The Comfort of the Concrete

Eyes wide and mouth open. That's what shock looks like, right? Plenty of what I saw in Haiti probably deserved such a reaction, though I am fairly sure (and hopeful) that culture shock didn't manifest itself like that in me. "Flailing" is the best way I can think of to characterize the concept--a mental and emotional flailing that makes it difficult to gracefully navigate a different culture. It feels to me a bit like falling without knowing exactly where the ground is.
I'd like to tell you about a couple of moments in which I landed.
. . .

We tender-footed Americans were taking a walk along the coast with bare-footed children. Safely clad in our sandals (among other things), we exchanged glances watching the kids step without fore- or afterthoughts on any sharp objects. We were still reeling from the trip to the village. In the states, it would have taken just over one smooth hour. Here? It had been at least three very bumpy hours. At every point during the drive, there were people lining the side of the road.

That trip to Haiti happened while political tensions were quickly mounting. In fact, President Jean-Bertrand Aristide went into exile just a few months later. So when hanging out with the kids, it seemed appropriate to ask them about their opinions of their president.

"Oh, I pretty much like him," one boy said. He went on at length about why, his hopes for the administration, and his prediction that it wouldn't last much longer.

He knew what was happening in his country. He cared deeply. He wanted to tell me about it.
Perhaps later on, after a few months of writing here, I will possess the skills to tell you exactly why, but for now, know that this boy's response to my risky question helped my feet find concrete. From this steady place to stand, I could approach the rest of my days in Haiti with intentionality.
. . .

In France, an admittedly easier place to navigate, my mom and I followed Claudie-Anne, our family's former exchange student, around to her friends' and family members' homes. I suspect Mom and I were both trying hard to be as little trouble as possible for our series of hosts, and that, combined with constantly attempting to jump into the French-speaking loop, exhausted me.

Élouan was the newest edition to Claudie-Anne's family. At barely two years old, he was just learning to talk. His presence was a nice reprieve from the hard-to-follow chatter about the primary election. Here was a constant source of refreshingly simple phrases.

"Mom, water," he demanded."What do you say?""Please."She placed a sippy cup in front of him. Her 'Voilà' was met with silence. "What do you say?""Thank you."

(The intonations in this conversation were just as they are in English: the sing-songy reminder and the begrudging magic words.)

Then she introduced us.

"Élouan, c'est Margaret, l'amie de Claudie-Anne." She said my name the French way: mahr gahr ETTE.

He dissolved into giggles and pointed. "Margaret, arrête! Margaret, arrête!" Embarrassed, his mother folded his finger.



"It's impolite to do that! We don't point and make fun!" Turning to me, she apologized.

I was laughing, and my mom looked confused. I explained. "See, my name rhymes with this word that he hears all the time since he's only two. . ."
. . .

When people return home from overseas destinations, we expect to hear stories about differences. More and more though, I come back quieted with fresh knowledge that so much is the same. I hope stories about that aren't too big of a letdown.

Margaret