tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17809188389398791342024-03-14T11:52:17.701-05:00Betsy's Jamaica BlogA year of service in Jamaica as an international Passionist Volunteer.Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-65052368180778133232012-07-20T19:51:00.001-05:002012-07-25T13:01:27.238-05:00Junot Diaz, in his novel The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, recounts the protagonist's trip from New York to the Dominican Republic to see his family. The novel, though about the Dominican Republic, is startlingly evocative of the entire Caribbean.
Oscar, the novel's hero, talks about the "whirligig that was life" in his family's homeland. He lists the sights--the cops, the poor selling peanuts at intersections, the beaches, the "snarl of streets and rusting zinc shacks," the jokes, the music...but continually punctuates this list of spectacles with the "mind-boggling poverty" that he sees everywhere he turns.
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I'm in the Caribbean, with the beaches, the snarling streets, the poor selling the peanuts at the intersection, the music. I'm in Jamaica. It feels strange to write that, now, as I sit in my room getting devoured by mosquitos and with a pounding dehydration headache. <i>When will I learn to drink the water I haul everywhere I go?</i> It's been years since I lived and worked here as a volunteer and this is my second return trip. <i>Hi, Jamaica, remember me? The mosquitos sure do. </i>
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Logistics and history aside, it's hard to keep straight what was past and what is present on these visits back to the place that I once felt I owned. I forgot how to get to Barbican, and I forgot which one was the passing lane. The right one, right? Babies are kids, kids are smart-mouth teenagers, teenagers are grownups. Grownups, dammit. When did that happen? When did Nikki's baby become this shy child who doesn't know me? <i>C'mon kid, you loved me once. Come here, come play. </i>
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But, in the words of Diaz, it is the "mind-boggling poverty" that most throws me for a loop on these return trips. When you live among the grit and the grime and grind of hunger, poverty, and disease, it's no sweat. It's a day at the office. If you're lucky enough to have a job that lets you participate, you do what you can to listen, to organize, to network, to link the poor with some zinc and a few seeds, or a chicken, or a homework group, or a library, or a hug. <i>And nobody hugs like a Jamaican child. No-body. </i>
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But now, I'm superfluous. Entirely superfluous. I may not be frightened of the poor selling peanuts at intersections, and I sure don't blink at the rusting zinc shacks, but there isn't a thing I can do about the problems I watch my friends endure. The sixth grader who straight-up dropped out of school? The elderly man slipping into dementia, alone and forgotten? The kids so hungry I can count their ribs? Mind. Boggling. Poverty. And no way to participate.
My redemption lies in my reason for being here, for this return trip is no vacation. This return trip puts me, for the first time, into the "staff" category of my beloved Passionist Volunteers International. I'm here to assist. To help the new tenth (tenth! can we even believe it? who woulda thunk!) group of volunteers transition into their new life. It is a blessing that redeems me and gives me hope. <em>Bring it, mosquitos. Bring it.</em> <br />
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This trip, this experience, these mosquito bites, give me the opportunity for meaning. I can see my friends, my friends for whom life remains relatively unchanged. I can spend time with the new volunteers and impart what little knowledge I've jealously guarded and retained. Mind boggling poverty? Of course. But returning to this whirligig of life grants me participation, grants me salvation. <i>I'm back, Jamaica. Come here, come play.</i>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-9895583353101749732009-08-13T21:46:00.002-05:002009-08-13T21:50:40.733-05:00Thank You<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwiu9KzLJAzL2c2-wkqhLanNAhypRfXUexgRVHmdT1_bdNZRioaM2IK8ck-MQscvvdlLDLS733rx_i8JWoKU-0Eg5VGWsGE7FmVhmQPgv5fLYrTBjdXh98Ur_-kp8rdyBNdMiAPO_4NzYV/s1600-h/IMG_2100.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369645977228430962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwiu9KzLJAzL2c2-wkqhLanNAhypRfXUexgRVHmdT1_bdNZRioaM2IK8ck-MQscvvdlLDLS733rx_i8JWoKU-0Eg5VGWsGE7FmVhmQPgv5fLYrTBjdXh98Ur_-kp8rdyBNdMiAPO_4NzYV/s320/IMG_2100.JPG" border="0" /></a> I’ve been home for two weeks now, and I struggled throughout those two weeks to think of an appropriate farewell entry for betsyinjamaica.blogspot.com. I have finally realized that any farewell entry must convey a sense of thankfulness, and that is what I have set out to do.<br /><br />My return to the States was equal to any made-for-tv movie—my parents greeted my long-haired, khaki-clad, hippie self at the airport with hugs, a cooler filled with my favorite American treats, and a dozen pink roses. (Thanks, Mom and Dad!) The following days were a whirlwind of joyful reunions and how-was-its. I am more than grateful for the welcomes that my friends, family, and church community have extended.<br /><br />However, I simply can’t erase from my mind the months of joy, sorrow, and discovery that my Jamaican friends, Jamaican family, and Jamaican church community extended to me during the past year. Everywhere I turn is Jamaica—from the necklaces I wear to my morning coffee to my missionary clothing tan lines. I am irrevocably tied to the concepts of poverty, justice, simplicity, and solidarity—as returned volunteers are wont to say, “I’m ruined for life.”<br /><br />I spent my last week in Jamaica dissolving in tears whenever I tried to say goodbye. In between packing and orienting the newbies (who are fabulous and were fabulously patient with my rollercoasters of emotion), I had little time to say goodbye, and most of the time I did have was spent sobbing on Miss Doris’ shoulder. It didn’t feel right—these people didn’t ask for me to drop into their lives and play with their children. They didn’t ask for me to become their friend, but somehow, I did. And then I up and left them.<br /><br />It is here in this entry that I can effectively list my gratefulness to the people of Mount Friendship: thank you for guiding me into the work I was sent to do. Thank you for letting me witness true compassion and devotion. Thank you for letting me hold your babies and for making me feel included in village politics and gossip. Thank you for your smiles and for your simplicity. Most importantly, thank you for forgiving me during those times in which I’m sure I let you down.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369645972033366930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWTUMwEw-v4dAyxcUEFVyCH5ypHi8jYziuQgGIJlZwsqQYgD5W-nqgLJDqhezDcIijYB4H-oB3NmQNcPJ-czOHyAoMb88xyuxesQ9BMjcIAlkpLINh_yEu3ztuybcyHS5oXrmUrA44-rk2/s320/IMG_2073.JPG" border="0" /><br />It is here that I can thank my friends, family, and church community for their support during the year: thank you for caring. Thank you for your cards and notes and packages and magazines. Thank you for the expensive phone calls and expensive plane tickets. Thank you for trying to wrap your head around the ideas of poverty and justice. But most importantly, thank you for letting Miss Doris, Mr. Brooks, and a village called Mount Friendship into your consciousnesses and into your hearts. Be assured that I am happy to be home with you all.<br /><br />It is here that I can thank the Passionist Volunteers International staff and extended network for their training, patience, and development. Thank you for challenging me. Thank you for feeding me and listening to me whine. Thank you for talking about service and solidarity and the poor. Thank you for being available and for being a surrogate family. I couldn’t have done this without you.<br /><br />Jamaica and Passionist Volunteers International will always be a part of who I am…those two entities have shaped me, for better or for worse.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369645960458667410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuIJ4ilGimBCBrMQlM_TRAT7UEvfUAvYzj29dbbFQ9PKP_K4WtdHNounoXgkF3IzzpVeEbiMMvLhb-ab-B8nBzmorB4Mb6kZIekyUHh9gwFZFNiX112fs8D3iLpny9fk8NshTBb9f8942/s320/IMG_2066.JPG" border="0" /><br />I ache for it all--I miss the sunsets. I miss my roommates. I miss my dog. I miss my oranges. I miss the sweetly lilting rhythms of Jamaican Patois. I miss Doris and Brooks. I miss the earnest choruses before Sunday service. I miss the feel of Kadean’s little hand in mine. Unbelievably, I miss the god-awful smells of downtown Kingston and the hideous braying of goats in the bush.<br /><br />I wish the best to Matt, Jared, Sarah, Charity, and Tracy, “newbies” no longer. They are well-equipped to handled the challenges that Jamaica will undoubtedly hurl at them this year. I envy them: they have it all before them.<br /><br />But I now have the chance to join the ranks of PVI alumni—I’m eager to join the recruiting process and can’t wait to visit next year’s orientation. I’m currently working on what I refer to as my “big-girl life”—the next phase. I have the extraordinary opportunity to start another kind of service. Come fall, I will be a teacher in a Catholic high school and can continue the journey of justice. As much as I miss my Jamaican way of life, I understand that the next stage of my life will be no less exciting or fulfilling.<br /><br />So, thanks. Thanks Jamaica, thanks Rhode Island, thanks PVI. Thanks for making me into who I am today, in this moment. I love you all.Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-44533686957364808462009-07-18T06:41:00.003-05:002009-07-18T06:52:21.786-05:002 Weeks<div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrO90XVHu4QwTxNbHRt7IMnwAL7bRXKgP6ymrsyCMNxNXATF74ClLJ-YwnxIFUZ3hz-izWP31_z24QdJL5XGSoG5204kJ9aHASOc0PwJ8wo5psp8u9DoeUY0Atf0uThvCpm_o5sxyhbnn/s1600-h/IMG_1944.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359766096266758786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 306px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrO90XVHu4QwTxNbHRt7IMnwAL7bRXKgP6ymrsyCMNxNXATF74ClLJ-YwnxIFUZ3hz-izWP31_z24QdJL5XGSoG5204kJ9aHASOc0PwJ8wo5psp8u9DoeUY0Atf0uThvCpm_o5sxyhbnn/s320/IMG_1944.JPG" border="0" /></a> Yesterday was the last day of Mount Friendship’s Camp—it was filled with beauty, with annoyances, with wonder…with Shemari, with Miss Doris, with Marie, with Jeneve, with with Orville, with Vernon, with people I have grown to love.<br /><br />I did plenty of yelling, that’s for sure.<br /><br />Lots of “clap your hands once if you can hear my voice,” lots of “Listen up, boys and girls!” <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359766094789262002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWz9tpDa3trns8K4X5-_AACTdjnq662lmi9omyTd7EFofL5taOrNzEr1qysADbL_Ykqk3UASpKkKKrjKZ_AfIGAjXTa73EpVwKsaHz-z6fcQ_MW82kVDUHgq-7x6VJQiwGHuBjBjBDH9n1/s320/IMG_1939.JPG" border="0" />But there were lots of hugs, lots of giggles with my favorite kids, lots of really beautiful moments. In fact, I’m not even going to pretend that I have the literary capabilities to describe some of the encounters I have had over these past few days. Let’s leave it at this: the time I spent hosting a camp in my home community was precious and has given me memories that I will treasure forever.<br /><br />Holding a camp in Mount Friendship showed me that the relationships I have fought to cultivate really do have worth here. The women have told me that there will never be a volunteer as nice as I have been, that there never has been a volunteer as sweet as I am. They want to find gifts to give me and praises to shower upon me. They say this to all of this volunteers; of this I am certain. But still, it’s nice to hear.<br /><br />I’m beginning to see just how difficult it will be to leave this place. I spent some time last evening chatting with my roommate, Lauren. We were sharing stories about Mount Friendship Camp—about my kids, about the community at large, and I realized how much I treasure my experience and how heartbreaking it will be to tell everyone goodbye. So many of my children are growing into teenagers, and so many of my teenagers are showing that they have the potential to be great leaders, thinkers, and doers in their community. I’m not saying that I can lead them into these talents; rather, I simply want to be there to watch them blossom. Because, dammit, I love them. And I want more than anything to see them succeed in this hard life they lead.<br /><br />I’m not quite ready to leave my shut-ins and my older friends. I personally think that Mr. Brooks needs friends now more than he ever has. I just really got to know Mrs. Perkins. Selfishly, I don’t want to say goodbye to Ms. Doris’ crazy ways. I don’t want to leave behind her saltfish fritters, kisses on my cheek, and playful slaps on my bottom. I’m not ready to leave behind Mr. Frazier’s musings on the Jamaican economy and Miss Jean’s bananas. I’m sorry, but it’s going to feel like a betrayal when I hand over these people to the next volunteer. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359766108394795874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhXgQ7wkj1XOGMiIEWzK75DEDYY_z0esS1f3mdfOj1Ct9E1Jk9P-28PPx9WuH7g_uRUuqMGN9XMhoyyj4-py7T7-ZYnp4-i4wteokolug7ht2YwYKYdIAIHZyPnWMwHGsfKIy9U9MlSwk/s320/IMG_1907.JPG" border="0" />I don’t want to mislead you all. I am eager to get home—I can’t wait to see the family that has supported and loved me during this zany year. I’m aching to see my friends and the thought of a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee-and-bagel combo makes me giddy. Don’t get me wrong, people. I’m quite ready to trade in my view of Kingston harbor with the skyline of Providence.<br />But I have a life here that has taken me a year to cultivate. I have friends. I have a dog. I have a lady who sells me oranges, peeled and sliced to my liking, every morning. I know where to buy mangoes, and which taxi drivers I trust to take me up into the mountains.<br /><br />I have mixed feelings the likes of which I have never had before. I love the people of Mount Friendship, of St. Andrew, of Jamaica. I’ve shed my fair share of tears over the poverty, confusion, and culture shock. I’ve been convinced that I could never make it here. And somehow, I have, and despite it all, I’ve grown to cherish this place.<br /><br />Last week, I was racing through the Mount Friendship bush after a day of camp, trying to do a few home visits and still make it home before dark. In typical “Betsy” fashion, I tumbled down the side of a hill, through someone’s coffee plants, and skidded to a stop in the dirt at the bottom of a gully. I lay there, disoriented and smarting, for a few minutes, and then I started to laugh. We’re not talking a get-up-and-brush-yourself-off kind of a chuckle, mind you. I was seriously laying there in the dirt, belly-laughing at myself. A few children were with me, and after gasping in shock at “Miss Betsy” lying in the dirt, they too, started to giggle.