It's
been 1,050 days, 150 weeks, 25,200 hours, 1,512,000 minutes, and 90,720,000 seconds since we lost our house and everything that wasn't
in my car to a fire. I had insurance, and as I explained in previous posts, I’ve
been fighting in court with Heritage insurance company who’s refused to pay my
claim. Although these numbers confound me, I am encouraged by the number of
daily visitors to this protest blog. Equally, I’m enthralled by the number of
people who approach me on the street to commiserate. These are people who’ve
seen my blog advertised on my car window. Recently, I was entering the garage
at the university where I teach when one such compatriot flagged me down. From a distance the man’s hunched frame, shaky
but determined walk, and white hair reminded me of one of my favorite people who
ever lived—my grandfather. How I miss this man of character.
My grandfather was a silent giant. His name was
Demeurant. The living. He had been blessed by our ancestors to carry on our
best features---charcoal hue and bone-white teeth. By the time I could form a
thought, my grandfather had gray hair; however, he didn’t seem old to me. For, every
morning, he would leave our compound at around 5 on his favorite horse to go to his farm. Although on my family compound we had a large garden, the
commercial farm was a few miles away. Then, he would return mid-day to work in
the wood workshop with some of his seven sons, my uncles. They made coffins and saddles for the locals, but statuettes for tourists.
Reluctantly, I forced my mind to leave images of my smiling grandfather behind and to return to the old man approaching my car.
Reluctantly, I forced my mind to leave images of my smiling grandfather behind and to return to the old man approaching my car.
I exited the car and faced the elderly garage
attendant. In his best English coupled with my best Spanish, I managed to string
together his story. He said, “I too Heritage victim.” No doubt he had seen the
address of my blog written on every window of my car and read the postings. I listened to
his story. He told me that he and his wife have worked menial jobs for over
forty years. Early last year, their modest home began to leak. The mold spread
aggressively. They filed a claim with Heritage. He told me Heritage refused to
pay. “I been suffering,” he said, the frailty in his voice pierced through me. He confided
that he has had to hire a lawyer, but he is worried because he’s heard about how
the insurance companies use the courts to bankrupt people with legitimate
claims while their CEO’s make million dollars.
I barely felt his hand squeezing mine. As we parted,
promising to catch up after my class or whenever we see each other again, a
familiar feeling of the world closing in on me came over me. I rushed to the bathroom to splash cold water on
my face, wondering if this elderly man will lose everything too. Will he have to work two full-time jobs like
me so he can pay legal bills that range from 2 thousand to 9 thousand a month?
How will he do it? Will the stress of it all take his life? Heritage Company’s
motto is “Pillar of character.” Reader, you be the judge.
