Summer camp

The first day of camp is today. I am off duty for morning teaching. I am relieved to stay away from the heat. The camp starts with songs on the deck by the pastor and his group from Atlanta and Denver. There are a handful of kids, maybe 125 the first day. They all have badges and tshirts. I wonder if they have ever done any such thing in their lives before. The camp is very American. I wonder if there is even a concept of camps in Haiti. The only camp style life I see is the literal camping one, my neighbors are campers. The little boy on the street lives in a tent with a few other people. The tent is as small as my toilet. He is always happy. He has become my friend, I see him everyday.

The rest of the week I spend like D, who lounges around half the day. I have started sleeping around the house like the house dog would. I sleep on the couch for a few hours in a day. Being on a morning off schedule has thrown me off. I get up from time to time from lounging, take pictures. Walk around, take more pictures. We help in the kitchen. The house is crazy. We are cooking for 200 people this week. I do not tutor any of the staff. I bond with the boys in different ways. I start working with D this week too. During afternoon class for the elder boys during the week, one of them, J, writes me a letter. I ask for a writing prompt, a letter to your headmaster/principal about why you do or don’t dislike school. He answers it multiple paragraphs. He hands it to me, I try to act normal, I edit it. I change a few of his sentences from I wish I was a good person to I am a good person. He continues to write, about his orphaned life and how he wishes he passed away too. God is my consolation he writes. An hour later I cry. I write a letter back to him. He is the same one that I thought would be one of my favorites. Most days he won’t communicate with me, when he does he asks about my life and the people in it. He asks why my smile is beautiful. I give the same answer, isn’t your smile so much more beautiful. Perhaps Haitian people don’t understand how their smile heals the same small internal wounds that have been made here.