Before I could even open my eyes after blinking, the week had passed by me. I stood in the middle of the compound Saturday morning and watched as every moment of my time in Haiti played like a film in my head. I saw myself walking off the bus for the first time, eyes wide, capturing the essence of the air. I saw myself amongst my team playing soccer with some local boys in the field. I saw myself running for the shower the day I got back from the work site with the worst sunburn of my life. I saw us all sitting outside the bunkhouse on the first night, talking as if time were frozen mid sentence. I saw myself running back into the bunkhouse with freshly cleaned water bottles, my throat so desperately seeking water that would cause my cough to finally subside. I saw sponsors and their sponsor children drawing with chalk. I saw cameras flashing, I saw smiles and laughing, I saw tears, I saw fears, I saw passion, and I saw illness. I saw the moment I shared with a dear friend on the roof, chocking back tears. I saw Bibles being opened, Scripture being read, journals filling with thoughts, questions, anxieties, and cries to the Lord. I saw food being prepared, and clothes being washed, and walls being painted. I saw dirt and I saw dust. I saw stars, and I saw the sun. I saw the rain that infrequently fell; I saw currents that lit up the sky.  I saw the fire that grew in my heart and I saw the calming hand of the Lord that reached down daily and touched me. I saw life, and I saw growth.

                                          Photo Credit: Moriah Gross

And my sights were suddenly ended as I heard voices calling, “we have to go, we’re already late” they said, and in that moment I knew it was over. Not even off the compound and we were circling time like a vulture.

                                          Photo Credit: Moriah Gross

The bus ride to the airport was shorter than it had been the last time; I swear they must’ve stitched those roads together. And by the time we took our seats for the 4-hour flight New York bound I had already chocked back more than a few tears. As I sat on the plane and watched as we began to gain enough speed to allow the wheels to lose their embrace with the ground I felt an unforeseen heaviness in my heart. I watched as the buildings and cars below began to lose their shape before fading into the mountainous landscape and finally being lost from sight entirely.

                                          Photo Credit: Moriah Gross

Before I even understood the fact that we were leaving I found myself right outside my dorm, hugging each and every person I’d just spent the most incredible week with, and now any semblance of composure I once had was lost as I stepped away from the bus and watched it drive away.

This past week has been like none other I’ve experienced, and it has been completely different from my expectations. Even though I’ve always heard that coming home from a foreign country (when your experience there is as impactful as my time in Haiti was) is always hard, often times harder than your transition to that country, I never believed it. I thought that feeling was for the travelers, the nomads, the restless. But this past week has proven that even for the homebodies, the complacency seekers, the comfortable, coming home is one of the most challenging parts. Maybe it’s because I didn’t prepare myself for the disorientation I’d feel when I returned back to my pseudo hometown, or maybe it’s because I had too high of expectations. Either way, it’s been now a full week since I’ve been home and I still haven’t gotten my footing.

People keep asking me how my trip was as if I was vacationing in the Caribbean. People see me, and they see I’m tan, and they ask how my “spring break” was. They ask if I had fun in Haiti. They ask if it was the best time of my life. They ask these questions as I pass them by on the sidewalk, as if a quick exchange of words would be enough to fully encapsulate my experiences. And I can’t blame them, they’re only trying to be polite, but they have no idea what we’ve gone through down there. They have no idea the impact it’s had on me or the fact that trying to find the words to describe it is nearly impossible.

My professors turn to me soliciting feedback on the 100 pages of the novel I was supposed to have read over break. I stare blankly, my head running trying to catch up, being blocked with the thought that my grades will suffer for this. I try to explain that I didn’t have the time, but that would be a cop out. And in so doing, I’d turn the most pure of experiences into some sort of idol, some sort of confidence boost, as if I see myself as privileged above the rest. So I fight my eyelids and force myself awake to complete the assigned tasks I’ve so long put off. And even still, I can’t find the focus within me. Everything seems so trivial now, so unimportant in the scheme of this world.

It takes time, I realize that, but what I can’t quiet figure out is how to run my life in two dimensions. The first in slow motion, trying to cling to and decode what has happened just a week ago, the second is hyper speed, reading, running, testing, working, flying, just trying to keep up with the world around me. I’m not sure I’ve found a way to reconcile these two seemingly contradictory lifestyles that I’m now forced to live.

And so I press on, trying to come to terms with the fact that my eyes have seen things unseeable and my heart has felt things unfeelable and yet I’m living in a world that has no knowledge of the experiences I’ve had. And as time passes I slowly begin to slip back into my old routines if by nothing else out of necessity. And as each day goes by it becomes easier and easier to compartmentalize, not allowing my Haiti heart to infiltrate my Americanized self. And as the weeks roll on and time ticks by, it becomes easier to go days without seeing my team. And this all scares me to death. That I’m becoming okay without it. That makes me think I didn’t need it. And yet, it was so precious, how could it not have changed me? I know that it shifted my perspective, but it’s like I put on these glasses since I’ve been home to completely negate the paradigm shift I’ve undergone. And so badly I keep trying to take them off but my friends and my professors and my society keep putting them back on me. And it started out softly, they would notice I took them off and they would gently remind me to put my conformity lenses back on, and out of my desire to please, I do so. But that gentleness has long since faded and now it’s with great force that these factors ensure the glasses never come off again.

It’s only been a week since I’ve been home and I can feel it slipping away. How do I hold on? How can you never lose your grasp on something that, no matter how hard you try, will start to lose its impact over time? How do I stop that from happening in a society that demands so much and where each minute of my day is mapped out for me? How do I preserve the things I've done and the people I met and the way I've felt without minimizing it? How?

                                          Photo Credit: Moriah Gross

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