Chaos—the first word that comes to mind peering out a tiny
airplane window at Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Among the few still-standing
buildings with rusty tin roofs are hundreds of multicolored refugee tents.
It’s two months after the earthquake and I'm here to help with reconstruction. On
the tarmac I'm hit by hot, heavy air, which turns our rickety bus into a moving
sauna. Stumbling out at the orphanage in Cabaret, my new home, I'm surrounded
by grinning children eager to hug me. They grab my hands, clutch my shirt, and tow
me to my room, giving me mere seconds to set my things down.
I'm lured outside by Wanna, a precocious gap-toothed girl, to
play jump rope in the front lot. As their feet pound the well-packed earth,
little puffs of dust and peals of laughter fill the air. When I jump, the kids
surround me, cheering "White! White!" for my skin color, something as
foreign as snow. We play until dusk settles and the bell rings for dinner. My
little shadow, Wanna, sits next to me. Even having so little to eat, her first
forkful dancingly appears in front of me, coaxing me to open my mouth. Later, the
older girls play with my hair, telling me it’ll soon look just like theirs.
Time flies, and too soon, it’s time to go. Wanna crawls into
my lap and leans into me, soaking up my warmth and the closeness of another
person. These kids, who have next to nothing, are overflowing with love. Suddenly,
on a dirt-packed floor in a disaster stricken country, I realize I’m happier
than ever and it’s all because of the little things. The grit of the girls who
help me fetch water to make concrete; the shy smiles and sticky hands of the
little ones; my evolution from stranger to friend; the elders who watch us
sweat and give us advice; and above all, their hope and spirit. The quake
destroyed so much, and although we couldn’t rebuild it all—not even close, I
never heard a negative remark; only happiness for our eagerness to help put a tiny
community together again, brick by brick.
