Haiti’s Poverty and Deforestation

United Methodist missionary Rick Jost and Solar Ovens

Usually I blog about running and health here. My posts here seem often to be about the beauty of nature – trees, birds, wildlife – seen as I run. This is a story about trees being cut down in Haiti and this problem of deforestation.

Yes, earthquakes kill and maim and destroy, rich and poor alike. But the real killer and maimer and destroyer is poverty. Poverty leads to deforestation.

If the same magnitude – 7.0 earthquake that decimated Port-au-Prince – had struck in a country with better infrastructure and less poverty, perhaps a hundred people would’ve died, not tens of thousands. The earthquake of 1989 in San Francisco was a 7.0 magnitude and killed 63 people. So, poverty makes natural disaster thousands of times worse.

Haiti is often called the poorest of the poor. In 2006, I wrote a story for the Global Ministries’ magazine New World Outlook about Solar Ovens in Haiti. I learned that in May 2004, light rains triggered flooding in Haiti. The same rain fell in the Dominican Republic, the country which shares the island with Haiti. In the DR, less than two dozen people died. In Haiti, three thousand people died. The DR is greener and wealthier.

The problems with deforestation cannot be underestimated. Trees mean more topsoil, less runoff, less disaster when flooding hits, less killer mudslides. That’s why people from the Dakotas United Methodist Church supported the Solar Oven project.

The sun’s heat is an alternative cooking source. I really don’t know how having more trees might positively impact a country like Haiti during an earthquake. I have only reported on the natural disaster of flooding.

But I do know, as the weeks unfold, and as yesterday’s Christian Science monitor story suggests, reforestation should be a priority as Haiti rebuilds and returns. Harnessing the cooking power of the sun is preferable to cutting down trees for firewood.

Ick! Lice! A funny essay

Trying to find the positives when my little family gets lice. Turned this in for my memoir writing class next Tuesday. It’s through Media Bistro. I’m trying not to give all my writing away through my blogs but send them out to magazines too. I just love the immediate gratification of blogging!

Remembering Clint

I was walking with Clint and Adam on Claremont, heading home from work. They were headed to McSorley’s Pub and invited me to join them. Clint had never been there. I had been there too many times in college. I begged out – kids, husband, dinner to make. (I had wanted to and now, of course, I wish I had.)

For some reason as we walked to the subway that night, we got talking about our cell phones. They both told me I had to get Google Maps. Clint said it was great for getting around the city, for finding your way.  

People are complex. It shows in their friendships. Like the friendship between Clint and Adam.

“Clint and Adam were best friends? But they’re so different!” Charlotte, one of my 10-year olds, told me a few days ago. Not so different – both handsome, quick-witted, global. Their thirty-something year age difference didn’t seem to matter.

Clint saw beyond perceived differences in people. He seemed to make and keep friends easily.

Clint was devoted to his unlikely and diverse family of friends. I realized this during the worship at the fall board meeting a few years ago. During that service, the presiding bishop asked family and close friends who knew each new missionary or had walked with them on their life’s journey to stand. I felt too embarrassed to stand up for anyone, although I knew and liked some of the new missionaries.  

The Vangs are members of the United Methodist Hmong Community of Minnesota. They were being commissioned to serve in Southeast Asia. When the Vangs names were spoken, Clint stood. He stood very tall, very happy, very proud. He was not embarrassed. Afterwards, he hugged the Vangs tightly.

A colleague told me that Clint had a heart for Southeast Asia. It surprised me. I don’t know why. Yes, Clint had a folksy, Texan, big-hearted charm. I just had not seen Clint as the global, diverse, loving man he was until that worship when I saw him hugging the entire Vang family. He was such a gentle giant.

As a tribute to Clint who cultivated such a diverse group of friends like Adam and the Vangs, I, too, want to stand for people who appear different. I think, even better than Google Maps, that was the way Clint found his way around.

Remembering Sam

“I’d like to take a year off to photograph sunrises every day for a year,” Sam had said. “I’m funny like that.”

We were walking out of 475 on Claremont from work at the same time one day, maybe a year ago. This creative and poetic side to Sam Dixon surprised and impressed me. I can’t remember the context of our conversation. Did he say we wanted to photograph both sunrises and sunsets? Was it the beauty of the day’s sunset that sparked this conversation?

I remembered this snatch of conversation on Wednesday when I first heard Sam had been in the Hotel Montana in Haiti during the earthquake. It seemed no one had survived. I felt deeply sad. Sad that Sam wouldn’t get to take that year off to capture those daily miracles.

Then I heard that Sam was rescued on Friday. I laughed to myself and said, “Shoot, I’m going to tease Sam about that conversation. I’m gonna’ ask him when I see him, ‘Will you take some time off now to photograph the daily sunrise?’ I’m gonna’ tell him, “I couldn’t get that conversation out of my mind.” I was so glad he was alive. So glad. Then, on Saturday night, I learned that he hadn’t been rescued at all. So sad.

