It Happened on the Way to War (12 page)

One night at the Carolina Coffee Shop, I noticed a big white guy with short, matted black hair laughing loudly in another corner of the room.
“Baadaye,”
he said into his cell phone. “Later.” He wore a silver stud in his nose and looked comfortable in his baggy, six-pocket shorts, flip-flops, and untucked collared shirt.

“Vipi?”
I walked over and asked him after he hung up his phone. “What's up?”

“Poa, sema,”
he replied. “Cool, speak.”

It had been a while since I had had a casual conversation in Swahili with a stranger.

“I'm Omondi, but people call me Omosh.” I stuck to the introduction I had given hundreds of times in Kibera.

“Omosh?” He burst out laughing, a deep laugh like the ones I used to receive when I dropped the same intro lines to disarm the hardcores. “I'm Nate,” he replied in Swahili, “but people call me Nate dog.”

“Nate dog?”

“Yeah, with a double
g
.”

“Nate dogg, I like it.” We bumped fists.

Somehow we started talking about Gourevitch. His book
We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families
had had a similarly profound impact on Nate, who had just returned from a semester study abroad with the School for International Training in Tanzania. Nate was graduating with me that semester and didn't know what was next. I knew he was looking for an adventure, though, because he told me he was reading Che Guevara's
Motorcycle Diaries
and thinking about backpacking from Cairo to Cape Town.

“Have you heard about Kibera?” I asked. “It's on the way.”

“Kibera?”

“Yeah, it's a large slum in Nairobi, one of the largest in Africa.” I spoke about the promise of young people there, CFK, and my hopes to get resources directly into the hands of local leaders rather than NGOs with no real connections to the community.

“Hatari sana, na poa sana,”
he said with a spark in his eye. “Very dangerous, and very cool.”

Nate and I became fast friends. We hung out at the coffee shops and lifted weights together. Nate knew the power of grassroots, community-based development because he had seen it firsthand when he lived in a Masai village in Tanzania for a month. After Nate helped recruit an acquaintance of his to set up the CFK Web site, I tossed out the idea of our going to Kibera together. I knew the probability was low. I hadn't raised any money and planned on leaving immediately after graduation. Nate, like me, didn't have any savings from which he could pull to cover his travel expenses. It would take a leap of faith.

“I'm in,” he responded without hesitation, gripping my hand as if we were about to arm wrestle.

“Tuko pamoja.”
I stuck my fist in the air. “We are together.”

AMONG MY TOP priorities was to build a local board. Professors Kohn and Peacock were the first to join as members. Both men accepted our offer even though they sat on many other boards and had hectic schedules. Additionally, I reached out to Dr. Alan Cross, a professor of social medicine who had conducted a public health assessment in Kibera. After I invited him to our board, Dr. Cross asked a question that made me cringe: “So when are you going to ask me for money?”

I was uncomfortable with asking people directly for money, and I especially disliked the notion that I had read in a fund-raising book that “donors may be buying
you
more than the organization.” I wanted people to appreciate what we were building for the merits of the work we would do on the ground, not simply because of a personal affinity for me, UNC, or the USMC. Unfortunately, in the initial months of CFK, most people were “buying me,” or, as one businessman put it, “betting on the jockey.” That reality felt awkward and in conflict with my values.

“Well, sir, I wasn't going to ask you for money. I'm just thankful you can serve on our board.”

“Rye, stop. Do you believe in this?”

“Absolutely. With everything I have.”

“Well, then you need to treat fund-raising like a military mission.” Dr. Cross had once served as an Army physician. “You're the conduit to Kibera. People need to believe in you, and you need to ask them. They won't take offense. If they do, we don't want their money anyway. Some people think fund-raising is a game. It's not a game. What you'll do with the Kenyans in Kibera matters, and think about that when you ask people to open their wallets and purses. But, you have to ask, directly.”

WITH FEWER THAN three months left until graduation, I attended the annual Reserve Officers Association midwinter conference in Washington, D.C. A man with a patchy beard, reading glasses, and a flannel shirt approached me in the lobby of the Washington Hilton. “Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you. My name's Andrew Carroll. I live across the street and was curious about what was going on here?”

