DC Journals-Part 2

Demonstrator holds poster of Haitians murdered under military regime backed by United States, UN Troops and supporters
of the wealthy elite.


6:15 AM
Roughing it on a church floor all night isn’t easy.
I am awaked by an ache I feel in my hip. It isn’t the side I’m laying on, but the reverse. I see my friend that I’ve made on the bus has taken a spot on a bench near me. She says she laid down at 4 am. I feel like she has been watching me sleep and waiting for me to wake up.

I start thinking about my day. I need to get myself organized. I’m still annoyed by the camera thing. A broken camera really puts a dent in things. I thought it was going to be so cool. I was going to take photos, download them right away and post them with a few captions. No pictures of journalist testifying, nor anyone else who was a witness. No pictures of Ramsey Clark giving the closing remarks. No pictures of the jury as we reviewed the question and considered the charges. Where and how will I get a new camera? I also need headphones at some point. I cannot go the rest of the trip without them. I need an atm and the nearest starbucks because I can get internet access there to post. Although posting is the least of my problems. I need to figure out how to get to my hotel from here, so I can check in before the rally and drop off the knap sack. It is not heavy, but I don’t want to lug it around all day or miss out on the opening speeches. At 6:42 am I decide to stop writing so I can wash up, (I start most of my days writing. It is my morning coffee) change my clothes and start studying a map of the DC area. My plan; to find an ATM, call the hotel and find out how early I can drop my stuff off and the latest I can check in, and a radio shack. Maybe there is such a thing as a disposable digital camera capable with my USB cords to download tonight? Perhaps I’m dreaming. I also need to get Kim Ives mother’s phone number and the lady I’ve been chatting with on the bus. I wonder if it’s a good idea to charge my laptop while I get washed? This writing on the road stuff calls for many needs and much planning.


Getting Around DC or What Are We Doing In Maryland?
9:39pm
I got to my hotel only a few hours ago. I’m glad to have attended the tribunal and the march. I should be at the concert now. I’m too exhausted to go. I’m also angry with myself for not following my plan to drop my stuff off at the hotel this morning. I went on errands a few blocks from the church. After I took what cash I had out of the bank and found a 99 cents store that had disposable cameras. They accepted credit cards. I picked up a couple of croissants and juice from a 7-11 and rushed back to the church. I did get a cab driver to come to the church, but after he told me it was going to be 45 minutes to get me to the hotel and back, I decided not to go. I didn’t think he would have me back in time to travel on the bus with the group. Looking back on this now, I should have gone to the hotel anyway. I would have been able to secure all my stuff in the room and been able to stay in the DC area. I could have found my way to where the group was at the rally. I had the cell number of the bus captain. I always regret when I don’t follow my gut.

At about 3:30 pm I’m traveling with a group who is headed back to where the buses are parked. Others in the group wanted to stay at the march, but this group was concerned about getting back to the bus on time before the bus was scheduled to depart at 5:30. I was so glad I left when I did. We had to take the train to where the buses were. The allotted travel time was a half an hour. It was not a half an hour. It took one and a half hours to get to the buses which were parked in (Oh my God!) Maryland. I discover this on the train as we are pulling in to our stop. It is five o’clock. The concert was scheduled to start at 7 o’clock. I got to the bus used the bus toilet and said good-bye to the family I traveled with. The train station was full of people from the rally. It seemed that every bus that came to the rally was parked at this park and ride station. It took 10 minutes to get out of the train station because you had to put in a ticket in order to get out of the station. Hundreds of people were

trying to do this, the scene was pure madness. What a ridiculous system!

Things I notice about the DC/ Maryland area. Once outside DC we are in the middle of nowhere. I notice that the city becomes a suburb pretty much like where I grew up in New Jersey. The street becomes highway. There is nothing but land for miles. Every now and then you come across an industrial complex of some sort with trucks all lined up inside a steal gate. The complex is replaced by a mall with the typical Home Depot, JC Penny blah, blah, blah. I saw railroad tracks that led to who knows where. At each stop a few people got on and off. Once away from the train station there were no people.