I remembered one of my last conversations with Sam, a few weeks ago. I was looking for Paul Kong, his predecessor at the development fund, on the 15th floor. Our offices were all discombobulated since the downsizing over the last couple of months. We didn’t know where to find each other. I hadn’t realized UMCOR had moved to the 15th floor. Then, I saw Sam.

He was back in his old office – the same office he’d had when he headed the evangelism department a few years earlier. At that time, occasionally, I’d find myself perched with a notebook in front of the big man and his big desk. He was always accessible, always smart, always kind, always easy-going, always funny, always good with a quote.

“Hey,” I stepped into his office. “You’re back in this office?” I asked. He had his old view of the Hudson, the Palisades, the George Washington Bridge. “It’s nice here. Must feel familiar?” I asked him.

“Yup,” he said, smiling, nodding, looking around. “Kinda’ like coming home.”

I hope that in his death, Sam really is home, more home than in his 15th floor office, more home than in his own home. Maybe in death, Sam is getting to take in the daily sunrise. Maybe, in some way, he’s a part of it.

One way I’m going to remember Sam is by paying attention to the daily miracle of the sunrise and the sunset. I might even photograph a few, just ’cause Sam didn’t get to.

Butterflies and Stars

1.07.10

I stood arguing with the girls on the corner. Did they really want to stay and play in the freezing cold playground? They did! They did not want to go with me to the Museum of Natural History, for which I had passes to the special exhibits. The passes expired that day. (Thanks to Ruth who gave them to me, because she volunteers there!)

I may be wrong but if my mother showed up to pick me up from Roosevelt Elementary school and said, “Let’s go to the Museum of Science and Interesting,” (our nickname for the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago) I think I would’ve been thrilled. But no.

I was pissed. With my coaxing and everyone crying, we eventually made it to the museum. We decided to attend the butterfly exhibit at the museum and the Star Show in the planetarium.

We first stopped for dinosaur-shaped nuggets and fries in the cafeteria. (I LOVE museum cafes and cafeterias – always good, friendly (a tad pricey) food.)

The butterfly room was hot, humid, delicious. We took off our coats and our pissed-off attitudes. The butterflies’ lives are so short. They are so beautiful. It strikes me as incredibly sad that creatures of such beauty flutter by so quickly.

We hustled to the Star Show. Whoopi narrated. Every sentence, she infused with amazement. The billions of years. The heat of the stars. The durability and yes, one day – not soon – the end of our sun. These are huge concepts. One on each side of me, the girls held my hand tightly through the entire planetarium show. As if we could protect each other  from that inevitable shooting star bound to collide with earth. No, not soon. But too soon, whenever it hits.

From the small, fleeting beauty to the vast, colliding universe, the museum so delivers. It is impossible to visit either of these exhibits and not be transformed. Of course, there is beauty and infinity in the school yard, but once in a while, it’s good to find it in the museum down the block.

Horizontal and No TV

1/1/10 A vacay that is mostly horizontal is very nice. I had planned yesterday to walk the length of the beach as I had with Joanna on that first (or was it second?) morning in Akumal. But inertia sets in.

Instead, I lay at the pool, arguing with my brother in law about why my little family could not blow up our TV, as he advised. When raising their boys, Jeff and E did not have a television.

I said, “Chris and I both work or worked in television. It’s disingenuous to give it up.”

“That’s like, if your mother worked in a brothel, you shouldn’t keep your kids from working in a brothel,” Jeff argued. I don’t think TV’s as bad as a brothel.

My kids sat on our lounge chairs piping in, “But what about Glee? If we gave up TV, we’d have to give up Glee and American Idol.” But the kids were much more on board with the idea of “No Television” than I would have thought. They’re more on board with it than I am.

Hayden listed all of his friends whom he plays sports with outdoors.

Catherine agreed with Jeff — we should take the television out to the field in front of Skenewood and simply shoot the TV. Charlotte just stared at the surf.

SNAFU @ JFK

It is great if you live in NYC and can occasionally get away from NYC. Like we did for Christmas and New Year’s. We went to Akumal, about an hour south of Cancun.

12/24/09

Well, at the beginning, we had a little SNAFU (that stands for yes, Systems Normal All F’ed Up) at the airport.

See, Mom, in her inimicable wisdom and frugality made two separate reservations for the American Airlines flight to Cancun – one for she and Hayden with frequent flier miles and the other through Orbitz for Chris and the girls.

But when they arrived at the airport with an hour to spare (we would’ve had a lot more time but we had to drop off that stupid hamster in Washington Heights and we followed the GPS way to the airport instead of my favorite way the Triboro Bridge (now called the RFK bridge). Any way.

The passports were not accepted at the kiosks. We were vaulted to the front of the line and an agent named Precious came back after 20 minutes to inform us that she was able to ticket Chris, Char and Cat, but she could not find mine nor Hayden’s reservations. It was now 3:50. Our flight at 4:30. Those who had tickets had to go because the flight was boarding.

Here’s how we coped. Catherine said, “I don’t want to go without mom.” Chris said, “We’re going with or without Mom and Hayden.” I said, “I’m sure it’ll work out.” Hayden said, “I’ll go back to the city and stay with Nick for the week.” Char texted Kenna.
“I got a brand new phone for Christmas!”

