Flight to Port Au Prince

Port is two hours away. I feel like I'm going to die of excitement. Not excitement. Not anxiousness. Just a deep readiness that starts in my toes and creeps its way up into my heart. Nothing is in my head. Nothing. Blank. Like the sheet of paper before I start writing. One of the many reason I write. So I can mix my blank mind and the blank sheet of paper with a pen and sort of figure out a thought. I am thankful my seat mate is Ayisyen (Haitian). She is 17 and super sweet. Round and precious. [She] was in the States with a singing group for three months. Said she likes it but is definitely ready to be home. She will be. And so will I. She just laid her head on my shoulder. She's sleeping. This is Haiti. These are my people. This is what makes this country--the rawness, the honesty, the closeness you feel even to a stranger. She is no longer a stranger. As her sweet head lays on my shoulder I am overwhelmed with my love for this country and it's people. I haven't even landed and yet this girl has touched me and moved me in a way that only Haiti can. 

My stomach flip flops knowing everything I know Jeremie to be is going to be gone. I just want to hug Papa'm and know he is healthy and well. I want to grab those orphans at four square and love on them. I want to share their tears and pain and hold as much of it as I can. I want to sing and worship and dance in their rubble and mud. I will be here as long as I can be. I will be here until I feel I shouldn't. 

Someone is pouming on the plane. Not cute. I realized that the reason people do things is because no one calls them out. I am among Haitians. I'll say it how I see it, or in this case smell it. I yell and ask who is farting in here. No one claims it so I ask in kreol and there's an uproar. Hahaha. I love Haitians.

-- Kate Bartow