Homophobia and Irony

Hompobe is one of those words that’s gets tossed around a lot but is rarely used correctly. Homophobia literally means someone who is afraid of homosexuals, but the common usage is as a slur for anyone who disagrees with any part of the gay agenda. Using the word in that context causes it loses some of its meaning, until you actually come across it.

One of our servers “Dale” is one of our best. I’ve never seen him stress, he doesn’t get caught up in drama and he takes great care of his tables. Yes, he’s a better server than me, and like me we’re both gay, the difference is I can pass, he can’t.

Even people with no experience around gay men tag him, correctly, as gay. Most of the time it doesn’t cause trouble, but every so often it happens. Earlier this year one of his tables asked for a new server.

A white family with thick southern accents told the manager that he was rude and inattentive, two things we all know he’s not, but whatever, a table says they want a new server we get them a new server. The server they got was “Cindy” who related to me that they said, “We just felt more comfortable with you handling our food.”

Yeah, it’s pretty clear exactly what happened and why they wanted a server; legitimate homophobia. They were scared that Dale would do something to their food, or that he had HIV or AIDS, maybe they just didn’t want to tip a gay guy. I don’t know their exact motivation but the reality of the situation is pretty clear.

The irony of the situation is that Cindy is an actual former crack whore. She’s gone down on more men than all of the gay men who work at my location combined, and there’s about ten of us at this point. If you were at all concerned about someone’s past, she’s the one you should be concerned about.

Had I been forced to take the table I would have rolled up my sleeves to reveal the then still red, and massively noticeable, psoriasis plaque on my left forearm and just not said anything about it.

Cindy spent much of the night running after Dale trying to give him the $7 they left as a tip. After like her tenth effort I took at and donated the money to Mwangaza Children’s Foundation. We've had a couple of tables like that where you're just such an an toxic ass we don't want your money, and at least this way it's doing some good.

“What’s Africa Like?”

Whenever we come back from one of these mission trips I always get the question, “So what’s Africa like?” and there just isn’t a good answer.

The answer I give was, “It’ was amazing,” or, “Kenya is a beautiful country,” or “The trip was great, we got a lot of work done and all got along.” Those short answers don’t really answer the question but it’s the best I can do short form. If someone wants to have a long conversation over coffee I can share some of my observations but I can’t really sum up a question like that in a few sentences, and would be foolish to try.

One reason it’s a hard question to answer is I don’t know what people want to hear. If people press me for a more in depth answer I’ll give out, “Kenya is a beautiful country of rolling landscapes that stretch to the horizon in places and all of the people I have met there have been friendly and welcoming.” That statement, while true, is a gross simplification but it seems to pacify most people.

The reality is that Kenya, and probably Africa as a whole, is too large to be properly summarized by an American who has spent a grand total of twenty days in country. It’s unfair to give simple answers that don’t reflect the complexity of the situation Mwangaza faces on the ground, but it’s easy to be misunderstood if you go into detail.

I’m happy that for some people I can be a portal into a world that they’re curious but know almost nothing about, but I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job at it. I think after two mission trips it’s a bit much to claim that I understand Kenya. I think after two trips and several years of reading news about Kenya I have a basic comprehension of the land and its people, and sadly that doesn’t translate to any snappy one liners that illuminates what Kenya, and Africa, truly is.

Caption: See, Africa is massively beautiful.

“I have a school…”

So I met a guy last week at a coffee shop who was talking with a group of people I kinda sorta know and when someone asked him what he did or mentioned something about Asia and he said, “I have a school in Vietnam,” and I could help responding, somewhat sarcastically, “Really? Because I have a school in Kenya.”

I could tell my pronouncement sorta deflated him a little bit because he was probably used to the unique one in the room and I thought we would have something to talk about, but not so much as it turns out. I was all about getting to know this guy and learning from his experience but he apparently didn’t want to talk about “His school,” despite the fact he brought it up in the first place.

The more I do non-profit work the more I’m shocked by the number of people who seem to use their non-profit to promote themselves. I’ve never said, “I have a school in Kenya,” with a straight face because I feel it’s such an egotistical statement to make. Instead the line that I do use to describe what I do is, “I run a small nonprofit that takes care of a school and orphanage in rural Kenya.” I use that because I feel it’s factually accurate and at least lowers any element of self promotion.