Chris and the girls headed towards security. I said to Precious, “I was sure that I had a reservation. I just checked the reservation yesterday. I remember because I tried to get us seats near each other. No seats were open.”

Finally Precious located my so-called reservation. And guess what? Our flight was for day, indeed, but for the morning flight. And that was hours ago. But Precious and a few other agents found a way to re-instate us. But suddenly the computer was giving Precious and her colleague trouble. Time was ticking away. It was about 4:10.

“Good luck!” Precious and the agents called as they we handed us our passports with the airline tickets tucked in. We still had to get through security.

We only had to cut in front of one person – a kind, tall, blonde college student – to get to the front of the security checkpoint. Then we ran, dragging our rolling carts, up and down escalators to our gate. We saw Catherine at the top of the escalator.

Hayden described her stance as that of a relay runner, waiting for the baton – her body poised forward, her hand reaching back to grab our luggage. For Hayden, that was the highlight of the day, seeing Catherine ready to help us run our luggage to the gate.

When I saw Catherine, I knew we would make it. We were the last to board that flight for Cancun. We were grateful. Chris told me on the flight, “I was sure you wouldn’t make it.”

“But I knew we were on the flight. I had tried to get us to sit near each other and I couldn’t.”

“It’s hard to get seats near each other when you’re on separate flights,” Chris noted wryly.

Apples to Apples: Who’s Competitive

I talked to Joanna, http://joannaparson.com/ her mom, and her sister about my four blogs, while we played Apples to Apples at the Snack Bar. Joanna and I agreed we’re going to do a 5K in 2010. The waves were still lapping (like at night, they don’t have to roll like that, no one is watching, but still, the waves do their thing.)

I played Apples to Apples, oh, about 10 times on this vacay. My advice is to throw down the Barbara Walters card for any category – Sophisticated, Scary, Funny. She’s really a great multi-purpose celebrity.

Last night, young Chris and I almost came to blows. We both thought we had the winning card. The adjective was American. So, Chris threw down Bald Eagle. I threw down watermelon. Unfortunately, someone else (Jeremy?) threw down John Glenn. And you can see where this is going. Ernestine picked John Glenn. Okay, he is American. It was E’s prerogative to pick the answer she thought was best. But Bald Eagle is not necessarily more American than watermelon, nor is John Glenn.

I simply cannot believe I am not the best player at Apples to Apples. I am so good with words and so good at reading people. I lost every single time I played. I am not as good as I think. Not really.

Lunch in Akumal with Joanna

We sat in our bathing suits and cover ups in Akumal at La Luncheria, the kids’ favorite breakfast and lunch spot.

We talked about running. We agreed we would run a 5K in 2010.

I told Joanna how proud I was for her great review in the New York Times last month. She is having a great career.

We sat at the counter. My kids snuggled onto my wooden chair, crowding me, eating tortilla chips off my plate (my mother would hate that!)

That night, we met up again after dinner at the Snack Bar, the thatched roof outdoor dining part of Club Caribe. The kids and I sat at a long table with her mother and a million of her sister’s fiance’s family.

Joanna’s sister knows about blogging. She advised me to update my Google Profile, have a good “About” page, link more to others.

Joanna and I have been friends for more than ten years. We met at the Depot Theatre when she was in Radio Gals and I was teaching the Depot Apprentice Program. I had brought my students to the Depot to watch a real live play rehearsal. The kids fell in love with her in Radio Gals. What’s not to love? She is extremely smart, talented, funny. She can write, act, teach, sing, play instruments. She and I have had comedy gigs together – my highlight? Our comedy/improv show, Saturday Night Live, at the Princeton Public Library. She has been my writing coach. She hosts this great monthly, new work showcase, the Happy Hour Salon, one Friday night every month. http://joannaparson.com/

Snorkeling in Akumal

Big fish, little fish. Big coral, little coral. Brainy coral, waving fan coral.

The sound underwater. The tick tick tick of the fish eating, spitting out rocks. Silly fish.

The gift from the sea (to borrow Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s brilliant phrase) is the sheer existence of it all. The vast ‘what it is-ness’ of the reef on the Mayan coast. Like the turtle.

The turtle lives its life. It doesn’t ask, ‘Am I a good enough turtle? A hard enough worker? An excellent mother? A good writer? How come I haven’t won the Pulitzer? A Fulbright?’

No, the turtle asks, ‘Is that food? I will go to it.’ Or it says, ‘Is that danger? I will stay away from it.’

This is a lesson in simply existing. Being. Going towards the good. Staying away from the bad. If the turtles in the bay can do it, I can, at least try. Go to food. Stay away from danger.

While I worry about my husband’s health, my kids’ education, politics, the environment, my career, there are turtles – and I saw about five on each of my brief snorkeling forays in the Akumal Bay. The turtles are living in the wild, unaware of the new airline regulations between Mexico and Florida. They are citizens of the world. Love that.

And so long as there are turtles that are part of the incredible diversity of the Mayan coast reef, then all is still all right with the world. And I can just stop worrying.

Instead just ask Is that food? I will go to it. Is that danger? I will stay away from it.