Greatest Goal in US Soccer History: Scored by a Haitian Immigrant

ESPNs Outside the lines explores the greatest goal in US Soccer history and the tragic fate of the Haitian immigrant who scored it.

The Earthquake and Repatriation

It wasn’t too long after we arrived that the question of “adjustment” and “returning” began to emerge in conversations. To me this can be summed up in one situation. Typically when someone takes a trip somewhere, we ask “How was xyz place?” and the traveler responds with a “Great, we had a good time and the weather was nice” or a “Good. It was fun.” Given the typical question and response, what do you say when someone asks you: “How was Haiti?” For me forming the appropriate response to this question was the task at hand. I talked at length about it with Jack and Andre, recalling the difficulty I had the previous June when I returned from a week in Hinche. Having already been exposed to so much, the difficulty this time was only compounded by the tragic events of January 12.

We’d been having a lazy day as the damp air and rain kept us from going anywhere. Jack and I weren’t feeling too good were just hanging around, lying on our beds. Andrew was around too, working on his journal and listening to music. Afternoon turned to evening. Hearing some strange yelling, Andre and I went out to the balcony to investigate some woman calling for Sasha. She looked American and was with a group of several young Haitian boys. She seemed distant and while Andrew and I commented on her strange demeanor (we thought she’d been huffing paint thinner like the street kids often do), it suddenly felt as if someone was moving the entire balcony. I remember seeing the puddles in the street rippling before I realized what was going on. An earthquake? We woke Jack up but he didn’t seem to alarmed—California boy. The three of us ran out of the still shaking house. We passed Ti Paul in the doorway. “What’s going on he said?” “Earthquake” we said. “We’re screwed” he responded. We were confused and continued outside. People were standing outside up and down the street. The shaking had stopped. A few of Ti Paul’s colleagues from Oxfam were there and were laughing, asking us if we’d ever experienced an earthquake before. We shrugged no and I asked them if they’d ever experienced one. They said “Yes” and were laughing, asking if we were scared. We were, I thought it was pretty clear. I forced a smile but I could feel something wasn’t right. After a while things calmed down. We went upstairs to the kitchen and Marcorel was listening to the radio with Rosie. Sasha was calm, joking about her attire—a large blue dress that she’d received as a birthday present. An aftershock hit—you could see the water shaking in the 5 gallon bottle on the table. I’m not sure when exactly we found out just how bad it was in Port-au-Prince. Everyone was nervous and trying to get in touch with their families. We ran all over town, trying to find out about Moise as there was word that the senate building had collapsed. It’s really a blur. Tony was so upset and couldn’t stop crying. He was worried about Moise. I tried to comfort him with a hug and refrains “Nou pa konnen.” I meant that we didn’t know if Moise was injured or not. We found out later he was okay. Marcorel and I went to buy a case of beer, what else could we do? We thought. Rose, Marc and I toasted with a Prestige, “Nou la.” I’m not sure when things calmed down but for the purposes of this post, the question of “How was Haiti?” suddenly got a hell of a lot more difficult.

We returned to the US not sure what to expect. I hated leaving if for no other reason that as “blans” we could just pack up and leave. We left not knowing whose families were alive, what exactly was going on in P-au-P and how we could help, if at all, from the States. It wasn’t about us or our experience, and yet it seemed we were the focus. I hated it. We got emails from counseling services about dealing with the “trauma.” I got calls from my school newspaper and even from Newark’s Star Ledger. Didn’t they understand how far away from everything we were? At the advice of my friend Vance I worked to develop a balance—“It’s an opportunity to tell the story of Haiti” he reminded me. I put together some kind of essay that explained SOILs work and how important it was in the context of Haiti—both pre and post earthquake—and sent it to my family and friends. I figured it was the best way I could help—though it’s an idea that I’m still struggling with.

January 5 - a more typical day...

In keeping with a solid mix of entries, I want to include one of our more typical days. January 5 was the day after we arrived in Cap-Haitien.

