We walked in to Santiago on October 28th.

Morning sunrise to Santiago

It wasn't without its challenges, but we did it. 800 kilometers. 500 miles. We walked from France to Santiago. I can't wrap my head around the thought. If I hadn't documented it with photos and video, I probably wouldn't believe it.

There was a lot of camino magic that day. We woke up at 4:30 to walk the 20 kilometers to Santiago by 11am and make the noon pilgrim mass. Our group of 6 got split up, so it was really disheartening that we couldn't walk in together, but those feelings were replaced by excitement when we found out that the butafumiero would swing during mass. The butafumiero is a large 60-ish pound silver container that hangs from a rope in the center of the cathedral. Hot coals are put inside to burn incense. A group of men pull on ropes to swing it back and forth. The was done in early times to counter the smell of dirty pilgrims. At its peak, it swings so high that it looks like it will hit the high ceiling, and there is a story that this did happen once. It is truly a magnificent thing to witness. These days, they only swing it on rare occasions and when someone makes a large donation, so I really didn't expect to see it. It felt like camino magic that it happened.



It was a little sad walking in to Santiago that we didn't see any of the faces we had been walking with. Just before mass I was telling Linda who I wished to see. As soon as mass ended, we saw Mitch standing in the door. I had met him night 1. Mitch is a charming man, mayor of the camino. And then we saw a bunch of other faces we knew. We saw practically everyone we hoped to see, and it was unexpected. Camino magic. It brought tears to my eyes I was so moved by the gathering. And so - there was much excitement in the air and celebrating.   We had reached Santiago.

The high comes down quick though, and it is best to keep walking. The next morning was extremely emotional as we said goodbyes, the hardest to Taryn and her partner Kim. Kim joined us a week and a half ago, but Taryn I had met before day 1. I met her on the train from Bayonne to St. Jean. In St. Jean we stayed in different hostels and I thought I would never see her again. Day 1 she sped past me up the hill and I really thought I would never see her again. But she stayed at Orisson where I stayed, and we found ourselves walking in our camino family. I shed many tears saying goodbye.

Last night before Santiago with Taryn and Kim

And we started walking to Finisterre and then Muxia. Another 6 days of walking. It is very different, not to be headed to Santiago, but I'm so glad to be going to the ocean. I think it also would have been hard to leave after Santiago in having such an abrupt finish. Walking to the ocean allows us to ease out of it and walk through the emotions of beginning to let go of this way, this life, these people, this freedom.

But even when it is over, it will not truly be finished. The end - that is when they say the camino really starts.

At this point, we have walked about 300 miles. Some days I couldn't tell you what town we were in the night before. It all runs together. But I can tell you that two nights ago we were in Leon. A big city with a massive and impressive cathedral. We spent two nights there and took our first real rest day. We spoiled ourselves a bit and stayed in a hotel. What luxury we had with long hot showers and towels. Towels!  And to sleep in and not have to pack up and find another place to sleep for the night. I fell asleep those two nights with a beautiful view of one of the towers lit up at night.

Despite being there for nearly 48 hours, the 5 of us split among 3 rooms, not bound to make our decisions together, we found ourselves mostly together, eating meals together and hanging out in one of our rooms. It is so strange to me, someone who needs an almost exorbitant amount of alone time, that when time for that finally came, I wanted to know what everyone else was doing. I preferred the company of the camino family. I would gladly give up my alone time to be with them.

Colleen and Linda

The community aspect of the camino is what hits me most profoundly. Apart from the four I have been walking with from the start, there are many others that you may bump into from time to time that you have already met. We may walk with someone a day or two, lose them, and see them a week later. But someone that you have only met once before suddenly becomes an old friend the next time you see them. And you greet as old friends, so excited with huge smiles.

Recognizing that we who do the camino all do come from a certain amount of privilege, the nature of the walk allows for a certain amount of instant depth with others. We are all on a journey, have pain of some kind, sharing sleeping quarters and showers. You don't know who are the doctors or lawyers or shopkeepers or people who have quit their jobs. There is no need to be defined by where you rank in the real world and so walls between us are not erected. This openness allows for such special depth to happen among people.

Jousting bridge in Hospital

And I have been humbled by the generosity and support I have felt by this community. Whatever you need, it will find a way to you. I have felt extremely cared for and loved by people I have known for less than a month. I am trying to figure out how to bring these community aspects home. How to enact them at home and create spaces of openness that allow others to engage in this way as well.

One exciting piece of news is that I was able to change my flight back to the US. I now do not have to rush to Santiago and can finish 3 days past Santiago in Finisterre. I didn't feel ending at the foot of a gilded church would be sufficient for me. It wouldn't feel finished. But walking to the waves crashing on rocks, to a place that literally means "the end of the world," where the others I have walked with from day 1 will finish, that will be a sufficient end.

How they fix blisters in Mansilla :-)

So after 300 miles I continue on. They say there are 3 stages of struggle: physical, then mental, then spiritual. I am definitely on the mental part. After 4 or 5 days of straight and long roads, sometimes not reaching a village until after 10 miles, it becomes a little weary. Walking isn't always pleasant. It is a mental struggle to remind myself that I want to do this. Because sometimes it just feels crazy. But tomorrow the land gets hilly again, and hopefully we are not too bombarded by wind and rain. The camino holds much magic, and there are miles to go. Tomorrow's magic: a chocolate museum :-)

Sunrise on the camino

I didn't expect the camino to be easy. I just didn't think it would be this hard. [Fair warning: possible complaining ahead]. I tried to come with no expectations, but expectations are inevitable. And so I think I expected the first week or so to be hard, but then blisters would heal and my body would get with the program. Unfortunately that hasn't been the case. With boots that are too small (since feet flatten, swell, and double pairs of socks are worn), blisters have come, and come, and come. Some days my feet hurt so bad that I felt nauseous. I started to doubt that I would walk normal again. But as they say, the camino provides. Linda, one of my camino family, had a pair of hiking sandals that she was looking to get rid of. My feet are much happier and healing and recovering much faster after so much walking. I am starting to walk normal again :-)

Commiserating with weary pilgrims

But if it is not one thing, it is another. A nasty cold has set in. Pair it with rain and wicked winds and you have created the perfect conditions for miserable walking.

My walks are often haunted by my worries as well. I worry that I won't be able to finish the camino before my flight leaves and it will feel horrible to leave yet another thing unfinished.

Being a nomad like this also feels a bit like insanity. The same routine everyday.

I had idealistic notions of a life of simplicity, happily traipsing the land of Spain in deep introspective thought and getting clarity and epiphany after epiphany. The camino gives much, but not without working for it.

Halfway to Santiago!

