“Woman Slices Hubby’s Manhood.” (Manica Post Headline)
“Now don’t get the impression that I care ‘bout what you do,
But when it gets close to Thanksgiving, I’d hide if I were you!”
(Song Lyrics by Lacy J. Dalton)
“I call him Footnote Ab.” (G. R. Davis, Wofford Biol.)
Although Old Mutare may not be the Center of the Universe, we do occasionally hear about goings-on in the rest of this world. Wednesday, for example, I learned that storms in Bangladesh had killed at least 1800 people. Such a tragedy lends perspective to one’s life, and on this Thanksgiving Day I must be grateful that my own frustrations have been less than the bites of anemic gnats! Still, being in a self-centered mood, I shall list my recent “gnat bites” and hope that they amuse you.
Minor Irritation 1: Neocolonial Exploitation. My first complaint is about Invigilation.
This curious custom, by which teachers are required to monitor other folks’ examinations, is a holdover of British colonialism.
I am scheduled to invigilate 12 exams.
Fortunately, these have been collapsed into six examination-periods, but still, that’s more than 18 hours of watching students sweat.
Furthermore, to insure the integrity of the process, an Invigilator is not allowed any personal amusements (such as reading novels or grading one’s own exams), and the Director of Examinations will come by to make sure that this rule remains inviolate.
Because I have other work to do, I griped a bit about Invigilation.
The response was, “You don’t have Invigilation in your country?”
The tone of voice can best be imagined if you raise an eyebrow and say, “You kill half the girl-babies in your country?”
I responded, “No we do not!”
The tone of
my response can best be imagined if you raise
both eyebrows and say, “Our Freedom Fighters whipped the imperialistic Redcoats
bad at Cowpens, and if the Brits had stuck us with a stupid neocolonial custom like Invigilation, we’d have swum the Atlantic & burned freaking London!
Minor Irritation 2: Contagion. My second complaint is about the Botswana Boys.
They have tried to be extremely nice to me.
Last week, however, they gave a computer-virus (which I am still fighting), and then they gave me a bio-virus (not HIV) that has me hacking & coughing and sneezing through life these days.
Minor Irritation 3: Getting Stoned, again. My third complaint is dental.
Toward the end of last week I broke another tooth.
(This time the small piece of quartz was in beans, not rice.)
I made another appointment with the good Dr. K, and he fixed me up.
This time the event was less pleasant than previously: (a) the more complex repair took longer, (b) nobody was singing “Immortal, Invisible…,” and (c) no injection was available (Zimbabwe has shortages, you know).
The actual complaint: I have learned that I’m the real Thanksgiving Turkey. I hope you will not think that Irritations One through Three have been sufficient to push me towards Un-Thankfulness. Nay, friends, I am a tougher customer than that; even Zimbabwe’s dental privations are as nothing to macho-man Ab Abercrombie (uh, at least not ex post facto). What has unsettled my spirit is an uninvited memory.
Now let me stipulate one incontestable fact before I write another sentence. I have heard tell, from absolutely reliable sources, that Bishop J. Lawrence McCleskey is a fine man, a gentleman, a veritable prince of a fellow. It must be true; it is true, and I am an absolute turkey because I cannot transcend my vanity and let go of my anger towards this good man. I was first reminded of His Episcopal Excellency when I read the Post headline quoted above. Then, on Monday, for my sins, I was forced to enter the J. Lawrence McCleskey Building—and was instantly bitten by the Black Dog of Depression.
Here’s some background. In the Year 2000, I was walking across the A.U. campus with a favorite student. This young gentleman, a thoughtful fellow who has gone on to do fine things, asked me, “Sir, why is it that all the buildings at this university bear the names of white men?” I answered that I did not know. Then, in my vanity, I added, “…but I promise you one thing. If Methodists in the South Carolina Conference ever give A.U. a building, it won’t be named for a white man.”
Now here’s a bit more background. When I was back in the States, while His Excellency, J. Lawrence McCleskey, was Presiding Bishop of the South Carolina Conference of the United Methodist Church, the Noble Man Himself graciously requested that I come to Columbia and talk about raising money for Africa University. Of course I complied with this episcopal summons, and I made my stuttering, inelegant, half-assed case for scholarships. “But,” responded H.E., “perhaps a building is needed. A building would be so much more permanent.” At that point I told H.E. about the complaint of my A.U. student—and about the promise that I had made to this young man.
Today the plaque that names A.U.’s Theology Building for the Reverend Bishop J. Lawrence McCleskey is supported by four bolts and four ornamental screws. This week I have expended too much time trying to loosen ‘em. Yesterday—I was so depressed—I actually prayed about my anger & my great vanity, and I think I have a solution that may save my neck on this Turkey Day. Shoot-fire, I even hope that His Excellency the Reverend Bishop J. Lawrence McCleskey would approve. I’m just going to give the building an additional name. Yep, I’m going to print out a statement on a plain sheet of paper and post it over the (thus far) official plaque. I reckon that my statement will be allowed to remain for only an hour or so. But somebody will read it, somebody will remember it, and, well, some memories last longer than bricks. Anyhow, here’s what the statement will look like:
This building was donated, out of love for the people of Africa, by members of the South Carolina Conference of the United Methodist Church. The fund-drive was conducted under the dynamic leadership of the Reverend Doctor J. Lawrence McCleskey, Presiding Bishop. Officially, this building bears the bishop’s name. In a deeper sense, it bears other names. These are the unspoken names of slaves who suffered in the ricefields of Charleston County, of Orangeburg students slain because of their protest against injustice, of preachers and politicians and school kids and game wardens and lint-head textile workers—of all children of Sand and Palmetto who learned to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly in the paths of the Lord. In recognition of these millions of unnamed saints, this building is now re-christened with the following two names that do resonate in the hearts of South Carolinians. This is now the
Marian Wright Edelman
and
Talmage Boyd Skinner
Building
Marian Wright Edleman grew up a preacher’s child in the strong Black community of Bennetsville, South Carolina. Throughout her adult life, she has never failed to Speak Truth to Power, standing like a tough, wind-blown palmetto against the storms of injustice. Because of her love, the children of South Carolina, of the United States, of Africa, and of the world lead richer, fuller lives.
Talmage Boyd Skinner, part Amer-Indian and part White Boy, grew up hunting rabbits in the cotton fields of Anderson County, South Carolina. He became a Methodist preacher, and he served every congregation with a love that transcended every separation of this sinful world. Nobody has loved Africa and Africa University better than this man.
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