After a restful and rock hard sleep, we woke up and enjoyed a wonderful breakfast. The bananas and bread were fresh and the coffee was delicious. Taking advantage of the sunshine, we piled into the SOIL truck and headed out to the technology center in Milot. After one of the nice but bumpy rides that characterize Haitian transportation, we dismounted outside of a group houses. We were welcomed by an old dell computer and a smiling gentleman who was working very hard carving a large toilet basin out of clay. I stood amazed as Sasha and Sarah explained the various designs and materials that were used in the production of the toilet bowl. The clay could be found locally. Surely they could have imported toilet bowls from the US, but this was an ethical operation that was not just about providing a toilet but also about empowering communities. Leaving the man to his work, Sasha showed us the toilet out back. We took turns stepping inside the toilet and having a look around. I was blown away at the simple yet brilliant innovation. It was as if the cycle was complete: food went from the field, to the human stomach, to the toilet, to the compost heap and back onto the field to enrich the next round of crops. To examine this cycle in its totality, we walked to an additional compost site and through the local fields and gardens. I noted the presence of banana trees through the potato plots…was this planned or by happenstance? I didn’t have too long to think as we continued our jaunt through the community to a dense plot of trees. How refreshing to see veritable forest in Haiti! Internally, I beamed with excitement and began my own mental journey through history—imagining the entire island covered with lush forest. This intellectual indulgence only continued with our arrival at a massive tree which was rumored to have been around since before the revolution. Sasha explained the role of the tree and its giant roots as a political meeting place, but the presence of pots around the base of the tree also had other religious implications. I began to get the eeriest sense and recalled Amy Wilentz’s commentary about Haitians being a people that “walk in history.” The local fellow who was walking us around led everyone over to a large hollow tree, to whom he spoke or prayed loudly. Hanging in back with a few of the SOL gang, I asked them if there were in “lwa” around and they just smiled and laughed. “Is he talking to Bondye?” I asked. They laughed again. Our conversation continued and I joked with them that I wasn’t going into any tree you had to talk to, especially considering how close we were to Bwa Kayiman. “You know your history!” they said to me through their laughter. Just then from the other side of the giant tree, Jack asked about the presence of snakes. While he waited for an answer, he looked down toward his feet and saw a very large snake skin. I’m not typically a religious or mystical guy, but there was just too much going on here to ignore. The two fellows I was with also took a much more serious demeanor. What a strange thing I thought aloud…This is one blan that will not be ignoring Haiti’s rich religious heritage—vodou or otherwise!

Letting Go

Not to be too arrogant, but I am also writing this song on behalf of Christopher Columbus. Haiti is not a place you just visit, as Columbus would surely have told you (he shipwrecked there in 1492). It's not a stream into which you just dip a toe. Here, you dive in headlong. It drives you crazy—with love, with anxiety, with desire. You fall into its arms as if it's been waiting forever to receive you. It hasn't. And as with any great unrequited love, Haiti's indifference only makes you crazier for the place. - Amy Wilentz, from her “Love Song for Haiti”

One of my great fears about finishing my formal education is that my mind will become static from not being exposed to new ideas. Grad school has certainly not helped this fear as there is constant exposure to the world’s great thinkers—and beyond that exposure, Professors encourage harsh criticism of those thinkers. For my own purposes, developing a critical eye involved rethinking the positive view of the organizations that I’d come to know as the world’s development players. While this was difficult in the classroom, I quickly found there is no problem developing a dissenting opinion when looking into the eyes those affected by the policies of those development players. Though I’d been to Haiti on two occasions prior to this past January, I had never truly engaged in on-the-ground, critical thought about the policies that shaped the grinding existence before my eyes. Perhaps I thought I understood it before? Maybe now after a semester of lessons in Kreyol I felt more connected? Whatever the reason, I felt myself learning, understanding and criticizing at a higher rate than I’d ever experienced before. Though I dove into Haiti before this trip, it was as if the water didn’t feel cold anymore, like I was no longer afraid to see what was in the deepest part of the lake. This new level of comfort and understanding only allowed for greater focus.

