There's No Ham On Rye

I met the guy in the center of this photo this morning. It's an old picture, so Rye Barcott looks a bit different these days, rockin' a mustache and beard that add a few years to his clean-cut, baby-faced demeanor. Even so, I couldn't stop thinking that I'm old enough to be his mother.

Now, don't start haranguing me for being overly-obsessed with my middle-aged status! The only reason I'm even mentioning it in this context is because at 30, Rye Barcott has accomplished more than most people achieve in twice as many years. And you can't really measure the impact of his work in dollars. You'd have to do it in Kenya shillings. 2,000 of them, to be exact.

You see, it was in the year 2000 that Rye Barcott moved to Kibera. I am not making this up. He was an anthropology student at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill, on a Marine Corps scholarship. (Take note of the "Marine" reference; it'll be relevant later.) He rented himself a room and lived among the Kibera residents, recording what they told him about their lives.

For five weeks.

One of the people he met was a woman named Tabitha, a registered nurse who basically got all up in his grill and made him ask her about her life. They talked awhile, and when they were through, Tabitha asked him to give her 2,000 shillings, which at today's exchange rate is about $26 USD. She told him she would use the money to buy vegetables, which she would then resell at a bit of a profit to fend for herself and her 2 children. Rye hesitated, because for one, a mzungu (white guy) crazy enough to live in Kibera would be dangerously suicidal if he walked around handing out money. But something about Tabitha made Rye Barcott step out on faith. He gave her the money, fully expecting to never see her again.

Well, Rye came back to Kibera a year later, and who should he bump into but Tabitha, who led him by the hand to the health center she had opened, using his vegetable loan as seed money. She called it the Rye Clinic.

I swear, that story raised the first set of goosebumps I've felt in....well, since meeting the Mystical Mzee Munavu a few weeks ago. In part because when I heard it this morning, I was sitting in the very first Tabitha Clinic in the heart of Kibera. It's a rustic, typically Kiberan collection of tin-roofed, crude cement exam rooms, pharmacy, and open air waiting room that became a lifeline for people living in that part of Kibera. It opened about a year before Tabitha died, at age 38, in December of 2004.

That was also before Rye Barcott, community organizer Salim Mohammad, Tabitha, and Barcott's mentors at the University of North Carolina's Center for Global Initiatives, in partnership with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, opened the brand new, modern, 3-storied Tabitha Clinic in the heart of hard core sewage and garbage and hopelessness-filled Kibera. Compared to the original Rye Clinic, it is an absolute miracle. It is St. Elsewhere crossed with General Hospital, with a little Seattle Grace thrown in, for thousands of desperately poor Kenyans, a blessing straight from God.

There's just too much I could say about Rye that would make me sound like a totally annoying suck-up. So I'll just mention a few things. First, after having met one too many young, white "Poverty Tourists" in various African countries, Rye is the most genuine, authentically empathic person I've met in 6 years of doing this work. Trust me, my ears and eyes are finely-tuned for any hint of patronizing, profiteering, or ego-preening when it comes to humanitarian ventures. I've known and heard of too many "volunteers" who launched big bucks government or philanthropic programs solely to line their own pockets, or otherwise exploit astronomically desperate people.

This man is the real-deal Holyfield, you best believe. He speaks fluent Kiswahili, and Homey don't stutter in either language. He interacts with a sincerity that can't be denied, but which doesn't send your blood sugar levels through the roof. And even before you know he's an ex-Marine (or I guess a "Marine for Life"? I mean, you know how sensitive those Jarheads can be!!!), his whole aura exudes a discipline and focus that can't be faked, and usually comes after years of military service.

In short, Rye Barcott has single-handedly adjusted my attitude about Kibera, and about the intractable nature of extreme poverty, in ways I never dreamed possible. I'm rolling up on 3 years living in Africa, and I can't pretend that my spirit hasn't run a quart low at times lately. But after a few short hours of hanging out with Rye, my outlook changed. Instead of obsessing on all the barriers and challenges to interpreting life in Kibera, the fog blew away, and now I'm focusing on the all the possibilities.

Now, don't get me wrong. Princess Rachella ain't about to rent a room there, now or EVUH. A sister needs round the clock access to spa pedicures, mall-shopping and 24 hour wireless, and I wouldn't apologize for that if I was standing at the Gates of Hell with a shot at a free pass to Heaven. I'm also about 70 percent ready to head back to America the minute it's humanly possible. But maybe, for the duration, I'll remember Tabitha, and the 2,000 reasons she believed she had the power to make a difference.

"I'm Just Sayin', Dawg"...Part 14

"THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU JUST CAN'T UN-SEE."

If that were possible, through self-mutilation, I would break the nearest piece of crockery and use the jagged shards to gouge out my eyes after reading an online story about the puke-errifically unholy alliance between Ann Coulter and Jimmy
"J. J." Walker.

