Wilner’s Story: A Forgotten Orphan Asks
That We Remember the Others

First do no harm. Wouldn’t it be great if that were the international creed honored by adults on behalf of the world’s children? Maybe some day this oath of responsibility and integrity will reign but today, sadly, it does not.

Ten years ago, Wilner was 13 and barely surviving on the streets of Haiti when he asked the question so many young adults ask: “Why do I exist?” Unlike our children who pondered their existence in the comfort of a philosophy classroom, Wilner was hungry, beaten down and tired of feeling forgotten in the city Port-Au-Prince. What preceded the question for Wilner was not a teacher’s prodding remarks but a lifetime of betrayal and pain.

Wilner was two when his parents separated and his mother left. He was four when his father died and his Uncle, who was favored by Wilner’s grandmother, laid claim to him… not to honor and protect, but to exploit. Wilner moved with his uncle to the countryside where he was treated like a slave. Wilner didn’t attend school so that he could tend to the farm animals, house and kitchen duties. When the fruits of Wilners’ labor were deemed less-than sweet, he was severely beaten. After 7 years of the devil he knew, Wilner ran away and took to the streets where he was starving, robbed and beaten.

Wilner insists that he was forgotten but not forsaken. Perhaps it was this distinction that made all the difference and fed his belief in God, His plan and Wilner’s purpose. Wilner remained good and kind, never fought back and surrendered, as he saw it, to the will of God. Three years into his life on the streets, at age 14, Wilner encountered the first of two devils he did not know.

He thought he caught a break when the Texan showed up and offered him shelter at his local orphanage. Wilner accepted and, for the first time in his memory, was properly clothed and fed. Wilner looked after the younger children. On the surface it appeared that the Texan was motivated by goodwill but then the visitors showed up to have sex with the children. Wilner recognized the Texan as a “Lion dressed as lamb” and fled only to meet another.

The Mid-Westerner had a different method to his madness. He offered to fund an orphanage that Wilner would run. Wilner graciously accepted the start-up funding of $1,500. More money came in for a house, furniture, books, a teacher and even someone to cook and clean for the children. The Mid-Westerner, just like the Texan, used Wilner’s soft face and hard story to illicit funding through a carefully marketed web-site. Money poured in from unsuspecting do-gooders like you and me… people who thought, at the very least, the adults in charge would do no harm.

Wilner saw to it that the children were fed, housed and educated. On weekdays, they learned and thrived. On weekends they played soccer and attended church.  Perhaps this was the answer to Wilner’s question: “Why do I exist?” That would be the fairy tale ending to Wilner’s Story but unfortunately, for Wilner and so many others in Haiti, not many stories end in an exhale and kiss on the head.

In the midst of such apparent goodness at the orphanage funded by the Mid-Westerner, things went terribly bad. The Mid-Westerner changed the routine and started to make unreasonable demands. He asked that the children skip church on Sundays and, instead, go to the beach. Soon after, came the request for photos. “He wanted nude photos of the children.” Wilner was confused. “Did he want to see that the children were healthy and fed? I didn’t know. So I took the photos.” Wilner was suspicious. The Mid-Westerner’s next request was met with gut-wrenching clarity: Wilner was no longer confused. He argued with the Mid-Westerner and refused his requests. Wilner said to him, “No I will not. This cannot be good.” All funding was withdrawn which left Wilner and the orphans without shelter and food.

A pastor  showed up and offered his mountainside property for Wilner’s orphanage and this is where it stands today. Most of the children followed Wilner up the mountain, “Where only the water in a nearby stream was free.” The other children went their own ways, preferring city streets to the unknown of remote living.

At last, this pastor, unlike the previous two contributors, was a lamb dressed as a lamb. Together they‘re working with a team of people on a mission to help this and other orphanages in Haiti become self-sufficient through their own cottage industries and donations at web address.

Just this past month, 5 years after Wilner and the Texan parted ways, he was spotted at another orphanage in Haiti. The Texan was identified as a known and registered U.S. sex offender who is still at large. It easily begs the question: How is it that known sex offenders in the U.S. are prohibited from coming within yards of playgrounds and schools, but in Haiti these same sex offenders can own orphanages?

Mother Teresa said that, “If you can’t feed 100 children, then feed one.”  Wilner can’t protect 100 children, but he can protect 18. The rest is up to us.

