the tv guy, and what he taught us about Kenyan leadership, Kenyan hospitality, and unexpected conversations

At Jimmy's, singing the Kenyan national anthem. TV guy at the far left.

He was there to fix the TV, and he slipped in while most of us weren't even paying attention. Our team was at Jimmy's apartment for dinner, our last one before we left Kenya for home. Jimmy was another gracious, welcoming Kenyan partner and friend. His 2-bedroom apartment was in a huge complex of 8,000 units near the airport in Nairobi, with gates and guards and fruit stands and kids running around the maze of streets and cul-de-sacs. When we arrived at his apartment, we smelled food and chided Jimmy's wife, Faith, for cooking for us when we'd insisted she not go to the trouble. They had already been so generous with their time and help. But of course we were not-so-secretly pleased to eat a last home-cooked Kenyan meal.

I was feeling sad and a little withdrawn, like I usually am in the last hours of a trip I don't want to end. Maybe that's why I didn't give much attention to the friend who came shortly after we arrived to fix the TV. In some ways, he was hard to miss - at least six foot tall, and built like an American football player. He took up space, especially in the already crowded living room. But he stayed quiet, focusing his attention on Jimmy's new TV that sometimes played in black and white instead of color. The rest of us waited for the food to be ready: Shannon on the computer to check us in to our flights, her husband helping her, the rest of us enjoying the alcohol Jimmy served us and recalling our favorite parts of our trip.

Soon Faith announced that dinner was ready, and the TV repair man stopped his work to join our eager line to pile the rice, beef curry, cabbage, greens and chicken onto plates. It was then, when he sat down to eat with us, that I realized that the TV guy was not just a repairman, but a friend and neighbor -- a distinction that doesn't exist in Kenyan culture (or at least not as often as it does in the West).

With empty plates and full stomachs, we all sat together -- the Alabaster team, Jimmy and Faith and Faith's friend, some of our GCN hosts, and the TV guy. Sam played his violin, and soon we were singing national anthems from all the places any of us had once, in some way, called home. That led to questions about Kenya's president, which led several of our Kenyan friends to start debating the most recent elections and whose candidate should have won. Which quickly turned into a passionate discussion of how Kenya can help its poor and isolated people get the resources and justice they deserve.

A few minutes into this conversation, I pulled out my small black moleskine and pen, and Shannon looked over at me and laughed. We had already joked that the most valuable conversations on this trip hadn't happened when I'd prepared for them. From our very first day when we drove to rural Maasailand, the things I really wanted and needed to learn about came up at unexpected times, when I had to rely on my memory to absorb the most important points or pull out my notebook and start scribbling furiously. (I had purchased a microphone for my iphone and a savvy recording app prior to the trip, but these things take a few minutes to get ready -- minutes that would have been wasted in distraction. It was also more conspicuous, a fact I was still learning to navigate.)

The discussion turned into a powerful lesson in African and Kenyan leadership. No matter which presidential candidate or party they supported, each Kenyan there was convinced that what Kenya needed was talented and committed local leaders who advocated more for what their people needed. The TV guy was perhaps the most articulate, passionate and thoughtful in his ideas. He explained that Kenya is in the midst of de-centralizing its government, which is good and needed. But leaders who are appointed to posts should be familiar with their communities and a good manager of resources -- not the "for show" politicians that, according to these men, Kenyans are all too familiar with. "They show up at cultural dances and then go home, and people are still hungry," the TV guy said. They spoke of a laptop program in schools, initiated by the Ministry of Education. But because solar panels and electricity are still lacking in some areas, politicians have used this an excuse to funnel the money elsewhere, showing a lack of integrity and genuine concern for the education of Kenya's children. This anecdote was a stark contrast to the head teachers and principals our team had met in Maasailand and in the slums throughout our trip -- men who had made great sacrifices, financially and socially and otherwise, to educate children in their community.

We had to cut the conversation short because it was 8pm, time for our team to leave for the airport. I had written down (or at least had tried to) a few things that the TV guy said, and realized I still didn't know his name. As we said our goodbyes, I shook his hand and thanked him for sharing so openly and passionately. He was helping us to learn, I told him. He smiled shyly and I asked him his name.