It is hard, but wonderful. I may not finish the camino having the details of my life figured out, but I come home with many lessons. And clarity is coming. Walking, walking, walking, I am able to work through some big and important things. I feel like I will come home a more whole and authentic Jamie. And despite the hard things, life is pretty grand. Walking, I feel alive, and after walking, there are few chores to do before spending the rest of the evening socializing, catching up with "old friends" (people we have met along the way), drinking $2 wine that is better than any bottle I have tasted at home and eating delicious food (that will be walked off the next day). There are beautiful moments, beautiful souls, and beautiful images that I  am storing up to pull from for a lifetime. Fiery sunrises, a gentle squeeze of the foot for an alarm, a pink wig that causes much belly laughter, singing nuns, fresh tortilla, the relief of crashing on a bed off your feet after 27km of walking. The gratitude you get from clean laundry, a free electrical outlet, and a night without a storm of snoring.

A few photos for your pleasure:

Looking into Roncevaux

At a rest stop. Just follow the shell...

One of the many views on an early morning walk

A Czechoslovakian Truffle to make it to the top...

Day 1. St. Jean Pied de Port to Orisson. 8 kilometers that felt like 18 because of the steep 1000 meter ascent.  The hike up is no joke. Not for the faint of heart. But the thing about walking is that it's really not that hard. You just need to take one step. And then another.

I have big questions to ask. Big ideas to think about. But there are times while walking, perhaps particularly when the conditions make it hard, that your body demands some attention and respect.  Today was one such day. It was all body, and it did me well. And after a tough hike up, we were greatly rewarded with stunning views of the Pyrenees mountains. Rolling green terrain with loosely roaming white bovine and horses providing a background sound of bells.

I mostly walked alone today and the Quaker in me was so very content. I think I will prefer to mostly walk alone. Socializing comes later when there is downtime at the albergue, or hostel. This afternoon I had a glass of wine with a couple of Australian women in their 60's/70's. Even here where there are younger people I still find myself in the company of people twice my age  :-).

Walking on the camino, you find yourself in an instant community of people. And because it generally takes a certain type of person to want to walk 500 miles, I find myself around like-minded people. One of the things I look forward to most are those wonderful meetings with others that leave your soul a little lighter. Towards the end of the hike up, there was a wonderful flat grassy area that was perfect for taking a break. I took a rest as I took in the scenery. I'm sure I looked pretty rough, my face very red. A couple came over to me, younger and from where I am not sure, but the girl said, "for you" and handed me a candy. A Czechoslovakian truffle. The best chocolate I have ever tasted. And I know it made the rest of the trek up just a little easier, both for the sweet sustenance it provided and that it was a gift given from an unknown girl.

The way to St. Jean Pied de Port

How curious that my last blog's title was "I would walk 500 miles" not knowing that the next time I would write, it would be for the sake of truly walking 500 miles.

"Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands."

I came across these words by Native American author Linda Hogan about a year and a half ago. I have not been able to stop thinking about these words. They have taken on new meaning as I begin my walking. I had never been this excited about my travels before. One person told me they thought it was because it was the first thing I have really done for myself. I hope that's not the case. It sounds too selfish. I think it has to do with the quote above.

I feel like I have been carried to the camino. For me, it is a walk of gratitude, among other things that I am still defining. The past four years have been very difficult years. If I were a building, it feels as if four years ago, that building were completely destroyed and I have been working and rebuilding to have a livable home. I have been rebuilt, but I did not do it myself. Some wonderful parts have been added by some really lovely people. It is not just a livable home, but it is quite wonderful. So I walk in gratitude.

I will walk. A lot. I will listen in a deeper way. I will ask important questions. And there will be many behind me. Many of you. Reminding me "be still. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of many."

I would walk 500 miles...

I will tell you something about stories,

[he said]

They aren't just entertainment.

Don't be fooled.

They are all we have, you see,

all we have to fight off illness and death.

You don't have anything 

if you don't have the stories.

-Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony

Photo courtesty of the Arizona Daily Star

I have now put somewhere between 200-225 miles on my feet walking through the Sonoran desert over the course of 3 weeks over the past three years.  Some people that I walked with had accumulated up to 750 miles on their feet.  And so I wondered: How many more miles will *my* feet have to walk? How many miles will it take before something changes?  Before there is hope?  Before people stop dying searching for the basic rights to life?  I don't have the answers to the questions, but I speculate that my feet will be walking many more miles to come.

For the third year in a row, I embarked on a 75-mile walk from Sasabe, Mexico to Tucson, Arizona with 49 people from all over the US.  We all walk with a common purpose: to remember those who have died crossing the border, and those who continue to cross; to bear witness to the suffering and inhumanity that is occurring at our Southern border.  But for each of us, the question of why we walk is also a personal one, answered differently by each of us.  At night, each of us has to do a security shift for a couple hours, keeping watch in case border patrol or migrants come into camp.  The first night from 11pm-1am I sat with Judith.  She is my age, from Colorado, and I've never had as much fun doing a security shift.  I listened to her stories: of her mother who crossed, undocumented.  Of her friend, Jeannette, who was put into a detention center with high risk of being deported.  Though this was my third year walking, the reality of migrants crossing and the hardships they face is still very far removed from me.  In a sense, because I don't see it directly, it is still unreal to me.  Yet here I was, listening to Judith's stories, and this is her reality.  This is why she walks.

And why do I walk?  I asked myself this question a lot this year.  Mile 5, mile 17, mile 36, definitely by mile 60, "Why do I keep doing this?  Why do I keep coming back???"  But I can't NOT come back.  I have to believe very firmly that every life has value and deserves dignity.  That no person should have to risk their lives to provide for their families or simply be with those they love.  I suppose the border issues are complex.  I suppose.  But really, to me, it's quite simple.  Our tightened border policies that were implemented in the early 90's provided more security in the urban spaces so that less traffic would pass through there.  They had hoped that the danger and threat of death of natural barriers (desert) would be a deterrent for those crossing.  That those who tried crossing and perished would warn others not to cross.  Death was a factor in our border policy.  A high percentage of migrant deaths occurs due to heat and dehydration.  Migrants mostly cross in groups, and something as simple as a few blisters could cause someone to be left behind.  The desert is a dangerous place to be left alone with little water.  Unfortunately, desperation to be able to provide for one's family or to be reunited with one's family takes precedence over the possibility of death, so while the warning is clear, many continue to cross, and many continue to die.  You will hear that the number of people crossing has decreased significantly.  That is true.  However, the number of deaths occurring has remained steady.  This means that there is a greater chance of perishing while crossing.  So why do I walk?  Because in all of the talk on immigration reform, not once have I heard any mention of the number of deaths that is occurring in OUR country.  Thousands of deaths in the past 20 years.  If a few hundred people were dying each year in my little county in Michigan, we would certainly know about it.  The country would know about it.  But not until I began walking myself and was intentional in learning about it, did I hear of the deaths at our border.  So I walk because each story is important.  I walk because most of you who will read this do not know what is going on.  Most people in the north don't know.  So I feel it's my duty to let people know.  It's my part.