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359766113344615202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeERuMYUPYSduPCcmPMpDINLrGuo3iQkylQ4ll9jaoxhf3bZ7B0UJsXJQ1_5vUWwwFB-mYqPBBAq8kr3-dGg8dgdRX3TRzuNjtiUuQRqvGJ1vx6sv6Uis8w6JRJHdRlmoDoOjFj23bm1KB/s320/IMG_1864.JPG" border="0" /><br />And that is my experience at its most real. If I’ve learned nothing, I’ve learned to stop taking myself so seriously and to start laughing at the small things. My Jamaican friends have rusty zinc roofs and damp dirt floors. They have children to feed and coffee to pick. But they manage to get through the hardships and laugh at the moments that bring them joy.<br /><br />I have two weeks. All I can do is to implement the lessons that they have taught me through the year. I’m going to throw myself into the hills and gullies of Mount Friendship with smiles and laughter until I have to say goodbye. And when I do, I will do it with a heart full of joy and thankfulness. There will never be a people as kind and loving as those in Mount Friendship, of this I am certain. I’m sure every volunteer in every community in Jamaica says this. But—not only is it nice to hear, it’s the truth. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359766111563705490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBWrdPNQqDW9AsZq2vELDEuvzTf2P49S75GdXdmIdEbAznv8YJYcV5ekKIDI_LjCDWxMssLZ3Hct4z1bFr8wKz9-zsnlDBRSj-EBdxh2Xvx2j0uvIfSUGbJEJJI83qDwND5Rqb0pqCFQT/s320/IMG_1891.JPG" border="0" /></div></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-42624618384714339412009-07-10T20:13:00.005-05:002009-07-10T21:01:26.473-05:00PVI Peace and Love Camp 2009<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRlJTyhlXZbYJgLUKhc6mjCQCRlRbZEeHyWK_OOs6Mqsi1MkYuQyf1R_mAvk1X1Gfz_PHX7MGYwmSgIuMiT5EylYlPxsYt5YWHk0POfbpZR2-e0IV4MkZRrZrbGWOl6rWpc7cLEHGHP-z/s1600-h/IMG_1648.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357008126388343570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRlJTyhlXZbYJgLUKhc6mjCQCRlRbZEeHyWK_OOs6Mqsi1MkYuQyf1R_mAvk1X1Gfz_PHX7MGYwmSgIuMiT5EylYlPxsYt5YWHk0POfbpZR2-e0IV4MkZRrZrbGWOl6rWpc7cLEHGHP-z/s320/IMG_1648.JPG" border="0" /></a> I love camp. Really. In a creepy, I-wear-hiking-sandals-and-can-follow-a-trail kind of way. I lived and breathed Camp Ok-wa-nesset at the Kent County YMCA for four summers. I dealt with upper pond canoeing, archery, arts-and-crafts, and family nights. I even tolerated their hot dogs during the vegetarian years. I wore the yellow staff t-shirt and taught preschoolers hiking songs. It was the best job of my life—until now.<br /><br />Naturally, I was pleased to start planning a Passionist Volunteers International tradition—Peace and Love Camp. For six years now, PVI’s have hosted summer camps in each mission village. The length and times vary each year, but the routine is consistent. Volunteers secure the village church and a classroom for a few days, and turn it into "PVI Land." The children receive a morning snack and a noontime meal, as well as instructional activities, sports and games, and arts and crafts. Volunteers employ a local woman to cook the lunches for a modest stipend, and ask church teenagers to act as counselors. Children receive a t-shirt, and one of the activities is to “tie-and-dye” it to make a camp uniform. Camp Ok-was-nesset it is not (no archery or swimming lessons) but we’re making it work.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357008136824717346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMzh3A7nr9D636130cnQxtPYTfb6mRt3bKZBAloqDP26Y8uJAaDa1Jrf5XTT1hF5CHF476ghSMk-X2dhCaXPrY9LP-A5BH4bI2WQ8bUj3lMvh6BrwvbevvmT_RC-DmjMxnpCmMgk4MYbe/s320/IMG_1715.JPG" border="0" /><br />The other volunteers and I have given our camp a “health and hygiene” spin and orchestrate daily hand washing and tooth brushing instructions and competitions. We’ve invited members from the Archdiocese of Kingston’s Family Life Commission to present talks about healthy living. Children leave on the last day with a hygiene kit, complete with soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a pencil. We’re reinforcing our already-existing sanitation initiative by re-reading the Lorax during story time and insisting on proper recycling habits. But mostly, we’re playing, we’re laughing, and we’re being silly with the forty or so kids that come to each camp. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357008139716189538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGYBhvBxY83N-b37XTS9oqRnEpMlf2pMN61XDNF0FMHXvsrDu5J2OKNiGVOR_CfTwjZK7EtWbl3T4lmVPDbGZbqsRU5FwlWN66FSQ7ZlDOOZui2cjRvE5AQ5MzjCJpNA0pceoIa6EI0tX/s320/IMG_1791.JPG" border="0" />At the present moment, we’re almost halfway through our camps. We’ve spent time in Devon Pen and Tom’s River, and Mount Friendship and King Weston await us in coming weeks. As I type this very entry, my hands are stained with the green dye from today’s camp in Tom’s River, and our car is packed with tomorrow’s rice, snacks, and equipment for relay races and jump roping contests.<br /><br />Our days are hot and tiring, but every time I squeeze dye out of a t-shirt or help a camper braid a friendship bracelet, I realize how happy the camps make the children. This is one of the few opportunities they get for structured, healthy, and creative playtime. They are rewarded for good behavior, they have plenty of prizes, and everyone leaves with a present on the last day. Their snacks and meals may be simple, but they’re filling. They can sing and dance and run and jump to their hearts content. And, when I think about it, it's not all that different from Camp Ok-wa-nesset.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357008150269132402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczSPK3ncAXiTRbeLiHK05Q9Fxv2KpV8D1lUTkR8W1BJtYIxxhON5bDNxfFSzfAzJRHcMfHfRbagTMu_U7Y1T0kLk4xDKeddLuyuFLajt_ht0AfKwsz1QJwwNbUyNZ6_PG0E9AUk7spwxS/s320/IMG_1804.JPG" border="0" /><br />My friend Lisa was just here with us a few days ago for a visit, and she asked me if I’ve always loved children and camp. I’ve always loved children’s hugs and giggles over the simplest of things.<br /><br /><div>But I especially love children and camp in Jamaica. I’m in a country and a culture that I sometimes fear has hardened me. I must fight every day against the struggles of poverty, injustice, and all of the tribulations that life in a developing country presents. But kids, especially during these camps, help me to hug and to giggle. The routine of the day reminds me of the camp counselor I was for so many years and why I do this kind of work. </div><br /><div>As my time here dwindles, the camps give me a structured purpose for each day and lets me know that PVI has a special place in the hearts of the families of these villages. And it shows me just how special these families and these children are to me. </div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-60775114944285741412009-07-05T16:57:00.003-05:002009-07-05T17:30:55.569-05:00Visitors!<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWB3ldIWfRAIpoAr3Ls7hAJ7MwXQHWdV54m1Fd3OlunTOjnffjIV6SpuC0hPH5x9pnI1TQELYrOdJwov1IM9GAW8SJecdnj02hkwe7ey6Bg7JOQMfnS2EDGaos0ULQb5KqHZ-8QdwsqMM/s1600-h/IMG_0682.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355106260924515906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWB3ldIWfRAIpoAr3Ls7hAJ7MwXQHWdV54m1Fd3OlunTOjnffjIV6SpuC0hPH5x9pnI1TQELYrOdJwov1IM9GAW8SJecdnj02hkwe7ey6Bg7JOQMfnS2EDGaos0ULQb5KqHZ-8QdwsqMM/s200/IMG_0682.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;"> <em><span style="font-size:78%;">Peter and I with Nicki's boys </span></em></span><br /><br /><div>This year has brought many exciting days and many joyful moments, but none quite as special as receiving visitors. A year away from home is difficult, but I’ve had good friends who made it much easier. February and March brought my friend Pete and my cousin Ryan, and June and July brought girlfriends and former roommates Jana and Lisa. </div><div> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355106267124077522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwzcUWsWXDqIuBXrwyDhUeUgVetxy_7bRiWfu9E-DyFgQtcdgQTh0Z9yzupmx_bXWS3ExGPpBZ9fB3ZfR1N2uBaRFwnLwVoyxxukV7B_Kp3hMEEuAgP8M5nNPDoIlFXH0E7gbCfHl1Ly5/s200/IMG_1006.JPG" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">Ryan showing some pictures to Devon Pen's schoolchildren </span></em><br /><br />They arrived with wide smiles and came bearing gifts: Cheez-its, books, fashion magazines, Season 3 of Nip/Tuck, toothbrushes, peanut m&ms…(visitors know the rules). They made in with my roommates and charmed the people of Mount Friendship (and Devon Pen, for that matter). They hiked through the bush and tried to understand Mr. Brooks’ thick patois. They asked questions, they struggled with the poverty they saw, and they listened to me vent about a year’s worth of challenges. They gave me a taste of home and reminded me of the blessing of friendship that awaits me upon my return to the States. </div><div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355106290078878482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-M55Cx1lsgqmc9H_M2vaev967yCkGSSeRQnYX5bk-Kb0zV7FhTNsgueqv2vgvjezcaa1mMr-B5ZiQcTqfKMozpqJUq29gQRTxw9PqJYr5wYl9Ryb5-jvIrIFS3Kk-lZYqp-LqRFfhSO3B/s200/DSCN3629.JPG" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">Roxanne stole Jana's heart </span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></em><br />At times, it was an unreal experience…to have someone with whom I planned JRW to charm Nicki and her five children…to have a member of the O'Grady clan chatting with Mr. Brooks…to have someone who danced around our Aquinas dorm room to Cher with me keep my kids on-task in Mount Friendship’s library…to have the freshman year roommate who has seen and heard it all worship at Mount Friendship's tiny hilltop church. </div><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355106295639636226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoZS3EoO4ip8jxRxzi65pLPUlpbkhbXnwCCa7zg0MZ3IIxhw3xfB3NBqDLR4TuJF_Dt0CDqhRwvc5uuMe_eOsCNG3qJR6SqQY9tUTvWR0yPiOndvcjU10ysptiF5OihV3NPb31a1rNre31/s200/DSCF0316.JPG" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">Lisa met her fourth grade class' pen pals! </span></em><br /><br /><div>All of my guests were tremendously good sports...they battled the heat, the bugs, the water, the language...and smiled through it all. I am so blessed to have Peter, Ryan, Jana, and Lisa in my life. I can’t thank them enough for coming to see me down here. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you all and will see you all again so very soon!</div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-74590088617404019362009-06-23T08:16:00.004-05:002009-06-23T08:34:07.770-05:00This One's For The BoysA great deal is said about women in Jamaica—they are the cornerstones of the churches of Jamaica and I am of the belief that they are the backbone and the silent leaders of this country. It goes without saying that they are my heroes.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpaWbagbctA4rnzIZokpqwl6nlK3jPPkxZKj08sF-BXDSWHEY_i6tn9Hu60_VYJ7OxQIE-igp0BKD9QMnyEn7133GGcuv-EwBWsSJrv-K-te82P2lfuEkPe_LzMN6f2CsANT8GI5ip5uXZ/s1600-h/IMG_0943.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350512870684926354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpaWbagbctA4rnzIZokpqwl6nlK3jPPkxZKj08sF-BXDSWHEY_i6tn9Hu60_VYJ7OxQIE-igp0BKD9QMnyEn7133GGcuv-EwBWsSJrv-K-te82P2lfuEkPe_LzMN6f2CsANT8GI5ip5uXZ/s200/IMG_0943.JPG" border="0" /></a>But I want to talk about men. Boys, really.<br /><div><div><div><div><br /><div>Jamaican men—boys—are a unique bunch.<br /><br />They harass me at the bus stop and as I am getting into my taxis; they tell me in no uncertain terms what they think of me: my hair, my face, my legs. They follow me onto busses and stare at me as I walk children home after school. They sit in shops and drink cheap white rum and smoke forests of ganga and hiss at me as I walk past.<br /><br />But these men are the ones who chase after busses to make sure I get on one that is pulling away. They are the ones who notice the cuts and scrapes I acquire while tramping through the bush and offer to clean them out with rum. They are the ones who carry me on their backs over landslides and who check the fluids in PVI’s car engine. They defend me against ravenous dogs and chop down coconuts for me.<br /><br />And the boys! The boys at Mount Friendship’s school do all of my heavy lifting and teach me how to pack a soda bottle to make a really great soccer ball. And no matter their grade, be it one or six, they hug me and do their best to recycle their plastics. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zOsHKJfjo2qLntoH332RXurK8POdISZxJYPOz7iAPXx3gTez4NSIG0Ufko-gYoHArxt30YNJql-cOhYkUIF7uixb_pBMGl0ytwl_du00AeHcrRVVcurVvVC_2L-vGfZXHEg1bLhCGmzm/s1600-h/IMG_1425.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350514295099285442" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zOsHKJfjo2qLntoH332RXurK8POdISZxJYPOz7iAPXx3gTez4NSIG0Ufko-gYoHArxt30YNJql-cOhYkUIF7uixb_pBMGl0ytwl_du00AeHcrRVVcurVvVC_2L-vGfZXHEg1bLhCGmzm/s200/IMG_1425.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is these men and boys that break my heart. There are few employment options in Jamaica, but even less for the rural poor. The boys and men of Mount Friendship have little hope. They can become taxi drivers and bus conductors if they are lucky. They can be hustlers and farmers and the men who chop away the bush on the sides of the road. If fortune smiles on them, they may go to the States or to Canada for farm or hotel work. These men and these boys have good hearts, but many of them are trapped in a country, a culture, and a way of life that offers them little opportunity.<br /><br />It is when that I am re-tying a uniform tie before afternoon devotion service or listening to nine-year-old Jona chattering on about mongoose and birds that I wonder what the future holds for my boys. My boys, boys that will be men all too soon. I don’t want my boys to become the troubled young men who are responsible for Jamaica’s often violent, drug and gun-riddled society.<br /><br />A great many of my library monitors are boys. I didn’t appoint them because they’re the best workers or the best organizers—rather, I constantly struggle keep these boys on-task. But my hope is that if I can give these kids a sense of responsibility and pride, as well as a skill, they <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF0CTVvmmNVftwK4OB6jSOaeWPGrMoy19eAjfoFu0xAuAen-U7-hPWtWQbVLDZErx6RNydzupn1M9NDxmzSu35Bw9wnDb7XdAvOZLRK9ZxEGayao4OdZDu1LnlW0nN8CdoLEXQFB8uXLDs/s1600-h/IMG_1534.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350512884744897042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF0CTVvmmNVftwK4OB6jSOaeWPGrMoy19eAjfoFu0xAuAen-U7-hPWtWQbVLDZErx6RNydzupn1M9NDxmzSu35Bw9wnDb7XdAvOZLRK9ZxEGayao4OdZDu1LnlW0nN8CdoLEXQFB8uXLDs/s200/IMG_1534.JPG" border="0" /></a>might have a fighting chance in this world. I hope that the kindness that years of female volunteers have shown them will teach them to respect women. I hope that our after-school activities, art projects, camps and Sunday School lessons teach them that they have potential, talents, and gifts that should be recognized and shared.<br /><br />Often, I’m at a loss. I break up so many scuffles and fights between boys and often, the harassment I receive on the roads leaves me exhausted. Boys and men here make getting through my day a challenge. But, at the end of the day, I love my boys and I can only hope that wherever they end up in this life, they will be happy. Say a prayer for my boys today. