It’s a typical Monday evening at Community Living Opportunities, a group home for adults with severe disabilities in Overland Park. There’s Delbert, who just awoke from a refreshing afternoon nap and came out of his room shrieking with excitement. There’s Paul, the “old man” of the house, sipping coffee and shaking his head at his housemate. There’s Sandy, constantly smiling and choosing to maneuver her wheelchair by scooting her feet along the ground. There’s Jim, quietly watching a basketball game on the television, bobbing his head back and forth and occasionally laughing, perhaps because his favorite team, the Chicago Bulls, just scored a basket.
And then there’s Cedanor Henrius, their caretaker, their teacher, their friend. A man with a warm face, an even warmer heart, dreadlocks pulled back with a rubber band, and a gold cross necklace he wears every day.
“Are you ready to go to bed?” Henrius asked Jim when the game reached halftime. “If you’re ready to go to bed, give me five.”
Jim gingerly lifted his small right hand and puts it in Henrius'.
“There we go,” Henrius said. “It’s bedtime.”
Jim has severe handicaps and is not capable of communicating verbally with Henrius. But that doesn’t mean he can’t communicate at all, Henrius said.
“You have to be creative in learning to communicate with them,” Henrius said. “You can do sign language, body language. They may understand you.”
Watch Cedanor Henrius at work
Henrius started working with people with disabilities nearly two decades ago, and more than 1,200 miles away, in the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere – Haiti. Henrius is an immigrant. He is one of the 10.9 million people that the Center for Immigration Studies, in a study released last month, is blaming for taking jobs from Americans with a high school education or less. Henrius’ job, though, which he does with such surprising passion, is not one that most people would be waiting in the wings to snatch. He works 12-hour days and makes no more than $10 an hour. He changes diapers, adjusts bags for stomach feeding tubes, and watches seizures unfold on a daily basis. And he can’t imagine doing anything else.
Henrius was born in L’Artibonite, a small farming community in northern Haiti with a population of 4,000. He’s the oldest of his two brothers and two sisters. His father was a farmer, and his family is considered middle class in Haitian terms, but that classification doesn’t come close to translating to the American social classes. He began working odd jobs at the age of 12. From a very early age, he found the most rewarding life experiences were helping those less fortunate than him.
“I aim to serve other people,” Henrius said. “That’s my thing.”
He’s been doing his thing – on an official level – for almost twenty years, beginning with a two-year stint in the Peace Corps in Port-au-Prince, Haiti’s capital. It was in 1989. Henrius was 20 years old. For the next seven years, he worked at orphanages and at a center for homeless boys. It was at one of those orphanages that Henrius met a woman named Caroline, a volunteer at the orphanage. She was a student at the University of Kansas at the time, majoring in Anthropology and Haitian Studies. She was living in Haiti for a year, had become fascinated with Afro-Caribbean culture, and was interested in buying some Haitian-made bongo drums. After inquiring with locals about her quest, she found herself at the Henrius family home.
The art of drum making has passed down through generations in his family. Henrius himself makes drums. He plays them every Sunday at Greater Pentecostal Temple, his church in Kansas City, and he gave lessons in Lawrence for several years beginning in the late 1990s.
Caroline’s first impression of the local drum-making man was slightly different than her impressions of him today.
“To be honest, he asked me out twice before I said yes,” Caroline said. “He was always so sharp looking, he had lots of friends – lots of female friends. I sort of took him as a player,” she said, laughing.
She soon began to understand the true Henrius, a man who is highly thought of, who loves to make people laugh, and who’s as “tenacious as a bulldog,” Caroline said.
“If he has his mind set to do something, he will do it. He will find a way,” Caroline said, “if it takes him the rest of his life.”
The two ended up falling in love, and they married in 1997 on Valentine’s Day. In late 1998, Caroline began making plans for the two of them, along with Henrius’ two young children, Darline and Stevie, to move back to Lawrence with her when she was scheduled to resume her studies at the University of Kansas. Henrius landed on American soil in December 1998.
Henrius’ transition into the United States proved far easier because of Caroline, an American citizen. He started out with a worker’s visa, and now he has legal resident status, although he and Caroline are now separated. His cultural transition, however, proved a more painstaking process.
“I probably was maybe, 25 percent fluent in English,” he said. Henrius studied English for a short time in Canada.
Beyond the language barrier, the way of life in the United States took time to get used to.