That focus allowed all neurons to fire. I asked a million questions both of myself and every person I met. I pushed any Kreyol skills I had to the limit and tried so hard to understand the cultural dynamic—as well as my very minor role in it. This focus also allowed for understanding SOILs work and just how important it is in breaking Haiti’s cycle of poverty. To close this post, below is one of the few things I wrote while in Cap-Haitien.

A simple observation is that because of the location of this organization in an apartment above the street in Okap, there is little separation between the very important work of helping the poor and the SOIL Staff’s own time to recuperate from the exhaustion of Haiti. Certainly this attributes to specifically Sasha’s stress, though I think in her heart she wouldn’t have it any other way. For those studying development in the U.S. it is a common observation that out of sight is out of mind. That simply cannot exist here. Though Haiti is always hot, when it rains and floods, the street children have no place to sleep or dry off and still have nothing to eat. At any given time of day there can be three or four children standing below the SOIL apartment bellowing their lungs out with nonsense, yelling “sha-sha” or in the case of one little boy who is deaf, simply squeaking out whatever sound he can muster in an attempt to get the attention of someone who will come down and give him some scraps of food. The boys who scream nonsense are typically high from huffing paint thinner, of which they usually reek. The constant rate of emotional bombardment is astounding, though I think it comes mostly from a knowledge of life on the other side of the water—where “prestige falls from the sky and the rivers flow with coca-cola” as one of my travel companions of years past observed. It is astounding to me that the SOIL team has not become emotional hardened—calloused to a sharpened point.

The Meaning of Grassroots

After completing course readings for both this course and other courses dealing with development theory, it seems there is much debate about the use of the term “grassroots.” While it is certainly becoming a hip part of the development vernacular, one question I’ve been asking myself for quite a while is what truly qualifies as “grassroots” development?

To say that I came into Haiti with a “chip on my shoulder” about NGOs and their work is probably a vast understatement. Having just completed a fall course in Ecological Anthropology that dealt largely with failed development cases in indigenous communities, I felt as if I was drowning in a flood of moral and ethical questions that surrounded the nature of development. Was ALL development neocolonial? Inherently racist? Paternalistic? Which organizations were doing good work?

From an educational perspective, one thing that any student of Haiti can tell you is that it has long been known for its failed or corrupted development endeavors. There is a litany of reasons for this sad fact and while I didn’t understand it at the time, this is the reason that Ti Paul explained the idea of “small successes” in Haitian development. Upon further reflection, I believe that he meant that “small successes” must be the driving force behind Haitian development because of the rigid political and economic structures in place in Haiti—a country which is controlled by a minority elite that systematically exploit the rural population. For this reason, it seems that the best endeavors in bypassing those rigid structures are the so-called “grassroots” organizations that work on the community level. Qualifying these groups can be dangerous however as certainly “grassroots” is only a word and can be exploited as part of a dynamic donor friendly vocabulary. That is to say, “grassroots” the buzzword and “grassroots” the development practice ought to be separated. This is challenging but can be understood in the “Two Ears of Corn” approach advocated by Roland Bunch. Intrigued? Let me explain….

Ralph Bunch’s “People-Centered Agricultural Development” technique (which he outlines in his book “Two Ears of Corn”) focuses on participatory development and increasing agricultural yields through a series of adaptable core principals. The basics of these principals are 1) to teach farmers to experiment with new technologies on a small scale, 2) use rapidly viewed success to motivate farmers to continue innovation, 3) use technologies that use local and inexpensive resources, 4) begin by using a small number of technologies and finally 5) train local leaders as extensionists and support teach other farmers, thus spreading the technology. Bunch’s approach is predicated on the idea that many large NGOs don’t often work on a people to people or farmer to farmer level. Additionally, he cites many of the techniques being used in development practices are those being exported from industrial countries and were developed after those nations were economically advanced. Thus the technology in use is not appropriate for farmers in developing nations that lack the resources of farmers in the developed world.

