"It made me grateful for everything I have, but at the same time I realize that I don't deserve it anymore than they do. I was just lucky to be born into it. It's just a huge injustice and it's hard to process," says Isabeau, who wants to return to Jamaica when she gets older.
In Jeun’ Espoir it's true that a big focus is our construction projects, and our senior citizen or school visits, but what I want to share tonight is that it’s so much more than that. I won’t be talking about a specific project, but a certain place. It’s called ferry. Hundreds upon hundreds of squatters make this land their home, and every day they wake up knowing that they could be evicted at any time. Certain people in our group had the chance to work a half day in ferry, but near the end, we were all lucky enough to follow Mr Clermont down the dusty roads of this strange place. Walking along the dirt road, it was impossible to miss the huge number of small and sometimes run down houses all packed into this piece of Jamaica.
We were quickly swarmed by a group of small children running along after our strange group. They were giggling and screaming to the rhythm of childhood and they momentarily distracted me from the state of the houses along the road. Looking into their eyes, they quickly managed to convince me to pass over my camera. They took photos of themselves, their friends and myself who was smiling with some degree of difficulty at times seeing a rip in clothing or a broken shoe. Its only after looking at the pictures took by a girl named Kyanee that truth hit me. Their smiles were bigger than mine, filled with the unintentional intensity of youth. I realised that I was naïve to see the surface of this place. You had to look a little harder to really see. This is a message told time and again in countless languages, but it won’t stop me from telling it again. Why not look at life through a more simplistic lens I thought then. As I followed M Clermont deeper into the heart of ferry, watching the adults receive great bear hugs every two or three houses, I knew then that I knew nothing. I have been here for all of half an hour and I’m already questioning the roots of what I know? Maybe it’s as simple as that. Holding that child’s hand walking down that path, for me, there’s no going back.
Maggie
I chose to speak to you all about the people I was lucky enough to meet while being in Jamaica. It all began on my first day, once I got to the construction site and started nailing my first (and very difficult) nail. My hammer was suddenly taken away from me by a man who said: “look look, I’ll help.” Firstly relieved that I no longer needed to look like a fool and secondly taken aback by his amazing skill. After a few minutes of him relentlessly trying to teach me, I looked at him and we exchanged names. Owan became my new best friend. Later when trying to get my attention he yelled: “Hey HENRY”, which then became my new nickname. Throughout the day, we spent more time together, him always encouraging me and picking up the slack when I got too frustrated to finish what I was doing. He never ceased to tease me as the day went on, but that was what I loved. I loved that he felt comfortable enough to joke around with me, and that I could do the same. Despite our age difference, him being a middle aged man with kids, I felt a deep connection with him. He truly gave me a beautiful first impression of the Jamaican way of life. We spent the day laughing and joking around, keeping our topics of conversation very superficial, but I was okay with that. I left the construction site at the end of the day not knowing if I would ever see him again, but I was okay with that. I left only feeling great gratitude for his kindness and for having made me feel at home in a place that was far from being my reality. Owan spent his day helping a family in his community, and didn’t want anything in return, a true kind hearted man like so many other Jamaicans.
Before leaving, I spent countless hours discussing with my sisters about their trips to Jamaica. More specifically about a young boy my sister had met and had grown to love. This being said, I knew I wouldn’t meet this boy but I only dreamed about creating this same bond with another child. After a long day at the nursing home as well as the school in ferry we sat in the shade waiting for the bus to pick us up. A few days into our trip I had completely forgot about the boy my sister had met including the small detail that he lived in ferry. I just so happened to turn my head and saw a young boy holding a letter in his hands. I saw that he was showing the letter to another local woman and after squinting my eyes to see the picture that was printed, I saw that it was my sister. After returning to Canada, my sister had sent two letters and a recording of the song she wrote for him. The young boy was Kevoy, the boy that for thee years I had heard of, the boy that I had seen in countless pictures…I was in partial shock, and got very nervous…how do you approach this kind of situation? I stood up and asked if it was indeed him and the look on his face when he looked up at me was priceless. Indeed, my sister and I do look very much alike, but I sensed that he already knew who I was. My first instinct was to hug him, and so I did. Then I just looked at him, (which admittedly must have been slightly awkward). I then walked around with him, asking him the basic questions…anything I could possibly pass on to my sister…We talked about school, sports, hobbies, everyday stuff…until I asked him about the letter. The letter that was filthy and ripped. He said: “I keep this letter in my pocket. I bring it wherever I go”. I was deeply touched by the power of this one letter, the connection between this boy and my sister after all this time. He also explained to me that when he was down and needed something to cheer him up, he would listen to the song entitled believe that my sister had written. I cannot explain the intense emotion going through me at the time of our encounter. He spent the hour we had together glued to my hip. I knew this boy lived a very difficult life, but despite that, kept an amazing smile on his face like so many others I was lucky to have met. When getting on the bus and waving goodbye to Kevoy, a boy I never thought I would ever meet, my heart sank, I was torn between extreme happiness and extreme sadness. I didn’t want to leave him yet I felt like the luckiest person to have had the chance to come in contact with this young man who only showed strength, courage and deep love. Meeting Kevoy showed me that every little thing counts. Every kind gesture goes a long way. He taught me to not forget the people who mean a lot to me. He taught me that love and friendship can last forever even through distance and time.