“The people here, it’s always rush, rush, rush,” Henrius said. “The fast food, everything is so fast. And a lot of times, people aren’t as helpful. In Haiti, a person doesn’t need to know you to help you. It’s slower, more friendly.”
During Henrius' most recent trip to Haiti, his cousins stole his video camera for a day and took it around the town of Maissade, in central Haiti. Click play to see footage of a Haitian summer.
That’s not to say he doesn’t appreciate his adopted country. It’s given him a job, which means money that he can send to the rest of his family in Haiti once a month. The health care is far superior. The government isn’t in such total disarray that a Democratic election is nearly impossible. And compared to Haiti, the current gas price signs here are a welcoming sight for Henrius’ eyes.
“You think they’re high here,” Henrius said. “They’re $16 in Haiti. That’s why you just don’t drive there.”
He knows he’s fortunate to have made it here. Often, families in Haiti pool their money for years in an effort to send their most promising child to America. The chosen one will board a boat, and take on the burden of carrying his or her entire family from then on. Sometimes the family gets an envelope of money several months later, sometimes not. And sometimes, the family never hears from their promising sliver of hope again.
Henrius now has that duty of providing for his entire family. That burden has been even heavier since last August, when he made the difficult decision to send his children back to Haiti to live with their mother and his parents. No schooling in Haiti is free. He sends more than $300 a month for 8-year-old Darline and 9-year-old Stevie to attend school. If he failed to make a monthly payment, his children would not be allowed in the school until the payments came. It’s relatively rare to have immigrant parents living in the United States send their children back to their native country for school. But Henrius said he is glad he did.
Henrius’ hope of opening his own orphanage
The “bull dog” tenacity that so many see in Henrius is what keeps him determined to achieve what he calls, without a doubt, his “life dream.”
Eight years ago, Henrius and wife Caroline purchased 16 acres of land for $6,000 in L’Artibonite, Haiti. It was the first step toward a seeminigly impossible goal, given the conditions in Haiti right now, of opening their own orphanage.
“This is what I would like to do next,” Henrius said. “It is my goal.”
Caroline said that with Henrius’ strength of character, it might one day happen.
“He keeps telling me to never give up, even though it’d take at minimum $100,000 to even get started on fundraising and finding a sponsor.”
In all reality, though, the odds are against them. The government and economy are simply too unstable to begin such a venture.
“It’s frustrating, because that’s what I want to be doing,” Henrius said. “Maybe I can be lucky and win the lottery or something like that. This is what I hope.”
“They were losing their identity, and losing their ability to speak French or Creole,” Henrius said. “I want them to know where they’re from. They can master English later.”
Henrius makes an effort to return to Haiti as often as he can, and he intends to go this July. But for now, he speaks to his children on the phone every Saturday. During a recent conversation, Henrius asked Darline what she had learned that day. She said she had learned to count to 10 in Spanish and French.
“Well you already know that stuff, silly,” Henrius said. “But okay, tell me. Count to 10 for me.”
As it turns out, she meant 100. Henrius sat patiently listening to his daughter count to 100 in two languages other than either of her true native languages. He said moments like those remind him that his decision was a good one.
“Just 8 years old, learning Spanish, French and Creole and English,” Henrius said. “I’m proud.”
Henrius also has an adopted son who lives with Henrius’ parents, a 12-year-old boy named Luck Enson. The boy recently fell off a ladder and broke his leg, and has to remain in the hospital. Medical bills, which are paid by Henrius, are swelling. On top of that, he also sends cash to his parents every couple months.
“I get paid every two weeks, and I usually send every other paycheck to Haiti,” Henrius said. “It’s hard, but I must. I want to.”
He admits he wishes he were paid more to do his job, just to alleviate some financial stress on himself and his family back in Haiti. But it’s not about the money. His job at Community Living Opportunities (CLO), where he’s worked since 2000, is more than a means of getting by. He truly loves what he does, and feels a connection with each person he works with there. The feeling is mutual. John Pelot, Jim’s father and co-founder of CLO, said Henrius goes beyond the call of duty when dealing with the residents.
“He’s very willing to take Jim places and do things with Jim that he otherwise wouldn’t be able to do,” Pelot said. “I’m very grateful for him and his positive attitude.”
Although Henrius is the one with the title of “teacher,” at CLO, he finds that the individuals he works with on a nearly daily basis have shown him and taught him more than he could imagine.
“These people, they need someone to care for them,” Henrius said. “I love to teach them what I’ve learned through my experiences. But more often, they teach me. And what they teach me means more.”