This post is going to be about my race. I'm going to be frank: I'm the only white girl who lives in Hinche these days. There are other people who come through, and I've met and known some other etranje (foreigners) who have come through and lived here, but I'm pretty sure everyone's gone now. There are some men (like Brothers Bill and Harry, who live at the boys' orphanage), but I'm pretty much the only girl.
I'm writing about this topic because it's been confusing me lately. I'm not trying to talk about race in any offensive way -- I don't just mean skin color, financial status, citizenship. I just mean Haitian or American in whatever way the Haitians distinguish it. I've done enough overseas living and traveling, as well as enough small-town living, to have a really confused idea of what race means and is. But I don't want to get into that. This is a new kind of confusion. Here are a few stories. Take from them what you may.
1. Elizabeth. A mother came to the hospital a few weeks ago and gave birth to a gorgeous, healthy, full-term baby girl. What had happened was that her husband had moved to the US and she'd gotten pregnant by another man. This was scandalous enough that she didn't want her husband to know (I can't believe she kept it a secret for that long!), so she signed the papers to leave her baby up for adoption. Some nurses found a large tupperware contained and stuffed it full of blue hospital towels. They put her in a disposable diaper and set her in the box in the the storage room on a dirty mattress on the floor.
The next morning, Sherly, who is always way too casual about things that are not casual, called me to tell me about the baby in the storage room. I brought her some homemade cloth diapers (that a volunteer made out of donated tshirts!), a hat, some hand-crocheted socks, a blanket, and two bottles. We were fresh out of tirad from making baby bags that we handed out at Mobile Clinic that day, so she'd have to go clothes-less. When I got there, her diaper was dirty and she was slightly dehydrated. No one seemed to know what to do with her -- or maybe they just didn't have time. I gave Guerlie 500 HTG to go grab some formula and a bottle of clean water. Sherly and I gave her her first bath. We put her in a bright pink cloth diaper and someone found a pink outfit for her, which ironically said "Daddy's Girl." I shirked my other responsibilities for a few hours and just held her in the storage room. She didn't cry once.
Miss Anise, the head nurse, told me there was a woman who wanted to adopt her already -- a woman who'd had fertility problems. However, lots of people wanted to just take her. For the next few nights, a nurse took her to her room in the house behind the hospital designated for staff who don't live in the area. I visited her in the Pediatric ward each day. Hers was the only crib with a mosquito net. As soon as I came back the next day she was much better hydrated and her skin was beginning to darken. Her eyes were dark blue.
I quickly discovered that I couldn't hold her out in the hallway or I'd attract a very impressive crowd. I thought the baby looked entirely Haitian, but the Haitians all thought she was white, or "li menm jan avek w." The direct translation is "she is like you." I guess everyone thought she was mine, which made me uncomfortable when I thought about my job with MFH. The Peds nurses were great, though, and found me a seat and snapped at anybody who stared at me too much. Normally, when someone stares for too long, I just offer a casual "bonswa" and they're satisfied. One time, though, they didn't stop watching, so I asked them what they were looking at. "W menm avek tibebe a" or "You with the baby" was their response. Obviously.
On Friday, I went in to the hospital to run some errands. As I walked in to the hospital, the nurses were bringing her over from the house. She was immediately placed in my arms and I assumed the woman waiting outside was there for some other reason. Turns out, her adoptive mother had come to pick her up. Upon realizing this, I instantly handed her over and admired her, telling the mother how kontann I was for her and her family. I told her, "li bel, wi" ("she's beautiful, isn't she?") in the Haitians' usual way of answering their own questions. She responded with "menm jan avek w."
A few days into it, I unintentionally named her Elizabeth. It's weird to spend so much time with a baby who a) isn't yours and b) doesn't have a name. So I gave her one. Elizabeth's my middle name, so it may have been the slightly narcissistic side of me that did it, but it needed to be done. I wonder what she'll be called now.
