I wrote this back in September. It was my reflection on our first Ajani group, described below. The man mentioned in the story died this week and is to be buried tomorrow, so I am posting this in his honor.
You never know when your secret desire to be an auto
mechanic is going to pay off. If you had
asked me this morning when I was pondering this dream, I would have suspected
it to pay off by fixing my continuous string of mystery antifreeze leaks that
take place while I’m driving. I would
not have thought it grounds to make someone comfortable in a new place.
As it turns out, there I was, at our very first Ajani group. Ajani means “he who overcomes the struggle”,
and this group is our attempt to introduce real community people with redeemed
hearts to people living with HIV/AIDS, to erase stigma one bingo game at a
time. I’ve looked forward to this day
for six years and prayed that the people with this vision inside them would
rise up and take the charge. Of course,
on the day it started I had a stressful morning and then showed up seemingly without
any words to say and certainly not inspirational ones.
I waited for my plate, because as one person said – “pulled
pork brings people together”, and hunted a seat. I wasn’t nervous because I was comfortable in
this room, but I sure did not know where to sit. Then a strange default set in, and I went
towards the far side of the room to find a seat in the corner behind a man that
looked like he didn’t need anybody’s help to do anything. The kind of man that reminds me a little bit
of my dad and the men I would stand under during family reunions, which was
always the best place to listen. I had met a lot of people in the room, but I
had never seen him before. He was over six feet and fierce in a way that
he could probably be a club bouncer if he wanted, even if he was actually
retirement age. He was dressed how a
country man dresses up – a sharp button up, pressed wranglers, and the work boots
with the least amount of scuff. The ones
still practical enough to buy yet nice enough for special occasions.
For a moment, I thought what does this tough black man think
of this squeaky, college-professor-white-girl-
Across the room, a lady was thrilled to have attention and was
going on about some mechanic trying to pull a fast one on her regarding her oil
change. He and I were chewing and listening,
and I said to nothing “That’s why I want to go to auto mechanic school.” Then I got a sideways look, a slow head turn,
and an expression of surprise. I looked
back and said “Well, I just want to be able to know how it works and fix it
myself and know whether I’m getting ripped off.
I changed my own oil once, just to know how and get that sense of
accomplishment.”
For the next thirty minutes, we talked about car repair,
tractors, raising hogs, working the stockyards, dairy cows, and my
thoughts on whether to take up my old family tradition of bee keeping. Then, some other men wanted to join the
conversation but didn’t know how so we switched to football – the great
Southern equalizer. I was ok with that
because I was almost to the end of my tractor knowledge and I figured he could
tell if I started making stuff up. What
we didn’t talk about was how he got HIV, when he was diagnosed, what his white
count is, or whether the buddy he's cutting hay for knows his status.
Later, this large presence was sharing little plastic dots with
such a small and frail man, both trying to cover their bingo numbers and making
it a game of Roll Tide versus War Eagle.
This image stuck with me today, a man strong enough to intimidate other
men sitting beside a man who has only recently stopped wasting completely away. Both laughing and finding a place to be
loved.