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350515678460013474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59vMch85RRN0lQMgsGWuqVljF8ilB2duZNtZt4c_L9YOfPGLaLXa8jZlgc7Wsv5xBXrWgBOPqx-nR29XwV8gSMJ0G7k6WxgwJYOXuwpgaRqGho3v7dO8hwHOQ5eqSMaIWu1kc1II08SCS/s320/IMG_1063.JPG" border="0" /></div></div></div></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-47019981680093015362009-06-11T18:42:00.007-05:002009-06-11T23:17:13.834-05:00Just So You Know<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57Q5LPgtQv7Xj5PgjgXlXmfpgSSYnOf8749foT1ky3-wQNrWGD-66oAEsQvakJjjHgHYJkXN4lRoexwxx64NM4M3d4q4p9uU1pGBi0PsU_X2csZMgWzuU98JovcaomWe4OvKmoARtZ3Yw/s1600-h/november+062.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346288202094155378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57Q5LPgtQv7Xj5PgjgXlXmfpgSSYnOf8749foT1ky3-wQNrWGD-66oAEsQvakJjjHgHYJkXN4lRoexwxx64NM4M3d4q4p9uU1pGBi0PsU_X2csZMgWzuU98JovcaomWe4OvKmoARtZ3Yw/s200/november+062.jpg" border="0" /></a> When I made my decision to come to Jamaica, my father, Richard, sent me an email with the subject heading of “Just So You Know…” In the email was the U.S. State Department’s official warning about travel to Jamaica, and their information was grim.<br /><br />Spending a year in a third-world country, particularly one as violent as Jamaica, was not my father’s ideal choice for his only daughter. However, he has been the most supportive father any volunteer—any person, for that matter—could ever ask for. He’s encouraging, interested, and (I hope!) proud of this year’s work. I couldn’t do what I do without his love and support. His concern and enthusiasm for my projects this year mean everything to me. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346288193251592930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgX_CzKqmepaXU7JyFALhAdpXPh8rJtyvAa55ROjPBUwjPICS1n1CLhiUEu_9kRUwzSBHUIb9pY00ToCbzK8RQPlfY2NcRxbtXJpxq4xW2P4eAaUQXU8AvJL81WyG-5O9OmErHWBcQEnXg/s200/End+of+Summer+002.jpg" border="0" />I’m putting out my own <strong>Just So You Know</strong> right now…Just so you know, June 13th is my father's birthday! I may not be home to help him blow out all er…36…candles, but know that I’ll be doing it in spirit.<br /><br />Now, on to the delightful little link at the bottom. Some children in Mount Friendship, particularly Cecela, Maya, Cristina, Ronique, Jevoy, and Nicolas (cameraman extraordinaire) wanted to wish my dad the happiest of birthdays. After two weeks of hitting every internet café in Stony Hill, I’ve managed to find a way to get the video online. I am no techie, so the video is rough and without editing, but I think it just adds to the charm. :-)<br /><br /><div><div><div><div align="center"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Av4M0_l0QUk">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Av4M0_l0QUk</a><br /></div><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><em><strong>Happy, happy, happy birthday, Daddy. I love you.</strong></em> </div><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346287261896332434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVxpb38Mgn6-1mCuOCLoAxc_e3kFGH6MkAFgEdNmnk8czvpaRwS0mb4jmAAsyh4Irx-PO_LWXIFEAxyDPF7K4TMrvh6Ddlm_x9BI5V2gJMg0GOovZlqQK_j1Qgz70Xd8JQ2vzDbX1o1MX/s320/IMG_0051.JPG" border="0" /></div></div></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-62700885573642382042009-06-03T16:54:00.003-05:002009-06-03T17:12:18.630-05:00Driving Miss Doris<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNXeKFD1-Rwdjz2KXnYRKCP3qfGdvswa_jeRQlV-o6Pg6GGMFeVJBjUDfv8FBjmIRU-Q07rfq1gxqxukQr-HXef9JarR8DtSES9vR7QKzLO2lMOtqOD7_eIhb497aPf2X4ABfJ7v3L_5gy/s1600-h/IMG_0227.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343226703140474418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNXeKFD1-Rwdjz2KXnYRKCP3qfGdvswa_jeRQlV-o6Pg6GGMFeVJBjUDfv8FBjmIRU-Q07rfq1gxqxukQr-HXef9JarR8DtSES9vR7QKzLO2lMOtqOD7_eIhb497aPf2X4ABfJ7v3L_5gy/s320/IMG_0227.JPG" border="0" /></a> As my time is starting to draw to a close, my memories of joyful times in Jamaica become more poignant, more treasured. And, some memories that I feel should be shared are those in which I drove Miss Doris.<br /><div><div></div><br /><div>Miss Doris is 79 years old and Mount Friendship’s resident church boss. She keeps tabs on the sick and shut-in of the community, hip-checks me out of the way when it’s time to distribute food bags, and manages to keep the altar linens snowy fresh and immaculately folded. She has a high-pitched voice that she’s not afraid to use, either to praise her Jesus or to scold a naughty child.<br /><br />My first interactions with Miss Doris came when she told me to collect her at her home so that we could hand out the food bags together. I drove the van and after criticizing my driving, Miss Doris directed me. She told me when to “mind de gully,” and when it was time to abandon the van and walk. I followed her like a meek puppy as she strode on arthritic knees to feed Mount Friendship’s neediest, and through the driving (and the walking!) that day, I learned Mount Friendship the Miss Doris way.<br /><br />I quickly learned that Miss Doris was never afraid to demand a ride, either to visit a shut-in or to pick up her mail from the village post office. And I became accustomed to driving Miss Doris because, frankly, she’s not the type of person to whom you say no.<br /><br />As the weeks passed, however, I stopped seeing Miss Doris as a lady I drove and started seeing her for what she is—a damn good time.<br /><br />She’s crazy. She pouts if I don’t come see her in my free time, but hugs and kisses me with joy when I show up unexpectedly. She grabs my bottom and tells me how fat I’ve grown in Jamaica. She regales me with stories of her girlhood and spanks me if she thinks I’m misbehaving.<br /><br />Not only does she have a remarkable <em>joi de vivre</em>, but Miss Doris has helped me to find my own inner crazy. When I visit her, I stand and dance in her doorway until she notices me and starts giggling. I made a paper crown for her on her 79th birthday and the two of us laughed hysterically together when she wore it for an entire day and attracted stares galore.<br /><br />But it’s in the quiet times that we share that I find myself wondering what really drives Miss Doris. I’ll be eating saltfish fritters on her kitchen steps or tucked cozily under her arm after church when I’ll realize just how extraordinary she is. At first glance, she’s a lonely widow with arthritic knees and lots of money troubles. But in the time I’ve grown to know her, she’s a deeply devout woman who keeps a faltering church community together. She’s a mother, grandmother and great-grandmother who thinks constantly of her family—and her adopted family. She has a sharp intellect and a soft heart. I don’t know what it is that keeps her trekking the mountain paths, saying the rosary on her knees, or putting down her washing to dance with me around her yard.<br /><br />Something is driving this woman to be everything for everyone, but I am not sure what keeps her going in the face of her adversities. Most likely, it’s her faith that keeps her eyes clear, her smile bright, and her heart buoyant.<br /><br />I adore her—she’s my Jamaican grandmother, my inspiration, and my partner in crime (no one else will make absurd faces during mass with me). She is the force that drives me, everyday, to be a better missionary, a better volunteer, (a better driver), and a better friend.<br /><br />And here I was thinking that I was driving her. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343226700172191106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BPBS_Cxn7bwoWJ5bOCCVRoAzj8X_0QL-UPhDdW12O7SnfY3285vmSU5US4FOCGYjsheCibldI_EiI6KXuk-1nhQo4TYGvIxfvIg4lwwOdXN0HmJSKl9_0JnhFGKRUBs0XiEqpDlhhe03/s320/044.JPG" border="0" /></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-87977144033719385692009-05-11T14:43:00.002-05:002009-05-11T14:56:58.851-05:00The Dirty Hippie on Garbage Patrol – Part 2 in a Continuing Series<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_659OnWXzz1j4lsjZUCxvIGEoaEa4McV8NvGWYlCQ2B0BDJjvcdRzz2asPgFgKM9DAGI5y3t3Va-ssHdC6QlU3pX2eavLvBJ0t0QaaEo75jiWaZDWMFLDHmzxHVZKCWqwIGgX1V8hRPUd/s1600-h/IMG_1316.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334657590010835954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_659OnWXzz1j4lsjZUCxvIGEoaEa4McV8NvGWYlCQ2B0BDJjvcdRzz2asPgFgKM9DAGI5y3t3Va-ssHdC6QlU3pX2eavLvBJ0t0QaaEo75jiWaZDWMFLDHmzxHVZKCWqwIGgX1V8hRPUd/s320/IMG_1316.JPG" border="0" /></a> I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. Or the non-biodegradable Number 1 and 2 plastic bottles and bags. Whatever.<br /><br />Since everyone in the first world is trying to find ways to reduce their “carbon footprint,” I feel a little foolish discussing recyclable plastics, but I did promise an update…<br /><br />We’ve had a few setbacks, one of them being George. George is a man with special needs in the village who does odd jobs for community members. One of his responsibilities is burning the school’s trash…You, dear reader, can probably imagine where this is going…One morning, I checked the bin and found it empty. When I spun around in anger and disbelief, I saw George waving happily at me from the gully. “I burned your rubbish, Miss Betsy.” My anger naturally dissipated, but George and I have had a few heart-to-hearts since then. As a matter of fact, George has had talks with the principal and most of the teachers concerning Miss Betsy’s recycling project. He now knows to stay away (far away!) from the blue bin.<br /><br />I played the role of Good Cop for the first few days—standing by the bin at break and lunch times, and positively reinforcing the actions that the children took to recycle. They were excited—“Miss, we recycled, Miss!” I hugged and high-fived them and told them that they were making Mr. Lorax—and me—so very, very proud.<br /><br />I also played the role of Bad Cop—putting plastic baggies over my hands and digging through the bin with the children to retrieve the paper and metal that were wrongly placed in the bin. I inspected what the children tried to put in the bin. I went back into the classrooms and played games: “Can THIS go in the bin?” (NOOOO) … “Can THIS go in the bin?” (YESSSS) <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334657583457359186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjswYp9NI53n7thOUmTYxaXDNlwnCyV9WDewe5FS7EikD9jDDsGRw8l9haEhomgpe5MimlPqu4-TO7ffsL-_Y8vy9nwWq0mKzGCdvWgBhN9wsWfEtLRvfShMXVq24ZgsnYPY0jBifYI-J9/s320/IMG_1191.JPG" border="0" />But I can’t carry the metaphorical big green stick forever—it is not my job to police recycling. If this is a project that will last, then I need to step back and let it last. And when I removed myself, I saw a few things that made that old green heart of mine swell with pride.<br /><br />One morning, I came across a pair of legs sticking out of the tall recycling bin. I dashed to the bin and pulled out a very grim-faced Hayden Kinghorn by the collar of his shirt. “Hayden, kiddo, what are you doing?” I asked, brushing him off.<br /><br />“Miss!” He said, his big brown eyes dark with fury, “Someone put a metal someting in wit de plastic dem. Mi wan’ fi get it out!”<br /><br />Devontay, a second grader, ran to me the other day and threw his arms around me in a hug of greeting. But instead of his usual “Hi, Miss,” he grinned and said something entirely different. “I am the Lorax! I speak for the trees!” He chirped proudly. “Remember to recycle!”<br /><br />But it’s the day-to-day monotony that makes me happiest. Seeing the students toss their plastics into the recycling bin without thinking twice is what brings me the most joy. They don’t all do it, of course, but the idea seems to be catching on. For a few students, it’s as natural as breathing: plastics go in the blue bin. There will probably be a Part 3 in this series, and with any luck, next year’s Mount Friendship volunteer will be able to add in a Part 4 or 5. But for now, know that the Lorax would be pleased with the progress occurring in a little mountain village called Mount Friendship. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334657594474775154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 206px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNuYQR9JIn9FhvCd-MTx6zGGM8Z5bUvo3RMcdngHSGDpE2DzRv8eHjsxSPqXyc4voP8wWTlkIuM3BbWx5QFMugUVrmNku2Wt0pJkjWkgLYuSJRmeOS83v1Gnwc4wI2QQ711x8UlwYSUe_/s320/IMG_1319.JPG" border="0" /></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-24014459214758363692009-05-05T18:23:00.004-05:002009-05-05T20:44:07.610-05:00Library Days<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiI_CsKhZXfbdE3spDC3KioUx3WL4ErVjy7YXP687YS2RZiyqxcRZPuWCrlq1BJXJlb6l0DH31QnkHHnJhVL02M5J13-hfzwkc0tICzx_-s-eC21QE7tFl3vczeva9-f4lKCHC4rPIAy5M/s1600-h/IMG_1397.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332491413022186146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiI_CsKhZXfbdE3spDC3KioUx3WL4ErVjy7YXP687YS2RZiyqxcRZPuWCrlq1BJXJlb6l0DH31QnkHHnJhVL02M5J13-hfzwkc0tICzx_-s-eC21QE7tFl3vczeva9-f4lKCHC4rPIAy5M/s320/IMG_1397.JPG" border="0" /></a> I was crammed into a taxi yesterday afternoon on my drive back down the mountain after a day of work in Mount Friendship when a woman in the front seat turned around.<br /><div><div>“Yuh Miss Pepsi the liberryian up a Friendship School?” she barked at me. “Yuh mek de yout dem carry de book dem up a yaad?”<br /></div><br /><div>Four heads turned to me while the taxi driver, a man named Sugar, peered in his rearview mirror to wait for my response. I smiled weakly. “I guess you could say that,” I admitted.<br /><br />I wear many hats. I’m “Miss” and I’m “Miss Pepsi.” I’m “de Catalic volunteer,” I’m “teacha,” I’m “whitey,” and now I am “liberryian.” And by that definition, yes, I’m the one who lets the youths bring books from school to their homes.<br /><br />Mount Friendship’s first lending library opened last Tuesday thanks to donations on the part of my college friends, the enthusiasm of the school staff, and many willing students. The library isn’t much of a “library”—it’s a tiny classroom filled with broken furniture and rotting lumber. But all of that has been pushed aside to make room for two sets of shelves filled to the brim with gently-used picture and chapter books.<br /><br />For months, children in the upper grades have helped me to prepare the books and have learned how to be “library monitors.” Through lessons I’ve taught in each of the classes, the younger students have worked hard to learn the rules and routines involved in using a library. And on Tuesday, April 28th and Thursday, April 30th, the library opened its doors for the first times.<br /><br />Tuesday afternoon is the library day for Grades 1, 2, and 3, while Grades 4, 5, and 6 use it on Thursday afternoons. Grades 7, 8, and 9 are permitted to browse the library during their lunch and recess time on any days. The first Tuesday was filled with shrieks of delight and mass chaos, while Thursday’s group brought with them an awed quiet and a sense of purpose.<br /><br />And these days brought moments that were filled with beauty and memories that will stay with me each time I walk into a library for the rest of my life.<br /><br />Odain, a third-grader with special needs, tip-toed in cautiously but strutted out proudly after selecting his first library book. I asked him when he entered if he wanted me to select one for him, but he shook his head. “Me wan’ fi choose out my own,” he said, scrutinizing the shelves with the gravitas of a college professor.