“You can pray, but I might need more than that,” I said.
“Are you saying God is not capable?”
“No,” I said. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
I paced around the room with my phone. I didn’t feel comfortable telling my dad what was happening with me. I didn’t want to hurt or worry my parents, but I needed to get away. Shannon was in the room with me, packing for her own trip home, giving me sympathetic looks. I told Dad I would be staying with a friend for the holidays. I wasn’t explaining myself well, but I knew that I did not want to go home and try to explain everything to my parents. In my culture, people don’t talk to each other about their innermost thoughts and feelings.
I went to stay with a friend who lived near campus for Christmas. Shannon had offered to let me stay with her, but I knew my parents would find me there.
Over the holidays, while staying at my friend’s house, I called a friend I had met through a nonprofit group, the Women’s Refugee Commission. Her name was Diana, and she lived in New York City. She generously said I could stay with her and her husband after Christmas, as their son would be away at school for the semester. I decided that’s what I would do. I did not know how long I would stay, but I knew I would not be going back to college for that next semester.
My parents were in turmoil. Mom texted me a note: Sandra, I know you’re pregnant. Just come home.
That was the final blow. I was heartbroken. I knew I hadn’t explained my feelings to my parents, but did she need to jump to that conclusion? I shut off my phone.
I went to my friend’s place for Christmas. My parents did not know where I was staying. They asked Shannon to tell them. A loyal friend, she didn’t divulge anything. I didn’t want to worry my parents, but I knew that if I went home, I would see everything from their perspective. I needed to find my own perspective.
Then my parents called the police. The officers asked Shannon where I was, and she still wouldn’t tell them. Bless her heart, Shannon was such a good girl, she had never even had a drop of alcohol, and here she was, defying the police for me. I was over the age of eighteen, so the police couldn’t make me go home. But they wanted to soothe my parents, and they asked Shannon if she would give them a phone number so they could call me. They assured her that they would not give the number to my parents.
She gave them the number, and the police called and asked me, “Are you safe?” I said yes. I explained that I did not want to be at home for personal reasons. I told them, “Please tell my parents I am safe. Tell them not to worry.”
In January, I boarded a bus bound for New York City.
TWENTY-NINE
AFTER AROUND EIGHT HOURS ON THE BUS, we pulled into the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City, an enormous, labyrinthine building in the middle of the city. When I arrived, I had a brief sense of relief to be on my own, away from college, away from my parents. No one would try to lecture me about anything here. I found my way to the subway station and took a train out to Brooklyn, where my friend Diana lived. When I made it to her place, I crashed. I had no plan.
Diana lived in Park Slope, a trendy neighborhood of cafés and shops, but I could barely leave the apartment. I slept a lot, and cried. Soon, I was crying all the time. I had no routine. I wanted to find a job, but I was too depressed to do much of anything. It was a brutally cold winter, with temperatures slipping under zero degrees at night. I stayed inside, hunkered under a blanket. I didn’t contact my parents, but I posted updates on my Facebook page so they would know I was safe, and I kept in touch sporadically with my siblings.
One day Princesse called and asked what I was doing with my life. She said she had spoken to a professor at Houghton—one of my favorite professors, a woman from Kenya—to ask her why I had left school. The professor told Princesse that she thought I had become distracted by superficial things, such as makeup and clothes. She thought I didn’t have my priorities straight and that I couldn’t keep up with my studies, so that’s why I had left. I had always looked up to this woman, but here she was, making assumptions about me when she had no idea what I was experiencing. She didn’t know about the flashbacks, the depression. She was the one being superficial: She thought I looked good on the outside, so everything must be fine on the inside. It was such a betrayal. I sank even lower.
Diana tried to help, recommending that I apply for a free treatment program at a trauma center in Manhattan. I did, but I was put on a long waiting list and never received a call. As much as I wanted to climb out of the fog, I couldn’t find a way to do it. I had no money for therapy. I was still plagued by flashbacks, living in fear of when the next one would hit.
My best friends from college—Shannon, Kaya, and Philip—stayed in touch and tried to encourage me, but I was lost. I started writing poetry, and also prayers. In my prayers, I did not ask for things, but instead, thanked God for things. I thought it might help my state of mind. I thanked God that I was still alive. I thanked him for my friends. I thanked him for my parents and their love, even though I was mad at them. I thanked him that my parents were still alive.
I wrote down thoughts and memories, trying to find my way back. In one series of notes, I wrote: I still don’t fully understand death, but I envy everyone who at least got to bury their loved one. I envy everyone who gets to visit graves, bring flowers to them on birthdays and anniversaries. Deborah was buried in a mass grave with approximately 166 other people. I have never visited her grave. Come to think of it, I have never visited anyone’s grave, not even my favorite uncle’s grave. I don’t know where he’s buried, just like I don’t really know where Deborah is buried. It’s such a weird thing to envy, but every time I see people carry caskets, I think of how lucky they are, and I wish I could have been that lucky. No one can anticipate death, not even when people are very sick; when they take their last breath, it’s still the punch in the gut that you can never be ready for. What you can get ready for is showing your loved one the respect and love that you think they deserve. If Deborah had a grave, I’d make sure that the flowers on it never died. My baby sister was disposed of, not buried. She was slaughtered like an animal and buried like one.