A Story of Recovery

The engine behind addiction is pain - pure, unadulterated pain. The drugs become both fuel and medicine; fuel for the engine and medicine for the pain; relief and poison. A disease that sustains itself by curing itself; a vicious cycle that never allows you to address the problem: the pain. After years of addiction the source of that pain can become very obscure. Life is reduced to a single goal: to get high. Everything else fades far into the background...everything, and the disease takes on a life of its own.

Your spirit screams for help. Silenced by drugs, eventually it steps aside. How else can you explain the inhuman behavior? But it waits patiently for an opportunity to step back in. The hope and the prayer is that it happens before it's too late. Drug addiction is fatal.

"Drugs are not always necessary, but belief in recovery always is". Norman Cousins


Christopher's Story:

(Transcribed between July 2008 and November 2009 and updated 7/2012)

I have traveled a very long road over the past 25 years to arrive where I am today. I thank God for keeping me alive long enough to "get it". It takes what it takes and it took me, off and on, until November 2004. I'm closing in on 8 clean years. But a tremendous amount of damage has been done, especially to my relationships with my kids. As much as I would like to, I cannot change the past. I can only live my life with humility and do better now. I have no illusions, I will spend the rest of my life asking and praying for forgiveness.

I started smoking pot in high school. I remember the first time I tried it. My nervousness, my insecurities seem to disappear and were replaced by an uninhibited excitement. It was almost instantaneous – I felt better about myself. But most important, when I was high, it was easier for me to talk to girls - and I liked girls. Back then, getting high and drinking; that's what I did. Was I doing it more than everybody else? I didn't think so but quite honestly, I never gave it any thought. Unfortunately, back then, I never gave anything much thought. Looking back, I probably was doing it more. What's clear now is that I was thinking about it more. But how did I go from being a garden variety pot smoker to practically destroying my entire life and wreaking unimaginable havoc on my family with drugs? I'd like to tell you it took a long time but in fact, it did not.

I guess you could say that my frequent pot smoking kept me from reaching my potential in high school and college but I did pretty well. In high school, I played baseball: MVP, name and picture in the paper, a local hero of sorts. I was a pitcher and just for the record, I was very good. It is probably fair to say that if I was able to keep my focus on pitching instead of getting high, I may have had a chance to play professionally. I graduated Pace University with a degree in Political Science. I worked and even maintained a relationship, albeit stormy. Right out of college, I got married and started a family while at the same time building a successful business with my brother-in-law: a gourmet food business that took off immediately. Life was looking good. All that changed with a small innocuous looking line of powder. After doing that one little line, absolutely nothing would ever be the same for me or anyone around me. Forget about not feeling nervous or insecure, I was king of the universe. Fearless, powerful, indestructible..... Indescribable, really. What nobody tells you is that exact feeling will never happen again.


For quite a few years I was excellent at hiding my drug problem, especially from myself. During that time my cocaine habit grew and was costing conservatively, $80.00 to $150.00 a day not including collateral damage. I was stealing from the business (which I eventually ran into the ground), my wife, my parents, in-laws and friends. I even stole from my children. I would steal their jewelry and pawn it - horrifying; a violation of my little girls that created a barrier I have yet to break. I will never stop trying. Don't let any junkie fool you; there are no depths so low that we will not sink. Believe me, in the throes of addiction, using drugs does not seem optional. I continued to spiral downhill. My cocaine habit turned into a crack habit and in May of 1990 my family did an intervention. The plan was to fly me out to St. Mary's in Minneapolis, where they had a cutting edge "relapse prevention" program for substance abuse. After the intervention, my entire family brought me to Kennedy and my brother-in-law flew with me to St. Mary's and checked me in. I stayed the 28 days, and together with 4 other guys I met there, stayed an additional 3 months to do the aftercare program.


In September, I was coming home to be the Best Man in my brother's wedding. After getting home and spending one bad night with my wife, I took the car and the money I had to get fitted for the tux, and disappeared into the Bronx for days. I missed the wedding and pushed my wife into getting a restraining order, making me homeless and broke. I went into the Westchester County Shelter System and was assigned to a shelter on Grove Street in White Plains. This was a recovery oriented shelter where we went to AA meetings daily but I had already decided to go into long term residential treatment as an indigent to a program called Daytop. I received a bed date at their entry facility in Far Rockaway for December 6, 1991. I then rotated to a long term facility they had in Nyack. I remained in this behavior modification treatment until September 1993. Between 1990 and 1993, I was in Silver Hill for 1 month, St. Mary's for 1 month and Daytop for 20 months.


