My first impression of America
With Bill Modica and Chebet at an inter-faith meeting in Roanoke, Verginia. |
Chebet (right) with Prof. Patricia Kelly during our Thanks Giving meal. |
Chebet with Bill Modica and Mwaka Namfukwe. |
With my dance partner at the Floyd Country Store. |
Jack Zimba spent a
month in Virginia State, USA, on a Global Health Fellows programme. He now writes
about his experiences.
More than the
three-lane inter-state roads teeming with zooming traffic, more than the
elegant buildings that adorn its landscape, more than the military prowess and
media supremacy, America is about people.
And it is the people
that I met during my month-long stay in the US that left a lasting impression
on me about the world’s greatest nation.
And America is really
a melting pot for different races, cultures and traditions and all this came to
light during my stay.
Bill
Modica
Part of my programme in
the US was to experience the American culture while living with an American
family for one week. That will be the hardest part, I thought. And when I
learned that my home stay host lived all by himself in Salem, a small rural town
near the city of Roanoke, I grew even more worried.
But Bill was a fun
guy to be around and soon it didn’t matter to me that his stone house, draped in
ivy, was in the woods and isolated from the rest of the houses.
Bill loves to read
and he has a deep understanding of history. We discussed many things from religion
to 911 to plants.
A realtor and a
self-made conservationist, Bill works very hard and he made me realize just how
hard life in America can be if one does not work hard enough.
“America is a great
country to live in, but only when you have money,” he told me.
Decades ago, Bill’s
parents migrated to the US from Italy. Bill himself was born in New York.
He has a younger
brother who has a penchant for guns and a diehard Republican.
Bill likes to think
of himself as an Independent, though he does sound like a Democrat.
“Bill is a Democrat,
he just doesn’t admit it,” one of his friends, a university professor, told me.
Bill likes to collect
antiques and his home looks like a small museum. There is a cheese shredder
made by his grandfather in 1924 and handed down to him by his mother; there is
a spinning wheel for making yarn and even an 1877 telephone which is by his
kitchen door.
Whatever ‘Italianess’
he has lost – he still looks Italian, though - Bill retains the ability to cook
good food and he does it as a hobby.
My last dinner with
Bill was particularly special. He had decided to treat me and my colleague
Mwaka Namfukwe from Muvi TV to the traditional Thanks Giving meal – roasted
turkey, mashed potato and cranberry source. He also made sure we followed the
tradition of Thanks Giving, including breaking the turkey’s breast bone and
making a wish.
Chebet
Dolly Kibogy
I met her at an
inter-faith meeting at a Presbyterian Church in Roanoke, Virginia. The meeting was called
to discuss how faith can impact the environment.
It is very hard to
not notice Chebet in a crowd. She is as dark as a Masai’s child that she is –
and possesses the elegance and beauty associated with the worrier tribe of Kenya.
And almost always she wears a warm smile and has a girlish laughter.
Chebet epitomizes the
American Dream in her own small way.
A little over 10
years ago, she came to the US as a student and later she got a job at a hotel.
And it was there that she got introduced to the who’s who of American politics.
In 2008, Chebet, by now an American citizen, joined the Obama campaign team as an
events organiser.
“So how close do you
ever get to the president?” I enquired, feeling very envious of her.
“Close enough to not
be pushed by the Secret Service,” she told me. “But at least I’ve been in the
same room with him.”
And she keeps a book
of her photos with all the important people. The book also bears autographs of
President Obama, Bill Clinton, George Bush and John McCain among others.
And she still holds
on to the invitation card to President Obama’s inauguration four years ago. She
is confident President Obama will retain the presidency, but worries about
Romny’s money muscle.
But despite all that
she has attained in America, Chebet still talks of going back to Kenya, but
only on one condition. “If Raila Odinga became president I would go back and
contribute to my country,” she said.
Joy
Sylvester-Johnson
The first time I saw
Mrs Sylvester-Johnson was in an old black-and-white photograph pasted on the
wall at the Rescue Mission in Roanoke. She was a cute three-year-old back in 1948
when the mission was established by her father. She is now the CEO.
The mission was
established as a center for the homeless, offering shelter, food and hope to
hundreds of individuals as well as whole families. The men’s section has 150
beds and sometimes they have needed extra mattresses laid on the floor.
I had an opportunity
to work as a volunteer for three days at the mission (one-third of mission’s workforce
is volunteer). The first day was at the thrift shop, where the mission sells
second-hand cloths and household goods to raise money for its operations. My
job was to sort shoes, pairing them up and then binding them with rubber band.
Most of the shoes were in very good condition, some even had price tags on them.
All the items are donated by individuals and within a couple of hours I was at the
loading bay, there were eight drop-ins.
“I have no need of
these,” one very old lady in a gleaming Chevy told me as she handed me a bunch
of cloths.
Interestingly, the
thrift shop is also the genesis of our salaula.
Whatever doesn’t get sold here is taken to the basement for baling and
then, through other agencies, shipped to developing countries.
Later that day, I
watched as men and women trudged to the Rescue Mission from all directions of
the city.
The air in the TV
room where I sat was soon a mixture of sweat, tobacco and alcohol as the guests
– for that is what the mission staff call the homeless people – filled the room.
The reasons for homelessness range from job losses, alcohol and drug abuse,
while others are former jail birds unable to reestablish themselves in society.