Baboquivari, the old mountain peak friend that guides us and many others crossing

For those who don't know, to get a better idea, we walk 10-16 miles per day.  The first half of the week we walk through a wildlife refuge, and the rest along a highway.  We walk with only what we need on our backs.  Support vehicles carry all of our luggage and everything else we need.  We stop every 1.5 miles for water, and every 3 miles for rest and food.  We start early in the morning to avoid high heat and reach our campsite by noon and spend the rest of the day under shade, resting, napping, visiting with people, or playing Uno with 7-year old Itzel, the youngest to ever walk with us.  Groups bring us lunch and dinner and we eat quite extravagantly.  The only time you'll walk 75 miles and *not* shed a pound!  While we in no way seek to understand the experience of the migrant who makes this trek or simulate it, it is inevitable that at some point we will experience something that will remind us or make us think about what the migrant experiences.  Tuesday is our second longest day at 14 miles.  During our breaks, I make a priority list.  It usually goes something like: food, bathroom (meaning a hopefully semi-private tree), drink, footcare, sunscreen.  Being last on the priority list, I forgot to put sunscreen on that day, but didn't worry too much about it as most of my body was covered.  The sun only saw a little of my forearms and hands and face, yet that was enough.  By dinnertime, I felt really ill.  Nauseous.  I found a spot with shade and breeze, but if I had to go in the sun, I suddenly felt *really* ill and panicky.  I could deal with feeling ill, as I was humbled by others taking such good care of me.  What I could not deal with so well was the realization that if I had been a migrant, if it had been me that had been born in a country to the south who needed for some reason to come north, whether to find work to feed my family or because I missed my family so much, I would not make it.  We carry with us a cross with a name, age, and year of death on it of someone who had attempted crossing the desert, and we symbolically finish their journey for them.  If I had been a migrant, feeling so ill, I would have been left behind.  Maybe border patrol would have found me and sent me back to who knows where (people deported aren't necessarily sent back to their countries), or maybe someone from a humanitarian aid organization would have found me and given me water and medical care, but maybe, very possibly, I would have died.  There were numerous times during the week when the heat felt unbearable to me, and I got anxious and panicky to the point of tears to find a cooler spot free from the fierce sun.  On the last day, at 109 degrees, I managed to find a sliver of shade by one of the vehicles.  I huddled myself together to fit into that spot of shade.  And so many times, I imagined myself feeling that way in the desert apart from our group.  Desperately seeking shade.  Water.  Respite from the sun and heat.  Clawing my way along the desert floor with it's vast array of cacti to make the way more difficult.  Would I find shade?  Would I just lay there and let every bit of moisture be taken from me, my body frying in the sun?  Would my name have been on one of those crosses: Jamie Archer, 30, 2012-2013?  Or maybe I would not have been found for a while.  My remains would have been found, but nothing to identify me.  Then it would be Desconocida on the cross: Unknown Female.  And what if my body were so ravaged by the animals and elements that I would become Desconocido/a: Uknown Male OR Female: gender could not even be identified.  These are the crosses we carry.  The lives and spirits we carry with us.  Each had hopes to make it to a better life.  I have finished the journeys for three people: Rusbel Cano Lopez the first year, then Desconocida, and then this year it was Rene Lopez, 32, died 2008-2009.  I thought about him a lot that week.  I still think about him a lot.

Our last morning, we have a ceremony on top of a ledge, from where you can look out over the 70 miles we had just walked.  Where many have died, and where many will continue trying to make it through.  We say goodbye.  If I could say I have a "favorite part" of the week, this ceremony would be it.  But this year I felt it deeper than I ever had before.  I wept as I looked out over the land.  I wondered about Rene Lopez.  When was the moment that his body had to give up?  Who was out there now, struggling to survive?  Whose cross will I carry next year?  How many more miles will I walk and how many more crosses will we carry?

We lay the crosses at a tree at Kennedy Park, our finishing point, symbolizing the journey they never got to finish

It continues to become more real today.  I am staying in Tucson for the summer, where I can learn as much as possible about immigration and migrant issues.  I need it to become more real for me so that it can become more real for you.  Last week I signed a petition and made calls to get Jeannette released from the detention center.  I don't know what you imagine an undocumented person to be, but Jeannette is well-liked and respected in her community and is mother to three young US citizens.  To be deported would be to rip apart a family and get rid of a valuable community member.  These are the people affected.  I had never made calls before, and almost didn't.  A woman I talked to said she would "note it down."  I had little hope it made any good.  But by that evening, enough calls had been made and Jeannette was free to go home to her children.  At the organization I am volunteering at for the summer, a woman called in about her son.  He crossed a week ago but was left behind by his group.  His group had made it, but she hadn't heard from her son.  He is 15.  This is real.

A prayer with my feet...

I've been sitting in the same spot for an hour, with this blog open, full of empty space to fill.  But not knowing what exactly to say, or how to begin.

I guess I could start by saying that once again, my feet walked 75 miles through the desert.  For the second year in a row, I participated in the migrant trail, a trek through the Sonoran desert from Sásabe, Mexico to Tucson Arizona.  Because I'm sure you are wondering how it works, I will a few logistics:
We walk between 6 and 16 miles per day, starting in the early morning and arriving at our campsite for lunch.  We stop every mile and a half or so for water, food and rest.  Trucks carry all our supplies so all we have on us while walking are the essentials we need for the moment (water, sunscreen, etc.), as well as a white wooden cross with a name on it.  Different organizations come out to feed us an abundant amount of magnificent food.  We have everything we need and an endless supply of it.  We were a group of 50-some from all over the US and a few other countries as well.  And why do we walk?

Let me ask you a question.  When I say the phrase "illegal alien" what do you think of?  I'm guessing it's something that is completely negative.  I had heard recently that during the 90's, and maybe even before, some bigwig paid big bucks to make sure the phrase "illegal alien" was used on national television, and used in a way to provoke fear.  I remember hearing that phrase on tv while growing up, and because of that, (and here I will admit my utter ignorance on the subject), illegal alien had come to mean "those bad Mexicans trying to get into the US," - drug smugglers.  Does this resonate with what you think of when you think about the southern border and the migrants?

Just 10 minutes ago I googled Sásabe to find out where exactly the accent went.  The first website that popped up was called Desert Invasion, all about the "illegal aliens" (to use their term), or drug smugglers, were crossing into Arizona, traveling through the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge, "invading" the land and causing damage to it, and making it a dangerous place.  It shows a photo of a water jug found in the desert, stating that it was used by drug smugglers.  Websites like this and rhetoric like this is part of why we walk.

The first half of the walk, we ourselves walk through the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge.  The land is being destroyed, yes, but not by migrants.  It's being destroyed by the border patrol who constantly rip through the land on their ATVs and with their trucks, making drag roads by dragging huge tires being trucks.  There are areas where the grounds has been so overrun by border patrol vehicles that our vehicles could not get through it, and we had to wear bandanas to cover our mouths because otherwise, the dust made it too hard to breathe.  It was sad to see that land in a wildlife preserve was allowed to be so ripped up and destroyed by vehicles.

