let the beg-a-thon begin

This morning, like so many before it and so many more to come, was supposed to be simple. Gilbert was going to wash the car, then I’d drive it to the hospital and leave it with Grita so she could show it to the people interested in buying it and I’d walk back to the office. No problem. Oh, so little I have learned after all.

The phone rang at 8:30. “Rachel, when are you coming? This guy is here, I thought you should talk to him,” Janet said. Yeah, within an hour, I said, I’m coming. I knew the car wasn’t ready yet and I thought an hour was especially generous.

10:18, the phone rang again, Janet again. Yeah, I’m coming now, I promised. Twenty minutes later, I tried to start the engine. Nothing. Lights on, a little cough, nothing. I had said something to Oliver about the petrol light being on yesterday, but he assured me that he had ‘calculated’ everything and it was fine. In my defense, I did laugh at ‘calculated’ even then. But I’d made it home after dropping him at the bus, and after all, I only needed to get back to the hospital – not more than a mile away. Gilbert and Tonde tried the ‘push-to-start’ technique. Nothing. I suspect we are out of gas, I said.

Now, I’m pissed. I’m late, and my time is being eaten by something that could easily have been prevented. I only have five working days here, I thought, stomping angrily through the dust on my way to the office, and this shit is wasting my time. I couldn’t even find Janet’s phone number to call her to take her up on sending someone to pick me.

I passed Patricia on the way in, her back turned – and I didn’t greet her, committing a sin of sins. Janet saw the dark cloud over me when I walked into her office. “You are not ok!” she said. “Yes, I am, it’s fine, I’m just sorry that I’m so late, it’s rude, and I’m sorry,” I said. She brushed it off. Time is, after all, relative.

I suppose I was irritated already by more than my tardiness. See, I knew who she wanted me to meet, and I knew what it was about, and I knew I wasn’t going to have anything good to say. Some of the residents of one of the conservancy areas where I work have written a proposal to establish the Kingfisher Youth Center. They have identified 200 orphans (in an area with a population of 4100, mind you) and want to find ways to serve them, teach them sports, do HIV-AIDS education, and lots of other good things. So a small group of people got together and found the money for a building, which is nearing completion. I can’t tell you how remarkable this amount of initiative is, given the circumstances. They got land from the chief and have already built a structure.

“Janet, I’m happy to talk to him,” I said, trying not to let my frustration overwhelm my words, “but here’s the thing. He’s going to think I will get money for them. I know he won’t exactly ask, I know I won’t promise, but meeting with me, I’m a white American, and trust me, this is what always happens. He’s going to think that because I say I will try to help, that I will give them money. And I know that people think I must be rich, but I’m not. And then he will be disappointed if I don’t come up with something.”

I could hear the self-absorption seeping through my words, the pettiness, the whining of ‘why me,’ the loaded assumptions. And yet I said them all anyway. I do, and don’t, know better.

Brilliant, the man I was supposed to meet, came quietly down the hall shortly after my childish arrival. He smiled cautiously and held out his hand, extended from a lanky body which he seemed to be trying to make smaller in my presence. I can’t stand that kind of deference. Yesterday a man old enough to be my father asked me for something on his KNEES. First, get up, please, I said, taking his elbow and pulling. Then I gave it to him.

Brilliant was prepared. He gave me a copy of their proposal, an architect’s drawing of the building they are finishing, a list of 200 names (100 girls, 100 boys) of orphans in their area down to date of birth, and a letter asking for any kind of support. I told him I’d already emailed a friend of mine working in sports administration to see if she could help us get some equipment for them. And then I did the ‘lowering expectations’ dance:

“Now, Brilliant, I think what you are doing is wonderful, and very important, and I am going to TRY to help you. I can’t promise anything, but I am trying to find some sports equipment for you. Maybe we can also find a grant for you or something, I will ask around and see, and if you need something to be written I can help with that also. But please, I can’t say for sure, I can’t promise anything, so please know that I am trying but I don’t know if I can help you.”

He was very gracious and nodded, said he understood, and made sure I had his cell number and email address. Talking to Janet would be the same as him, he said, smiling. And then he left.

And frankly, I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed by my attitude, by my approach to the whole situation, by displaying my flaws so openly. All of my egalitarian notions were just tossed onto the scrap heap. He came to me asking for help. And I treated him like someone who was begging, and needed to be reminded of the other’s superiority.

Because of course, I CAN help. I do in fact have the ability to do something. They have built a center out of nothing and are now going round to see if they can make it into something more. And I have the gall to sit here and say, I’m not rich, I can’t do anything. There is some measure of explanation in all my excuses, but in the end, they aren’t enough.

So, I now do something that I hate. I’m going to ask you all for money. If half of you reading this could help me chip in, we could finish the building and get some equipment and food for the kids. Everything will go straight into the project – no irritating overhead or organizational fees. I owe it to these guys. Not because I’m a jerk and need to make myself feel better (which are fair enough), but because being here has changed my view of the world and offered me lessons that may take the rest of my life to really learn properly. And that is something you can’t say every day.

If you can help even a little – send it on to my mom, and she will get it to me:Marcia DeMotts
185 Bear Lake Circle
Divide, CO 80814

Once I’m in Maun, I will have Brilliant’s documents scanned and post them so you can see how far they have already come. Kingfisher needs it more than NPR, I promise you.