I didn't know at the time that this was just the beginning of my journey. I was convinced after each treatment that it would be my last, and came out with a renewed vigor for life. I didn't know that things would never change for me unless and until I was willing to change the life I was rushing back to resume!


Unfortunately, the drama didn't end with Daytop. In September of '93, I didn't exit my Daytop experience as I had my first two rehabs. After the first two, I came home believing I had the enthusiasm and dedication to go to meetings every day, get a sponsor, work the 12 steps of AA and develop a relationship with God. I did, in fact, do this both times but only went to meetings for short periods before my attendance would become sporadic then not at all. Something would always become more important at home or at work, and, after all, weren't these the two areas I had shortchanged for so long, buried in a bottle, pile of powder and crack stem? In retrospect, the ending was always predictable. After months of vigorously rebuilding my life by getting a new and, most often, better job, catching up on all the bills, replanting all the flowerbeds, reading bedtime stories to the kids and making love to my wife, I would forget where I had been. Once everyone around me thought I was all better, I believed I was all better and no longer had to do a thing.


After reconstructing the same life I had before, it was always only a matter of time before the uneasy, insecure, arrogant, egotistical and unfulfilled core of me would drift back to drugs and alcohol and sabotage everything once again. Always telling myself, "this time it will be different; this time I'll just do it on weekends"! Daytop ended with me doing drugs while on a weekend pass at home. After selling our house out from under my family and having a relationship while I was away in Daytop, my wife told me she was taking the kids and moving to Florida to live with her mom. I decided immediately to grab the keys to the car and run to get high. I'll show her! After 20 months of intense, and I mean intense, behavior modification treatment in Daytop, I still didn't have what it takes to deal with feelings of that magnitude. So I did the only thing I did know how to do: run. I was kicked out of Daytop, ran home to my parent’s house in Yorktown, and watched from my second floor bedroom window when my wife brought the kids to say goodbye to their grandparents. I can still see my 7 year old son walking around in circles in the driveway not really able to understand what was going on. I could not bring myself to go downstairs and face them all.

Eventually, I decided to move to Florida. I missed my kids and wanted to be closer to them even though I knew the feeling was not mutual. I situated myself a healthy distance away but I felt better knowing I was at least in the same state. Fortunately for me, I was always able to find work. Some jobs are definitely not well suited for addicts, like working for a moving company. It was much too easy to steal and I did, so those jobs never lasted long. In 2000, I caught a break. Don’t get me wrong. I know I have caught many breaks in my lifetime, many more then I deserved but this would really change my path. I got a job as a teacher in an Alternative Education School; a school for troubled kids. Imagine that, a troubled kid teaching troubled kids. But I can really identify with children who have major obstacles to overcome and who cannot even begin the battle until and unless they learn how to trust. I was teaching what I needed to learn. It’s a job that put me in front of kids who either do or sell drugs everyday!! Life is funny that way. This job would become a vital part of my healing. Regrettably, my drug addiction continued to flourish.

The fate of every junkie is loneliness and desperation. When you spend every penny you have on drugs, you would not believe what has to suffice as a meal. And ultimately, because you are constantly breaking the law, you get caught. In 2004 I was arrested. I will never forget the sound of that cell door closing behind me. I was facing 2 felony possession charges. My dad had recently been put in a nursing home after becoming incapacitated by a stroke and I was in the midst of my second divorce. On top of that, I was fired from my job after notifying them that I was going into rehab. But something happened while in rehab this time I can’t really explain or describe but I knew everything would be different. I now believe that 'something' is called grace; a gift from God; a moment of clarity in a life that had been spinning out of control for over 25 years. I started to "get it". I’m not sure how or why but over the next 7 months I was rehired as a teacher and all charges against me were dropped, the last on July 15, 2005. My dad died one week later, holding my hand, after I promised him I would take care of mom.


Once I allowed myself to become part of this Universe, to participate and contribute, good things came back to me. Once I began living my life with humility and dedicated myself to helping other people, somehow or another, whatever I needed kinda fell from the sky. Once I became willing to challenge my old notions of wealth and success and open myself to a new way of measuring, I realized how wealthy, successful and lucky I really am. This realization didn't, as you know, come cheap and the tricky thing about addiction is that it never leaves. It’s patient and so very seductive. My history has taught me that I can always reach a point where I forget, become complacent and try again. So, I go to AA meetings every day or night, sponsor other people and remind myself each day where I came from and who I am. I've been blessed in more ways than I know and I try to say "thank you" by the way I live my life.

