Broken

There was a definitive moment in college when my walls went up, and I resolved never to allow the feeling of hurt again. It was not a reaction to a singular heartbreak, but the culmination of losses and pain throughout my adolescence that built like a silent wave. There is a name for these – ACES, adverse childhood experiences, a psychological battery that attempts to quantify the damage. I don’t know where I fell on the scale, but whatever the measure I had hit my magic number, and through force of will I built my hard shell. For three decades my barrier held with only chips and scratches. Then I went to Haiti.

A close friend had called asking me to consider a trip with him a year hence, and only as an aside he mentioned he would also make a quick, but urgent, visit to Haiti over the coming Thanksgiving holiday. My friend, Res, was deeply involved in a ministry attempting to build a social and support network with committed locals in the town of Montrouis. It was a grassroots effort still in the early stages. I considered his offer then realized I would have a more intimate experience if he would entertain me as a third wheel for his Thanksgiving trip. One email later he eagerly obliged and the plan was set. Be careful what you ask for.

And so it came I departed from home at 2:00am that Friday morning to join up with Res and his friend Adam for the journey south. After a day filled with tense moments in Port-au-Prince, and a death defying drive up the coast, we settled into an unfinished house in the center of Montrouis. We were hosted there by a resident Haitian, Alex, and his fourteen-year-old ward, Christo. Alex was a “big brother” to Christo, and he and the ministry provided a sanctuary for Christo from the dark forces and miserable future Montrouis would otherwise hold.  

Our first morning I found Christo and his friend Jeyden reveling in new set of Lego blocks, and with Alex’s blessing I sat in. Their English was as good as my Creole, but through pantomime and shared Lego love we built a rapport. We moved on to balloon art and pipe-filter creatures, then they found my Connect Four board. They launched in with virtually no instruction. After three games they decided “four” was boring, henceforth it became “Connect Five.” They proceeded to whip me game after game amid laughter and floor rolls.

In due time Res and Adam summoned me for our day’s work. I attempted to ask Christo how to say “I will come back.” He and Jeyden looked at me with blank expressions, and Alex chimed in, “M’ap vini.” I clumsily uttered “my beignet” eliciting more rolls of laughter. At laughter’s end Christo faced me with an earnest expression, slowly repeating “m’ap vini, m’ap vini” and would not release me until I mirrored the phrase to him precisely.

In the ensuing days my playtime with Christo continued - courtyard soccer, tennis ball catch, games on his flip-phone, and endless “Connect Five” until my proficiency grew. Our Creole-English barrier left town, and we communicated effortlessly with winks, eye rolls, nods, and head-tilts. We became one another’s shadow.

All too soon came the morning of my departure. As I kneeled over my pack, I turned to find Christo standing silently behind me, his arms straight at his side. He whispered intelligibly in English, “You go back to America today.” I nodded yes. 

He said, “I will pray for you.” 

I was caught off guard not grasping the nuance of his sentiment, and I reflexively replied, “I will pray for you, Christo.” With that he left the room.

Res, Adam, Alex, and I gathered on the porch to discuss the itinerary for our drive to Port-au-Prince. I assumed Christo had left for school, but Alex told me no, school did not start until afternoon and Christo was in his room. I entered the house, pushed aside the bedroom curtain and found Christo lying on his cot. He turned his head slowly toward me revealing a single tear running down his cheek. He would not meet my gaze and locked his stare back on his flip-phone.

Pieces began falling on the floor. My deepest feelings of childhood hurt unleashed their rusty chains and squeezed my chest. More pieces fell away cascading like broken glass. How many times in past had someone cast a spell on Christo only to disappear? My shell was broken, strewn about my feet.

I laid next to Christo, but he refused to acknowledge me. I slid back slightly attempting to contain the flood welling in my eyes. We would not part like this, we would not, so I resolved to simply remain by his side. Stay present.

Minutes passed and Christo held tightly to his phone randomly picking through ring tones and game settings. In time a song arose and Christo, his back still turned, mouthed the words. I recognized the tune and began singing too. Our voices rose to finish the song. He slowly turned his head, and with a reluctant smile he said, “You sing badly.” 

Laughter. Selfies. Alex shouted it was time to go.

Now, thirty years on, I walk defenseless once more. My shield is gone, but my heart is open. Sorrow is joy’s brother. 

Live. Love. M’ap vini, Christo. M’ap vini.

Gut Check

I woke up this morning with a premonition I would be in a car crash. This was strange for me. I am not really superstitious, and I’m certainly not prone to premonitions. Nonetheless, I resolved to do two things… One, DO NOT tell my wife, and two, drive with extra vigilance today.

A few hours later the red morning sun warmed my face while I drove on Route 15 south of Point of Rocks just a mile or so north Lucketts, Virginia. I had NPR’s Weekend Edition on the radio, and the soft tone of Scott Simon’s voice drifted from the car speakers.

As I crested a low, curving hill, almost instantly I couldn’t process the chaotic scene immediately ahead. A white pickup truck was tumbling away from me doing full rolls and landed in the grass a few yards off the road. In front of me on the pavement a black Escalade SUV sat sideways across the highway. Steam and black smoke rose from where its hood used to be, and white curtain airbags completely obscured the drivers compartment.

