I recently passed through JF Kennedy Airport in New York. This was the l same place I landed when I first came to America at the tender age of 20 years. I had left Gathíngíra, my ancestral village and the alma mata of my indigenous gastronomy the previous day aboard a Pan Am flight. Coincidentally, the connecting flight in Frankfurt was delayed, I therefore missed my connecting flight from New York to Memphis. The airline booked us into a Holiday Inn Hotel about 15 minutes away from the airport. A free shuttle from the hotel picked us up for free.
That ride to the Holiday Inn hotel was my first ride on the American road. As a student, my experience was tampered with by concerns about the cost of everything. I had money for only one year but yet I was enrolled at a 4!year program. After all, Central Bank of Kenya only allowed the dollar equivalent of Ksh 5,000 in allowance which came to $312 at that time. I will not even bother you with the revelation of the current dollar value of that allowance as it might spoil your appetite.
Back to the road and shuttle experience. I remember the grin on my face as I fumbled with my heavy suitcase, loaded with everything I thought I would need. As I got to the exit door, I asked the driver how much I needed to pay. The nice muddled aged African American lady fondly replied “ It’s free honey”. Those words were truly honey to me. So I saluted the beautiful lady and hurried out of the shuttle.
As I landed and rushed to catch up with the rest of the passengers who were just alighted from the shuttle, a bulky middle aged Caucasian male headed towards me even before I could catch up. The main entrance to the lobby of the hotel was only about 15 meters away. The gentleman had a broad smile and warmly welcomed me to Holiday Inn. The black suit and white shirt made me think that this gentleman was an employee of HI Hotel. So when he reached out for my bags, I didn’t even resist. I simply walked behind him as I observed everything going on around dusk in that hotel.
My guide walked straight to the front desk and lined up. In a few minutes, he was in front of the hotel assistant. He advised me to produce the voucher and my passport. In less than 3 minutes, a key was handed to my chauffeur. He signaled for me to follow him to the elevator. In a few minutes the elevator was on the 4th floor and we alighted. We walked past to six doors to the left and he stopped. He stuck a plastic card on a slot on the door and the door opened into a cozy room that was dimly lit. He held the door open with one hand and pushed the luggage inside without stepping inside. I then followed suit as he held the door open.
As I contemplated about the room, the atmosphere and the reality that I had finally arrived in the U.S, I forgot the awkward position I was in to be served by a Caucasian in simple manual tasks. My perception was that most Caucasians and Americans were quite well off. So thinking that the assistance I was getting was just part of the hotel service, I thanked the gentleman, wished him a wonderful evening. I tried to push the door closed as I finished my last statement.
I was surprised that the guy who was so nice for the few minutes we had been in contact all of a sudden changed his demeanor. He was now serious, bordering contemptuous look. He firmly reported that we worked for tips. What an anticlimax, had I known that, I could have carried my own bags. I reluctantly reached into my pocket and removed my wallet. I pulled out a crisp one dollar bill and extended my hand with the bill towards the chauffeur, who was still propping the door open. He looked at the dollar bill as I held it out to him as if he wasn’t sure if it was legal tender. He then looked me in the face with disdain and let go of his hand propping the door open. As the door closed slowly, he slightly leaned forward as if to interject his remark quickly before the door shut. “ I fucking don’t take one dollar or coins for my service. Keep it!”
I graciously took my dollar back and tucked it back into my wallet. That is a dollar I could use.I had probably had taken a grandmother from the village a whole day to earn that dollar that the gentleman was turning down. I actually remembered a grandmother who had donated some eggs to be auctioned at my fundraiser a mere two months prior. In some ways I felt as the turning down the dollar was a salute to all the men and women of my village for their sacrifice to send me to college. I turned around and looked at the beautiful room with a mirror to my left. I could see myself in a life size mirror with a suit and tie headed to college and yet I didn’t have a dollar to spare for a tip.
I remember my first experience of New York back on that fateful day of September in 1989. How I wish I had taken a picture of the hotel room. To avoid the same mistake, I took a picture of my legs with shorts and tennis shoes. As though the contrast wasn’t big enough, I am heading to Zurich for a brief tour meeting and a residency at the HKW Museum in Berlin. If I could run into the same guy again today, I would love to invite him to dinner as a return on his investment of one dollar bill he contributed to my education and my dream to work in activism. I would hold the door open for him to enter and enjoy a serving of both food justice and service etiquette. His was a dollar that was sour like the grapes of wrath but has been washed into blackness, sustaina and important common sense. May he eat well wherever he is.
So here I am in some tennis shoes and shorts going to speak at The Tongue and Throat Festival for a tip that is over two hundred dollars more than my first semester fees which I paid two days later. That amount was exactly half of the amount of money I had left after paying for my flight. My memory is how a young man from my village in a suit was so blessed by the snob from someone who didn’t understand how valuable that snob was to people miles away in the village but is tens of thousands more miles ahead in the people who will remember my words through their tongues, throats and memories. No wonder there are three parts to my cuisine: past present and future. That cuisine is my suit now, I don’t need to wear expensive and foreign European suits and ties, my tongue, heart and mind are my garments that I flaunt. It’s the garments I dress those whom I have the pleasure to commune with. Every time a soul hears, chews and swallows the wisdom from Gathíngíra, my ancestral village, they uplift that village and give it another lease of life. I also dress those souls with a three piece suit of indigenous gastronomy for a buck.