The fact remains that without my complete downfall, without hitting rock bottom, I would not have; I could not have, rebuilt my life. I would have continued with my very marginal existence and ultimately, my addiction would have buried me. I was so limited before my recovery. Addiction hones selfishness and my ability to see past my own needs had become virtually non-existent. But in the “rooms”, in the confines of AA meetings, I found salvation. Who else could possibly help me other then someone who has been to hell and made it back; someone, like me, who felt death would have been a welcome relief from the nightmare they were living? Someone who has done the unimaginable to the people they love the most and found the courage to face them again? Someone who has had to deal with the agony of the people they love, but have hurt, not wanting any part of them. Only someone who has moved through their own pain, endured the consequences and was willing to share their experience could help me. The miracle of these rooms is that you are always in the presence of people who have done what you had come to believe was impossible; survive their addiction with all its aftermath, and found meaning in their life. I have discovered and experienced compassion, caring, acceptance and forgiveness for other people and for myself. Only then could I finally begin the process of healing. It has been a long, difficult and painful process but I am here and I am forever grateful and I am doing my best. With all the challenges I now face as a parent, I know I am at least capable of parenting. I wasn’t back then. I live with the reality that when my children needed me most, I was not available. But now I am really here for them. I think they know it. I hope they know it and I pray they let me back in.

Today, I am fully invested in my job a Substance Awareness Center and I am totally focused on restoring my relationship with my kids. I know, I have my work cut out for me. I thank God everyday for giving me another chance to get it right.

Postscript:

Chris tells his story with remarkable candor. He makes no excuses. He is remorseful about his past without being despondent. He is the father of four fabulous and very accomplished children. He lives in Florida and works as the Coordinator of The Substance Prevention Center; exactly where he feels he is meant to be.

The incredible thing about Chris's story is that it provides absolute proof that no matter how far you fall, you can get back up and start over. You can redeem and reinvent yourself. With enough determination and humility you can overcome anything.

Who am I to Chris? I am his best friend and his biggest fan. I pray for him every day.

When you look hard enough at addiction, you often find it is covering an extraordinarily tender and sensitive soul. More likely than not, that is how the whole problem starts. How many fathers know how to recognize and honor that in their son’s? Not many I’m afraid.

OUR SLIVER LINING

             Me, Brenda (the mom), Alex (14), Tyler (17) and Jared (10)

Over the past several months, ArtStore4Haiti and MMRCHaiti.org have been working hard, against all odds, to help out with the monumental problems that continue to plague Haiti. Cholera, mud slides, dwindling medical supplies, starvation, the scarcity of clean water are just a few of the challenges the country faces every day. But the real challenge we face is raising funds.


I am very proud and pleased to tell all of you that a “band of brothers” in a small northern Westchester community got together to help me sell the jewelry made by the Haitian children in the orphanages we work hard to support. Tyler, Alex and Jared Cohen with the help of Mrs. Moussa, the director of the Human Rights Club of Lakeland High School, raised almost $900.00.

Because we are a very small and completely volunteer organization, this money will go far to provide food, clean water, shelter, and educational material to some of Haiti’s most desperate.

March, April and May have been extremely difficult months filled with many dark clouds for me and the people I work with. This has been our silver lining.

Tyler, Alex and Jared, thank you for making such a tremendous effort for our cause.

“A man's errors are his portals of discovery.” James Joyce

MOVIE REVIEW: THE ADJUSTMENT BUREAU

It is extremely challenging to write a compelling love story today because the compelling element, that ‘thing’ that causes the tension, doesn’t really exist anymore. In this day and age, what would prevent two people who love each other from being together? Two men can be together, two women can be together, divorce is acceptable, rich and poor people can be together and religion is not as divisive as it once was. In order to make a love story interesting, there must be something keeping lovers apart. Two people, who love each other, get married and live happily ever after makes for a very boring story.

But what if two people are irresistibly drawn to one another and The Universe has other plans for them - literally. What if their meeting was a glitch in the ‘big plan’? That is basically the driving force behind The Adjustment Bureau starring Matt Damon and Emily Blunt. Adapted from a short story (The Adjustment Team) by the master of mind-blowing sci-fi, Philip K. Dick (Blade Runner, Total Recall), the film is chock full of the sort of manufactured components that could provoke sarcastic chuckles out of most moviegoers. Yet this film moves with such brisk self-confidence that the laughs arrive only at a few comedic rest stops. Terence Stamp plays a stone-faced sentinel who lays it all out: "We actually tried free will before. You gave us the Dark Ages." That’s very funny.

