One thing my father is very passionate about is sponsoring children in third world countries. For a small monthly amount, he delivers these children out of poverty and gives them food, clothing, and a Christian education. Once, when I was a teenager, my mother thought it would be a good idea to send groceries to my sister's boyfriend, who was living on peanut butter sandwiches in college. My father was not completely sold on this idea. I said to my mother, "I bet if he was Indonesian, Dad would want to send him food." That was unfair and pretty inappropriate, but it made my mother laugh hysterically.
While I was growing up, every once in a while, my father would call me into the kitchen, which is where he would spend much of his leisure time. Part of it was because of the proximity to the fridge. Part of it was his own television to watch sports or “Murder She Wrote.”
Regardless of the reason, he would sort his mail there. Normally he would be shaking his head and cursing under his breath over my mom’s latest shopping bill, but occasionally there would be a letter from his sponsored child. This is when I would be called in to listen to my father read. Or, in my later years, read myself. At the end of every reading, my father would look at me and say, “My hope for you kids is that you do this someday.”
So, here I am, years later. I’m out of college, married, and have a steady income. I realize it’s time to finally start making my dad proud of me. I call him one day and ask him the company he goes through. On the verge of prideful tears, he gives me the information, amazed I can sign up, pay, and write letters via the Internet. I can even pick my child that way. My father instructs me to pick a girl.
“Do you know why?” he asks.
Sensing I’m about to say the wrong thing, I play dumb. “Why what?” I ask.
“Why you should pick a girl,” he says.
“Because I’m saving her from a life of forced prostitution?” I guess.
There is a long silence on the other line, then a grunt of disgust. “NO, that is NOT why. Girls write more,” he says with another disgusted noise. I can hear my father shaking his head.
I apologize and blame it on watching too much MSNBC. I have already fucked this up with my twisted “worst case scenario” mind. I thank him and get on the site to look at some pictures of some very sad and hungry children. Picking a child to save out of a line-up is kind of sick, because I feel like I’m at a kill shelter, “you starve, you live.” It also didn’t help that I was eating stuffed crust pizza and drinking wine while doing this. God, I am so stereotypical American.
I tell the company to pick whatever kid has been waiting the longest and a few weeks later I get my packet. My child’s name is Ekue, an 11 year-old son of a peddler. I proudly display his packet of information on my fridge and start my letter writing. As time goes on…I revisit the packet. Ekue is from Togo, a small impoverished country on the equator in Africa. I actually see students from Togo at my current job, who complain about the heat in Nebraska. I giggle at this.
“Isn’t your home country near the equator?” I ask the student.
“Why yes,” says the student, surprised I know their country. “How did you know?”
I never explain, because I’m quite tired of people telling me this company is a scam. They send letters and pictures and have been doing so for over 25 years, according to Dad. If they are a scam, they are elaborate and can have my money.
“The weather is so much worse here because it’s up and down,” one student said. “Besides, I think it’s hotter here in Nebraska.”
“Wait!” I said to the student. “The other day, I said that it was hotter than Africa outside. I was only kidding, but you, as an African, are telling me that I can say that?”
He laughed, and said yes, I have permission. Use it wisely.
So, I think of this when I look at little Fokue in the pictures. Oh, you noticed his name changed? So did I when I looked closer at the packet. Ekue is his formal name, but he is referred to as “Fokue” in his description. I showed the packet to my husband.
“Did I really get a kid named ‘Fuck you?’” I asked. “I don’t know if this awesome or horrible.”
He shrugs. “Well, maybe that’s his nickname. Or, maybe some intern is having a good time,” he says.
I debate even asking, but in the end I decide if someone is messing with their packets, it’s worth calling attention to. I send an email to the organization cautiously voicing my concern, as this is a Christian organization and I’m not sure how to say the words “Fuck you” in the way that Jesus would approve. It’s really quite uncomfortable, but I get through it, only to find out that there is, in fact a cultural difference which allows for the nickname. Now I’m embarrassed, and so is the sponsor coordinator who emails me apologizing profusely.
Really, I like that fact that I do sponsor this child. It should make me feel good, and it does, for the most part. Except, I really sometimes feel like a piece of crap. I am supposed to be guiding him spiritually, but my church attendance has been sporadic to say the least. I’m a greedy, excessive person in many ways, and this poor kid has me for his mentor. It took me a while to find a decent picture to send him, and the one I sent banked on the fact he probably couldn’t read the words “Pub Crawl for Cancer” on me and Josh’s shirts, as we were in a bar participating in another one of our good deeds.
The worst is when he asks me questions about myself. For example, in one of the first letters I received, Fokue asked me what my favorite game was. Since I do not play any sports, I struggle to find the words explain to an 11 year-old boy from Africa that my two favorite games involve a card game called “Shit on your Neighbor” or the other a beer drinking game. Today, he just sent me a letter thanking me for his birthday money, which he used to buy a suit. He asked me what I do to celebrate my birthday. Again, I don’t think a translator would want to translate a play-by-play of the drunken buffet-style party I had at my house last December. So, what do I do? I just lie. I told him I liked soccer (because I thought he might actually know what that is and the women’s world cup make me interested for a minute). I haven’t come up with anything for my birthday yet.
So there you have it. I’m lying to an 11 year-old boy thousands of miles away. At least it’s not the kind of lies that would bring Chris Hansen to my door (damn you, MSNBC), but lies nonetheless. This should make me feel like a good person, it makes me feel like a deviant.
I am the only person in the history of the world who has become a worse person by sponsoring a less fortunate child.