We, also, found water bottles, left by migrants.  Do you know what else we found?  Shoes.  Children's shoes.  Not just one pair.  Drug smugglers?  No.  Most of that stays on the Mexico side.  There are way too many border patrol hunting down migrants for drug smugglers to be doing their work on the US side.  The migrants passing through are families.  Men needing money to feed and house their families. Farmers needing work, because their own strawberry farm has been shut down because he can't compete with the US price, so in a nasty cycle, he must migrate to the US to work on strawberries that will be sent to Mexico.  He risks his life crossing that desert.  If he doesn't die in the desert, he could be deported (and when deportation takes place, you don't get to choose where you go...it could be another country).  If he makes it, he stays for months, maybe years, sending money back home.  And working harder than any American.  The fact is, US farmers need migrants to do the work, because the white American is no longer built to work manual labor for such long hours.  It's a cruel cycle.  Women cross the desert too.  And children.  People looking for a way to survive.  They are not "bad people."  They are people.  Humans who have a right to the most basic of needs, who have value and worth.  This is why we walk.  The people who cross the desert, cross the border, have been criminalized and labeled in untrue and harsh ways.  We've declared war against the migrant.

I know that sounds dramatic, but if you saw the border at Sásabe, it looks like a war zone.  Men dressed in black on their sleep back ATVs ready to hunt down a migrant.  It's creepy.  When I saw that, I felt I were facing some villain.  Think evil spiderman.  A war against the poor.  This is what it's come to?  A country who has flourished from its immigrants reacting in this manner...does not make sense to me.  Not only this, but our country has set up killing fields, knowingly.  Our border policies were set up so that the weakest areas to cross through are also the most dangerous.  Deaths would surely occur, for the desert is not a very accommodating place, and "hopefully" knowing that fact would deter migrants from crossing.  But it hasn't.  Migrants keep coming, and we have changed nothing on our borders, basically funneling the migrant to their death.  It's a crisis of human rights.  And we allow it.

The white cross that I mentioned earlier...we carry the name of someone who has attempted to cross and died in the desert.  We carry that cross and finish the journey for them.  We also carry prayer ties, one for each life that has perished in the desert so far this year.  There were 94-96 prayer ties.  A migrant was brought into camp one day, Jose.  He told of passing two dead bodies during his trek, which he thought to be 7 days, but couldn't be sure.  Add two more prayer ties.  Two more wooden crosses.  Perhaps those crosses will have a name and age.  Perhaps their cross will say Desconocido or Desconocida, for an unknown male or female.  Or perhaps their cross will say Desconocido/a, which means that not enough remains were found to be able to tell if they were male or female.  I carried the cross of Desconocida, unknown female.  She could have been 10, 18, 29...  She had a story.  And she was desperate, risking her life for the chance at a better one.  On the last day, we walk into a park in Tucson, setting our crosses at a tree, finishing their journey.  I had the immense honor of also carrying the prayer ties.  Me, little white girl who no real connection to the border atrocities, got to carry the memory of those 96 lives home, along with my Desconocida.  I didn't want to let them go.  Desconocida had become a part of me.  The reason I was walking.

I think about the migrants every day.  I can't help but to wonder how many are out there needing water.  Who got left behind from their group just because of a blister that hurt so bad they couldn't walk anymore?  Are there any children, making the trek across the unforgiving terrain?  How many have died today?

This is the thought that my brain is stuck on, so this is where I will end.  Innocent people in need are dying because of policies we have put in place simply to keep people out.  We are not a very giving people, are we?  This should not be.

I'm still learning.  I don't have all the information, and I'm probably saying things still that are a little ignorant.  But I walk, and I write this, because I feel it's my duty.  In my circles of people, this humanitarian crisis is virtually unknown.  I want you to know.  I want you to know that there is a humanitarian crisis going on in our own country.  I will continue to walk until this crisis ends.  I will continue to pray with my feet.

That's the end?

I am a horrible blogger.

I hope to God when I want to publish a book they don't tell me, "Do a blog first so we can see that we have something to work with."

I should have kept you up to date with all the stories that I will never forget. Christmas in Haiti. Making it snow for the kids. Handing out gifts to children in the tent city. Hearing Pastor Luc's experience during the earthquake. Having the kids act out for me what they experienced during the earthquake. Youseline's progress.

I suppose you'll have to wait for the book. But until then, I'll leave you with my last story of Haiti. The one where I had to say goodbye.

Remember how I was yellow? After the prodding of many, and having lost 20 lbs and being so hungry I would eat anything (other than rice and beans) and craving a good shower, I decided it would be best to head back to the states. A couple girls, Liz and Gina, game to deliver Christmas goods to the kids and visit, so I ended up flying back with them, just before Christmas. I went to the doctor first thing when I came back. The doctor peeked in at me and asked if I had had a TB test. When I said no, she came back in with a mask. I felt so disease-ridden. Not to mention I had just been around hundreds in the plane and at the airport, so here's hoping I didn't have some hyper-contagious disease. No TB. It turned out to be Hepatitis A.

See, I was kind of dumb before I went to Haiti. I didn't check into the vaccinations and such I should have before going. I just trusted what I was told. That malaria meds would be the only thing really, but it wouldn't do much good since I would be there for a long time. Dumb.

If I weren't dumb, I would have found out to get a Hep A vaccination, along with typhoid, and a pre-rabies shot. This is what the Center for Disease Control told me when they called to make sure they would have to put out some urgent quarantine.

Remember when I was bent over the tub, plunging, sweating, in the dark with only my headlamp on? And it splashed my face? Welcome Hep A.

I will say, however, that I was right. I was fine, pretty much. Not dying like a lot of people seemed to think. And I won't ever get it again. Just be warned: if you go to Haiti, get a Hep A vaccination and whatever else they tell you to get!

So that's why I went home. I was supposed to go back to Haiti a month or month and a half later and stay until August. I ended up going back for just a few days, to say goodbye.

It was horrible. Those kids dug into my heart, attached claws, and won't let go. I knew I would miss them, but I figured it would die down. It hasn't. I can't eat peanut butter without thinking of all the peanut butter sandwiches I ate with them. French no longer belongs to the French. It belongs to the Haitian kids whom I helped when they were doing their French homework. I can't say "Hey you," without thinking of Youseline, who we called Yuse-yuse. Hey yuse-yuse. My arms feel empty without her. I hear Yolette's laughter in my head, Kimberly's sassy remarks, Kenlie's dancing, and not only is their grip on my heart, but touch my wrist, and my mind will automatically go to all the times they pulled on my wrists. "Mami Jamie, Mami Jamie." There were times I hated the grips on my wrist and would hold my hands up in the air. They thought it was funny. What I wouldn't give for a grip on the wrist now.

I was there for Valentine's Day. It was the loveliest Valentine's Day of my life. I handed out candy hearts, telling them what they said, and made sure they knew they were the loves of my life. The few days I was there, I spent playing with the kids, and retiring in the evenings to a hotel just around the corner and was able to cry away from the kids. When I would come back in the morning, they'd all give me a scowl because I hadn't stayed the night there, at their home, at what they knew to be my home too. A week since I've returned, and tears still come to my eyes.

