I have been thinking about kids lately. Not in a, let’s make some babies sort of way, just kids in general. Today was a frustrating day, as I spent the morning listening to horrible ideas for construction projects. My tongue is still stinging from all of the biting that took place. For decompression, I wandered over to our tent hospital to focus on sketches and drown myself in oceans of Owl City. I set up shop in the operating room/ doodle spot and started in. 2 songs in, I felt small hands grab my shoulders and in a feat of Haitian gymnastics, Resmond was in my lap. Resmond and I were not always best friends. The first day I saw him, he sat head down on a cot and avoided eye contact with me.

Day 2 brought us a bit closer. You see in Haiti, the only people that have visible tattoos are deportees from the states and gang members. Yep, thug life for this blanc!! (blanc means white) Today they took me to Citi Soleil, the worst neighborhood in Port Au Prince with the dubious distinction of being number one for violence and kidnappings because nobody really looks twice at me. Google it if you get bored.

Resmond was a bit curious about this gangster from Colorado, so he shyly pointed my arm out to my friend John and John waved me over so he could see it. Carefully and gently he reached out and began to trace the cross and lettering on my left forearm. Satisfied it was permanent, he sat quietly next to me looking at his tiny pink Crocs. I reached out delicately and put my arm around him to rub his back. 10 minutes later he was sound asleep in my lap. From that day forward, Resmond seeks me out whenever I am at the hospital. “Bree-anne, Bree-anne,” is the standard Creole pronunciation for my name and Resmond calls it out whenever he sees me.

And today found Resmond curled up in my lap, content to watch me sketch and listen to one of my ear buds. The other thing to note about Resmond is that his right arm is pretty jacked. His hand bends a bit unnaturally and he is covered in burn scars all over. He has seen doctor after doctor and each time he gets a bit better, but I have to wonder if he will ever be fully healed. His scars will never go away and he may never gain full use of his hand. I know that my tattoos make me tough in the eyes of others and I exploit it when necessary. Yet, as I watched Resmond’s scarred chest rise and fall as he slept in my lap, I found true toughness and the scars that declare it loudly to the world. No needles and ink required.