The entire scene, which literally lasted seconds, had played out through my windshield like a silent, slow motion movie.

I braked hard. In my rearview I saw a few cars slowing behind me, and I punched on my flashers. For a soul-searching moment I sat. A part of me wanted to pretend it was a dream. My hand trembling, I turned off the ignition, took a deep breath, opened my door, and ran headlong for the white, crumpled truck.

The truck lay on its side in front of a trail of smashed metal and glass. Like the Escalade, black smoke poured out of its twisted hood. As I neared, I looked all around. I was completely alone. The collision was not even minutes old.

I swallowed and climbed up to the driver’s side door which faced the sky. Below me through the open window a middle-aged man hung motionless in his seatbelt. A collapsed airbag hung from the steering wheel draped over his lower arm.

I shouted, “Can you hear me?” Nothing.

I shouted again. This time he stirred slightly, and he began to claw with his left arm out the open window. I grasped his forearm and implored him to stay still, help was on the way. He moaned. I told him my name, asked him his, and said I would stay there with him until help arrived. With his eyes still closed, he whispered his name, Scott.

I heard a hissing sound behind me and looked over my shoulder. Bystanders had gathered and someone was dousing the engine compartment with a fire extinguisher. I turned back to Scott. The airbag had slipped off his arm, and my heart stopped. I could now see an adolescent girl laying at the bottom of the cab, her head and torso flat against the broken passenger window. She was motionless, was she lifeless?

I climbed down from the truck trying to figure out how to get to her. The back window was intact and its pilot window was shut tight. The front windshield was spiderweb shattered but still clinging tightly around all the edges. I took off my fleece, wrapped it around my hands and pulled at the glass through some fist sized holes. It wouldn’t budge. I FELT SO INCREDIBLY HELPLESS, and I wanted to kick it in but realized that would likely do more harm than good. I climbed back up to Scott to try to keep him still.

He was thrashing again with his free arm, so I held his shoulder, spoke, and asked him about his daughter. He mouthed her name… Savannah. I saw that she had moved, only slightly, her head now clearly tilted upwards as if hearing me, but her eyes were still closed. I exhaled.

After minutes that seemed like hours I heard sirens. I reiterated to Scott that help was almost here. I stopped talking - I wanted so much for him to hear the sirens too.

The first fire truck had just four, maybe five men. They ran hoses to each of the two smashed cars. A single fireman came to the white truck and asked me who was inside. I had expected he would immediately climb up to me, but instead he returned to the fire truck and came back with another crew member setting jack stands against the underside of the white truck. 

He then shouted to yet another fireman to bring a sawzall, a reciprocating saw. He did, and he peeled away the windshield as easily as cutting deli meat. He held and unbuckled the girl, and to my astonishment she slid from his arms and stepped out in a bewildered daze through the open windshield.

The firemen led her several feet away as I followed, and he instructed her to lay down. He asked me to hold her head still while he assessed her. Other than bleeding from her scalp, she said only her back hurt. She told the fireman through her tears that she was eleven and her father was taking her to a softball game. Another fireman brought a backboard. The first fireman instructed me to hold her head aligned with her back, and on my count we’d roll her on her side then gently back onto the board. 

By now several more EMS vehicles had arrived. My participation was done. 

As I walked back to my car a sheriff stopped me to ask if I had seen the collision – Not exactly. Another bystander, describing that they were driving somewhere behind the SUV, said the Escalade had drifted across the centerline and hit the pickup truck head-on. Both vehicles were likely traveling over fifty miles per hour. I continued on to my 4-Runner, sat down, and closed my eyes.

That premonition? A little bit off, but perhaps only by seconds.The real takeaway? Despite all our carefully made plans, none of us has any idea what each day holds. 

Long May You Run

I’m not a car guy. Don’t get me wrong – I love the sleek lines of a sports car or luxury sedan as much as anyone – but when spending frivolously, I throw my money elsewhere. Given this ambivalence I was surprised to feel a pang of sadness at letting go of our 4-Runner this past month. 

She came to us in 1998 only slightly used. Our boys were two and four and I realize now we raised our family in that car. She was our snowmobile and our beach-mobile. Fate set that role from the very start…

I had taken my father-in-law, Denny, and the boys for a drive on the high-tide line in Corolla, the 4-Runner’s first sensation of sand between her toes. We encamped by a perfect tidal pool, I provisioned the boys with shovels and buckets, and Denny and I turned our attention to Coronas and solving the world’s problems.  After some time they appeared excitedly by our side eager to show us their creations.

I was bewildered to find bare sand by the pool. Instead the boys led us to the 4-Runner, its doors wide open. Adorned with seashells, sandcastles rose seat-high filling the rear foot wells. The boys beamed.

Parents will recognize this as one of life’s pivotal moments. A lump rose in my throat. A smile slowly spread across my face and the embodiment of childhood wonder overcame shallow material impulse. I laughed and hugged them tight. After the boys exhausted their narratives, I carefully collected the shells gingerly relocating them to the small pocket console beneath the stereo, and we de-excavated the back seat. Those shells remained in the front console for the next eighteen years. 

For not being a car guy, those wheels sure made some memories. Ol’ girl, “Long May You Run.” *

(click on any photo for full-screen)

* Credit to Neil Young (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQhw02fZkkw&nohtml5=False)