The dynamics of this love story require the main characters triumph over all obstacles including a squad of mysterious men with special powers who move heaven and earth to prevent that happy ending. Damon's character, a New York congressman named David Norris, is a smooth and smart realist. When he meets a group of men hell bent on keeping every human life moving along a preordained path, he fears he's having a psychotic episode. By taking on the audience's skepticism and asking all the how-can-this-be-happening questions, he gives us the luxury of sitting back and watching an engaging tale unfold.

The film wears its influences on its sleeve, from the trim '60s business attire worn by the Men in Black-like guardians, to the notion that the world is, in effect, a Truman Show-style soundstage. Yet it doesn't feel like a mosaic of previously used moments. George Nolfi, the writer of the last "Bourne" movie, scripts and directs here, keeping the focus on his appealing stars and the story's heart. If Norris gets his ballerina, the emotional hole that propels him to seek elective office will be filled. And if Norris doesn't run for president ... well, they never exactly establish what will happen, but it seems bad.

The script's mystical uproar about predetermination and free will is mere scaffolding for a sweet romance. Damon, who usually chooses more challenging roles than the romantic lead, gives it a solid, sincere shot. He's touching when he appeals to his relentless adversaries' better nature, saying, "If I'm not supposed to be with her, why do I feel like this?" A true politician, he thinks he can talk fate into a compromise.

The film looks great, with John Toll's burnished photography turning New York into a romantic wonderland. The special effects are low-key, with one nifty exception. Damon's pursuers chase him across Manhattan by popping through doorways that magically connect Fifth Avenue to Yankee Stadium or subway tunnels to the base of the Statue of Liberty. When Norris turns the tables, the film becomes a giddy sightseeing tour: Inception by way of The Amazing Race.

It’s all utter silliness, of course, but played with such sincerity by Damon and Blunt that we happily go along for this entertaining 99 minute ride. And there’s something wonderfully anarchistic in the idea that even the heavenly host is beset these days with labor issues.

RALPH'S FIRST HOURS BACK IN THE UNITED STATES

                                        Rodney, Ralph and me!

Ralph’s 12:30 flight on Tuesday, February 8th out of Port-Au-Prince into Miami was delayed 3 times, ultimately cancelled and another flight was scheduled for 6:30 p.m. My flight from New York arrived in Miami at 12:30 that same day; plenty of time to meet his 1:30 original arrival time. I was the 'hand off' person. I met up with LP and Rodney (another relief worker) in the airport. We heard about the delays but because Ralph did not have a phone, we had no way of knowing if he ever made the later flight. The airline is actually prohibited from telling anyone who is on a plane. When the plane from Haiti finally arrived and all the passengers appeared to come through the customs gate, Ralph was nowhere to be found. It was more than an hour after the plane had landed and we had no idea where he was. Not only are customs and immigration agents hard to find, they don’t like to talk to the people waiting. They point and shrug and exhibit tremendous annoyance at anyone who dare ask them a question.

It was almost 9:30 p.m., 9 hours after my plane landed and I still didn't know if Ralph was even in the United States. I was starting to stress which is something I seldom do. I have such confidence in The Universe, I always feel that as long as I do what I need to do and put my best foot forward, whatever is happening is what’s suppose to be happening. My job is to deal with it. OK, I was not dealing with it very well (I was frantic) so I looked around for some assistance; someone I felt I could appeal to in some way. A young uniformed man comes walking out of the customs gate and I’m confident I can work this. “Maybe you can help me – PLEASE”, I say, leaning in, I put my hand on his forearm. “I’ve been waiting here since 12:30. It’s now almost 10:30. I don’t even know if the child I’m waiting for is even here. No one will talk to me. Please, can you just tell me if he is here or not”? The agent looks around, takes out a pen and asks me for the passengers’ name. Ten minutes later the agent reappears, looks at me from a distance, shakes his head yes and points upstairs. I don't know exactly where "upstairs" is but I know it's not in Haiti and that's all I care about. I relax. An hour later, I get a phone call telling me Ralph will be down in ten minutes.

