For He Is My Brother
It has been almost a year since my Rwandan friend, and partner in crime Anastase set up a funeral. He and his wife run a group home. One of the residents died without a nearby family. The State would have just cremated him, and that would have been the end. That saddened Anastase, and he would not have it. In his culture, one does not just mourn, but it is a celebration of life.
I’ve been thinking of writing this for almost a year, but finally got around to it.
I speak some French and can read it. For the first time in years, I now had someone to practice with. In the summer of ’07, we had a company softball team. Anastase was learning the game on the job as it were. He grew up playing soccer, like most of the world. He was learning how to be an outfielder. I was reliving my misspent youth as the catcher.
We have checked out different events in town together. I’ve been learning what it means to be a refugee. Now, I am helping him write his biography.
I admire how he can laugh after what has happened to him. (No, I won’t give it away, you will have to read the book when it’s completed.)
I am interested in genetics. Because Africa is where humanity began, it has the most genetic variance. Skin color is a relatively minor part of the Human Genome.
I laugh and say, “Of course we’re brothers, can’t you see the resemblance?”