<br /><br />During one of my home visits with Marcia, a hard-working single mother, she revealed to me that her little daughter Aliyah brought home a Cinderella book and that the two of them read it together every night. “It’s such a good story,” Marcia said, her face glowing, “And Aliyah love it.”<br />One of the rules is that students should leave the library after they check out a book to make room for more students to come into the crammed space. My monitors and I are pretty good about enforcing this one, but I found Grade 4 student Daijean hiding beneath an old table in the corner. </div><div><br /> </div><div>“Come on, DJ,” I said gently, “you’ve checked out your book, you need to move out, okay?”<br />“But Miss,” he pleaded, gripping four or five books tightly, “it’s just so nice in here. Please mek me stay.”<br /></div><br /><div>I let him stay. </div><div><br /> </div><div>Today, I was pleasantly surprised to see that almost every child returned the books in immaculate condition. I was even more pleasantly surprised to see the library running smoothly--my monitors had the scene under control, the students behaved well, and I had the time to just sit and read with several of the children. </div><br /><div>Trips to the library were always the highlight of my life growing up—all those books, all that possibility. It is a joy to see my Mount Friendship kids experience that same exciting thrill for the first time. Our tiny library may not visibly increase the literacy rates in Jamaica, but being a “liberryian” isn’t about saving the third world. It’s about letting de yout dem carry home de book dem. And what a world will open to children when they can carry home a book or two. </div><div></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332491415231050658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigNZ7GnvJx1Rhs36QEnkchIKjZUGgEcsv3dhZ4tsJmuOowsLZnbDkv6Jjady4POmun_y3zHrc3udaWvSRG1wqxgpXsCB0TKtFr2d1EIyx9QdjPRAKY6KEk_sMdDu01A8TozjtAQgE6tiRd/s320/IMG_1401.JPG" border="0" /></div><div align="center"><em>Library monitors show off their books and badges</em></div><div align="center"></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-17431275738352921572009-04-20T20:36:00.003-05:002009-04-20T20:54:09.942-05:00Nyam wit yuh hand.<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5SY5LLxSccrbstTtVbNcd3GTUXkEHKX1iPrh6iL47zHyxZZioCvX0XHBgtWrvNdnwWl8C_l3Z7FjJW01N-9189tjqvhoO_hg4HtK601n4aUmSMG89zgd81mSJpnuhrnUzqzbqsJchRLO/s1600-h/IMG_0939.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326955990737073842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5SY5LLxSccrbstTtVbNcd3GTUXkEHKX1iPrh6iL47zHyxZZioCvX0XHBgtWrvNdnwWl8C_l3Z7FjJW01N-9189tjqvhoO_hg4HtK601n4aUmSMG89zgd81mSJpnuhrnUzqzbqsJchRLO/s320/IMG_0939.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Lunchtime is chaotic in Mount Friendship’s all-age Catholic school. When the bell rings at noon, the children close their books, clasp their hands, and say a brief prayer in unison. Then, all hell breaks loose as they race across the dusty schoolyard to the window of a small outbuilding that serves as the canteen. They grab plates of white rice, stewed chicken, shredded cabbage, and a ladleful of juice. The meals are devoured back in the classrooms, and then the children dump their plates and utensils into a basin filled with water to soak. It is loud, it is messy, and it is overwhelming.<br /><br />During my first few months at work in Mount Friendship, I stayed far away from the canteen, choosing instead to eat a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich on the church steps. I was intimidated by the bedlam, afraid of falling sick from the food, and I longed for the salads and spinach wraps of Raymond Cafeteria at Providence College.<br /><br />However, as the days passed, I developed a friendship with the school’s cook and I learned Jamaica’s school lunch culture. Slowly, I found myself digging into the lunch routine and then, tentatively, into the lunch itself.<br /><br />The lunch culture is complicated: if a child has seventy Jamaican dollars (a little less than one U.S. dollar), he gives it to the Grade 3 teacher, Miss Rufus, who then gives Marie, the school’s cook, a head count. There are some children who receive a free lunch through Jamaica’s PATH program: Program of Advancement Through Health. PATH came about through a partnership with the Inter-American Development Bank, and it has strict rules, one of them being that PATH students must attend school at least 85 percent of the month.<br /><br />In Mount Friendship, however, the school lunch is a source of pride and shame. Often, children would rather skip school than admit that their families can’t afford their lunch that day—it is the main reason for the poor attendance rates at school. But thanks to Miss Rufus and Marie, the school is a place where children’s minds and bellies are filled. These women are fully aware of who hungers; it is Marie who slips the neediest children a plate of rice and it is Miss Rufus who utters the magic words: “Mek Marie give yuh a someting.”<br /><br />For many children, school lunch is the only real meal they eat in a day—and, as I realized this fact, I began to understand the mad dash to the canteen.<br /><br />As my confidence grew, I began excusing myself from whatever classroom I was in or leaving the library around 11:30 to help Marie organize the plates or mix the juice. She, like Aggie of the food bags, is strict about the portions (“Too much vegetable, too likkle rice!”) but she is patient with me. The canteen has a frenzied atmosphere when the children are getting their lunches, but handing out the meal and watching the children’s eyes light up does make for a truly pleasant experience.<br /><br />Not too long ago, Marie and I were eating our own portions of rice and chicken after the children had been fed. “In Jamaica we have a saying,” she said, her eyes dancing, “put dung de fork an’ nyam wit yuh hand.” Eight months ago, the patois proverb would have been nothing more than gibberish, but on that day, her meaning was not lost on me: “Put down the fork and eat with your hand.”<br /><br />Essentially, Marie’s words mean to roll up your sleeves and dig in. The distance I put between myself and the canteen in the beginning of the year is one I now regret, but it takes time to grow accustomed to another country and another culture. It wasn’t possible for me to “nyam wit mi hand” eight months ago, but it is now. I nyam it all now: the rice, the chicken, and the noontime feeding frenzy. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326955997174995090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiqvF_U934QenPJ6fSuCMHdFp9-Q5tDTthrqBaRrI67jErolF-W8tWhtkhbFcydYTWqvai03HtJqOPnq71QyPMZ1EAKkWEQz0tXuWTDdrBDsPdw4JCS24WIEIx_rv6M8PoELXkIanU0Zy/s320/IMG_1063.JPG" border="0" /></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-28314426647208618172009-04-11T15:13:00.005-05:002009-04-20T20:55:21.782-05:00Good Friday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3mn3eMlGDeP4pPIFDS3p4IzBlHwE3UArKE9JskOYxwd-XVlgqbh9UnnC9ko4EJLMYy4ueowMMugTBx2oOIW-pHZGpJwezCZJ8ppZFK5CtFja3amO44IxkaeC6pFYPHByuRmtraXZwpaJ/s1600-h/mop+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323534974315299090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 229px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3mn3eMlGDeP4pPIFDS3p4IzBlHwE3UArKE9JskOYxwd-XVlgqbh9UnnC9ko4EJLMYy4ueowMMugTBx2oOIW-pHZGpJwezCZJ8ppZFK5CtFja3amO44IxkaeC6pFYPHByuRmtraXZwpaJ/s320/mop+2.jpg" border="0" /></a>Brevity reigns in the gospels when one examines Jesus’ walk to His death. His suffering--his falls, the assistance given to him by Simon--these details are given more clearly and passionately when Catholics throughout the world reflect upon that journey through the tradition of the Stations of the Cross.<br /><br />My roommates and I were invited to join in this ritual in downtown Kingston with a Catholic order of brothers known as “Missionaries of the Poor.” As a third world order, the brothers are in Uganda, Haiti, India, and the Philippines—but their headquarters and their founder are in Jamaica. The MOPs have shelters throughout the Kingston area where they not only evangelize, but care for the destitute, the sick, and the physically and mentally handicapped. We have worked in these shelters before, but the Stations began at one we had not yet visited—Bethlehem House.<br /><br />We arrived a few minutes early, and one of the brothers ushered us into the shelter for a brief tour, explaining that Bethlehem’s mission is to care for extremely handicapped children. During our past few months as volunteers, we have seen individuals with serious ailments, but the deformities I witnessed at Bethlehem surpassed all others. The sight of so many children with distorted and bowed bodies brought me to tears, and I barely had time to wipe them away before the service of the stations began.<br /><br />The brothers that were to read the Stations of the Cross stood in the bed of a truck with microphones. Some brothers stood waiting to help the handicapped residents of the shelters to walk the stations, and still others stood waiting to take their turn to carry a wooden cross and wear a crown of thorns.<br /><br />The first station was read, and we joined the procession of dozens of men, women, and children—either handicapped shelter residents or able-bodied community members—down the streets of Kingston.<br /><br />My experience in Jamaica thus far has been in rural areas. Mount Friendship is a small village that is stunted by poverty, but its sorrows are tempered by cool mountain breezes and a natural tropical beauty. Downtown Kingston, however, looks as if it has been bombed, burned, and left to rot. It is stiflingly hot, dusty, and smelly. Shanties with zinc roofs are piled on top of each other, gang leaders known as “dons” mark their territories with violence and threats, and half-naked children scurry through the streets. There is no development and no industry on these mean streets, making Kingston the embodiment of third-world urban poverty.<br /><br />And it was in this very setting that we began to walk. We sang simple hymns as we walked down unmarked streets lined with "tenement yards" and graffiti-filled zinc fences. And fourteen times, the brothers stopped, the crowd knelt, and the station was read. We went through the condemnation, the bearing of the cross, Jesus' three falls, the crucifixion...each station becoming more poignant with each step.<br /><div><div><br />We walked these streets of the ghetto of one of the world’s poorest and most violent cities, in the noontime heat. We smelled the muck of the gutters, saw the grit of the streets cake onto our legs, and felt the sweat drip down our backs. Despite this, people were drawn to the procession. The sound of the hymns, the sight of the brothers dragging the cross, and the image of the faithful trudging through the ghetto made the procession swell from several dozen worshippers to almost two hundred.<br /><br />Our walk was so very different from that one two thousand year ago, but like Christ’s, it was filled with suffering. The images of poverty: the zinc fences, the barbed wire, the filth, the crumbling buildings, and the haunted faces watching us reminded me that Jesus’ pain is always with us. I watched the brothers, Kingston’s poor, and the handicapped shelter residents sing of their love for Jesus and kneel on the blisteringly hot pavement. And, for the second time that day, I wept.<br /><br />John, chapter 19 reads, "So they took Jesus, and carrying the cross himself, he went out to what is called the Place of the Skull, in Hebrew, Golgotha. There they crucified him." The Stations of the Cross give us a chance not only to recreate, but to relive Jesus’ suffering for ourselves. I was granted an unbelievable opportunity to walk the Stations with God’s people: the least of our brothers and sisters. I walked with the broken, the beaten, the sick, and the deformed. And their faith put mine to shame. Walking Jesus’ fourteen stops allows us to experience the range of human suffering, whether it be in the broken bodies in Bethlehem house, in the filth of a third-world city, or in our own hearts. Have a blessed and beautiful Easter. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323534969742581362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPslZo3x4cRbOiTw8KnrQ946Sx4-GhRDcFyKzT_v9PgOgdJKvYy4Ia9iRBHYcEU9KHeTef0Q_TzQWRQZAJkNlncWa5CROdxYNv3aYzWe6yF3X_sl-wyln6CGYdxJV0cu8x0q2pzcpDxts/s320/mop+1.jpg" border="0" /></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-33846586160140964412009-04-04T18:21:00.007-05:002009-04-04T19:01:37.263-05:00The Return of the Crunchy-Granola-Dirty-HippieAt home, I knew it was Saturday when I heard my father collecting the house’s trash bags to take to the dump. In Providence, the sound of the garbage truck woke me early each Tuesday morning. In Pittsburgh, when I found myself vaulting over trash bags on my morning run, I knew it must be Thursday—South Side’s garbage day.<br /><br />In Jamaica, there are no such cues. Rather, the smell of burning trash and the sight of gray smoke spirals is a perpetual occurrence. These trash fires, seen in developing countries over the world, are a symbol of systemic poverty. There is no sanitation in Mount Friendship—or Devon Pen—or King Weston—or Tom’s River. The poor dump their rubbish into a gully and then set fire to it. The smells are terrible, the charred remnants are ugly, and the released fumes are toxic. But for the forgotten people in the hills, there is no alternative.<br /><br />I was all about the Earth in college. Friends dubbed me the "crunchy-granola-dirty-hippie." I separated cans and bottles and ranted about going green. I ate organic and had a brief stint at an organic co-operative farm. I even wore a grubby “reduce, reuse, recycle” t-shirt that made my roommates Mandee, Nicole, and Sarah plot my death.<br /><div></div><br /><div>I quickly realized, however, that Jamaica is not particularly “eco-friendly.” (Much to the dismay of my crunchy-granola side.) It was not until we stumbled upon some Peace Corps Sanitation Volunteers that we realized we had options.<br /><br />Bill and Gail, our newest set of Peace Corps friends, told us about a partnership they had developed with local government officials—if they could get the people in the poor mountain areas to recycle, a company would come collect these recycled materials. They invited us to join them, provided us with the recycling canisters and the rules, and told us to give it a try.<br /><br />We, the Passionist Volunteers, decided to start small—we planned to start in each of our schools. As with any service or justice initiative, one must begin with education. The four of us designed a curriculum based on children’s books about pollution and on protecting the Earth. I, naturally, turned to the Doctor.<br /><br />The Lorax is a Dr. Seuss classic that features a forest of Truffala Trees and an evil gremlin named the Once-Ler who chops them all down and pollutes a fragile ecosystem. The character of the Lorax speaks for the trees and urges the greedy Once-Ler not to pollute. I decided that the short, mustached and adorable (and so very eco-conscious) Lorax would be the perfect person to remind children to protect their world.