The guests, who are
only allowed into the mission centre between 16:30 hours and 08:30 hours, follow
a strict routine – they eat, pray, bath and sleep.
On Tuesday night, I
was sitting in the front row of the chapel as I joined the men for worship.
Next to me sat a particularly pitiful soul. He wore dirty jeans and old cowboy
boots and kept twitching his body, snorting and mumbling. He was probably on
drugs or had just recently gotten off some hard stuff.
The mission accepts
everyone and treats each of the individuals with respect.
“I believe everybody
is broken,” says Mrs Sylvester-Johnson. “There’s no-one so far broken that they
cannot be mended.” Mrs Sylvester-Johnson
has a kind face and an assuring yet authoritative voice. She is an ordained
preacher herself.
Back in the chapel I
was still waiting for the preacher to hit the high knot. One young man sitting
behind me leaned forward and whispered, “The preacher today is boring. You
should have seen yesterday, everyone was jumping and shouting in this room.”
When I scanned the
room, half of the men were resting their heads on their chests. All they needed
now was a bed.
“Would you like some
vegetables, mom?” I said to a woman standing in front of me. It is a question I
parroted over 100 times as the women and children walked by to collect their
food.
It was Wednesday and
my colleagues and I were serving the guests lunch.
By the time the last
man passed his dinner plate in front of me, we had served over 350 meals.
“My mother would have
died without a rescue mission,” Mrs Sylvester-Johnson told me.
Arthur
“Three” Brown
I do not know what
the “Three” stood for, but the fact that he decided to add it on his business
card means it has a significant meaning.
After driving around
a few blocks looking for a barbershop that could handle my type of hair, we
finally stumbled on one called First Impressions in a predominantly black
community. And that is how I met Arthur “Three” Brown.
He spoke with an
impossible drawl; I could hardly pick his words, except the man he pronounced at the end of each sentence.
So I just sat my arse in his swivel chair and let him do his thin. You know w’am sayin?
A number of brothers in
sagging buggy trousers from the ’hood dropped by just to say, “What’s up? How you doin, man?
“Cool,
man,” responded
Arthur.
For some reason, I
started thinking about drive-by shootings and dope.
But then I realised
just how the hip-hop culture and the media’s portrayal of black America had
shaped my thinking. That, however, does not take away from the fact this
neighbourhood has one of the highest crime levels in the city of Roanoke.
Driving back home, I
was overwhelmed by a deep sense of sadness that I was unable to connect at all
with people I believed shared my heritage, though now lost in time. Maybe I had
the wrong-perception glasses on.
Super-size
America
Sitting in a
restaurant one Sunday afternoon, I was so conscious of a rotund, flabby woman
and her obese son sitting two tables away that I kept lifting my eyes towards
them. I wondered if they were as conscious about the state they were in as I
was. I felt sorry for them, but then, they seemed happy.
Obesity has got to be
America’s “next big thing”. The media is awash with stories about good
lifestyles and healthy diets.
CNN repeatedly ran a
report about a young woman who got into a feat of rage after an airline
requested her to buy two seats for herself because one seat was not enough for
her.
Then there was the
woman in Los Angeles who collapsed while eating what the reporter called “an artery-clogging
meal” and smoking at the same time.
Obesity has become an
obsession in American society, and here is the reason why.
According to official
statistics, 70 million Americans are obese, that is one-third of the population.
One hospital that offers
free medical services to people who cannot afford medical insurance, lists the
top conditions treated by the institution as depression, anxiety and obesity.
And despite the huge
campaign to eat healthy, one medical expert expects the problem to grow even
worse.
Another health
expert, Laura Pole, noted, “Americans love to hear good news about their bad habits”
to justify their lifestyles. For example that chocolate is good for your heart.
And Americans, it
seems, love everything big, from the cars they drive to the food portions they
eat. Sitting down to a meal in one restaurant, I counted 12 greasy chicken
wings in my plate. “Dog pack, please!”
Happy
people of Floyd County
The road to Floyd County from Blacksburg in Virginia is winding with
gentle slopes that create picturesque scenes – more like a slide show as you
drive by.
Floyd is a small town with only one set of traffic lights and streets
lined with art shops, art studios and a Mexican restaurant at the corner.
But one store stands out of the rest and has become world famous – the
Floyd Country Store.
Every Friday evening, residents of this old-fashioned town gather at
the store to listen to old gospel music for an hour and then the traditional bluegrass
music played by a live band using banjos, cellos and violin. The music draws
clog dancers to the wooden platform.
It was here that I met a blonde named Sally. She wore a red dress way
above her knees with matching stilettos and black tights.
She walked towards me across the dance floor and, without a word,
extended her hand towards me. I found her bidding irresistible, not just
because I found her elaborate dress fascinating and broad smile inviting, but
because Sally was in her late 60s, maybe even 70s; yet she seemed so full of
life. Later, I discovered that the Old Diva – for that is what my colleagues
and I called her – was a regular at the Friday night jamborees.
So together we did the clog dance, bouncing and clacking our heels on
the wooden floor like little children. I must confess that I thought the dance looked
rather silly at first. But when I got into the rhythm, it was lots of fun.
The clog dance has its origins in Wales and England and was introduced
in the Appalachian region, which includes much of Virginia, in the 18th
century.
I had many happy nights in America, but perhaps the dance night tops
them all.
Hahahaha beautifully told
ReplyDelete