Throughout my trip I met the young, the old, the healthy, the suffering, the men, the women, the children, the happy, the sad, the courageous, the perseverant, the generous, the Jamaicans. I was deeply touched by their warm welcome and learnt so much about myself through them, and for that I owe them the world. By far, my best memories all revolve around people I had the opportunity to meet, and I am forever grateful for their open arms and hearts.
Anne-Marie
When I first told my parents about Homestead they reacted with horror. I painted an image of a prison-like facility where the abused had been gathered to abuse, beat and bully one another; where over 50 girls slept in a single room which smelled of urine; where they taught unmotivated 16 year olds math I had already mastered in the 2nd grade; where they took notes from dated chemistry manuals on tables raw with graffiti. On the last day, we were given a choice: Homestead or finishing the house. My instinct cried construction. I was afraid of Homestead. I copped out of choosing and asked to be placed where I was needed. It was the best decision I never made, for by the luck of the draw, I was sent to Homestead.
That day, I met Patrice. We played checkers, and she told me of her dreams to travel. She wanted to leave the island and live somewhere with white people. “You’re all so beautiful,” she said. I assured her she was beautiful but it was an odd thing to hear and I was unsure to react. I had never been confronted with such a comment. It also struck me how the people who lived in their Caribbean paradise dreamed of our Americanized utopia. Patrice wanted to be an esthetician. She proudly showed me her friends’ hair, which she had braided. She had woven it into intricate patterns, using techniques she had learned on her own. Later that day I learned that she was the mother of 3. She bore her first child at the age of 14. Today she is 17 `and has no idea where her children are. When telling her story, it was easy to forget the inspired girl I had met and to reduce my memory of her to that detail.
I remembered how on my first day at Homestead I had met Becky. When I disembarked the bus she immediately grabbed my hand and walked me into the building. We spoke for some time. She told me that her favourite song was Clocks by Coldplay, a song I had on my iPod back home. Becky informed me she had arrived in January and I asked her if she liked it here. She smiled and said “These girls are my friends, my family.” While painting, I overheard one of the girls call the director of the center “Mom”.
When I first told my parents about Homestead, I lied. I failed to realise what Homestead meant. It is where the abused gather to find hope like Patrice, or a home like Becky. It was not built to teach math and chemistry but that we are more than our mistakes and unbound by history. Its name, by definition, is a dwelling where a family makes its home. In this case, home is dormitory shared with a family of 50 girls. It represents a brighter future for those with a darker past. Homestead embodies how “the very things that bring you down are going to carry you up.”
Sarah
The trip to Jamaica can be described as a few things... Building a house, visiting schools and old age homes. But there's so much more to the trip than many of you know. On my first day I had the privilege to start off the journey by visiting the orphanages. Tonight I will be speaking to you about the children's orphanage, Glenhope, and a little girl named Tiara. Thinking back to Jamaica, she is the first thing that pops into my mind.
The first time I saw Tiara, she was getting her hair done by one of the care takers. Tiara was sitting in a wheelchair a bit big for her, with pain written all over her face from the lady tugging on her hair. So to keep her mind off the pain as a tear fell down her face, I decided to then sing her a song and get her to follow along, the itsy bitsy spider was the first that came to mind. She started singing along as her voice was very quiet, but showed that she was a strong girl. At the end of the song I tried to tickle her, and it worked but as soon as I touched her feet, a small cry came out of her. It scared me. I thought I hurt this little girl without knowing it. I felt what she felt, being someone who once wasn't sure of what was wrong with me, and a part of my body being painful.
After she had finished her hair, she whispered to me, asking if I could push her in her chair. As I pushed her, she wanted to go outside so we did. At the door we ran into one of the care takers. She saw us together and Tiara stopped her and said, " Look I have a friend". In that moment I lit up with the biggest smile... I realized then that the smallest of things can bring this girl joy.
The one thing I believe that each one of us can describe Tiara as is SASSY! She made me laugh and cry. To leave her was like leaving a part of me. She reminded me so much of myself, the injury, the sassy attitude, and impressions she brought to others, the one she brought to me. The one thing I will never forget is this little girl, as she said, "Don't leave me", and I told her, "I will see you soon". And till this day she is always in my thoughts, and I will try my hardest to keep my word and see her soon.
Celina