On the way back to DC I was armed with directions from a train conductor. I felt secure. I trusted him. I told him where I was going. It was now 5:35 in the afternoon. Somehow it seemed later. I envisioned getting to my hotel, dropping off my stuff and heading out for a night of music with a message and a story to tell.


I arrived at New York Avenue. As a New Yorker getting out at a train station where there was no one standing on the platform, I put on my game face. I was still too obvious. A black woman with glasses, and locked hair and a red t-shirt with 200 years of Haitian Independence, may not be a typical site in DC. I also had a big backpack. There was no one in the station to ask which way to go. I walked for what was the equivalent of a New York City block before finding New York Avenue. It was not an avenue, but a highway. I was lucky to be on a sidewalk. It was now 6:15. It was overcast. I moved quickly. I walked for 15 minutes. I asked a woman pushing a stroller and a guy with a Mohawk dressed in all black and silver chains, for the Gateway Days Inn hotel. I found out that they are also from out of town. They are staying in a Motel 8 just up the road. They suggested I ask the counter people in the Wendy’s. I’m told by them it is just over the hill. I get so excited about sitting in hot tub, and air conditioning that I order food. I know I will be relaxing soon.

Forty-five minutes later I’m still walking. I’ve stopped twice in other hotels to ask if I’m on the right track. I get directions like, “Five blocks on the right.” It is getting dark. I’m tired. I curse myself as cars zoom past me. If I had my driver’s license, I would be driving the Toyota (my husband bought it Boston in a snow storm) that is sitting in front of my apartment. I’m so mad at myself for not leaving this bag at the hotel earlier. It becomes heavier each mile. I’m missing the concert. My stomach is upset. I suddenly remember, I haven’t eaten anything since 11:30 this morning. It is after 7 o’clock. I’m tired. I’m stupid. I haven’t seen another train station. What a lousy transportation system! Why didn’t I just get a cab? What if something happens to me? Why am I doing this again? Oh yeah, I want a press pass. I’m a writer. I want to go home.

When I get to the hotel (finally) it is 7:30pm. The clerk has me wait while he assists the obvious new guy with checkout procedures. I have to use the bathroom. I’m nauseous from trying not to think about needing to use the bathroom. The clerk tells me there are no more non-smoking. I tell him “It doesn’t matter, I don’t smoke.” He apologizes.

When I get to the room it smells like a giant ashtray. I wasn’t thinking about all the other people who have used this room. There is no microwave to warm up my cold fries and barely warm chicken sandwich. There is no alarm clock radio. The television doesn’t have a remote. The coffee maker has a cup next to it filled with instant coffee, tea, stirrers, cream and sugar packets. There is no coffee pot. I wash out the tub to take a bath. I’m sick from the sandwich. The hot bath makes me feel better. I’ve put on a skirt and fresh t-shirt. I want to go get hot food. I change my mind about the skirt. I think about the man who saw me signing in alone. He was too friendly. I put on the water board Old Navy shorts I’ve borrowed from my husband, sneakers and a sweater. I get a phone call. It is my husband. By the time I tell him about the sour end to my day, I don’t want to leave the room. I trade in my clothes for a pair of pajamas. I spread my own blanket over the bed. I set up my laptop. I begin to chronicle my day. There is no internet service. Why am I surprised by this? I’ve only paid 100 bucks plus frigg’in tax. I’m only comforted by the fact that the television has C-span. I fall asleep to all the speeches I have missed that morning waiting for the bus to arrive.


Recollections of the Day
What I remember most about today is the number of times I saw people crying. On the mall today I saw women holding signs with pictures. They were the mothers who had sons and daughters in Iraq. One woman’s sign caught my attention. It was a picture of her son and his brother in happier times. They had their arms around each other and their heads together smiling for the camera. A caption underneath the photo read, “He misses his brother and so do I.” I made eye contact with her and touched my hand to my heart and extended my hand to her. She nodded. A woman with me from our group, looked to see who I was motioning to and acknowledged her too. There were many groups of women sitting together holding photos.