The days went by fast, and before I knew it, I was leaving. I kissed and hugged all of them and said goodbye. I got into Edy's car to go to the airport.

My last memory is this:

Banging on the gate to get back inside to see one of the kids, and asking, "Do you know that I love you a lot and will think of you every day? Do you know that?" "Yes Mami Jamie." And it's finished.

I think perhaps I'm not ready to share a lot of stories about those last 3 days because I hold them sacred in my memory.

In any case, my time in Haiti is done, for now.

C'est la vie. Se lavie.

I had a golden glow, and not because of the sun...

I can't believe it's already been over a week since my last blog post. These days are flying by quickly. But honestly, I'm not too sad about that.

I haven't written too much in the last month. Here's the real low-down. The life of a missionary, or any humanitarian doing work like this I suppose, isn't as romantic as you may imagine it to be. Or I imagined it to be. Your days spent helping the downtrodden, sick, and poor. It seems like more time is spent overcoming the irritations and frustrations of working in a foreign country. Because when you live and work in a country that is foreign to you, things just happen.

I have been utterly useless the past 3-4 weeks. Among other things, I got jaundice. Who gets jaundice??? Well, babies do. I did. But when you are an adult...? I'm in a foreign country. Things just happen. One day, I was hanging out with some of the boys. For some odd reason, I took a look in the mirror. Odd reason because these days, there's absolutely no need to look in a mirror. I notice the outer whites of my eyes were yellow, so I asked Junior, "Do you see this? Are my eyes yellow?" His response, "Oui Mami Jamie. Jaune." Yes, yellow. So I looked it up, and jaundice appeared first, and the other major symptoms it listed fit me to a T. I wasn't too worried, until a made a comment about it on facebook. Jaundice itself isn't dangerous. Just inconvenient because it makes your skin itchy, and creepy because my eyes were yellow, though I did have a nice golden glow to my skin. But it means that something else is really wrong, and with your liver. So while I had my suspicions about what was going on and believed I was going to be fine, I felt like I was getting death threats. "Your liver is shutting down!" It didn't help that the family doctor wanted me to fly home pronto. Yikes.

Now, my skin no longer itches and I've gone back to the white girl in Haiti status. And except for a minor part of my eyes, they have cleared up. But I was knocked off my butt for a while, and so it's good to finally be feeling better.

This run in Haiti has been a bit rough for me, in many ways, yes. I've heard people tell me, and I've heard of people saying, that I shouldn't have to be living under these circumstances (no plumbing, being so sick here...). I actually get mad when I hear these comments. It would seem to me that some of the first posts I had written while here would deter those comments. Having no running water is...well...it's just different. Never in my life have I claimed to be entitled to have running water. And if you really know me, you'll know that I really don't care about that part too much. I am the girl who dared myself to go a week without showering while working at a camp - and succeeded. I am the girl who walked 75 miles through the desert for a week and took only one shower that entire time (I relied solely on baby wipes. I didn't even have a bucket bath). Maybe you didn't want to know this about me, but being dirty doesn't scare me. Especially when being clean only last for 10 minutes. Today I was driving past a tent city. There was a person bathing outside their tent, wearing only shorts. It was a woman. She was right next to the road. I'm grateful to have privacy. Running water, as it turns out, is not a necessity, and I am not entitled to it. And neither are you. *Note I said "running water" and not solely "water."

My health. I remember learning about missionaries traveling by boat to other countries. More of them than not would die on the journey there, and never even start what they had purposed to do. They knew what they were getting into. Whatever their aim, they risked their lives for it. Today we worry that experience "won't be smooth." If I risked my safety while here, I would be lectured. I'm not asking for a death sentence, but I didn't sign up to have a smooth year. You don't decide to live in a third world country for a year expecting things to go as planned. Things happen. Jaundice, weird fungi growths, muggings and threats. In my opinion, setting out to value human life, to add value to others' lives, is worth some discomfort. I wish we could be a more compassionate people and be willing to bear some discomfort to make other peoples' lives a little better. And I'm not even talking about people in third world countries, though certainly they have need more than anyone else perhaps, but I'm talking about the family across town in the ghetto and I'm talking about your neighbor. But, I suppose, if you really want that $400 new Apple gadget rather than spend that money so that a child can go to school, well, I guess you are entitled to it, right?

Happy Birthday Rosemanite!

This is Rosemanite. Today was her birthday. She turned 8. I find myself wondering if this is the first birthday she has ever celebrated.

Yesterday I took the kids in small groups to make cards for Rosemanite, and today we presented them to her, and sang Happy Birthday. At first, she showed little emotion, but as time went on, it was clear she was having a good time. As we taped the cards and pictures on the wall by her bed, I asked if she was happy. Her eyes opened wide and she gave me a big, "Oui!" I felt bad that I had no gifts for her, so I rummaged around my room for something for her. Every time a kid is in my room, they are constantly asking for things of mine, so I gathered a couple things, miraculously found some tissue paper to wrap them in, and she opened gifts that were for her. I feel immense pride in presenting things to the children that they can call their own. Perhaps it is an American mindset, but I can't fathom not having a single thing to call my own. These kids share everything, so as I see it, they are finally given something to call their own. Although, what is humble to watch is that though they love acquiring things, they are often quick to share whatever they have with others. I really hope that today, Rosemanite felt special and loved.

I think I shouted it out every ten minutes that it was her birthday, and busted out singing to her several times (which, if you know me, is a big deal. I don't sing in public). Of course the other kids were going to ask me when their birthday is. It was disheartening to me when Robert and Belo asked me. Not only did I not know off the top of my head when their birthday is, but I have no way of knowing at all when they were born. From what I've been told, Robert was found on the street and brought to us by a security guard. Recently, I sat down with Robert and learned some of his story. His father and mother had both died. He has a younger brother, but has no idea where he is (Robert is 7 or 8 I believe). He had been living on the streets. He can be a bit rougher than some of the other kids, though by that, I am simply saying he is a young boy. He needs to learn to knock when he comes in my room. Today he walked in at the most inopportune moment. He didn't care, but I did :-) But he has a heart of gold. He is a good boy who really has a desire to learn in school and make a better life for himself. Personally, I love him so much because he reminds me of my brother, the way he's always running around making funny noises, doing cartwheels and crazy jumps wanting people to watch him. I'm in the process of teaching him how to walk on his hands. If all else fails, he could become a great circus performer :-)

Return to Hades..I mean, Haiti

It's been a month and a half since my last post. I have much to catch you up on. To give you a brief summary of the past month and a half, here are some facebook status highlights:

I think I just had the most awkward situation I've ever had in my life... October 12

It's raining. Which means I must take advantage and shower in it. Here's hoping no lizards find themselves flying out the pipe on my head! October 17

visited another orphanage that houses around 200 sick/abandoned children, and I'm feeling a little wrecked....Our kids at the home here are fortunate.... October 18

Out of the house 4 times in one week! That's a record! October 23

It makes me so happy at night to hear the kids shouting out the English they had learned in class that morning :-) October 25

spent the day in heaven. Also known as the beach. Pleasantly pooped :-) October 27

Honeymoon is paid for...too bad you can't have a honeymoon without a wedding.... October 28

I blame going from 200% to -100% on visiting the voodoo house... October 28

Spent 20 minutes on my walk to the orphanage convincing a guy why he doesn't really love me and shouldn't marry me. Keep in mind, these are the only 20 minutes I've ever talked to this guy... He still insisted I meet his mother tomorrow... Nov. 2

The boys got into my makeup. They were too pretty to get mad. Pink goes well on them :-) November 7

And today's:

Today I had my bum bitten by a child, I was de-skirted, and had a couple huge hogs stampede towards me on the street. I'm not sure if that makes for a good day or a bad day...

