We were poor; much of it was made worse by my stepfather’s alcoholism. My feelings toward him were complicated. During my senior year in high school, I went to school in the morning and worked full-time, second shift in the factory where he worked.  I wanted his approval, but I also resented him. I resented that I had to work, that I gave up sports and time with friends, that I had to buy my own clothes and help with groceries. Still, I wanted him to accept me as his son. I wanted him to be a father to me.

I love Africa and its people. Ghanaians saved my life once or twice, fed me when I was hungry and cared for me when I was sick.  It was from them that I learned about true kindness.  But Ghana was very poor country in the early 1980s and lacked modern infrastructure.  So, I also learned the true meaning poverty, corruption and, to the point of this story, dirty feet.

As a Boy Scout, I took great pride in my uniform. My grandmother bought it for me when my parents were too poor to afford one, and I cherished every stitch of it. I felt special.  I didn’t have much in the way of material possessions, we were just too poor.  Most of the other scouts had full uniforms.  I often felt separate and different because of our poverty.  The uniform changed that, because it made me equal to the others.  I had it all—the shirt with all my badges sewn on, pants, belt, socks, hat, sash covered in merit badges, my neckerchief, and the neckerchief slide. It was the finest and most dear thing I owned.

My parents divorced when I was very young—maybe two or three years old. My mom and I moved into a three-bedroom apartment already filled with my grandparents, two uncles, an aunt, and a cousin. For me, this was paradise. There was always someone to hold me, play with me, or simply spoil me.