A nail fastens a boy to my heart
I reach down; a small black hand places a pair of nails in mine. We are building temporary houses in the summer of 2010, after the Haiti earthquake — wooden frames covered with plastic, held taut by flat-head nails with concave washers. Our crew, American volunteers and local Haitians, erects a tin-roofed house in two hours. The boy under my shadow proves useful and reliable; whenever I drop my hand another nail appears.
We hike to the next site; my helper clutches the nail bucket. “Dieunison” he responds when I ask his name. “Over there” he answers when I inquire where he lives. Gestures and smiles communicate better than my Creole or his English.
Over the next week we build dozens of houses. Dieunison finds me every morning; I never have to bend over for a nail. I give him water and snack bars, fair wages for an eight-year-old Haitian. We hug before I fly home.
The next January I return to stake an orphanage I designed, five months later I return again to lay out a school. Each time Dieunison stands along the highway as if he hasn’t moved since I left. He wraps his skinny legs around my waist. I am his blan, he is my Haitian.
In January 2012 I scratch a mid-life itch, quit my job, and volunteer to supervise construction in Haiti two weeks every month. On my first trip…
