It was the first word he said to me as he slipped his small, dark hand into mine. It only took four syllables, but he turned my world inside out. With the hand that was not holding my own, he gently let two fingers brush my arm: “American,” he said. I looked down. My face turned hot, and my throat turned dry. The little boy had said what everyone was thinking. I forced a smile. I looked at him. He smiled back, with gleaming white teeth.
His cheek bones seemed too prominent under flawless dark skin. He was wearing a long, red shirt with a white cartoon-image on it. Under his arm, he carried a worn orange football – his most prized possession. He had no pants, or shoes.
Guilt washed over me as he saw himself for the first time through the display screen of my digital camera. They don’t have mirrors in Haitian displacement camps. And here I was, just off a connecting flight from Miami, wearing a mesh lacrosse top, carrying my Nikon D360, packed as I would be for a beach weekend.
But this wasn’t the beach. It was a seven-day trip to work with the youth of St. Marc in Haiti– just six months after a massive earthquake devastated the entire nation.
“American,” ran through my mind.
Yes, I was American. I was a 16-year-old girl from Baltimore. I grew up in a big house that my grandfather built. I had attended Catholic schools my entire life. I had never been without food, and I was born with endless opportunity. Did we have anything in common? Yes: we both felt hunger, sadness, pain. But I had never felt anything like the pain of this little boy.
His name was Gali. He was goofy; he wanted to have fun. He laughed when it took me five minutes to pronounce his name. He made fun of me when I missed a football catch. When I snapped his picture, he insisted on tilting his chin back, making a sideways peace sign. Cool.
My stay in Haiti lasted seven days. But I left Haiti, and Gali, a different person – a better person. I know now that I have more opportunity than most people in the world. And I know now that opportunity carries with it responsibility. My visit to the displacement camp made me realize whatever I choose to do, I will remember people like Gali.
As my plane lifted off from the Port-au-Prince runway, I looked down. Haiti was growing smaller. As we got further away, I saw little blue dots littering the landscape. They were the tents of the refugee camp– tents that Gali called home. As we neared Florida, the landscape again was littered blue. But these were not tents; they were backyard swimming pools.