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The invitation was subtle, almost inaudible. Students preemptively gathering belongings- notebooks slamming, jackets zipping. Professor Richards leaves us a parting note, “Oh, and if anyone’s interested, we need some interns this summer to help with the program.” Four weeks from that fleeting announcement, I was Haiti-bound. I stepped off my plane and into a third world. Greeted by the thick aromatic island air, I toted a backpack and duffle bag set to last my three-week journey in Port Au Prince. My work would entail mentoring local business entrepreneurs, helping to scale their ventures from local, to national and ideally, global levels. I was advised to wait right outside the airport in the most public area, and wait for a red pickup truck to greet me. As a 20 year old lone white female, I was in the minority—and I felt it. What a funny feeling, blending in your entire life due to your skin, and in a matter of hours, that color is your most defining characteristic. Two teenage boys run by, soccer ball in step, “is that Jennifer Lopez!?” I waited, and I waited. 20, then 30 minutes went by without my truck. Visibly uncomfortable, a local woman wanders over. I’d been warned about the locals. In a thick Creole accent, she offers “Miss, would you like to use my cell phone to call your ride?” Startled, I retort “I don’t have any money to offer you.” Her face instantly illuminated my misjudgment. Visibly insulted, “I don’t want your money, I was trying to help you.” I was defeated. Haiti hates me, I thought. Flustered, I turn around to two men approaching me, “Rachael? Come with us.” This was unfamiliar. This was uncertain. Uncomfortable. This was not America. I dutifully followed. I was entranced the entire car ride by my surroundings. Momentary developed areas immediately followed by complete and utter destruction. In the weeks that followed, I did what I set out to do- implementing a mentorship program with the locals, planning a market to sell their goods, and learning about the culture and history of the beautiful Haitian people. I heard first-hand the horrific details of the 2009 earthquake that physically, economically and emotionally ravaged the nation. I cherished the unending resilience of the Haitian people. I drove stick shift. I ate conch. I went to a United Nations meeting. I was reeling. My three weeks in Haiti translated into a lifetime of value. I came out with a new life lens. Months later, I remember seeing an old pair of Jordan sneakers tied to my neighborhood telephone pole and thinking, “What a waste. Don’t people know how many shoeless kids there are in this world?” I feel unending gratitude for this experience. But above all, I reflect most on that moment outside the airport, reimagining a scene where I graciously accepted that women’s offer. That trip opened my eyes and opened my heart, and Haiti didn’t hate me anymore.