Driving Miss Doris

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Not only does she have a remarkable joi de vivre, 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.

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.

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.

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.

And here I was thinking that I was driving her.

The Dirty Hippie on Garbage Patrol – Part 2 in a Continuing Series

I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. Or the non-biodegradable Number 1 and 2 plastic bottles and bags. Whatever.

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…

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.

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.

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) 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.

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.

“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!”

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!”

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.

Library Days

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.

“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?”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”
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.

“Come on, DJ,” I said gently, “you’ve checked out your book, you need to move out, okay?”
“But Miss,” he pleaded, gripping four or five books tightly, “it’s just so nice in here. Please mek me stay.”

I let him stay.

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.

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.

Library monitors show off their books and badges

Nyam wit yuh hand.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

Good Friday

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Return of the Crunchy-Granola-Dirty-Hippie

At 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Lots of Good Fun

I 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.

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.

I fancied myself as modern day Cat in the Hat—bringing “lots of good fun that is funny" and so I started to plan.

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.

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.

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.

But I also hadn’t planned on the concept of “no problem, mon.” Jamaicans don’t sweat the small stuff; why should I?
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.

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. 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.

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.

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.