The move didn’t work out for Doluony’s oldest brother, Kueth, who had been a math prodigy as a high school sophomore and had interned for a professor at the Rochester Institute of Technology. As a junior at Omaha Central he felt lost. “Soon as he got into Central, they stuck him in an ESL class and expectations went downhill,” Doluony recalled. “Nobody took the time to understand that this kid might be special. So instead of academics being his focus, he decided he had to work to help the family. He got a couple of jobs.” Kueth enlisted after high school, served in Iraq, and sent money home so that the family could have cable television and cell phones. At thirty-five, married and a father, Kueth was depressed. “When you’re not able to be all you can be, a part of you dies,” Doluony said. “He feels like he didn’t pan out to be what he could be, and a lot of that was because he put personal ambition aside for me and my siblings.”
In 2002 Doluony’s father became the first south Sudanese licensed as a Baptist minister in Nebraska. His pulpit was at South Omaha’s Bethel Missionary Baptist Church, traditionally attended by African Americans—Central High basketball legend Dwaine Dillard had sung in its choir as a child in the 1950s—and where African Americans and south Sudanese refugees struggled to find common ground. Close by Bethel Baptist were the Southside Terrace Apartments, subsidized housing where the Doluonys and Adaw’s sister Teresa and her family lived.
Doluony’s father was a better preacher than provider, so his mother worked at the Tyson meat plant, where Akoy’s father worked, to support her children. Doluony remembered her coming home late at night, shoulders sore from cutting meat in a refrigerated room for eight or nine hours. “She wore three different coats and sweatshirts to go to work,” Doluony recalled. “She was sick periodically from cutting meat.” Half of her paycheck went back to her family in south Sudan, and the rest to the household budget. “My siblings and I each got one set of clothes and a pair of shoes, once a year, for school,” he said. “That was my outfit; the rest of my clothes were hand-me-downs or from the Open Door Mission. A lot of times I would come home and dinner was a glass of milk, and if we had sugar around, that’s what we would eat. Or frozen pizza. My mother was never around to cook.” Eventually Doluony’s mother got hired at First Data, where she was warm but still worked manual labor.
Doluony was eleven when he discovered the outdoor court at Southgate Apartments in Bellevue, three miles south of his home. Southgate was the south Sudanese version of Rucker Park, the legendary hoops crucible in Harlem. “Those were the first generation immigrants,” Doluony recalled. “The level of talent was so high that to this day, even at D-1, I haven’t met better athletes. I grew up playing against those guys and fell in love with the game. They played at such a high level, they made me successful in high school and gave me a chance to go to college.”
Doluony’s D-1 scholarship was a triumph for his family and for the South Sudanese outdoor courts—Southgate and Pulaski Park—where he built his game. Only later did he understand how the athletes on those courts, like his older brother, had sacrificed. “Those guys, most of them, had come on their own, not with their families,” he recalled. “So they didn’t have the luxury of playing high school basketball. They could do it as a recreation but not as something to invest themselves in. The unfortunate thing about those guys is even though they were school age, they couldn’t be children. They had to grow up not only to raise themselves here but to support the families they left behind in Sudan.”
When Doluony recalled the lost potential of those athletes, and of his brother, he worried about Akoy. “Being the oldest kid in a South Sudanese family means he’s always had to be responsible for family, not just himself,” he said. “Akoy always was forced to grow well beyond his years, and that hurts you. His challenge is to understand the best way he can take care of his family is by taking care of himself. By committing to the day-to-day process of what he has to do to be a successful student and athlete. His challenge is how does he put himself in a position where instead of focusing on what his mom needs or little brothers need, how does he lock in on being a student and athlete so that in the years after college he can truly help out his family?”
South Sudanese youth, like Akoy, needed to find a balance between assimilation and cultural preservation. This was tricky, Doluony conceded, because some cultural roots were best forgotten, and some models of assimilation were best avoided. These nuances were particularly subtle for South Sudanese girls. “Our culture has a very reserved ideology and mindset toward women,” he said. “Certain processes have to happen for somebody to be heard.”