<br /><br />I presented my curriculum to the staff of Mount Friendship’s school and it was surprisingly met with enthusiasm. We planned to start by recycling plastic: plastic bags, bottles, bottle caps—everything plastic. The staff gave me their full support and encouragement and agreed to help me with the project.<br /><br />We kicked off the initiative on April 1st and my dirty-hippie side, a side that had lain dormant for months, was unleashed. I brought up the barrel, posters explaining recycling, a hand-painted sign where the Lorax reminds us to recycle, and a handful of worksheets. I read each grade the story of the Lorax, gave them their own Loraxes to color, and talked about what their job will be over the course of the next month. They are to put any plastics they see into the bin and the best recyclers will get prizes each week. </div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320982653800944866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEtV1dxMlg5xI3WHqe14-BrY2T7QBHVgWvC8Cu1MdKLtjPEU3rAH9kGLRpMgvDEU_3k-sZNKaabvydVoYCuxg4am2rPq7TczJk0k800hGg9u0gNGH9WgFKBDowFOrjyb1TOjpd7OhkdYj_/s400/IMG_1164.JPG" border="0" />This is an experiment. As volunteers, our hopes are modest: we know we work in areas that are destitute. The people with whom we work are not particularly concerned about saving the Earth—their worries focus on feeding their children and keeping a roof over their heads. But we hope that this project will give them dignity—a chance to escape the toxins of the plastics and a place to put their garbage. Volunteer work is all about sustainability: Can your project survive? How will it last if you abandon it? We are not yet sure that this project is sustainable. We are giving it until Earth Day: April 22. It is then that the schools will tell us if this is something they want to continue on their own terms.<br /><br />I can’t give Mount Friendship a garbage collection day. I can’t even give them my recycling t-shirt (sorry, girls). All I can offer them is an alternative to their current method. Will it work? I don’t know—but I’ll keep you posted.Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-70981972450574022432009-03-29T21:19:00.006-05:002009-03-29T22:40:13.188-05:00Lots of Good FunI like structure and order. A lot. I like schedules, lists, and consistency. I have always known this about myself, and so living in a developing country tends to throw me for a loop now and again.<br /><br />Due to this desire for stability, I thought it would be a good idea to run a camp for the children of Mount Friendship when the school closed down for the island-wide Grade Six Achievement Test last week. I wanted to give the kids a healthy and structured play day, get them off the streets, and get something into their empty stomachs.<br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div>I fancied myself as modern day Cat in the Hat—bringing “lots of good fun that is funny" and so I started to plan.<br /><br />The preparations were very orderly: I asked for advice from teachers and church members, I made advertisement fliers, and I spoke in each of the classrooms to invite the children. I organized donations of cookies and crackers to feed the kids, I sorted out sports equipment, learning games, and arts-and-crafts supplies. I appointed a few student leaders to act as counselors. I struck a deal with my favorite taxi driver and arranged transportation for myself and all of the materials. I expected a turnout of maybe 15 or 20 children. I was set. Or so I thought.<br /><br />The camps, or “Fun Days” as I called them, were held in two separate locations. Thursday’s was held at Iron River Ball Field and Friday’s took place at the Mount James Ball Field. Iron River and Mount James are two communities that feed into Mount Friendship’s All-Age School, and conveniently, have large dirt pits that serve as soccer fields. The five student leaders I had appointed met me at the ball field the first morning with shining, scrubbed faces and helped me carry the water and juice, a box of toys, and a bag of sporting equipment into an abandoned building. They had swept it out and picked up the trash on the ball field. I was delighted. But the starting time came and went and no one was there. I hadn’t planned on that.<br /><br />And then, over the crest of the hills, they came! The children came in droves—with friends from other schools, with their brothers and sisters, with their mothers. My nametags quickly ran out, the learning stations I had carefully created were demolished, and it became evident that the juice I had brought simply was not going to be sufficient. I hadn’t planned on that, either.<br /><br />But I also hadn’t planned on the concept of “no problem, mon.” Jamaicans don’t sweat the small stuff; why should I?<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318811462286956914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6q2srHeXBcHU9-gbWUpKFXWDpviPtGUlzesAPW_vrIOuulaaNqIPEgA-BeVi7IMGcsmNUlCqwbh83OTt4Vt3qSDxTidpfY6DrVD8O374KCKWD9toF-62diYGK_-_GjWoA3z2T6Mw_MFVF/s200/IMG_1077.JPG" border="0" />The children played freely with the supplies. An intense soccer match soon developed. Little girls took the buckets I had brought and went fishing in the river. One of the mothers appeared with sugar and more water and managed to stretch the juice for everyone. Another mother organized an efficient line at snack time and handed out the biscuits before I knew what was happening. The teenagers who had appeared created a schedule of races and jumping rope contests.<br /><br />The second day had a few more hiccups, including a lost soccer ball, a broken Frisbee, and a fistfight between two 7-year-olds. But when I told them I needed their help, my student leaders stepped up their game; organizing the little ones, redirecting whining children, passing out the snack, and organizing a cricket game, complete with twig wickets. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318811475326361234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFORH2ETryZR4x78n2iT_rCndJlLpGp6sA9Adb4xRDYhx8iJsz664aCUZ620s22mXXYBpGUgrnBdQd1sOxKUVasu49SefaEmRM65l8r-Shawq1OIZ6hErJ7s0LjAndZvtXEHghZgOR5EIW/s200/IMG_1146.JPG" border="0" />I plan. It’s what I do. I am learning, however, that even the most meticulous of plans do not always work in the wild bush of Jamaica. Children can be rough and supplies can run out. A small, one-day camp for children turns into a community event—but that is okay—it is wonderful. At times, the event was chaotic, but it was beautiful chaos. Here, it truly does take a village to raise a child—and a volunteer.<br /><br />I owe the success of the Fun Days to my teen leaders and the mothers in the communities—my fun days were fun thanks only to their involvement. My plans were necessary--they were crucial to laying the foundation. However, the villages of Mount Friendship, Iron River, and Mount James taught me that planning can take you only so far.<br /><br />Dr. Seuss tells us: “It is good to have fun, but you have to know how.” Even the Cat in the Hat falls when he tries to hold up two books, the fish, a little toy ship and some milk on a dish. I would have fallen too, if not for the community’s support. If I wish to accompany these communities as they grow and develop, I must rely on their wisdom, spontaneity, and enthusiasm. Last week, I brought the books, the games, and some milk on a dish. Mount Friendship, Iron River, and Mount James knew how to bring the good fun that was funny. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318815043630547986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilP6yHuTe-yrKgG48IZ1p5XmuQn6ZRFIuxHhFJuCprIE9CRLDfWUKrkLtB_MC3BDv-66lgQgFUMuj3jkLwlLBRzxLlbqRcaF2jrt8uBGODoC4L-LCxoaWNL6Z5rxLJtS1N7Aysb9xBZ7IM/s320/IMG_1111.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318815049416498994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4Hc7VHMHU_fDdeTiO0gyX40DUJQ_wqiM78ND1VVvPV5PTPzlqa1a3I39jzLyvoG_HTXOGGkpdWV6hXOYqXEDfTJXr9j8RLMo4M5wWSYK5bLiY97vu1aQ9ZsIxJGaNzH13tPO6zL7Yq-n/s320/IMG_1147.JPG" border="0" /></div></div></div></div></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-29005172026858546002009-03-15T00:28:00.002-05:002009-03-15T00:33:56.421-05:00Stepping Aside<div><br /><br /><div>The job of a Passionist Volunteer is varied and wide-ranging. We are expected to visit the elderly, help the teachers, feed the poor, and be an advocate for the sick. But we are also asked, for one week during our year, to minister to a group of students from the Elms College in Chicopee, Massachusetts.<br /><br />Alternative spring breaks are all the rage in the United States: college students step away from their lives of comfort to spend a week in a poor area as a volunteer. I myself gave a couple of weeks throughout college—to a reservation in Arizona and an orphanage in the Dominican Republic. Those trips are the very reason that I live in Jamaica today. Those brief immersions into the lives of the indigent poor opened my eyes, inspired me, and drove me to work for justice.<br /><br />To be given the opportunity to step to the other side was quite an experience. It was unnerving to be purchasing the food, deciding on the projects, and leading the reflections. We were warned that it might be difficult to see others do the work we have been doing for months and to bond with people we consider our friends and family.<br /><br />The Elms stud<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVR6_AGYDP-q14eQad_OZEkrRtGeb4-6OVjXwOQgO7aGpBYjCjF5hDtWz2IQKjHXK3UqDiHYo5bJnrJBfnRczBMg_m91Vq_5c9hHIPqpZkt29Y-H_tPdpeEDjBs_ZhyphenhyphenWDoPB02mRLdeZt/s1600-h/IMG_0926.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313282826272514434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVR6_AGYDP-q14eQad_OZEkrRtGeb4-6OVjXwOQgO7aGpBYjCjF5hDtWz2IQKjHXK3UqDiHYo5bJnrJBfnRczBMg_m91Vq_5c9hHIPqpZkt29Y-H_tPdpeEDjBs_ZhyphenhyphenWDoPB02mRLdeZt/s200/IMG_0926.JPG" border="0" /></a>ents experienced some bumps along the way—injuries and stomach issues being the top offenders—but we did watch them step, if only briefly, into our roles. We, as the PVI’s, gave the tours of the missions and made the introductions, and then put the students to work. They did everything from shadowing teachers in the classrooms to corralling goats in the evenings to painting the church in Devon Pen.<br /><br />We PVI’s led small prayer and reflection services in the evenings to help the students process their experience. We asked them, over the course of the week, their motivation for coming, what they were learning and feeling, and how they felt that the experience changed them. These students came to Jamaica for many of the same reasons that we, as long-term volunteers, came to this island. They wanted to experience a new culture; they wanted to step out of their comfort zones; they wanted to make a difference.<br /><br />Pope John Paul II, in his poem Shores of Silence, tells us “you must always step aside for someone from beyond.” Stepping aside during this past week allowed me a chance to see the beauty of Jamaica and its people once more. Seeing my work—my whole life, essentially—through greener and more innocent eyes was refreshing. Rather than grow possessive of our work here, stepping aside made us realize how poignant our everyday experiences are. The college students’ awe at the mountains made me appreciate the majesty of the misty peaks all <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SP9apSVZqePXZUUwJRlw5zROUwi364drGmctz9J-PR7RYZOolhljdGqs1k0gr4dSVUOdrZOkD2e7BsE7cBvmz9n29cPGyJci3IhVgdCrxLhRu9gkTHFC3M74NVmEc2AowGXgblIWCkJz/s1600-h/IMG_0972.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313283397458098850" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SP9apSVZqePXZUUwJRlw5zROUwi364drGmctz9J-PR7RYZOolhljdGqs1k0gr4dSVUOdrZOkD2e7BsE7cBvmz9n29cPGyJci3IhVgdCrxLhRu9gkTHFC3M74NVmEc2AowGXgblIWCkJz/s200/IMG_0972.JPG" border="0" /></a>over again. Their squeals during our rides into the hills made me remember my own initial trepidation at the winding roads. Their love for the people made me hug my children tighter and love my elderly friends more dearly.<br /><br />The students with whom we worked are beautiful young women; they are bright, courageous, and eager to serve. It was a privilege to work with them over the course of the week and it was an honor to step aside for them. I tried to convey one final thought to them as they returned home; that this experience will change them forever. Once one has walked with the poor in this way, there is no return to the life you once led. And as JP 2 advised me to step aside, I want to pass on some more of his wisdom to these short-term volunteers: </div><br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><em>You must know—there is no return<br />From this flow, this embrace within the mysterious beauty of Eternity.</em></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-25158932470006447512009-02-14T09:34:00.003-05:002009-02-14T12:11:34.702-05:00Love Story<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Z3MLUbhLyW9JqWbAweHw_3CDiZmkgFM8amNgcewj6laTskOepEYpH-tDSASXzlWw9MMoEYJKruwa5oho0a73dI4I2_tJW03GN7N0E13uQfYJOdRbfE8QoXZxASGaMBog1bxtjZ-ICKPc/s1600-h/063.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302701770885343874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Z3MLUbhLyW9JqWbAweHw_3CDiZmkgFM8amNgcewj6laTskOepEYpH-tDSASXzlWw9MMoEYJKruwa5oho0a73dI4I2_tJW03GN7N0E13uQfYJOdRbfE8QoXZxASGaMBog1bxtjZ-ICKPc/s200/063.JPG" border="0" /></a> The longer I am in Jamaica, my harder my blog entries have become to compose. The people about whom I write are no longer characters in the book of my service year in Jamaica; they have become my friends, my family, and my home. I struggle to write this very entry because the people whose story I am about to tell are very dear to me. But I think that this is a story that needs to be told.<br /><br />When I started this entry, I wanted to tie it in with Valentine’s Day. But then I realized that the story I want to tell is not about romance and flowers and heart-shaped boxes of candy. It is a love story, but it is an uncommon love story.<br /><br />Mr. Osbourne Brooks and Mrs. Edith Brooks have been part of the PVI experience for all volunteers working in Mount Friendship. “Aunt Edith” was a faithful member of Mount Friendship’s Catholic community until she fell ill several years ago. Since then, volunteers have visited her, prayed with her, registered her for the National Health Fund, and enjoyed the presence of her peaceful nature.<br /><br />However, to visit Aunt Edith meant that the volunteer would also come to know the gruff Mr. Brooks, for Mr. Brooks was utterly devoted to Edith and rarely left her side. He cooked for her on his coal-and-zinc stove, he fed her, and he bathed and dressed her. On good days, Mr. Brooks would help Aunt Edith outside to sit and enjoy the sunlight while he would do small repairs or sort out the food he grew on his bush farm. They would speak quietly to each other, often saying a great deal without exchanging many words. The couple had known each other for years, but did not marry until late in life. And although they did not have any biological children, the two “grew a ‘ole ‘eap a pickney” over the course of their marriage—they took in dozens of children and raised them as their own.<br /><br />I loved to visit with them and to watch the adoring looks that they traded and the gentleness with which Mr. Brooks handled Edith. Mr. Brooks would give me callaloo spinach to shred while he teased me about my nonexistent love life or he would let me give Aunt Edith her afternoon cup of tea.