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I was only 11 years old. None of us knew that our lives would be changed drastically in a matter of hours. I started the day by getting ready for school; as on a typical Tuesday, I had a piano lesson after class from 4:30 until 5:00 p.m. The day went by as usual for my friends and me; we were dismissed at 2:00 p.m., as usual. I called my mom to tell her that I was not feeling well, and that I didn’t want to stay for my piano lesson. She understood and came to pick me up. I usually showered and ate before I started studying, but that day, I felt like studying before doing everything else. I took off my uniform and went to study on the front porch. It was around 4:30 when I started studying. Because I am easily distracted, I got bored sitting down, so I stood up to walk a bit.

In Haiti, our houses are built with concrete blocks, so when I heard a sound against the wall, I thought my mom was trying to get me to concentrate on studying. But as I kept walking, the noise got louder and the ground started shaking. First, I called my mom, and then I realized that something bad was happening, so I started running toward the back of the house, but something kept pushing me back to the front porch. I got thrown against the wall, fell on my chest, and hit my head. I stood back up because I had realized that I should get out of the house. I stood up again, but I got thrown into the air. It seemed like something was trying to keep me inside the house. When I fell back down, one of our iron chairs fell on me and hurt my chest. I felt one of my ribs crack. I finally gathered my strength to stand up, and I got thrown out of the house. As I fell, I hit my head on a wall, but thank God I did not lose consciousness. I didn’t process what had happened until I saw my mom standing on the street with blood on her face. She was crying and calling my name. When I finally reached out to hold her, that’s when I felt the pain. My whole body was in pain; my lip was bleeding, my knees were covered in blood, and my rib cage was swollen. My mom had me sit down and was holding me so tightly, while telling me how much she loved me and was scared to lose me. Through my tears, I saw people covered in blood getting carried in wheelbarrows. Other people were burned and lost their skin when a nearby gas station exploded. Houses had fallen down. I saw my neighbors’ dead bodies; I saw the kids I used to play with dying, and I was unable to go help them. That day, your age, your skin color, your social rank—none of that mattered. I lost countless people I cared about. I lost my teacher, my great-grandmother and great-grandfather, my cousin, and a dozen friends. I might seem well now, but I know that whoever lived that day in Haiti will never get over it.
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Darla Christie Time was born, raised, and finished school in Haiti. She speaks Creole, French, English, and some Spanish. She arrived in the U.S. in 2019. Darla Time learned early to be courageous. She writes, “Where I come from doesn’t matter; what matters is where I want to be.” At the Adult Learning Center of CUNY’s New York City College of Technology, her teacher is Martie Flores.