"Felix," he said.

poets with a press pass

One of my favorite panels at the writer's conference I attended a few months back was one I hadn't planned on going to. (I learned that you can pick your choices ahead of time, but these kinds of conferences - perhaps not unlike shopping at a farmer's market - are best savored by testing and tasting and choosing by feel as you go.) Earlier in the day I'd heard a journalist-turned-social worker, who moonlights (is that what she would call it?) as a poet read some of her work and talk about her life. I was immediately drawn to her because she seemed so earthy, so real, and because we seemed to have some things in common.  She read a poem about homeless kids who live under the Atlantic City boardwalk, and I was blown away by how she'd captured their voices, their aches, their strengths in what she wrote. When she read her poetry, I felt and wanted to act, which is probably what the best writing does to us. At the end, she mentioned that later on in the day, she and a few other poets would be presenting a panel called Poets with a Press Pass. They were all former journalists who now wrote poetry.

I had never intentionally thought about the intersection of these two kinds of writing, but I knew I wanted to hear more of what she had to say (and write). When I got there, I sat close to the front. Three rather homely, middle-aged people sat at the table at the front, their books in front of them. When they introduced themselves, they each explained their journalism background, then read from some of their poetry. The first thing I wrote in my notes from this panel was "look up these authors!" It should also be noted that only in this and one other panel did I sheepishly approach the authors to talk with them and tell them how much I enjoyed their writing and insight.

Here is some of how they explained the connection between journalism and poetry:

• inspiration, precision, connections, curiosity, empathy, honesty
• know there is a poem in something just as you know there is a story in something
• precision - in journalism, related to accuracy; in poetry, related to meaning

Here are some (important) differences I'm thinking of right now:

• News can be skimmed to get the gist, poetry needs to be read slowly to get the feel
• News is old after a few hours, whereas poetry is essentially timeless, and each new reading gives you something new
•  consumption vs. being gutted open

The poets on the panel were Tina Kelley, Susan Cohen and (I can't find his name! but he was good). Go look up these authors!

an alternative syllabus for inner city life

I have a short resume of living in ghettos, slums and "the hood," as people inside and outside of these neighborhoods will refer to them. While there, I tried to be more than someone with a mailing address there - I tried to be a neighbor. For me, that meant primarily being a friend: speaking some Spanish (or Tagalog, for the short time I was in Manila), playing Uno, watching tv and eating some really great food. It also meant difficult conversations about cell phones, school behavior and math homework. And now, a few blocks away and a few years later, I realize it also included some misunderstanding, wrong assumptions, and plenty of mistakes. (Some of this I acknowledged at the time, but to acquire insight required a bit of distance.)

Recently a few books have been shelved on my "read" bookshelf that might have helped my perspective and understanding of my neighbors. It may also be that these experiences have helped my reading of these books to be deeper, more full of appreciation. Either way, I imagine that these three books - all different in scope, topic and style - would make a lively and helpful syllabus for cross-cultural, cross-socioeconomic living. Here are quick excerpts from each that, in my mind, capture the themes of these books. (Emphasis mine.)*

Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo:

(Abdul, Sunil and Kalu are all young Indian men living in a Mumbai slum.)

"Do you ever think when you look at someone, when you listen to someone, does that person really have a life?" Abdul was asking the boy who was not listening. He seemed to be in one of the possessions that came over him from time to time, ever since he got locked up at Dongri.

"Like that woman who just went to hang herself, or her husband, who probably beat her before she did this? I wonder what kind of life is that," Abdul went on. "I go through tensions just to see it. But it is a life. Even the person who lives like a dog still has a kind of life. Once my mother was beating me, and that thought came to me. I said, 'If what is happening now, you beating me, is to keep happening for the rest of my life, it would be a bad life, but it would be a life, too.' And my mother was so shocked when I said that. She said, 'Don't confuse yourself by thinking about such terrible lives.'"

Sunil thought that he, too, had a life. A bad life, certainly - the kind that could be ended as Kalu's had been and then forgotten, because it made no difference to the people who lived in the overcity. But something he'd come to realize on the roof, leaning out, thinking about what would happen if he leaned too far, was that a boy's life could still matter to himself.

