Once upon a time I had the unique opportunity to serve the cause of freedom and democracy while working on my tan and making an obscene amount of money. In 1994 I was selected by the U.S. Department of Justice to train Haitian refugees at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. The Clinton Administration had conceived of the brilliant plan that if we (the United States) were to train the cream of the refugee crop in modern police methods, we would have a manpower pool for staffing the new department that President Aristide would need in his new, free, democracy. Unfortunately, no one in a position of power did any research into the levels of education or sophistication of our would-be guardians of the public trust, and the results, while humorous, were predictable.
I was teaching a class of about 30 refugees the basic Rights and Laws of Arrest under Napoleonic Law. Since no one has had Rights in Haiti in decades, qualifying as an expert in the field required me to read the course handouts five minutes before class. I was explaining to them the process for taking a newly arrested prisoner before a Judge prior to booking, when one of the students at the rear of the class raised his hand with a question. Since I do not speak Creole, and very few of the refugees spoke English, the classes were taught with the aid of interpreters. As the student asked his question, I saw from the reaction of the rest of the class that they thought it was good question, and they all turned to me, eager for what ever pearls of wisdom I cast before them. I turned to my interpreter, and saw the grin on his face, and knew I had an interesting question headed my way.
“What do you do if you arrest a man, but on the way to jail, he turns into a goat?” I looked at my interpreter, and he nodded, yes, they were serious. So, being a no nonsense kind of guy, I decided, right there, to clear up their funny ideas about magic. I looked at the class, and saw that they were on the edge of their seats, waiting for my response to this everyday Haitian occurrence. I said “First of all, it is impossible for a man to turn into a goat. It cannot happen.” There, I thought, problem solved.
Suddenly the class was in an uproar. Maybe it didn’t happen in America, but in Haiti, this was a common problem, and obviously needed a better answer than I had given. “How many of you actually believe that a man can turn into a goat?” I asked, expecting 3 or 4 students to raise their hands. Every hand in the classroom shot up, and on every face an expression of earnestness. I dropped my head in defeat.
An inspiration! “How many of you have actually, with your own eyes, seen a man turn himself into a goat?” Now I had the right approach, I thought. They may believe, but none of them have every actually witnessed this impossible event. Logic will prevail. Half of the hands in the room were raised, and again I hung my head. I decided to end this line of argument and move on, so I told them “Take the goat to jail.” To me, this was an admission of defeat in the face of adversity, but the class was awestruck. I could tell from their faces that this was not an idea that had occurred to them. No wonder I was the teacher and they mere students. I was an oracle from America, and must know everything. I left the class with the respect and admiration of my students, and the knowledge that I was leaving the field of battle in disgrace.
Word of my genius spread throughout the compound of approximately 700 refuges, and after that it became common for problems involving magic and voodoo to be brought to me. I suspect that my fellow instructors had a hand in that, but was never able to prove it. One day, while instructing a class on Jail Operations, I saw a timid hand raised at the back of class. I pointed out a student, who stood up and asked a simple question. “What do you do when a prisoner escapes from jail?” At last, a question with a firm foot on the ground. “When a prisoner escapes from jail, you hunt him down like the dog that he is, arrest him, and throw his ass back in jail.” Now there was a question that had been answered, and would stay answered. In fact, I thought, I answered the hell out of that question. Apparently the class agreed, because I saw looks of admiration on their faces as they furiously wrote their notes.
To the left of the class I spotted another hand, and called on a young woman to hear her question. “What do you do if he escapes again?” Well, I thought indulgently, I can’t expect them to make the logical jump that, say, An American would, so I responded “I would hunt him down like the dog that he is, arrest him, and throw his ass back in jail, again.” Somehow, the second time, my great answer didn’t have the same impact on me. The class, however, was amazed at my ability to cut straight to the meat of the problem and unerringly come to the answer that, on reflection, should have been so obvious. When the scratching of pencils ceased, a sea of hands appeared with more questions.
I selected a quiet man at the front of the class, and he stood to ask his question. His face showed his puzzlement as he spoke. I don’t speak Creole, or French, but with enough repetition even I can learn at times. I looked around the class, and realized that we could be asking and answering this same question until dawn the next day if I allowed it. They seemed to be expecting, after the umpteenth escape that something might change. I realized I need to stop this and regain control fast.
“I left something out” I told the class. “The first time the prisoner escaped, I would, of course, hunt him down like the dog that he is, and throw his ass back in jail, but I would also find out how he escaped, so that I could make sure no one was ever able to escape that way again.” There, I thought, that should cover it. “How did he escape?” After a rather lengthy exchange between the class and the interpreter, I was told that a witchdoctor, in jail, would cut open and take apart his mattress. With the string used to bind the straw, he would tie a knot around his big toe, and would become invisible. The prisoner could then simply walk out unobserved.
Oh God, not again, I thought. Having been through this before, I had my responses down pat. “Look” I said, “it is impossible for a man to turn invisible simply because he has tied a string around his toe. However” I added, “if this should become a problem in MY jail, I would simply remove the straw mattresses and replace them with foam rubber ones.” The class erupted in celebration. Here, finally, was an American who understood the problems of magic in Haiti and was a match for the evil witchdoctors that plagued them. Haitians being Haitians, they immediately broke into song.
Before the end of the day, news of my answer spread through the camp, building on my reputation as a man of genius. Throughout the camp, new songs of my daring and exploits in the face of evil shamen grew. The resident witchdoctors in the camp felt threatened by my growing reputation, and I had to arrange a peace conference after being informed that voodoo dolls bearing a striking resemblance to me had been found in the port-a-potty.
They say that due to the comedic brilliance of Jerry Lewis, he is considered a genius in France. I am happy knowing that somewhere in the interior of Haiti on the island of Hispaniola, villagers are still singing about the pale American who challenged the dark magic of the witchdoctors. That’s right; I am a genius in Haiti.
