our trespasses

On Sunday I ducked out of a Mennonite hymn sing to go stand in the rain and shoot pistols. There was a man wearing an oilcloth duster and matching Stetson and the air was thick with gun smoke and spent shell casings. The gunslinger fantasy was a bit difficult to sustain at the sight of our safety glasses and industrial-grade earphones, and dissolved completely when considering our targets, which were bowling pins donated from a local bowling alley.

The Tri-County Sportsmen’s League hosts monthly bowling pin shoots, and has been doing so every summer for over ten years. The signs order you to check in at the clubhouse, but the men at the bar wearing camouflage baseball caps tell will just tell you to head to the range—“they’ll get you sorted out down there.” They are shooting rifles on the hillside and the dogs hunched against the fog think nothing of the persistent reports. I’ve unconsciously pulled a red rain jacket from the closet, leftover reflex of a childhood measured by hunting seasons and men wandering through the back woods despite the orange and black rebuke of our neighbors’ No Trespassing signs.

I’ve just finished a book about the Haitian revolution, and guns have been much on the mind, particularly the trick of keeping gunpowder dry in tropic climates, or the logistics of moving firearms over steep mountain trails. When the French Commissioner Léger-Félicité Sonthonax passed out muskets to former slaves, he declared, “Here is the liberty which Sonthonax gives you; whoever would take this gun from you means to make you a slave again.” The politics behind this 18^th century soundbite are ambiguous—by this point the slaves had already been freed, and while Sonthonax was a noted abolitionist, he expressed as much enthusiasm for killing those colonists who were against slavery as he did for abolishing it.

Thinking of this, of our equally ambiguous right to bear arms, of how one might shoot through the paradox at the heart of “a militia being necessary to the security of a free State” and manage, unlike Raskolnikov, not to mangle something genuinely resembling freedom, I take a .44 and shoot down five bowling pins in 7.62 seconds.

Except Edd, who works at Cabela’s in the firearms department and wishes he could buy the .44 Smith & Wesson semi-automatic with its red dot sight and retails for over $1,000, which essentially makes it the Cadillac of pistols, although you can purchase a custom engraved replica of Smith & Wesson’s 1917 Cenntential for $7,500—Edd tells me to count the pins and shoot them in a circle because that way I won’t think so much, and this does work, at least as far as time is concerned: the next set goes down in 6.34 seconds and by then I’m pretty much hooked.

They give me a .44 special and a 460 Smith & Wesson revolver and then a tiny .22 which feels, in comparison, as light and harmless as a songbird. For never having handled a handgun, it is amazing how much I know after 27 years of murder scenes, military invasions, and bank robberies. There is that moment, standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, where you grip the metal rail, listen to the stones under your feet, and contemplate tossing your body down into that stretch of vertical space. Shooting pistols, the line between imagination and homicide is horizontal; I aim for the pins, albeit poorly, never doubting that any member of the league would hesitate to shoot me down should I suddenly decide to turn towards them and pull the trigger.

roaring twenties

Today is B's eighty-first birthday. "How much makeup should an 81-year-old woman wear?" she asks me as she examines her face in the mirror. She is delighted when her son calls her to sing happy birthday and all the members of her Tuesday social group join in too. She says she wonders how many more birthdays she will celebrate.

I've become so accustomed to reciting her birthday to pharmacists and doctors and customer service agents that I hand the grocery clerk a six-pack and don't understand his confusion when I tell him my birth date is April 27, 1929.

articles of free speech

What happens when tongues and feet vie for space in the oral cavity:

in a day

The Roman Empire has not fallen: It merely moved to west Houston. Yes, took the brick walks and the arched piazzas and the rococo gateways and landed with a weighty sigh right off the beltway (the outer beltway, that is). The pansies and wide, sturdy grass are American additions, planted perfectly among freshly spread bark dust, which coats the adjacent air with the heavy, medicinal smell of treated wood. Rome, now, is luxury condominiums and tasteless jewelry stores and thickly sauced entrees. There are fountains—birds and angels and abstract figures, although there are few, if any coins glistening beneath the water. Marquis. Miramar. Empire Lofts. Plantation. These are places people call home. “Sweet home Plantation. Where the skies are so blue,” and, one suspects, the eyes are too.

Few zoning laws in the fourth largest city in the United States will get you this: high-rise apartment towers casting shadows on the arches of infinity billion served, and the woman on the sidewalk with two overweight Chihuahuas. Parking lots—many parking lots, empty but for a figure cutting across their right angles, running through sound waves issuing forth from fake rocks. Roads are unreliable, ending at fences or passing by guarded kiosks. In the service lot behind Aurturo’s restuarant, a man is watering a bed of basil. “You like?” “Si!”

The only sidewalk leading to the hotel ends at a locked door; the front entrance is tucked up against the highway exit ramp, and thus fleet footed folk must hedge the corner carefully to avoid the valets on their way to the garage. The Texas Ski Council SkiBidFest is in full swing, which has something to do with skiing and Texans who love it, and means women in sparkly shirts and suntanned men and all of them clutching glasses of wine and talking about the snow in Park City.