Apparently, it's an ongoing, genuine friendship. As least as genuine as anything involving this bleached blonde, hate-spewing neckbone with legs can be. In the article, Jimmy just gushed over how adorable Ann is, and dismissed her vile behavior as her "shtick." Clearly, somebody needs to take a shtout shtick to the back of Jimmy's head. But then, as career moves for a bloated 62-year-old TV-Land relic go, I suppose suckling at the withered teat of Satan's Publicist is as good as any.

The article's writer mentioned that the cozy couple attended one recent event with Bernadette Stanis, the woman who played Thelma on "Good Times." She hinted at something so foul, it chills the blood. The online comments in response to the article only heightened my existential horror. Thelma, as were most of the online commenters, is convinced that Ann and Jimmy are playin' "Hide the Dy-no-mite," if you catch my drift.

I just want to turn back the hands of time to about January of 1961, right before the reckless act of intimacy between Lewis and Eloise Jones that resulted in ME. If that's what it takes to eliminate the craptastic cranio-sacral crime created by that image, so be it.

"I'm just sayin', dawg...."

Youth Is Wasted On The Young

I usually make a valiant effort to avoid the innerworkings of Kenyan political and media drama. To be honest, it's too demoralizing. There's just too much I don't understand about the cultural and socio-economic imperatives at play. I can only use my American imperialist template to try and explain and assess, and that usually leaves me frustrated and sounding a bit too dismissive.

But this past week, I'm as guilty as the average Kenyan of being mesmerized by the fate of one Ms. Esther Arunga. The face above belongs to East Africa's modern day Helen of Troy, a young woman considered the epitome of Kenyan beauty, grace and sophistication. From the moment I landed in Nairobi, Esther Arunga's name was invoked as the hottest thing since pili pili pepper, the one woman that every man would do anything to have.

Until about a month ago, Esther was one of the most popular television newsreaders in the country, written about in every Who's Who column for being prettiest, best dressed, most desirable, etc. Many young girls wanted to grow up and be her, and her parents were bursting with pride over this glowing young jewel, who not only was a talented media darling but also held a law degree.

Yesterday, Esther Arunga was arrested, and today her face was plastered on the front page of a local newspaper. She didn't do anything illegal that we know of. If she's guilty of anything, it's of being criminally naive. You see, like millions of others before her, Esther appears to have succumbed to the lure of what's alleged to be a local cult, and has behaved in ways that startle even a seasoned, seen-most-of-it journalist like me.

I'll just hit the highlights for now. It seems that about a year ago, Esther moved in with this local jazz saxophonist who had started his own "Finger of God" church, and who claims to be a protege of American evangelical preacher Benny Hinn. He also allegedly encouraged her to quit her newsreader job because she wasn't being paid enough. (You know, that's the only part of this saga I can relate to. I'm positive that Esther not only wasn't being paid what her fame and persona are worth, she was probably getting a 3rd of what her male colleagues get.)

This twisted tale gets better. Esther also broke off her engagement with a guy whom she then claimed was a member of the Freemasons, and who planned to ritually sacrifice her on Valentine's Day. She announced her plans to run for Vice President in 2012, as a running mate to Mr. Saxophonist, and accused many local politicians and powerful leaders of being in league with Satan. And she publicly pledged her love for another guy who is alleged to have faked emails claiming that Benny Hinn had anointed him the 123rd most anointed human on the face of the planet, and that Pepsi Cola had dropped Tiger Woods as their spokesperson and was considering him as the replacement.

You can't make stuff like this up, people. Well, I suppose you could, but it wouldn't be nearly as bizarre. And I've only given you the bare bones. Honestly, I've found myself eager to get my hands on the morning paper to see what the latest installment will be. I also find myself praying that whatever happens, Esther will emerge from this story whole and healthy. My gut tells me she'll never, EVER be taken seriously again, and that makes me tremendously sad. From one woman of African descent to another, I know how hard she worked to be taken seriously, to be viewed as professional, talented, poised and confident. All that effort has been obliterated, thanks to a week's worth of media coverage.

Granted, I'll never know the full details of why Esther made some of the choices that led her to this place, but I'd be willing to bet that Mr Saxophonist saw his opportunity to latch onto a high-profile young woman's frustration and emerging sense of self worth, and he twisted it into something impulsive and self-destructive solely for his own benefit.

The good news is that as of today, Esther is out of jail. Whether her family and friends can get through to her remains to be seen, but the situation instantly reminded me of another reason I'm glad to be who I am and the age I am. I swear, just let some little bandy-legged musician even think about asking me to quit my job, move in with him and his wife, and start announcing my State House ambitions.

