by Larissa Senatus
As I relaxed in bed and enjoyed my day off on a beautiful afternoon, a distant noise filtered into my room. I didn’t pay much attention to it. Still able to hear it after a while, I got curious and decided to go out and see what was going on. All I remember was getting out of bed. The next scene I have in mind is me, holding on to my door, screaming in terror and confusion. As I was being thrown in every direction, I tried to remember what this mysterious phenomenon was. It felt like an eternity before my train of thought began to make sense of the situation: it was an earthquake.
As the tremor slowly came to a halt, I walked around my house, baffled by the scene. In the bedrooms, the dressers had tipped over, the beds had moved from their original positions, and everything else was scattered on the floor. As I walked around to inspect the rest of the house, all I could think about was to call my dance school and ask whether or not classes would still be held the next day. We don’t get very many earthquakes in Haiti: I was in denial. As I picked up my phone to place the call, a quiet voice called for me. Sensing that it came from the backyard, I walked towards the door. It was a young girl who was recommending that we go to open ground. Still in my pajamas, I grabbed my phone, slipped on my sandals and walked outside. Horror…
I never would have imagined the amplitude of the situation. With a quick scan of the area, I realized how serious it really was. I saw my neighbors in tears, screaming for help because a relative was trapped under the rubble of their house, or filled with despair because the very little that they had had just been buried under tons of cement. I saw blood, I saw pain, I saw fear. As it all sank in, I could only think about all the people that I cared about. My heart broke as I wondered where they were.
With the phone lines occupied, there was no way of communicating with anyone. When I was finally able to place a call, I reached my sister’s friend. I was relieved to hear that she and my sister were both safe. My aunt contacted me shortly after. I heard her calling my nickname: “Lilie.” Then I heard my cousins’ voices in the background. By the time I was lucid enough to say “Hi,” communication had been lost. My mom, still no news.
With the night quickly approaching, I was getting more and more nervous. I decided to wander around and try to find my mother. Only, I had no idea where she could have been. She doesn’t work in one location, and at that time of the day, she could have been anywhere. “What’s the point?” I wondered as I headed back home. For hours and hours, I was able to convince myself that my mother is strong and that she pulls through every situation. In that one, she had to be safe too. Yet, as the time went by, I slowly exhausted all the courage I had. I looked around at my devastated neighborhood and blanked out for a moment. I heard a faint car honk in the background. It sounded very much like my mom’s car. I’m only hearing what I’m hoping for, I thought. But the honk was persistent. I wanted to run to the intersection to meet her but I was afraid of being disappointed. As eternity ran its course, I stood and waited. The car turned straight onto my street. I looked towards the bright headlights and tried to identify the driver. As the car approached, I could slowly decipher the shape of a distinct afro-like hairdo. It was my mother. As I ran to meet her, all I could think about was her embrace. Without even turning off her engine, she jumped out of the car to meet me, and we dove into each other’s arms and we cried together. She had received news that my sister was with my aunt. We were all safe.
As the days went by, the situation worsened. With every phone call we received, we anticipated the news of a loss. With every blow of the wind we swore we felt the ground shake. Suddenly, this life that I took for granted had become so fragile. I felt it could disappear any day and I no longer felt safe anywhere. When my parents decided that my sister and I would be leaving Haiti, I could not help but wonder if I’d ever again be with the ones I was leaving behind…
In Florida, my sister and I lived with my father. He rented a bigger apartment so we could be comfortable. He worked day and night to cover the costs of our immigration papers. And after having sacrificed himself for years to provide a stable life for us, he continued to do so beyond expectations. As I stepped into what turned out to be the hardest tribulation of my life so far, his simple love and his undying efforts made it all worth it.
For days I wondered, for nights I worried: seven long months.
I was considered a tourist in the U.S. I couldn’t go to school and couldn’t get a job. I could only sit in my room, day and night. The only piece of paper I had was one that allowed me to remain in the United States because my father is an American citizen. Soon after our move, a letter came for us from the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS); they wanted us in Haiti for our interview. Because my father had already filed for a transfer of our case to Florida, that letter meant nothing. Slowly but surely, I was entering a phase of deep depression. I couldn’t let my sister sense my uncertainties because she is much younger and she watches me. I could not confide in my mother. She worried so much and I didn’t want to trouble her more. I could not talk to my dad. He was doing all he could with our residency application. The rest remained in the hands of the USCIS. For the first time in my life, I truly felt alone. My fears were slowly devouring me.
To make matters worse, one of my aunts insisted on telling me how long an immigration case takes in the US: “Bagay sa yo pran twa, kat, senk an wi pitit!” Three to five years, she said, and it all depended on my number on the list. I was ready to explode when I decided to make what I could of my time, papers or not. I found out about opportunities that were available to those who did not have a resident status and before I knew it, I was my active self again. I was volunteering at my church, I was dancing again and I hit the tennis courts with my sister. I was finally finding my place in this country.