My writing helped me sort through my feelings, but I had a long way to go to feel hopeful again. My friend Kaya came to visit and started crying when she saw how dejected I looked. I could see that she felt helpless, and this made me feel bad too. The two of us just sat and cried. Finally, she said, “We need to do something to make you feel better.”
First she made me go on the dating app Tinder. She thought it might help if I met some new people. Then she took me out dancing at a lively Hispanic restaurant and club. There, we listened to music—Prince Royce, Enrique Iglesias—and danced. I managed to make myself smile, even if I didn’t feel entirely happy.
Soon after, I started chatting with a guy on Tinder. A handsome Italian guy named Rocco, he was a charmer with dark brown hair and light brown eyes. At the time, he had just dropped out of college and was living on nearby Long Island, working as an electrician. He was trying to find something he felt passionate about in life. He reminded me a lot of myself—we were both unsure what to do with ourselves.
Our first date was in February, the day after Valentine’s Day. He had wanted to take me out on Valentine’s Day, but I said, “No, that’s weird. That’s what couples do! We are just getting to know each other.”
He took me to a fancy Italian restaurant in Brooklyn, and he looked nervous, fidgeting with his hands. His nervousness made me relax. He seemed like a nice guy. As he became more comfortable, we began to laugh about random things. We noticed that people in the restaurant kept looking at my hair. It was in braids, and I had woven the braids into one big braid. Finally, a guy at the next table said, “Oh my God, girl, you are fabulous!” Rocco and I laughed. We had the same sense of humor, and we were ready for things to be easy. We clicked.
Our romance bloomed quickly. We talked often. We helped each other escape the reality of ou
r uncertain lives, but also, we helped each other think about some important issues. We talked about our challenges and how we were trying to find our place in the world. It helped me to have someone listen, with my college friends far away. He was gentle, and I could be honest and forthright with him, and he would not judge me. I opened up to him about my past and about my struggles with flashbacks. I had always worried that guys would shy away when they heard about my history. But he did the opposite. He encouraged me to talk about my feelings and experiences. He was such a refreshing surprise in my life.
Within two weeks of our first date, I met his family and his puppy, Oliver. His family was kind to me, and accepting. They welcomed me and made me feel right at home. I learned that people in his family hadn’t really dated outside of their culture, but they embraced me anyway. I thought about how my family would probably not be so accepting of him. They wanted me to marry within my culture. They would not approve of my dating a white Italian guy. They would not approve of my dating at all.
I was envious that Rocco had grown up in America, a place where people could date across cultures and it was not an issue. He and I had some uncomfortable conversations about my family and about how they might not accept him in the way that his family had accepted me. It was difficult for me to explain, and I could see that it pained him to hear it. But he tried to understand. He didn’t let it come between us. He was bighearted. If I were in his situation, hearing about a family that might not want me around, I would have thought, I don’t know if I want to date this person. But he accepted me.
I spent weekends with his family. His mom and I would sit in the living room and watch cheesy romantic movies, like Safe Haven starring Julianne Hough. We drank wine and laughed at the corny lines. Rocco’s home and his family started to feel familiar, kind of like my own family. He and I walked on the beach and talked deep into the evenings, and I cried as I told him how lost I felt. There were nights where we’d be sleeping and I would start to cry and he would just hold me and tell me he was there and that everything was going to be all right. He never distanced himself or treated me any differently, no matter what I said. He didn’t tiptoe around my feelings. He addressed them head-on. He supported me. And he remained playful and sweet. I think you meet people you need at crucial times in your life, and he was one of those people. His presence in my life meant so much to me. At a time when I needed a family but could not deal with my own, he gave me the family I craved.
I began to come back to myself. You can’t help but feel happy when people show you love and support. His parents played a tremendous role in my recovery, and they probably didn’t even know it. They were just being themselves, a caring family. Their love, along with my independence from college and home, helped me clear my mind. I had needed time and distance to think about things for myself. Little by little, the flashbacks began to recede. One day, I realized that a couple weeks had passed without a flashback.
Rocco encouraged me to fix things with my family. We talked about that a lot. He kept saying he would drive me to Rochester to see my mom and dad.
Meanwhile, my parents had seen pictures of him on my Facebook page. As expected, they were dismayed. Mom started firing off anxiety-ridden messages, asking me what was going on.
“Why aren’t you talking to me?” she asked. “Why don’t you come home?”
She seemed to think I had moved to New York City to be with Rocco, and that I was living with him. This made me more miffed than ever. I ignored my parents and their angsty notes. I did not want a confrontation. The chasm between us had grown too wide. I knew I hadn’t shared all my troubles with them, and I knew they were terribly concerned that I had gone off to live on my own, but still, their assumptions angered and hurt me.
My parents’ notes didn’t stop. They seemed convinced that I was acting out because of Rocco. It disturbed me that they blamed him. He was the one helping me. He told me, “You need to see your parents. You can’t have them thinking you’re living with me.” But I could not face them. I needed more time on my own. I still needed to figure myself out.
