Social Medial Marketing and Journalism of Soleil Global

Davidson’s Rat Bite

Davidson was bit by a rat. Baby swaddle in poison. He was dying. No one knew why until the blanket was opened. Davidson’s rat bite spread infection all over, his tiny limbs swollen like blood sausage. He was obviously on the threshold of forever. But his bite also spread another type of infection. An infectious kind of kindness.

A Port-Au-Prince unwed brought Davidson to a party, the one every Saturday at Chez Florence, where Florence fed the local children. That’s how she got involved, said Florence. “Then I was a party girl,” she told us as we sat around the orphanage lunch table. “In lieu of my usual Saturday party, one Thursday I decided that I just felt like having one for the kids.” She continued to have parties for the children every week.

“At thze end of the monthe there was a big party for the birthhdayez.” Her accent was French Creole with intonations of colonial-served privilege, pragmatism, and humor, and compassion. After some time hosting the parties, Florence found out that her maid had been feeding some of the children that had been coming during the weekdays when she wasn’t home. They would form a line outside the gate and her maid would give them leftovers. One day, Florence needed a ride and came back to the house unexpectedly. “Shoo, shoo,” the maid said, “go away,” when she saw Florence approach the gate. “No, why are you doing that,” Florence called. “Let them stay.” And stay they did.

The weekly feeding became a ritual supported by The Peace Corp in the initial years. In 1992, when Aristide was overthrown, the foreign aid stopped coming. Florence continued the feedings using her own funds and by “begging” for other donations. And then one day, someone wanted to give her more than she was looking to handle. “You need to adopt this baby,” said the Aunt of a destitute family who brought Davidson to Florence’s Sunday party. “He’s dying. You have to help.” “Ooh no. I’m not an orphage. I do what I can for these kids. But I can’t do that,” she pushed back on the Aunt holding the dying Davidson. The Aunt persisted. “I don’t know, she had some kind of power over me,” Florence shrugged her shoulders.

Florence had a very powerful spirit. This force was stronger than her conviction. “Ok you are coming with me.” The two women got into Florence’s car. Davidson looked extremely weak. Despondent, his runny eyes and nose were beginning to crust as flies buzzed around his little face, limp features wrapped in a dirty blanket and dusty head. “I thought he was going to die in the car, so I stopped at a pharmacy to get some Pedialite,” her tone hushed, and then she began speaking really fast. “I was really being tested. I told the pharmacist that I’d pay her back and opened the bottle in front of her.” Davidson didn’t take the Pedilite. It formed little rivers of droop down the sides of his limp expression.

They drove to the hospital straight away. Florence pulled the car around the front. The attendant at the circle waved, “Go around back to the morgue,” he said. “I was so scared that the baby was dead already.” Florence approached a doctor walking from the hospital to his car. “Doctor, this baby is dying, we need your help.” “Are you adopting the baby?” said the doctor. “No, I’m just trying to save his life.” “I can only help a baby that is being adopted,” said the Haitian doctor. Florence was mad, which stoked her determination. “You swear to help anyone in need. That’s your job.”

The doctor resisted some more as Florence followed him to his trunk. The doctor knew Florence and her brother, but his face didn’t register. “You shouldn’t be acting like this, Florence, your brother and family will be ashamed.” She further insisted. “We can’t let the baby die without trying.” “Ok, I’m going to give him one thing. If that doesn’t work within 10 minutes, the baby will die.” Florence nodded as the doctor took the baby into the open trunk and fished out a syringe.

Within 5 minutes the baby opened his eyes and wiggled his nose. The doctor pealed off the blanket to give Davidson an exam. And there it was, a puss-covered foot that had been bitten to the bone by a large rat–infected to the point of sepsis. The infected flesh fell off Davidson’s heel.

Davidson is 20 now. He lives in the Renman Orphanage, founded and maintained by Florence. “He was a good boy. Now he’s a good man.” There are 40 other children at the orphanage from 2 to 21. The Renman Orphanage was our first site visit on the Soleil Global bi-annual aid trip led by the Haitian and Soleil Global President, Jacque-Philippe, who was well-connected throughout the country. The acting chair of the charity, my friend Alison, invited me.

As Florence told us this story, we sat around a large table, eating our first Haitian meal: eggplant, black beans, rice, plantains, and chicken. With mango juice and bright orange “Fruit Champagne” soda. We had already met the children. They sang to us when we arrived. When we finished lunch, Camilla and Olivier were in my arms within minutes. My hat was lifted shortly after that, as the children took turns passing it around. Camilla was so cute, after seeing her prance around in my Panama hat, I didn’t even care about lice or germs. Seeing her so happy made me happy. I held her in my arms, carrying the adorable 20 lbs from room to room. “C’est ta chambre? I asked. “Des animaux, beacoup des animaux mingnon.”

These kids seemingly had it pretty good. Minimalist camp-style bunk bedrooms separated the children by gender and age range. There was room for 40 kids and with the new building in construction to repair the earthquake damage even more. Every time I tried to put Camille down, she looked at me longingly and held up her hands towards me. She was persistent just like Florence. She had a power over me, for sure. For a brief period in my mind, I had decorated a room in my East Hampton beach cottage that I had in contract at the time. The East Hampton house deal all fell through; but I still have the Haitian art on my walls. I still watch the video of her that I posted on Facebook with a twang of longing. I bet she’s even more beautiful two years later. I hope to see her grow just like Davidson.

In the dusty courtyard, there were some runny eyes. One little boy out right asked me for money. “Je veux mais c’est pas juste pour les autres,” I successfully talked the little hustler out of his hustle. We had been warned right off the plane that giving handouts is dangerous. There had been an incident on the last trip, so we even had a security guard with us in addition to a driver and several US-based Creole-speaking Haitians. The older kids were a bit standoffish, as I expected. I wanted to go play soccer with them, but Camille wouldn’t let me out of her sight. The younger children sang for us again. They seemed genuinely happy with infectious warmth and a sense of gratefulness. Life was not perfect at Chez Florence. But Florence has given them a loving home. Her generosity was contagious.

Learn more at: http://www.facebook.com/RENMENhaiti #Portrait of the Orphan as a Baby #InfectiouslyBeautifulHaiti #PortraitofanOrphan Matriarch #FlorencesInfectionPersonality

Sound Off for A Cure Event Committee and Marketing 2008-2013