Around the same time, during a conversation with my cousin, I was able to understand her thoughts about my situation. She let me know how worried she had been and how relieved she was to hear how lively I was. “Now just wait for the opportunity to go to college,” she said. At her words, I couldn’t help but wonder: it had been almost a year since I graduated from high school and I still wasn’t doing any of the things I wanted to do with my life. I had always done my best at the activities I pursued and worked hard on the things I loved. Did I really need to wait for the opportunity to go to college? Not at all, I finally realized. It was up to me to create my opportunity, and so I did.
The following summer, I dedicated all of my free time to searching for the right college for myself. As I narrowed down my list and decided on a career path, I became more and more interested in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). I wanted to go into science and engineering; MIT is largely science and engineering. I wanted a place where I would be valued for who I am instead of being forced to become everyone else; MIT bleeds diversity. I wanted to be challenged beyond my limits; MIT proves that all boundaries are self-established. I wanted a place where I would be happy, and that is MIT to me. As I magically fell in love with the Institute, I dedicated all of my time to the fulfillment of their requirements. Still, there were things I couldn’t control.
Well into the application process, I received two envelopes, a month apart from each other. The first one contained a Work Authorization document. The next one contained the famed “Green Card.” I finally had the flexibility to do more in the United States. For my family, this meant being able to afford the education I was pursuing, since as an “International Student,” I wouldn’t have had the option of financial assistance or even loans. My dream was now tangible.
A few months after the application frenzy had ended, I received an email with a title from which I could only read the first three words: MIT Admissions Decisions. I had no idea what it was. I couldn’t stop my brain from generating multiple thoughts per second. I jumped out of my chair and ran into the bathroom. Were it my fate in that email, I wanted to be alone while I read it. I was somewhat relieved when I read the content of the email. I was simply being informed that the decisions would be released on March 14, Pi Day as it is known at MIT. How was I going to keep my very active mind busy and stay stress-free for the next five days?
When Pi Day finally came, I couldn’t wait for 9:26 PM to find out. I had gone out for a walk, I had slept, I had prayed to God. I had done everything I could do to stay serene, but the adrenaline was not allowing me to. My mother, more nervous than I was, couldn’t help but call me for the millionth time. “Remember,” she said, “what’s contained in that letter does not define you. It’s what you do with it that ultimately matters.” When I finally redirected into the webpage that concealed my fate, everything was a blur. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t read the words that were right in front of me. All I managed to see was the phrase: “It is my pleasure.” I assumed the good news and screamed my lungs out. I called my mother and again, we cried together. Only this time, we cried tears of joy.
Back in Haiti for the first time, the summer of that year, I was saddened by the conditions in which people were still living eighteen months after the earthquake. My best friend, Samantha, a very compassionate person, had invited me to take a walk with her to get a better insight into what was really going on. As we walked around her neighborhood, we could clearly see the ravages, physical and emotional, caused by the earthquake. We saw fear in children’s eyes. They didn’t know if they would ever again have a place to call home. We saw pain in mothers’ eyes. They didn’t know how they would feed their children the next time they were hungry. We saw guilt in fathers’ eyes. They had no way of keeping their families sheltered from the pouring rain. Desolation… It was all that we saw. Although my life had felt like a climb atop the Himalayas that year, at the sight of the struggles we had just witnessed, I couldn’t help but feel fortunate about how everything had turned out for me.
As we walked back towards Samantha’s house we could see my mother’s car in front of the gate. Samantha and I said our goodbyes and she walked to the house. Waiting for her at the door was an old classmate who was spending the night with her. I heard her ask Samantha: “I wonder how people who lost two years of their lives feel?” I was utterly excited to tell her that I had never felt so alive.
Larissa Senatus is a member of the MIT class of 2015, studying Mechanical Engineering with a concentration in Biomedical Engineering. She plans to minor in Chemistry because, for some reason that she doesn’t know yet, chemistry is the love of her life—after biomedical engineering. She also wants to learn two new languages during her time at MIT (Mandarin and German).
Larissa grew up in a Christian family in Haiti, and lived in Florida for a year and a half before coming to MIT. When her life changed dramatically, she learned to appreciate every little thing and every little moment, and to love and cherish her family and friends more than ever. Every morning that she wakes up at MIT and looks out her window, she realizes what a blessing life is, and is reminded of all the great things it bears. To be alive, to her, means to “fall down seven times but to rise eight,” to make the best of every situation, to take advantage of all the opportunities that present themselves, to work hard at everything but also to stop and breathe every now and then, to have fun and be silly sometimes, and, most importantly, to enjoy doing everything she does.