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.