2. Dr. Alice Hirata is an Ob/Gyn from Virginia. She visited to volunteer for the umpteenth time a few weeks ago and got me back into running, which I'd given up on because of the heat. She and I went behind the house, where there are beautiful hills that overlook all of Hinche and even into the Dominican Republic. After she left, I've been keeping up with it fairly consistently. Most Haitians don't exercise -- for many reasons. Firstly, nutrition isn't great. Then, you have the heat. People are busy with kids and school and working. And then most of them do enough physical labor carrying water on their heads or pushing massive wheelbarrows of rocks. Exercising -- especially publicly -- is a sign of wealth. Needless to say, it attracts attention.
I've decided that exercising is important enough to me that I'll do it regardless of the reactions I get. But truthfully, most of them are good. Kids will run with you (except for the one kid who told me he'd break my head with a rock...) and there's a group of guys on motorcycles who are always in the same spot and enthusiastically test my knowledge of both French and Creole. Most people who seem to be getting a kick out of it just chuckle and say nap kouri? which basically means, "Running, eh?"
Anyway, the relevant part of the story comes from just my regular greeting of people. I try to greet everybody I pass -- and I try to remember their faces so I'm not the weirdo blan who says hi as I pass the same person for the sixth time. I came upon a woman who was standing overlooking a pretty view, but didn't look like she was praying, so I said, "bonswa madam," to which she replied, "bonswa fanmi" or "good afternoon, family." To be fair, she started to speak before she really turned around. Either my accent was good enough that she thought I was Haitian or she was really referring to me as "family."
3. When my parents were here a few weeks ago, Solimène, one of our amazing cooks, tried telling my mom (who was working on her Creole) that I am their sister ("them" being her, the other cook Dieuny, and Eliette, the cleaning lady). It just meant so much. They get quite a kick out of me, since I'm so different in some ways from Carrie. They miss her gato chokola (brownies) and Eliette always makes fun of me because I'm so messy.
4. At my weekly dance lesson, Tura brought another dance teacher, a "colleague" of his, to dance with. This guy (totally forget his name) has a really interesting way of dancing, where he stands in pretty much the same spot and just makes me spin around him. It's really cool! Anyway, his sense of humor is super sarcastic and he speaks really quickly so I only know what he's saying about 20% of the time. Regardless, when I started learning the jive and caught on really quickly, he told me it was just luck. I said, "well it's an American dance, isn't it? I should be good at it!" And he said he thought I was Haitian because I speak such good Creole. Whether that was sarcasm or not, he said it and I took it to heart!
Last story that is irrelevant, but really cool: A few weeks go, I had to run to the hospital to drop something off for a preceptor. When Alfred (taxi driver) and I pulled up to the hospital, all kinds of UN vehicles and police were outside. I asked what was going on and he explained that the premye dam was here -- Haiti's First Lady, Martelly's wife, was at our hospital! He dropped me off outside the gate and I walked in non-chalantly, entirely not expecting to see her. As I entered the maternity ward, I saw a handwritten sign welcoming her. Then all of a sudden, she was walking directly at me, a rouge or Haiti's version of a "ginger" -- someone who's light-skinned with reddish hair and freckles (only not from malnutrition; usually because they're biracial and therefore wealthier and considered more beautiful). She was leading a posse of about 10 people and everyone in the hospital lined the sides of the hallways so she could walk through no problem. A photographer who was clearly not from the area started speaking to me in English. Then, Mrs. Martelly looked me directly in the eye and said, "Bonswa" and smiled. COOL, RIGHT? I wouldn't have had any idea who she was if it weren't for all the fuss, but it's still really cool that she casually said hello to me. Okay, I'm done bragging now.
I guess, in summary, I'm constantly confused at what skin color means to the Haitian people, though it's becoming clearer. Being blan definitely means you're a rich, white, foreigner -- usually American. If you're a blan, expect to hear it called after you and expect to be asked for money or gifts. Being dark-skinned does not keep you from being a blan... but having white skin does not mean you're not Haitian. Haitians accept you as a Haitian when you speak their language and understand their culture. If I forget for even a second to greet someone, they will speak up. I'm constantly being tested -- if I do greet someone, I get a sa va? so they can see if I speak Creole. I'm not 100% Haitian yet, and I won't be until I forget about the wonders of string cheese, Gushers, and hot showers, but I'm definitely getting there!