Doluony recounted the experience of his older sister, Nyajuok, who went by the name of Rebecca. When the Doluonys came to Omaha in 2000, she enrolled at Central High as a fifteen-year-old sophomore. She was a good student, but her father was bound by tradition and arranged for her to marry an older south Sudanese man in exchange for cash, rather than cows, as was customary in south Sudan. Nebraska law allowed marriage at the age of nineteen or with parental consent at seventeen. Iowa allowed marriage at sixteen, and Missouri allowed marriage at fifteen with parental consent. Although marriage of underage south Sudanese girls was not commonplace and occurred beneath the radar of Omaha authorities, community leaders had held a meeting in 1999 to discourage it. Girls were said to have some choice in the matter, though they had little power in traditional south Sudanese culture. “My sister knew the only way out of it was to have a baby,” Doluony recalled. “She went and got pregnant by a guy she was dating but who she knew she wouldn’t stay with. She had the baby and got kicked out of the house.” On her own Rebecca raised her little girl, graduated from Northwest High, got a nursing degree, and enlisted in the army. “The level of sacrifice she made, I would call my sister extraordinary,” Doluony said. Stationed at Fort Campbell, Rebecca rose to the rank of captain, married, and gave birth to a son.
Young South Sudanese women needed to be empowered both within their families, which tended to be protective and domineering, and by the mainstream culture to which they aspired. “The American standard of beauty does not reflect on them in any way from the time they’re in school and want to feel beautiful and liked and appreciated,” Doluony said. “The standard of beauty here is something they can never seem to fit, and that breaks them. A lot of women in our community are bleaching their skin. They put cream on themselves to be lighter so that maybe they can attract guys they’re attracted to. You have girls investing hundreds of dollars in hair extensions so they can be considered beautiful. So that instead of attracting a man that’s going to love you for who you are, you mold yourself into what you think men like. Now instead of finding love, you’re with guys who only want you because of x, y, and z.”
South Sudanese males also struggled to find a constructive model for assimilation. Many had gravitated toward African American hip-hop culture in the early 2000s, which Doluony believed led to the rise of South Sudanese street gangs later in the decade, with negative effect on South Sudanese girls and women. “A lot of these young men, because of hip-hop, don’t know how to show affection to their sisters, don’t know how to talk to the Sudanese girls they date, don’t know how to express to their moms how much they love them,” he said, “That’s not part of our culture. Our culture is to nurture and care for our sisters and girlfriends and let our moms know how much they mean to us.”
The Talons wanted to help first- and second-generation South Sudanese find a balance. “We have the cultural challenges of how do you assimilate, and what is the right culture to assimilate to,” said Doluony. “Do we become a product of our environment, African American urban America, or do we take the time to understand suburban west Omaha and the American Dream? What we have in front of us is like a blank sheet. We can rewrite the story of who we are and who we’re becoming.”
The stakes were high, as Doluony came to realize on Riek Machar’s second visit to Omaha in October 2015. The exiled vice-president of South Sudan, leader of the Nuer factio
n in the ongoing civil war, was on tour to rally support. Among the expatriates he met was Doluony, who told him about the Talons. “I am impressed by what I have heard from these young people,” Machar said. “They should live their lives here, make the opportunities. Some will be scientists, some will be basketballers, some will be entrepreneurs.” Machar said that the young South Sudanese who grow up in Omaha, and throughout America, will teach South Sudan about democracy, set an example, and serve as an important bridge with the United States.
Machar’s visit deepened Doluony’s purpose. He told me: “Omaha is that one place where, if we do not get it right here, if we do not figure out a way for this community to have a comfortable identity, and if we’re not growing the way we need to as a community, it’s going to have a lot of implications all the way back to South Sudan. If we do get it right, and we do become a successful part of America, and you see South Sudanese representatives in government positions in a few years, it’s going to have positive implications in South Sudan. The challenge is how do we get Omaha, not just the Sudanese but the entire city, to see that? And how do we put ourselves in a position where we can be a player?”
