One day this summer, I went to see Bill at camp. A nonprofit in his Clarkston, Ga., neighborhood was running a free day camp at the community center across the street from his apartment complex. When I got there, the huge, grassy field teemed with a hundred or more sweaty kids, most of them refugees. At the edge of the field was a pavilion, and in it, two little boys were roughhousing with a teenage counselor. I explained to the counselor what I was doing there, and asked if he knew where Bill Clinton was.
"Yeah, which one?" he said.
Which one? Like, the kid or the former president?
"Which one?" I asked.
"We actually have two," he said.
"One's from Haiti; the other's from ... I'm not sure. Africa, maybe?"
"Congo?" I asked.
"That sounds right," he said.
"You have two kids named Bill Clinton here today? On this field?"
"Yeah, crazy, right?" he said. "Popular name, I guess."