The only finger involved in that scenario would be my middle one, right after I recommended a radical new way for him to play his saxophone. And I think I'm speaking for grown-assed women around the globe when I say that.

I Say Love, It Is a Flower, And You, Its Only Seed

As someone who spent the first 18 years of her life NOT celebrating holidays, I think I've finally figured out my general attitude about them. Bottom line? I can quite honestly take 'em or leave 'em. Oh, sure, I love opening gifts and quaffing adult beverages and eating myself comatose as much as the next person. But unless I'm around a critical mass of friends and family, holidays are no different than any other day for me. Oh, and here's another thing: any holiday created solely for the purpose of making you feel like a loser if you don't celebrate it exactly as scripted is just hype, and as I mentioned in the previous posting, I HATE HYPE.

Christmas and Thanksgiving are primarily about families getting together. Most people have families, or have cobbled together some semblance thereof. Sure, for Christmas some folks get absolutely possessed about spending money they don't have and trying to outdo their neighbors, so it's probably the most disgustingly commercialized orgy known to man. But at it's core, it's a time for families to get together and be grateful for another year together. Even if your family is completely deranged and the whole experience is a stressful psychodrama, at least you were together.

Now let us consider Valentine's Day. I guess it's safe to say that globally, most people have mates of some kind. It's hard to know the exact ratio, but it's probably a majority. Out of that mated group, maybe half are content in their relationships, not being mistreated, and are fully committed to staying together. The other half of that mated group are in varying degrees of confusion, frustration or apathy, and just haven't gotten around to ending it.

And then there are those of us who aren't mated up. At this time of year, no matter how successful, or content, or at least non-suicidal about that situation you might be, the first two weeks of February are patently designed to make you feel like a useless lump of phlegm. If you're a woman who doesn't own some red drawers and you don't get a dozen roses or a piece of jewelry, you're a reject. If you're a guy who hasn't arranged a romantic weekend getaway or fancy dinner reservation, and the only way you'll get your brains screwed out is if you pay for it, you're a heel. In short, if you're not celebrating Valentine's Day, in the classically approved Hallmark Card style manner, there is something very wrong with you.

Well, who does the day really benefit? Let's get back to that majority of people who have mates. Perhaps the day helps them show their appreciation in an extra special way. Who could object to that? And maybe for those who are unhappily mated, if the right gift or gesture is made on that day, maybe it can help get things back on track. But.....what if you choose the wrong gift, or one that's just tacky? What if you aren't sufficiently romantic and emotive on that day? Or what if you love the heck out of your partner, but simply forgot to get a gift, or mail a card, or make a dinner reservation, period? In short, what does the day really mean?

By this point, you may have concluded that this missive is just my way of rationalizing yet another Valentine's Day spent alone, and you'd be right. Thinking back, I've probably only actually celebrated it a handful of times. On balance, I've been remarkably adept at starting new relationships after February 14th, and making sure they ended well before the next one rolled around. During my longest relationship of about 3 years, the Hapless Haitian decreed during the first V-Day that he was philosophically opposed to it. I knew that just meant he was cheap as hell, but I didn't kick up a fuss about it. On the second V-Day, after we'd gotten engaged, I expected some romance, dammit.

When we got together at the end of that day (of course I'd made the effort to cook a great meal and buy scandalous lingerie!!!), I expected he'd at least show up with flowers. I think I shocked him by just how much I could pout after his empty-handed entrance...AND when I announced my sudden onset migraine. Homey ran out to Kroger's and bought a handful of scrawny-ass blooms, and came back with a sincere apology. After a few glasses of wine, the migraine disappeared and all was forgiven.

But another Valentine's Day stands out even more, and recalling it, I think it's why I'm writing this post. The guy I was dating was out of town on business, so I wasn't expecting any windswept romance, per se. A card, some flowers at the office, or even a phone call, would have sufficed. I got nuthin', and it hurt. But the next day, this huge bouquet of beautiful roses arrived. My office mates did the obligatory "oohs" and "ahhhs," but deep down I knew they were pitying me for my insensitive clod of a boyfriend. When he called later on, I remember being frosty as hell. Those roses might as well have been stinkweed mixed with poison ivy for all I cared. It was too little, too late, because I'd been robbed of the thrill of getting them on the actual holiday.

Flash forward a decade or so, and now I realize how petty I was being. Sure, it's important to make an effort in relationships, and remembering actual dates of things like anniversaries and birthdays can indicate that you care. Making sure that the flowers arrive on Feb. 14th instead of 15th can also mean you take things seriously. But is it a deal-breaker if you don't?

A few weeks ago, a 28 year old woman here in Nairobi told me she's holding out for the flowers, the candlelight and the romance in her search for a husband. Given how hard that was for me to find on American soil, I was fascinated hearing an African woman, in a culture where you're considered an ancient freak if you're still single after 25, say she intends to wait for that Knight in Shining Armor. I couldn't help playing devil's advocate. I asked her if she would reject a man who is strong, kind, loving, who wants her to bear his children, who's financially responsible, makes her laugh and is great in bed, but who thought roses and candy and candlelight dinners were a silly waste of time and money.