“How do you do that?” I asked.
The Talons would expand their programming, he said, as funding permitted. Money was a problem; they needed institutional and public support. He planned to get certified as a deputy registrar to organize the South Sudanese vote into a potent bloc in local politics. In the meantime, each and every South Sudanese with a public profile had a responsibility to speak out.
“Basketball is the only thing that’s given us a chance to have a voice,” Doluony said. “And basketball players like me and Akoy, we’re the only ones being accepted. The responsibility we have is being bigger than ourselves. If Akoy is in a position, when he speaks, where people are willing to listen and are interested in being a part of his life, it’s his responsibility to be a voice for us, to truly represent us.”
21
Beyond
The flat tire Akoy tweeted about on the road to Louisville foreshadowed Act Two. He saw limited action as a freshman. His conditioning was not up to Rick Pitino’s standards, and two months into the season he was suspended one game by Pitino for an “attitude” issue. He underwent surgery for a sports hernia before his sophomore season, and he saw even less action. Impatient, he transferred after his third semester, a decision he later regretted as impulsive.
Akoy was open to Nebraska, but the Cornhuskers showed little interest, so he signed on with Georgetown. He expected to play, until he tore a knee ligament, which ended what would have been his third season before it began. Akoy wrote of his struggle and faith a few days before Christmas 2015 on an Instagram (gmb_ak47) post: “Sometimes I stay up at night thinking of everyone who started with me from the beginning . . . doing well and getting to shine. Everything is going the way they planned. I’m happy for them, but it’s also frustrating. While my whole college career has been full of injuries and I haven’t come close to achieving anything I wanted to. I’m just wondering when my time is coming. . . . Then I remember. . . . Everything works on God’s plan and timetable, not mine. . . . God GOT ME! Amen!”
Akoy rehabbed through the spring of 2016. In late spring he met with former Central teammates at a pizza spot in midtown Omaha. Lotte showed up; she and Akoy were still a couple, though college and distance had tested them. The group included Tra-Deon Hollins and Tre’Shawn Thurman, both of whom played for UNO. Hollins had led the nation with 127 steals in 2015–16, an average of 3.96 per game. K. J. Scott, who started at guard for Texas Southern, was on hand, as was Dominique McKinzie. Even Eric Behrens, who had left Central to coach at tiny Peru State College in 2014, dropped in to chat.
The mood was nostalgic, the conversation light and affectionate. Remember when Hollins was dehydrated and fainted at practice? How about when Akoy tripped as he ran the floor, or when he missed his dunk in the state final? Thurman’s defensive lapses were a fertile source of ridicule. McKinzie was the king of trash talk. Scott’s uncle was a pimp. “He came to a game and said something to Behrens at halftime,” Hollins recalled. “Behrens got mad and said, ‘I got a drunk pimp telling me my point guard needs to pass the ball.’ And K. J. is like, ‘Hey man, that’s my uncle.’ We were behind at half, and nobody could stop laughing. We were dying.” Scott added, “I don’t know why my mom brought him. He wanted to see his nephew, I guess. He had on a velvet sweatsuit.”
Akoy shook with mirth. “Good memories,” Behrens said. “For sure. The only glory days I got right now,” Akoy said. Akoy’s former coach did not reply, but his mind was plain to read: “It’s early in the game, pal. Lots of time left on your clock.”
Three and a half years past high school Akoy suited up for the Hoyas of Georgetown. He started a few games, then settled into a role as a reserve who rebounded and defended in the post and whose minutes fluctuated game to game. At his best Akoy’s energy, effort, and fierce team ethos evoked NBA star Draymond Green. Georgetown played Creighton in Omaha before Akoy’s family and friends and a hometown crowd of 17,626. Pumped with local vibes, he had 9 points, 9 rebounds, 3 blocks, and 5 turnovers in 22 minutes of a loss. “Akoy plays very hard,” said coach John Thompson III. “You see that in his rebounds and effort. He was a little overzealous today being back home. We want him to bring that same intensity . . . but then stop trying to hit so many home runs on offense.”
