| One blazing Sunday morning I went to church with two Edison High School students, Nathalie Alcimé and Stephanie Novembre. We arrived early at Eglise Notre Dame d'Haiti, but the parking lot and pews were already packed. We weaved in, squeezed onto a wooden bench in the back, and waited in the heat for Mass to begin. Suddenly the girls told me to stand up—a church official was asking that all guests introduce themselves to the congregation. I had wanted to be inconspicuous, but I stood and gave an embarrassed wave while the girls laughed. People nearby smiled; a few said "Welcome." The sermon began soon after, and the priest ministered to his flock with tremendous energy in Creole, French, Spanish, and English. The church band—with guitars, drums, and a chorus—led the congregation in soft Creole hymns. The wet heat didn't distract the faithful: People hung their heads humbly or strained against the crowd to hear the priest's words, fanning themselves with programs. I barely understood the service, but it was one of the best I've been to in any church. |
When I arrived at the airport in Miami, people were handing out flyers warning travelers about a new state gun law. At first I didn't think much of it, but I took a flyer anyway and read it while I waited in line to rent a car. The flyer essentially warned that my chances of being shot while in Florida had recently increased. It described a law that allows Floridians to shoot first if they feel someone is threatening them. It cautioned me not to "argue with locals" and warned me not to get into a "road rage incident," just in case someone decided to try out the law. The clerk at the rental car counter watched my jaw drop as I read; he thought the whole thing was hilarious. "Welcome to Miami," he said as he handed back my license. "Don't get shot." |
I'd wanted to visit a botanica, one of the local variety shops that sell—among other things—supplies for voodoo practitioners. A high school student named Diego Jeanty offered to be my guide to one near his home. Above the door of the botanica, a hand-painted sign read "200 Years of Voodoo." Inside, the shop was dark as a cave and smelled of something. Incense? Shelves were crammed with mortars and pestles and big pots. Candles shaped like Catholic saints stood on a rack in the middle of the room. I naively imagined all the cool things I was about to learn. Then I noticed the short, squat woman who ran the place. She stared at me, shaking her head and backing away like she'd seen a ghost. I smiled, but I think that only made things worse. She looked at me as if to say, "Whatever you want, we don't have it." Diego laughed and laughed and finally explained what we'd come for. The woman relaxed a little, but not much. Later, outside, I asked Diego why she'd behaved so strangely. "Well, you're not from around here," he said. "And you know, you kinda look like a cop." |