If he hadn't asked so sincerely, I might have just directed him to a booth with brochures. Instead, I explained the conference.

“Thank you for what you're doing.” His gratitude was authentic but felt out of place. I had not served anywhere and was enjoying a full ride to college. When I asked about his own work, Andrew explained that he was an author and was editing a book of unpublished war letters that would honor the legacy of veterans and send its proceeds to nonprofits.

“That's great. I just started a nonprofit.” I gave him a quick overview of CFK.

“Good stuff and especially meaningful that you're doing it as a Marine. I'll send you a check. What's your address?”

“Really?” I fumbled through my bag for a brochure.

“Of course. I know how it feels to start something from nothing.” He took my brochure and left me standing in the lobby wondering if I would ever hear from him again.

I had handed out over a hundred brochures while I was in D.C. To my dismay, only one letter was waiting for me when I arrived back at Chapel Hill. The return address read, “The American Poetry and Literacy Project.”

“Good to meet you and good luck,” Andrew Carroll had penned in hasty handwriting.

I pulled out the check and wondered if I was counting the zeros correctly. CFK's first check was for $1,000 from a five-minute encounter with a soon-to-be-famous writer in a distant city.

ANDREW CARROLL'S CHECK made me optimistic about the prospects of raising a large chunk of the $20,000 from our first letter campaign. Nate and I built a spreadsheet with about 150 folks: fifty professors, fifty friends and family, and fifty “others” who included wealthy UNC alums and people with ties to Africa and business addresses that we could find from Google, such as Michael Jordan and Bill Gates. On “launch night,” Nate bought a bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey and joined me in my dorm room with another friend, a tireless women's rights advocate named Alison Beckwith, whom we had met in an African-studies class. We were giving out titles like candy, and she became CFK's “press manager.” While we didn't have any press to manage, it sounded important, and she was interested in a career in public relations. The three of us stuffed envelopes and penned handwritten, personal notes into the wee hours of the morning. Nate wrote the note to Michael Jordan:

Dear Mr. Jordan,

Jambo from Chapel Hill. You would be surprised by the athletic talent in Kibera.

We use sports to prevent ethnic violence and promote community development, and we'd be honored to have your support.

Tuko Pamoja
(We Are Together),

Nate

Donations trickled in from the fifty “friends and family” group: $10, $20, the occasional $50. We received only one check from a UNC professor, and no one from the “other” group replied. The lackluster response dampened my spirits and was followed by a rejection letter from the public-service scholarship program at UNC that had supported Kim Chapman's South African AIDS documentary with one of its $5,000 grants. We had worked hard on that grant proposal and expected to be selected. The rejection stung.
What were we doing wrong?

Nate and Jennifer Coffman helped coach me for what I viewed as one of our last shots at receiving a major grant. The Burch Fellowship Dinner was an annual event with the patron of the fellowship that had first enabled me to travel to Kibera, Lucius Burch III. After the dinner, I had five minutes to deliver a presentation about my fellowship experience. I was nervous until I began the performance and felt the audience moving with me as I took them into Kibera and told them about the untapped leadership ability of young people surviving on less than $1 a day. “We'll do what other nonprofits don't,” I announced, chest out, “we'll get resources directly into the hands of local leaders because they have the solutions. We don't.”

My eye contact focused on four people spread throughout the room, including Lucius Burch and an impressive-looking gentleman with neatly combed, sandy brown hair in the front row. I mixed jokes into the intense material and concluded with a crowd-pleaser—a photograph of a Kenyan in Kibera wearing a #23 UNC basketball jersey and giving a big, happy thumbs-up to the camera.

“And, yes, we wrote to Michael Jordan.”

After the presentation, the strong man with sandy brown hair approached me. “Matt Kupec, good to meet ya. That was great. Darn good. Darn good job. I think I've got something for you. Can you come to Georgia in a month and talk to a group I'm pulling together for Carolina First? It's a place called Reynolds Plantation.”

It took me a moment to make the connection. Carolina First was the university's capital campaign, and Matt Kupec was the vice chancellor for university advancement, a former star quarterback who led the efforts to bring in millions of dollars to the school each year. I squeezed his hand and looked him in the eye. “Yes, sir. I'll be there.” Whatever commitments I had could be rearranged.