She didn't know how to answer, but I could almost see the tectonic plates shifting in her brain. I just know that young woman will start to view the search for a life partner a bit differently, in part because that question was posed by a 48 year old never-married woman! But I think she'll also start to consider that love and commitment can be expressed 365 days a year without a single flower being proffered. Your man can buy you roses til the cows come home, but will he be there during a job loss, or severe depression, or a terminal cancer diagnosis?

I think I'm pretty lucky, because at this point of my life, I've seen what true love looks like, and I'm 98 percent certain I'll recognize it when it's my turn. Besides, yesterday I bought myself 3 dozen perfect roses for 7 dollars!! After I move back to the US, I will long for the days when gorgeous flowers were so cheap and plentiful. And you know, I think I appreciate these roses so much more, because I truly know, admire, and accept the person they came from, flaws and all.

Happy Valentine's Day to me!

"I'm Just Sayin', Dawg," Part 13

I finally caught the movie "Avatar" tonight, after most of the free world has already seen it. Truth be told, I really wasn't expecting to like it very much, for the sole reason that there's just too much hype around it.

I HATE HYPE. I hate commercially-manufactured excitement and enthusiasm. (But we'll talk about Valentine's Day tomorrow.) I hate feeling obligated to see a movie because if you don't, you'll seem tragically uncool. Just think, as absolutely manic and pressed for time as I was when I was back in the States during the holidays, I actually considered trying to see "Avatar" in an Imax theatre, just for the heightened street cred.

Anyway, I thought the movie was incredible. Awesome, even. It could have been about 30 minutes shorter, but still well worth my time. But during the screening, I keptwaiting for something overtly racist to happen that would offend me. I'd read all the online debate about the movie being one more tired example of white folks galloping to the rescue of helpless (blue) colored folks. Well, frankly, the Na'vi are the fiercest colored folks I've ever seen on screen, so it wasn't like they were meek little pawns.

Besides, these days, also based on what I read online, it seems like there's more racism in the US Congress than onscreen.

"I'm just sayin', dawg....."

That Magic Moment

I had forgotten that my brother-in-law Ron scanned the photo of my fateful handshake with Nelson Mandela--that is until he emailed me the image. Of course, he also couldn't help raggin' me out a bit about not forgetting where I came from!

How could I? In fact, I have another picture from that day over here with me in Nairobi. It's of me and my sister Julie. She flew out to DC to attend the private Mandela event at the National Press Club with me. It was one of about a 100 times Julie visited me while I lived in Washington. We both look like stunned deer staring directly into the headlights. It was one of the most amazing moments of our lives. Neither one of us could believe that two gals from Cairo, Illinois were actually in the presence of one of the greatest freedom fighters the world has ever known.

I'll never forget this moment. Or the fun I had whenever Julie came to visit. OR where I come from.

What a Difference 30 Years Makes

About 30 years ago, the subject of my 12th grade English paper was Apartheid in South Africa. It was appropriate, because I’d grown up under some of the finest racist segregation America had to offer. What I remember most was my prosaic teenage outrage over the fate of Nelson Mandela, and how incredibly unjust it was that he would probably die in prison.

Exactly 20 years ago today, I almost got arrested myself, when I wouldn’t stop dancing and shouting while my sisters Sarah and Rebecca and I watched Nelson Mandela walk out of prison. We were living in a second floor apartment in St. Louis, and we raised holy hell all morning until the folks downstairs had enough and the cops came a knockin’. We settled down for a while, and then started right back up. After a second visit from the local constabulary, we finally got the message.

Sixteen years ago, I actually met Nelson Mandela. Well, at least I got to shake his hand. It

was at a private National Press Club Reception, where we weren’t supposed to bring cameras. Naturally I sneaked one in, and shoved it at the guy in front of me when it was my turn to stand next to him. If I had to leave my burning apartment with only one of my belongings, it would be that photo.

Four years ago, I stood in the Nelson Mandela Museum in Umtata, South Africa, drinking in the story of his life and struggle. Afterwards, the journalists’ group I was with got to drive past his home, and we were told he was there. It was almost as thrilling as the day I got to shake his hand.

Today, I am living on the same continent as Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela. I consider it an incredible privilege. After all, he was one of the first people to directly fuel my outrage over social injustice, and to give me a voice to weigh in on it. Mandela was also was my first link to the fate of Africans. Come to think of it, maybe he’s why I wound up over here doing what I’m doing in the first place.

Thank you for the inspiration, Madiba. And for a life that truly has been “well played.”