BEAUTIFUL THE WORD
By Leah Millis
All I could do was tell her she was beautiful. And she was. Her mother brought me in to the small room, revealing a skinny little girl, enveloped in sheets, curled up on a bed so big it seemed to swallow up her tiny body. Her dark skin contrasted with the white of her covers. Daylight filtered in from the window, providing the only light in the room. A glass of water sat on the floor next to the bed. I could hear the girl’s laboured breathing, and her mother watched anxiously as I sat down next to the girl, and struggled to find words. They thought I was a doctor. They told me she had problems breathing, had a bad cough, and sometimes she fainted. All I could do was tell her she was beautiful, and smile, and ask her name. She smiled weakly back, and I realized that in that sad smile, in her small, frail arms, and sick eyes there really was beauty.
As we passed hundreds of faces, bumping up and down a dirt road full of potholes and puddles, it finally hit me. We really were in Haiti. I felt out of place, almost a rude invader while we streaked through these people’s lives, stirring up dust behind us, the travelers on the road parting ahead, to let us through. Here an old man, with fifteen hats stacked high on top of his head. There a young boy leading his family’s mule, the animal weighed down with twigs and cargo. Every house, every naked child, every family we pass, all have stories. The thatched roofs and fences made with cactus, the lines of clothing hanging near by, the old women cooking by their fires all fill me with emotion. I search, and I grope for the right words to describe what I see, and the word that comes up the most is beautiful.
We arrived at our destination, and set up camp. All the children came to greet us, with their big white, beautiful smiles. It wasn’t a school day, so they all wore their own clothes. Some were better off then others–some boys had a belt, others did not, some had shoes, others did not. Their shirts and clothes were all second hand, usually with some recognizable logo, or something written in English. The children’s laughter rang out through the afternoon, and I was overwhelmed for a while trying to learn names, and allowing them all to touch my white skin, and my hair. Each smiled, and many of the little girls used my own word to describe me, as I used for them, “belle” they said as they examined my hands. One little boy with big eyes and a wonderful smile wore an old worn out sweatshirt, that maybe once was white, but since had turned grey. It hung loose over one shoulder, and the disparity between the old piece of clothing, and the pure, chocolate color of the boy’s remarkably clean skin was beautiful.
Since my arrival in Haiti, I realized that the meaning of such a common word in America had completely changed for me. The word became once again uncommon, and special– it lost its superficial feel. The meaning of the word had previously been warped, misconstrued, violated, and utterly tainted. In America, the word has been used to describe giant mansions, unnaturally skinny movie stars, and pretty sunsets over the mountains. I realized that the mansions, the movie stars, and the sunsets did not deserve beautiful. Such a sacred word meant more to me now then something that was simply aesthetically pleasing. The surface meaning had been broken, and the true depth of the word was being revealed to me. It was much like watching a stone disappear into the darkness of a deep pond after having been cast in, the ripples upsetting the flawless surface.
Beautiful was in the sad conditions of the houses with rusted tin roofs, beautiful was in the hundreds of lines found in the faces of the elderly, lines etched by the sorrow of time. Beautiful was in the eyes of a mother who had five children, and no food to give them. Beautiful was in the face of a young man who looked like he hadn’t eaten in three years, but still smiled as I wished him a good day. Beautiful had been written in the songs, and in the souls of these people. Beautiful described the brightly colored graves, and the happiness seen in their luminescent white smiles. Beauty emanated through the night when the stars shone, as the warm breeze tickled the palm trees silhouetted by the moon.
I watched the little girl as she lined up with the other school children in her loose-fitting uniform, with the newfound knowledge that her cough was caused by asthma. In America, it was an easily treated problem–in Haiti, a constant plague and hardship. Especially for a skinny little girl who just wanted to be able to run and play with the other children. But despite her affliction, she smiled, and laughed with the other girls. And though sadness gripped my chest, and crept up my throat, all I could think was that she was beautiful.
Beautiful.
And she was.