Having taken this class and spent a significant amount of time with the SOIL/SOL staff, it seems to me that though SOIL does not work with agricultural development, the organization was born out of very similar ideals. Taking those ideals and incorporating community needs, SOIL has adjusted and sharpened itself to a very effective and nimble point. Their “all people are people” ethos is evident in every aspect of both work and social relationships. It’s evident in Sasha and Sarah hugging each one of us as we stepped out of the airport and it’s also evident in every aspect of the very important work that SOIL does.

Arrival in Haiti

Before I begin the series of posts for the January 2010 SOIL class in Haiti, I want to note that while I was hoping to complete them while in Cap-Haitien, the course was disrupted by the tragic earthquake that struck Port-au-Prince. Therefore I am writing from the few notes I took and from memory.

Tick tock.

This story, like most Craig travel stories, starts with an absence of time and absence of sleep. Though I’d been thinking critically about the trip for many weeks prior to going, in the final hours of preparation I was unable to think too much as there was only time for packing. Driving to the airport I had to remind myself I was in Florida as it was downright chilly, even for this hardy Midwestern boy.

Unloading our bags at the airport, I met and began chatting with the fellow students taking the course. Our group was comprised of Jack from Notre Dame, Andrew, Camille and Diana from UM and of course Ann-Marie and your humble blogger—representing FIU.

After some chilly time on the tarmac, we boarded the small charter plane, strapped in and were quickly high above Florida headed south. The flight was a bit bumpy and as we got closer to the northern coast of Hispaniola, the mountains suddenly appeared. They were so much more green and lush than those in the Central Plateau, which I recall as being dusty and almost wholly absent of trees. Here there were entire mountainsides covered in clumps of trees or some kind of vegetative growth—I was quite frankly stunned, but delightfully so. A rainy fog covered the tops of the mountains, which were like a protective wall around the city of Cap-Haitien. I flashed back to the books I’d read and recalled the descriptions of the historic port city. My thoughts descended quickly, taking their usual path toward Haiti’s beleaguered history. I saw the harbor stacked with haggard, cracking vessels full of survivors of the Middle Passage. I tried are to imagine their struggle and wondered how their view of the mountains was different from my own. There wasn’t too much time for that as soon we were on the ground, dodging rain and collecting our belongings. Sasha and Sarah were waiting for us with open arms—literally. They gave us a cordial welcome and we returned to the SOIL apartment. After being shown around and meeting the SOL staff, everyone went their separate ways for a while. Finally coming down off the overwork of my adrenals, which I’m certain were pumping for several hours straight, I promptly passed out inside my little mosquito net fortress.

In the afternoon, I slept hard for several hours but was jolted awake by some yelling down on the street. I rolled over in a daze, got up and went to find Jack and Andre, my roommates and soon to be partners in crime. Jack was downstairs trying to talk to a young Haitian boy who had a cut above his eye. Apparently there had been some kind of fight among a few of the “street kids.” Sasha was scrambling around—“we’re off to the hospital” she said with that perky attitude and smile that never goes on break. I don’t remember how many people went to the hospital but we took two kids in, the boy with the cut above his eye and another boy, his friend, who had a severe lip infection.

The hospital left a lot to be desired, and that’s putting it nicely. This was the state hospital and while it seemed to be staffed, it was clear that “sterile” was a relative term. After sitting with the boys, we eventually wandered around the corner to try to find the doctor. It would seem he was rather busy as there was a young man who had deep head contusions and was tied to wooden bench receiving stitches. We clearly weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Darkness quickly approaching, we headed back to the apartment after a long day. I laid down in bed after a long talk with the boys. I thought about the day’s events recalling Graham Greene’s adage about Haiti as a “surreal comedy.” Those thoughts didn’t last long as I quickly faded into sleep.