It’s not my school and it never will be. It’s Momma Hannah’s school, its Eli’s school, it’s the community’s school, it’s the kid’s school, the school is not mine. What it is for me though is my purpose. It’s the reason why I’m working as a waiter. It’s the reason why I have credit card debit and still have a car payment. Somewhere along the way this project we started to help out a friend has become a driving force in my life. When I forget that I flounder, I can get lost in depression of being a writer working as a waiter.

I don’t have a school in Kenya; I have thirty-five little reasons to go to work in the morning. Okay, technically I go to work in the evening, but you get the point.

Shit my roommate left behind

So my roommate of over a year moved out the other weekend, which kinda sucks because I liked him. However, after going through some of the stuff that he left behind I wonder if I ever really knew him.

• A man-sized steal box that looks as if it has been buried and dented from the inside. See photo.
  
• A gallon milk jug with hand-written note reading, “Hooker Blood.” This raises a couple of disturbing questions like, did the hooker give her/his blood freely, and why store it in an unrefrigerated closet?
  
• His checkbook. I looked through some of the carbon copies and there seem to be suspiciously large amounts written to men with Russian last names. One check he even included, “Nuclear Material” in the memo line. Seriously, who buys illegal nuclear material via check? There were also checks made out to the three men who officiated Superbowl XL with “Pittsburg Victory” written in the memo line.
  
• Enough dog hair to build two dogs of my own.
  
• A shoebox with labeled "Cincinnati," with a post-it note reading, "Be careful this shit is admissible."
  
• A picture of himself on the Grassy Knoll with a time stamp of Nov. 22, 1963. In the picture he appears to he holding a rifle and standing in front of a time travel device.
  
• Seriously though… Charlie I have your checkbook and your cat.

My "Other Brother"

I always wanted a little brother, and once I turned 30 I got my wish, I just didn’t know he would be Kenyan.

You learn a lot about someone when you travel to Africa with someone, and Eli. Eli and I have done that trip twice and are almost certain to do it again. Somewhere along the line I started calling him my “Other Brother.”

It started off as a bit of a joke during our 2009 mission trip because every other man we met in Kenya Eli would introduce to us as “My other brother.” Yes the guy has a big family, and yes tribal relations are strong in that part of Kenya, but I started getting the feeling that Eli was related to half of Kenya. For the record I believe there are seven brothers and I think I’ve met four of them?

So when we got back to the states I started introducing him as, “This is my other brother Eli.” The joke has sorta stuck.

I’m not the sort of person who hands out nicknames or family titles to people. I know other people have surrogate mothers, fathers, cousins and nephews but I’m pretty much content with the family I have. With Eli we’ve definitely reached a different sort relationship I’ve not really had in my adult life.

We’ve crossed the equator together; experienced the joy of new life and stood with each other through tragedy. Together I think we’ve made a good team and have reached a level of understanding and simpatico that I didn’t expect when we started Mwangaza. I know that with him I’ve managed to accomplish more good things in the last three years than I have in the prior 31, and that’s what family does; you make each other a better person.

Caption: Eli and I on Lake Victoria last month

One more trip in the books

Mission trips are like home improvement or giving birth (or so I’ve been told), you don’t want to start planning the next one until you forget how painful the last one was.

This was my second trip to Kenya. Just the fact that I’ve been home almost seven days and this is the first time I’ve gotten a chance to blog about it. It was long, my stomach gave up on Kenyan food with two days left in the trip, my neck and shoulders hurt from riding around in the back of a Matatu and I couldn’t sleep. That said it was a really great trip.

Unlike last time we engaged the kids early and played with them and got to know them better than we did before. We found the situation on the ground largely met our expectations, the kids were still well taken care of and are in an environment that they’re clearly loved. That makes the whole thing worthwhile.

It’s still technically going on. One of our board members still in Kenya, and has requested for ongoing prayers.

I’ve got some posts I’m going to try and get up next week.

Thanks for all your support everyone.