It's been an interesting month and a half. I'll slowly try to catch you up.

Some things have changed. Some haven't. I now have the swamp thing living in my bathtub, which still leaves me praying for rain to shower in. I still haven't developed a love for beans, and this time spent in Haiti has pretty much cemented the fact that I never will.

I don't go stir-crazy as much any more. And I finally feel a little productive.

On my way back to Haiti from Michigan, I had a layover in Miami. I noticed a girl waiting for the flight to Port-au-Prince that had also been on my flight from Detroit. White people on their way to Haiti are almost never going on vacation. They have some sort of humanitarian purpose, and so you feel you have the okay to step out of your American bubble and pry into the lives of others and find out why they are going. Well, maybe that's just me. But I can see it in their eyes, "There's a white girl going to Haiti. By herself. I wonder what she's doing." I just open up the conversation. It turns out this other white girl, Keyti, would be doing something similar to what I'm doing. She was also going by herself and would be there alone part of the time, so we both decided that this was the perfect opportunity to have a friend in Haiti. We exchanged information, and soon after we got to Haiti, we met up at another orphanage that is close to where I live. I have a better understanding of what people probably think about when I tell them I'm working at an orphanage. The orphanage we met at is a Missionaries of Charity orphanage, a Mother Teresa orphanage.

Finding that orphanage has added infinitely to my experience here, and I have gone back at least a couple times a week since. Now when I leave, they don't say good-bye. They say "A Bientot," see you soon.

I used to wonder if we were taking good enough care of our kids here. I mean, they ate rice and beans EVERY SINGLE DAY for lunch. Surely they deserve more than that? Visiting the sisters has made me realize how fortunate our kids are, and grateful that they are here instead of another orphanage, or on the streets. The other orphanage has anywhere from 120-200 young children. Children come and go, and most of them come because they will die otherwise. The bottom floor is reserved for the sickest. I almost didn't want to go down there. I was told that the orphanage has a worker there whose sole job is to make coffins for those children that die. They need being held too. Even if it looks like they are going to fall apart when you pick them up. The upstairs is composed of three main rooms with about 20 cribs in each, each crib holding a child, and some of them two. These children may not be about to die, but some of them still have IVs, and they are skin and bones. Literally. Arms, thighs, and bums just folds of skin hanging off the bones. I really was afraid to pick them up, afraid I would break them. But as soon as you do, they cling to you: wrap their arms around you and lay their head on your chest. And cry and hold their arms out to you when you put them down. It's feeding time when I go visit, so I help to feed the children between 10-20 months old, though I'm surprised I haven't been banned from feeding them. I'm pretty sure I have the record for messiest feedings. The women who work there are very gracious with me :-)

The first child I fed, Maniolita, is one of those skin-and-bones children. I fed her mashed potatoes that first day. After cleaning her up, I picked her up. Then, she vomited on me. A lot. And all over. She's had a place in my heart ever since. Every time I go back now, I always look for Maniolita. The sisters always point her out if I haven't found her, and let me feed her. She's 18-months old, and beautiful. She sucks on her two middle fingers non-stop. So much that they remain pink and wrinkly with skin coming off. If you're not fast enough with the spoon feeding her, she'll have her fingers in her mouth between spoonfuls. I've gotten smart and do the holding before she eats now :-)

After making rounds and make sure to spread out some Jamie lovin', I sit with my other favorite, Soinrilia. I noticed her the second time I went. When you walk in, you are bombarded by kids between the ages of about 3 and 9 who all want to be held, and all want attention. I noticed Soinrilia sitting on a bench against the wall, quietly. Just sitting, looking around, demanding nothing. I wanted this quiet, gentle-spirited girl to know that she's loved and that someone looks forward to seeing her. She doesn't say much, and I only get a little smile every now and then, but she smiles when she sees me.

It's not all lovey-dovey with the children. There are a few I fear. Those are the biters. A few little girls that I will literally move if they sit next to me because you never know when it's coming. Like today. I was feeding a child (which I was really excited about because it was my first really clean feeding!). Augustin came up behind me and was hugging my legs. All of a sudden, she's biting my butt cheek! I move, of course, and tell her no, and she sits down. I go back to feeding. Then I feel her pulling on my skirt. Kids do that. But then I feel the waist of my skirt under my butt. She de-skirted me! We gave the sisters a good laugh and Augustin was sent out of the room. You gotta watch out for those biters...

Visiting this orphanage has given fresh life to me being here. I'm positive that I benefit from it much more than the kids do. It's a 15-minute walk from my home, and it's the one place I can go by myself. It gets me out of the house when I need without having to rely on anyone else, so it gives me freedom. It's also been great for me because there are always other missionaries there from different organizations who are just visiting a week. While it's mostly the same conversation every time, it gives me an opportunity to speak with other Americans in my own language. It also gives me a sense of purpose that I'm able to be a constant visiting face for the kids. For Soinrilia. I'm not just here for a week on a mission trip. I keep going back, and I will for the remainder of my time here, because I genuinely look forward to seeing them.

I may be convinced to become Catholic just so I can adopt one of them one day...

A shower awaits me...

In 3 days, I will be able to take a shower. I have not showered in almost a month. Probably not even "almost." I haven't showered in a month. At the end of last week, I found out someone had donated money to get the water pump fixed. But until then, it only gets worse... Right after I found out that I would have running water once again soon, a horrible wretched smell was in my room. I knew I couldn't possibly smell *that* bad, so I followed it into the bathroom, where the tub drain had gotten plugged, or something went wrong, but the tub was full of nastiness and smelly water. Okay. So just plunge. As I was plunging, the light in the bathroom went out. We don't exactly have spare lightbulbs chilling around the house (and the ceiling is too high to change it anyway). So there I am standing over the tub in the dark, a headlamp on my head, plunging as nasty water splashes into my face and sweat pours into the tub. Not only can I not shower. Now I can't even bucket bathe in the tub. That was Friday. The water went down, only to come up again. I'll just tell you that baby wipes are my best friend right now, and that I feel really bad for the people on the plane when I come home, and that I'm so excited to take a shower that I can't even sleep.

When I'm not thinking about taking a shower, I'm thinking about how to smuggle a baby out of the country.

