After spending a month in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, earlier this year, I now marvel at the bird songs I listen to as I walk to the Hartford, Connecticut, school where I’ve taught kindergarten for the past ten years. The birds’ trills make me remember what I didn’t hear in Haiti. Bleating goats and a banana peddler’s calls are Haiti’s early-morning soundtrack. The different sounds of two vastly different worlds.

I traveled to Haiti in February, during the uprising against President Jean-Bertrand Aristide. Why Haiti, and why during that time of turmoil?
Finding a way to volunteer in a third-world country—one that didn’t necessitate my giving up my U.S. job—had always been my dream, and I’d learned of the TLC Barefoot School in Port-au-Prince through a friend who does missionary work. After interviewing with its directors, I’d arranged to spend my school vacation week plus a few additional weeks there. My plans just happened to coincide with the political upheaval.
Long before I left, I began researching ways to connect my kindergartners with Haiti. I wanted this to be a learning experience for them as well. Eventually, I devised a sister-school relationship between my school in Hartford and the school in Port-au-Prince.

As one project, my kindergartners raised enough money to send a Haitian kindergartner, Kendalie Pierre, to the TLC Barefoot School for a year. The funds covered two meals a day, a uniform, tuition, and some medical attention. My students learned about Haiti by reading books and looking at maps and pictures of their new friend Kendalie’s home. They also exchanged letters, photos, and drawings with her.

At times, I wondered if all this had any real meaning for the five-year-olds I taught. Did they really understand how Kendalie’s life was so different from their own?

There were special moments when I knew I was on the right track. One day, a student brought me five goldfish crackers left over from snack time and said, “I have had enough. Can I send these to Kendalie in Haiti?”

Another day, I mentioned an author was from Japan. When a student asked me where Japan is, we searched the globe together and found it. “Wow, that is farther than Haiti,” he said. I could see the students were making connections and expanding their world.

As soon as I traveled to Haiti, my own world expanded. The walk to Kendalie’s neighborhood led me across dirt roads and along a narrow path through crowded clusters of lean-tos and cinderblock homes. No house had running water or electricity. Kendalie’s house consisted of one room, with a space for two beds, and just one small window.

During my visit with her family, curious faces filled the doorway. The neighborhood children had come to see the strange-looking
visitor. Everyone smiled and laughed with me despite our language barrier. I was struck by the joy and spirit of these people, living in such harsh conditions.

Each day, I awakened to the sounds of roaming goats or the woman selling bananas in the dirt road, not singing birds. Birds are scarce in Haiti because they are a source of food or income for the poor and hungry. Haiti is being ecologically depleted to meet the needs of its people,
80 percent of whom live in poverty.

In Connecticut, my life is too often occupied by the demands of schoolwork and deadlines. In Haiti, my life slowed down. I didn’t have to rush to get to work. The TLC Barefoot School was just across the street from my gated guesthouse.

A typical day for my Haitian students included lessons, physical education, music, and two healthy meals that sustained them for the day. I most enjoyed reading stories to the children. Although I read in English, which they didn’t understand, they stayed focused. I never had to stop reading to re-engage a student’s interest. That’s how greatly Haitian students value education, which is not readily available to everyone.

After school, I’d often go running on the grounds of the church that stood nearby. Like my guesthouse, the church was wrapped with barbed wire and protected by armed guards because of the constant political unrest. I was never able to walk about freely. Outdoor activities, even food shopping, had to be postponed if political demonstrations were taking place. Living with all the restrictions and fear, I began to understand the true meaning of freedom so much more.

I’d spend quiet evenings e-mailing my students back home in Hartford—explaining what I was seeing in Haiti firsthand—and planning my lessons for the next day. When the electricity failed, which was almost every night, conversations with the school’s directors filled the time.

Looking back, I feel as though I made a difference to the TLC Barefoot School and its wonderful students.

And when I hear birds singing gloriously, I recall a place where birds are not heard. I plan to go back to Haiti every year. The sounds of the banana peddler and the faces of the Haitian people will draw me back.