The trip was emotional because Lotte’s mother, Ann Sjulin, had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Akoy took to Instagram and composed a message to Ann, accompanied by a selfie he had shot in a hospital bed:
This is a picture a little over a year ago as I was getting ready to go have my ACL surgery. As I sit here almost in tears, I cannot express how blessed by God I have been in my life. Through all my obstacles in life I have learned to become closer with God. While basketball is a big part of my life, I can say there is a lot more to life than that bouncing ball. As I think about my past 3 years of my career, I’ve also come to realize that my “problems” . . . are nothing compared to what others have gone and are going through. Shout out to my BestFriend, we will get through it together @babydocann!! With that, I say, I am blessed and all Glory to God. #GameDay #GloryToGod #WhyNotMe #Lights #Camera #Action #H4L.
“A lot more to life than that bouncing ball.” With those words Akoy opened his future to the practical and pragmatic. He was twenty-two now, with mileage, scrapes, and dents. He posted a news report about an anti-fracking protest in Pennsylvania in which a youngish white man who opposed the protest taunted a black video journalist. The white man was filmed as he called the videographer a “lazy monkey” and “a chimp with a mop on his head.” Akoy wrote: “Hmmmm. . . . America had changed. . . . America accepts everyone. . . . America is the best country in the world. . . . Questionable.”
Soon came another post, about NFL quarterback Colin Kaepernick’s refusal to stand for the national anthem in protest of racist policing: “God please help watch over the black people in this country. Along with those that are harmed regardless of race for no apparent reason at all. Amen!”
Then Akoy linked to a news report about a young African American girl in Charlotte, North Carolina. The girl, Zianna Oliphant, sobbed as she went before the city council and pleaded for a stop to police shootings of African Americans. “It’s a shame that our fathers and mothers are killed and we can’t see them anymore,” Zianna said as tears streaked her face.
Akoy wrote: “A nine-year old having to make this plea is ridiculous!! Go ahead and make up an excuse America. (Yes it is not everyone in America is racist, I have been extremely blessed by the ones that aren’t.) But for the ones that are, go ahead and just make up another excuse for everything. Now imagine if it was your white kid talking like this? Oh wait, you don’t have to face issues like that, so you wouldn’t know!!”
Akoy’s tone caught the cultural zeitgeist. Donald Trump was elected president on an anti-immigration platform, which included a prom
ise to build a Great Wall on the border with Mexico. He called for “an ideological certification to make sure that those we are admitting to our country share our values and love our people.” Not a month into office he issued an executive order that suspended the entry to the United States of aliens from seven Muslim-majority countries: Iran, Iraq, Libya, Somalia, Syria, Yemen, and Sudan.
Five years after Arab Spring, Syria (5.5 million), Afghanistan (2.5 million), and South Sudan (1.4 million) led the world in refugee displacement. The Central High Register featured junior Elham Abdalla, a Muslim girl who had fled Sudan in 2014 with her father and two brothers. Elham’s mother had died in Sudan, and she had become a surrogate mother for her brothers. She had been “very scared” when she came to Central as a freshman, but her ESL classes helped her adjust and fit in, and she had come to love Central and her teachers. Her biggest concern was the spike in paranoia about Muslims. “It makes me sad. . . . People blame all Muslim people for being terrorists,” she said.
Central High now counted 6.7 percent of its students as ESL learners, up from 2.6 percent in Akoy’s senior year. Refugee students comprised 5.4 percent, up from 2.3 percent, due to an influx from Bhutan and Nepal. Sixty-five different languages could be heard in the old wooden hallways. Federal data showed that Nebraska led the nation in resettling refugees per capita between October 2015 and September 2016. The state took in 1,441 refugees, or 76 per 100,000 Nebraskans. The United States as a whole took in 26 refugees per 100,000 residents.
Citizen Akoy Page 18