Working hard had its perks, and I took advantage of many of them, especially the invitations to events with free food. One day I received a particularly fancy letter to attend a university public service gala and formal dinner. When I asked Nate if he'd like to go, he reacted strongly. “No way,” he said. “We have two months left on campus. You need to take a break from CFK and get yourself a real date. This thing's perfect. Girls love guys in public service. You got a real opportunity here. Don't screw it up.”

Nate's advice prompted me to reach out to Tracy Dobbins, a gorgeous woman with long, straight, strawberry-blonde hair; almond eyes, and an elegant European look. We had met two years earlier in a small seminar. When the professor called on her, Tracy made brilliant comments in an understated Southern accent. Her poise and quiet strength drew me to her. I prepared more for that seminar than others with the hopes that my comments would impress her. However, I never discovered whether she noticed. I was shy about asking women out, and I suspected she was too sophisticated for my rowdy military and fraternity friends. Although she had graduated the previous year, she was still living in Chapel Hill, and we had recently been reconnected over e-mail through a mutual friend.

Tracy accepted my invitation and joined me for the gala. We started dating afterward. The first place we went was Pepper's Pizza, where the host named Moses welcomed me by name and asked Tracy what she was doing with such a “dude.” Tracy experimented with my favorite dish: fresh gazpacho, a salad with “Dijopi” dressing (honey Dijon and poppy seed), and a slice of “Slaughterhouse Five.” I had eaten more meals at Pepper's than at any other restaurant in my life, and I was happy and relieved that Tracy liked the place, even though it was staffed by tattooed crazies blaring heavy-metal music. As graceful and as intelligent as Tracy was, she was also down-to-earth and easygoing. We enjoyed each other's company for what it was. We didn't talk about what would happen when I graduated and left for Kibera and the Marines.

A DAPPER CHAUFFEUR'S sign read MIDSHIPMAN BARCOTT. REYNOLDS PLANTATION. The chauffer insisted on taking my bag and led me to a black Mercedes in a special parking deck at Atlanta's airport.

“How long to the plantation?” I asked, with images of Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara in my mind. A “golfer's mecca,” Reynolds Plantation was located on a private preserve once called Cracker's Neck.

“ 'Bout an hour,” the chauffer replied in a thick drawl. “What'll ya be drinkin' this evening, sir?”

“Oh, you have drinks in here?”

“Yes, sir, full bar.”

“Tonic please.”

“Vodka or gin?”

“Just tonic, thanks.” Anxious, I took out my notes to fine-tune my presentation.

“No drink, work on the ride over. You must be staff.” The chauffeur turned around and inspected me as if I worked for him.

“Somethin' like that.” I laughed. With less than $2,000 raised for CFK, my presentation had to work. Matt Kupec offered me only one piece of advice in preparation: “Wear your uniform. They'll love that.”

I was uncomfortable with the idea. I was going to Georgia to talk about CFK, not ROTC. Although a large part of CFK's mission was to prevent violence, it didn't feel right using my military identity so flagrantly as a fund-raising tool. I consulted Major Boothby on this, too.

“Fund-raisin' ain't as easy as you thought, is it, Barcott?”

“No, sir, but we're not quitting.”

“I know, and that's a good attitude. Now you need this money for humanitarian work in Africa, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you need to raise half of it, a total of ten thousand dollars, before I endorse your request to take unpaid leave as a new second lieutenant and spend the entire summer in this African slum, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that's a noble mission. So wear your uniform and do us proud.”

MY UNIFORM WAS “shit hot,” and that was a good thing. I had spent hours preparing it. Its khaki creases were razor-blade sharp. The ribbons and rank insignia were precisely aligned. My shoes were so thoroughly spit-shined that they looked like glass, and I had surgically cut out even the smallest of Irish pennants from my shirt and heavily starched, teepee-shaped garrison cap. The shirt stays, elastic bands that connected our socks to the bottom of our collared shirts, were so tight they rubbed the back of my legs raw. They were perfect. It was perfect. I was locked on and ready to go.