Random Family by Adrian Nicole Leblanc:

(Cesar is in jail, and his young family is visiting him.)

Cesar pulled out the gooey taffy and offered it to [his daughter], but just as she reached for it, he pulled it back. He teased her with the offer again, and just as she reached for it, he swallowed it and smacked his lips. He smothered her hurt feelings with hugs, making it into a game, drowning out her crying with laughter and kisses and silly smooching sounds. In the subtle tyranny of that moment beat the pulse of Cesar's neighborhood - the bid for attention, the undercurrent of hostility for so many small needs ignored and unmet, the pleasure of holding power, camouflaged in teasing, the rush of love. Then the moment passed, and Cesar's three-year-old daughter walked back out into the world and left him behind.

The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down by Anne Fadiman:

(Neil is an ambitious, highly respected pediatrician who is treating young Lia, a Hmong girl with epilepsy.)

Neil Ernst was a doctor of a different breed. It would have gone completely against his grain to apply two different standards of care to his patients: a higher one for the Americans, a lower one for the Hmong. But might Lia Lee have been better off if her family had brought her to Roger Fife? Might Neil actually have compromised Lia’s health by being so uncompromising? That latter question still bothers him. For example, if Lia’s prescriptions hadn’t been changed so often, her parents might have been more likely to give her her medications, since they would have been less confused and more confident that the doctors knew what they were doing. Neil was pretty sure, however, that because Lia’s condition was progressive and unpredictable, he could treat it best by constantly fine-tuning her drug regimen. If had chosen a single pretty-good anticonvulsant and stuck with it, he would have had to decide that Lia wasn’t going to get the same care he would have given the daughter of a middle-class American family who would have been willing and able to comply with a complex course of treatment. Which would have been more discriminatory, to deprive Lia of the optimal care that another child would have received, or to fail to tailor her treatment in such a way that her family would be most likely to comply with it?

*I intended to say more about each book and what they offer, as part of a syllabus, in addition to the more typical fact-driven expository nonfiction. But I'm leaving on a jet plane in the morning (a real vacation!) and wanted to get this written. So you may see more of this - just a warning.

the interview: be a great audience

When people ask what kind of writing I want to do (or, excuse me, the kind of writing I do; I'm working on ownership here), I try to explain it without any of the fancy terms the writing community gives it: literary nonfiction, narrative journalism, etc. So I say I write nonfiction, and that I like telling other people's stories more than my own. I like doing research and I love interviewing. Last winter when I took a narrative journalism class, I interviewed my friend, who was my main source and character for my first story, a few weekends in a row. During the second weekend I remember having one of those "in my groove" moments where I felt like what I was doing was not work in the sense of drudgery and labor; it was challenging and satisfying and completely thrilling. That solidified it for me.

I found this cool little ditty about interviewing that frames it as a guided conversation. Totally. Part of what made those interviews with my friend so great (and fun and insightful), apart from the fact that this friend is articulate, thoughtful and totally interesting, is that we already had rapport and she had some trust in me, so we got right to the conversation part - the "center of the onion" - without needing to spend time building a relationship. But that building part is fun, too, if a little awkward at times. I like to think that interviews help "subjects" (if you can call them that) get more insight, and so benefits them, so that it's not a one-way street.

Anyway, here's what some of the link says (emphasis mine):

So, because of that, I only really interview in the strict sense of the word when I have to. I try to do everything else that I can to make sources feel comfortable enough to talk with me. That doesn’t mean that I don’t ask questions. It means I ask lots of questions. But what I mainly try to do is to be a great audience. I egg them on; I nod; I look straight into their eyes; I laugh at their jokes, whether I think they’re funny or not; I get serious when they’re serious. I kind of echo whatever emotion they seem to be sending to me. I do whatever it takes to get them talking.

out of eden

"After jetting around the world as a foreign correspondent, after flying into stories, after driving into them, helicoptering in, even, I thought about what it would be like to walk between stories. Not just to see the stories we were missing by flying over them, but to understand the connective tissue of all the major stories of our day."

