Lucky for me it wouldn’t matter. I received a call later that morning which would change everything.
I was sitting in class, crying, because I didn’t know how I was going to tell my dad about the failed grade; I didn’t know how to explain to him what had happened that had caused me to fail. While I was bawling my aunt came in, interrupting the morning announcements. She’d walked down to the school from her house, holding a phone for me. In between sobs, I heard my teacher calling my name and telling me to step aside with my aunt. My aunt handed me the phone.
“Hello?” I said.
“Wen! Hi! How are you doing? It’s Mom.”
I immediately tried to calm myself. I stifled my tears and tried to talk without shaking, so she wouldn’t realize I was upset. I didn’t want to make her mad, or disappoint her.
She was calling to tell me that I would be coming to America to be with her soon. She was quick to add that I shouldn’t talk too much about it to other people. I was shocked. My life had changed in the blink of an eye! While my sister occasionally came back home for a few months at a time and took care of me like my mother had, no one could truly replace my mother; not in my heart and not in this world. I was so happy to hear the news that nothing else in the world mattered to me. Nothing at all. Not even my Class 5 failure.
It wasn’t until later that I learned that, when my mom had told my dad about having the kids brought to America, he asked her why he should give up his children, not knowing when or if he would see them again. Before my mom had a chance to answer, he softened up. He told her he understood; he knew his children would have a better life than he could give them. But he made a request: that I stay with him. He felt bad; I was the youngest and he’d hardly had time with me. Mother refused to leave me behind without my siblings, and so my dad never got to spend the time with me he’d wished for.
Coming to America from Africa was no easy process. The months following that phone call were filled with multiple trips to the capital to get the proper documents and medical tests done. It felt like, to come to America from Africa, you’d better not have been sick with even something as trivial as a cold for the last year. The authorities were serious about keeping America disease free! Medical tests are required and paperwork must be filled out correctly or else you’ll be denied your Visa.
We—Val, Sylvie, and I—were granted our Visas in August of 2002, but no one let us know that until months later. In November, around my birthday, we were told we would be traveling to America in under a month. We were set to leave Africa December 10th and arrive in the U.S. on the 12th. This meant no more school for me, so I was thrilled. All we did was say goodbye to everyone; we would buy whatever we needed when we got there. Saying farewell to people you’ve known, even if you don’t like them much, is far more difficult than most people think. Saying goodbye to them is hard on its own, but it’s even harder when you’re not sure you’ll ever return to see them again. Those kinds of goodbyes are the most difficult. We said goodbye to a lot of people during those last few days. But the person I really remember saying goodbye to was my granddad.
My granddad was a man who loved his children dearly and his grandchildren even more. My mom was his princess, and he always did everything he could to make sure she had the best future she could possibly have. My mother frequently told us the story of how one day her father had forgotten to pay her school fees and the school administrators beat her for it. When Granddad found out, he went to the school and yelled at the teachers to never touch his daughter again. In recollecting the relationship between my mom and her father, stories like that are common. He did things she didn’t like because he knew they were in her best interest, like taking my mother away from her grandma who was being too nice and spoiling her.
When time came to say goodbye to Granddad it was not easy for anyone. He had things to tell us before we left. He made it clear that we were not going to America to live the kind of lives we saw on TV, that we were not going there to party or any foolishness like that. We were going to America to have a future, he said, a better life, and that we shouldn’t ever forget it. He made it clear that, wherever we go, we should ask ourselves, ‘Why am I here? What did I come here to do?’, and then do it.
He turned to me and said, “I thought you said you were coming to stay with me this summer?”
I laughed. Being hopeful, and not understanding how difficult my promise would be to keep, I told him: “Don’t worry, Grandpa. I’ll be back to visit and stay with you next year’s summer.” He smiled, telling me I was just like my dad; I always knew what to say to make people happy.
At the end of our visit he prayed with us and over us, gave us each a kiss, and told us to say ‘hello’ to our mom, his daughter, for him when we saw her.
The day we left was a sad one. Our flight departed late in the night, so we had to leave home in the early morning to make it to the airport on time. Dad drove. He told us we had a few stops to make before the airport. We stopped first to visit my aunt—my favorite aunt on earth!—to say goodbye to her and her family, then at three other houses before finally arriving at the airport. The ride in the car gave us time to prepare for leaving Africa for good. Once we checked into the airport, Dad started to cry. He couldn’t stop. My sister cried with him. My older brother, Val, was not as emotional, but I wonder about the reason for his dry eyes. I think he felt too cool to cry. I was young and too amazed by the concept of an airplane to feel bad about leaving my sad life behind. I couldn’t believe a thing as big as an airplane could jump across a whole ocean. (I called flying “jumping”, imagining that a plane leapt into the air and just stayed up there long enough to go to different places).
Finally it came time to go. We had to board. I gave my dad a huge hug and said a final goodbye to him, realizing I would never again sleep beside him. I was so tired from the rollercoaster of emotions—the anxiety of multiple farewells, the amazement of going to America, and the long car ride filled with even more anxiety—that, when we got into the airplane, I dead tired.