We, meanwhile, are in professional dress and tap tap tap our heels to meeting rooms with names like Topaz and Saphhire and Glass Palace and click click click our way through the day on a wave of endless PowerPoint presentations. Miracles exist: the east wall of Topaz is a sheet of windows. The blinds are only partially drawn, and through them is a highway, and all around shines natural Texas light.

half a grand idea

Shortly after the January 12 earthquake in Haiti, the U.S. government announced that Haitians living illegally in the United States could apply for temporary protected status, which grants permission to work legally in the United States.

It was a reassuring move on two counts: it showed that the Obama administration recognized the informal supply lines that run through Western Union service stations—it is estimated that 1 to 2 million Haitians live outside their country (half a million of who live in the U.S.) and send $1.9 billion to family and friends back home annually. This was the second reassurance: temporary protected status could provide better job security and thus a steadier stream of funds to those in Haiti.

But the money orders and the checks are written in slim, double-or-triple digit amounts—according to the Inter-American Development Bank, the annual monthly remittance is $150. It is a number nothing short of miraculous when considering the cost of rent and food in, say, New York City versus the wages paid for the type of work that most legal employees avoid.

And thus it appears that government foresight is a bit myopic. It costs nearly $500 to apply for temporary protection status. Waivers are granted, although eligibility is based on meeting criteria such as providing “a list of all assets owned, possessed, or controlled,” “your monthly essential expenditures for each of the three months prior to the filing,” and “your monthly gross income from all sources for each of the three months prior to filing.” Presenting such information would be a hassle for any individual, let alone those who likely live much of their life on U.S. soil explicitly off the books and under the table.

According to the New York Times, the Department of Homeland Security reported that thus far, less than 35,000 of the estimated 100,000 to 200,000 Haitians living illegally in the U.S. have applied for protected status. Aids groups are petitioning the government to it easier to apply for a waiver.

For those who qualify, one wonders what happens when the 18-month protection period ends. Often, aliens apply for renewals, and this seems to be the proposed plan for eligible Haitians. But with the tumultuous history that marks U.S.-Haitian relations, one can understand why many Haitians living illegally in the United States might feel there are better ways to spend $500.

man with the orderly mind

Despite the downward screech that is the Michigan housing market, B’s house in the Detroit suburbs closes tomorrow. It’s located off what must have once been a farm road; there’s a Steinway showroom a mile away and the predictable replication of chain restaurants and grocery stores. To get into the housing development, you carry a device, much like a garage door opener; when you press the button the gate zips into the air at such a speed that makes it a tempting catapult launch. Lacking such a gadget, you speak to the man sitting in the sentry-house. “6400 P–,” I say, but this is not enough. “Mrs. H–. The house is selling tomorrow.”

“Oh yes,” he replies. “Mrs. H–.” The gate flies up.

B and her husband lived in the condo association for over twenty years; they kept up with the couples on their semi-circle, but now B runs through the ailments and the deaths. Alzheimer’s. Stroke. Deceased. And now B, a year after her husband’s death, has officially moved away. The house has that flat, forlorn look—carpet exposed for the first time in years, walls bare but for hooks and smudges.

A man comes to haul away the residual items and refuses my repeated offer to help, even after a large metal desk crashes off his dolly, so I slip into the house to give him some privacy. (One would think that with such a peculiar name as “Kosher Garbage,” employees might have a sense of humor, but he didn’t appear in the best of spirits, even after I reassured him that I really was kidding about the “Oh, I forgot—there’s a couch” comment, which I had saved up for the moment he began pulling tie-downs over the overflowing bed of his pickup truck.)

The garbage cans are stuffed with hangers and headless broomsticks and rusting screws harvested from the toolbox. A frequent mover of homes, I am loathe to leave the garbage and cannot believe my luck when I spot the garbage truck lurching its way through the neighborhood. “You saved the day!” I exclaim, fearful that the garbage man will be annoyed with two stuffed cans and my poorly parked car. But this is indeed a day for miracles. The M– Village garbage man, who must not be unaccustomed to medical rubbish and the non-bodily remains of the deceased, looks at me, upends one of the cans into truck and replies, “You know, with the way people are leaving this earth, I’m just grateful for every day I get.”

           What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are

            sterling, whose lunge is straight?

awry

I have thought more than once this week of the times I quoted Burns to my students, wondering if the care I spent explaining how language could evolve from gang aft agley to oft go awry made me neglect the underlying lesson. 

And thus, after an afternoon session on hold with Delta (Northwest has now merged with Delta…), and an evening with Spirit (You can book one of the big front seats. Did you know that Spirit offers Spirit snacks and drinks? Spirit offers snacks and drinks!), I am trying to remember the lessons easily forgotten. How my indignation, righteous as it may be, is oxygenated by life in a place where we expect airlines to contact us in a timely fashion regarding canceled flights. A place where $500 plane tickets can be purchased with little forethought, and are guaranteed some degree of recovery. A place where letters can be written, questions can be asked, and it is not unreasonable to expect a reply.

