Free Brush with Haiti by Kathleen A. Tobin Page B

lit, as are the hallways leading up to them. The streets outside are as well. Sometimes it is a matter of using fewer bulbs, most often low-wattage fluorescents, which cast a gray tint on the walls, fixtures, furniture, and Caucasian skin. Where infrastructure is lacking and municipal funding short, streets often go unlit. That was the case in front of this corner bar.
    Looking forward to a locally brewed beer or yet another version of rum punch, we carefully stepped over broken pieces of concrete and avoided holes on our way from the truck to the entrance. Glancing ahead to make sure I was keeping up with the others, I noticed a young woman approaching. She was carrying various sculptures wrapped gently in newspaper and lined neatly in a cardboard box. Considering her size, they must have weighed heavily on her forearms and hips. A very young girl, presumably her daughter, accompanied her. I had wanted to buy some art, preparing for a search sometime midweek, and here it was coming to me. The woman held up what looked like a soft stone carving of a mother and child. It was simple and graceful. She wanted 20 dollars. Before I could open my purse, Jennifer intervened, saying something in Creole. It took a moment to figure out what was happening. Then I nodded. The haggling had begun.
    I have never been good at haggling. The only time I did it even close to effectively was in once in Cancun. It was more of a game there, with shop owners selling virtually the same thing in store after store. My kids looked on as I laughed along with my fellow hagglers, ending up with souvenirs that we certainly could have done without. Here, on a dark, empty street in Port-au-Prince I was more than willing to pay 20 dollars for this work of art from a frail craftswoman on my way into a bar. The statue began to take on some special significance as a Madonna, representing the woman and daughter herself, as well as the many others who populated the country. I looked at it more closely. It really was beautiful.
    My Great Aunt Jeannette gave me a Madonna statue as a gift on the day I made my First Communion. It stood about ten inches tall and resembled the larger representations that adorned churches. To have something like it of my own made me feel even holier than I already did that day. I gave her a special place on my dresser and have since moved it with me wherever life has led.
    Aunt Jeannette never had children and I later learned that she had very much wanted to. Knowing that about her made her own collection of Madonnas more fascinating to me. Having lost her husband many years before, she moved in with my grandmother when I was a young girl. She was very particular and her room was off-limits, except by personal invitation, making it somehow more mysterious and magical. Madonnas in various forms - statues, cards, small paintings - graced her room, as did a stemmed, cut-glass candy dish perpetually filled with lemon drops. Her walls and bed covering were of medium blues, as if she were veiled in the very colors of Mary herself. I imagined one day being old like her, still putting on lipstick every day, and having a blue room of my own with a jar filled with lemon drops.
    Once as a young mother, when Katie was around 2-years-old, I spent an August day strolling through the Indian Market in Santa Fe. I was studying the American West, and the marvels of New Mexico had inspired a visit. Determined to purchase a remembrance on a graduate student's budget, I found a very small, hand-sewn doll made of cotton and deerskin. She wore a blue shawl and a red head scarf, and carried a baby. Katie did show interest in her for a time, but as is the case with most toys in our culture, she was eventually cast aside. Admitting she meant more to me than to my daughter, I decided to find a special place for safekeeping. I put her on my dresser, leaning against my Madonna. They could not have been more different in material and design, but I saw the connection