My story begins in the wee of hours of the morning in Port-au-Prince, Haiti.

“Eader, Eader,” Osmack whispered, urgently butchering the pronunciation of my name. His gnarled hand gently shook my shoulder.

“Ahhhhh, Osmack, it’s too early,” I whined, groggily, squinting up at him. The pale morning light barely illuminated his dark figure. Sweet, compact, and deceptively strong (both physically and emotionally), Osmack bore countless scars from living on the streets of Port-au-Prince. Though the light was dim, I could make out the pits and lines that blemished his complexion. Thankfully, he was far from the abusive lifestyle he had once lived. He now worked as live-in domestic at the inn in which I was staying.

“It’s time to wake up,” he said, shaking me a bit more forcefully.

“Ugh,” I moaned.

A few moments of silence passed. I thought he had left until suddenly he exclaimed,“Oh my God! Spider! There’s a huge spider on the wall!” His voice was so convincing, I scrambled out of bed, tangling myself in my mosquito net in the process, and tumbling to the floor. Panting, I looked up at him.

“Is it gone?” I asked. When he broke out into hysterical laughter, I realized I had been played for a fool.

“That’s not funny!” I cried, defensively.

“Okay, what happened without me?” asked Maria, my roommate and fellow volunteer, as she entered our room. Maria was the ideal companion. We had been together for almost a month teaching English to 40 children in Port-au-Prince. She always had the perfect one-liner to turn a wearisome situation into a knee-slapper.

Just then, Cherly, our Haitian leader, stomped into the room. “Girls, breakfast is ready. Let’s go! We have to be at the school in 30 minutes!” he barked.

I sighed. I didn’t feel like going to the school this morning. Yesterday, the kids had acted up and were uncooperative. I was hoping their behavior would not escalate today. Over breakfast, I shared my thoughts with Maria. “Thank God it’s Friday” she said gravely. We were both anxious for a break at the beach this weekend.

As Cherly hustled us out the door, I couldn’t help but feel dread for what the day would bring. It turned out that I had reason to be worried. The kids were, in fact, terribly behaved. No lambs of God were they, but rather a flock of screaming banshees. The day started well until I made the mistake of offering stickers to whoever could answer a math question correctly. This had unleashed a chaos I never knew sparkly adhesive paper could.

“Chita timou, kounya! Sit down, kids! Right now!” I shouted to no one in particular. The children continued to run, whoop, and holler. The Haitian sun was already high, heating up our classroom tent. Sweat poured down my neck and back. I was hot and exhausted. Trying frantically to regain order, I scooped up two six-year-olds, Stanley and Manley, carried them to one of the few functioning benches, and instructed them to stay there. No sooner did I turn my back when I heard Manley’s indignant holler above the already impressive din of the room.

“Metrès, Stanley te frape mwen!” (Teacher, Stanley hit me!) He yelped, dodging another smack.

I desperately searched the room for Maria. I did not have to look far. She was struggling to restrain another student. Her hair was disheveled, she was covered in dirt, and her eyes warned me of an immanent psychological breakdown. I gave her my best sympathetic look.

What am I doing here? I wondered, watching the out-of-control scene. I could be home relaxing at the pool with my friends. I could have stayed home … I should have stayed home!

My personal pity-party was interrupted by a tug on my shorts. I looked down to see a little girl, whose name I had yet to learn, weeping in soft hiccups. I sighed, my patience worn thin. I squatted and stretched out my arms. Her bony limbs wrapped tightly around me. I rubbed her back and cooed softly in Creole. I didn’t feel particularly compassionate at the moment, but weeks of meltdowns had made me an expert in comforting crying children. The truth was I wanted to have a tantrum and have someone console me. I could feel her tears soak my T-shirt, and I became more annoyed. I thought about setting her down on the bench and storming out of the tent, going back to bed, and starting fresh tomorrow. However, as soon as I made a move, she lifted her head.

For the first time, I took a closer look at her. She had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. They were entrancingly large and almond-shaped with flecks of gold sprinkled in the toffee-colored irises. But there was a sorrow in those eyes, a longing for something always out of reach. I knew that look. It was imprinted in the gazes of so many Haitians I had met. Then something below her right eye caught my attention: an angry, egg-sized bruise.

“Ki moun ki fè sa a ba ou?” (Who did this to you?) I asked, pointing to the welt. The little girl turned away, unwilling to answer. Gently, I tugged her chin until she was facing me. “You can tell me,” I said softly.

Her eyes turned glassy as she whispered, “Papa mwen.” (My dad.)

“Has he done it before?”

“Yes,” she replied, faintly.

Time suddenly stopped, and the noise faded. We became the only ones in the room. I felt like I had been sucker-punched in the gut. I knew domestic violence was common here, but when you hold its victims in your arms, greet them each day, know their smiles, see their brave faces, and wipe their tears, it becomes a frightening reality.

What was more upsetting was that there was nothing I could do. There was no mandatory reporting system. Even in a country where foreigners often have more influence on the authorities than natives, the police were too corrupt to pursue such a case without exorbitant bribes changing hands. I was powerless. No justice would be served. I shook with anger and helplessness.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked gently. She lifted her head and looked me in the eyes.

“Mwen pa gen yon nom,” (I don’t have a name) she stated so simply that it broke my heart. I couldn’t believe that no one had ever bothered to give this child a name. It was one of the most vital parts of being a human. I burned with indignation as well as a desire to help. At that moment I realized that I wanted to dedicate my life to humanitarian work in Haiti. In that moment, it felt as if I had found an answer to a question that I had been searching for all my life. Passion tugged at my heart and schemes raced around my mind. I had found my purpose in life, and an urgency to begin my new journey suddenly consumed me.

“Can you give me a name?” the little girl asked, fiddling with the neckline on my T-shirt. I hesitated. Naming someone seemed like a huge responsibility. A name marks the beginning of our stories and carries us through until the end. I was only 17. Could I really give someone something that would last a lifetime?

Sensing my doubt, she buried her head in my shoulder. Racing through names, I quickly settled on one. It seemed juvenile yet felt right. I wanted it to remind her – whatever happened and wherever she went – that someone cared about her.

Thus, I murmured just loudly enough for her to hear, “Amou, se nom ou.” (Your name is Love.)

And then she smiled.

Though this event occurred just a month ago, I feel much older and three times wiser. I am not as innocent as I once was. Coming home, it was difficult to adjust to the realization that the first-world privileges I took for granted on a daily basis (such as electricity, running water, being able to attend school, etc.) are luxuries to the children I taught. Just thinking of them – Amou, Stanley, Manley, and the others – fills me with a sense of desperation to return to Haiti. Although I plan to soon, there are times when I want to buy a one-way ticket and rush right back to them. At the same time, I have never felt more motivated to do well in school. I know the best first steps I need are gaining knowledge, skills, and credentials.

I have a lifetime of work to do in Haiti, and I cannot wait to begin. My motivation has no name. Adjectives cannot describe it. Only verbs can do it reasonable justice.