Certainly, this is not black and white. I am still waiting for an answer as to why it might take a week to inform a customer of a canceled flight; as well as why one airline may fly, but not another; which also spurs the question: In the temporary absence of competitors, is it merely good capitalism for an airline to increase its fares, or might that carry a hint of crime about the starched white collar?

One needn’t travel outside of the United States to learn that what often gives money its strength is the convenience it can buy. Yes, dear choir, I hear your robes rustling, and so here is the lesson of gang aft agley: My record for trips to Haiti is now 1 in 3. The frustration of such a record pales, however, with details drawn during the 10 days I have managed to spend there. The assassination attempt, suspiciously political, that remains unsolved after 10 years. The long journey to the capital, merely to obtain a drivers license. The hours spent studying for a high school exam written in French and not one’s childhood tongue. The impossibility of paying for the apprenticeship required to become a lawyer.

Did you know that Spirit Airlines sells snacks and drinks?

tu petit

Since the January 12 earthquake in Haiti (there have been aftershocks as recent as this morning), two language learning programs have released a portion of their Creole content for free, which I, both lacking in income and Creole, have taken advantage over the past few weeks. (Google also launched a beta translation program, although user beware—someone tested the phrase I feel bad, which you certainly would after telling someone mwen santi move, which actually translates to I smell bad.)

Thanks to both Pimsleur and Ann Pale Kreyòl, I’ve been doing my best to banish the Spanish from my brain—if you’re speaking quickly enough, for example, pa le poko (not as yet) sounds an awful lot like un poco (a little), which is what I thought I heard my sister say when her Haitian friends asked if I was married.

Beyond phonetics, what is most interesting about the language programs are what they teach. Pimsleur’s exclusively aural program is a bit confounding for the visual learner, but most bewildering was today’s lesson—one in which I: invited myself over to my companion’s home for lunch, asked directions to the restaurant, and inquired if my companion would prefer beer or wine.

Ann Pale Kreyòl is a highly regarded program, and has a bit more savoir-faire. Lesson one asks after the companion’s child. Lesson two includes a section on how to answer the question How are you? Five possible answers are given. By the fourth, you realize this is not just a lesson in language.

Ki jan ou ye?

Mwen la.           I’m okay.

M pa pi mal.     I’m no worse.
M byen.            I’m fine.
M ap boule.     I’m managing.
M ap kenbe.    I’m getting along.

packing

The first name I remember from the emails and letters my sister wrote during her time of voluntary service in Haiti was that of J–. He and my sister worked with Mennonite Central Committee (MCC), and in the years following we have celebrated from afar as J– passed the stringent high school exams, received a promotion at MCC, married, and had two children.

When I went to Haiti last August, J– came to pick us up at the airport, despite the fact that he'd just taken an accounting exam and had likely been up long before dawn to attend a men's Bible study. Later that week J–'s wife prepared a delicious meal of chicken, potatoes, bean soup, rice, and grenadine juice. She had hauled in water so that we could wash our hands, and purchased ice for our drinks. We'd spent the entire week thinking about water, or lack thereof: my sister was researching the affects of floods and mudslides in a rural watershed, although such calamity was hard to conjure in a land that hadn't felt rain in six weeks. The sight—indeed, the touch and taste—of a basin of water and a block of ice melting in an insulated cooler, was generous not just of deed but of thought.

Months ago, my sister applied for an additional grant to study post-disaster situations in Haiti. All too ironically, she was awarded the grant the day of the January 12 earthquake. I'm tagging along once again, and will be heading to Port-au-Prince at the end of the month. J– and his family, like so many others, have lost their home. Tents are scarce, and I'm hoping to bring as many as Delta's weight limits allow. If you or anyone you know is interested in donating money for waterproof tents or tarps, please be in touch (sara.versluis@gmail.com). Alternatively, if you're in my part of the world, and have a serviceable tarp or tent that's been itching to feel the Caribbean air, I've got some suitcases waiting to be packed.

all the news I need

To be fair, it seems to be a southeastern Michigan thing, this tendency for the weather, proportional, perhaps, to the number of drivers who cannot handle the snow. NPR reports on the snowstorm in DC, and then breaks for a local update on all the accidents around town. It is my first winter in the fleshy palm of the mitten. It snows rarely here, I have learned—so much so that we are inexperienced in the physics of brakes and ice.

Which explains our abiding interest in the weather.

I pick B– up from the senior center; she attended a program for those with memory loss. She spent part of the time worrying about the weather: if her son would make it from the Detroit suburbs, if they’d cleared the roads yet, what to do about her dog. She knew, because the roads were glistening, that the salt trucks had come through.