Youseline is back. After weeks in the hospital, and me having no idea what's going on, her mom (who had been staying with her at the hospital) showed up Saturday saying that Youseline was released from the hospital. She's home :-) She is still little bobble head girl, only now sporting a mohawk, which personally I adore. I stole her away for a few hours when she first got here...I was so happy to see her, and see that she was alive. She still doesn't have much control with her neck, and she is just skin and bones. Her thighs are literally bones with flappy skin around them. BUT, she's eating now! Sisi, one of the moms, has been making a drink for her made out of potatoes, carrots, milk, and vanilla (which is actually quite delicious), so hopefully she will be gaining some meat on her bones. It just doesn't seem fair that I have so much meat on my bones that isn't needed when she has none... I wish I could bring her back to Michigan with me, to keep my eye on her, to keep letting her know I love her. Hence me wanting to smuggle her out of Haiti.

The parent/child dynamic is one I just don't understand here. Not all of the children here are complete orphans. Some have parents or family that are alive, but just unable to care for them. After the earthquake, it was hard to sort through which children had living parents and which didn't. Four of the kids that I've talked about in the past are brothers and sister, and have living parents. On Sunday, their father was visiting. After the visit, they were all crying. When I asked why, they told me their father was going to be taking them. It won't be happening; they've been signed over to us. They are our children. But what is happening most likely is that the father is threatening to take them away in order to get money. I am all about keeping the family together, but it seems that often, that is not the best option at all here. It is such a conflicting feeling, and I don't at all understand what the father is thinking. There are other elements to the story that make it more complex. I am impressed that these kids are as well functioning as they are...all of them.

I'm not going to lie. A part of me is looking forward to going back for a week because life is easy there. I will be wondering a bit while in Michigan...about what is going on with Youseline, with the four siblings, and everything else. But this home has been running for over a year without me, so I know things will be fine. But it will be easier to not have to feel like I have to check in on Youseline to make sure she's breathing. It will be easier to answer a door and not being worried that it's a parent come to take kids away. It will be easier to be able to take a walk without having to look over my shoulder, making sure I won't be kidnapped. It will be easier to see everyone around me lack nothing, to be safe, clean, clothed and healthy.

But I'm also looking forward to coming back to Haiti and being mauled by 15 beautiful children.

For those of you not on facebook to view my photos, here are links to my albums:

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10100316853759538.2597008.21711110&l=527f7bd79e&type=1

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10100318475100358.2597584.21711110&l=dc640d583e&type=1

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10100333258858588.2601415.21711110&l=a5ee25d615&type=1

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10100345067209558.2603416.21711110&l=04285d7eb7&type=1

Jet valves, Airborne, and Dora! (oh my....)

[Pictured top to bottom: Kenlie, Ballo, Sarah]
These kids don't need fancy swing sets, a pool, toy kitchen sets, barbies galore, or power wheels to have fun. All it takes is a water bottle with a jet valve. It started out because, well, as much as I love kids, I really didn't want their snotty slobbery mouths sucking on my water bottle. I've accidentally kissed their snotty noses enough to know that. It's asking for trouble. And I've only got so much Airborne with me. So, I turned it upside down over their mouths and give a little squeeze, propelling a short burst of water. I loved little Kenlie's wide eyes waiting for the water. I applauded their courage, not knowing when the powerful squirt
was going to come. Or where it was going to go (in trying to get a photo, I would lose attention to my aim and get their faces...). But that was all part of the fun too. Even little Sarah, the photo at the bottom, wanted to participate. Slowly, she's warming to me. Usually, she sticks close to Mama Sisi, but once in a while, she will come over to me, wanting me to pick her up. I think she must be sick on those days. She's a very particular little girl. She likes things a certain way. For example, Edy's feet. She likes them covered up. If she sees Edy take his shoe and sock off, she will start screaming her head off. Very particular little girl :-)

Another thing that the kids absolutely love is skyping. They've been spoiled with random skype visits. It doesn't matter whether they know you or not, and it doesn't matter that they can't understand what you are saying, or that you can't understand them. It's hugely entertaining, for them and for you. I feel like it's my contribution to culturing them, in connecting them with the outside world. Any part that you would like to take in culturing them as well, I would be happy to facilitate. Not to mention, I'm all in for an adult conversation in English every now and then :-)

A few times in the last few weeks, boy Kenly would start doing this dance and song, and others would soon follow him. Listening carefully, it sounded like he was singing, "Sexy body, sexy body, sexy body." The other day, we were all in the tv room, and he started doing it again. I had Yolette next to me, who is extremely patient and good at figuring out what I am trying to ask her. I was about to ask her where they learned this from, and to explain to her that she probably shouldn't be singing that, when suddenly, Dora came on the tv and started doing the same dance! 'Now this can't be right?! Dora wouldn't sing about a sexy body!?' Then she started singing, "Shake your body! SHAKE your body!" I immediately laughed, and they laughed with me, understanding that I finally understood why they did that song and dance. I also felt stupid, and glad I didn't tell them that they were saying some inappropriate things. They would never trust Dora again.

I'm not gonna lie. I'm excited for a visit to the States. I haven't showered in nearly two weeks, and my toothbrush hasn't had a proper rinsing in a month. Today the mamas asked me if a mosquito had bitten me on the forehead. I felt like a kid (yet again) when I had to explain that no, they are zits. Because I had to leave my facewash in the States. I have to be understanding though. They do look like mosquito bites, and white skin is very revealing of things we wish it wouldn't reveal. And, I'll admit it, I'm excited to wear a sweater. Jeans and a sweatshirt. I have this friend that hails from an extremely warm climate, but now lives in Michigan. She takes every opportunity to criticize the cold weather and tease when she's visiting her warm mother state. I was hoping to be cool like her, and be able to post teasing comments about how it's sooooo warm while it's crazy cold in Michigan. Which, I could do. But as I discovered while living in New York and wanting fiercely to remain a citizen of Michigan, I am a Michiganian through and through, cold weather and all. I miss sweaters. And fall. This is not to say that I don't want to be here. I do. I'm just looking forward to a short jaunt back to Michigan and returning to warm Haiti, where I'm catching up on all the sunshine I didn't get in Buffalo.

Yes, Haiti, there's a new white girl in town!

That's what I felt like shouting out today, anyway.

After finally getting the okay, I ventured out for a walk, on my own. I let Sisi, one of the house moms, know so she didn't have a minor panic attack thinking I went missing. She gave me a look and I had to assure her I had gotten the okay. Her words: be smart. Very reassuring.

I'm not gonna lie. I was kind of scared. And I only use the words "kind of" to try to mellow down the fact that I actually WAS really nervous. I was nervous for several reasons. It wouldn't be hard to get lost here. There are few street signs (my street doesn't have one), the roads go whichever direction they want, and everything looks the same. Two: I get *really* irritated when people catcall at me. Three: they are *crazy* drivers and I will be surprised if I leave Haiti with no accidents under my belt. And it didn't help my nerves that just a few weeks ago, a gun was pulled on an American for her camera. In Haiti, white skin means money. Lesson learned: take nothing with me when I'm out by myself.