I saw a group walking in a circle that seemed to have no end. They were carrying stringed photos of men and women killed in service in Iraq. Some of the people in the circle were crying. Their faces were grim. Rings of red surrounded their swollen tear filled eyes. I didn’t want to stop to ask them questions. Their circle of the fallen was in my mind a reminder to all of us not to forget the dead. I saw it as ritual and necessary.

The Haitian contingent was made up of people who were at the tribunal and other groups that came for the march.
Some of the women in our, who had come for the tribunal, had been crying too. During the demonstration while marching with the Haitian contingent, some of us held posters of stills of the film footage from the tribunal. One of the posters showed, Nelson Romelus, a 1 year old with his intestines hanging from his belly. He was shot during one of the neighborhood raids by UN troops. The caption under the picture read “1-year-old bandit?” I had not seen that photo. I thought of my four-year-old son when he was one. He is second generation born of a first generation Haitian- American father, who’s Dad came here as a teenager. I thought what if my father in law did not come to the United States. What would the life of the Limontas have been, I wonder. I started to cry. I took out photos of my family because I wished I had them with me.

Others demonstrators in the group held posters of the Haitian folk singer, So Annie being taken to jail. She was a supporter of Aristide. There was also a poster of the man crawling in his blood having just been shot by UN forces. I looked long and hard at that one. Each photo a painful reminder of what is going on all over the world with money backed by the United States.

Over the course of the bus ride after the tribunal and Saturday morning, a woman by the name of Marie, shared her story with me. She came to the United States 31 years ago. She has never returned to Haiti. Marie spoke of her suffering under the regime of the dictator Papa Doc. She said Haiti was not like it is now when she was a girl. She remembers her life in the county. She remembers how people “Were so good to each other. You could sit out in front of your house in the evening and get fresh air.” She said people would come from anywhere and they could stay at her house. Neighbors, friends, and people like the journalist who spoke at the tribunal were all welcome. When Duavlliar came into power she said he wanted to show the world his power. He had buses go out to the country to get people to line the parade route to celebrate him had on becoming president. She said he wanted to show his power. The problem was that the people didn’t have a way to get back. The buses didn’t take them back. So they stayed in Port Au Prince. She said that was the beginning of things getting bad.

Oppression began in subtle ways and progressively became a traumatic series of events. She told me she was taking a class to get her first aid certificate. The teacher invited her to a meeting for the supporters of Duvaillar. She said she was not interested in that. In a sad voice she said, the woman never sent her the certificate. She said, “After a while you didn’t want to leave your house because you would come back and your husband would be gone.” She remembers when the military lined up an entire family. She remembered the babies that they tossed up in the air and then fired upon as their bodies came down. She broke down a few times. Another member of the group who had been traveling with us, comforted her. Marie said she lives with those memories everyday. I sat close to her rubbing her back as she cried. Vincent a community leaders, came to help. He told her, her tears are her words. Marie confessed that she had actually written all this down in French and that it needed to be translated.

During the demonstration as Ramsey Clark addressed the crowd and spoke about Aristide’s kidnapping I noticed another woman who began sobbing. At first I didn’t recognize her grief in her cheering as Ramsey Clark stated, “Bring back Aristide.” I asked if I could take her picture. She said, “No, I’m crying” I tell her I’m sorry. I didn’t want to intrude on her feelings.


Going to sleep that night my mind twisted with all I had seen and experienced. There was one woman in the group that day who was not crying. She was visibly angry. She shouted in Creole and English “ US out of Haiti! Get out of Haiti!” She yelled this at people as we went past the Treasury Department. I thought of her justified anger and Nelson Romelus who would never see his next birthday. I thought of his father and the monotone voice he used to tell the story of his families murder. I went to sleep with the lights on.