Rocco also encouraged me to see my sister Adele. She was living nearby, in Harlem, where she had lived for about a year working as a nurse at a hospital. It was anxiety-inducing for my parents that she had moved out on her own too. In my culture back home, you don’t really move out until you’re married. Adele was engaged to a wonderful man from our tribe, but they weren’t living together, as that would have been frowned upon. Rocco kept telling me it would help to see Adele, to ease my way back into the family after several months of sporadic messages. Finally, I agreed.
Our meeting was awkward, as she knew I had been living in Brooklyn and had not wanted to see her. She also knew about Rocco, thanks to Facebook. One of the first things she said to me was, “Are you having sex with him?” It was exactly the kind of inquiry that had made me want to avoid my family.
“That’s none of your business,” I said.
“I just want you to be safe,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m not stupid.”
It was a short, thorny reunion, but at least I had reconnected.
In March, Rocco drove me to Houghton College so I could visit my friends. While there, he asked me if I wanted to go to Rochester to see my parents. I said no, but I did go to see my brother Heritage on that trip. He was a pastor now, with a family of his own. As both a pastor and a protective older brother, he was a good listener. I knew I would feel comfortable with him, and I did. He didn’t interrogate me or make assumptions about my life. He asked me if I was okay, and I assured him that I was. He gave me his love.
I thought it was best that Rocco not meet Heritage yet. There were just too many things going on in my life, and it didn’t feel like the right time to introduce him to the family. But I showed Rocco around the city where I had grown up, and we went to the beach at Lake Ontario.
I felt so free and at ease with him, I started to breathe again, to enjoy life a little. For so long, I had been holding my breath. Now I walked outside and took deep gulps of the spring air, filling my lungs. The trees in Brooklyn were starting to bud. Soon they would burst into pink and white blossoms.
I began rebooting my life, reconnecting with groups devoted to refugees and human rights. I had let my activism slip amid my depression. One of the groups, the Women’s Refugee Commission, invited me to a summit in Washington, DC, in honor of International Women’s Day. I went and performed a song from my tribe in my native language. I met the queen of Belgium, Queen Mathilde, who looked young and elegant. For a moment I had an uneasy feeling, meeting the queen of the country that had once colonized my own country in Africa. But of course, that was long before her time, so I could hardly blame her for that. We had a wonderful conversation, speaking in French and discussing the importance of educating girls around the world.
I began thinking about my own education again. I looked into college for the next year.
My future came back into focus.
THIRTY
IN APRIL, MY LIFE TOOK AN INCREDIBLE TURN. I got invited to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. There was a chance I would get to meet President Obama and the First Lady. In person. Face to face. The Obamas and me—unreal.
The invitation sprang from my activism. I had become more involved with the group RefugePoint. My friend at the group, Sasha, asked if I would like to join him at the dinner, along with one of the group’s board members, George Lehner. I said to count me in. The evening is famous for its flashy celebrity attendees. And of course, the Obamas.
Thus began a series of events that were surreal. First, I was told I could pick a fabulous dress to borrow for the evening. Sasha recommended a designer named Maria Cornejo, and I went to a boutique in Manhattan lined with her elegant gowns. I invited Adele to go with me, and we had a lovely afternoon, our tensions fading. As I tried on dresses with the help of the women at the shop, I felt as if I were in a movie. The women liked a long blue gown f
or me, and it was stunning, but it seemed like a typical choice for such an event—too traditional, too safe. I spotted something more unique: a flowing black-and-white gown with a cool asymmetrical print.
I made the right call. When we arrived at the event, people immediately started complimenting me on the dress. Photographers snapped pictures. They said things to me like, “Show a little leg!” Bloggers came up to me. “Who are you wearing?” they asked. “Who did your makeup?” I think they thought I was an actress. They looked like they were trying to place me. They asked about my shoes, my bag. I talked with them about the outfit, and about how I was there with RefugePoint. The group had been working to resettle tens of thousands of Congolese refugees. I realized that the bloggers’ interest in my dress gave me a platform to talk about the plight of refugees.
Then things got really interesting. We received a ticket for a special greeting room, where we would meet the president and First Lady before the dinner. I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly I was standing in a line of celebrities waiting to meet President Obama. The cast of Modern Family was there, and it was funny to hear them talking among themselves like normal people. You expect them to be like the over-the-top characters they play on TV. I spotted Gina Rodriguez, star of the show Jane the Virgin, and I said to her, “I think you’re so cool.” She was really sweet. She complimented me on my dress and got her date to snap a picture of the two of us. I handed over my cell phone, which was cracked from being dropped on the floor, and we laughed about busted-up phones.
The room was sizzling hot, and I started to sweat. I wondered why someone didn’t crank up the air-conditioning. You’d think the president would rate some decent airflow.
I finally got to the front of the line. My moment had arrived. The president and First Lady greeted me warmly. Is this real? I thought. Am I seriously talking to the president? The words I had planned to say left my brain. I froze. But thankfully, the words fought their way back. I thanked President Obama for helping to resettle refugees from Congo. He said we have much more work to do in the region.
How Dare the Sun Rise Page 16