As I stepped out on my street and shut the gate behind me, I was smiling. I felt a little free! That smile quickly changed as I turned off my street. Over the past few years, I've worked hard to get rid of my intimidating facial expressions that say, "back off." At first I struggled. Do I be smiley American? Or Jamie with an unwelcoming face. It became quickly clear that the wise decision would be a hard face. So having no idea where I was going, I made a sure stride, staring forward, trying to come off as if this were normal for me. Three kids approached me. The first thing they said was, "money?" I had to laugh. I almost felt bad for them, wasting their time, trying to get this American girl's money. For one, I had no money on me. Two, I have no money. It's been quite the joke, the men who flirt to see if I give money when I probably have less money to my name than they do. This American girl is not worth anything monetarily.

I chatted with the boys for a little ways, and honestly, I wish they would have stayed with me the whole way. Then came all the comments. I realized that I'm probably going to develop a thick skin here. I kind of want to puke every time someone makes kissy noises at me. Bleh. No thank you. I think it's funny when they call out "blanc," "white" at me. All in all, after half an hour, I made my way back to my street. This house is home to me. As I was approaching the home, I heard the familiar shouts and laughs of our kids. I could identify Yolette by her laugh and Robert by his crazy voices. I definitely felt like I was coming home. When they unlocked the gate for me, they made jokes (or maybe they weren't joking) about being glad I was back. Four or five of the children asked me, "is okay? is okay?" Maybe they were worried that the bottoms of my legs were actually green.

As I walked some of the streets of Haiti, images I had initially seen, I continue to see. I think one of the hardest things that is all too common is the small child wandering the street with merely a shirt that is too small for him. A mere t-shirt. No pants or underwear even. It makes me want to take shorts with me on my walks to hand out when I see the need.... I do look forward to seeing familiar faces as I get out more and making acquaintances, and even friends.

I'm getting tired (at 9pm!). Thanks for sharing with me in my triumphant success at my first venture out alone. :-)

We deserve it all?

I got on facebook today and this was on my newsfeed, posted by an acquaintance:

IN AMERICA- WE HAVE TO PRESS "1" TO SPEAK ENGLISH
IN AMERICA- THE HOMELESS GO WITHOUT EATING
IN AMERICA- THE ELDERLY GO WITHOUT NEEDED MEDICINES
IN AMERICA- THE MENTALLY ILL GO WITHOUT TREATMENT
IN AMERICA- OUR TROOPS GO WITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT
IN AMERICA- OUR VETS GO WITHOUT PROMISED BENEFITS
YET, WE DONATE BILLIONS TO OTHER COUNTRIES BEFORE HELPING OUR OWN! HAVE THE GUTS TO RE-POST THIS? 1% WILL, 99% WON'T HAVE THE NERVE.

Apparently I get really fired up quite easily when I see things like this. I suppose, as an American, I should get fed up that I have to press 1 for English with English is the US's primary language, darn it! I suppose I should get fed up that we give, GIVE, billions of dollars to other countries who really need it instead of making our own lives darn near perfect, damn it!

No. No. Not at all. It took everything within me not to write a nasty comment, so all I wrote is that we can't have it all and we still have so much more than other countries. Thankfully, I have a blog where I can write all the nasty comments I want :-)

I think one of the things I need to work on most is to not be critical or judgmental of people who are stuck in the American mindset. If American life is all you know, well then, I shouldn't criticize. But I can try to expand your worldview.

A couple months ago I was having a conversation with someone who was telling me that with all the aid we give other countries, they should do their part to help us. Our gas prices are horrible, and our economy is down; we need help. This is one of the times where I tried to understand where she was coming from. The singular American mindset. So I asked why. "Why? Other countries should help us so that our gas prices are lower so you can take your bigger camper instead of little one on vacation? So that you can GO on vacation?"

Now, I realize that things aren't perfect, and why shouldn't be try to better ourselves if we have the means? But what I don't think is that we deserve and are entitled to everything. I don't think that we should remain in a bubble that allows us to think that, thus allowing us to resort to complaining when we think we don't have enough.

"We have to press 1 to speak English." That anyone would complain about this is just absurd to me. If that's on your top 10 complaints about your living situation, I think you're doing alright. I wonder how many people's grandparents or great-grandparents are giving the evil eye from their grave for hearing this. For most of us, our ancestors didn't come here speaking English. Have a little heart and respect for what this country stands for, and get over yourself.

The homeless go without eating. One of the most eye-opening books I've read, _Under the Overpass_, is about two middle class young guys who give up everything and choose to live homeless across America for 3 months. I think it says a lot if you live in a country where you can *choose* to be homeless and know you'll be fine. Not ideal, of course not. But in the US, there's always a dollar someone can find. There are shelters. There are soup kitchens. They are still able to get the basic essential needs (of course, for Americans, "need" is a highly messed-up concept). If I had to be homeless anywhere, well frankly, I would choose France, but I know I would get by in the US. This doesn't happen everywhere.

The elderly go without needed medicines. Ohhhh believe me. I have my qualms about the US healthcare system. Yet another area that really pisses me off. In fact, one of the girls here at the orphanage, Elizabeth, has a bad heart. She's in desperate need of several major surgeries that just aren't available in Haiti. We tried to get her a medical visa to have the operations done in the US. It was approved by Haiti, but not by the US. They said they were tired of Haitians coming in for medical care and either not going back to Haiti or going right back to Haiti. The American woman who was trying to take care of the process bluntly asked them, "Are you telling me that you would rather let her die than get a visa just for medical purposes?" He replied frankly, "yes." That's all I will say about that.

I'll skip ahead to the qualm about donating to other countries... Really? I guess I'm just not of the opinion that we should make sure our own system is perfect before helping others. I know this isn't an intelligently written, well thought out response. It's a response because it just pisses me off. It's hard to live in a country, knowing that thousands are living without electricity for many many days in hot weather, in tents with rainy weather, and hear people complain that they were without power for 2 or 3 days. It's a simple inconvenience, that's all. I have become so grateful for power. I guess that happens when you live in a house where you never know if you'll have power or not, and one option is not more likely than the other. Hearing about America's "need" (which again, I know is real) is hard to listen to because it just doesn't compare to the need I see here. The children at the orphanage eat the exact same thing every day for their lunch, and never complain. They are happy to have food. One of our kids, Robert, came from the streets, where they have to find a place to sleep every night and beg to eat. Most streets and roads have horrendous potholes and crevices, piles of trash line the streets, children in tent cities go without clothes, my neighbors are living in a house that is a mere construction of cement walls and part roof, crumbled from the quake, with no electricity whatsoever. The hospital is filled with malnourished children (more on that later...). Children *must* pay to go to school, and when they can't, it's generation after generation growing up with little and on the streets. The animals are skin and bones. I want to feed them my leftovers, but feel bad because I know there's a hungry child down the street who needs it just as much...

I feel much better now. Less pissed off and more just sad that we aren't a very grateful nation. Although, the more I dive into helping others, the more I meet others who DO help and are grateful. They give me hope :-)