Finally, Three Months Later

            I knew it was him sitting under the mango tree that Friday afternoon. It was nearly 1:00 and as the taptap bumped and jostled its way beyond the red gate reading “CEMEPID CENTRE MEDICAL PARTNERS IN DEVELOPMENT” I spotted him: red shirt, little hands, big eyes. I blinked rapidly and my legs began to bounce with anticipation. I was filled with an unsuppressable desire to jump right out of that moving taptap. But my civilized rationale reasoned that I’d be better off if I remained in the vehicle until it came to a full and complete stop.

            As we finally rolled to a stop outside the bunkhouse I shot up from my seat farthest inside the taptap. When we left the worksite in Canaan we had just over an hour to make it back to the compound in Blanchard and get ready for our afternoon trip to the shops in Port-Au-Prince. I realized now we only had 45 minutes to wash the cement off our legs and the dirt and dust out of our hair. I had no choice but to neglect my desire to run to that little boy under the mango tree and instead run, yes run, through the bunkhouse to the showers.

            All my life I’ve been known amongst my friends and family for taking exceptionally fast showers, and if for no other moment but this, I am thankful for my near 21 years of training in shower efficiency. For it wasn’t more than 10 minutes later that I was dressed with my straw-like but soaking wet hair pulled back into the 9^th braid of the week. Despite the chilly water in the shower, the Haitian heat had me sweating again as I raced back out of the bunkhouse, my eyes darting to the benches beneath the mango tree. There he was in the shade of the branches: red shirt, little hands, big eyes. I walked over trying to compose myself as to not overwhelm this little joy, and as I approached I heard Mr. Genois, the social worker asking for me.

            “Hi, um I’m Amanda!” I said, my voice overly eager, and my pace picking up to a jog.

            My nerves were settled as Mr. Genois’ lips parted revealing the most genuine and loving smile. In it I could see his passion for the work he’d spent so much of his life committed to doing. He’s been working with Partners In Development for over a decade and as the head of social work oversees the entire child sponsorship program. I first met Mr. Genois in March of 2014 and was so impacted by his work at PID. While he was one of the many faces I remembered from my first time here, I was sure it wasn’t until now that he’d remember me, too.

            Mr. Genois greeted me and told me in broken English that this was Jean Louis Docera. My ears caught as I finally heard the correct pronunciation of his name, Dough-sir-ah. For nearly four months I’d been reading it as Dough-Sarah. It struck me as odd that I’ve been pronouncing his name wrong for so long, but before I could get too caught up in my own thoughts I found myself squatting down to his level.

            I opened my arms, and after a beat Jean Louis threw himself into what was one of those hugs you just can’t shake off, the kind that you still feel long after it’s ended. The moment felt like it was happening in slow motion but in hyper speed all at the same time. I began sponsoring this little boy 6 months after my first 10 days in Haiti, 9 months and an eternity ago. And after three months of praying for his photo on a screen I met this little joy, and what a joy he already was. I couldn’t contain the excitement I was feeling and it was surging through nearly every vein in my body. After pulling back I was struck again by how big his little eyes were.

            “Bon soir,” I said, exhausting a third of the creole phrases I knew.

            “Bon soir,” he said back to me, his voice soft and high-pitched.

            “Ki jan ou ye?” I asked, him. To which he responded “pas plus mal.” Not too bad, what five year old in America would ever say he was “not too bad” when asked how he was? I pondered the formality of his answer for only a moment before forcing the thought out of my head. Standing up, I greeted his mother, repeating the only creole greeting I knew.

            It was just past 1 o’clock, right in the middle of the workday, and the clinic was in full swing. The only people who could translate for me were busy translating for the American nurses working in the clinic. I was lucky if I snagged one of them long enough to translate a sentence or two at a time. As a result, in the half hour I spent with Jean Louis I was able to ask his birthday, May 20^th, tell him I loved him, and learn from his mother that they would pray for me everyday, as she knew I was praying for them everyday. Beyond this, any verbal communication was for nothing, both his mother and I spoke in short phrases, me in English, and she in Creole, each knowing full well the other couldn’t understand but smiling in affirmation to one another nonetheless.

            But that day it didn’t matter what was said. It was the joy I could see in his glistening eyes as we kicked the tiny size 3 soccer ball back and forth that made up for any lack of communication we had otherwise. It was his smile that nearly drove me to tears right there in the open that meant more than any quickly translated phrase. And even though the clinic was buzzing with people, members of my team darting in and out of the showers and running back and forth from the bunkhouse to the kitchen, and a few close friends gathered around me with cameras flashing, it felt like me and Jean Louis were the only two people in the courtyard that Friday afternoon.

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