<br /><br />Sadly, Aunt Edith’s condition worsened and she passed away in early January. One of her adopted children asked me to come to the house the following morning to sit with Mr. Brooks. However, when I arrived, Brooks was nowhere to be found, and no one knew where to find him. I drove the winding roads, stopping everyone I saw to ask if they had seen Brooks. The responses followed the same pattern—he had been crying, and he had gone into the bush. He clearly wanted to be alone, and I reluctantly gave up my search.<br /><br /><div><br />At Aunt Edith’s funeral, Mr. Brooks sat silently in the first row and wept silently throughout the mass. Jamaican funerals tend to be dramatic affairs, but I could not pay attention to the proceedings—all I could see was a man grieving the loss of the love of his life.<br /><br />It seemed as if Aunt Edith’s death was a blow from which Mr. Brooks could never recover. During the days following her death, he wandered the roads for hours, for there was longer a reason for him to stay at home. He went to every service that every church in the area offered and he seemed to be searching desperately for solace.<br /><br />But then, I began to see glimmers of the old Mr. Brooks. I came across a photograph of Miss Edith and brought it into church one Sunday. He gazed at the image and mopped at his eyes with a handkerchief, but he was smiling at her image through the tears.<br /><br />Recently, I found more evidence that Mr. Brooks was starting to feel like himself again. I stopped by his home one morning on my way to the school, and when my cell phone rang, he seized the opportunity to fall back on his old joke: “De boyfriend call fi you?” He asked. I assured him that he is the only man in my life, and he grinned widely at me before turning back to a chair he was fixing. After a few moments of silence, he spoke again.<br /><br />“My girlfriend, my wife, she was my honeycomb,” Mr. Brooks murmured.<br />“Why is she a honeycomb, Mr. Brooks?” I asked.<br />“Because nuttin nah sweeter den honeycomb,” he answered.<br /><br />For Mr. Brooks, nothing in this world will ever be sweeter than Edith.<br /><br />The people with whom I spend my time are not characters in a story—they are people with their own flaws, virtues, and quirks, and they are more real to me than anything else I have ever encountered. But the lives they lead and the dignity with which they handle their challenges provides a story that I feel compelled to impart to others.<br /><br />The story of Mr. Brooks and Aunt Edith is one that I think needs to be shared; it is not only a love story, it is a story of devotion, dedication, and, when it comes right down to it, it is a story that has the sweetness of honeycomb. I wish you all the happiest of Valentine’s Days and I hope that you find ways to celebrate the uncommon love stories in your own lives. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302701774965706962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWQ8sjRK44NB2_xbBL2IKgydE9YbBN-GfDfhTTN4Kg9ZzPUZcHPJM6duZAQxsyRUtIvbzt4f_Hu8MK8Xsj8sGrFrGNm3lTE7vVceswqS6XBAfKtk9Kh_hjQsXBYUeU69X-jnrZiOQKQb9i/s200/001.JPG" border="0" /></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-59951403876375126612009-02-08T21:38:00.007-05:002009-02-12T19:43:38.443-05:00Happy Birthday, Mom!<div align="center">I am posting this a few days early because we are leaving for a community retreat in Mandeville, but this Tuesday, February 10th, is my mother's birthday!<br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSIHOxahF7Oj85XjjftwCWSWOIvpKqt6hLPKibL711wxAffuosBBzW_nPpg7IRI3bosW3Fk3nvBXIk_Iv31uhyphenhyphenyj59O-ErAD7tPZygFtlndxXTZ2FaptnIAo2sdvn1eKWBvgT8qBvKROw/s1600-h/August+078.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300627500583877778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 239px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSIHOxahF7Oj85XjjftwCWSWOIvpKqt6hLPKibL711wxAffuosBBzW_nPpg7IRI3bosW3Fk3nvBXIk_Iv31uhyphenhyphenyj59O-ErAD7tPZygFtlndxXTZ2FaptnIAo2sdvn1eKWBvgT8qBvKROw/s320/August+078.jpg" border="0" /></a> For those of you that don’t know Mary, she happens to be the most beautiful, sweet, intelligent and loving woman I have ever met. I am dedicating this entry to her, as without her love and support, I would not be able to do the work I do here in Jamaica. </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">It saddens me greatly that I am not home to help her celebrate this day. Please bear with me as this entry will probably be the cheesiest I ever write. If you do know Mary, make sure you wish her the happiest of birthdays. </div><div align="center"><br /><br /><em>2 Nalgene Bottles…$16.00 U.S.</em><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300624798689998370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhficnoouBMFAtlVdoYjH1FS6rI5hu-e75paI5HkaSZelW8BFpbicEwdPnCoPcNMOApO_NlblOkrvNy47_X2IZRHo_v4jf3lfgOyzXklIqQukxIGq_r_0KIFX-HxtycmIbXsPhjZEM6KBxx/s320/IMG_0596.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><br /><em>1 Pair Hiking Sandals…$39.99 U.S.</em> </p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300628691797485362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMmPTmaT6HHlPi_zfFKlVSQQsdnsHVBeLN65oB9YnVWu21LfR9YNl9aBxyCDLIp_io88x2YQCMObG38My3dkLeHelYREgNC9xAubDkkEAvETj4VpoIz_10FSw7fvDyBHlUwQ_7NEkcGYp6/s320/IMG_0613.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em>3 Pounds Red Peas…$500.00 JA</em> </p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300624828476894626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjznoLfEFuXKXz-UTQ3gb1MHAOQzpviSV3YjfOdu1YAODBJ3MYOaoiiWyVl3Fjuph5y1RgE8g8L_TtR4amtzJ4DsGhNoxD09Y2IeXc6N2MGcIiMuzm22lHQLorIhXLz8XWzRMP_dLUNSWEu/s320/IMG_0612.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em>1 Bag Jamaican Coffee…$203.00 JA </em></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300627501874693234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7wBnt86WZaBHA5ltUUZxQzphuaDvW8sqYWa_GQQsod21iachnDrgsgD_JnyAxzChX9wXAdmvw4mCnzwFgVogj4-d2OYUaUAHakT3biccq7xsEZV126S4nc00h9b9-borNksZTkwzkr4gn/s320/IMG_0611.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em>Having your daughter's students, the Mount Friendship church ladies, a dog named Stubby, and PVI 2008/2009 wish you a happy birthday...priceless.</em> </p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300624832032862946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTpWmY8CwtrpIY68tvu_cxjeQZ3Z8gxOfBgkHFS_eyNYJnMz59TVzxjLrF_ng-0B0NhK0UAFXWu9ofBCGohlg8op56zHktX6diOlFWcjUbYXfEg5W7xPSc5DqCNt2HPSRqFA2WGE_LELS/s320/IMG_0607.JPG" border="0" /> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300627509392170242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDHi2SI3puA6T0yqNvf-Pm26f_DfbFbeE5AI_E9a2tRLAkJEwhQLEILCGXcbAJyXXa0aEVt1ys1UgI4dBCN0xuN_8yhYMk0Y3KtWWXrSaCCCSEvzrOLeqRHDIlkZixFvrxY06YXyfz8AMl/s320/IMG_0608.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300627512657026930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvu8iyO9addOwoH0JIz34Bq3FH2qabGhoY2YIpmJs0QpVxvrPCVtm25VMT0nBW6v-NBlAI_AhvYBW1X45CEd-82wsR2cSC5mUefsD_p4QDJ09wrp_2rMQCYyVTbQdQua8jS3eynCrW1uHa/s320/IMG_0610.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300627503639615042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOY4fYgo36UsFlsOfWb7b-eXeUOBYQbXWNiM_k0vrFsNbJ7a9eylFnNfs088rJHH9gV16zgvlpNKR41WgGmquuBvvtYxt1rNhdFAKD39B7PHmsBt8Is6dNWfteHYnwjfv9hV7nKQb8hfbP/s320/IMG_0615.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><br />I wish I could be home to celebrate, but know this: I love you, Mom. </p><br /><div align="center"></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-60697136800598553652009-01-29T20:58:00.002-05:002009-01-29T21:05:33.559-05:00Child Labor<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_r8vTUNmYD6lzsWJ5c8QIGi8tTYL9XBcNpWBCm1KiYF2nR2iUpWpBg-5iinnc6XFZOuEfTNFBW8h2F4GS4xMkSV6RCmea42w_wcskp6MEmkqZhqAIEn3_kYZmQFjj5YerflkV1MEUdzdX/s1600-h/IMG_0481+-+Copy.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296901416199199538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 317px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_r8vTUNmYD6lzsWJ5c8QIGi8tTYL9XBcNpWBCm1KiYF2nR2iUpWpBg-5iinnc6XFZOuEfTNFBW8h2F4GS4xMkSV6RCmea42w_wcskp6MEmkqZhqAIEn3_kYZmQFjj5YerflkV1MEUdzdX/s320/IMG_0481+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Archbishop Donald Reece, the Archbishop of Kingston, meets with every incoming group of Passionist Volunteers. He told our group, PVI 08-09, that we are to coach the youth as much as possible. We are to include them, teach them, and empower them. The communities need to belong to the youth.<br /><br />My goal was to include them in the library project. Mount Friendship has never had a functioning library in its all-age school, and I’ve been trying desperately to change that. The books that my college friends sent renewed my energy for the project (Thanks again, guys) and I was ready to dive in headfirst with the help of the children. I expected them to be happy about the bags of books and willing to take on a role.<br /><br />I didn’t think they’d take the project away from me.<br /><br />The first Monday after the holidays, I drove the program’s white van up to Mount Friendship and asked a few boys to carry the book bags into the library classroom. Before I knew it, there were swarms of boys around the van, fighting for the privilege of carrying the sacks. The excitement was more than palpable. “Dem America books fi we, miss?” Yes, kids, those books are for you. The boys grabbed at the bags of books and ran into the library classroom with them.<br /><br />I started sorting through the books during the day, and then invited the older children to help me. I gave a brief talk in a few classrooms about the help I needed, posted sign-up sheets on the side of the building, and promised to collect them at the end of the day. I shouldn’t have bothered. After the end-of-school prayer had been said, children were clamoring to get to the library. “Me, Miss!” they shouted as they jostled and elbowed their way into the tiny room, “Pick me!”<br /><br />Surprised at the turnout, I directed them to the stations I had set up and we discussed the anatomy of a book. We talked about what a title means, what an author does, and who, exactly, an illustrator is. I pointed out the front cover, the back cover, the binding, and the spine. We talked about the right way to put books on a shelf (with the spine facing outward, to read the title) and talked about the concept of a library. Then they got down to business.<br /><br />Mr. Bennett, the principal, Miss Forscythe, the grade 4 teacher, and I had devised a simple system to organize the books. We found envelopes that Jamaica’s humidity has sealed shut, and we cut them into triangles to be pasted into a book’s back cover. A card listing the title, author, the name of the person checking out the book, and the dates borrowed and returned goes into that triangle. We are keeping a handwritten list of all the books, a list that I enter into Excel on my laptop when I reach home in the evenings.<br /><br />Within minutes, the room was a flurry of activity; students were pasting, taping, cutting, writing, shelving, and sneaking peeks into the colorful picture books at their fingertips. In shock, I stood awkwardly in the middle of the library. After so many months of struggling in the library as a solitary warrior, I suddenly found myself with nothing to do.<br /><br />Thankfully, that changed quickly. “Miss!” “Miss!” Miss!” My name was being called from all over the room. I started circulating, answering questions and letting the kids know they were on the right track. Sometimes I had to point out the author’s name because it was hiding on the first page, not on the cover. Sometimes an envelope triangle was mistakenly pasted up-side down and had to be turned before the glue dried. As the afternoon wore on, there were fewer questions for me, but the energy level remained high.<br /><br />The next afternoon was no less exuberant, nor was the following week, or the week after. I have sign-up sheets where children have committed to be a “paster,” a “writer,” a “counter,” or a “shelver” weeks into the future. The children have taught each other the jobs as well. Shamika was a paster last week. Although she is a shelver this week, she taught Jawayne the right way to glue the envelope to the back cover. Allier has trouble remembering who an author is, but Shandee is quick to remind him.<br /><br />What is driving these children? What are they here for? Does the library give them camaraderie? Purpose? A chance to hold a colorful book? An identity? I don’t know the answers, but I love my willing laborers and I love that they have usurped my role. The library now belongs to them. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296901416097771762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 176px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyACiB3yeEO4I7850OpfMGX54duRfiyQGhrjaFY8YJxvnOXATa8Z_N50JvpxlkMV8IbLSaPdDSz0V_hlto4AN5A6f_CuLTWa0cMCbdP7lxFO4UjUytZ_-9aopwZ-VgMTpl8m4Br4Lq-tLu/s320/IMG_0500+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" /></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-65279075191325491462009-01-21T16:04:00.002-05:002009-01-21T16:09:03.989-05:00Welcome to the Peak<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqH_vO_5VPsG260R-cv5Dgv3y-wAcpBXTfrh97jW3nd9GD-hN6dxQf1_iyNl4ATxcI-gIrewisEi6okdKAybVpKFAmgGAlgB2Z9OQGH0Db1Us1b3dqCt_XN3AeVe09BG1z_YAnbY8K4Ek8/s1600-h/151.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293856669877452802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqH_vO_5VPsG260R-cv5Dgv3y-wAcpBXTfrh97jW3nd9GD-hN6dxQf1_iyNl4ATxcI-gIrewisEi6okdKAybVpKFAmgGAlgB2Z9OQGH0Db1Us1b3dqCt_XN3AeVe09BG1z_YAnbY8K4Ek8/s320/151.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>For my 22nd birthday, my roommates and I climbed Blue Mountain Peak. Standing tall at 2256 meters, it the highest point in Jamaica—I’ve got a thing for hiking and climbing, so this was a giant I had been eager to face. It was seven miles up, and upon reaching the summit, we found a sign that had been posted years before: “Welcome to the Peak!”<br /><br />We had left in the early hours of the morning in hopes of catching the sunrise, but since our guide had not said a word from the moment we left the base camp, since it was pouring rain, since we had walked the majority of the way in darkness, and since our feet were covered in blisters, we turned around and headed back down the trail as quickly as possible.<br /><br />I stand now at the peak. January 18th marks the six month anniversary of my time in Jamaica: I am halfway through, I have climbed the mountain. The next six months will be my journey back down the trail. The journey of the past months is not unlike my hike up the mountain, for my first steps were taken in darkness. I was blind to the culture, to the language, to the struggles of poverty, and to the everyday challenges of the developing world. But the activities of each day have enlightened and continue to enlighten me. Every person I meet, every experience I have opens my eyes a bit more. Every step I take in Jamaica is more sensitive, more aware, and more confident than the last.