Haiti doesn’t let people turn into ever-cranking machines.

My babies are my 40 students. I have no babies and lots of babies.

will return next week.

The Mambos sway, dance, tremble, ready to be mounted by a Mystery.

will return next week.

When joy rises out of relentless muck, it is a joy like no other.

Whose rubble is it, anyway? Whose tragedy, whose problem?

What happens when you push an all-girl film crew?

The smeared lurching bodies of charcoal men are not easy to approach.

The girls have been through hell, and their yearning for joy is too intense.

My students are learning how to wait, watch, and grab reality as it unfolds.

In the absence of a master, his shattered tableaux.