From Here to There
Shaken up…
Where one ends and another begins, there's a thin, but very definite line. Life is a fickle, fragile thing and I have learned that you either outmaneuver it or end up being sucked up by it. People have a way of creating their individual versions of reality to fit into their private little planet and it usually takes a tragedy to open their eyes, and then they're thrown into a vortex of grief, change, uncertainty, and regret. My own existence was shaken up by the unforgiving reality of the “outside” world.
Cat in a dog house…
When I left Haiti about one year and ten months ago, I was overwhelmed by many feelings I thought no one else shared. I felt like a child thrown out in the sea with no life jacket, like a cat in a doghouse, foreign and unwelcome. I felt like I was here by an unfortunate mistake. I kept thinking: I don't belong here. I'm from a different country, a different lifestyle, a different world. But I'm here. I go on living even as the persistent shadows of my old life follow me around and constantly arouse in me strong, bittersweet nostalgia, reminding me of everything I left behind.
One Sleepless Night- how it all happened…
I couldn't sleep. That's not unusual- I never can. But it's not just that I had a hard time falling asleep. Something in the air on the night of November 19, 2002 , carried what seemed like a warning. In my bed, I tossed and turned. Several times I pushed off the sheet, which was damp from clinging to my sweaty body, and each time pulled it back seconds later. I counted sheep's but would only get to 15 or 20 then my attention would wander off to outside my window, where I was convinced that someone out there in the pitch black night was watching me. Finally, exhausted from the struggle of trying so hard, I fell asleep, somewhere between 1 and 2 a.m. It couldn't have been more than half an hour later when I was startled awake. I had heard gunshots being fired. I lifted my head for a split second and let it drop onto the pillow again, immediately slipping into a state of semi-sleep. One thing you get used to if you live in Haiti is the gunshots that go off regularly. So I didn't make much of it and tried to get as much rest as possible before school. That's when I heard the wails. They were slow and faint at first, sounding far away. My brain, clouded with fatigue and drowsiness, was slow to process everything. It took me several minutes to jump to my feet, and even as I did, I wasn't fully aware of what I was doing. It's just that some instinctive, internal voice was guiding my lethargic motions as I staggered to my door and hesitated before opening it. Somehow, I knew exactly what had happened, even though my eyes hadn't seen it yet. Amorphous thoughts darted through my mind all at once, leaving me as a mass of terrified confusion.
Over and over, I kept on thinking, Oh God, oh God, Oh God. I wondered whether they-whoever that might be- were still there, silently watching and waiting for the next unsuspecting victim to emerge from behind the safety of her bedroom door.
Finally I stepped out into the hall and warily searched around, then tiptoed through the living room, to my mother's bedroom door, finding to my greatest fear that it was locked. By that time, the wailing had grown painfully louder and sharper. I had no doubt as to what had happened, and I was experiencing the worst kind of panic, dreading to see what lay behind that locked door. I wrenched the doorknob to no avail. I beat on the door until my hands were bruised. I stood there, convulsing, my nightgown dripping with sweat and tears, pounding and kicking the door, knowing it wouldn't open.
All the commotion must have woken up Mirlande, the young, servile girl who was our current help. She too must've also known what happened because she started crying immediately and ran to help me bang on the door. That gave us some kind of connection to what awaited.
Then, after the longest five minutes of my life, the door was pushed open, as if by a magic wand. My biggest nightmare became a most vivid, bloody reality. And by bloody, I mean liters and liters of it, everywhere. My mother, who had crawled on her knees and opened the door, was motionless on the floor, unrecognizable. I had to wipe away all those thick layers of blood just to see her face. I was, of course, in a state of complete emotional upheaval and under any other shocking experience I would have been paralyzed by terror. Somehow, though, I understood that my mother's life was on the line and that it was up to me to take action. I called the first people who came to my mind, two of my uncles, who appeared almost at once, within five minutes of each other. After that, the day seemed to flash by in black and white. My mother was hefted into the back of my uncle's SUV, not an easy feat. They brought her to the nearest hospital, where she was stabilized, and we were told that she had been shot five or six times. One bullet had fractured her palate and nose. One had grazed the corner of her scalp and the corner of her eye. Another had cracked her collarbone, scraped the side of her neck and ripped through her lung. That one is still lodged in her back.
Later that day my mother and I were airlifted to West Palm Beach , and there she was admitted to Saint Mary's Hospital, where she spent the next ten days. During those ten days I was like a zombie, worn-out from sleepless nights and fretful days. All my time was spent in the hospital, waiting and waiting. My spare hours were spent sleeping, or at least trying to.
Readjusting…
After my mom returned from the hospital, she and I tried to squeeze into my grandparents' cozy single bedroom apartment in Cutler Ridge . The family had decided that the two of us were not to return to Haiti -a decision that had quite an impact on us. It was like building blocks-our lives had been knocked down by a maleficent storm and we had to start all over. My mother, an established physician in Haiti , had to start taking courses to pass the exam that'll qualify her to get a license to practice medicine in the US . I had to rewind 16 years of friends, school, island life, and other precious memories and begin recording a set of new ones.
The Aftermath…
Starting over meant getting adjusted to enormous changes. It meant modifying my outlook on various subjects, my entire lifestyle. Because I'm Haitian, moving to Miami meant having to make my own bed, my own breakfast, and do my own laundry. It meant having to clean the house, having to take the school bus and becoming an expert in the public transportation system. It meant buying an alarm clock to wake me up at 5 a.m. because here the roosters don't crow. It meant making new friends and sending daily emails to the old ones. Longing for what used to be turned into a tangible ache that lodged at the pit of my stomach.
Now, almost two years later, I look back on the situation ambivalently. Moving to America had its advantages, of course. But home is home and some wounds still haven't healed. I have since grown up. I have discovered the beauty of having precious memories, a large, loving family, true friends, and a country that will never leave me despite the miles from here to there.
Some Background: Full name: D.Barly-Rincha Nicolas Age : 17 Attends: Miami Sunset Senior High