I BELIEVE IN LOVE LETTERS

And not just those that are written to me!

In April, I wrote about a run in that I had with a man in my town. It was a bit crazy for a gyal (girl) who has lived most of her life without anyone ever putting their hands on her or calling her mean names. Some would say I was lucky. I might add that I had been ignorant of the experience of violence. Regardless, I came to the conclusion that the only option for me was to write Mr. Morris a letter that explained that I cared about him and had hope even though he had hurt me. After doing it, I realized that I seemed a bit crazy, even the police came by my house twice to see if I wanted them to give him a warning but I figured he had enough trouble in his life without me adding to it. Nothing really came of it until I had a group of volunteers from Western Carolina University in Layou and then that little thing called karma showed her beautiful face to me.

In May, as I was rushing from my house to the school after one of the group participant's had an accident, I came across a van. Since I was in need of any way to get to the school faster, I peaked my head into the van and found Mr. Morris sitting behind the wheel. After a quick assessment of sobriety, I asked for a ride and he agreed. As soon as I got in the van, I felt nervous. I had never heard from him again after that night and had flown under the radar in terms of seeing him on the streets or at a rum shop. As I put my seat belt on and he started to drive, he looked over and said, "What's your name?" It occurred to me that he had NO idea who I was and my nervousness increased. "I'm Sarah. I'm the Peace Corps volunteer that works with the school."

I could see the light bulb go off. All of the sudden, Mr. Morris was explaining to me how that was the nicest letter that he had ever received and that he was sorry. Over and over again, he explained how the rum had gotten the best of him that night and that he could not forgive himself. He said he had been wondering when he would run into me (of course not knowing what he was looking for was proving to be a challenge). Well, I have to admit, I am person of faith but when actions of love and compassion lead to a ride when you need it the most, it has a way of bolstering your beliefs in the goodness of humanity. In a way, he said and did everything I would ever have hoped for in terms of 'repairing' the heartache of that night.

Now I see Mr. Morris on a pretty regular basis. Sometimes he is two sheets to the wind so I just wave and keep walking. Other times, he is more coherent so I join him for a coke and he tells me stories of when he first moved to England, how his farm is doing or how sad he is that his wife does not want to come back to St. Vincent. Sometimes he will tell the guys around us that I called him a drunkard which I have to remind him is not at all the case but most of all he tells them about how he got the letter. Sometimes he'll even go to his van, which is always parked near by, and get it so others can read. When I leave him, I always remind him to be safe (aka please don't drive!) and that I meant what I said in the letter.

Now, I am an advocate for love letters.

Especially those written to the people who have caused us heartache.

Write one today.

You just never know.

Love is the one thing.

**Blog about the incident, http://smithersisland.blogspot.com/2011/04/please-read-but-only-when-sober.html**

Poor Who?

I have been thinking a lot about the important role that language plays in defining the reality that we, as humans, feel that we exist in. I find this especially challenging working for a development organization where I am constantly navigating the daily experience of living in a country that has significantly different opportunities and resources than my own. When I joined Peace Corps, I used words like “third world, underdeveloped and the ‘right’ way.” The more time that I spend in St. Vincent, the more I feel that these words are subtle judgments that insinuate that there really is a perfect existence that we can create and dwell in, a first (and best) world. Recently, when I saw 15 minutes of CNN while waiting to pay my water bill, I realized that the concept of development has changed for me. The fact that we (the ‘developed’ world) are killing others in the name of democracy and religion or that we are on the edge of another recession with many people carrying excessively more debt than they will ever be able to repay or that our political leaders are not using the most basic common sense and there is more coverage over a man’s internet escapades than the huge challenges that face creation at this point in time seems downright primitive (to me).

I believe that we can only be what we tell ourselves to be so if, as CNN would report, we are a world of violence and politics, then it could be assumed that we can only create a future world with more inhumanity and divide. I often wonder if we started to tell ourselves a different story about what is happening in the world or maybe just a more balanced story, would it be possible to change the world. I am not trying to advocate for ignorance but rather a less judgmental and fear-inspiring language that might possibly be able to give birth to hope. And in that hope, we might be able to work to create a world where humanity is truly developed. All of us could be fully developed into mature, loving individuals that embrace differences and work every day to ensure that every person has enough to make it through their years on earth without unnecessary pain and suffering. Surely this task alone would keep all of us very busy. I guess, regardless of what I think or hope, I do not have much sway in the world and probably will never be able to convince CNN to change their business model to one that inspires more compassion than fear. Since, I can only stand within my own power, I will share a story of a friend of mine in Layou. I hope that maybe, by sharing my story, it will inspire others to share theirs. I know, without a doubt, that there are things happening in the world that serve as reminders that we are all a part of this great human race and despite colors and language and dress and religion, at our most primitive level, we just want to connect and feel loved. Maybe if we could realize that on a more regular basis, we would stop all of the nonsense and come together because there are those who are hurting among us and everyone could use another friend.

There is a man in Layou who moves things. Poor Me is his name. He will come and get your gas tank when it runs out. He brings beer to the rum shops and soda to the grocery store. He walks faster than anyone I know and is always pushing around a large load. He cannot possibly weigh more than 100 pounds. He is always friendly and wearing a smile with his oversized clothes.

There is a man in Layou who moved me. Samuel is his name. The first time I got to know him was when my gas ran out. He came to my house and quickly exchanged an old tank for a new one. The second time he came to my house, he taught me how to put the top on the gas canister. Then he made me do it by myself, twice, just to ensure that I really understood. He made me smile and helped me to feel like I could do something that I had never tried before. He always says “Hi.” Last week, he borrowed $20 from me because he said he had gotten in bad with someone and they were chasing him down. Sometimes I see him sitting on the curb with his head low, telling me that his heart went with the Sunset (brand of strong rum). Every day he is my friend and reminds me how I have so much more to learn in the world. Every day he reminds me to teach better and work hard so that children will have more opportunities in the future.

There is a man in Layou. I asked him once if I could take his picture. He said, “sure” and looked beautiful for my camera. I told him that I wanted to tell the world how he had helped me. I had the picture printed. Tears rolled down his face when I gave him the picture, it was the first one of himself that he had ever had. I put one up on my wall next to a picture of my family so everyone knows how important he is. I asked him if I could stop calling him Po’ Me and stick to Samuel since I could not see a poor thing about him. In fact he is rich in all of the worldly treasures that I have been searching for; humility, graciousness and kindness. There is a man in my community and he is my teacher. We’ve mastered the gas tank, now we’re moving to bigger things.

The Next

When I look into the eyes of our children

I see a wide world of opportunity

Others may tell me that they are dotish* or lazy

but I refuse to tell myself that the future of mankind is anything short of sweet infinity

and that God, surely, does not place darkness in the heart of us all

but rather

gives us a birth of imperfect brilliance

So I look into their eyes and mutter to myself,

"Dear Universe,

Please tell. Does it happen like I hope? Where they each move forward in the world in a one step at a time kind of way, just basking in the glory of you. Sweet Destiny."

So I turn back to my class and say,

"Heaven, my children, it is knocking on our door. Who would like to go for it?"

And I believe

If we just told them how very important they truly are

God, yes God, would come knocking for us all.

Let us take precious care of our children.

For they are God's promise that heaven lies in the future of the next.

*dotish: dialect word meaning ignorant, foolish, stupid (or a combination of the three)*