The plane was uncomfortably full. I looked around me. I didn’t have anywhere to lay my head. I was sitting between Sylvie and Val. I was afraid of my older brother. He used to force me to shower (I hated to shower), but, in light of the conditions on the airplane, I knew he would be the most comfortable place for me to sleep. I had no choice. I had my older sister intervene, to ask him if I could lean on him to sleep. She laughed at me, but asked Val anyway. He shook his head at me and said, “Sure.”
The next morning we landed in Europe; Paris, France, to be exact. For the first time ever in my life I was cold, truly cold; as soon as I walked out the plane I was freezing. It was wintertime in France and America. I’d never known a winter could be that cold! I didn’t even own clothes warm enough for the winters that places outside of Cameroon experienced. I worried about where I might find such things. We weren’t in France long and left after a few hours’ waiting. Our flight across the ocean was pretty fun. We watched Stuart Little on the plane (imagine—televisions on an airplane!) and arrived in Atlanta many hours later.
I’d made it across the Atlantic Ocean without a hitch, but within minutes of arriving in the States I’d nearly ruined everything.
Us after finally making it to Minnesota.
First time getting to the apartment.
CHAPTER 5:
America is Unreal.
“I left Cameroon, but Cameroon never left me”
Atlanta airport is one of the largest and busiest airports in the world, and for good reason: it’s a key destination for those travelling abroad in all directions – from Canada to South America, from Los Angeles to Europe, from Africa to the United States, and more. Now imagine how this could look for a kid my age coming from a place where the town population was less than the enrollment of most U.S. universities (about 30,000), and where there were no buildings larger than a single story high. What a shock Atlanta International Airport was indeed!
There ar
e a lot of factors which played into the potential disaster that was my arrival to Atlanta. I was incredibly tired (jet lagged) and, on top of that, I was floating on a cloud of wonder: there were so many lights and sights and sounds around me, and there were more people in one place than I had ever seen in my entire life. I was dumbfounded. The world slowed down as I walked through the terminals, eyes wide. When I finally snapped back to reality I was in a train car… but Val and Sylvie were not. While I was busy trying to figure out what kind of machine I had just stepped into (later finding it was the airport terminal train), they had let go of my hand and told me to follow them. The doors of the train began to close as I stood there looking at my siblings; they called for me to come out from there. Since I had never been in a train before and the doors were closing miraculously by themselves, I was reluctant to step out under the assumption that I would be crushed. As the doors shut; I stood there paralyzed, realizing I was stuck on a train that was taking me to who-knew-where and that I might never see my family again. Ever. I’d come all this way, to a land I had only dreamt about, filled with a people I’d never met, with no way to get home (I did not even know where home was), and now I was being separated from my family!
As the train inched away from the platform, I began to cry at the thought of never seeing my mom again, never returning home to her, and possibly dying alone in this big, strange city. That was when a man came up to me and asked me where my parents were, where I was headed. All I remember was that he was a tall, white man with a little facial hair wearing a bluish colored uniform. I did speak a bit of English (thank you, excellent Cameroonian education!) so, when the man asked me where I was going, I only really had one answer for him – ‘Ms. Donna’. Ms. Donna was my mother’s best friend. She was the only woman I knew my mom was going to see in America, and the only bit of information I had about where I was going. So when asked where I was going, I told him just that. Lucky for me, Atlanta wasn’t my final stop in America; and, doubly lucky for me, I had, and still do have, a strong Cameroonian accent. When I said ‘Ms. Donna’, it sounded a lot like ‘Minnesota’.
Twenty minutes after my arrival in Atlanta and I’d already made trouble for myself. My adventure in America had nearly ended before it had gotten started, and the kind man in the blue security guard uniform had been my salvation. He took my hand and guided me to the terminal gate where travelers were gathered to go to Minnesota. We found my brother and sister there, ready to go, no doubt anxious of my whereabouts. I was overjoyed to see my sister and angry brother there waiting for me. Sylvie hugged me like she would never let me go again, like she had not seen me in years. Val… well, he was mad and scolded me. But I didn’t take it too hard. I knew he was just as happy to see me as Sylvie was, and I also knew there was no way he would’ve left the airport without me—our mother would have murdered him.
Now that we were all back together and I had stopped my crying, we got onto the plane and made the final flight to Minnesota—the state we would call home for the next few years.
Our plane experienced some delays and arrived late in Minneapolis. Our mom was freaking out. It was the first time any of us had traveled on a plane before. She had been waiting, worrying that we hadn’t made the connection from France. As we exited the plane, my mom saw us and was immediately relieved, but she knew instantly that I had been crying. She hadn’t seen me for years but, as mother’s do, she knew how to read me. (I’m certain the dried streaks on my face left behind by my tears tipped her off a bit, too.)
