We have now met with all of the parents, or families of our kids and given contact information so they can call us when they need us. The plan is for all 6 of the kids we are working with to go home at night. The good thing about this story is that 2 parents called us to tell us their boys didn't go home. The bad thing is: these boys are wild horses. I love them for it. I love how naughty they are. I love how untamed their ADHD has become under the Haitian sun. I love how smart, quick-witted, and hilarious they all are. I love these boys. But... they sleep under cars instead of going home. Why? What's going on here?
So, I found a babysitter and made my way to the park where they wash cars for money, it's also the park everyone hangs out at on Sunday nights. So... I knew I was in for it. My objective was so get at least one of them home to bed. Just one. Why won't you go home, little dude? That's all I wanted to know.In a sea of noir, those boys can find their blanc in less than a minute. Every time I pull up, I am circled by happy, dirty little boys within 30 seconds. Linderson attaches himself to me in a hug cuddle, and I rub his back and talk to them all. Eventually he reaches up to my tattoo and asks me where Everest is, and asks me to add an arrow for him. Last night the only difference was that Linderson let me watch him work before he assumed his 10 minute hug. He washed cars with great pride in his work. I was humbled as always.
The struggle in Haiti for these kids is misconception. They are almost culturally hated. We have had women who sell street food refuse my money because they didn't want to feed %&#$* street kids. People yell at them, and treat them like stray dogs. They act the part most of the time. But, all I see is prejudice when I watch how their society treats them. Surprise, surprise I fell in love.
Last night was more chaotic than it is during the day with them. They fought more than normal. There was a really bad bloody nose. Everywhere you look there are people selling drinks. They all have napkins for the beer. None of them would give me a napkin or any ice for a street kid bloody nose. Not even one. People just don't like them.
So, eventually we decided the two boys we were going to motto home and tuck into bed were Baby, and J-Mac. They are our youngest, and in our minds there was just no excuse for them to be sleeping under tap-taps when they could be at home in bed with their families. So, I peed behind a truck in a public area the kids took me to, and we were on our way to tucking our babies in.
J-Mac almost bailed out 100 times. His Social Worker, Gregory kept negotiating with him the whole way home. J-Mac had us up to 50 GUDS to go home ($1) and we were willing to pay it. When we first met J-Mac he told us his mother was dead. When we met his family, he brought us to his aunts. But, we later learned he has a mother. She is just desperately poor, and mentally ill and hasn't been able to take care of him since the earthquake.
Last night, we wanted him to take us to his moms because he has told us that he brings her money from the streets sometimes. And after we met her, we felt that she needed help too.
So, I paid a street kid to take me to his moms to go to bed. As crazy as that sounds, I was also entering into a shady area of Haiti at night as a blanc. But I had to answer the question "Why won't you go home little dude? Whyyyyyyyyy?" My students were with me, carrying my purse and everything. If no one takes the risk to get the answer, nothing can ever change.
So, in the dark I winded through little Haitian mountain passages holding J-Mac's hand. Where he leads us stops feeling residential and becomes earthquake rubble. Down broken stairs, wires, and rocks I went. We entered into a small cement cave. Inside the pitch black cave, J-Mac leads us to a closet. Gregory, followed him over with the light of his cell phone, and in the closet we saw a blanket. This was his mom's house. She did not own the cave, someone let her sleep in the closet buried under earthquake rubble. J-Mac's mom is homeless too, and her kid is a "street kid" so no one will accept him there with her, so he sleeps under a tap-tap 6 blocks away.So... that's why J-Mac doesn't go home. There isn't one, and he can't. Gregory loves J-Mac like a little brother, and it hit him really hard to see that little blanket. I remained calm, which I never do, and I don't know why I did. We found J-Mac's mom and talked to her about her living situation. She told me it would probably be better for me to find someplace for him because she is never going to be able to afford a home. I told her I would come see her in the daylight this week and we could talk about what is best J-Mac.
What is best for J-Mac?
My opinion: Seeing his mother rise out of the rubble.
I can't place him, and leave her. It doesn't make any sense. We need to rehabilitate this family.
If you help sponsor this family to rent their own tiny cave with beds, Haiti Mama will make it happen. We will also work with his mother for her mental health, and help her build a business. She used to be a great merchan, so we are told.
http://www.haitimama.org/jean-marc-j-mac.html
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