Ralph was interrogated for 3 ½ hours. “Where did you get these papers?” “Did you buy them”? “How long were you in Haiti?” “How long were you in the United States?”  He was asked the same questions over and over. One of the agents told him he would have to pay a $589.00 fine before they let him out. “How can I pay that if you won’t let me make a phone call?” Ralph answered wisely. Basically, it was 3 ½ hours of accusations that he falsified his documents. All they had to do was call me. I could have given them our Embassy contact in Haiti. OR, if they had looked at the document, they would have seen a name and number and made a call. Am I missing something? Are you allowed to hold a minor and deny him a phone call? One agent asked him if he wanted a bag of chips. “You better eat” he said. “You’re gonna be here for a while”. Ralph was told they could hold him for up to 12 hours and that he would have to go before an immigration judge. Thankfully, that never happened. They let him go and that's all that mattered. It was now Wednesday and we had a 1 p.m. flight to catch back to New York - out of Tampa!

That's happiness!!

to be continued......

THE INCREDIBLE JOURNEY OF RALPH SAINTILUS

“I finally got the passport this morning. THANK GOD!!” the email from Ralph came glaring from my Blackberry. It was the final document needed to extricate him from Haiti. Almost a year of jumping through hoops, everything we needed, except the airline ticket, was in place. I called American Airlines and had him scheduled on the 12:30 flight out of Port-Au-Prince the following day. You don’t want to wait too long because you never know what can happen in Haiti one minute to the next. Between the political unrest, the rioting, cholera; the government can shut the airport at any given moment.

Ralph was 9 when his father left his mother, remarried and took him and his new wife to the United States. They started a life in Pompano Beach, Florida and despite the fact that Ralph missed his mom, he loved his dad and was excited about living in a country he had heard so many amazing things about. Although he did not speak a word of English, he quickly assimilated, mastered the language, made friends and was doing well in school. Everything seemed to be perfect until one day his stepmother, using the ruse of going to visit his family, took him back to Haiti. Once there, she handed him $100 dollars, took his passport and Green Card and headed straight back to Florida. After six years of living in Florida, going to school and making a life, at 15 he found himself alone and without any identification in Port-Au-Prince. Even his birth certificate was back in Florida. Haiti is not a country you want to be in without ID. You cannot go to school, get a cell phone or do much of anything for that matter, without ID.

Ralph found his way back to his mom who was barely managing, living in a small, one room hovel with her 5 year old daughter, Ralph’s new half sister. The following day, he called his stepmother's cell phone, "I'm in Miami", she said. "Miami!!" Ralph screamed in disbelief, "How about me??" "You're gonna be there for a while - get use to it", she snapped back and hung up. He cried for weeks. One week later, after continually trying to call home, the numbers were changed. That was the last he heard from them.

Ralph lived with his mom and little sister, scraping together barely enough to sustain themselves. Cramped inside this tiny room, Ralph would occasionally sleep on the roof but the frequent heavy rain made it impossible to make the roof his home. He left within a month because he knew he was a tremendous burden on his mom. From his mom’s roof he went to his aunt’s house and asked if he could stay with her. She was sweet and kind and welcomed him but after three months it became too difficult for her to care for Ralph. She had two children of her own and was struggling to keep them fed. She told him he had to leave.

With no place to go, Ralph found a few pieces of wood and some old sheets and made a shelter for himself in the outskirts of Port-Au-Prince. He lived there, with 2 other street kids, doing odd jobs for pennies or scraps of food. When it rained, he would leave his makeshift tent to find better cover for the night. For almost a year, he lived like this, barley surviving, until January 12th, 2010. The earthquake changed everything. With fluency in English and Creole, Ralph was a valuable commodity to the thousands of relief workers. With inner ambition and a strong desire to help, he dug in. While assisting with transports, search and rescues and working as a translator for doctors, he had access to food. His daily struggle to survive was at least temporarily, over. As a gift for his hard work and translating skills, a doctor gave him a good tent. He parked himself outside of Haitian Community Hospital and his life as a relief worker began.

On April 2nd, 2010, I met Ralph immediately after arriving in Haiti. He was my right hand man: my translator, body guard, and keeper of my backpack. I don’t think I was there 24 hours before I started questioning him about his perfect English and his clearly American way. When he told me what happened, not only was I appalled at the recklessness of his father and stepmother, I was determined to get him home, here, back in the United States where he belongs. Ten months later, he is here. Amen and God Bless America!

A million thanks to Paul Waggoner, Eileen S., David C., Lisa A., and Pius D. Without these people, this doesn’t happen. These are the people who stuck their necks out, giving their time and expertise to see this through. In addition, they put up with me - never easy.

p.s. Although this act of abandonment sounds horrific by our standard of decency, it happens enough to Haitian children to earn them a name; “throw backs”.