When we first arrived in Minneapolis, I was wearing nothing but a light shirt and some jeans I had been given by my cousins back in Africa. Now, remember it was December, in Minnesota, and if you’ve never been to The North Star State, you may not understand exactly how cold it can get. That kind of cold was a sensation I really had never experienced before and I didn’t know what to do about it. As we were leaving the airport, my new grandma, Barb, who basically became my adoptive grandmother, wrapped me in a giant jacket while giving me a big hug and told me “Welcome to America!” She was the first white person who I’d ever really talked to (not counting the security officer who rescued me from the train). Up through today, no friend has ever matched the amount of love she had given and continues to give me.
Grandma Barb drove us to our new home by way of Downtown Saint Paul. She wanted us to see the city. It was amazing; I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There were so many lights on the street and in buildings and on cars; the whole world seemed to glitter. There were big, safe, and elegant bridges that weren’t made out of rope, and buildings so tall I couldn’t see their tops even with my face smashed up against the car window. America was even more beautiful than it had looked in the movies we’d endlessly watched back home, more amazing than those movies that made us dream and admire this country that had only a few weeks ago felt so unreal and beyond reach. But, now, I had reached it. Those movies had suddenly become my reality and, honestly, for the first two weeks I thought I was dreaming.
America truly is unreal. Unfortunately, it seems that only the people who had to work hard to get here or those who had to give up on their life somewhere else can truly understand what I say when I say that America is a God-given dream, a symbol of hope to those who have lost it all. This country is a glimmer of light which allows people to see a brighter future for themselves… this country, America, is simply brilliant.
The day after our arrival I woke up in an apartment considered to be very small by American standards. But, to me, it felt roomier than the White House. The apartment was a two-bedroom unit; there were five of us (Mom, Val, Francis, Sylvie, and me). We slept two to a bed and the last person on the couch. Having someone sleep on the couch was actually against the rules. My mom had to hide me from the apartment owners so they didn’t kick us out and onto the street.
Most people in America would’ve looked at the apartment and noticed all the bad things that it had—like peeling paint, loud occupants, and a less than ideal neighborhood—but, since I did not have such luxuries back home, I saw only the good things about it. We had TV that was not in Arabic; we had a flushing toilet that I was allowed to use; we had food in the refrigerator that I could eat whenever I wanted; we had it all and then some! In my head, life couldn’t get any more perfect.
That is, until I experienced an American Christmas for the first time.
Though I’d had Christmases before, Christmas was not nearly as incredible in Africa as it was in Minnesota. When I woke up the morning of December 25th in my new home, I got my first glimpse of snow. It had started snowing the night before, but at that time it had been too dark for me to see anything. In movies I’d seen, snow was this amazing flurry of things that fell from the sky. In Cameroon, I’d never experienced such a thing as snow, so the first time I saw it I was about ready to eat it. My mom was quick to discourage me from doing that. She told me it was dirty. Well, so was the water I drank in Cameroon! I thought.
After seeing the snow, the day continued to get better. For the first time ever, Black Santa had come to my house! Ms. Donna came over with her friends with a big bag of gifts. I had never received anything more than a fake watch from my aunt during Christmastime, so imagine my surprise when my new American friends told me almost all those gifts were mine!
I remember the overwhelming joy I felt opening those toys—my toys. For years I had never owned a toy I could call mine, other than the ones I had to make for myself out of gummy stream clay. But now… now I had more than one and all to myself! I felt like crying, but crying was not the right thing to do. I was so grateful, so thankful that I didn’t know what to say or how to feel. I’d gone my whole life without toys to call my own; I’d not received, felt cast aside, then had to watch as other kids enjoyed the toys they’d gotten. Then, my first few days in America, my first American Christmas, for the first time at the age of eight, I finally got the bounty I’d longed for. I didn’t have to share them to bigger kids who would break them, or take t
hem from me. They were all mine, and I was beginning to feel like a real kid again.
When we finished opening presents the whole family—Ms. Donna and her friends included—gathered around the table for dinner. I looked around and couldn’t believe my luck; it truly was the very first time in my life that my mother, siblings, and I had all been able to sit down and have a meal, the five of us, together. Christmastime in the Muenyi household in Cameroon involved lots of preparing of food, cooking, and loud partying. There, most of the adults went to a night club on Christmas Eve while some of the married women stayed home to cook dinner for the next day. The kids went out with their friends to play and to have fun, so they didn’t play much of an active role in preparing for Christmas festivities. It was Christmas, but disjointed and incomplete; nothing like my American Christmas.
In my new American home Christmas was so much different, and not only because of the toys. That unforgettable December holiday, my entire family – my mother, my siblings, and all my new American friends and family – spent time together cooking before dinner and, after eating, sat around talking. Together. I remember looking at my mother, just being happy that God had brought me back to her for another Christmas dinner.
When I’d first seen her on my initial arrival to Minnesota, I was too amazed by everything around me to realize how much I had truly missed her. I honestly didn’t think I would ever see her again; the longer I went without her, the more my hope diminished of our reunion. Christmas dinner in Minnesota in 2002 was the first time I remember actually relaxing and enjoying time together with my mother; there were no other problems to distract us from enjoying each other’s’ company.
African in America Page 3