Throwing Down Both Gauntlets: Pt. 1

When I read the back story of the Polysha Foundation, my heart warmed and at the same time it broke. It inspired me to write this story. This is not about Yves and Sharon Polycarpe, but their story did inspire this one. This is a work of fiction which is loosely based on the true story of Yves Polycarpe's family, found on the About Us page of the Polysha Foundation's website. I have done my best, through research and looking at numerous pictures, to make Bronte Lamarre's story resemble that of a woman in the same situation in Haiti today. Information on the daily lives of the poor are hard to come by, and where necessary I let my imagination lead the way. I recommend anyone moved by this story visit their page, and join the "Winner's Circle," and also visit and like them on Facebook. This story is not to make anyone feel guilty, but to see just how much can be overcome by the human heart if we choose never to give up, like Mr. Yves Polycarpe's amazing mother.
The links in the story show you images, or at times videos, which I used to determine what my character's world was really like. They also serve as illustrations of the story. Enjoy!! 

          The sun shown hot and harsh in the arid afternoon. In the distance, the mountains were shrouded in haze. A few scraggly trees reached desperately for the sky out of the parched earth. Bronte Lamarre was hanging clothes in front of her family's house in Carrefour, Haiti. The house was about 500 square feet, the roof and much of the rest of the house sagged badly, like many homes in the Lemarre's neighborhood. The family was very thankful the house was at least still standing, as many homes nearby had collapsed in the earthquake and had never been rebuilt. Their humble building had once been white, but time had taken its toll. Now, it could best be described as gray. Her very faded blue kerchief fluttered a little in the slight breeze. Sweat beaded on her brows and dripped down the her cheeks, where it mingled with the tears she had been trying, with intermittent success, to hold back. A sturdy woman of about 5'9, her face appeared wise and unusually hard for her mere 31 years. Bronte had already born eight children. The youngest, sixteen month old little Guerda, waddled over and tugged at her mothers skirts, wanting to be held. I can't let them see me cry, Bronte thought, They need me to show strength now, they need to believe it is going to be all right.

          It had been two days since her husband, Seydou's funeral. He had been making gravel when an avalanche was triggered. Seydou had been killed instantly, as he was the nearest one to the rock wall they were turning into gravel. She tried hard not to think about it, about whether or not it hurt, or whether or not it was anyone's fault. None of that did any good, and knowing the answers would never change anything. There was no way for her to know, really, and those thoughts made her anxious. Instead, she concentrated very hard on the clothes she was washing. Squeezing out the water, rubbing them together, pressing as hard as she could. She squeezed Emanuel's work trousers until her knuckles paled, gritting her teeth. She was almost done, and her fingers were starting to get sore. Despite her best efforts, tears began to pour down her cheeks again.

          Little Guerda started screaming suddenly, and Bronte jumped. “Stevsin! Webby! Ee-wsie!” Guerda shouted, toddling off toward the road. “Oh,” Bronte sighed, relieved. She scooped up her excited infant to keep her out of the street, and called over her shoulder to her dearest friend, Fredeline, who was in the kitchen beginning preparations for dinner. “The other children are home!” Guerda's elated shrieks lifted Bronte's heart a little, making it easier to retrain her tears. At the door, they saw the Lamarre Brood coming down the street. 
          Twelve-year-old Webster was carrying a big stick like a staff, swinging it back and forth in his right hand. His school-buy shorts, which were a bit short and tight, had a large tear in the left leg. How did he do that? Bronte wondered, more concerned for Webster than for the cost of the thread she would sew them with. Her eldest, Emanuel, looked serene, as usual. He stood tall resolute as he approached, like a king. He carried his worn pack with his school things in it. On closer observation, Bronte noticed he was carrying three other packs too. She wondered why.

          Stevenson, Elsie, and Leila were walking slowly toward home without their packs. Elsie and Leila had flowers in their hands. Ten-year-old Leila's bunch was at least twice the size of her sister's. Webster kept reaching out with his stick, holding it behind his younger brother to guide his wobbling gait and keep him on the road. He was not hitting him, though Stevenson's cheeks were tear-stained. They were bringing flowers they had picked along the road. Such flowers made Bronte sneeze.

          She suspected they were not for her, but for Seydou's gravesite.

* * *

          Bronte and Fredeline were in the house, at the table by the home's one window, discussing what the family should do next and cutting up vegetables. The children were all playing or doing homework. Fredeline had brought the vegetables from her garden, as well as some seeds for the Lamarre family to plant. She had attended a lesson for women's empowerment several months ago, when her husband abandoned her with their young son. She had learned about seed-saving there. “I have more if you need them,” Fredeline was saying, wiping her long, slender hand across her high, sweaty brow. A tall woman, almost as tall as Seydou had been, and so slim she looked almost frail, Fredeline had been Bronte's best friend since they were little girls. They had learned to cook and sew together, and played games together. They had been in each other's weddings, of which Fredeline's had proved to be a mistake. She adjusted her kerchief, “I have only one child to look after. You have eight.” Tears hung in Bronte's eyes, the pain was welling up again. Good thing it was only Fredeline here to see. “Thank you,” she said, tears trickling down her weathered face, “What would I ever do without friends like you?”