-Paul Salopek, journalist and National Geographic Fellow

You've got to read/hear this. Mr. Salopek is dedicating his next 7 years to walking the ancient path of migration to uncover stories and understand how they're (we're) connected. The pace of his journey is striking. He's choosing to walk - the slowest, and most natural and original form of transportation. I find walking to be meditative, and it's true that you see and hear things you miss. Like when you walk a stretch of your neighborhood you typically drive through? It's a whole new place. I wonder what he'll see.

The length is also significant. In the interview, he notes that he's "planning it basically year by year. On a seven year journey, it's hard to plan for year six. You start with year one and year two." Just like any journey, I guess. All you can do is head in the right direction.

Learn more about the Out of Eden project here.

it's where i live

“It’s where I live. I mean, I’m not someone who flies into a place and then leaves it again. I actually live in these areas… And so it’s a different kind of experience.” - Lourdes Garcia Navarro, NPR reporter

Growing up, I attended a Mennonite church in a rural area outside of Philadelphia. Every Palm Sunday and summer, a group of children and a few adults from a Mennonite church in the city would visit us. This group of mostly African American kids was accompanied by Ms. Darlene, the children’s minister at that church. Ms. Darlene was a short, white woman who always dressed in a long, modest skirt, a loose blouse, and white tennis shoes. Her hair was pinned up in the same loose bun with messy tendrils hanging down — a suggestion of her simplicity, not stylishness. She had a strong voice with which she made Bible stories jump off felt boards and into real life, and her singing was loud and sure. The church was located in a poor, mostly minority neighborhood, and that’s where she made her home even though it was dangerous, especially for someone who stuck out like she did. She once told a story about being attacked by men who attempted to rape her. When she prayed, they stopped.

Ms. Darlene was my unnamed inspiration, I think, when at the end of high school I decided I would be a social worker. My college application process was shaped by the goal: I applied to colleges only in Pennsylvania so that I could practice social work and possibly get a Master’s Degree under the state’s accreditation. And I wanted no debt — social workers don’t make much money — so I chose a public university. Throughout my studies, I imagined myself a scruffy, white single woman (because that’s who social workers are, right?) living in the inner city, seeing lives transformed, though by what, I’m not sure I knew at the time.

After college, I began seeing how difficult social work was for me. Being with people required a lot of energy, and even more so when those people are messy and needy. I was often overwhelmed by situations I encountered and felt helpless and angry most of the time, though I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) have articulated that then. And I need concrete signs of progress or completion to feel accomplished, which come infrequently when working with people.

What’s more, other, more pressing dreams were rising to the surface, and the life I’d assumed I’d live as a social worker wasn’t matching up to these. I wanted to be married, that’s for sure, and the messy bun and sneakers with a skirt aren’t exactly my style. And then there was writing, which I liked to enjoy from a distance but was too afraid to think I could do it, too.

And even if I could write, what about racial reconciliation and being cross-cultural and God’s love for the poor — all the values I’d spent my college and post-college years championing and (gasp) basing my relationship with God on? Who was I without these things? I couldn't imagine how writing could give them as central a place as I'd been taught to believe they should have.

Thankfully, I am on my way to understanding that being a social worker isn’t the only way to love God or help people. The decision to write has been largely based on gut instinct, following joy, and asking God about my desires. Giving myself to it, I’ve found a path waiting for me where, along the way, I am being offered things I’d given up, like a way to help people, extend relationship and explore the meaning of their experiences.

Many journalists and writers have chosen the profession because they feel compelled to find meaning and dignity in human experiences. This compulsion leads to where few others are going. And it leads to connections with people whose voices we need to hear.

If you’re still with me, here’s where the real treat comes in. On my drive to work I listened to this short interview with a journalist who covers news in the Middle East. It’s a short interview, so I encourage you to give a listen. I love her approach to journalism (as well as her obvious passion for it). My favorite parts are where she talks about going where others aren't going because that's where the story is, and about making her home where she is reporting. To me, her choice is an expression of her deep value for relationships with people and for giving words to their stories.

I'd love to hear your thoughts about the interview, calling, or any other ideas this brings to you.