<br /><br />I will always face rainy days, and the trail still gets rocky at times. But my guides in this journey are open and vocal and supportive: I have the teachers at Mount Friendship School. I have community pillars like Miss Doris and Mr. Brooks. I have my bosses, Father Lucian and Amy. I have the support of my community, Lauren, Michela, and Amber. I have family and friends that love me and the work I do here.<br /><br />The darkness has lifted; I have gained a foothold on the trail of Jamaica. I have learned to stomp out roaches without screaming. I have learned how to cook ackee and saltfish. I have learned to effectively balance myself on busses careening around mountain roads. I have learned to navigate the Registrar General’s Department and the National Health Fund. I have learned to coach a child through Hop On Pop. I am learning to listen. I am learning to be easier on myself. I am learning to ask for help. I am learning to take it one day at a time and to cherish the small victories.<br /><br />The day of the climb, we hurried back down the mountain, wishing for warmth, for dry clothes and for the pain in our feet to subside. The return journey was shorter—going downhill is always easier. But I have no intention of racing through the next six months. Everyone says that the second half of mission work tends to fly by, but I want to treasure each moment. I am growing closer to the adults and the children in Mount Friendship; I love them and I love the work that I have been granted the opportunity to do. Every day that slips past reminds me that my time here is limited, and that the laughs I share and the hugs I receive will come to an end all too soon.<br /><br />As the morning of December 23rd wore on, the mists lifted, the sun came out, and our chilled skin warmed. We realized that our trek had not been in vain, for although we had left the peak, we were still able to enjoy the views of the Blue Mountains. I could look out over miles and miles of untouched and uninhabited mountains and hills. It was breathtakingly beautiful.<br />And from what I can see from where I stand right now, as Miss Betsy of Mount Friendship, the view is breathtaking. </div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-52933705943712149762008-12-27T20:08:00.004-05:002008-12-27T20:23:06.743-05:00A Christmas Miracle<div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2gInpFIEWySHTZcumCQ8NYAfs35bFjkq3ax7lXGqHO6K2AAmklqy02P37OMdQ2Pl1RuZqsvnVgXXmf36oUaSr7JiGVs28Ji9Xna5H0w-t32bMYU6DPW8I5I0pQdY96c2srxgwaFEBw1q/s1600-h/IMG_0728.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284643641677550258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2gInpFIEWySHTZcumCQ8NYAfs35bFjkq3ax7lXGqHO6K2AAmklqy02P37OMdQ2Pl1RuZqsvnVgXXmf36oUaSr7JiGVs28Ji9Xna5H0w-t32bMYU6DPW8I5I0pQdY96c2srxgwaFEBw1q/s200/IMG_0728.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I had been dreading my first Christmas away from home. Because I am far from the people I love the most, the weather is 85 degrees year round, and I see poverty and violence everywhere, it was hard to muster holiday cheer. But in the days leading up to December 25th, the spirit of Christmas reached me via airmail.<br /><br />On the 22nd of December, my roommates and I were headed up into the mountains for a stay at a Bobo Rastafarian guesthouse and a hiking excursion to Blue Mountain Peak. We stopped at the post office on our way east, and I found a paper in our post office box. After a runaround typical of 3rd-world bureaucracy, I finally reached a counter where my slip would get me somewhere. A grim-faced man made me sign a ledger book and silently handed me a bag filled with books.<br /><br />For months now, I have been working to start a library program in Mount Friendship’s Catholic school. The few books that they already have are weather-damaged from years of hurricanes and to get to this “library,” you have to walk through another “classroom.” Many times have I left work defeated, thinking that there was no way that this project was ever going to succeed.<br /><br />But on the 22nd, feeling a bit like Santa and with a sloppy, stupid grin on my face, I carried this sack of books to the car. The tag was in my college roommate Mandee’s perfect, angular handwriting. I was unable to reach Mandee, so I called Andy, and was told that all of my college roommates had worked together to get these books to me.<br /><br />During my senior year at Providence College, I lived with 10 other people in a huge tenement house at 106/108 Pinehurst Avenue—a house that we dubbed “Sparta” one night early in the year. My ten housemates, Andy, Steve, Pete, Dave, Nicole, Sarah, Mandee, Kathryn, Mike, and Claire, are all spectacular humans. They are all motivated, hardworking, problem-solving, moral, and compassionate people. Our bond went far deeper than a convenient living arrangement—as we’ve said more than once, we all just “get” each other. I could—and did—go to any of these people in times of laughter and tears.<br /><br />Regardless, I was floored, and the other volunteers and I dug into the bag on the way up to the peak. Chicka-chicka boom boom! Hop on Pop! The books are in perfect condition and are colorful and beautiful.<br /><br />We climbed the peak, and stopped by the post office again on the 23rd. This time, I had a package of birthday and Christmas cards from Sparta. There was also a letter from Mandee, explaining the books by saying, “This offering is the result of many people’s efforts! To name a few, we’ll start with out darling roommates!” Her letter also led me to believe that there was more than one bag coming to me.<br /><br />On the 24th, I went back to the post office yet again, this time skipping my P.O. Box and going directly to the Bulk Mail room. The workers recognized me immediately and they all smiled broadly at me. “Go get your car!” They called as I approached, “More came in today, and you won’t be able to carry it all!”<br /><br />Mystified, I ran back to the car and drove it around. The workers, including the grim-faced man who hadn’t said a word to me the day before, brought out bag after bag of books and loaded them into our station wagon. “Merry Christmas!” they said. I had to sign again, but this time, I got a handshake and another chorus of Merry Christmases. “Who sent these to you?” They asked me. “My friends,” I answered, fighting back tears.<br /><br />Mandee’s letter explained it all, as did a phone call I placed to her later that day. Andy and Claire have been working with the Passionists for months to find the most efficient way to get the books to me. Mandee ran a book drive at the junior high where she is a Spanish and French teacher. Churches sent in donations, as did my friends from Sparta.<br /><br />I am still in shock and disbelief about the project. This is the best gift that I have ever received…my friends have provided the gift of literacy to the children of Mount Friendship, and they have renewed my energy and will to complete the project. A card from Claire read, “I’ve enjoyed raising money for your library gift both because it brought us all together on a project again and because I’m imagining the look on your face when you get it.”<br /><br />This gift helps me recognize the impact that Jamaica is having on my life and on the lives of others. Mandee’s letter also said, “Your decision to go to Jamaica was a good one—you’re bringing communities together in America without even knowing it.” All I can do in returns is to offer my thanks and a promise that these books will be read and reread for years to come.<br /><br />So thanks, guys. Thank you for my Christmas miracle.<br /></div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284645089843490290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPfRo7df2JTjEctKvus8UaPjaxSUROTA4OjNgv_HBseSl76Ylk2QmKaWH5kj-d2bNoUs_a4vOdIEuvSaZx4YGO8igxpzph5BmnQBC7faR0yhk7Lxh3Ej8cwAM3Wvhq8EOetluTnGK-R_u/s320/IMG_0389.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-73324111298896459982008-12-15T14:35:00.003-05:002008-12-15T14:44:44.208-05:00Family<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7BIf1C9cbhGTDwEjuwKBpWhaGpnFMv8UDhDRzyp92CCLscYxmSJOy5ieOpldT-B8-uhbc7sv_WoZusPAfskV_3PejGfRxNv79XYUZZbzwiumLi64HQzFUY32bPat_LiJi-d6QYge1qUfv/s1600-h/IMG_0232.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280103586679366658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7BIf1C9cbhGTDwEjuwKBpWhaGpnFMv8UDhDRzyp92CCLscYxmSJOy5ieOpldT-B8-uhbc7sv_WoZusPAfskV_3PejGfRxNv79XYUZZbzwiumLi64HQzFUY32bPat_LiJi-d6QYge1qUfv/s200/IMG_0232.JPG" border="0" /></a> Jamaica’s Catholic community has prayers for everything: for stewardship, for encouragement, for education, for holidays.<br /><br />They also have a prayer for families, a prayer that Miss Doris, the church boss, makes me read aloud every Sunday at mass in Mount Friendship:<br /><br /><em>“Heavenly father, raise up in Jamaica good and holy families, loving husbands and wives and devoted parents and children…Send your Spirit to guide and strengthen us that we may serve your people, following the example of your Son, Jesus Christ, in whose name I offer this prayer, Amen.”</em><br /><br />I have family. I have a great family. I’ve got two wonderful parents, ten aunts and uncles, and, in patois, a ‘ole ‘eap a cousins. I love them and miss them dearly, especially during this, the most wonderful time of the year. But they’re not here. Thank goodness that I’ve found a surrogate family here in Jamaica.<br /><br />Mrs. Plummer grasped me in a firm hug when she met me in church and told me that I was coming to Sunday dinner that day, and whenever else I wanted. I could come on Christmas, on New Year’s, and on Easter, too, if I wanted. Oh yes, and they were slaughtering a pig soon, and I should come to that as well. And then, she began to mother me. She sits in on my Sunday school classes if she thinks any of the children are going to cause trouble. She pushes my hair back when it gets in my face. She stands with me on the road and tells me which taxi drivers are suitable to take me back to Stony Hill.<br /><br />Mr. Plummer grinned widely the first time Mrs. Plummer brought me home. He fixed me a glass of juice and gave me a tour of his modest property. I saw his banana tree and met his pigs. “Enjoy yourself, mon,” he said as he directed me back inside his home and put me into a chair. “Don’t trouble yourself, mon, rest yourself.”<br /><br />Georgiana, their daughter, also lives with them. She taught me how to make rice and peas using brown rice, not white rice. She let me hold her baby, and later, let me help to bathe 1-year-old Ianna. Chevelle and Daniel, the resident grandchildren, invited me to watch cartoons on the one station that the Plummers get on their television.<br /><br />And always, they feed me. Times are tough for everyone in Jamaica, but the Plummers share with me, despite any protests I make. “Eat, mon,” they say as they pile rice on my plate, “Plenty food here, and you far from home. You far, mon.”<br /><br />They have made me a part of their family. Mr. and Mrs. Plummer, married for 34 years this January, are intrinsic parents, and their children and grandchildren have accepted me as a sibling. The Plummers love, cherish, parent everyone…what is one more?<br /><br />A concrete, nuclear family unit can be hard to come by in Jamaica. Marriage is uncommon and siblings are often scattered. But that doesn’t seem to matter…the people with whom I work understand the concept of family. A daughter is someone you welcome home, a sister is someone with whom you watch cartoons, and a granddaughter is someone who you feed.<br />The Plummers can’t replace Mary and Richard and the O’Grady/Rouleau network I’ve got going back in the States. They can, however, make me feel loved and cherished and remind me what it feels like to be part of a family.<br /><br />“How many children do you have?” I once asked Mrs. Plummer. I stood in her simple kitchen, watching her fry fish while Mr. Plummer stood in the doorway, holding his baby granddaughter. I was confused by the mass amounts of pictures of children on the walls, tucked into mirrors, and in her handbag.<br /><br />“Five,” she answered casually over the hissing of the frying pan, “but we raise up plenty more.” Including me.<br /><br /><em>Father, raise up in Jamaica good and holy families, loving husbands, wives, parents and children. Father, send your spirit to guide and strengthen me so that I may serve Your people.</em> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280103591997374930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qUd9uwicZufdc-4TZDVzcjjpxIg_P8XiIiMTMvt_v0jC3rs14Smg7aShCDka6os9NGB7cEIyr1xghZyi7E9IC65XFj6mJx3oqo_o8q4uOwX9juMq3HUDPs5qBMFrRMhH4zlSoMUccl62/s200/IMG_0235.JPG" border="0" /></div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-24044529572135986262008-12-06T08:43:00.000-05:002008-12-06T08:44:15.815-05:00Folsom Prison BluesThe first time that I encountered Carl, he was singing. He was singing about how near and how real his Jesus is to him. He had a strong beautiful voice, and he sang the Jamaican chorus loudly and unfailingly. <br /><br />“Hello,” I said, extending a hand once his song had finished. “I’m Betsy.” <br /><br />Carl was one of many inmates at Tamarind Farms Correctional Institute, a prison in Spanish Town, a noisy, busy, and intimidating area just off of the Mandela Highway in St. Catherine, Jamaica. On Friday mornings, I leave the gullies and hills of St. Andrew to engage in a prison ministry program run by a church in Stony Hill. There are a number of prisons in Jamaica that house drug offenders, murderers, and petty criminals. These prisons are hard places to be; there is no visitation with one’s children and there is no time off for good behavior. <br /><br />Kingston is the murder capital of the world, and Jamaica is known for its violence, its drugs, and its overall hardness. However, the men with whom I work at Tamarind Farms are not the hardened criminals that I imagined when I first began work at this ministry. <br /><br />The men in these prisons have had hard lives; they have suffered. Many of them have done bad things, but many of them are victims of circumstance. Many of them gave in to the desperate situations that they faced on a daily basis. For some, their only crime is poverty. <br /><br />However, I find myself forgetting all that when I visit the prison; I see men who want to shake the volunteers’ hands so that they may remember the feel of human touch. I see men who yearn for a one-to-one conversation so that they can tell you about their children, about their friends, about getting out. I see men who scramble to sing and to pray aloud at the worship sessions. I see men who ask probing questions about the bible study that is presented. They are angry and hurting, they are kind and teasing. They are the devout and they are atheists. They are philosophers and they are artists. <br /><br />Although the wardens and barbed wire make it hard to forget where I am, I have ceased to view these inmates as criminals. They are people at the heart of it and they are people that need hope, love, and encouragement as much as, if not more than, the rest of the population. <br /><br />When I look at the inmates, I see the little boys who run barefoot in the streets, kicking a bottle filled with grass and rocks as their soccer ball. I see the third-graders shoving each other in the schoolyard of Mount Friendship All-Age School. I see the teenaged boys in their khaki uniforms chasing the bus to get to their high schools. I see men who have struggled and suffered greatly in their lives—are they to blame for their current situation? Or, are \years of oppression and unjust institutions that punish the poor really at fault? <br /><br />Carl, in his holey white shirt and khaki pants, reminds me that Christ loves us all and no human being is better than another one. Carl was released from Tamarind Farms a few weeks ago, after serving several long years. The life to which he returns is as hard as life in a prison; to be poor in Jamaica is no joke. <br /><br />Prisoners have given me many things over the past few months; they have given me tiny bouquets of wildflowers, plants potted in cardboard boxes, a painting; the list goes on and on. But most importantly, they have all given me something to think about.Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-24308516766431266112008-11-24T21:14:00.002-05:002008-11-24T21:22:31.937-05:00My Commute<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiE_IYiRKC1pnYBPqLFbv4ANfYtu2Rw9cFNTfQ9As4pGSRnevshXYVIOnRILytNXdYDvVxQUVn2M0gUGGsY4YIZmzcMUVhlK76whaA623Ry8O6C_Jpa2Zf2iLQOAsYnWJIHxLuadNIzLF/s1600-h/008.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiE_IYiRKC1pnYBPqLFbv4ANfYtu2Rw9cFNTfQ9As4pGSRnevshXYVIOnRILytNXdYDvVxQUVn2M0gUGGsY4YIZmzcMUVhlK76whaA623Ry8O6C_Jpa2Zf2iLQOAsYnWJIHxLuadNIzLF/s320/008.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272414256402143074" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDxZPHf4NQaKrEUnCHVPabfJYoj1Aa_dNQ14X5K8yS__B63oiyZwj1oXss3UKSxY3UYTG_CGD2iu_EIWyg449ePpGKi9dVC44kF9ghgVFBUWspU8O-l2Q7Vhu5JECOvCkzTModTs4Fq1HM/s1600-h/004.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDxZPHf4NQaKrEUnCHVPabfJYoj1Aa_dNQ14X5K8yS__B63oiyZwj1oXss3UKSxY3UYTG_CGD2iu_EIWyg449ePpGKi9dVC44kF9ghgVFBUWspU8O-l2Q7Vhu5JECOvCkzTModTs4Fq1HM/s320/004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272414244995291170" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSXwjT8vF67jAGZJPUJXljV9crLwXVXB-jmQlr5XdO9vwdwuaiAlBYgbVACHhpH0cH1ddK9H-gB37ZJZk1zN-9-YqkspHUM_FYF14KWq-q3dn9oFqtFWt5_Q4fpr7KuqkyUXBuO6BW4B1/s1600-h/002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSXwjT8vF67jAGZJPUJXljV9crLwXVXB-jmQlr5XdO9vwdwuaiAlBYgbVACHhpH0cH1ddK9H-gB37ZJZk1zN-9-YqkspHUM_FYF14KWq-q3dn9oFqtFWt5_Q4fpr7KuqkyUXBuO6BW4B1/s320/002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272414240024056786" /></a><br />7:05 AM: I leave my home, Stony Hill Hotel, with the taste of Blue Mountain coffee still fresh in my mouth. I’ve got a few picture books, some homemade handouts, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a water bottle in my backpack. It’s a Tuesday, so I’m off to St. Teresa’s All-Age Catholic School. <br /><br /><br />7:15 AM: No matter that the sun has only been up for an hour; my neck and back are already drenched in sweat. I’ve climbed the first hill on my journey, but I’ve got several more to go. When you live in St. Andrew, Jamaica, there are as many hills as there are mosquitoes. I nod hello and say good morning to the people I pass. I’m off to work and so are they; the people I encounter are coming from the villages north of Kingston to work as servants in the homes of the wealthy of Stony Hill. <br /><br /><br />7:22 AM: I’ve reached the bottom of Gibson Road and am facing Junction Road, the main thoroughfare that runs from Kingston to the North Coast. I cross onto the left side of Junction and start walking. I hear the occasional “whitey!” shouted from a passing car, but after four months in Jamaica, I’m more apt to hear “brownie” than “whitey.” Luckily, before I can be harassed much more, a coaster bus pulls up. “Tavern!” yells the conductor, but I ignore him and climb on. I’m headed to Golden Spring, and every bus headed north will pass this town. Today is a good day; I manage to score a seat on the crowded bus. <br /><br />7:34 AM: “Bus Stop!” I shout as I struggle to the front of the bus. “Lettoff, driva, lettoff,” the conductor calls to the driver, and the bus slows enough for me to hand over a few coins and hop off. This conductor, a young man not much older than myself, calls after me, “Baby, can I come with you?” I shake my head and cross the street. At this time of the morning, Golden Spring, a small town at the base of the Mount Friendship hills, is crowded with people fighting for taxis and busses. <br /><br />7:40 AM: I weave through the people and cars in Golden Spring. Taxi drivers try to catch my attention, but I see Raymond standing by a shop. Over the past few months, Raymond The Taxi Driver has become a sort of guardian angel: he has explained dancehall music, physically carried me over landslides, and defended me against the constant harassment I face. The only thing I can offer him in return is my loyalty; he is always my first choice for my morning ride into the mountains.<br /><br /><br />7:52 AM: After a few minutes of twists and turns on the narrow country road, we reach the steep footpath that leads up to Mount Friendship. To take a taxi all the way up into the village would double my taxi fare. I hand Raymond fifty dollars and thank him, and he promises to look for me in the afternoon. I get out of the car and scramble up the path. I have eight minutes to make it to school. <br />7:54 AM: I reach the top of the path and arrive at the dirt road that is Mount Friendship’s main street. It is lined with a shop that sells biscuits and juice, the coffee houses where the coffee beans are weighed, and several goats that graze peacefully. Ahead of me are several children that are also making their way to school. “Kids, wait for me!” I cry, and they turn around to call back to me: “Miss!” I catch up to them and take their hands. “Did everyone do their homework?” I ask. “Yes, miss,” they answer, but I can tell from their mischievous grins that no homework was done the evening before. <br /><br />7:58 AM: I wave to a few of the people gathered at the shop. “Blessings, blessings,” they respond, and the children and I head up the final hill to school. We arrive just in time; the teachers are assembling the children for devotion. They pray and then sing the national anthem, their tiny voices rising into the surrounding mountains: “Jamaica! Jamaica! Jamaica, land we love!” <br /><br />8:15 AM: The gathered children walk in an orderly line to their classrooms; the latecomers scramble to slip by their teachers unnoticed. And so, as my morning commute ends, my workday begins.Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-78376523590276741372008-11-10T17:05:00.000-05:002008-11-10T17:06:33.370-05:00The Clinic is the Cure <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CJRMAIS%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Paul Farmer, an American transplant to <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Haiti</st1:country-region></st1:place> and renegade doctor, once said, “It is through journeys to the sick that we identify needs and problems.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In the course of my time with the rural poor in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Jamaica</st1:place></st1:country-region>, I have realized the truth behind Farmer’s musing. Health care in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Jamaica</st1:place></st1:country-region> is a tricky business. Private doctors are out of the question for most of the population and the public clinics and hospitals are daunting. I personally have spent entire days waiting with families to see a doctor—only to be turned away as the day wanes to evening. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">One of the best solutions to the health care crisis has been the phenomenon of the free clinic. Charitable organizations, such the American program “Medicine in Action” come to a community and set up shop for a day in a church, a school, or an orphanage. A team of doctors and nurses provide free examinations and more importantly, free drugs. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">As the “American volunteers” in the area, we are often called in to help with these travelling clinics. This past week, my housemates and I worked two separate clinics. ‘Tis the season, I suppose. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">This past Wednesday, there was a clinic at our church in Stony Hill, Immaculate Conception, scheduled to begin at 10 AM. We volunteers wandered in at 9, unsure of our role. I was shocked to see the hordes of people already gathered at the rectory doors. We grouped some chairs, made up a hasty registration list, and, since we knew most of the patients, mingled. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“What time did you get here,” I asked 85-year-old Mr. Brooks as I bent to kiss his wife’s wrinkled cheek. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“8,” he answered, grinning widely. “Miss Edith a come see doctor!” He had a 4 hour wait still in store for him, but he was exuberant. This elderly couple had a chance to get some “pain tablets” for their crippling arthritis. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The excitement at ICC was palpable. A clinic is always a major event—it is a chance to get one’s eyes screened and one’s blood pressure and blood sugar tested. However, this clinic had promised a full team of American doctors—complete with paediatricians and gynaecologists. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The doctors arrived, with their suitcases of antibiotics and blood pressure pills. We—the PVI’s—were handed stacks of intake papers and my day suddenly passed in a flurry of activity. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I took down countless names and recorded home addresses the best that I could (“up in the hills” was an oft-quoted description) and then asked the trickiest question of all: “And why are you seeing the doctor today, sir?” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Sometimes it was simple—“my knee pains me.” Sometimes it was a chance to get “the sugar” tested, sometimes it was to get blood pressure medication they know they need but cannot afford. But sometimes it was a litany of ailments that have gone unchecked for years. Pressure, sugar, arthritis, the wound that won’t heal, mysterious bleeding, head fungus, cataracts, rashes, skin spots, ringing in the ears, aches, pains, stiffness; the lists went on. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">It broke my heart to write down the ailments, but my spirits lifted when I was able to guide the person to a kind doctor who could answer questions and provide hope. This particular clinic was a long one—some waited 5 or 6 hours. In total, 105 people—an unprecedented amount—were seen at ICC. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">These clinics show me what a blessing modern medicine is—a kind doctor or nurse can assuage a mother’s fear about the well-being of her child and a Ziploc bag full of Tylenol can ease the suffering of a gentleman with arthritis. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Tensions flared at times, but the patients were overwhelmingly…well…patient. They were kind to each other and polite to us as we took down their information. I made new friends, I held lots of babies, and most importantly, learned a lot about the people I serve. I now know who has “the high pressure,” and who has “the sugar.” I can be a more effective advocate and I can better empathize with their struggles. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Sometimes my experiences with poverty leave me sick, but my very minor role in the clinics seems to be the cure.</span></p> Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1780918838939879134.post-36550574853863236262008-10-23T17:09:00.002-05:002008-10-23T17:20:28.966-05:00The Cat in the Hat Goes to Jamaica<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpO78ECrxqvH7XSIdIdX6z5wlXzgfWpHF7rSUNHD5VFd3lZYqQwcEzCGk21gq-uk7Hq28LDoFZCneZ0AK_Cl5uIsjasx4IwtkMLLr4SuPNaf0dUfGmRAQSoMooa56qffMiMyVcmQssEqlY/s1600-h/IMG_2007.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260477638281750338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpO78ECrxqvH7XSIdIdX6z5wlXzgfWpHF7rSUNHD5VFd3lZYqQwcEzCGk21gq-uk7Hq28LDoFZCneZ0AK_Cl5uIsjasx4IwtkMLLr4SuPNaf0dUfGmRAQSoMooa56qffMiMyVcmQssEqlY/s320/IMG_2007.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Dr. Seuss is a close, personal friend of mine—I learned how to read on Hop on Pop. And, to this day, I can recite long stanzas of the Cat In The Hat (my father must be recognized at this time for his patience in reading it to me countless times). I give Seuss books as gifts, The Lorax made me switch to reusable grocery bags, and Seussical the Musical is on my iPod.<br /><br />The dude has gotten me into trouble, though. In July, I was standing at the American Airlines baggage counter on my way to Jamaica when I was told that my bag was 8 pounds over the limit. The woman called me honey and dear and told me to take my time rearranging everything.<br /><br />She was a very kind woman, but I was not amused. There I was, at six in the morning, nervous about the next year of my life and stressed after a tearful goodbye with my beloved parents, and I had to repack my bags? Feeling like a fool, I ripped open my massive suitcase in the middle of Logan Airport and found the 8-pound offender: <strong>A Baker’s Dozen of Seuss</strong>. I had to laugh at my own stupidity—I had thrown the book in during the final frenzy of packing. However, I found myself strangely relieved by the sight of the volume, and quickly transferred it to my carry-on. It was comforting to know that Dr. Seuss would be accompanying me on this journey.<br /><br />Three months have passed since that overwhelming encounter with my old friend Seuss, and I am no less happy today than I was on July 18th when the Cat in the Hat smiled up from the book’s jacket. As an international Passionist volunteer, my tasks are varied, but a fixture in my routine has been tutoring struggling readers in the village school.<br /><br />Illiteracy is in alarming abundance in Jamaica, and many of the schoolchildren I work with are far below American expectations of reading levels. At Mount Friendship School, I take small groups of struggling readers out of class and we work on different words. I never envisioned myself a resource teacher—in the States, I often felt inept when working with struggling readers. Here, though, we are encouraged to meet needs as they arise, so that’s what I’m doing. Thank goodness I’ve got an expert to help me—Dr. Seuss hasn’t let me down.<br /><br />During the hour or so that I have a group of children, we will practice letters and sounds. We work on the most basic words, and they are slowly making progress. I use everything from worksheets I make out by hand to flashcards. But always, I conclude the session with a story from my Baker's Dozen of Seuss. The kids can certainly understand being stuck inside during a rainy day...I'm sure they wished the Cat in the Hat would visit them. They delight in the musical rhythm of the stories and they like to pick out the words they know. "Miss," one of my kids cried when he saw Thing One and Thing Two race accross the page, "Dem tings a mashup dem house!" </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And that's exactly right.<br /><br />My Baker’s Dozen of Seuss might have caused some anxiety at the ticket counter on that fateful day in July, but I am still relieved that I brought it along for the ride. </div>Ms. Rouleau http://www.blogger.com/profile/00071849732151447027noreply@blogger.com0