          “Don't mention it,” Fredeline said, waving her hand in front of her face for emphasis, “It's what girlhood friends are for. You would do it for me. Here, let me finish these for you. You rest for a few minutes, before you and your kids have to have your talk.”

* * *

          Over a dinner of rice and pork, prepared mostly by Fredeline, with some “help” from four-year old little Ritha, Bronte told her family the plans she had for the future. The children gazed at her silently, intently. She knew this was hard on them. They sat around the table in order of their birth. Emanuel sat beside his mother, on the left. His expression unreadable except for the veins showing in his eyes. A mere thirteen years old, he was already almost as tall as his father had been. Webster was fidgety, as usual. The exact opposite of his older brother, and nearly as tall, he was the nearest thing Bronte had to a “problem child.” His grades were usually average, though sometimes they slipped a little. It was not because he was less intelligent, it was because he was less interested in his studies.

          Leila the ten-year-old, was slightly over-emotional at times. She made things more dramatic than they had to be, in Bronte's opinion at least. Sometimes this trait made life in the Lamarre house more interesting and fun, sometimes it made things harder than necessary. Little Stephane, age two-and-a-half, sat on Leila's lap, looking around inquisitively. He was too young to fully grasp what was going on, but he knew that daddy was not coming home again. It had taken a while for him to “get” that, and he had been deeply upset for about two days. This was the first day he seemed to be back to normal. His large brown eyes looked around with interest. He had nothing on but his training pants. Elsie, who was eight, sat across from the pair, holding her little brother Stevenson's hand. Six-year old Stephenson was no longer crying, but his eyes were still quite red. His school-boy shorts were covered with dust that was going to be a challenge to get clean by morning. Ritha sat beside him, smiling as usual, too young to fully understand what faced her family right now. On Bronte's lap, little Guerda slept soundly. She was too young to have any clue what was up, and Bronte was thankful. It would be much easier to discuss plans with the others if the baby was sleeping.

          “Alright, first of all, I want you all to know that we are not giving upon your schooling – that goes for all of you. Education is the pathway to prosperity, and in no way will I ever take any of you off of it.

          “I am going tomorrow to look for work. Fredaline is coming over with her son to take care of Ritha and Guerda. When you get home from school, we will be adding to our garden to try and grow more food. Fredeline plans to stay and help. She says she also has some extra seed and knows some ways to grow more food in less space. Now, I want you on your best behavior. She has walked along way to help us today, and is going to do it again tomorrow. Any questions?”

          Eight of the most beautiful faces in the world stared back at her, silently. No one asked anything. With that, they began their dinner.

* * *

          The sun beat down on Bronte's head as she walked to the manufacturing district, looking for work. Dust hung in the air, coloring all she could see a pale, golden brown. She wore her best pair of blue jeans, and a slightly lighter blue shirt. She had embroidered a flower on the collar, it had taken her almost a month. The air smelled vaguely of garbage as she got further from her house. As a lower-class, uneducated woman, she had few prospects, and none of them paid well. She would probably need more than one. If someone would hire her on for sewing, she could probably do that on off hours from any job in the factory.

          Occasionally, sounds and smells from cafes in several locks away tickled her nose, making her mouth water. She remembered the unseasoned pork and vegetables she had eaten last night, prepared lovingly by her very dear friend, and she was thankful. The people eating in those restaurants did not have so much love in their food. The cooks would not serve them for free, or hold their hand while they wept. Though she was indeed very poor, Bronte Lamarre was also unfathomably rich.
          It was a dangerous trek, walking by herself across town. Bronte's somewhat exceptional size would not help much, either. Most men were at least her size and still much stronger. The majority of the men in her area were decent, fiercely protective and law-abiding, like her beloved Seydou. Nevertheless, there were also many evil men in Carrefour, and all it would take was one. There were a few women she knew of who had been infected with AIDS in an assault. Not a hazard to take lightly.

          She plodded along, eying every corner and every empty doorway with apprehension. There were many people camping on the roadside, homeless. Bronte and others had always helped when they could.  Seydou had repaired their family's house with a group of his friends, who had in turn fixed their own houses with his and Emanuel's help. Right now, she was not able to do that. She was in the season of receiving help right now, as they were, but her needs more more forward-looking while the needs of the homeless around her now were more immediate.

          The pain was welling up again. How she missed her beloved Seydou! She fought down the tears, Not NOW! She shouted within herself, I cannot show weakness now. No way, not at all. She took slow, deep breaths of the putrid air. Some vagabonds had evidently relieved themselves in an alley near here. Something had also died nearby, by the odor of it. The stench was terrible, and Bronte was frightened. She remembered the eight precious faces staring at her after dinner mast night, raising no questions, no doubts. They were completely convinced that she could do what she said. She had to keep going, she had to.

          And she would.